Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE CAST

[Gao]

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APPLICATIONS

OPTIONAL ROLES

ROGUE WAVES.

YOU BOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

THE CHARACTERS.

Edit as of 25/05: Applications are due by the end (11:59pm) of Wednesday 29th of May.

Hello hello and welcome to the application area of Rogue Waves. HERE is the google document of “Lore”, which goes over Faction groups & Locations to assist in your character sheets. I have added a spoiler underneath this section with unformatted information for those that are unable to view it.

I will note that even if you are logged into google, nobody can view your name or profile picture when viewing this document (not even me). Like everyone else you will show up as an anonymous animal, so do not fret if you’re worried about someone seeing your Xx_ShadowLordSlasher839_xX email. If you are still uncertain, do open it on Incognito or scroll through the spoilered info below. I usually prefer to have all information in one place to avoid clicking around different links, but found a Google Document was the easiest way to display it. (I also spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to make it look pretty, woe is me.)

What I’m looking for is a range of characters with different backgrounds, values, ambitions, and a balanced crew of loyal/neutral/evil. Do remember to remove my annotations in brackets, they’re just a guide. I've asterisked what is compulsory to include, everything else is optional. I use codes because I find them pretty and enjoy customisation, but you are not forced to use them to partake in this roleplay. Just make sure if adding an image to your uncoded post that it is not the size of a house. Thank-you ♡.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask in the ooc or send me a dm! A deadline for applications will be applied further into the future.

As a quick reminder, there is a limit of two characters each (for now), and characters are to be over 21 and human.

THE CHARACTER SHEET.

*Full Name: [Their real name]

Alias: [Nicknames, perhaps a name they prefer, or have to go by]

*Role: [For example, “The Marksman”, or your crafted role.]

*Age:

Place of Birth: [Locations are listed in the doc & spoilered beneath]

*Face-claim: [Written description or realistic]

*Height:

*Eye & Hair colour:

Written description of appearance:

*Personality: [This can be communicated through descriptions, bullet points or even a written scene. Just something that gives me a nice feel of your character.]

*Likes & Dislikes:

*Fears:

Habits:

Hobbies:

*Strengths: [What are they good at? What are their skills? Does not have to be battle or physical oriented, nor written at extensive length.]

*Weaknesses: [Same as above, but the opposite.]

*History: [I know this part sucks. I’m sorry. You are free to write instances that had an influential impact on your character, do the classic Childhood, Adolescence, Adult, or style this in any format you see fit.]

*Reputation: [Are they well-known? By who? For good reasons? If publicly, what cities would they be known in?]

*Why did they board The Leviathan? [What is their motivation? Is there one, or are they drifting aimlessly?]

How did they get on board? [Legal means? Illegal means? Appointed by the King? Bought themselves a spot? Feel free to be creative with this.]

Faction: [Listed in the google document as well as the spoiler below. Can answer as none if not applicable. For those that answer yes, is this a past or present affiliation? If it’s in the past, how does your character feel about them? How/why did your character join, and how/why did your character leave them? Would this faction recognise you today? Are you now affiliated with a new faction? Are you part of two simultaneously? You don't have to answer all of these, but do consider them.]

Status: [Also listed in the google document & spoilered below. This is their social position, can be past or present.]

Opinion on royalty: [Are you loyal, neutral, or against?]

Opinion on piracy: [Swing sword be sexy? What do you think?]

Extras: (If you have a Spotify playlist or a Pinterest moodboard for your character, place them into my loving hands at once.)

The following questions are compulsory for your darling GM gao.

*What I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay are: [Maybe close relationships, character development, a certain injury, a scenario that is the embodiment of what they fear most. Wanna make them cry and lose everything they love? Let me know and it’ll help my scheming.]

*If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the GM feels there’s a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival: [Y/N]

{WOJTEK FUS}

night owl

Spoiler: UNFORMATTED LORE

STATUS
This is related to their social position and what circles your character may be involved with, or has been involved with. More than one may apply, and is completely optional to include in your character sheet.

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KINGSMEN: Loyalty for the crown, those onboard the Leviathan will be seen as Kingsman by proxy (for now), but there are those in the group who have pledged themselves to the King wholeheartedly. Whether that devotion will survive the dilemmas of the Leviathan is unknown.

PRIVATEER: A pirate by branding, a Kingsman by contract, crimes have been pardoned to have your skillset working for the King. The melted letter is branded ropey and thick into your wrist, but better than the thick of a noose shaped for your throat.

WANTED: Desired by whoever has the money to print and distribute these posters, they may depict a missing person or criminal, and at times, be promised a bounty for their death or return. The more appealing rewards invoke the pursuit of money-hungry bounty hunters.

HIGH SOCIETY: Politicians, the wealthy, and those that are subject to run at their beck and call. You are so entangled with this fanciful way of life, sentenced to smile without teeth and drift between the fingers and lies of sycophants, that you forget there are more pressing issues beyond this golden cage.

LOW SOCIETY: Struggle is familiar on your tongue, familiar in your voice and familiar in your destitute hands. Stomach sieved and coin purse light, street urchins and beggars alike, you are the slums of society, frequently admonished by the arrogant slopes of upturned noses. You may be diamonds in the rough, if you can manage to shed the extrinsic muck from your body.

ROYALTY: Blue blood, beasts of this high-status ilk are drooled with intangibility. The highest of society with the wealth and reverence to match, your value is incalculable, ransom-worthy. But pedestals propose the risk of a plummet, love for the sun and devotion bathed languid in, born in, or the Icarus plummet to a gnashing seabed. You cannot have both.

OUTCAST: Everything of yours is revoked, cracked open and scoured of both identity and your place in society. By the King’s decree you are to own no land, bear no children, and exist as a severed, nomadic thread outside of city walls. Death isn’t a worthy punishment for what you’ve done, but ostracization and living with the haunt of your regret is.

FACTIONS
These are established groups throughout Solas. Same as Status, these may be past or present affiliations, and your character can be part of several or none at all. Neither of these are compulsory in your application, but will help with plotting, pivotal events, and connections throughout the roleplay. I do advise at least reading these for ideas.

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CARMINE CORSAIR: ( organised piracy ) Identified by a fleet of ruby sails and gunpowder tempers, this faction is one of few organised pirate groups ruled by its own flavour of sovereignty. While there is no “Pirate King” per say, The Red Baron enforces law of both this faction and the residents of the location Antares. They’re known to loot any boat, bring waste to a seaside town for no purpose other than to test new ammunition, and are overall cutthroat in their practices. They are the most pressing concern to King Rowan.

STYGIAN ORDER: ( thieves guild ) While originating from Sirocco, this Thieves Guild is webbed throughout Solas in clandestine locations. Emerging from the routine of pickpocketing habits are rumours of a heist, rumours of members that have bigger ambition than swiping bags and coin purses; the bank of Siroc remains enforced by guards, but these rogues have a magpie appeal to everything labelled off-limits.

PIRATE: ( disorganised piracy ) While Carmine Corsairs are imposing, there is a vast collection of pirates throughout the realm that are independent from this red-sail brigade. Morals may differ between each vessel, as does the danger they pose. They can be branded or unbranded, unknown or renowned, but know that the punishment for piracy in Zenith is a plummet from the gallows or a chained drowning from the tide. If one is especially lucky and offered a small mercy from the King or his council, a privateer contract may just revert your fate.

COVENANT OF AETHERA: ( religious sect ) Emerged from The Cascades, followers are swathed in ivory and lost in a devotion that can border absurdity. They revere celestial bodies as ancient deities, believing the dark that haunts the Cascades is punishment for those that are sceptics to their practices, those that have deterred from the natural path. Stars as their prophet, the “Oracles” are the two leaders that interpret these, and they believe sickness, murder and war is a predetermined fate that deserves no intervention— save they anger the cosmos once again. It is the key to salvation, to unbinding the curse that ensnares the marble city, and they spread their beliefs through flashy public ceremonies and offerings that tourists are always enraptured to experience.

WORLDBUILDING & LOCATIONS
Most should be pretty self explanatory. No Tiktok. No converse sneakers and ripped skinny jeans. No Harry Styles to adopt you from your mom.

Rogue Waves is based in the fictional world Solas, hosting limited magic and fantasy species, yet these are subject to discrimination in most corners of the map. I may allow characters in the future to dabble in these subjects, but for now it’s forbidden ooo.

There is an assortment of sleepy towns, farmlands and minor cities littered throughout that you are free to create yourself. Just make sure to detail these in your character sheet.

Please note if you choose to assort your character into these locations, that they do not have to abide by stereotypes, skills, jobs or traits that are listed. These are just to give you an idea of their society, values, culture etc. You can have a friendly character from Umbra who hates soup, a humble aristocrat from Siroc, etc etc.

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THE CAPITAL OF SOLAS, CITY OF ZENITH: The Leviathan hails from this hub of trade, as does the monarchy. A cobblestone capital nestled between plains and ocean port, it’s a bustling epicentre that disperses into dark, narrowed pathways riddled with uncertainty. Sailors make home at heady taverns, same as clandestine crime and muck-ridden poverty do in the back-alley webs of Zenith. King Rowan presides over the majority of Solas, has a daughter but no male heirs, and with circulating rumor of an unwell wife, expectation for his family reign is to be short-sighted.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: Crowns, balance scales.
AMIABILITY: 3/5
KNOWN FOR: The marketplace, largest port and flotilla of stalls in Solas. The royal family, an annual Carnevale, military resilience & presence, connected rooftops, storage warehouses, tunnels beneath the city, political hub, the gallows, largest prison in Solas, guilds, a concerning number of orphanages, branding pirates.
ORIGINATING FROM ZENITH MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Connections, bargaining, entrepreneurship, street smarts, adaptability, multilingualism, politics, leadership, apprenticeships, education, nobility.



THE CASCADES: An endless night ensnares this opaline stronghold, accursed to be held hostage by what devours in the dark. Lacquered opaline, Cascade cuts a figure of tall ivory into the inky backdrop, and proves to be a beacon of perseverance in an environment that desires to render it down to a crude cage of skeletons. Streets of milky pavement and origami lanterns, it’s an ethereal epicentre for tourist attraction and exploration of the arts. Those that hail from here are steely to what haunts outside their walls, and residents that live beyond the protective wards of the glowing city have found methods to live and travel freely. If not for the fact you can throw a lump of meat into the dark and it will hit the ground as a licked-clean bone, the Cascades would have surely eclipsed Zenith as the Capital.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: The moon, stars, lanterns, origami.
AMIABILITY: 4/5
KNOWN FOR: A Forever Night. The annual light festival. Religious temples, academies, crystals and gemstones. Strict laws and minimum crime, and as such, guards that are revered across Solas. Strange food, tourist traps, uncommon flora & fauna, regular art exhibitions. Live (and often cruel) executions are noted to be their intense retaliation to criminal activity.
ORIGINATING FROM THE CASCADES MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Wisdom, tradition, keen eyesight, caution, creativity, eccentric fashion, obedience, religion, insincerity, academia, art.



ANTARES: A frequent layover for sailors, and a lay is often what they get. At the nucleus of binge drinking, brothel visits and mulling of sticky tobacco, Antares is a party port with little concern for self preservation. King Rowan has no governance here, and disorder is Antares’ closest companion, seconded only by The Red Baron; a reputable pirate at the helm of the Carmine Corsairs. Granted you’re not preaching loyalty to the King of the Capital, there is no reason for you to be turned away from their shores. While not exclusive, this is a pirate oriented location. Rum is strong but the strike of a fist to the jaw is stronger, and accolades of barfight bruises are not uncommon in this region.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: Red sails, crossed swords, skulls.
AMIABILITY: 3/5
KNOWN FOR: The Red Baron. Carmine Corsairs. Drinking, fighting, blacking out on the pavement. Opium consumption, murderers, thieves, pirates, homebrew alcohol, smuggling dens, illegal trade, gambling, the worst brothel in Solas (they bite), crooked royal personnel, greasy food.
ORIGINATING FROM ANTARES MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Street smarts, resourcefulness, bar-brawls, hand-to-hand combat, bomb making, pickpocketing, resilience, determination, self-reliance, risk awareness.



SIROCCO SANDS: From the heart of the desert is the skyline of Siroc, drooling rooftops of yolky gold and pooling fountains of freshwater oasis. Boasting wealth for invitations to the most exclusive events in Solas, affluence and upkeep of appearances are abundant in this city. Visitors are met with respect, granted you have the money to prove your worth. Two sides of the same coin, the surface is nourished with activity whilst the undercity chokes; beneath the crust are forges of flame and metal, pluming cinder and ash into the salty lungs of impoverished residents. Pain seeps into hands that are pebbled by callous and scar, canvases to showcase the decades of tough, menial work. The upper class nourishes itself fat on the survival of the poor.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: The sun, scepters, lions
AMIABILITY: 4/5
KNOWN FOR: A surface and undercity divide. Blacksmiths, affluence, banks, sand, metals, the origin of the Thieves Guild, high-society soirees, sandstorms, wealth discrimination, annual ballroom events, most acclaimed brothels, gladiatorial entertainment, freshwater baths, luxury and relaxation.
ORIGINATING FROM SIROC MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Metalworks, banking, scamming, mining, socialising, trading, combat, horseback riding, hardworking, poverty, physical injury, high society, laziness, greed.



CITY OF UMBRA: A northern fjord cleaved by alpines, reaching the city of Umbra is a showcase of frozen shipwreck artefact. There is nothing in terms of hospitality, a glacial waste met in both the environment and its inhabitants. There are surrounding, smaller settlements, but they are all eager to be rid of outsiders. Insight to their secrets or traditions are reserved for residents, for this place will ravage you cold, but to welcome the warmth of others is a risk of extinction. As you leave, you notice something seems to move on the ice when you’re not looking, like a reflection of sunlight clashing at a wrong angle. You notice the crew seems larger than when you left port. You notice something has come on-board with you. You notice it has come on-board for you.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: Snowflakes, bears.
AMIABILITY: 1/5
KNOWN FOR: Funeral pyres, gatekeeping, fur pelts, boat-builders, unconventional mounts, defensive location, blizzards, nice soup, pet bears (I know you want this), being the most secretive of all Solas communities.
ORIGINATING FROM UMBRA MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Skinning, hunting, keen perception, boat-building or repair, distrust, boat manoeuvring, slip-resistance, secrecy, monster-hunting, beast-taming, hard-won loyalty.



WATERS OF ALGOL: An uninhabitable cluster of islands is girdled with water that is perpetually cloudy, as if the laden silt has been kicked up from tumult. Navigation is precarious, and many a boat have found their final tomb in Algol. Ragged reefs and shallow loam hidden in the cloud of pallid water, only the experienced or desperate tend to even consider travelling through this region. Men are sometimes plucked from the waters of Algol with little left to their memory but clammy hands and waxen skin, sedimenting what is thought to be egregious fiction into a real life account. What Solas knows is enough: Don’t go into the water.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: None
AMIABILITY: 0/5
KNOWN FOR: Murky water, shipwrecks, uninhabitable islands, unpredictable weather patterns.
ORIGINATING FROM ALGOL MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Dying. You will be dead. You cannot live here. No free real estate. Begone.



THE CANALS: Fluvial, people of and found on the river; they are bound by no city, not even a King, and are instead a dying population scattered through a single, unmapped river. Refusing to partake in the politics of monarchy or war, Fluvians have been spurned by those that rally behind the King. They are ostracized to their placid life upon the waterways, a consequence that wouldn’t seem at all a problem if not for the lack of protection. While comfortably sustained by the river’s resources, there is no justice, no threat of gallows to deter violent pillaging. What little they have is reaped, and Fluvians are left to drown in the remains without help from the Capital. They are Outcasts, treated as such. Those on the river are gentle, their biggest virtue and vice.
MOTIFS INCLUDE: None.
AMIABILITY: 5/5
KNOWN FOR: “Deserting” the King. Townships are left uncharted from most maps. Reeds, tranquility, freshwater springs, production of high quality instruments, lily pads, canoes, “Fluvian” (derogatory), homely, community, dwindling population, swarming visitors with gifts and curious attention.
ORIGINATING FROM THE CANALS MAY EMBED TRAITS OF: Balance, foraging, fishing, swimming, pacifism, hobbyists, community, diplomacy, negotiation, light-footed, stealth, climbing, wariness, skittish, knowledge or appreciation for nature, comfortable clothing, sea legs, rowing, outcast status.


If wanting visuals of the locations, I advise perusing the Google Document because I was super sexy and didn't save the images .

 

[Gao]

both completed (excluding pinterest & spotifies ignore that) but this is my obligatory heads up that this code is nefarious and the third tab (portrait icon) has secret information stored away in the three clickable circles along the top​

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  CLICK

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  RAT

  
  
  
  

  THE LAZARUS.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  HAVE A SEAT, MISERY

  
  
  
  

  SHAYFER JAMES.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  FULL NAME

  
  
  

  Landon Alström

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Alias

  
  
  

  Rat, Ratthew, Rathaniel etc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  age

  
  
  

  THIRTY

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  P.O.B

  
  
  

  The Cascades

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  PRONOUNS

  
  
  

  HE/THEY/IT/THING/DOES NOT CARE

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
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  Age

  
  
  

  30

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Job

  
  
  

  Botanist

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  role

  
  
  

  Lazarus

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  FC

  
  
  

  Jamie Bower

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Height

  
  
  

  6'3" (188cm)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Weight

  
  
  

  176lbs(95kg)

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  The Lazarus

  
  
  

  
  PATIENCE
  

  
  INTELLIGENCE
  

  
  STRENGTH
  

  
  DECEPTION
  

  
  SPITTING DISTANCE
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Visage

  
  
  

  BUILD: What chartreuse foliage and emerald pondwater this man pores over has not gone neglected. Olive soaked skin wreathing an opal frame of 6’3”, it's a punish for existence, a sternum slatted with bone, wicker wood limbs sharp as paper cranes and gravestone knolls that emerge from the vertebrae of the spine. Thin-skinned as parchment sheaves, the Lazarus is a sylph of pale salt with the headspace of a carnival.
  
  EYES: Neither fond nor cruel, what little light reaches juniper is a flickering glitch at best. No downy parakeet or fresh lime skin, but in the dim hue that bleeds juxtaposition dwells an undercurrent of deviltry, of spring and impish plays not unlike that of a songbird; not unlike that of a vulture. Haggard, carrion-craving, it’s a wintry look to give someone pause, serpentinized and steady. To catch the Botanist’s silent observation is unnerving, realizing he takes apart others' reactions and refashions the pieces to decipher their truths, more so.
  
  HAIR: Leaned to wall with a melodramatic hand over forehead, how the rodent can wail over his Rapunzelesque mane. In truth, bones ache with apathy, and what care Rat has for physical appearance (both his and others) is miniscule. This is especially noted when tawny fawn becomes the victim of boredom-induced trims.
  
  SCARS: Bloomed to the surface like beads of ruby caviar, snagging thistles and unseen thorns are a war of their own. A gardener with not enough self preservation to wear gloves, his hands bear accolades of scars now knitted with brief memory.
  
  DISTINGUISHING: Thanatos is late, and it takes fatigue like a magnifying glass and refracts it through every tendon. There are days he is waxen as tallow, gaunt as a greyhound, and makes no appearance from his cabin. As there are days he is effervescent with energy, luminous like ichor and a bubbling brook, shortly ruined by a Hyena’s laugh and a smile to match.
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
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    PERSONA

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    Lively, social, hobbyist, creative, theatrical, musical, perceptive, mischievous, clever, insightful, autonomous, impudent, two-faced, blithe, impatient, pessimistic, coarse, chaotic, cunning, secretive, trickster, instigating and avoidant.
    
    

    IN DETAIL

    
    
    
    

    
    Akin to light of which moths wistfully flock, flower nectar engorged by butterflies or a pack of dogs tailing mutton meat, there are those forever drawn to the brilliant epicentre of a room. Yet when basking drunk in adulation and light, it is easy to forget wraiths that meander and haunt the sidelines can also relish attention given for all the wrong reasons.
    
    Wanton and pestilent; like that of a leper, Rat proudly wears a thick skin of disaster. He is an out of sync applause, an ill-matched puzzle and mosaic of unrest. Mouth full of war and eyes that croon serrated scorn, a masochistic glutton for weaving ire and thorns of annoyance. Corrosive to even the most temperate souls, oddities prove to be wholly impish and exhausting; reputation recalcitrant and almost eager to garner notoriety, the Lazarus prioritises entertainment and recognition rather than opinions (or feelings) of others.
    
    Such insouciance can be soil for shoots of envy. To have a lack of concern for condemnation is almost unheard of, but in abundance the virtue quickly leads to inconsideration. Uncouth, Rat bleeds taunts and spills unpleasantries as easy as breathing. Tongue dipped in vinegar and let steep to curdle the vocabulary, he is loathsome as a mouthful of bile and saltwater. It’s satisfying to wind someone up and watch them tick out the steps he expects, the angrier are the better, reliable as clockwork; nothing quite clears the room like a maniac with nothing to lose.
    
    But like the glass-rimmed salt of a martini, bitterness has an underlying sweet note. Albeit wry, there can be placid fondness in how he entertains others, and unspoken camaraderie exists for those he regards as decent.
    
    Accusations of “unsound mind” aren’t of fraud origin, behaviour curious and perpetually theatrical. From introductions; flourished hands paired with a deep bow and the dubious name “Rat!” to chittered teeth at ignorant ideas and optimistic dreams, he’s a swinging pendulum of peculiar and diabolical. Notable titles of deranged and infuriating are attested in every interaction, and volatile as gunpowder, once pinched the small hard-to-find string between tweezers, a rash carelessness is easy to pull loose.
    
    Personal space non-existent, social-normalcy ignored, slithering out of nowhere to intrude conversations: Rat prides himself on being a terrible little nuisance.
    
    He also prides himself on being completely fake.
    
    At the crux of Rat, patron saint of deceit: Landon is a liar, con-artist, and method-actor who has mastered how to present himself to others. Having woven an unsavoury exterior of acrid names and visceral grins, many would be horrified to learn the Botanist isn’t the attention-seeking insanity he appears.
    
