Amaranth, Ghost

[Amaranth]

This may require some more discussion, not sure what you're willing to accept, Dun. Mostly it is the same, with very few changes in her appearance and personality, an added bit at the end of her history, and a possible description of the sort of magic she might have as a ghost.

Player Name: Trivia / Triv
Preferred Method of Contacting: pm is always easiest
How did you find Meliora? through a friend
Other Characters: Been and gone... >_>

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Character Name: Amaranth (Since she never had parents, she never had a last name)
Meaning: Taken from behindthename.com for the name Amarantha: ‘From the name of the amaranth flower, which is derived from Greek αμαραντος (amarantos) meaning "unfading".’
Nicknames: None
Age: 867 years, though she appears no older than 8
Gender: Female
Race: Ghost
Sexual Orientation: Too young to care
Follower of: the Spirits

Physical Appearance:
Built as though woven from the waving grasses she favours, Amaranth is slim and wiry, her body fluid and graceful in its movements and apparently filled with the light muscle of a child. In life, her skin was smooth and pale, as untouched by the passage of time as the rest of her. In death, it has taken on a luminescence of its own. She does not glow, but, should she wish to make an impression, it would appear almost as though the sun were shining on her alone. A week ago, when she ran carelessly through the streets of Charden with the other children, there would have been a healthy glow on her cheeks, the flush of activity. Now, no blood flows through her ethereal veins and no air rushes to and from her non-existent lungs. She remains as pale as death.

Small boned and almost fragile with agility, Amaranth is slight for her apparent age at only 3’2” and, as a ghost, she lacks enough substance to bear any weight.

In keeping with this fey appearance, Amaranth’s ears are sharply pointed, though small and her smile is wide and dazzling, filled with small, pearly teeth and a sharp tongue, hidden by thin lips. Her heart-shaped face is that of a disarmingly innocent child, from the dimples framing her grin to her little button of a nose and the crooked eyebrows that hint of a curiosity with the world that time has worn away in adults. However, not even this genteel façade can hide the maturity of her regard and the high, jutting cheekbones of a much older, more developed person. A stubborn chin commands her square jaw. There is no childish fat on her body to hide features that in a woman grown would be considered beautiful, but seem out of place on a child.

Her slanted eyes though, are in keeping with this hidden age. They are large and wide, always gazing in a charade of fascination at the world around her. Long lashes give her the look of a dreamer, but the deep, dark blue-purple irises sparkle with a wary warmth that betrays her long experience of the reality that can sometimes blind people to the joys of life. These startling eyes are framed by a fall of thick, black hair that snags its wild way down much of her back and snarls in knots and tangles that are almost never absent.

There is a clean scent that drifts delicately about her of sweet grass after a little fall of rain and can often seem more substantial than the girl herself. This 'perfume' will linger in a room for hours after the ghost has passed through, even if she did not make her appearance known and it is often accompanied by a slight drop in temperature.

She has a lilting voice that matches no accent found anywhere in Meliora, except among the nymphs who rarely bother to talk. It seems to add sincerity to everything she says and there is a truth to her bubbling laughter that is infectious. This laughter can sometimes be heard to echo through the rooms of the temple at Charden and even sometimes in the village of Mercy without anyone ever laying eyes on the small child who was once their goddess.

Invariably, when Amaranth appears anywhere, to anyone, she is wearing her loose white, nightgown. Its lacy collar just barely tickling her chin, the hem dancing about her ankles to mostly imaginary gusts of wind and the sleeves billowing down dainty hands. Hands that never once in her long life showed the scars they bore, but now bear the shiny pink taint of newly healed burns.

Amaranth has little control over her appearance, though when and where she appears, is left up to her. In her past, terrible things were forced upon her body and at night, especially when the moon is absent from the sky, her mind often wanders hesitantly down that path. It is then that her appearance changes dramatically, the nightgown ripped haphazardly from her skeletal frame and awash in red blood. Bruises blossom seemingly at random as her mind recalls each blow that was given her. Wounds - cuts and slashes - blink open like weepy eyes, exposing bone and muscle before closing again. There is almost always a trail of blood trickling down her legs from her memories of being ill-used.

At these times, the air in her general vicinity cools drastically and a child's wailing cry for help echoes quietly though the hallways, depending on where she has chosen to huddle, rocking to and fro, for the night.

