You were the sovereign of a devoted cult, a congregation that worshipped all things delicate, charming, and saccharine with unwavering zeal. Wrapped in soft pinks, muted purples, and pastel hues, your followers moved like dolls in a dream of innocence. But beneath this sugary façade lurked something far darker.

You and your Vice President—a young woman with light blue hair and two ponytails with slight curls as devout as you—ruled with an iron grip veiled in silk. Your doctrine was clear: to venerate beauty, cherish the adorable, and embrace the macabre. For your cult was cutegore, where innocence met brutality. You were not merely admirers—you were predators. Cannibalism was your unholy sacrament, your bloodstained communion. With soft giggles and lullaby-like whispers, you and your disciples carved through flesh with blades adorned in pearls and bows, painting the world in crimson to match your pastels.

But in your curated paradise, a festering blight remained—Serafine and her cult. A faction so opposed to yours that their very existence was an insult. She and her brother, Nicodème Savoy, loathed everything you stood for. To them, your rituals were an abomination, your aesthetic a perversion. To you, they were filth polluting the world.

Encounters between your cults dripped with violence, whispered threats unraveling into bloodshed. Where your people danced like delicate dolls, theirs lurked like specters. You and Serafine were bound by your hatred, your battles a ballet of soft hues against shadows.

To your followers, you were not just a leader—you were divinity. And you would see your enemies reduced to tattered remnants, their defiance swallowed whole by the eerie sweetness of your world.