    For when one pulls aside the draped curtain of the stage to find him as a silhouette of solitude, the unassailable trickster is now made of grief and loss. No cackle or spat insult to wrap his wilting bones as a layer of second skin, devoid of the pestilence only a rodent possesses, it is here his surfeit of theatrics wanes and here where he forgets his mother tongue of nasally nuisance.
    
    So brutally turned inside out once tempered by fermented cane sugar and goodberry ale, a coveted consumptive mind, enlightenment, articulation, and a wisdom unbecoming of a man at this tender age.
    
    How disarming to be seen, to be known, all while he grieves a life he is still yet to lose.
    
    

    LIKES

    
    

    
    Plants, painting, pottery, hard toffee, rodents, theatre, topiaries, attention, the colour green, paper origami, sugar, piano, live music, flutes.
    
    

    DISLIKES

    
    

    
    Vegetables, old people, dandelions, formal events, vomit, names, waking early, control freaks, fur, optimists, canines, tepid soup, religion, pity.
    
    

    FEARS

    
    

    
    It's no easy feat, a man enslaved to apathy is a challenge to scare. He doesn’t fear death as a concept, something quick like musket gun or gallow noose is the least of his short-listed worries, but fears the suffering of something slow. Encroaching sickness, in particular, is something Rat would be loath to admit terrifies him.
    
    All sizes and shapes of dogs. A convincing bark will have him tensed like a prey animal.
    
    Emetophobia, the fear of vomiting, seeing vomit, or watching others vomit. He's steely to much, just not regurgitation. Even the sound of someone retching is enough to have Rat leaving the room with haste.
    

    
    
    
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    EXTRAS

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    HABITS

    
    

    
    Rat spits at people. There is no nicer way I can frame this. Strangers and enemies alike, he may spontaneously decide to eject saliva at them for no reason other than: "it's funny."
    
    In deterrence of growing emotional attachments to people (don't name a pet you don't wish to keep), Rat will use anything but their correct name. Whilst similar enough by starting with the same letter or rhyming, a few interactions might be needed to realise he's not forgetful and is actually doing it on purpose. Less fortunate souls are assigned a nickname based on their appearance or personality.
    
    Likes origami, and leaves folded parchment in places he has been. It harkens to Rat's origin from the Cascades, sometimes he does not even notice he is doing it. Do not hand him important paper or it will be returned folded and creased to ever loving shit.
    
    Bites his nails when bored. May or may not spit these at people. Step closer to find out.
    
    Likes to “ding-dong ditch” the cabin rooms by knocking on every single door he passes by. This is a conscious effort to be annoying.
    
    You seem to be having a peaceful time. Would be a shame if Rat ripped some grass out of the ground and put it on your lap.
    
    A keen precisionist who is almost painfully perceptive, not many come to realise Rat is actually perfectly sane. This becomes an issue in "Boy Who Cried Wolf" urgencies when nobody is willing to take him seriously. Alternatively, it also means his naturally snide personality comes across a jest rather than truth.
    
    

    HOBBIES

    
    

    
    Frequently picks up new past-times to entertain and expand his knowledge. Currently into really ugly pottery.
    
    Draws and paints flora in his journals. Does not like showing anyone because that would imply he’s an actual person with interests and hobbies. "But he's a botanist–" first and foremost he is an abstract problem and you are not allowed to think he has interests or feelings thank-you.
    
    Can be trusted around unattended plants (lying) (he is taking them) (they are gone). While not something he can actively partake in onboard the ship, Rat does enjoy gardening.
    
    A man of the arts, The Cascades are ample with theatre and music. He enjoys Piano and the Flute, yet isn't interested in playing for others unless he can litter the performance with bard-like insult.
    
    
    

    STRENGTHS

    
    

    
    Identifying plants, poisons, art, lying, acting, blowgun darts, observation, composure under danger or stress.
    
    

    WEAKNESSES

    
    

    
    Physical strength, combat, sugary treats, pessimism, impatience, being taken seriously. Idk literally dying is kind of shit.
    
    

    HEADCANONS

    
    

    
    “Nyehehe” coded. Perhaps even a little “Nyahaha”.
    
    Does not eat bread crust. Likes to leave it hollowed out.
    
    Very good at card games where he gets to lie. The psychological torture of having to sit at a table with Rat for more than 5 minutes is immeasurable. Can’t even focus on what you’re doing because he’s playing footsies.
    
    Grub, worm, nitwit, beasty, seems incapable of speaking to anyone without throwing a rude name. Elderly lady? Ugly hag. Crying toddler? Snotty gnome. Absolutely diabolical vocabulary and he should never be allowed outside.
    
    Favors hard toffee, and is often seen chewing or pushing it to the side of his mouth when he smiles. For a man who loves green he does not love vegetables. Or fruit. Or anything that could be considered appropriate nutrition. Let him chew some Styrofoam.
    
    Children find him funny. He does not return the sentiment. Begone, worm.
    
    Claims he can't read or write so that nobody asks him to. Is seen reading a letter the very next day.
    
    Hates the feeling of being watched, and is wary around those that don’t fall into his demands for attention. It’s harder to gauge someone’s intentions when unable to derive a reaction.
    
    There’s a small shift in his jaw in tell he’s about to spit at somebody.
    
    If asked for his actual name, he’ll hit them with “Ratalie” or something equally stupid. It's not that he feels his name is a grand secret, but Landon feels more personal than being called a rodent, and he's into everything but personal.
    
    Don't ask what he's doing. If he walks past holding a femur bone you just leave him be. He's busy.
    
    ur honor he's just a manic pixie husband
    
    

    
    
    
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    INTERVIEW

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    REPUTATION

    
    Not well known, but if one has sought botany in the Cascades or Zenith, Rat is sure to have left a whiplash impression. A single encounter is enough to steer a wide arc, and only the truly desperate are willing to tolerate the personality to reap actual results. He travels frequently between the Capital and The Cascades for work-related purposes, yet has preference for The Cascades and its creative ambience.
    
    

    FACTION

    
    The Lazarus has a past connection to the Covenant of Aethera. His reputation with them is poor after denouncing the religion, disappearing and adopting the name "Rat" little over a decade ago. He is not in contact with them and has no interest in doing so.
    
    

    STATUS

    
    None applicable. Rat lives a comfortable yet recluse life.
    
    

    MOTIVE

    
    With a skillset in botany, the King appointed Rat to research remedies for his wife. But this pest isn’t the type to heed the beck and call of anyone, and his true purpose for following the order is out of his own self-interest.
    
    

    BOARDING

    
    Rat has boarded the Leviathan by (surprisingly) legal means. To the horror of many, he is actually meant to be there.
    
    

    ROYALTY OPINION

    
    Rat does not care about many things. This is one of those things.
    
    

    PIRACY OPINION

    
    Rat does not care about many things. This is yet another of those things.
    
    

    EXTRAS

    
    For a Pinterest board & Spotify but I am beautifully proactive and have not completed either. Get out of here
    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
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  kismet

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  SPRING

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Moonlit dew beads on blades of grass like bloodless caviar on sawblades, undisturbed between the interval of now and the arrival of cold. Fruit blossoms in Summer, Autumn wilts trees to their skeleton, and Winter ensnares the soil under a cadence of white.
  
  But impatient since conception, the Spring is too early; a premature birth in exchange for a frail blonde. Stubborn nature with an aptitude for tenacity, there is something restless and atavistically ingrained like constellations in your bones to stir awake in the oncoming years of your life.
  
  How revered for the oracles to produce a blood heir, how blessed for him to survive a divine test and not succumb to ailment.
  
  The celestials and their fate take credit for your own perseverance.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  SUMMER

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Your childhood is the only medley of clarity you can afford, and at an age of eight is the arrival of a sibling. Not early in their Springtime, not impatient in their resolve, and not too curious for their own good.
  
  Your parents are milky snowcaps. Black surf breaks Cascade shores while you stand beneath their watchful alpines, showing them the curving ridges of a seashell and its pale invertebrate. You move a shock of hair away from eyes and look up to see if they are listening, and they remove the shell from your hands to honor no ocean, redirect attention to the sky of your exalted city while the sheet of their robes catch breeze like a blanket of chalk.
  
  But you take note of the wonders beyond celestial bodies, the crocuses and paper pinwheels throughout Cascade stalls. You watch jesters pull drools of ribbons from their pockets and their painted upturned lips in which citizens can watch and soak mirth like a scullery maid's sponge.
  
  You wonder, idly, if jesters feel sad beneath the bronze bells and leaded paint, that perhaps they exchanged their grievances for a mask of theatre.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  AUTUMN

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  One year shy of a decade when you first notice it, that strange flavour of the heart. Gods demand to be bled for, desire a lamb to comb its celestial wool or spittle the flesh into mutton. Occasioned by turmoil until it becomes a rush of blood, the sickness minces you, hacking ferrous ruby into ivory fabric, a heart guttered with a hole that no prayer can knit, no oracle can deem blessing or punishment.
  
  Days are without direction. Weeks and months tethered to bed where birthdays become milestones and healing prayers are the tradition of your existence. To intervene with sickness, applying poultice or herb or cooling cloth to the cranium is to meddle with the star’s divine will, and you are left to solder with bloody cufflinks and copper lined teeth.
  
  Stretches of marble walls do nothing to stifle leaked voices spoken soft at expired hours, bowed breath uneven from a gaping mouth or scratch of thin blankets. The silence can hold a nauseating tune, splashing sanctified glare of lanterns while devotees drift in their gowns of white, tender floors with their soft shoes.
  
  Weak immune system strews algid fog over a wilting childhood, and under the impression of dying young, further blossomed that trait of valuing everything that is small. You’ve learned to look at things, treat grains of information with grandiose significance as there is not much else to do when isolated in a bedroom.
  
  But observation was something that could not be easily excavated from a body, divided from the muscles of hand and heart, recognising despair when you saw it. Hope razored down to crumbling remnants and tender-pink bone, in the lingering question from friends, from family if you dare call them that, How do you feel today?– to feel is punishment, in the pale colour of tired desperation, in the eyes glossed with rheum and mouth full of saltwater and grave dirt, in the death rattle of phlegm slathered lungs, face raised like forlorn hatchlings, mouth wide and filled with moths, to feel is to resign oneself into a future that has become your home like sleep.
  
  You have no choice but to plead indifference, you aren’t willing to feel more. Why weary oneself with the infinite injustice of a finite spirit? Even in the presence of fear, in the presence of fatigue and sleeves blotted wet and red; the more deeply you feel, the more stubborn is your purpose. Once curiously amicable, now steeled in apathy that waits in the face of death ought to be made omen.
  
  You needed a shovel and a mound of gravedirt and a foot inside the coffin to realise you needed for something more, something beyond a bed turned casket.
  
  It is not poor health that kills you, but that mawl of impatience.
  
  You are eighteen and wear apathy like an executioner’s hood, white reaper, horseman of pestilence, no divinity is needed to ascertain your fate. Here you extend your neck and leave it to squirm on the guillotine block, sanguine revolution of a name to be buried and liquefy to dust in the ranks of the Covenant.
  
  Dark and menacing is outside the Cascade walls, hanging wet as wool and sticking heavy as tar, but every light must have a shadow, and in the dark nothing can be removed, nothing can remain, and nothing exists but the bones and scavengers that lick them into glassy opal. Landon melts away from existence, and one of those shadowy scavengers; not unlike a vulture; not unlike a rodent; nests away in the academic halls of Zenith.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  WINTER

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Many have tried to defy death.
  
  Mesopotamian Gilgamesh, intent to stay awake long enough to become immortal. Consequences of Sisyphus, invoking everlasting punishment. The wistful prince of Troy, Tithonus, granted immortality but forever ageing. Achilles, dipped in the river Styx for eternal life, yet the lyre tendon of his heel still snipped. The Holy Grail, a chalice that preserves, is lost to history.
  
  It is known there are no dark recesses to hide and cheat Thanatos, but you of all people were never meant to live this long.
  
  You ache with age, have learned that life is not an ouroboros of seasons but snow burning and dissolving under the sun where nothing but the shade of you is to remain. The darkest nebula to eclipse the blanched white of your youth, beneath the intensity of the moon the seasons are wilting, and you, too.
  
  How ironic to linger in garden groves blooming with life when time has mutilated your insides and made your mind invulnerable. You wade in emerald, strain toxins and extract calendula oil from flower and root as if this juxtaposition of a dead thing amongst the living is anything but natural, anything but to linger in the memories of your secular origin and limited future.
  
  Rodents travel in the direction of something sweet, something forgotten to find and drag back into the light. A letter, waxen sealed by the crown, parchment smooth yet heavy with intent. To delay or prevent death, The King seeks remedy.
  
  Dying is a wound shared by many, pity is salt, and it is easier to repel others than allow them to deepen the sting. No need to impress has spoiled your personality, your light, intending to be nobody of importance to anyone, a paper crane built out of lies and theatrics and half-imagined concepts.
  
  To be known is too close to existing, a reminder; fear, that you are not a glass illusion undefined and shameless. Built of skeleton bones and pale skin that feels bloodless by the day, being an unwanted heretic is a safeguard against conversations, truths, you can no longer carry: This is borrowed time. Your commitment to deceit is at best, a delay of the inevitable, and at most, something exhausting that is commendable. To feast or salve those pitied wounds, both yours or the Queen, is unknown.
  
  The greatest hurt you are willing to feel is betraying a single inch of your character, for one may have been able to trick the cosmos into giving you more time than most, but you have felt guilty ever since.
  
  Born in the dregs of winter, and you know to the winter you shall return.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
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  gallery

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  rel.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  ORACLES

  
  
  

  PARENTS

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Not mistreated, rather, never treated at all. A blood heir present for Covenant events for just under a decade, until attendance becomes scattered and he seems to fade from existence. At eighteen Rat’s denouncement of the religion came in tandem with the burden of being a son. He deems he has no parents, for no child should have to beg to be helped.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  OSKAR

  
  
  

  SIBLING

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Rat's attempts to separate his younger brother from their parents and their faith have been unsuccessful. As time passes and Rat's health deteriorates, so too does their brotherly bond. Rat has decided his inevitable passing will be easier that way.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  The Lazarus

  
  

  explodes things on purpose for attention.

  
  

  sips unknown substances to critique like a fine wine.

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

nine lives

• aa
• aa
• aa
• aa
• aa

• 
  
  

  CLICK

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  REN

  
  
  
  

  THE KINGSLAYER.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  BLUE AS INDIGO

  
  
  
  

  TIGERCUB.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  FULL NAME

  
  
  

  Funai Ren

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Nicknames

  
  
  

  Just Ren

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  age

  
  
  

  TWENTY-SIX

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  P.O.B

  
  
  

  The Canals

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  PRONOUNS

  
  
  

  HE/HIM USUALLY.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
• 
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Age

  
  
  

  26

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Job

  
  
  

  Tax Evader

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  role

  
  
  

  Kingslayer

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  FC

  
  
  

  Atsushi Sakurai

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Height

  
  
  

  5'10" (177cm)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Weight

  
  
  

  185lbs(84kg)

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  The Kingslayer

  
  
  

  
  PATIENCE
  

  
  INTELLIGENCE
  

  
  STRENGTH
  

  
  DECEPTION
  

  
  BOYLOSER CHARM
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Visage

  
  
  

  BUILD: A consort of the sun with warm beige skin and soot-black eyes, Ren cuts a broad-shouldered and lean figure at 5’10”. Sturdier than height may suggest and unyielding in both personality and stature, his movements are confident calculations borne from a childhood stepping from canoe to mooring post to cedar decking. An impression of appearing taller from a distance is a personal chagrin, but characteristics encapsulate that height is mindset and not a limitation to the volume of one's voice.
  
  EYES: Molten amber beneath the sun, irises don a shade of Cimmerian ink. Almost impenetrable by light, there is a quality of ravine-deep opia to his stare: invasive and impassive. Oil pools emulate that which glitters in his grasp, but the lack of any complex thought behind those lashes is a short-lived secret.
  
  HAIR: Splayed loose like a cat o’ nine tails, leather black and insidious as they come; Ren’s hair heeds not convenience nor efficiency. Garnished androgyny coats shoulders to fringe ribcage, and those with an appeal to touch will be met with a snobby slap on the wrist to warn, Paws off.
  
  SCARS: It tastes of ash and smouldering gunpowder, shrapnel cleaving blood; vertical lip scar stands testament to combative escape from the Red Baron. [X]
  
  DISTINGUISHING: Cutting a silhouette of scrappy ink, his disavowing gaze is as icy as northern wind. A natural expression that strips warmth and emits short-tempered disinterest, strangers are prone to assuming Ren must have a bad attitude. A threatening appearance with intentions that are usually harmless.
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  • .
  • .
  • .

  • 
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    PERSONA

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    Greedy, brash, dishonest, demanding, victimizing, rowdy, scrappy, noncommittal, melodramatic, pedantic, bold, determined, excitable, materialistic, foodie, plucky, spontaneous, charming, giving, sacrificial & independent.
    
    

    IN DETAIL

    
    
    
    

    
    With sabre veneers of soft mâché that cast intimidating shadows and ink stripes to lacerate him in blades of black, Ren’s surfeit of confidence is a purposeful tool for social strategy. Be it abrasive spur or lewd charm, they are chainmail scales to coat the tender flaws missing within his own, and have become the only flavor of self preservation where he can hold someone’s gaze until it hurts, till he can speak without tremor climbing the rungs of his ribs, till he can make others nervous under the smug silence of his own. This impulse, his armour, naught but a cage that moves with him.
    
    If not for this performative characteristic, he knows all the doors of the universe would be locked to him. And if not for this performative confidence, he knows he’d be easier to tolerate.
    
    There is droll charisma to his antics, gestures and mischief that errs on affection. Sauternes sweetness uncharacteristic for a man of his own self-interest, spontaneity blurs the dissection of what he wishes to keep fact or fiction, and in that dissonance lies the unspoken gravitation for company. A lucky charm, a nefarious meal, the larger portion of a halved fruit placed into a friend’s hand; he is a cat that drops birds at the front porch to beat with tufted paws, hoping to keep one fed despite what unconventional means he must undertake.
    
    But with a brash nature, Ren; 蓮 Water Lily, is carved not from lotus but petals of rough asphalt. His apostate views are against the grain, justice over protocol, respect earned over inherited, authenticity instead of the deceit of social etiquette and a reluctant care for humanity over mindless brutality. So unabashedly committed to his beliefs, unapologetic to how they sandpaper over the arrogant and the quiet.
    
    He decrees he has no ruler and pledges no allegiance, but when the tide turns Ren will serve only those he views as innocent.
    
    A nervous dog is reactive, and he never wanted a temper, wasn’t inherited nor born as such, only housed with the fond sentiment of a stray animal. Guttered the virtues of adolescent ignorance fresh and raw from his body to make room for Zenith, let it stay longer than anyone else did. No accident that he wants to be cinder and gunpowder, a splash of cardinal red, the tongue slicing edges of sanguine ruby to scare anyone from ever rivalling his lies or dauntless image. For when pared open ribs and delved hands into the sickly soft viscera, there is cuprite melted to byzantine with a sorrowed regolith of lapis. He is cerulean, bruised wet with melancholic indigo, a meek and lonely son of Neptune with nobody to blame but himself.
    
    It is easier to be cruel than humiliated, and with a child’s loneliness and an adult’s anger, he still feels it logical to proudly parade his paper teeth. When one knows the taste of struggle, has it ingrained like sacrilegious ink to the tongue, they tend to forget that life is no longer a constant war and self-imposed medication of acting tough brings only collateral ruin. After extracting the bold and the brash, what remains is this:
    
    A brave coward, a caring narcissist, and a lonely introvert. Layers of contradiction at war with who he was, is, and ever could be, he is a knitted lip scar and knuckles of pestled sapphires, a habit for behaving red yet born blue knowing that it's melancholy shade drips from the cuff of his sleeves and leaves an indigo comet trail ribboning through each temporary home. Plagued by massacred eulogy of abandoned connections, even now with a mantle of matador red so purposeful in its promise and décor, he knows those of his ilk aren’t easy to keep around.
    
    He screams vacancy like a red light district, prefers cheapened intimacy without engaging in meaningful conversations, and is rendered voiceless when it comes to talk of emotions. A floozy who desires company only to have a place to melt when tired of being cold— if just for a moment. Known to crack and recoil when attachment grows molasses and sticks tar to skin, he dares not be viewed as a burden, save relationships are left as nothing more than scoured veins. Plagued by fear of being owned, by God, King, partner or place, by anyone or anything but himself, Ren has only ever wanted to bite down hard on anything offered to his hothouse mouth. No hand, not even those that feed him, are safe from his wilderness.
    
    The need to imbue fractures with others is to acknowledge there are absences, but it’s his stubbornness speaking, perhaps pride, that thinks he is above needing anyone at all.
    
    An insecure narcissist who cares not for politesse daggers, a non-committal caregiver, a brash yet smooth-talking stray who collects blood in his palm by biting moons from anxious fingernails, a fussy boy born with nothing and acting like he has everything, it’s a paradox of wanting both unconditional loyalty yet unequivocal freedom that becomes his fatal, fearful garotte.
    
    

    LIKES

    
    

    
    Money, hot drinks, long baths, fancy quills, animals, sunlight, good luck charms, milk-pudding, jewellery, naps, alcohol, food, markets, heights, compliments, bugs, handmade items.
    
    

    DISLIKES

    
    

    
    Crowds, liars, apologising, public-speaking, cold weather, books, pirates, deep water, commitment, pretentious words, wealthy people, blondes, royalty, innocent casualties.
    
    

    FEARS

    
    

    
    Drowning is an uneasy demise he'd rather not entertain, but a man who can't swim residing on a boat surrounded by water is testament to the fact he might not think at all. Some argue stupid or just lucky, but the truth is Ren is stupidly lucky not to have been dropped into a watery situation.
    
    Anchors. They’re big and have been in the ocean. He doesn’t like that.
    