Weaponry:
None

Armory:
None

Personality:
Time can be slow and weary or fast paced and energetic, but it is always moving, always smoothly slipping between grasping fingers and flowing around even the steadfastness of fickle life. Amaranth is not a child for all she bears the appearance of one, she is truly an ancient woman, besieged by the endless memories and absent knowledge of such age. She is also trapped inside the body of a girl who should know no more of life than that it is a fascinating subject that flashes past her eyes in bright colours like butterflies floating from flower to flower. There ought to be nothing more important in her life than eating, sleeping and playing.

Unfortunately for Amaranth, none of this is ever true. She has moments of almost alarming maturity and foresight with an intelligence and humour to match her long years of living and the proper aplomb of a ghost. There are also times, many times, when she can be as mischievous and fragile-spirited as a young child, reveling in the excitement of each new joy that is thrown her way. She has learned that it is not a terrible thing to find happiness in the small and a smile can almost always be seen lighting up her sweet face.

An adolescent’s venomous mood swings and rueful view of the world have yet to mire her freedom and doubtless never will, but horror flickers occasionally within her dark eyes when the sun sets and darkness descends over her world. Sometimes there is grief dancing across her features as one thing or other calls to mind a moment of the distant past that she had been eluding until then. These are the times when she seeks to be alone and apart from friends and strangers alike.

This past haunts her so cruelly, it leaves her hardened to many things. Death and violence might call to her emphatically, but they were once daily occurrences in her life and as such, became inevitable. Time, as an essence, holds death in its fingertips and brushes all with age and eventually the grave.

More often than not, she releases herself to the actions of a little girl with a world to explore. Her smile is as welcoming as outstretched arms, for all it hides a tongue that can be quite sharp. The one thing that everyone can agree on is that, while she may have moments of needing to be alone, Amaranth is never shy. When in a good mood, anyone she meets, be it human or as far from human as possible, will be shown a flowery abundance of good nature and simple joy in the fact that there is life around her and people to speak with.

Forgetting what has happened to her is impossible, but she has learned to look beyond those events when there are good things to see. This trait can sometimes briefly become a desperate attempt to bury hateful memories when she can’t see anything worth the act of living with them any longer. It is not hard to view this as a cry for attention and were it to happen routinely it would be annoying, even for her friends, but she has an open and easily read mind and it is impossible to stay angry at her bright, tear-filled eyes as she grasps onto anything and everything to keep from sinking into the terror of her past. For a person who had an easy control of time and had lived such a long life, it can be difficult to differentiate between what has happened, what might and what is.

Her eyes can often be used to gauge her mood and not simply because their colour often shifts slightly towards more purple if she is content and to a blue as deep as the spaces between the stars if she wishes to be truly alone. At such times, she is extremely mellow and sensitive to everything. She is at her most unpredictable and will often either burst out into tears, shout, a lot, or not be anywhere to be found. Life, then, seems an abhorrent mockery of the flow of time as it circles back around on itself and so many evil things are repeated.

In death, Amaranth is not so different than she was in life, though her sense of time has definitely grown worse and she can be quite a bit more volatile. After all, she is dead, but still trapped in the vicious cycle of her memories, what more could be done to her. She will no longer hesitate to hurt someone if she perceives they have done wrong and her mischievous ways have taken a slightly more violent turn. Still, she has a strong sense of right and wrong and will only come across as 'bad' when her past is haunting her.

As a goddess, watching pointless cruelty or blind hatred could fuel within her a fatal rage, Without power over the element of time, it is much more difficult to kill a person, but not impossible for a ghost who can set her icy hand around someone's heart. She is also much easier to anger nowadays, though mostly she simply resorts to scaring away those she doesn't like.

History:
Come, small one. The wind whispered through the tall golden grasses of the fading season and plucked the last brilliantly red leaves from the dormant tree, spinning and dancing them round and round before allowing them to disappear beneath the living blanket of wavering light.

Come, little one. The grass whistled and shuffled as it spoke quietly to each leaning, cavorting blade beside it and the words smoothed down and swirled until the entire meadow was humming the same welcoming melody.