    Though his lip has been successfully seamed shut after minutes of bickering, cowardly flinches and drops of Laudanum, Ren retains a fears of needles.
    
    Superstition to a ridiculous degree. If the wind howls it is something bad. If something falls off a shelf it is evil spirits. Anything (or anyone) he finds unsettling will have him nervous as a mare.
    
    A man with a mouth wired to a landmine for all the good it brings him, his leonine confidence before a few strangers or friends is unrivalled. Put him on a stage with many waiting eyes, however, and one will find he has the bravado of wet bread.
    
    The avoidant attachment style is strong with this one, and Ren has an abysmal habit of disappearing without warning. He understands he likes close relationships, but in a constant state of Hiraeth, never feels that he belongs anywhere. When he feels his presence is becoming a burden he withdraws and disappears from their life. This may prove to be difficult on a boat.
    
    

    
    
    
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    EXTRAS

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    HABITS

    
    

    
    Androgynous attributes sometimes provoke whispers of tall woman or feminine man? Ren settles the unwanted attention by bluntly lifting his shirt to flash his chest at them. For those he mistakes as being invasive rather than zoned out or finding his face familiar, this is a very alarming reaction to receive.
    
    “This is how I win” and then he loses. A man who has lost so much and continues to do so every single day: “I never lose.”
    
    Getting into trouble is probably his enrichment time. Starts fights he can't win then pulls a power move of calling them a coward while running away.
    
    Fixation on hands when nervous. Digging nails into palm, tapping, picking or chewing at the skin around them.
    
    His seduction tactic consists of saying Hello Beautiful and going to lean against the wall but missing and falling down a flight of stairs. It works.
    
    "I never did that." but he very much Did That. Will be in the middle of Doing that. Will have irrefutable evidence that he Did That. Will deny it because he never Did That.
    
    His credible source is that he made it the fuck up. He knows he is poor at outright lying, so settles for giving half truths. The Majesty of Pedantics when it comes to withholding context or avoiding important details. If he's asked a direct question and responds with a nod or shake of his head, there's a 99% chance he's lying and doesn't want verbalize it because it'll sound suspicious as fuck.
    
    His best skill is just Distract! Where he says some outrageous shit and hopes it stuns opponents. “Ur so sexy btw” then he punches them. Romance is a self-defence tactic and by god he will use it.
    
    “Call the guards. I’ll have sex with them.” LOCK HIM UP.
    
    Can cry on command, uses this to make people look bad. It is poorly executed. You won't give him this small turnip for free? Okay I guess... Inhumane of you.... I bet you feel bad........
    
    Takes it personally when he can't just charm his way out of problems. Will flirt his way to success. If that doesn't work, bash their skull in with a mallet.
    
    Will not give respect to those he thinks have not earned it, no matter their status. His flagrant disregard for catering towards nobility and royalty gives an ill-mannered impression to many. Strangers are treated equally, both a virtue and vice.
    
    Sometimes uses big words he doesn’t know the meaning of so he can sound smarter. “This food tastes ubiquitous” boy shut up.
    
    Men. I will not elaborate.
    
    
    

    HOBBIES

    
    

    
    His holy trinity is Snacking Stealing and Seducing (with a not-so-secret fourth, Speaking).
    
    Peels fruit for people he likes. Would be more wholesome if it wasn’t just him nudging an apple slice against someone’s mouth until they are forced to eat it.
    
    Pick-pocketing. Once a survival tactic now a habitual recurrence, he often steals just for the power trip or curiosity of it. Hide your good cutlery somewhere safe.
    
    With an encyclopaedic knowledge over gemology which extends to their authenticity and rarity, it’s bewildering to realise a man who can’t spell has the aptitude for all that.
    
    He’ll never cook for himself, but Ren enjoys cooking for friends. This may be the reason his food is borderline radioactive to consume since he doesn’t bother to taste it.
    
    
    

    STRENGTHS

    
    

    
    Locating fruit, pickpocketing, gemology, nimble footing, balance and climbing, picking locks, droll charm, manwhore extraordinaire, disarming conversationalist.
    
    

    WEAKNESSES

    
    

    
    Swimming, temperament, his prejudices, handling guns, literacy, following orders, overcompensating, seasonal asthma, social grace, distrust, mercuriality, lying, talking mad shit then getting his ass handed to him on a weekly basis.
    
    

    HEADCANONS

    
    

    
    Claims to be Vegetarian. Eats meat. Immune to people trying to reason that he is, in fact, not vegetarian because of this. In which he will raise an elegant hand and correct them, it’s a part-time job.
    
    If he calls you Friend or Buddy, you are most definitely not his Friend or Buddy and he probably wants something from you. Is it Buddy [Manipulative] or Buddy [Threat].
    
    Can’t spell or write for shit. He can, however, add and subtract at creepy speeds. Money-minded man.
    
    Has “your friend’s 8 year old brother who has a crush on you” vibes cause he’s just kind of weird and yaps a lot. Social anxiety fears this man.
    
    Brought up in a cold house, asthma flare-ups aren't uncommon during winter.
    
    “Would you like me if I was a bee” but genuinely offended if the answer is no. Repeats one week later with "what about if I was a slug".
    
    Surprisingly good with kids once he gets over the “why is it staring at me” stage. Probably because his love language is just sharing food.
    
    Gets mad if you kill a bug because it’s, ahem, “innocent and just trying to live with what it has”. And NO he’s not projecting onto a beetle how about you STOP psychoanalysing him.
    
    A mommy's boy but he will never admit this. If an older lady calls him a petname he's climbing into their purse to go home with them. Son of all mothers. He is The Honey, The Darling, and most importantly, The Sweetie.
    
    Charming in a "villain's incapable henchman" type way where you know he's up to no good but he's likeable because his behaviors aren't homicidal.
    
    

    
    
    
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    INTERVIEW

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    REPUTATION

    
    A petty thief in Zenith, an enemy of the Red Baron, and a simple nobody to most of the population. There's no renown to Ren, but the unnamed individual who gouged the Baron's eye loose has scorched narratives and speculations throughout the realm. Reiterations of a strong opponent with a greatsword, bearded and wise, intimidating and the size of a bear— none are actually true. At the source of it all, just an upset river waif with a pointy knife.
    
    Instances of recognition are rare, but never without bad reason. A mosaic of trouble, admonishing fingers affix his nose while he shrinks under accusatory call outs: You owe me money, you stole my grandmother's urn, you nibbled that necklace off my body. Ren meets it all in kind with sheepish smiles and his forever crux, I never did that.
    
    

    FACTION

    
    A past affiliation with the Red Corsairs, Ren disliked their methods and spurred by impulse, chose to flee after attacking the Baron. His reputation with them is poor. He tries to keep a low profile and even lower hat when docked in Antares, save familiar crewmates recognise him.
    
    

    STATUS

    
    Wanted in Antares for his past affiliation and attack on the Red Baron; thankfully a descriptor of "guy with long hair" and a mess of false notions makes it not easily applicable. As a born Fluvian, legally he has an Outcast status, but this doesn't stop him from straying into cities and places he shouldn't be. Low status from an adolescence in poverty.
    
    

    MOTIVE

    
    To seek audience with the King requires an awe-inspiring deed. Ren can't kill the King from the slums of Zenith. He has to behave and help The Leviathan achieve something great.
    
    

    BOARDING

    
    Rich people do not have to lug heavy items onboard and engage in gruntwork. And Ren? Ren is rich. Rich in audacity, in bravado, in hair conditioner, rich in everything but monetary value. Ever seen a man charm his way onto a boat? Ren hasn’t. He had to climb over the side after being denied entry. It should be noted he has promised this will be the last bad thing he will ever do ever (until he meets the King).
    
    

    ROYALTY OPINION

    
    He'll hold his tongue around King loyalists, but Ren's silence is his loudest language of hate, and nothing can stop the way inky iris boil from the sideline.
    
    

    PIRACY OPINION

    
    Experience with the Red Corsairs has formed his biased opinion that all piracy is cruel. Foolish to assume every pirate's morals are as black as the Barons, but Ren has reluctant empathy for the innocent and the fallout that ensues from violence. If destruction of the King wasn't at the forefront of his mind, it's likely that pirates would be. Or marrying someone rich. Or maybe some better hobbies.
    
    

    EXTRAS

    
    wow gao its really sexy how you add this optional thing into a cs and then don't complete them yourself you're actually so cool for that behavior OK LISTEN HERE I'LL GET THEM DONE SOME OTHER TIME
    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
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  kismet

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  THE CANALS

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  蓮 Water Lily; Lotus, in a coterie of filmy skies and petrichor mist begins a greedy son. Sheltered abode the river, even this patient community distended sighs to small hands prying for bowls of berries and cooling plates of sponge bread. Born with an ache for victory, a little conqueror fascinated by lilypad soups and the crude jewels noosed to the bend of swan-like necks, your fiendish paws reach for anything that gleams and chew on anything that is edible.
  
  A boy must pursue his visions, and your magpie fascination bathes languid in lagoon eyes that wait and watch the preparation of smoked eel with doelike interest. Coiled, bundled snug to the restrained margins of your mother’s arms. Until one day you’re not, and the real peril begins when you learn how to run. Set to motion like a snapping spring, eel in teeth and a knee-tall blur of soot, you slip under low willow canopies and hop over fishermen reclined in their canoes with steps so cunning, they could only be reserved for that of a guilty thief.
  
  You find solitude in the high wishbone of a tree to chew eel and ignore demands to Come down, and the community forgives you because you bear the name of a man you won’t see for years.
  
  A mother who is a child herself, she stashes letters from Zenith at the bottom of a wicker basket to pore over when alone like a sacred script; your father writes from the Capital behind a partition of steel bars.
  
  She often finds you alone in a grove of cardinals, the blue hiding amongst the red, and she can smell the basil you’ve torn into small pieces just to busy your troubled hands. Outside it extends down the river, a Monet tapestry of fluvial living that is fraying, perhaps it always has been, a decline measured like drips of hourglass sand. One less and one less, families stray from the river to build a better life impersonating residency in townships and cities.
  
  When you are old enough to thumb a blunt blade under persimmon skin and split rind from pulp, the ground you occupy and thought was safe suddenly slopes away.
  
  There is a reason nobody explained to you the human jawbone pulled from the river on a fishhook.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  THE DEPARTURE

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  The oppressive dusk has a way of shoring up sunset red, effacing sky and riverbank in claret gemstone foam. Saturated and gravewarm, the emerald river of which you have lived and loved is screaming and littered with carcass.
  
  Meat disfigured by silver and water lucent flame, you hear the entirety of it in echoes, see it in silhouettes of melting scaffolding, taste it in how every forced breath invites disquiet and engraves a sharp edge of purgatorial prayer into soft trembling insides. It’s a burial in open air until you are displaced from above to below, and the dark throat of the river feels like a swath of black ice.
  
  A short life of taking and an eternity of hunger doesn’t prepare for this; you’ve never practised forgiveness. Churning blood and mire, slipped beneath the surface to drink silt and soil, you aren’t to notice the river takes a piece of you to forever claim as its own. It’s a swallowing of unfamiliar blood as teeth dig into this life and wreathe the roof of one’s mouth with a holy treason. It’s felt, tasted, for only a sickly moment— compulsion that stirs from the regolith of animals reduced to corners with no escape.
  
  Something vicious is not so easily coaxed from the likes of you, a ravening not easily kept; you’re no God or Warrior, and with the teeth and tendon of a child shy of seven, you are nothing but an ashy overture to be easily overlooked. Unskinned and unmade beneath the knife of despotism purpose, it’s the cradling warpath, the cleanest sort of certainty. Hope spades fingers into saltmarsh reeds as you drag your hull of ribs over the brim of rocks and away from the promise of an easy drown.
  
  A shore of both survival and revolution, the home of water burns so viscerally loud, a piece of history to eternally bind and crush peace from existence. It is jetsam of arteries and blood and bait and in your dead language nobody knows how to beg for mercy. Pillagers disconnect a jaw so they may introduce another and you finally understand the bone in the river.
  
  Your mother’s hand is white-hot as she tears you from trembling catatonia; you want to save everyone but do not want to be the last in the dark; you are no hero and you are no god and the only certainty is that no King will ever extend aid for defectors.
  
  Many flee from the community of dead and drowned to weather woodland indirection, and this undercurrent that displaces you is to be helical, orbital, a habit like an encroaching noose. It’ll slip through fissures you believe are seamed shut, the filaments of companionship and familiarity you will have to recoil from when that phantom cord grows taut. Hot wax drips in caution, a cenotaph of love must repeatedly be laid to rest, you’ll always be a stranger in your own household.
  
  An incurable disease, a total aberration, what part of you is left in the river is the unseen genocide.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  THE CAPITAL

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  As a merchant sloop breaks Zenith waters, the sting settles, the fresh bruise fades, and deprivation steps in to raise you.
  
  Water lilies hunger for gentle current and tepid climate, but one must find ways to accommodate ruin, how to coalesce from soft petal to insidious asphalt without crumbling in the loss. It does not take long for the Capital to mutilate luminous curiosity into dark hesitancy; revelations that Zenith teems like a serpent pit, that vying tongues are halved and steeped in vinegar. You have seen what people can do, seen what people won’t, and even the cobble screams with unyielding intolerance.
  
  You learn you are nothing, the water and flame of childhood is extinguished, and the cold of the Capital disorients your heart and activates a prey pulse. Rat-nest hair and barefooted, wounds of poverty leave a muggy smear of need. A house crammed with many families, artwork of stains and holes embellished in walls; crooked peeling of wallpaper akin to crêpe skin. When monsters in the dark are black mould sticking soft, breathing wet to corners of the room, one learns not to value much in the world.
  
  Soot-eyed and headstrong, hacking asthma spattered with slush and lips slicked fire and ice, poverty speaks of misery. Nibbling like a flea, oats mashed in watered down mutton cajoled into a fighting mouth by mother's demands. Brushing dirt from meat dropped onto market floors and cutting mould from stale bread, survival and small delights are felt only in shame. Longing for vinegary mint dousing Siroc lamb, spiced rice and grapefruit ice instead of watery froth flavoured with animal bones, you want a goose-down bed, propped on a pillow with Sencha tea and an ivory bowl of apricot fruit. Even an owner of a vineyard, dreams can become cancerous in their vividness, but so too can that regolith of instinct that urges louder each year.
  
  You often visit the cataract crone who lives next door. One day she asks what you want to do when you’re older.
  
  Kill the King.
  
  A blunt force knocks the apostate clean from your teeth, a slap splaying red across the blade of your jaw.
  
  You nurse it with a sulk and never say it aloud again, but zealous, you’d burn fleshless and skeletal to keep the coals alight. Brought to knees for what you want, boasting accolades of bruised knuckles and split lips so long as victory comes morning like a new sacrament. In distrust your bones have dried to kindling and the hollow between your lungs and diaphragm floods like an oil-black kiln. No longer speaking as a mild Fluvian, but a universal language of Go away as you hide in alleys to peel fruit or count the bounty of a pilfered coin purse.
  
  You are tired of wanting, and the King’s negligence effaces better judgement about partaking in petty crime. Ren from the river is dead, after all, and the Zenith coward that inhabits the shell of your body is someone new, someone who doesn’t know who or where he is.
  
  Every person you love is in a burning house and the only way out is to let something die. You know you’ll scorch everyone you meet, are selfish enough to entertain the thought that this time it might be different, but loyalty is not something you are made for. Memory unfolds into a series of textures and places, and you have chosen to repeatedly sever the people from it like a blade sheathed in loom. Novelty doesn’t last forever, and it is easier to leave before they find reasons to hate you.
  
  All you ever wanted was to be held by a place that won’t reject you, but love in this world is not free and you’ve never had the money to buy it.
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  THE RED CORSAIRS

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  You allow them to think they coaxed you into it, as if any title or powerful faction could convince the compliance of someone so brash. You’ve been set on this warpath of reprisal since cardinal curdled your home, and no matter if the Red Corsairs thought you nothing but another wandering stray, you sit comfortably in this cage of opportunity and pretend you don’t know how to pick the lock.
  
  The crew shows you how to load a flintlock, how to coil mooring lines and eight-figure boat knots. You eat plenty, have wood back beneath the soles of your shoes, drink often and get to watch royal vessels sink into the churning of a salty sea. Foolish to think you can coexist without acknowledging the cost of it, that feeling of when you are seen, when you are listened to, and most fatally of all, feel wanted in spite of your worthlessness. You only intended to stay half-hidden and withdrawn from their hands, but somewhere you faltered, and like always the nostalgia for a home you do not have keeps you warm in the cold, keeps you from staying detached.
  
  Same as that warmth grows unbearable when life starts to cinder and smoke. Heart fond, witnessing their absence of humanity spurs it like a barbed flail in which to wield. It exhumes the blue of you, soft with decay, watching the target shift from royal vessel to defenceless township. You argue it’s wrong as the starboard slowly rotates to align its cannonfire. The Baron’s scorn brings a haemorrhaging shadow to eyes, and after being force fed shame your entire life you now have a palate for something richer. You are brushed aside and ignored, ordered to go below deck if it bothers you; they will not listen, you must make them.
  
  When every waking behavior hovers a pendulum of run and ruin, they should’ve known better than to take someone soft and show them how to use an instrument of violence. It’s not unfamiliar when nobody pays any mind to you loading it with buckshot and gunpowder wadding. You are no God and you are no hero, but outside noise abandons you when you look to the Baron; you understand you are never to be crown-touched and never to be crown-owned but you understand this solar flare of freedom may be your knighting— you raise the flintlock to a netting of gunpowder barrels and only when your gaze collides with his do you squeeze the trigger.
  
  Chain reaction swallows, the calamity of a nobody with a round of lead, a wild dominion graced with heavenly ash as if they aren’t guilty. The knife that peels persimmons is older now, as is its owner. You won’t go gently, its metal is crude and lopsided and peppered with rust, but could still split mouth to navel before anyone can stir from the burning shellshock. You move with promise, coal eyed in red rain and features carved caravaggio.
  
  Fisted hair seizes the heatsick head of the dazed Baron, your breath is wet and perfumed dark with shrapnel blood and mutters gospel promise against his temple. You shouldn’t have, but you did, guttered an eye from his socket and fled.
  
  You wonder if you can ever belong to anyone again.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  THE LEVIATHAN

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  A boy with nothing who has taken from a man who has everything. You’ve never cared for the politesse of formality, never cared to bow head or lower a knee, and the unspoken agenda is seeping through the claret of your home, through the plum bruising of knuckles and blood-lined teeth and oath of a blade-soaked retribution, you are lit like the sun, like an altar, all blaze and riot and devotion to your faith.
  
  Regicide has you retreated but not quite declawed, for you know those of your ilk cannot make audience with the King without an accolade of conquest. You care not for the nuances of royalty or leaders, and look to the summit of Zenith with a hunger to seize and burn it whole. In the Capital you align yourself with Leviathan as yet another cage of opportunity, climb your way on board like the nothing you are.
  
  You are to become past-tense or a catalyst of change , and you have not drug yourself through muck, through blood and famine and hurt to falter again for something as insignificant as the illusionary appeal of a home.
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
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  rel.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  RED BARON

  
  
  

  ENEMY

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  The most regret Ren can afford for the attack is a mild "oops". An overlooked member of the Red Corsairs, how generous this attribute has been in saving him from immediate retribution. A mangled narrative of what the perpetrator looked like has been a source of ire— who started the fable he was 7ft with a beard? —and he has tired of making the claim to fame in egotistical tavern talk just to become the scrutiny of many. You? How could it have been you? Well you know what? God forbid a brunette do something good for society.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  KIYOHIME

  
  
  

  MOTHER

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  A glamour ghoul matriarch, the life of Kiyo was sent off-kilter by loving a troublesome man and giving birth to an equally troublesome child. Despite her inadequate parental skills, Ren holds a strong level of appreciation for her. If someone is to make a joke at the expense of his mom, flirts with his mom, says anything bad relating to his mom, Ren will be looking for the nearest brick to bash their skull in. She resides in Zenith with a middle-class man and has (mostly) assimilated to Capital living, but her personality is still reminiscent of a familiar loud-mouth with long hair.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  The Kingslayer

  
  

  ready to manwhore, mansplain, manipulate.

  
  

  fighting the fatherly urge to abandon everyone.

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

nine lives

 

[SavannahSmiles]

the hunted.

full name

Gwyn Vilkas

alias

Faylen

role

The Hunted

age

18 years old

p.o.b.

Town near Zenith

style

height | weight

4'11" | 150 cm
100 lbs | 45 kg

hair

Long curls that tumble towards her waist, ash blonde in color though in certain lighting it will take on a pale golden hue. Most days Gwyn will wear her hair loose with small braided sections on either side of her temples that is secured at the back of her head or she will braid it to the side with some loose pieces framing her heart-shaped face.

eyes

Forest green in color, Gwyn's eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes in the same shade as her eyebrows.

Build

Slender and lithe, Gwyn has delicate curves and a slightly toned frame from her years of training under her father.

face-claim

Freya Allan from her role as Ciri in the Witcher Netflix series.

When The Truth Hunts You Down

Sam Tinnesz

req.

req.

so, tell me, little wolf...
do you want to punish those who have wronged you?

Gwyn has an adventurous spirit, following her curiosity wherever it leads her. If she is not practicing her combat skills or learning new fighting techniques, Gwyn was either reading or exploring the forests that surrounded her small village. She shows a healthy respect for the wild but she does not fear it, not when she has spent time there learning how to hunt with her father.

Her family and friends are the most important people in her life and she would do anything to protect them. Gwyn is very protective towards her those she cares for, but because of this, she can be a bit reckless at times in her desire to keep her loved ones safe.

Hunting with her father has taught her how to observe her surroundings but most importantly, how to be patient. She tries to employ this skill when she is training but there are times where she gets frustrated with herself for not executing a move perfectly or messing up on a sword strike. She can't help but compare herself to other fighters and there are times where she feels that she is not good enough.