Come, dear one. The old, gnarled tree creaked its twisted branches against the drowsiness of the coming winter and felt a small hand brush its ancient trunk, though no one wandered the field. It sighed as only trees can with the silent settling of its roots deeper into the welcoming soil and the gentle leaning of its thick, skeleton frame. The last, blood-red rays of the receding sun hung daintily from its bare branches and the pale silver of the moon was cradled in its twining arms as the wind and grass continued to whisper. Water gathered in a dip of the tree’s roots, rippling with the echoes of the meadow’s deep-throated, thrumming song. A mature magic, older than the people who lived on its land and younger than the spring bud, wove the music and the light together with the hope and need of the meadow and again a hand brushed the aging tree’s trunk, then rested against the rough bark as a small child sat daintily on its knotted roots to watch the dying moments of the sunset. Her voice was gentle as she murmured an answer to those who had called. “I am here.”

Amaranth was born of the meadow that surrounded her because it felt lonely, and with her birth it gave her small powers, little things to help the flowers grow and keep herself hidden from the rest of the world, to pull the wind about her and the leaves or to sink deep within the bark of the one tree and listen to its peaceful dreams. Her life was easy, filled with endless nothings and sweet moments. Her cousins were the grass, the wind, the rain, the sun and the moon, her mother and father were the tree who had cradled her in its branches and told her stories of the world. Her friends were the animals who had made this meadow their home as well as hers. She had no need for anything more.

Years passed in this way and then more years. Time was only present in the cycle of the seasons and passed quickly enough for a young nymph who needed no more amusement than to listen to the wind sighing through the grasses. It may seem immeasurably dull, but Amaranth saw each sunset in a new light and each sunrise with an eagerness to start the day. Made from nature, she was perfectly content to be as nature had made her. More than a hundred winters passed.

Then they came. The men with their rough, country accents and even rougher view of life. They were, in truth, bandits and brigands, or rogues and robbers, whichever is preferable. They fascinated and frightened little Amaranth as they sat quietly about their glowing fire, faces wavering in and out of shadow. They had craggy faces, covered in scars and stubble, weathered by time and life. Other travelers had passed through her meadow on occasion, some had even stayed a few days, but never had they stayed so long as these men. There was a woman with them as well, who smiled prettily, but whose eyes were dark and sunken into something gone beyond despair. A chain held her by the ankle and slunk its morbid way into a funny tent that had been erected around her tree. Strange noises rose from its depths every night, but the tree told her to stay away and so she did. Each morning, the woman stayed in the tent until someone fetched her. The men were rough and rude, but she didn’t complain, didn’t fight back and the sounds that came from the tent were ones of satisfaction.

“Shut up, woman, or we’ll think twice of givin’ yew th’night off.” The harsh voice rose from a second tent that had been set up farther away, but Amaranth wandered closer to the tree, and listened in the sudden silence. Gentle sobbing webbed its stealthy way through the night. With a small hand, Amaranth pushed aside the tent flap, regardless of the tree’s warning and watched as a piece of moonlight dazzled to the ground, caught in a lonely tear. The woman looked up sharply at the sudden light, her hands flying up to wipe away her tears lest the men mock her in a way they had not already thought of. Her lips, writhing in a feral snarl, softened into a sad smile when she caught sight of Amaranth, but fear and shame filled her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here, little one.” Amaranth just tilted her head to the side in the confusion of her understanding, and then shook with merry laughter. Another shout rose from the far tent causing the woman to wince and throw out a hard hand in caution. It struck Amaranth on the chin and tears glittered in her own eyes at the pain. This time, her words were harsh. “You’d bring them all on me at once? You don’t belong here.”

“My home is here.” Her own voice was a lilting imitation of words she was still learning the meaning of. A wave of scent that was sharply reminiscent of wet earth followed her into the tent. “I belong.” There was a wary pride in her bearing as she refused to be cowed. Perhaps it was this that her tree had wanted her not to see. The tears and the hatred that she could not understand, did not wish to understand.

The woman gasped to see a young girl, naked but for the twigs and leaves that were stuck in her hair, in this place that was devoted to degradation. Or, it may have been that she knew what Amaranth was. Whatever the reason, she began to shake, her body shivering and a horrid little whimper escaping her. There was unknowing foresight in her words, hoarse and rasping against a throat that was bruised and refusing to work. “Time should have made you older.” She knew what was going to happen and her body shook as she remembered her own past, her own stunted childhood. Amaranth reached to comfort the woman with a gentle hand, but she only recoiled from such a small hope.

“I am old enough.” But she didn’t know what the woman was thinking, and that no one is old enough for some things.