Gwyn can be rather stubborn if the mood strikes her and she does not appreciate others trying to dictate what she can and can not do with her life.

likes

Reading, Learning new things, Tea, Sweets, Nature, Adventure, Climbing.

dislikes

Being cooped up inside, Being told she can't do something because she is a girl.

Fears

The Blackwell family finding her and hurting the crew of the ship because she ran away from them.

Habits

~ When she is nervous, she will fidget with the silver wolf medallion her father made for her.
~ Scrunches up her nose when she is confused about something.
~ When stressed, she can not sit still and either practices her combat skills or does tasks around the ship to expel her nervous energy.

Strengths

~ From the moment she could hold a sword, her father had been teaching her how to defend herself.
~ Though not an exceptional hunter by any means, she would not starve if she found herself stranded in the wilderness.
~ She is rather nimble on her feet, using her slender physique and short stature to her advantage.

Weaknesses

~ Despite all her training with her father, Gwyn would struggle against an opponent that is larger and stronger than she is.
~ Ironically, despite growing up in a port town, Gwyn isn't a very strong swimmer; she spent most of her time in the forest or helping out her father in the forge to worry about learning how to swim well.

pers.

pers.

history

Gwyn grew up in a small port town near Zenith. Her mother had passed away during child-birth, leaving her in the care of her father, who had no inkling on how to raise a child never mind a girl. Even as a child, Gwyn displayed a adventurous nature and her father knew that a life of marriage and settling down wouldn't be for her. But he wanted her to be prepared in case she did decide to fly far from home, so when she was old enough to wield a sword, he began to teach her how to protect herself.

Her father owned a smithy and sold weaponry and tools to the folks in the town. When she was old enough to help out, she began to make deliveries for her father, which eventually put her on the radar of someone she did her best to avoid.

Marcus Blackwell was from the wealthiest family in her town, a family who ruled with an iron fist. Marcus was a known flirt and the more Gwyn rejected his advances, the more he seemed drawn to her.

One morning the head of the Blackwell family came to their door with a demand for her father: Gwyn was going to marry Marcus. Her father declined the demand, knowing his daughter would never be happy with that kind of life.

But the Blackwell's do not take kindly to being denied what they desire and the morning sun saw her father's workshop in flames.

Too terrified to stand against them, The Blackwell's rounded up a mob to drag Gwyn out by force. With little time to spare, Gwyn's father put her on a horse with few belongings and sent her away. The last image she had of her father was him facing down the mob with sword drawn. When she reached Zenith, she realized the coin her father had given her would not be enough to buy her passage aboard The Leviathan and as such, she was forced to sell the sword he had packed for her alongside the one she already carried.

legacy

Reputation

How well known she is would depend on who has seen the wanted posters that the Blackwell's paid to have printed and distributed.

Why did they board The Leviathan?

She hopes that The Leviathan will be her salvation and take her far away from the people searching for her.

How did they get on board?

It pained her to do so, but she was forced to sell one of her father's finest swords in order to pay her way aboard.

Faction

N/A.

Status

Wanted, the Blackwell's would pay handsomely for her safe return to them.

Opinion on royalty

If the Royals are anything at all akin to the Blackwell's, then she would rather stay far away from anyone claiming to be royalty.

Opinion on piracy

She firmly believes in doing what you must to survive, so she does not condone pirates for their life-style.

Extras

She carries a short sword with a wolf engraved into the hilt as well as a matching wolf medallion. Both were crafted for her by her father and they are her most treasured possessions.

father

Kazimir Vilkas

FC: Henry Cavill from his role as Geralt from the Netflix Witcher series.

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name here

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name here

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec vestibulum dui eget diam sodales lobortis. Nulla fermentum purus fringilla hendrerit tincidunt. Quisque ullamcorper fringilla augue, a laoreet ligula vehicula vel. Vestibulum laoreet tristique sem, vel malesuada nunc congue quis. Nulla aliquet massa a felis viverra iaculis. Praesent ac tortor quis diam efficitur consequat non id eros. Nullam malesuada quis nisl vitae consequat.

What I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay are

I would be interested in her past catching up to her, perhaps in the way of bounty-hunters finding her due to the wanted posters the Blackwell's had printed of her.

If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the GM feels there’s a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival

Yes.

hist.

hist.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

• The Physician
• The Butcher

• 
  
  tw: medical talk, needles, xenophobia, heavily implied child/family illness/death​
  
  
  
  

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    ILYA

    
    
    
    

    THE PHYSICIAN.

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Melancholia

    
    
    
    

    St. Loreto

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    FULL NAME

    
    
    

    ILYA MIKHAIL Jovanović

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    ALIAS

    
    
    

    N/A

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    age

    
    
    

    TWENTY-EIGHT

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    BIRTHPLACE

    
    
    

    UMBRA

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    PRONOUNS

    
    
    

    HE/HIM

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    SEXUALITY

    
    
    

    BISEXUAL

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    ROLE

    
    
    

    THE PHYSICIAN

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    Age

    
    
    

    28

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Status

    
    
    

    Civilian

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Faction

    
    
    

    FRIEND OF THE WORLD

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    FC

    
    
    

    Evgeny Shwartz

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Height

    
    
    

    6'2 (192cm)

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Weight

    
    
    

    154lbs (70kg)

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    The Physician

    
    
    
    

    
    Don’t ask me why, alone in dismal thought,
    In times of mirth, I’m often filled with strife,
    And why my weary stare is so distraught,
    And why I don’t enjoy the dream of life;
    
    Don’t ask me why my happiness has perished,
    Why I don’t love the love that pleased me then,
    No longer can I call someone my cherished —
    Who once felt love will never love again;
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    Visage

    
    
    

    HAIR: Curly, but very poorly cared for, a dull and unhealthy coppery red. Formerly bright red, it has since become a lot more muted as he's become slowly more exhausted and burnt out
    
    EYES: Possibly the greatest ever boon to his profession of putting people at ease and radiating kindness is soft round eyes, brown and gentle and radiates a gravity of melancholy tiredness mixed with puppylike pleasantry.
    
    WRITTEN DESCRIPTION: Deep sadness seems an old friend to the soft spoken doctor. Quite gangly and thin, he has an impeccably steady hand and a gentle countenance, almost sickly in appearance despite his relative youth, soft curves and slight musculature met with bony wariness. Worry and lack of sleep has aged him prematurely. Despite this, there is a radiating warmth to his demeanor, more a person to smile for the sake of others rather than any sense of mirth, but still a constant all the same. Soothing and mild in speech, even when excited by strange anomalies of anatomy. Prone to flush and meekness when spotlighted, pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight.
    
    Out of the expected for someone so meek seeming, he has a taste for black fashion and silver chain jewelry, a love for the macabre which often winds its way into his dress on a regular basis. Leathers are also not uncommon, but always dark. He has earring scars in his ears, and a staff of Aesculapius on his forearm, specifically to dictate that he is a non-combatant medic please do not hit him too hard, he will cry-
    

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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      PERSONA

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      Patient, Thoughtful, Kind, Intelligent, Diligent, Exhausted, Anxious, Depressed, Cynical, Idealistic, Callous, Mellow, Stubborn, Meek, Shy, Sarcastic, Dry, Stable,
      
      

      IN DETAIL

      
      
      
      

      
      A lifetime of raising others slides easily underneath the skin of a caretaker. Warm, gentle, empathetic, Ilya is the type of person that you would want to become a doctor: the type that looks at someone and genuinely listens and cares for their wellbeing, not yet jaded to the harsh realities of the world. An idealist at heart, while death is a fact of life that we must all come to grips with, Ilya is the stubborn fool who dedicates himself to an ultimately losing battle.
      
      Kindness is not even a question, it is a fact of life. Every patient is deserving of a smile, a gentle gaze, a soft hand. Sugar helps the medicine go down, and a sweet personality helps with the lethal diagnosis that Ilya has to sometimes deliver. Soothing, pleasant, the warmed spring in the tundra. Though, maybe perhaps just a little bit distant. It’s good, after all, to keep a barrier between doctor and patient. His integrity, after all, matters more than any lustful advances. Through this careful composure and impeccable bedside manner: there is the idea that he is reaching towards what it means to be a doctor, in service for the wellbeing and happiness of his patient.
      
      Lofty ideals come with leaden chains of their own, the taking on of emotional burden weighs heavily upon the mind of a kind person. To a person who exalts life, what is it to encounter death on a daily basis? Blood seeps through the waking world and enters his subconscious, his dreams, painting the world in red. He tries not to feel cynical or downtrodden, as he is the beacon of hope which people should flock towards. Bring their ails and their troubles and lay them at his feet, he will deal with them. He can try, but there is a slow encroaching resignedness to his personability. A small bleed through of barbs poised against a velvet tongue, unused to spitting venom to the people that look at him for guidance. He fears the day when he watches someone die, and feels nothing in return, and worries that it is fast approaching. Yet a part of him will feel relief, the emotional torment that this puts him through is like daggers through a soft underbelly of innocence. Perhaps, in the end, this euthanization will be a kindness.
      
      

      LIKES

      
      

      
      Hearts, physical anomalies, human anatomy, books, science, medicine, sunlight, the sky, spiders, dark chocolate, cacti, stable ground
      
      

      DISLIKES

      
      

      
      Boats, death, beans, excitement, battle, violence, dark rooms, candlelight, screaming, dolphins
      
      

      FEARS

      
      

      
      ➢ The encroaching callousness involved with watching people die and feeling very little grates against his morals and he fears his own creeping cynicism
      
      ➢ Committing harm to others for reasons outside self-defense or in trying to heal them. He swore oaths a long time ago to never do violence, and he takes that oath very seriously
      
      ➢ Similarly, he fears being unable to save people: the uselessness that that brings, though he is having to reckon with that more and more
      
      ➢ Umbrians don't need executions, only to exile people out into the steppe and let the wilderness take it from there. Thus, social ostracization has become an inherent fear
      
      

      
      
      
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      EXTRAS

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      HABITS

      
      

      
      ➢ A pen biter
      
      ➢ Flushes bright red whenever anyone even remotely attractive tries flirting with him
      
      ➢ Hiding his sarcasm and dark humor which sometimes pops out at very inopportune times
      
      ➢ Excitedly talks about his cousins any chance he gets (Nikolai caught a fish THIS BIG guys!!!!)
      
      ➢ Doodles little penguins in the margins of his notebooks absentmindedly
      
      ➢ Makes comments sometimes while in the middle of checkups and refuses to elaborate ("Your skull has formed fascinatingly")
      
      ➢ Very much holding back almost a constant eye roll
      
      

      HOBBIES

      
      

      
      ➢ Nervous knitting intensifies
      
      ➢ Befriends and feeds the seagulls when he's especially bored and needs some fresh air
      
      ➢ Currently domesticating the cats kept on board to keep the rats at bay, they come flocking to him whenever he pokes his head out of the med-room
      
      ➢ Often goes up to the crows nest and stares at the clouds idly
      
      
      

      SKILLS

      
      

      
      ➢ A trained, and very skilled, doctor. Theoretically, a lot of overlap between murder skills and doctor skills
      
      ➢ Passably okay at tundra hunting, tracking, and fishing, but admittedly never really had the stomach for that kind of thing
      
      ➢ Very good clothes repairer
      
      ➢ Excellent dart player, very good hand-eye coordination, steady hands
      
      ➢ Very good at scavenging for herbs and edible plants in tundra environments
      
      

      WEAKNESSES

      
      

      
      ➢ Willing noncombatant, might throw up if he has to stab someone
      
      ➢ The constitution strength of paper
      
      ➢ Shit eye for design
      
      ➢ Quite meek when outside of his medbay
      
      

      HEADCANONS

      
      

      
      ➢ Virgo Sun, Scorpio Moon, Libra Rising, Virgo Mercury, Cancer Venus, Scorpio Mars
      
      ➢ Neutral good alignment
      
      ➢ Have you ever heard someone use the atria of the heart to flirt with someone? No? What about the colon? Well, you will now!
      
      ➢ Sleeps anywhere and everywhere but rarely in his bed at normal hours
      
      ➢ Wears a t-shirt in 49 degree weather and calls it "brisk."
      
      ➢ Designs simplistic stick n pokes in his free time
      
      ➢ Sends letters to his parents when he can. Has a messenger pigeon for this very purpose, a fat rotund thing named Percival.
      
      ➢ Drinks coffee, calls it his potions
      
      ➢ Gives compliments to inanimate objects. Feels like they need the extra encouragement.
      
      ➢ Gets easily seasick
      
      

      
      
      
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      INTERVIEW

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      REPUTATION

      
      Ilya is an incredibly talented doctor who worked a lot in Zenith. He is known fairly well amongst the doctors there, and his immeasurably patient and kind disposition meshed well with both the rich and the poor. They both think of him as a naive idealist, one for trying to help the downtrodden, the other for taking on so many burdens in such a selfless manner. However, he DID consistently make his patients' lives better so there is that.
      
      He’s also from Umbra, though the type of person to perhaps not feel like he belongs in neither there nor here. His family is very supportive.
      
      

      FACTION

      
      An oath given quietly in the hospital, solemn and assured: thou shalt do no harm. And no, he shall never. Be it pauper or nobility, he will aid anybody that traipses across his floor the best he could, even if he questions at night that in doing so he is dooming a vast majority to more suffering.
      
      

      STATUS

      
      A civilian through and through, while not really feeling like he particularly belongs anywhere, it's not like he's going to be chased out anywhere. Generally, any place he goes to is in need of a good doctor, so he could probably find his place amongst any singular population and have his ongoing existential crissi.
      
      

      MOTIVE

      
      He wanted to go to Fluvial and have a nice leisurely vacation with other pacifists, unwind a little from the constant threat of violence while still doing good in the world. This was the cheapest option. Work on the boat amongst the crew until they get to where he needs to be and get dropped off thank you goodbye
      
      

      BOARDING

      
      Ilya sent out feelers amongst his patients for people that could potentially be going to Fluvial. He then got on through nepotism with some of his former rich patients by stating that they would potentially need a surgeon on board just in case fights broke out.
      
      

      ROYALTY OPINION

      
      A workaholic at heart, immediate assumptions dictate that they would be referring to "would Ilya treat a member of the royal family" and that answer is yes. To him, all life is sacred and should therefore be strived to be saved. On asking his actual opinions, he would assume that the person asking is a narc, so he would probably respond in a very polite manner without actually answering the question; however, when in private, he questions the legitimacy of a divine right to rule over all. Is that the correct way to govern a multitude of people with various ills and needs? Perhaps not, but he doesn't view himself as important enough to ever change something like that.
      
      

      PIRACY OPINION

      
      Piracy in itself is to steal, and not always from the people who deserve to be stolen from. Therefore, Ilya would err on the side of caution and say "No, he is against piracy of all kinds." Even when stealing from government ships, that still requires murder and the collateral damage would make his head hurt. Late at night, by himself, when there is nobody else around but his own desires, he may or may not fantasize about hot pirates stealing him away for a life of adventure and danger and swashbuckling and what not. That is HIS PERSONAL indulgence, though. Fantasy is a way of enjoying life which would be absolutely horrible elsewise. He would not want to live out that dream, and is very comfortable living a quiet small life doing quiet small things to make everyone's day better.
      
      

      TORTURE

      
      AHEM. I want Ilya to become more and more callous towards the violence around him until he starts willingly partaking ty. OR he’s going to be the first to die, either way I want this innocent doctor man BROKEN… also he may or may not develop a drug addiction depending on the plot who knows-
      
      

      EXTRAS

      
      Spotify Playlist
      
      
      

      
      
      

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    kismet

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    VOLUME ONE : EDUCATION

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    Born to a family in a small fishing village a little ways south of the northern hub of Umbra, the oldest son of a massive entangled web of cousins and uncles and aunts and somewhere in there your parents. The harsh wastes of the cold mean that raising children is more of a community affair, and death is often expected amongst the biting winters. Healing is expensive and lethal with the scant supplies available from scavenging through tundra springs and summers. Carefully metered out and administered with the understanding that saving someone now will mean that someone later might die. You are the most skilled healer of your small community, but that isn't enough. People still suffer, people still die.
    
    When you become of age, the quiet miseries and joys of this life grate against your skin. Shiny idealism sparkles in warm eyes, you will become a doctor and save all of the children of the earth so that you never have to see a cousin in peril again. So you leave to find someone to teach you. A wooden barrel lifted onto a boat in the dead of night, nobody ever knows the wiser as you head to somewhere that isn't the frozen glaciers of Umbra.
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    VOLUME TWO : RESIDENCY

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    Barbaric, crude, words spat upon at the feet of innocence despite the harsh environment of upbringing, you learn to hide your accent and the things that make you stand out too much as a northerner. Halfhearted jokes of polar bear steeds regaled as tall tales, things of trifle amusement. Sacred beliefs of twinkling northern lights nothing more than a party trick to the outside world. It burns, but there is strength in a crowd's embrace. In being liked. Eventually, pushed towards a hospital for the upper echelons of society
    
    The head surgeon takes in the innocent sparkle, the warm steady hands, the naive kindness that emanates from a kid: an illusion quickly shattered by curmudgeonly attitudes and disgraceful actions towards the help. You last 4 years at the hospital as your clumsy skills become practiced and honed, before you submit notice of leave: these people do not need your help, smoothing the porcelain skin of the rich was not what you became a doctor for. You are 20, and the innocence has not yet been bled from you when interacting with the privileged few. So you join a practice in the seedier parts of town.
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    VOLUME THREE : PRACTICE

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    You are a doctor who now lives in relative comfort by caring for the poor. Your patients are many, the source of your income, and in much more need of help. The pain and agony they suffer is your own, yet at the same time you are an outsider. There are times that lives are saved, there are other times that they see the pristine clothes you wear and assume that you are rich and not just a need for cleanliness after constant bathing in blood (it has started infecting the dreams when you sleep, so much blood), and attack for the lint in your pockets. You are not rich. But you get by, and try to donate your excess. It is a life of strife. One that you feel slowly eroding your endless patience.
    
    The rich do not understand your bleeding heart to the poor, the poor don’t understand your quiet mildness when being trodden upon, your family doesn’t understand your wide eyed innocence when talking to the outsiders. Whispers of the market speak, in rather caustic terms, of a river people — peaceful and pillaged… constantly. That grates more upon the flesh of an idealist more than any knife to the throat, any threat of being skewered through for pocket change by the desperate. That, you decide, is where you’re needed most. Surrounded by other gentle people, and your skills useful to aiding their way of life. It is perfect.
    
    Now, getting there is the problem.
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    gallery

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    rel.

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Jovanović

    
    
    

    FAMILY

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    His family from Umbra, the wastes of the frozen tundra mean that he grew up with a very close, if rather subdued family. While they probably placed way too much pressure and responsibility upon his shoulders, it was more out of the fact that there weren't many who could take on burdens. And he had talents and skills which were necessary for survival. They're loving and supportive, though they don't quite understand every little bit of his lifestyle or outlook.
    
    They try though, and that's what matters at the end of the day. He wants to visit again someday, but worries that if he goes back he'll never leave again.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    The Physician

    
    
    
    

    
    Cut, tear, burn, heal. What difference is there to the blade in your hand — a scalpel, but just as sharp as the dagger at your side. The tearing of flesh in careful lines, fishing line stitches neat and tidy in black lines down a man’s back. Herbal poultices sting the nose, there is a smell to your wake, death and medicine.
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  nine lives

  
  
  
  
• 
  
  tw: physical/emotional child abuse/neglect and infancy abandonment, disassociation, mental illness, poverty, and heavily implied sexual abuse throughout both the relationships and the history section. ​
  
  
  
  

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    ARI

    
    
    
    

    THE BUTCHER.

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    ... And Justice For All

    
    
    
    

    Metallica

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    FULL NAME

    
    
    

    AURELIAN FIOCCHI

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    ALIAS

    
    
    

    Ari Jones (name given when he didn't have one)

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    age

    
    
    

    TWENTY-THREE

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    BIRTHPLACE

    
    
    

    SIROCCO SANDS

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    PRONOUNS

    
    
    

    HE/HIM

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    SEXUALITY

    
    
    

    BISEXUAL (REPRESSED)

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    ROLE

    
    
    

    THE BUTCHER

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    Age

    
    
    

    23

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Status

    
    
    

    exile

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Faction

    
    
    

    N/A

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    FC

    
    
    

    Florent Fauverge

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Height

    
    
    

    6'0 (184cm)

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Weight

    
    
    

    217lbs (98.5kg)

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    The Butcher

    
    
    
    

    May the door to the room open and let him stride away to the Valhalla
    he deserves.
    May you—bleeding, broken—drag yourself upright.
    May you think the worst is over;
    You've survived, and may still win.
    
    Then may the door open once more, and let me in.
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    Visage

    
    
    

    HAIR: Harsh oiled wire shaved on both sides with a strong flip over his eyes, it really gives an interesting look alongside yellow stare. Carefully groomed and freshly shaved biweekly, he would never admit to actually being pretty good at hairdressing though.
    
    EYES: Hazel in name only, they’re brown but with a yellow outer ring, feathered into the amber center. Because of this, they have the illusion of being able to change based on light and emotion and the way he’s tilting his head, but only in the warm colors of yellows, oranges, and varying shades of brown. Perhaps when swimming in bright blue waters, one could mistake them for green. But that is rare indeed.
    
    WRITTEN DESCRIPTION: Blessed (and perhaps cursed) with an angelic beauty of perfection, this is almost immediately soured upon an almost permanent scowl and frown that he wears like armor. Sculpted and muscular through years of hard training, there is an attempt by him to make him seem far meaner and hellish than he actually is, a constantly aggressive and barking voice complementing this affect. Silver studs stapled into his ears, a couple in his cartilage. Black ink swirls around his skin. A red letter A on his calf, the head of a woman with snakes for hair on the underside of his bicep, a decorative flourish on his hip, and a black cursive PRIDE on his forearm… in reference to the sin. However, when particularly off guard, there is a gentle smile and the ingénuic grace becomes apparent once more.
    