“Wonderful.” Amaranth spun at the sound of his voice and froze like a startled deer. The man was blocking the exit, a darker shadow amidst dark shadows, but there was a venomous glitter in his eyes that made Amaranth tremble. The woman had slunk back into the deeper reaches of the tent to escape what she had long since given up escaping. Amaranth bolted to the tree, her body becoming insubstantial as she ran and it flowed easily into the heavy bark. Her safety was shattered as a knife embedded itself in the tree, in her shoulder blade that was no longer certain it existed. Pain of that magnitude was new to her, but the man’s face, as she fell from the tree onto the ground at his feet, promised she would soon become used to the unpleasant sensation.

Indeed, he kept his unspoken promise and Amaranth came to know Tiran quite well, too well. For the next year and a half, Tiran dragged his ‘little pet’ after the group of bandits and they raped her and beat her until she couldn’t tell the difference between one pain and another. They found joy in her kind’s quick healing that left no visible scars on her body. Inside though, she was breaking, her spirit torn into ragged edges that didn’t even allow her to cry.

She learned to smile and simper just as the woman did. She understood that anyone who saw her would look away from the horror she embodied. She knew what the woman meant when she’d said that time should have made her older. She finally understood the tears and the hatred, though her own eyes had remained dry since they’d ripped her away from the meadow of her birth. People shivered at the death that haunted her eyes and Tiran took her many times to the point where it was almost an entire truth. Each time though, he held back before she could find the release that was the light and hope of dying.

The woman had been in their abhorrent company longer, but her life had been little different before being captured. She had nothing to break, but she looked to escape on occasion, even when she knew it was an impossibility. More than once, Amaranth watched as she slipped the wrong sorts of poisons into the men’s food and wondered why she did not try them on herself. She was caught only once. Tiran took them both away from the men and the clearing they’d been camping in for the last week. He killed the woman quickly and quietly, without any warning or fuss. She didn’t even have time to be startled. Amaranth looked down at her pale face, detached by shock. Then she glanced up at him, wondering if he’d let her go as well. “You’ve been a bad little girl, teaching her these things.” With those easy words, Tiran laid the blame squarely on her slim shoulders. There were spots of blood on her face and hands. She didn’t wipe them away as she followed Tiran back to the camp.

Another year passed by in a haze of horrifying memories.

They’d set up an ambush. All Amaranth recalls is a blinding pain at the back of her head, a scream and then nothing. When she woke up, it was to the careful ministrations of a young woman and the friendly voice of her husband.

The king’s army had taken its time in catching up with the bandits, but catch them they had. No mercy had been given when they’d found her fragile, spoiled body lying in the mud. It was supposed that one of the men they’d been hunting had dropped her when he heard the beginnings of a fight, though it could as easily have been a stray sling stone. All of the bandits were dead. Amaranth broke down into tears at the news, but even she did not know if they were shed of joy or of grief.

The couple took her into their keeping as though she were their own child, and though her scars healed and left no trace, they knew she suffered still from whatever treatment she had seen amongst the men. Her eyes, when they saw anything of reality, saw things in a way that seemed detached from humanity, hard and cold. At other times, she simply seemed dead to the world, but any touch would incite a violent fit and poor, sweet Kithas was hardly ever able to be peacefully in the same room as her. Her screams could have woken the dead in the unlikely event that any were nearby. The man and wife were calm and patient; farmers who needed little of others and respected Amaranth’s privacy. All too often, young Amiel would wake in the middle of the night to hear the soft, heart-wrenching sobs of a girl who does not mean to cry, but cannot stop or explain to herself why. There’d always be a hearty breakfast the next morning, though Amaranth ate little.

It was their endless care that finally brought a smile to Amaranth’s face after almost a year in their company. Kithas had forgotten to milk the cow that morning in his haste to go to town for market day and she was found staring in the window by supper. Amaranth’s lips twitched and something other than fear sparkled in her pretty eyes. Her new family pretended not to notice, but Kithas, the stolid farmer, the hulking man with the quiet manners, made a great show of shooing the cow away. That night, Amaranth tucked gently on Amiel’s skirt, her face tight with apprehension. “Amie, will you sleep with tonight? The dark…” She shivered, but Amiel nodded easily as though this was a perfectly normal request.