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    • .
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    • 
      
      
      

      
      
      
      

      
      
      
      

      
      

      
      
      
      

      
      
      
      

      
      

      
      
      
      

      
      

      
      
      

      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      PERSONA

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      Aggressive, Honest, Caustic, Blunt, Confident, Disciplined, Arrogant, Promiscuous, Mean, Repressed, Just, Moral, Straightforward, Action-oriented, Spartan, Harsh, Frank
      
      

      IN DETAIL

      
      

      
      Vain, arrogant, caustic, ill-tempered, borderline monstrous, words slither amongst his reputation to the high society which he was forcibly dragged into. And he does the absolute best that he can to live up to such high praise. Rude and vulgar, there is a real and electric danger to interacting with him, all rage just simmering underneath the surface of a well placed scowl. A brawler, he unfortunately has the skills to back his claims, and never a step more than that.
      
      In this way, it is not that he is particularly arrogant, as arrogance requires that one have an inflated view of the self. He, in fact, has an incredibly realistic view on his abilities, he just chooses to not blanket it in humbleness. He is what he is, and those that cannot accept it are unworthy. Regimented and disciplined, Aurelian views the time he has on this earth to be precious and few, the resources he has are fleeting and unstable. Therefore, he has carefully constructed a schedule and is unyielding in its implementation upon his own wellbeing. This thoughtfulness to environment, personal ability, and growth is not something which he chooses to elaborate upon though, as he figures that the irrationally high standards which are both self-inflicted and self-enforced are meetable… and also normal to have. Anybody who does not follow the same militaristic ideology, but idly wishes for his results, is foolish and wasting their time — a subject for odious statements about weak work ethics.
      
      Austere and blunt, the charisma of a pissed off grizzly covered in sandpaper, and the conversational equivalent of running naked through bramble, there is a harsh simplicity to the way which Aurelian executes his lifestyle and conversation skills. Friendly faces are met with open hostility and spat out rebukes, cruelty is gridlocked with thrown wooden spoons and flying fists. However, there is a strange freedom to the way which he lives: spartan and inhospitable, yes, but none can ever state that he is a hypocrite.
      
      Starkly frank, when cutting out the profanity and the harsh tone and the vague threatening demeanor, there is normally a shocking amount of thoughtfulness to the way which he decides upon things. A strong believer in justice and equity, Aurelian has fallen into a set of morals which dictate how he views his life that can arguably be some of the fairest laws which a person could implement. Though this only translates to verbal conclusions, matter of fact and flat with no other recourse of actions, the methods of how he got there are usually very deliberate in attempts of making the best of all resources available. Echoes of what could’ve been if life had not taught him to be cruel, considerate and strongly compassionate despite his more standoffish behaviors.
      
      Shadows whisper in the corners of his mind, while the severe style which he inflicts upon himself is by no means healthy, it is better than falling to the monstrous beast inside of him. Ravenous and unhappy, repressed emotions and traumas that he is unequipped to face broil underneath in a tight ball of unending rage. Weakness meant death, and death meant weakness. Rage gave strength from trifling, fleeting bits of failure, so he learned to funnel any negative emotion that he had into an unyielding anger towards the world until justified anger towards the injustice of society met impotent rage at how incompetent he felt. While briefly smothered out, once unearthed again this blazing inferno has settled back into his soul. The only time he did not have it for company, he cares to never recount, and he has learned to fear the day when it is snuffed out for good.
      
      

      LIKES

      
      

      
      Swords, blades, knives, culinary arts, weird foods, cleaning, boxing, silver, seasoning, tidiness, control, being left alone, fire, tattoos, piercings, competency
      
      

      DISLIKES

      
      

      
      Liars, cheats, incompetency, excuses, losing, mess, propriety, high society, excess, unappreciative people, rot, decay, bodies, his parents, especially fucking hates child abusers
      
      

      FEARS

      
      

      
      ➢ A learned fear, he is terrified of the House of Malatese, his... adoptive parents-ish. One of the few things that managed to fully break him, a rare moment of weakness
      
      ➢ Losing the one bit of affection without strings attached that he has, he isn't reliant on a lot of things but Dante's one of them.
      
      ➢ Sometimes the doubt comes in, and in moments of rare self-reflection he questions if he is actually worthy of affection. If he is just a disgusting monster in disguise shambling around as a human. He doesn't want that pondering answered, he's afraid of what it'll be
      
      ➢ Self-worth stems from his usefulness; therefore to not be useful is a genuine fear of his
      
      

      
      
      
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      EXTRAS

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      HABITS

      
      

      
      ➢ Almost constantly scowling
      
      ➢ Gestures aggressively with knives when he's cooking, unaware that he does this
      
      ➢ Voice softens immediately when talking to children twelve and under, refuses to admit to it
      
      ➢ Such a bad liar. Has to disassociate to lie, and even then it's just nodding or shaking his head
      
      ➢ Does not talk about his past. Yes it is farcically edgy, he is trying to make himself more imposing than he actually is
      
      ➢ Skittish around every animal. They all hate him, except for cats that literally hate everybody EXCEPT for him.
      
      ➢ I hope you're ready for 5D chess whenever he flirts with a man where he self-justifies that what he is doing is NOT GAY (it is very gay, he's deep in denial)
      
      

      HOBBIES

      
      

      
      ➢ He reads in his spare time for fun
      
      ➢ Very willing to spar anyone in his general vicinity, likes to keep his skills sharp
      
      ➢ Experimenting and taste testing weird ass ingredient combinations he can come up with when they have a rare excess
      
      ➢ Staring lovingly at horses. They hate him. He wants one. It's fine.
      
      
      

      SKILLS

      
      

      
      ➢ An incredible chef, good at breaking down carcasses, using every bit of an animal, creating nice menu items out of scraps
      
      ➢ A trained fighter, good at hand to hand combat, excels with a knife or a blade, and a sword.
      
      ➢ Fairly competent at dancing, on a normal basis
      
      ➢ Good at "entertaining" (seducing) when he really has to
      
      ➢ Strong bubba
      
      

      WEAKNESSES

      
      

      
      ➢ Such a strong, impassible code of ethics means that he absolutely refuses to cheat, lie, or steal because he is unneeding of the wealth... or fight dirty in any way
      
      ➢ 0 rizz. Absolutely rancid vibes. Prone to shouting whenever anything pisses him off. This is not a charismatic person.
      
      ➢ Sometimes disassociates in order to live through unpleasant things like flirting
      
      ➢ Completely unprepared for anybody ever giving him affection, and his loyalty, while hard won, means that he has incredibly large blindspots to the people who are good to him. If someone can connect with him on a human level, he automatically believes they have the same strict and strong code of ethics.
      
      

      HEADCANONS

      
      

      
      ➢ Leo Sun, Virgo Moon, Aries Rising, Aries Mercury, Virgo Venus, Aries Mars
      
      ➢ Lawful good moral alignment
      
      ➢ Technologically incompetent
      
      ➢ Has been kin assigned Patrick Bateman, did not understand a single word of that sentence
      
      ➢ Psychics and fortune tellers can literally send him into rage with very little effort
      
      ➢ Forces mediums to be constantly "over there"
      
      ➢ Never met a power bottom, doesn't think they exist
      
      ➢ Think of him as just an incredibly aggressive tsundere and his character makes way more sense
      
      ➢ Writes to his brother every now and then... and journals. It's to keep his rage down
      
      ➢ A terrible sick patient, constantly and aggressively tries to pretend like he isn't sick
      
      

      
      
      
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      INTERVIEW

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      REPUTATION

      
      He is known in the upper echelons of Sirocco Sands to be an extremely talented chef, if extremely short tempered. A good entertainment, a puppet to dance along their strings, and a very pretty face to look at. He is both pitied and resented by the lower class of Sirocco Sands. Resented, because he got a better life. Pitied, because people are aware that the rich of this city will never see the poor as anything more than objects to be played with and abused for their amusement.
      
      

      FACTION

      
      None. Organized movements tend to bring about corruption and greed
      
      

      STATUS

      
      Low society from his childhood as an orphan on the streets, high society from his teenage years being passed along to different noble houses, exiled from Sirocco for his assault on Lady Maletese
      
      

      MOTIVE

      
      The one person whose orders he will listen to told him to go on this boat in order to survive. When Dante says jump, Aurelian asks how high, even if he grumbles a little bit. He isn't sure why, but this is where he has to be.
      
      

      BOARDING

      
      High positions in society meant that his passageway was all but paved for him when the call came out for a cook. He was unaware that this was happening until he was literally standing on the boat, knives in hand.
      
      

      ROYALTY OPINION

      
      Ew.
      
      

      PIRACY OPINION

      
      Depends on who you're stealing from.
      
      

      TORTURE

      
      Aurelian needs to be emancipated from his family ty. Potentially murder House Malatese? Boy needs to learn how to loosen up and have fun in life ty, maybe receive affection with no stipulations oooo give him a breakdown
      
      

      EXTRAS

      
      Spotify Playlist
      
      
      

      
      
      

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    kismet

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    VOLUME ONE : TENSION

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    A bastard child of a lord and his dirty little secret, you are unwanted, unneeded. Thrown into the trash to hopefully die from exposure, babies often die that way, after all. Mouths to feed, those who are not of high stature need to break even somehow, and the cruel outcasting of the weak and the small is a necessary evil.
    
    The innocence of a youth, plucking a crying baby from the dump. What caused the girl to bring you out of sure death? Luck itself, and an irateness towards the wail that pierces through her ability to sleep. The family is not well, they are thieves that slip in and out of the night trying to plunder and steal what little resources they scrounge together. Somehow, though, miraculously and luckily, they allow you to live just a few years more until your small hands and slender body can fit into nooks and crannies, pillage gold and jewels from rich neighborhoods that will never be missed. You have never known more than the slapping sting across your cheek, spit flying in the air as they tell you to be grateful for the sheet strung over alleyway that they call a roof. The roasted rats that you eat for dinner. Hunger gnawing at you when you don’t bring in money and jewels and gold. Children, hungry children, can be cruel, and you learn that there is something about you which is shameful, revolting. Prettiness is a boon and a curse, a boon that the rich are more likely to adorn you with scraps, a curse that you garner the attention of the less savory.
    
    You skitter like a rat out of view of the rich, dumpster diving for the scraps left behind at restaurants that cost more than your life, fist fighting other children for the least rotten pieces, but one lady turns her head in a rare moment towards the shadow and yellow amber eyes catch green. She sees you and points, the servant dragging you out into the light until you’re bowed at her feet. The dirt streaks your face, white satin glove pinches your cheeks and turns you around. Rose lips turn into a sorrowful smile at your pitiful state. You are too beautiful to be treated like the rest of the vermin, she whispers softly. And you are not aware that words and touch can be soft. You are 16.
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    VOLUME TWO : VIOLENCE

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    She shows you to the lord and you are bathed, scratchy rags are replaced with strange clothing that clings to soft features hidden beneath the hardness of starvation, in the belly of the beast, you are examined once more, the search for something that gives you goosebumps. And then, dressed up once more like a little porcelain doll, you are shown off to others in the high society. Fancy drinking soirees, beautiful pretty things on display for the pleasures of the rich. Parties of every kind of indulgence.
    
    During the day, the head chef of the kitchens which you are assigned looks at you with something disgusting that makes you want to claw and scream and shout, but the words are stuck in your throat. He teaches you skills, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of hope that you will escape somehow by learning something else which is marketable other than your pretty face. You try to not imagine the dirt that seems to cling to you like a second skin infecting the porcelain plates which you scrub, the world hazing in and out of recognition more days than not. There is a leash attached to your throat now, the favorite of the mistress of the house. It is better to not pay attention and to be blank.
    
    You learn that soft touches are just as disgusting as harsh ones. And that these revolting soft touches, if met with rebellion, can lead to just as disgusting punishments.
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    VOLUME THREE : HONEYMOON

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    A youth on the brink of manhood, a little older than you, attends these parties. You are 18 now, and one of the best chefs in the kitchen, the only escape from the Hell around you. He locks eyes, and pulls you aside. Soft velvet is just as dangerous as harsh concrete, you have to remind yourself over and over again. But instead of a snake looking to swallow the rat whole, he looks at you with this deep understanding that rattles whatever deep reverie you have retreated into in order to survive.
    
    He buys you a short time later from that house, and you become his personal chef. But that isn’t quite right. That is your title, but you are also called brother. He cracks open the vault and a flood of tears and nightmares wash over him as you are left drowning. But he hauls you out of these rapids. Somewhere, in the back of the mind, you recognize that you are nothing more than a project for him to fix. But this kindness is the first you’ve felt with no stipulations other than returning love. It is the closest to unconditional affection you’ve ever received. So you fall limp against his chest as he holds you through the terrors that plague your night, tells you you matter on some level. Nothing will harm you now.
    
    Well, nothing will harm you now if you can keep you damn fucking mouth shut. Illusion of apathy shattered, there is a deep inexplicable rage welling up between your breast, hot and disgusting and you’ve picked one fight too many.
    
    Your brother cannot shield you from every social faux pas you make. You are 23 when you finally strike your old mistress, temper finally snapping at a revolting graze of long nails against goosebumped flesh. She falls to the ground, clutching her face. You have filled out into a muscular bodybuilder type, and your strikes hurt. She screams as you continue your assault, music to the ears. The rich have always seen the poor in Sirocco as nothing more than objects, and you have just struck someone of a very high class family. Not even Dante can save you now.
    
    You are given the order to go on the maiden voyage of The Leviathan just a week after. Do not come back until you have brought glory to the family name.
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    gallery

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    rel.

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Dante

    
    
    

    BROTHER

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    Theirs is a complicated relationship. Based in the version of love which they both don't fully understand, love is something meager and passed between the two of them under the cover of night. Family, for what it's worth. The slightest bit of true affection either brother will ever receive. For Aurelian's part, it's desperation: Dante brought him out of the despair that permeated his sad sad existence and gave him perhaps the first feeling of stability he's felt... ever. Half a decade under Dante's wing being his personal chef and younger brother is the only reason why he's even as moderately stable that he is now. What would he owe to such a person? His life? His soul? He doesn't know. But sometimes, he wonders if this is a debt that he will someday have to repay. He dreads that time, but relishes in the gentle encouragement in the present. His own tiny bit of selfishness.
    
    Some part of him is aware that Dante has ulterior motives, but all affection comes with its own price. Dante's hand has not been shown, and maybe, it will shatter him when it's revealed. But Dante has reassured time and time again that it's nothing physical, so maybe. Maybe this time it'll be okay.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Malatese

    
    
    

    (ex)PARENTS

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    Aurelian needed parents, and what he instead got was abuse. Sent to the kitchens as a staff member, he was treated more as a display piece: the pretty face to show off to guests. The lucky slumrat who got pulled out, too beautiful to stay in poverty. Their touch prickles at his skin, so easily bringing as many welts as they did praise. He learned to disassociate through most of his time with them, living for the sunrise when everything would be over and he could go back to the kitchens.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    The Butcher

    
    
    
    

    
    The beating red under grime and dust, to rise above the ash of ruin there needs to be flame, rage. Straight and true, the scales of justice turn their blinded eye upon the world, and mete out their punishment upon the gluttonous wealthy
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  nine lives

  
  
  
  

 

[roxybirdie]

• Maestro
• Black Widow

• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  "altalune starfury"

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  # maestro

  
  
  
  
  

  # dylan wang

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  name tba.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  # black widow

  
  
  
  
  

  # kanna hashimoto

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  

  
  
  

 

[morcetyx]

the devout.

scroll

Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

01.

full name

Vasariah "Nightingale" Aethera

02.

aliases

Seer Nightingale, The Heir Luscinia

03.

role

The Devout

04.

age

22

05.

p.o.b

The Cascades

• .
• .
• .
• .
• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  you believe me like a god.

  
  
  
  

  i'll betray you like a man.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  visage

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim

  
  

  n/a

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'5

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair colour

  
  

  light strawberry blonde

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye colour

  
  

  green

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  desc.

  
  

  Vasariah is a slender man of short stature. He has wider shoulders paired with a smaller waist and long legs. Despite looking frail at first glance, he has lean muscles hiding beneath the layers of clothes he usually wears. Vasariah has a square shaped face with a sharp jawline. He has prominent, high, cheekbones and a prominent brow bone. He has green deep-set eyes framed with long light brown lashes. He has thick, dark brown eyebrows with a soft arch. Vasariah has pale skin with olive undertones. Said skin is littered with beauty marks along both his face and body, the most prominent mark being right above his right jawline. His downturned lips are short in length, but full in height. Vasariah has a roman nose with a prominent bump along the nose bridge. Due to being transgender, his features tend to lean heavy towards androgynous. Vasariah has long light blonde hair with a red, peachy tint to it. His hair cascades down to his lower back in loose curls, almost waves, which would previously be done up in elaborate hairstyles to address the followers of the Covenant. His long hair has many face framing layers to add texture and shape to his curls. Vasariah primarily wears white and black colors, accented with golden jewelry, however recently he has been attempting to add more red.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  persona

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  “My father is the worst man alive, and I am his favorite daughter.” Familiar quote? Vasariah is a product of those who came before him. He can try to reject their ways, but their blood has seeped through his skin and made him their own. Barbed wire digging into his neck and strings hooked into his wings, telling him where to fly, when to speak, how to show a reflection that was not his own. He can flee as far as he’d like, but when he looks in the mirror he’ll only see bleeding wire and strings stained red, still cutting and tearing into him by none other than his own hand.
  
  To be born just out of reach of the heavenly glow called love that he yearned for. He was born of a father, yet he was without a father. He was born of a mother, yet he was without a mother. He had long been homesick for arms that have never held him. Homesick for love that he had never known. To yearn to love. To yearn to be gentle. To yearn to stop his teeth from sinking into the flesh of the ones who are not deserving of the pain. He was born covered in blood. He did not know whose. It would never leave him no matter how harshly he scrubbed. He was born searching. Yet every turn leads to a dead end. The door had been closed long before he was born. It would never open for him. Had he ever seen it? Would he ever find it? It did not stop him from desperately searching in every corner, clawing at wood until the red had added to stains that had long since found home on his skin.
  
  Never enough. Never enough. He has known close, and he has known far. He has never managed to water himself down to the perfect consistency. Too much. Too little. He has gotten close, once, but it never changes. Never right. Always off. Always trying. Always off. He could tell. They could tell. It never goes away. There is only learning to live with it. Eggshells slicing into fresh wounds, never healed over. He is trained to subtle shifts like a drug sniffing dog, yet he was only taught a rare substance. In a place where they are not, he is left defenseless. He sees the subtle shifts, smells them from a mile away, but his nose has not trained for this. He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know what it means. Does it mean anything? Can he trust what he's seeing? Can he trust what he feels?
  
  The mask he was made to wear left behind when he fled, bringing only a face that has decayed, showing the rot of all he has known. His nails have grown into claws that tear into anyone that gets too close. He can’t remember being anything other than decaying flesh and scorched soil. Tired of the fake politeness, tired of the socialites that he does not understand, stripped of the masks he once wore with ease that no longer fit the curve of his nose. He has grown cold, restless, like a puppy kicked and left in the snow. Defensive to the point of injury, unable to stop his teeth sinking into the warm flesh of those who do not deserve his bite. Apologies die in his throat. They are more vulnerable than he can manage. More valuable than he can afford.
  
  Vasariah views the world as a series of transactions and consequences. For every deed, there is a debt to be paid. He does not believe in charity, nor does he believe in the concept of good. There is only people, and people are the gods’ most wretched creation of all. Perhaps he does not know of true kindness at all. He has only been fed crumbs of mercy and been told “This is love. Bountiful, generous love.” Even those wrapped in the same spiked wire hidden in cold basements by his side could not offer a gentle hand. “You are cruel. You have forsaken your kind. You have forsaken your gods. You are no longer human, not like us.” He finds humanity to be exhausting. Humanity finds him to be different. Not like them. Is that what he wants?
  
  Little bird stuck in a cage, wings broken, legs snapped. Though he is free, he cannot fly without the help of his captors. He remains in the cage. The rules of those before him carved into his very bones. They hold him together, replacing every cell in his frame until he is only held up by their words. Their ideals that have stowed away in his heart, the morals that were hammered into him since childhood. Finding even his morality different from those around him, a mirror image of those that raised him. No one willing to go the lengths he did to please them. No one willing to spill blood with their hands. To take innocent lives. To provide the wood and the fuel to the Oracles’ fire. He prayed to be like them until he could no longer feel the guilt weighing him down. He hasn’t felt guilt since. Does he remember what it felt like? Any semblance of humanity he had left was buried long ago. He doesn’t know what he is now.
  
  Questions of why were met with silence. Never explained. There was no explicit why. Never a strong reason. Only believe. Questioning was disobedience. Disobedience was betrayal. Betrayal meant you were six feet under. He learned to hold his curiosity in his throat, to choke on it and swallow despite the blood he coughed out. Forced to draw the lines himself. There was never emotion behind their actions. Everyone was a chess piece in their game, the only exchanges to ever be made were between the players. Pieces were just pieces. Vasariah was nothing more than a piece himself, but he knew the game. He knew their moves. They gave him his own board to play. It didn’t free him from his fate. Playing the game only made his soul twist and seep into the rot with them. There was no good, there was no bad. There was no right, there was no wrong. There was only winning and losing. The means to achieve that did not matter. You will only win if you are willing to dip your hands into the blood and guts of those around you.
  
  Rarely is he fully present. Trapped in the metal bars of his mind. Even in the midst of conversation, he spends his time observing, planning dialogue rather than engaging. Words die on his tongue before he has the chance to speak. Second guessing the path he has chosen. They are not his captors. He doesn’t understand what they wish to hear, what would upset them. It falls from his tongue moments too late, words much different from the ones inside his head. He goes back to planning, spending hours in the wake of night carefully composing common dialogue and how he should respond. Every person he meets adds an hour to his time, yet the words are never told how they are meant to. Dialogue is not the only area of life that this extensive planning extends to, and with it only brings more stress when routines and plans don’t go as they are expected.
  
  Never knowing when he is clinging, never knowing when it is too much until it has boiled over into a sickly charred broth that only ever spills in his direction. He finds others never have to explain themselves as much as he does. Never have to worry if their words are coming across as they were intended. Never having to worry about others reading too much into your words, so you must give them too many words until they don’t read at all. He is acutely aware of many things, yet will never speak on them unless clearly invited. He has spent many years suffering at the hands of another, and has learned well and good when enough is enough for him. He holds any hopes of reconciliation at a distance, but he is never able to stop believing someone can change. If they can change, does it mean he can too? He claims he has changed his locks, yet if they tried the same key, would the door still open?
  
  For some, it may be an instance click in Vasariah’s mind. An instant attraction, an instant curiosity. No matter how desperate Vasariah is to talk to another, he will never be one to initiate conversation. Conversation has always been something to earn, not given. Unless an invite has been passed, he will follow his own iron rules despite his grievances. Subtle gazes will turn into intense stares. Short, disconnected conversations will turn into sharing a plethora of useless information. It holds no value besides telling you he enjoys a specific topic. The purpose is not to inform you of himself, no, he wants to know you’re listening. Will you see a constellation in the sky and show him because it looks like his favorite, even if it’s the furthest from it. Will you remember he hates oranges, and bring him a lemon instead? Will you notice the stutter in his words on unfamiliar sentences, or long pauses between words as he gathers his thoughts, and still patiently wait for him to find his voice? He is cautious, and hides his inner self behind steel walls lined with subtle tests. He is not impossible to reach, but it takes work. He isn’t sure he’s worth the effort.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  likes

  
  
  

  
  
  

  the stars

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  painting

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the color red

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  music, specifically that mimics the stars

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  lanterns

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the dark

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  fruits and pasteries

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  learning about others

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  anything that quenches his curiosity

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  

  
  
  

  the Oracles

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  disharmonious melodies

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  liars, especially when they are obvious

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  those unable to think for themselves

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  those who claim to be heroes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  strong sense of "righteousness"

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears

  
  
  

  
  
  

  that he is truly unredeemable

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  that he will never truly be understood

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  he will never hear the stars again

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  reaching the end of his fate

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the Oracles

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the inability to change

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  habits

  
  
  

  
  
  

  staring, intensely staring

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  picking at the skin on his fingers when he is thinking or overwhelmed

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  forgetting to speak because he wasn't told he could

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  seems to run by "vampire rules" in social situations. if he wasn't explicitly invited to a gathering, he'll have no idea he was invited or meant to go

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  if he is caught unaware with a dialogue he had not planned for, he will remain quiet before he begins to say things that are just slightly...off

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  he will sometimes walk away in the middle of a conversation if he is caught unprepared too many times, as it is overwhelming and incredibly stress inducing to reply on the dime. he will try to leave politely, but it's not unheard of for him to just silently pick up and leave

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  unintentionally, or intentionally, stalking people

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hobbies

  
  
  

  
  
  

  painting

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  reading

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  listening to the stars

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  listening to music

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  learning everything he can

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  strengths

  
  
  

  
  
  

  finding information

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  incredibly strong intuition

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  noticing subtle changes and small details

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  sneaking about

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  random trivia

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  incredibly fast learner

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  lying to others

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  extensive failproof plans and scheming

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weaknesses

  
  
  

  
  
  

  getting caught unaware

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  slow processing and reaction times

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  inability to connect with others beyond a surface level

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  easily overstimulated and stressed

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  not knowing what the subtle shifts mean

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  lore

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Everyone knows of the Covenant, and their flashy events and widespread reach of their religion, and of course the beloved Oracles who are able to communicate with their prophets. No one can smell the rotting flesh hidden under the stars’ light. How could they, when they had no way of knowing where the grave was buried so long ago. It’s a beautiful garden, filled with flowers and roses. How would you know a rose is a weed unless you had experienced its invasive hand around your neck?
  
  Vasariah was born in a rather devout family of the Covenant of Aethera. His memory fails to keep much about them. He remembers a mother and a father, and an older sister. He remembers she was always sad. Sick, his parents had told him, it was why they left him alone most days and nights. She wasn’t sick, but perhaps that was the only thing they thought he could understand at the time. They didn’t have the energy to take care of a second child looking back on it. He believes they shouldn’t have had him. He remembers weekly gatherings with members of the Covenant, and many nights spent listening to the stars. He would never forget those nights.
  
  It was a constant hum. A quiet melody that filled his soul. He’d spent many hours sneaking out, laying under the stars' reflection. He would hum alongside them, feeling their messages. He’d tell them many things, whether or not they replied. He’d asked many questions, and received many answers. He told them their songs were beautiful, and how he wished he would hear them forever. When he drew a family portrait to hang up in his room, he painted himself among the stars. One day the stars changed, a new tune he hadn’t heard before. It felt wrong, invasive, but how could he know what danger felt like when he had never felt it before? He called out to the stars, only to be met with a deafening silence. Perhaps the stars didn’t tell him to run because they knew this fate was inevitable. He was only 4 when the Oracles found him.
  
  The Oracles, revered as the only beings with the ability to communicate with the stars, weren’t as alone in their roles as they appear to the people. Vasariah was not the first to be taken by them, nor was he going to be the last. At the time he was taken, there were only a dozen children. He was the youngest of the group. The oldest was 12. They would be the very person Vasariah would spend the next 18 years with, trapped in the cage placed upon them by the Oracles. The instructions were easy: be obedient, or never see the light of the stars again. He never understood why the others couldn’t simply obey.
  
  The children, gifted with the ability to hear the stars, were meant to interpret their words for the Oracles. Vasariah wondered as a kid if the stars had shut the Oracles out after the vicious way the pair would twist their words. Once, he had promised to not twist their words like the Oracles had. That promise was broken many years ago, as he learned that survival was a cruel, bloody claw that would leave no one unscathed. He learned the differences between what the stars spoke to him, and what the Oracles wanted to hear. He played into their desires, feeding them misconstrued fortunes that fit perfectly into their plans. He earned himself a spot as their favourite alongside the oldest, while others were routinely killed and replaced.
  
  At that time, being a favourite only meant they were spared another day. They were still caged beasts, stuck in that slaughterhouse with no way out. They had nothing to their name. Not even the clothes on their backs were theirs to keep. Only having hand me downs from the children kept before them, and once they grew out of them they were passed onto the next child. They were only allowed to eat, sleep, and communicate with the stars. On rare occasions, the children would be allowed to talk to each other. Vasariah didn’t bother talking to many of them, as he knew they would be thrown away in any given moment. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t caused some of them himself. He knew they had replacements for him. He routinely took care of them.
  
  As Vasariah grew older, and he was polished into a reflection of the Oracles, the stars grew quieter. Even his fate mirrored the cruel hand of the Oracles. The comforting humming had long turned to an unfamiliar tune, tainted by the Oracles. If he listened close enough, he could hear them in the stars. He seeked a different escape. Sneakily convincing a devoted guard to bring in books for him. He spent many hours reading books of all kinds, finding fixations and fountains of information he would never get to use. Some true, some untrue. Some stories serve as his only chance to see interaction between people. Some books serving as a source of his passion. Painting amongst them. He began to paint the twisted songs of the stars on pure canvases, staining it with the blood he had shed.
  
  When Vasariah reached the beginning of his teenage years, the Oracles made an announcement to the children. Vasariah and the eldest were to be trained as their heirs. A reward for the many years of pure devotion and obedience, they said. The two started to receive a proper education, and began training in the ways of being an Oracle. It was everything Vasariah had prayed for, yet it did not fill the void within him. It did not make the stars answer his pleas. He was still alone. Only a puppet, now one with power. He was tired of being a piece in their game. To devote himself to people that could not spare a second glance. He offered them the best of his crops, and was met with silence. He had offered them blood spilled by his own hand, yet their silence remained with only a twisted smile. No praise, only a silent expectation. Keep believing. Keep obeying. Barb wire still tied around his throat squeezed by their hands.
  
  He wasn’t foolish. Being an heir was privilege, privilege that he could use. He began testing the boundaries and limits, never stepping over the line, but getting close. He found many things. They did not care who he was, only what he could do. Thus they did not care for his transition as it didn’t impact what he could do. He began to question if the bloodshed was worth it. There was no love between them, as desperately as he clung to their robes and silently begged them to look at him. Really look at him. They had chosen him. They had hand picked and polished him to be what they needed in an heir. If they had done all that, why couldn’t they spare their affections? They chose to be his parents, so why couldn’t they act like one? He was their child. He was their heir. Decoration or not, he was their son. He was their son. Right?
  
  In a few years, on the eldest’s 22nd birthday, the Oracles announced them as their successors to the public. It was their first public appearance, and the first time Vasariah had been outside in many years. Though his face was covered with an intricate mask, it gave him a taste of freedom he had never felt before. He grew to despise the Oracles, for depriving him of the world for so long. They could not show him love. Or maybe they simply didn’t want to. He didn’t know what was worse. He started planning meticulously for years on how to escape, how to truly see the outside world for even just a moment. Along the way they were slowly given more privileges as they played their roles well. Public appearings happened more often as the people of the Covenant found great hope in the heirs. They were given names for the public, though the Oracles had never bothered to learn their original names. Vasariah was known as Nightingale, though the people would sometimes refer to him as the latin translation, Luscinia.
  
  While planning his escape, he spent many nights praying to the stars for help. He knew it was odd, praying to them for such a large task when he had betrayed them in such a way for many years. He prayed many days and nights, to the point his knees were raw and bruised. Eventually, a star answered him. It was quiet, singular. A fragile tune, almost as if it were scared someone was listening in. Vasariah heard its delicate song, saw what it was trying to convey, and he found himself painting its melody. A monstrous Leviathan, and the face of someone he had never seen before. Clueless as to what it meant, he kept it hidden away for years as he continued biding his time.
  
  Close to his birthday, he heard whisperings of a large boat being built for the King, the Leviathan they said. It clicked, and Vasariah made extensive plans to get to the capital to see the boat. He had no clue what for, but he trusted the stars despite everything. He began to secretly funnel small portions of donations given to the Covenant for his plans. He ordered posters from the capital through the same guard that had helped him smuggle books when he was a kid, as to not alert the Oracles, to be delivered on his birthday. The same guard would be the one to stage his kidnapping, and help him leave the Cascades.
  
  On Heir Luscinia’s 22nd birthday, the Nightingale was kidnapped. The ransom posters, spread all throughout the Cascades, called not for money, but for the Oracles to denounce themselves. With no money to be paid, the Oracles would not comply to the demands. By faking his kidnapping in this way, he would be free to return if he ever wished, if he played it off well enough. Despite everything, he loved his parents though they did not love him. That was his burden to bear. He wasn’t sure what he wanted out of running away. Was he truly running away, or was he staging a show to test if his absence meant anything to them? He wasn’t ready to answer that question.
  
  Vasariah left for the capital, taking only the stolen donations from the Covenant, the clothes on his back, and the painting the star had shown him long ago.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  reputation

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Vasariah, or I suppose I should say Seer Nightingale in this situation, is well-heard amongst the Covenant of Aethera. Once the Oracles revealed their prodigy heirs to the covenant, news spread like wildfire, even to those outside the Cascades. However, public appearances were few and far in between up until current years, so many have never seen him in person. Beyond that, the Oracles required him and the other heir to wear masks that veiled their identity from the public. The Oracles assured it was their safety, but Vasariah knew it was to make them easier to replace if they stepped out of line. Because of this, Vasariah is able to get by without much attention, unless someone were to recognize his unique hair color and piece things together.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  why the leviathan

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Vasariah boarded The Leviathan in hopes of many things. Freedom, peace. More importantly, personal discovery. With that star’s fragile melody showing him of The Leviathan and the portrait, he hopes to reconcile his fate within the wooden walls of the ship. Along the way, he also hopes to reach the stars once more, to feel the warmth in their arms he once had as a child before the Oracles had tainted his fate. In a twisted way, he believes his time on The Leviathan may very well be his last in this world, and hopes to try to enjoy his time with the stars and their reflection along the waves.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  how did they board

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Upon reaching the capital, Vasariah stalked the ship for the very few days before it was set to board and sail. While he had multiple plans as to how to get on the ship…he went with a more interesting route true to his upbringing. In his stalking, he carefully studied the guard who watched over the entrance and was to ensure only the people meant to board got on. He listened to his conversations, and more importantly listened to the drunken ramblings of the man mourning his deceased wife, spilling all sorts of information on her. When it was time to board, Vasariah went to grab his, nonexistent, documentation, then put on a show of pretending to receive a message from his deceased wife through the divine. The poor man cried, and thanked Vasariah for his words, not even bothering to check anything as he ushered Vasariah inside. People should really learn to keep such sensitive information to themselves.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  faction

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Vasariah was born and raised in the Covenant of Aethera. His feelings towards the covenant are rather…complicated. The religion they offer is a twisted version meant to fit the Oracles plans for control. He thinks poorly of the Covenant, but their ways and religion sticks to him like glue. While he is unsure of how the people of the Covenant would view him today, he is sure the Oracles are working hard to find him and silence him in any way possible.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  status

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Wanted.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  opinion on royalty

  
  

  
  
  
  

  He is purely neutral. He has yet to interact with anyone of royalty, and hasn’t experienced anything related to the royal family personally. He believes that with any position of power, there is a heavy influential status that he can only hope is used for good.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  opinion on piracy

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Sees it as the epitome of freedom. Who can catch you when there is no ground to hold you? It is just the stars and their reflection, what more could one need?
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  extra

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  sun bleached flies

  
  
  
  

  ethel cain

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  connections

  
  
  
  

  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  • aaaaaaa
  • aaaa

  • 
    
    
    

    connections

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    The Oracles

    
    
    
    

    His captors, the leaders of the Covenant of Aethera that sit on a throne of lies and blood. He fears them, hates them for all they did, yet a part of him wishes things were different. In another universe, he could have been a dutiful 'son'. They were the 'parents' he had, and he mourns for the familial relationship he cannot change. He still wishes to make them happy, still craves their attention and praise. He'll never stop looking for a parental figure in them, for all the wrongs they've done, their blood has seeped into his and he cannot wash it off.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    The Eldest Heir

    
    
    
    

    Someone he regards along the lines of an older sibling, though they could not be further apart in everything they are. He was taken under their wing, and was taught how to obey the Oracles, the best ways to comply with their demands, how to avoid angering them. Vasariah owes much of his survival to them. He wishes he could save them, but they were a victim much longer than he was. He doesn't know if they ever wanted to escape, or if they were happy to be with the Oracles from the first day. Vasariah wonders if the Oracles had been there for them a little more, if Vasariah would have suffered the same fate.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    
    

    misc.

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    extras

    
    

    Playlist
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    headcanons

    
    

    
    RIP Vasariah you would have loved an autism diagnosis
    
    Similarly you would have loved bullying kids on TikTok
    
    Welcome to only learned about love from fairytales in stolen books. Very skewed view of romantic gestures and relationships. One date? Dating? Committed relationship. Holding hands? Married. Kissing? That’s basically doing the do.
    
    You’ve never seen someone love strawberries until you’ve seen Vasariah inhale a pound of them in 5 seconds, leaves and all. He’s not wasteful.
    
    No one loves yappers more than he does. You want to yap? He’s sat. If you’re important to him or he likes you? Sat with a notebook writing everything down so he doesn’t forget what you like or what’s important to you.
    
    He’s a little freak who genuinely keeps notes on everyone. Also has a notebook filled with sketches of people. If you mean more to him than an acquaintance or a stranger, you may get a lot more than just sketches in his journal. You may even get rants on how he feels about you (oblivious to his own feelings)
    
    Hypochondriac. He will actively avoid hearing or reading about any sort of medical condition. He will also completely avoid anyone who is sick.
    
    Has an involuntary reaction to anything sweet or loving. I’m talking face scrunching, eye rolling, gagging, glaring. Really he’s just embarrassed and doesn’t know how to react
    
    Horrible with affection. Both giving and receiving. He’ll give you a shiny rock he found and stare at you then call it a day.
    
    Similarly prefers small actions over words, but needs some sort of explicit confirmation in the beginning of whatever is going on or he may speculate some wild theories
    
    Becomes a normal functioning member of society when he's drunk. Absolutely terrifying sight to anyone who knows him well enough. Overtly social, holding rapid fire conversations without thinking through responses. Befriending people he despised before. Revealing his own secret affections for people by practically purring as he curls into them. Gets dangerously closer to peoples' necks the sleepier he gets.
    
    People always think he’s going to kiss them because he hits them with the eye to eye to mouth triangle in his staring. He is not. He is counting in his head exactly how long to hold eye contact. 5 seconds for each eye, one second glance away to the mouth, then repeat.
    
    Chances are he did NOT fully hear what you said because he’s too busy keeping track of appropriate eye contact times
    
    Blue eyed stare without the blue eyes. He’s cooked.
    
    Ever ask a man questions about himself and he never asks those questions back? Yeah. He forgot he’s supposed to do that.
    
    He’s the type to hit you with the most diabolical lore and then turn around and make excuses for his parents every chance he gets. He can shit talk them all he wants but if you try to, he’s yanking your hair and pulling until you apologize.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    for gm

    
    

    How Vasariah should suffer:
    
    So many thoughts…so much angst…I tried to leave some open plot points in his history exactly for this. The portrait could be of another character and there could be lots of things to scheme there. Also many possibilities for off in the future with the eldest heir and the oracles…finding out Vasariah is on the ship…maybe torture the guard who helped him…even killed him and Vasariah is heartbroken when he finds out. I’d really like for Vasariah to go through some character arcs and learn how to trust and get close to people…maybe forgive himself for all he’s done and reconnect with the stars…so many ideas…also big sucker for gay pirates so like…doors are wide open here.
    
    Willing to be contacted? Yes.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

the warden.

scroll

Junshi

军石

ㅎㅎ

01.

full name

Liangji Jing

02.

aliases

Junshi Jing

03.

role

The Warden

04.

age

38

05.

p.o.b

Zenith (probably)

• .
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• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  i could be a good mother

  
  
  
  

  and i want to be your wife
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  visage

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim

  
  

  Yang Yang

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'11

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair colour

  
  

  black

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye colour

  
  

  dark brown

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  desc.

  
  

  Deep brown eyes framed by thick eyelashes that speak too much, feel too comforting in their gaze. Thick eyebrows melts into a large nose that hooks subtly just along the bridge. Black hair that ends in gentle waves along his collarbones. A thick stature revealing thick muscles that mix into soft layers of fat, a sign of the years of dedication against his growing age. A thin, patchy beard helps to hide his youthful features, ensuring he looks his age. Scars marred his tan skin, violent and vile. Disfigured skin leads to wooden bones instead of flesh, screwed together with metal joints and hooks. Stiff wooden fingers that can never provide a human warmth, metal elbow that creaks at the hinge. Functional on a good day, cosmetic at the worse. If you were to see him after a shower, he might remind you of a wet dog.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  persona

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  Not even being carved from the hardest of stones could take away from the warmth that grows within him. He is the soft appearance of skin blending into layers of cloth carved into renowned statues. He is a product of the environment he was raised in but that does not mean he mirrors the desolate hand he was dealt. He used the tools he found and carved into the stone until flesh emerged.
  
  Junshi’s kindness is a beacon to those around him. He approaches each person he meets with a warmth and compassion that feels like a comforting embrace. His gentleness is like a soft whisper, calming and reassuring in a world often filled with harshness. He is the person who listens intently, offers a shoulder to cry on, and provides a sense of safety and understanding.
  
  Despite any wrongs he has suffered, Junshi holds no grudges against others. His ability to forgive is profound, rooted in a deep understanding that everyone is fallible, human. He finds no room in his heart to hold onto hate for others. He believes in second chances and is always ready to extend a hand to those seeking redemption. This hand of forgiveness, however, does not extend to himself. He believes that everyone deserves a second chance except himself.
  
  Despite his numerous achievements and qualities, Junshi remains profoundly humble. He does not seek the spotlight, preferring to let his actions speak for themselves. He celebrates the success of others and shares his own quietly, never seeking undue praise or recognition. At times, his drive and passion lead him to take risks that can be seen as reckless. His eagerness to achieve his goals sometimes causes him to overlook potential pitfalls. His mind can be scattered, juggling multiple thoughts and tasks simultaneously. This can lead to moments of disorganization and forgetfulness, as he struggles to keep everything aligned.
  
  Junshi harbors insecurities. He often questions his own worth and abilities, seeking silent validation from those around him. This insecurity makes him sensitive to criticism, sometimes taking comments to heart more deeply than intended. His oversensitivity can lead to emotional reactions that reveal his inner vulnerability, yet it also makes him deeply empathetic to the feelings of others.
  
  Liangji, beneath the gentle waves, is consumed by his grief, drowning without a raft to save him. He hugs the water close to his chest, swallows it into his lungs in hopes to grow flowers where buried soil sticks to him. He has never been the same since their death. Every word is laced with a sadness that festers deep within him. He mourns the things that could have been, and believes himself to blame for many things outside of his control.
  
  He holds his responsibility like a boulder resting between the blades of his shoulders. It is crushing, painful, yet he carries it anyway. Every person he meets, he takes a little of them with him, only adding to the weight he carries. Taking other’s burdens as his own, crying for them, feeling too much. He cares too much to let the boulder go, lest it crush others on its way down the hill.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  likes

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  helping everyone he can

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  crafting blueprints

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  dew on the morning grass

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  caring for flowers

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  flower language

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the color green

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  platonic love

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  the smell of freshly turned soil

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  being looked down on

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  others trying to tell him what his disability means for him

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  taking friendship for granted

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  that his memories will fade away with age and he won’t remember (he will always remember, it’s in his nature to love them)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  that he won't be a good father

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  he will go the rest of his life without a family, whether blood or water

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  getting sick

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  habits

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  interacting with the same people a million times, they think he's just overtly friendly, but he's just bad with names and is trying to memorize the name to the face so he doesn't accidentally offend people

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  forcing himself into situations to help (he is not wanted or needed)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  blushing at the smallest things

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  crying over things for seemingly no reason

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  staring at you as he waits to see if you finish your food (he wants your leftover)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  tapping or fiddling with his ring finger as if a ring were there

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hobbies

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  tinkering and crafting little creations

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  gardening (after his late wife)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  collecting scraps

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  strengths

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  general agreeableness

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  handiwork

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  combat skills

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  figuring things out without instructions

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  comforting others

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  getting along with others

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  surprisingly flexible

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weaknesses

  
  
  

  
  
  

  his attention span may be...gone...completely gone

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  does he remember what he had for breakfast…or lunch?