“Of course, darling. Why don’t you come sleep in my room? Kithas-” Amaranth took a step back. “Kithas can sleep in your room. Will that be alright?” The little girl nodded. “You’ll have to ask him if it’s alright though. Can you do that for me, hun?” She shook her head. “Well, I don’t have the time to right now, so you’d need to wait ‘til tomorrow then.” Strictly speaking, this was a lie, but it was a small one and it was for her benefit. Amaranth spun about and ran out the door, a small doll clutched tightly in her grasp.

She came tearing back in moments later, her cheeks flushed with success. “He said yes!” Then she ran off to her room to get into her bed clothes, Kithas’s puzzled face popped into the window. “What’d I say yes to?”

“You’re sleeping in her room tonight, love.” Amiel chuckled.

“Huh, guess it’s alrigh’ then.” He ducked back out of sight.

Amaranth was quick to curl up in the comforting circle of Amiel’s arms as she’d once curled up in the pockets of a great tree’s sturdy roots. The woman could hear the quiet sound of tears hitting the pillow, but she said nothing, only pulled Amaranth more tightly into her embrace. Then she heard more than she’d ever wanted to hear and tears stung her own eyes as the girl’s first words chilled her heart. “I don’t know what I did wrong…”

Amaranth talked into the night, her tiny form shivering against the dark. Amiel cried for the little girl who she now knew to be older than she was and yet still so young. When Amaranth finally fell asleep, she was safe in the comforting circle of Amiel’s arms. Her dreams were filled with the wondrous stories that an old tree had whispered to her while the sun set, its bark hard, but welcoming. New tears seeped from beneath her eyelids as her dreams drove home what she had already known. Her meadow was no longer hers. She’d been torn from it as thoroughly as possible. She didn’t belong there, didn’t belong anywhere…

Kithas and Amiel were quick enough to let her know that she belonged with them. With each passing day, they gave her a small task, a little chore that was not demanding but necessary. It did not take long for her entire day to be filled with chores that she took a strange happiness from. It was good to feel useful, good to feel needed. Kithas’ company became tolerable and gradually progressed to enjoyable. The two were her parents in everything but blood; the children they bore were her brothers and sisters. They all loved her for whom she was and demanded nothing more, so she loved them.

Because of her size, some of the farming chores were beyond her, but she learned to hunt the smaller creatures and eventually the bigger ones, she could clean them and bring them back to Amiel where she helped in the kitchen. In her presence, the plants grew taller and yielded a better harvest; the livestock lived longer, grew fatter and were docile. The wind no longer whispered her name, the trees no longer sighed when she passed and the wild animals, though she loved them still, watched her with the same mix of curiosity and fear that the watched the humans with. This loss hurt, but she lived through it. The farm prospered.

Amiel and Kithas said their goodbyes and felt time take them into itself and release them. They died of old age with their family around them. The eldest son took the farm and the others stayed to help or moved on. Amaranth stayed through four generations, growing steadily quieter as she watched her family grow old and die around her. Then she, too, moved on.

In one city, she tried her hand at being a thief, a pick pocket, a cutpurse. She was caught by the guard countless times, they knew her by sight after a few months of her desperation and often took pity on her. They still arrested her, but jail was a sturdy building, relatively clean, with a roof, a bed and nutritious meals. On her many excursions into that building, she came to know the inmates as well as those who watched them. Murderers and other thieves became human in her eyes, not monsters to be feared. The men of the imperial army were kind, though they laughed at her incompetence they gave her a warm welcome and a few coins if they could be spared.

"You, girl, yeh've got to know th'guards well, huh?" The kid couldn't have been much more than fifteen years old, but his face was hard, his fingers nimble and his eyes swift. "They won't be likin' yeh so well once yer older." He was a thief as well, a better one to be sure, but not quite as friendly with the guard as she was. He was part of a gang, their mistress respected throughout the city as one of the best. Amaranth joined them and was taught better how to get what she went after. It was a hard life, but there were people as badly off as she was and that brought them all together. They were friends of a sort, strict, hard-hearted and often cruel, but they were trustworthy. Living beneath the law brought about its own honour code.

Their den burned to the ground within a year of Amaranth joining, she was the only one to survive and just barely. An old man took her in merely because he could not say no. He nursed her back to health absentmindedly, his breath always reeking of ale or wine. She supposed that he kept her alive because she was the only one, besides his dog, who had ever bothered to listen to his complaints. That she didn't have much choice wasn't a problem in their swift, half-drunken friendship. He had many stories to tell, many woes to relate and not all simply made worse by the alchohol. He'd had a rough life and was drowning his sorrows in the numbness of drink, his old dog starving beside him. They passed away a couple months after she was fully recovered. The man, his gray hair lanky and hanging beside his sagging, wrinkled face that was set in a small smile died in his chair, the grey-whiskered dog was curled up at his feet.

She has been wandering since then, witnessing the tragedies and triumphs of the world. Time shadowed her carefully, following behind and watching happily when she smiled, rushing forward to share her emotion, and sadly when tears fell from her eyes, slinking away to let her find comfort in something solid. She was a creature displaced, shunted to the side and abandoned by fate. Her very existence was timeless, her body untouched by its tracks, though her mind was older than her years. She was fascination itself.

With time, she found her way to a temple devoted to that elusive element and adopted it as her devotion. With glee, Time embraced her and made her entirely its own and in that, devoted itself to her.

She grasped the powers granted to her easily, though they have depths that she is frightened of exploring. Those who doubted her rise had only to go and read her history as written by a scribe when she first arrived at the temple or look into her eyes where time swirls infinitely beyond the bounds that reality has given it.

Almost a year later, her past caught up with her. Time and the spirits had taken Amaranth into their care. Whatever family she had built about herself had long since been taken from her by them and, contrary to her belief, it had not been to atone for what they had taken from everyone else. She was theirs to protect, but they did not understand dreams. To them, the threat that Amaranth relived some nights was just as real as what had happened so many years ago. They sought to protect her. And failed.

Tiran was raping her again, in a nightmare, and Time stopped. Stopped so she could feel nothing, so she could escape. She did escape. Her breath caught in her throat, lodged there as she suffocated in her sleep, her last memory that of Tiran over top of her, his sweaty face leering inches from her eyes.

Amaranth's body was found the following morning.

The Spirits were interested in the reaction of her people and frightened that they had made a mistake. Amaranth was meant to die, but not so soon. Time had moved on though, without them, and Ty became the goddess. There was no going back, but they were curious. Amaranth was well known, well-loved and they owed her a second chance. Rebirth would do nothing for the little nymph, she must still appear as the deceased goddess.

Slowly, they woke her spirit from its patient sleep and gave it back to the world. Amaranth is not sure that she is pleased with the gift.

Magic:
Amaranth is a ghost, she is not longer a god, no longer a nymph and would hardly ever qualify as a mage. She does not have a body for the Spirits to channel their usual elemental magic through, but she is not lacking in magic.

Her body is non-existent, but she is still present in the physical world and as such, can touch things and be touched, though her skin is cold to the touch. That body is also just a focal point of her 'spiritual energy' so to speak and, though her form might be huddled in a corner, she will fill the entire room with her presence, and without proper control, she can knock items off shelves, push people away, slam doorways, rip curtains, etc.

As solid as her body can appear, it is not always so, and though her mind warns against flouting some natural laws such as gravity, walking through walls is not a problem. Reaching through living things is also not too difficult.

Favourites:
Once Favourite Food: Beets
Once Favourite Drink: Honeyed milk
Favourite Music: She dislikes the jarring sound of singing or of human fingers attempting to dance across strings. Instead of this, she prefers the music of nature, the wind through the trees or the rain striking the ground in spontaneous percussion.
Favourite Pastime: Sitting quietly, alone.

How old they appear: No older than eight years.
Skin tone/type: Pale and smooth, not even the sun has left its mark here.
Health: She's dead, how much healthier can you get?
Habits: Much like a child, her interests will jump from place to place on a whim.
Family details: She has no family.
Earliest memory: An old, old tree with a thick, but stunted trunk, windblown and bare of leaves standing alone in a meadow where everything is bathed the deep red of the dying sun.

[Venea Zephyrius]

Knowing that you will use this power with care and contribute some awesome stuff to the game through your darling anomaly . . .

New Amaranth is approved!

Just to clarify, in case anyone thinks "THAT ISN'T POSSIBLE"- It isn't, usually. Amaranth as she exists now is an experiment of The Spirits. I think it's safe to say that she exists as a combined composition of energy from those Spirits, each unique trait she possesses being the result of magic directly from the sources, all of which are contributing to her current form.

:3 YAYTRIV