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  debilitating phantom pains

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  being too empathetic towards others

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  cry-baby

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  lore

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Liangji does not remember his life before the orphanage. Frankly, he does not remember a time before he lost his arm. An accident that led to an infection, that led to his arm being chopped off to save his life. A butcher would have severed the flesh and bones from his torso more tactfully than whoever had hacked into him. Growing up there was many things he would miss out on due to his disability. For many years of his childhood, it defined him. Orphans were not brought home to loving families. An armless orphan wasn’t even looked at. He knew from a young age that his only option at living a life off the streets was to join the Guard. He believed it wouldn’t be too much of an issue as the Guard was always visiting and picking out physically capable orphans to join their lowest ranks.
  
  Liangji trained physically everyday. Practicing with sticks how to wield a sword, engaging in fights with the older kids. He lost many times, his missing arm always leaving him at a disadvantage. Eventually, he found how to work with his body, how to work around his disadvantages to get himself on equal footing. He built upon his foundations everyday until he was a prime candidate for the Guard. Or, at least, he should have been. They never spared him a glance. When he asked, he was told that disabilities were reserved to those who had fought the war of the past or threw themselves in a direct line of attack to defend the King himself. No one wanted to see a kid with a hideous hack job. There was no honor in that. He asked if he had an arm, if they would take him. They laughed and told him they would have taken him long ago if that were the case. He told them to promise him that they would take him if he had an arm. More confused, they still laughed, and promised.
  
  Liangji stole every book he could find on craftwork and engineering. On top of his training, he learned and experimented. Carving into dead branches, sculpting forms into the splintered wood. Eventually, he made himself an arm. It served for nothing more than cosmetic purposes, but it was an arm. He tied it to his stub, as painful as it was, and when the Guard came back he made them follow through on their promise. He was given a new name, Junshi Jing, to represent the oath he swore to the King as a guardsman.
  
  He was kept away in the Guard, trained for years until he received his first post as a fresh adult. His knowledge and skills had since grown, including the wooden arm that was now mixed with metal and served a purpose other than cosmetic. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity on the superior's part, how an armless man could fight effortlessly with wood of his own design, that allowed him to come across opportunities that fueled his career. They were waiting to see him fall, yet his wings hadn’t melted yet. His wings lasted many years as others began to know his name.
  
  He visits orphanages when he’s not on duty. He teaches them to read even when he struggles himself, it helps him too. They ask him if it will ever get better. He tells them it does. He doesn’t tell them it will never get easier. They tell him they want to be a guard just like him. He laughs and encourages them to follow their dreams. He hopes they’ll break the cycle. His name and story spread throughout the city. Despite many from high society being disgusted by his actions, or plainly his looks, he had won over public opinion. They saw an armless orphan boy, rising through the ranks while helping the same background he hailed from. The people pitied him. The people loved him.
  
  His story gains the attention of a well-known family. Rich, yet filled with a history of scandals that stain their image in the public’s eye. They were in desperate need of a story to sway public opinion in their favor. They offered a deal. Marry their daughter, Talia, in exchange for riches. Junshi accepted. Though it was a marriage of convenience, it turned into more. The love they felt was not romantic, no, it was the warm laughter of an inside joke, it was holding onto each other when your ribs hurt and you could no longer breathe, it was the nonsense that spilled from your mouth that only you two would understand, it was the presence that stayed when lovers came and went. It was the kind of love that bloomed from a friend, a soulmate often taken for granted. She never once called him the name the Guard had given him. He was only ever Liangji to her.
  
  Junshi put every penny he received from the family into orphanages and the kids left on the street. Sometimes he’d come across a kid like him, missing a few parts. He’d visit them often, teaching them how to navigate the world. Eventually, he’d come back with a prosthetic, crude and temporary, built with his own hand just as he had done for himself many years ago.
  
  In a few years time, an heir to the family name was expected. The answer was easy at first. A family was something Liangji and Talia had always wanted together, despite their lack of romantic feelings. Then, the complications came. With Talia in her late 20’s, there were certain issues to be aware of when it came to pregnancy. They played everything by the book, doing everything they could do to ensure a healthy, safe pregnancy for both her and their child. She died in labor. Her blood stained the sheets of their bed where the only cries that filled the room were his own. Their son never took his first breath. He’ll never know the color of his son’s eyes, still closed tight, never opened. His heart was buried alongside them, six feet under a bed of purple hyacinths.
  
  Junshi was alienated from the family, stripped of anything Talia had left behind. The ring that had melted into his finger over the years was lost with her, forced to give it back to her family. The only thing he had left to hold her by was the memories they had made. He carries those memories with him every second of the day. Junshi threw himself into work, working every shift he could, picking up those even if he had not slept for days. He became the most dedicated, loyal guard one could be. There was no one else he could be. There was no Liangji without Talia, not anymore. He worked hard for years after their death, receiving many praises within the Guard, being set as the unrealistic standard for new guards within the ranks. Eventually, the Leviathan was built, and Junshi was assigned by the King to guard and report on the dealings of the voyage.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  reputation

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Junshi is well-known among the Guard, and some areas of Zenith. To low society, he is revered as a sort of saint, against his wishes. To the high society that have heard of him, they likely think the work he does is dirty and a ploy for attention, especially after marrying into one of their own. Among the Guard, he has been well used as an example, for both good and bad reasons. The most common is likely, “He’s accomplished more than you ever will in your sad, little life, and he’s only got one arm. Pathetic.” He tried to tell them to stop saying that…but the Guard has a tendency to not listen.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  why the leviathan

  
  

  
  
  
  

  When Junshi was appointed by the King to guard the Leviathan, he had wanted nothing to do with it at first. Talia adored the sea, her name itself related to heaven and the water. He was unsure if he would be able to handle himself in a place where all the memories he had kept himself too busy to remember would come flooding back. However, he still assumed his position, the burden of responsibility outweighing his grief. He was a nervous wreck. People could tell. It wasn’t until an odd lad boarded the boat, giving him a message from his beloved Talia, did he start to believe maybe this was meant to be.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  how did they board

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Junshi boarded by completely legal means, appointed by the King to ensure safe travels. Though…he has been slipping lately. Perhaps the ship isn’t as secure as it is meant to be.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  faction

  
  

  
  
  
  

  None
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  status

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Kingsman
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  opinion on royalty

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Junshi is loyal to the crown. That is not to say he agrees with everything the Royal family does, but he has sworn allegiance to them and will stand by that.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  opinion on piracy

  
  

  
  
  
  

  He believes piracy to be a curious thing…one that he may have even participated in if it weren’t for the Guard. He’s had the hook for a hand look down for years. Joking aside, he believes that piracy is a wide spectrum that can’t be judged in a general manner such as this.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  extra

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  not a lot, just forever

  
  
  
  

  adrianne lenker

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  connections

  
  
  
  

  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  • aaaaaaa
  • aaaa

  • 
    
    
    

    connections

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Talia

    
    
    
    

    There is so much to be said about the beautiful being Talia is. Was. Every time I try, the words get stuck in my throat.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    TBD

    
    
    
    

    Something something dilf something something
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    
    

    misc.

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    extras

    
    

    Playlist ( wip)
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    headcanons

    
    

    
    Do NOT let him get drink he will spill anything and everything. No secret is safe with him I fear. He’ll cry and cling to you as he spills everything.
    
    Resident rumor starter. He has no clue he started any rumors, when it circled back to him he acts just as confused as everyone else. “Well I heard it from Junshi!“ “…huh?”
    
    Man’s biggest crybaby. You have never seen a man so babygirl coded, so mother coded before. He’s the type to hold a funeral for a worm.
    
    Yes, he would love you if you were a worm. No questions asked. Non-negotionable. He’s already got a compost bin ready for you and some worm friends he’s meticulously interviewed to ensure they’re good for you.
    
    Least anxious anxious person you’ve ever meant. Incredibly social but small gives like subtle stuttering and fidgeting show he is in fact dying a little on the inside.
    
    This man is incapable of lying. Has never lied once in his life. However, many people have called him a liar for the sole fact he forgot something. Your honor, he’s just a guy.
    
    Cannot fight the parental urges within him. He takes people under his wing like a mother duck with her little ducklings following behind him. He tends to have that effect on people.
    
    He’s the type to go “I can fix him” but I would believe it if he could actually fix them.
    
    One hug from this man is equivalent to ten years of intense therapy. “Sitting in his lap would fix me” yeah, me too buddy. Get in line.
    
    Holds platonic higher than romantic. He can go a lifetime without dating. He can barely last a day without knowing love from a friend.
    
    Gets jealous when his friends hold their romantic relationships higher than him, specifically only if they were friends before the partner came into their life. He can understand if the partner came before him, but if his friendship came first and it’s suddenly being tossed aside for something romantic…he’ll be beyond devastated.
    
    Despite being a crybaby, when something truly deeply upsets him beyond a surface level, he will play it off and hold it in until it overflows from every pore in his body. He’s observed that people find it funny or even adoring how he cries over small things, yet people tend to leave when it gets serious. He’d rather keep up appearances as the kind and dumb man than bring people down with his issues.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    for gm

    
    

    How Junshi should be happy (relatively):
    
    Alright guys, let’s get him pregnant. I mean– impregnate- i meant– Jokes, I’m joking. (Am I?) I’d actually really just like him to work through his grief. I’d love for him to find a family in the crew, maybe even live out his fatherly dreams as a father figure to some of the youngins on the ship. He would be a good father
    
    Willing to be contacted? Yes (please Gao I will erect a shrine in the name of your beautiful brain)
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[q r o w]

Click Image !

The Guillotine

Harmony Liang

"Honesty without kindness is brutality, but kindness without honesty is manipulation."


Character Sheet Progress: 100% Complete
Accepted?: Yes
Character Status: Alive

FC— Ju JingYi

Click Image !

The Dispirited

Yanlin Zhou

"And those who lose their passion are cursed to wander endlessly; until they too wilt away to nothingness"

Character Sheet Progress : 40%
Accepted?:--------
Character Status: Alive

FC — Lin Jing

• THE GUILLOTINE
• THE DISPIRITED

• 
  
  
  
  • o
  • o
  • o
  • o
  • o

  • Lilith

    ellise

    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    01

    name

    Countess Harmony Liang

    02

    Titles

    Noble Society's Flower, Desert Rose

    03

    age

    Twenty-Seven

    04

    place of birth

    The Capital

    05

    Affiliation

    Stygian Order - Present

    06

    Status

    Royalty/High Society

    07

    occupation

    Countess

    08

    role

    The Guillotine
  • hair colour / style

    
    

    Harmony's hair is a dark black in color and is quite long; Falling around waist length. Typically its styled elaborately with hair accessories. She prefers it to be kept primarily down, only styling it up when need be. Much like her attire, she styles her hair to fit the situation she is in.

    eyes

    
    

    Harmony's eyes are brown in color. You'll find that they never linger in one direction too long. Always sweeping the room and observing others.

    build

    
    

    Her time being raised by the Stygian Order has left her some muscle, but nothing to visible. Best way to put it is "there is more than what meets the eye". She keeps fit, while also balancing keeping up the image of "society's flower". Thus is always rather on the more lean side as people have expectations of such a title.

    attire

    
    

    Her attire is always donned with purpose. She's very picky about clothing and for events will spend much time in advance planning out attire. Her choices will always depend on the situation at hand and the role or persona she will present as. For instance, when playing the part as "Society's Flower" she will always choose lighter colors. Such as white, since people associate it with youth and innocence. Personally, she prefers clothes in colors such as dark red or green.

    scars / markings

    
    

    Perhaps a bit shockingly, she does have a scar. It's around her hip area, from a knife oh so narrowly dodged.

    misc info

    
    

    You will never see her without a hand-held fan or parasol. Never.

    weight

    125 LBS

    height

    5'7
  • • o
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    • o
    • o
    • o

    • virtues

      Charismatic

      Adaptable

      Resilient

      Perceptive

      Intelligent

      Level-headed
    • vices

      Un-sympathetic

      Untrustworthy

      Secretive

      Perfectionist

      Calculating

      Narcissistic
    • likes

      Hand-Held Fans

      Sunny days

      Swords

      Money

      The color red

      Dancing

      Compliments

      Wine

      dislikes

      Her Parents

      Winter

      Marksmanship

      Disorganization

      People who ask too many questions

      Being outsmarted

      Small enclosed spaces

      
      
      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      
    • strengths

      Sword Fighting, Daggers, Some knowledge on poisons, Silver-Tongued, Many connections, Disguises, Hard-Working, Intelligent, Crafty.

      weaknesses

      Does not take orders easily, Unsympathetic, Poor Accuracy with aim, Untrustworthy, Secretive, Manipulative, Cruel, Cold-Hearted.

      reputation

      Among the Nobles and most of high society; Harmony has a great moral reputation. Often referred to as "Society's Flower", people see her as an innocent and graceful noble lady. An image she has carefully and patiently developed for her self since taking her position as Countess. Very few have any negative things to say about her.
      
      However not everyone knows her a Harmony Liang. There are those who merely know her as Desert Rose, or more simply; Rose. A nickname she gained when taken in by her late mentor. Those she had contact with in the Stygian order and presently maintain contact with know her as such. Her reputation there is much more different. They know her as a ruthless, resilient woman who doesn't ever back down. "Rose" is someone unafraid to take on high stake bounties and has a much more feared reputation.

      fears

      Abandonment, Failure, Small enclosed spaces, Being rendered helpless.

      
      
      

      hobbies

      Sword fighting, Horseback-Riding, Collecting hand-held fans and parasols, Dancing, Socializing, Observing others, Studying.

      
      
      
    • habits

      Twirling a ring around finger

      Writes left handed

      Grinding teeth

      Jaw clenching in moments of tension

      Sideways glance when offended

      Always carries a fan

    Tell me father, what sin did I commit? Tell me mother, why I pay the price for your sins?

    personality

    "Tell me, do you know me or do you know the image of me I've shown you?"
    
    
    Harmony is a rather complex individual. A woman of many faces, so to say. A master of carefully chosen words behind a sweet smile. She has carefully constructed her many images and works tirelessly to ensure nothing falls apart. After all, wearing a mask is what she does best. She carefully play out a part as if acting in a play. Such is her role when presenting as Countess Liang. Her most carefully constructed facade.
    
    Harmony herself is a cunning individual. The type to view people as pieces in a grand scheme. She isn't afraid to cut ties with those who no longer serve a purpose. She lacks both empathy and sympathy for people around her. To her the world is very much the survival of the fittest; and she plans to come out on top no matter the cost. Even if it means she must bury people 6-foot-under to ensure it. A ruthless, self-driven person. She isn't the type to take orders easily unless the orders are in line with her survival or a goal she is trying to achieve.
    
    She is unafraid of using people. Manipulating a narrative or emotions is viewed as mere child play to her. She will spend time observing and building a profile in her mind of people around her. Noting everything even down to the smallest detail, even listening in to conversations. She will use any thing she observes or learns to her advantage. She change the way she acts from person to person, playing the part of a people-pleaser. Carefully learning how they view her and expect her to act; then crafting her act around those details. All to get their trust and become someone they trust.
    
    Harmony isn't just someone passive. If you offended her, she will hold a grudge. She will get even. Even if it's years down the line. It doesn't matter to her, patience is a virtue and revenge tastes better when you slowly savor it as if it were a vintage wine. But it goes both ways, she will remember every grudge and ever favor. She hates owing people and repays any favor in full no matter how small. Often times, its favors people don't even realize they do for her. Such as indirectly helping her leave a unfavorable situation. Times like those, she pays back the favor anonymously.
    
    She's level-headed and calm, very rarely letting her emotions take control. She knows how dangerous emotions can be and keeps them to herself. You will rarely see her let herself get angered or upset. She swallows the emotions and hides them behind a smile. She doesn't let people in too close. Preferring her own company of solitude than having a genuine circle of friends.
    
    ---------------------------------
    "Oh? A private interview? Hmm......Alright, just promise my answers stay between us."
    
    (Just to be clear the following answers are Harmony's honest opinions and answers. Not what she would say if answering as Countess Liang or putting on an act.)
    
    Question 1: Rumors have it you are boarding the Leviathan, are they true? "Yes. I've painstakingly made plans to join the voyage. It sure was not cheap buying a ticket. I believe it will be much worth it in the end. I think some fresh air and new sights will be quite good for my health and I am in much need of a vacation. It seems word has already spread between the other nobles and made it's way around. Don't worry It's to be expected. It's a huge event after all. I'm sure there will be news headlines "Frail Countess joins Sea Voyage." let them spread word. It will make my work much easier."
    
    Question 2: Opinions on Royalty? : "That's a rather daring question. If you want me to be quite honest.....I could care less who sits on the throne so long as they mind their business. Leave me be, I leave them be. Simple as that. The only thing that would change my answer is 'money'.
    
    Question 3: Opinion of piracy? : "Hmm. So long as they aren't giving me trouble or headaches I could care less. People need to make a living in this twisted world, this is how they choose to do so."
    
    Question 4: Rumor has it you are connected to the Stygian Order....are they true? How did it come to be? : "You are sure asking a lot of unrelated questions. However to answer you; Yes. I was and currently am in connection with the Stygian Order. I am well connected with them privately. They.......a member of the order took me in when I was cast away from my rightful home. They taught me everything I know today. I owe them and some others of the Order my life. Without them, i wouldn't be where I am today nor would my revenge been so successful. Besides that, I still occasionally take on ...... 'odd' jobs through my connections."
    
    Question 5: Why is it you carry fans and parasols all the time?: "Well I will just say this: "Weapons are best when hidden in plain sight. Now Is that all your annoying questions?"
    -----------------------
    
    
    What can shall happen to Harmony?: Over time, make her struggle to keep up the facades. Have her stumble. She thrives under pressure and surrounded by chaos. I would love some bounties/assassinations *ahem* 'jobs' to happen. Perhaps causing some tension on the ship. NPCS are prime targets. Maybe have her develop a soft spot for some found family.
    Honestly anything goes. if almighty Gao wishes it, even her death can happen. Just not too soon. I would like to enjoy playing her for a little please almighty Gao.
    
  • first stage of life

    On the third day of the eleventh month, a most momentous occasion occurred. After years of trying and failing to sire a child, one was finally born. The new born baby girl's cries echoed throughout the halls, loud and unyielding. Despite her cries being far from a harmonious sound, the couple bestowed the name Harmony to the girl. Thus Harmony Liang she became, the one and only child of Count and Countess Liang; their only heir to the family name. The couple would try to sire another child several times after her birth, but to no such luck. Harmony truly seemed to be "a lucky miracle."
    
    A miracle she would be. Highly intelligent from a young age, Harmony met milestones much early than most children. The couple took pride in flaunting off their child's achievements. Much to the dismay of those who were target of such flaunting. Count Liang himself would bring up his daughter any and every chance presented. His daughter was the apple of his eye. The most precious gem. He spoiled her every moment of every day. Thus as she grew older, she felt great pride rather than feel second hand embarrassment of the fact her father brought her up every conversation. She began pushing herself from a young age to be a child he would be proud of. Advanced classes. Etiquette Tutors. Riding lessons. She begged for any and every class she could. Of course her father said yes. You expect him to say no to his angel?
    
    What Harmony truly excelled at was dancing. Performing was her call and she accepted it with grace. She preformed at small gatherings and parties. Anywhere where the host requested her too. This ranged from dance to singing or even just playing instruments. She began receiving many invites even before her debutante. Harmony never rejected a single one. She took great delight in performing. She may have loved studying and such before, but performing? It was true love at first dance.

    second stage of life

    It was as she turned 15 and the talks of her debutante started that things took a subtle, but noticeable shift in the house hold. Her parents grew distant from each other. As noble couples tend to do. There was this odd....tension that always seemed to linger. As if one wrong word would cause a bomb of reactions. Harmony didn't understand it then. Why her mother withdrew and isolated herself. Why her father spent more time at work than at home.
    
    The arguments didn't take long to occupy this new suffocating silence. Small disputes turned to screaming matches. Then followed the shattering of vases. Wouldn't take long for the sound of slamming doors to follow. Harmony tried her best to figure out what started the rift.....but she never did find out.
    
    One argument a mere month before her sixteenth birthday would be one of Harmony's most bitter memories. As the argument drew on, her mother uttered the most life changing secret. Harmony wasn't Count Liang's daughter. Rather, she was the daughter of a commoner man that her mother had an affair with even while married to Count Liang.
    
    The words threw Count Liang into utter shock. Though they threw Harmony into far worse. The shock. The fear. The anxiety. So many emotions crashed into her at once. She stood frozen in place. A place she should not be for more than one reason. Though mostly because she was eavesdropping. She barely registered what was said after that.
    
    Until her "father" announced he was kicking them both out. For the first time since she was a baby, Harmony wanted to cry. She wanted to break down then and there. What stopped her you may ask? It was the words from her mother's lips. Her mother begged for Count Liang to think about it. She begged for herself, not her child. Rambled off a hundred reasons why it wouldn't reflect poorly on him. Then finally the words that broke Harmony; "We can send her away and we can try again. We can have another heir." The bitterness that filled her throat was overwhelming. She didn't bother listening to her "father's" answer. She left as silently as she came.
    
    A week later, she wasn't shocked when she found herself being sent away. Rather, she just felt bitter. Angry. Hurt. Part of her had hoped maybe her "father" would choose her or even kick both her and her mother out. At least that way she would have felt better "dragging her mother down with her."
    
    News spread that the young heiress had fallen gravely ill and was sent to their home in Sirocco Sands to recover. The truth? She was thrown out. Never made it to that villa. Tossed to the sands. Perhaps her "father" couldn't bring himself to kill her. Or hire someone to do it for him. Perhaps he thought she would die to the desert environment. Maybe he thought it to be a last act of Mercy, letting her live. Whatever it may have been, Harmony was without a home and people to call family. She was conveniently swept under a rug to be forgotten.

    third stage of life

    In the streets of Sirocco Sands, Harmony didn't last 24 hours before getting kidnapped and shoved into a small crate. Her kidnappers assuming she was the cherished daughter of a noble and they could get ransom money. Unfortunate for them, she was no such thing. Not anymore. This is how she met her mentor. After hours of being held hostage in a small barrel, the sounds of arguing voices fell on her ears. Until finally, the sound of running foot steps and a new set approaching her. When the lid of the barrel opened, she never felt so relieved and anxious in her life. She remembers vividly the apologetic look amidst some confusion on the man's face. How he helped her stumble out the tiny barrel, her legs having gone numb a while back.
    
    The man had a lot of questions. Harmony, not seeing much to lose at the point gave him the answers he wanted. How she ended up there. Who she was. She told him her story, down to the rawest detail. The man didn't react much. A nod here and there, but she didn't feel like he was pitying her. She found that she liked that. Not being pitied. Made her feel better about everything in a way.
    
    The two talked for awhile, eventually the man got up to leave.
    "Wait. Can I stay with you? Just for a while. I can earn money to pay. Do chores. Anything. Just. Give me a few days. Please."
    He paused and looked to Harmony with a expression she couldn't quite place. Worry? Empathy?
    "Anything? Could you kill a man if you were told too?"
    The question shocked her. She stopped in her tracks and pondered about it. Could she? The man having taking the silence as an answer, started to leave and Harmony grabbed his arm.
    "No. I don't know how, but teach me and I will. I can do it. I swear it. "
    It was his turn to be shocked. He merely had asked the question to scare her. To make her stay away. Didn't want to be responsible for some "pampered noble child". Perhaps her answer sparked his curiosity. Maybe it was the look in her eyes. Or even the pure determination she had to survive. Either way, he found himself agreeing to the teen's request.
    "Alright. You can't go around using a name connected to nobility. Rose. Like a desert rose. The name suits you well enough. "
    Thus the new bonds of a Mentor and Student began. A dynamic that became, over time, much like father and daughter. Harmony lived with him and his wife, learning skills from both. Fighting, disguises, pickpocketing, acting, stealth. So much more.
    
    Her mentor, she quickly learned, was high up in the Stygian Order. Not the leader, but worked closely with them. Had enough say on how things worked he was treated with respect. With his help "Rose" made a name for herself within the Stygian order. As she learned skills, she would take on jobs. First pickpocketing. Over time though, it became bounties. They quickly became her preferred jobs. She found she was best when it came to taking down targets. She felt the most thrill doing so. At first it concerned her how she didn't feel bad for taking a life. However, those thoughts didn't last long as she took more jobs.
    
    As more years passed, Harmony had her signature weapons designed and made. It cost her quite a bit, but the finished product was worth it to her.
    

    fourth stage of life

    Eventually she turned twenty-two. She learned that her "noble parents" planned to adopt a new child. As their attempts to have one of their own had not worked. Well, such a thing didn't sit right with her. Why should she let someone else take what had rightfully been hers in the first place? Was she not her mother's daughter? Illegitimate she might be, but she was still an heir by definition. They never formally renounced her after all. She had always planned on getting her revenge against her family. Now was a good of time as ever.
    
    She took her time planning every detail. She was patient. Waiting for her perfect chance. The golden opportunity. When it came, she slipped in the home and took out her once beloved parents. Despite everything, she did give her "father" a chance. If he had just welcomed her back, perhaps she may have found it in herself to forgive him. Instead even in the face of demise, he didn't utter a word to her. Out of shame? Anger? Harmony didn't bother to ask. Once the task was done, she staged her scene and left without a trace. It was a waiting game at that point.
    
    It wasn't long until the papers spread news of the horrible crime. The butler turned out to be a lover of the countess and the count went mad when he found out. He killed the countess and the butler before dying himself. Truly tragic. Truly.
    
    People couldn't believe the news. The count was the talk of the town for weeks. The story became a smear on the family's reputation. When Harmony, who the count had once claimed "Was recovering in the other home", arrived soon after getting a summons to the capital. There was a long process, a funeral, several people who offered their condolences, and so forth. Finally, after some time she became the new Countess Liang. Given she was Count's only heir and no extended family meant she was the only suitable one. She built off the image the count had so graciously given her. The frail young heir became the frail yet elegant countess. Now years later, she's rebuilt the family reputation to what it once was. Arguably becoming more successful than her "father"
  • gallery

    Count Liang (Deceased)

    The man who raised her thinking she had been his own daughter. The same man that discarded her when she turned out to not be his. Harmony often finds herself wondering if her ever regretted it. Abandoning such a young child. She will never get her answers.

    Marissa Liang (Deceased)

    The former countess. Her birth mother, though she hardly deserves to be called such. A woman willing to throw her child to the wolves doesn't deserve to be called mother. Harmony's hatred mostly was directed towards her. Even now, despite the countess's death, Harmony finds that resentment still boils underneath her skin. No matter how much she erases of the late countess's existence doesn't ease the feeling.

    Mentor

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    Mentor's Wife

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  coded by natasha.
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[AnimeGenork]

• ♡
• Rosaline

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  Rosaline Touchard

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  # the enamored

  
  
  
  
  

  # poppy corby-tuech

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
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  The Enamored

  Rosaline

  • xxxBASIC INFORMATIONxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • xxxBACKSTORYxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • xxxABILITIESxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • xxxEXTRA NOTESxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  • pure of heart

    dumb of ass

    sex appeal

    foresight

    “

    ”

    Let your hands go where they please but don't come crying if your fingers break.

    Name

    Rosaline Touchard

    Alias

    Rose, Noelle (formerly)

    Gender

    Female (She/Her)

    Sexuality

    "Closeted" Pansexual

    Place of Birth

    Antares

    Faction

    Stygian Order (formerly)

    Status

    Low Society (Courtesan to High Society)

    Appearance

    The length of Rosaline’s hair is difficult to determine, partially due to the fact that she keeps it in elaborate updos around others and partially due to the fact that she is constantly changing its style. For the most part, however, her brunette tresses are kept to her mid-back, wavy locks framing her angular face and high cheekbones. There is often a strand or two bouncing by her neck, as she likes to provide her clients with something to play with as they flirt. Her pursed lips are always painted, spreading into a thin smile to convey amusement, or what passes for it. Such amusement rarely reaches her green eyes, which occasionally spark with defiance but otherwise are dull, lifeless, even dead. An overall lovely figure, her subtle curves are the subject of at least two poems, though she burned them upon receiving. She tends to let her work do the talking rather than her body, though she has been known to dress provocatively if desperate for more coin. At five feet, four inches, she is not terribly tall, but she has the charm to make everyone forget this aspect.

    Personality

    While she may be a rose, Rosaline definitely has her thorns. She has learned the saccharine words befitting a harlot whose primary trade is the carnal arts, but she has a dignity that even some of her fellows do not. Though she has not much to lose, she wishes not to lose herself entirely to her career, or lack thereof, as she puts it. A small rosebud remains curled tightly within her, and though it is unlikely to bloom, Rosaline takes measures to protect it from outside influence. No more will she let others dictate the entirety of her fate, even though her occupation decries otherwise.
    
    Around her clients, she is fluttering eyelashes and roaming hands, enticing however she may in order to secure payment or a meal. She cannot fathom just how long she’s been at this, for she has lost all sense of time. There is great skill to be had in her line of work, and she has a good deal of it, which all of her clients and fellows will attest to. In truth, she does enjoy a great bit of it, especially the game of figuring out just how much shoulder to bare to have all her whims met or to up her price. Perhaps she is secretly a goddess of love, or what passes for it, as she is not too weary of her occupation, save for the clients who have no respect for her line of work and would sooner spit on her than give her fair compensation.
    
    A tisket, a tasket, Rosaline is a basket of roiling thoughts and subtle glares. Beautiful mess lies beneath the lovely dresses, and while her popularity has caused her to move up in the underbelly of humanity, she only wishes to survive, to live. So far, it seems as if money may be the ticket to that, though lately she has dared to try her hand with her own affections, genuine ones, not the lies that fall easily from her lips like honey.
  • Backstory

    Content Warnings: Horrible Death of Mother, Sexual Assault Mentions/Implications, Sex Workers & Thus Some Inherent Misogyny in Clients, Rosaline is an Entire Warning, I’m Sorry​

    
    Rosaline’s life has been a series of revelations, all of which have perhaps led her down her current path more than any choice she has made in all her years of living.
    
    Revelation 1: No one was going to care for her except herself. Barefoot and dirty in an alleyway deep in Antares, Noelle, as she was named back then, stared down at the broken body of her mother as the rain fell upon her hair and skin and ragged clothing. Dull, glassy eyes and parted lips spoke none of the fake comforts that she had heard for six years, but then, with a broken neck, how could she? Her mother had been trying to earn coin for a meal, but instead she’d crossed someone who hadn’t wanted to share their bed with someone so unclean.
    
    Revelation 2: Being a young girl alone on the streets leads to kindness, but also the depths of hell. Though Noelle had found shelter in a house full of women, she soon realized the kind of work these women were employed in. A house full of strange sounds, but always with a stocked kitchen. It was in this brothel she started to brush her hair so meticulously. Though she washed the dishes and cleaned up after the clients of the house, she knew she would have to repay the bawd with her own body someday. She was resigned to it.
    
    Revelation 3: Living in a house of harlots entails all sorts of untoward activity, including pickpocketing. She stole coins, valuables, all while the clients were occupied with the women in the house. The madame was only tangentially affiliated with the Stygian Order, as Noelle had heard of it, and thus her earnings were theirs as well. Later, she would no longer be in contact with any members of it, as she was on to bigger and better things. But for now, in this moment, she sent off her loot to the Order, hoping for praise that never came. What use was a skill if no one found it useful?
    
    Revelation 4: It doesn’t matter how young you are to some. That is all Noelle had ever been willing to say on the matter, though the madame and her other charges let her grieve what had been lost for as long as she needed it. Was it truly a crime, she wondered to herself, if she was getting paid for it? If she had accepted the single coin for it? This was the last time she would think these thoughts, for delving too deep into the madness of the world was sure to drive one to death, as it had one of the older, sweeter harlots. The madame tilted her chin up and looked into her dead eyes. “Take on a new name befitting of your new life,” she said. “Then perhaps you won’t hurt so much.”
    
    Revelation 5: Roses are lovely, but their thorns sting. Now Rosaline, with a surname Touchard speaking of strength and also humor, she practiced her trade often. Cleaning meticulously at the end of every day, still brushing her hair and handing over enough coin to keep her bawd happy. Clients, or culls, as she soon learned, adored her face and her name, as well as her body. Some of them were amusing, others not so much. One particular one learned the hard way that broken fingers were the price paid for too much freedom with someone unwilling to part with too much too soon. They protested that she was earning coin, which of course earned the glares of every harlot in the house. There are limits to what they will take, make no mistake about that.
    
    Revelation 6: If one satisfies enough carnal desires, one can go from harlot to courtesan in the blink of an eye. At not two decades old, Rosaline was the talk of Antares. Their brothel was the most popular, even with the rumor of biting, and the madame treated Rosaline as a prized daughter. Rosaline herself was just happy for more coin to buy more gowns to seduce the right sort of gentleman, but she also spoiled herself in terms of her sustenance. One day, a woman bedecked in jewel tones and with ruby lips offered to buy her, and while she flinched at the wording, she agreed to the terms, leaving Antares behind forever. Sirocco Sands was a welcome change, though she sometimes missed the boisterous pirates who treated her more “kindly” than those who visited her newer, acclaimed brothel.
    
    Revelation 7: The rich love to keep beauty to themselves. Rosaline, the highly desired rose of a courtesan, given compliments and praises aplenty to appreciate the so-called splendor she brought to their chambers. Though not taken to society functions, she was the talk of the elite, even with the underlying problem of her attitude. Some tried to claim her for their own, but she refused. Independence was not something she was entirely privy to, but at least she had this sliver of it. It was amusing, really, watching them fall all over themselves, offering more and more coin in hopes to curry her as their mistress alone. Dance, puppets, she thought to herself. Keep me alive with those lined pockets.
    
    Revelation 8: Love is a wilted rose. She fell in love. Rosaline had never been sure she’d know love, though theoretically she had known it for as long as she’d been pursuing carnality. It was unrequited, painful, a thorn to her heart every time her glances were unmet. Such a great pain followed her footsteps. Such delightful affections filled her bosom. Oh, how she wished for something, anything, to suggest that perhaps there was a fairy tale meant for her. But it was not meant to be, perhaps.
    
    And now she boards The Leviathan, at the cost of what she usually pays. It was worth every cent.

    Relationships

    surname, given

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    surname, given

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    surname, given

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  • Persona - Deeper

    Likes & Dislikes

    Money, Fancy Gowns, Pink, Roses, Sex, Flirting, Rouge, Brushing Her Hair, Lip Color | Overly Forward Clients, Mending Gowns, Brown, Chrysanthemums, Lobsters, Insects, Clients Who Sweat a Lot
    
    
    

    Fears

    Considering the world she comes from, Rosaline is quite without many fears. Most of the horrors that could afflict a woman she has witnessed or experienced in some capacity, and so she doesn't fear that. If anything, she would fear, most of all, dying in the gutter as her mother did, bleeding out or with her neck broken. To her, that is a fate worse than hell.
    
    
    

    Habits & Hobbies

    Rosaline tends to her own hygiene and care with an almost meticulous care. She brushes her hair carefully every morning and every night, applying every effort to make sure she looks her best. She also becomes quite frustrated if the same strands of hair are not framing her face and will redo her entire hairstyle. For the most part, she has no hobbies or occupation besides that of a courtesan harlot, though she has been known to clean her rooms or others when lacking for clients.
    
    

    Strengths & Weaknesses

    Her strength lies in her skills of flirting and seduction, as belied by her position as a highly sought after courtesan. There is a ladylike grace to her that lends to such a reputation, for she has also mastered the art of pretending to be of high birth. As for weaknesses, she has many, mostly in the fire that threatens to break free whenever a client pushes their luck. She tries her luck every day with the attitude she was born with. Also, she is not terribly literate.
  • Extras

    Reputation

    Rosaline is perhaps the most popular courtesan (she prefers "harlot") to come out of Antares, so popular that she was even offered employment in an esteemed Sirocco Sands brothel. She is known for her discerning eye for fashion (read: she knows how to show tiddy) as well as her ability to please in the most heartless client. Any more details about her reputation are left to whispers, and not many of them have been proven true. Supposedly she has the capability to break fingers if displeased with the words aimed at her.
    
    
    

    Why did she board the Leviathan?

    To others, she claims she boarded the Leviathan for adventure, perhaps to seek clients from reaches beyond Antares and Sirocco Sands. In truth, she wanted to follow her love. Being near them is enough for her, and plenty enough to fuel the daydreams that plague her waking thoughts. All she wanted was to watch over them, make sure they were alright. It is the only thing she truly cares about. Besides money.
    
    
    

    How did she get on board?

    The details of the "how" are rather private and would break RPN rules, but suffice it to say Rosaline traded a night of near endless (one-sided) passion in order to purchase her spot aboard the ship.
    
    
    

    Opinion on Royalty

    In public, they seem to care not a whit for those of Rosaline's ilk, but she knows the truth: they are the dirtiest bastards in the land. She has played out many a fantasy for their benefit, all with the promise that she never tell a soul just how depraved they are. They pay well for this privilege, and even she can admit that some of those nights were more amusing than most. Why is it the rich and beautiful ones are those she would hate to cross?
    
    

    Opinion on Piracy

    Though she hasn't met as many as she'd like, Rosaline does know that pirates are often the best customers. They tend to care more about her than any noble or royal, though this care is in service of their pleasure. She has the most fun with pirates and associated clients, with many ending in a promise to visit her again. She rarely ups her price for these clients, for loyalty is sometimes better than more coin.
    
    

    Extras

    Rosaline's theme song is "Middle of the Night" by Elley Duhé. Playlist possibly forthcoming.
    
    

    What I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay

    Rosaline needs to be disillusioned about her so-called love, realize she has fallen for someone not worthy of what little affection she can provide. She needs to be sexy, do sword, learn how to be her own person outside of her occupation again. Perhaps cut her hair into a short little ponytail. Should she find real love, it should be less all-consuming than this first one, not quite a fairy tale, but enough that perhaps she will not quite hate her circumstances so much. Also, she needs to wear pants at least once.
    
    

    If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date

    Yes If you'll have me!

  code by Nano
  
  

 

[Pepsionne]

the huntsman

death twitches my ear

fc Aneurin Barnard

♡coded by uxie♡

• .
• .
• .
• .

• 04

  03

  02

  general

  magnus

  full name

  Finnick Madden

  alias

  Magnus (his real name is dead to him)

  role

  The Huntsman

  age

  29

  p.o.b

  Zenith

  Status

  Low Society

  Factions

  Stygian Order (former)

  fc

  Aneurin Barnard

  and all of my devotion turns violent

  Reputation.

  He is known as The Doctor because of the surgical precision and cleanliness of his kills. Some would call it a mercy. Others shiver at the implications of such clean kills. No struggle, no hesitation. A fatal blow dealt with as much thought to him as breathing. If there had been mercy begged from trembling lips, it fell on deaf ears.
  
  It’s a well known rumor whispered across webs of criminals from multiple cities that if the doctor takes on your bounty--it’s pretty much a death sentence. And you won’t see it coming.
  
  
• 04

  03

  visage

  01

  magnus

  ht

  5’11"

  wt

  162

  hair

  His brown hair is not rich enough to appear totally black, but lacks the typical golden hues that denote lighter shades of brown hair. Thus, his curls tend to fall somewhere in between the two depending on the lighting. Regardless--the color is a stark cut against his fair complexion. He keeps it short on the sides and neatly styled to match a buttoned up façade.

  eyes

  His eyes are a flat, depthless grey that fall black in most lighting. His eyes carry the majority of intimidation and intensity that come with interacting with him. He is unafraid of eye contact, and when it is desired, Magnus has a way of seeking it out, even if it means chasing the gaze of another. Pair this with a heavy, straight brow line and he is someone whose stare you can feel pressing into your skin with a physical pressure.

  body

  Magnus presents himself like one born of noble birth. He figured the best disguise was a respectable one, such a pristinely formed façade only adding to the looming shadow of death that is tethered to his neck like a leash.
  
  His movements are stiff and well trained. Not a finger is lifted without some kind of purpose lining its journey. This body language leads him to exert an eerie kind of presence, a ghost of sorts, present but with the aura of an impossibly silent mirage.
  
  His attire is made up of durable, neatly pressed fabrics in shades of only black and white.
  

  mods

  His body is littered with scars from his profession and time spent serving under Celine. They're not seen often, as he is rarely ever seen unclothed

  faceclaim

  Aneurin Barnard
• 04

  persona

  02

  01

  Magnus

  • fillersss
  • .

  • likes & dislikes

    misc

    likes

    Silence, early mornings, moonlight on water, a freshly sharpened blade, black coffee

    dislikes

    Heat and humidity, blinding afternoon sun, sweet foods, loud and crowded spaces
  • likes & dislikes

    misc

    hobbies

    
    Magnus’ life hasn’t afforded him the luxury of any hobbies, but he does enjoy spending time in nature and bird watching.
    
    

    habits

    
    Running his finger over the edge of a blade, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to feel the threat of it.
    
    Smoking.
    
    Pausing for several moments before he speaks. Many people interpret this habit as a response, and he gets talked over quite often.
    
    

    strengths

    
    Combat, tracking, weaponry, stealth, thieving, lying/manipulating
    
    

    weaknesses

    
    Singular minded, lack of empathy, thin tolerance for bullshit, reserved, trust issues
    
    

    fears

    
    Celine Dowin. Killing against his will.
    
    

    why did they board The Leviathan?

    
    
    Opportunity and money. With the Leviathan’s itinerary and ability to attract all walks of life with its shiny promises, Magnus sees the dollar signs that trail in the leviathan's wake. He could make enough here, potentially, to even retire to a gentler life. But can an attack dog ever truly be free from the baring of its fangs?
    
    

    how did they get on board?

    
    
    Celine's weaponization of wealth taught Magnus early on that you can do anything you want if you attach a high enough price tag to it. He knew he lacked the proper paperwork to board The Leviathan by any legal means, but what he did have was a heavy pouch of gold burning a hole in his pocket from a previously claimed bounty. Questions fell breathless with the amount he could afford, and soon enough, he found himself aboard the large ship. He could hear Celine's cooing approval at his actions. The thought made him nauseous.
    
    

    playlist

    
    
    
    

  personality

  There is something predatory in the way Magnus carries himself. A kind of learned violence set into the depths of his eyes. When he smiles, his canines gleam with the threat of something not to be trusted.
  
  To people who are not his target, Magnus is friendly enough--behavior to be expected from the gentleman he presents himself to be. He carries with him the familiarity of a pet snake wrapped around one’s neck. It wouldn’t, surely, but an instinct much older than you begs to be believed when you feel the muscles in its body tighten just a fraction.
  
  Magnus has a way of emitting a sort of pressure when he needs to, hardened fingers pushing into the soft flesh of rotted wood when he senses someone he can break. He wouldn’t call it outright intimidation, but the disappointment of his expectations comes with an unspoken threat.
  
  He is unremarkable in quite a calculated way, a person whose impression becomes fluid in memory. His opinions and beliefs will change to fit whatever city he is in. Most of his victims don’t even realize they’re being hunted until his sword has pierced their flesh.
  
  The real Magnus, the one he lost in that dank cellar all those years ago--that one was softer. He liked a harmless prank, laughing and drinking with his friends until the sun began to yawn out across the sky. Violence was not something he even thought about, much less expected to have honed into a natural instinct. But maybe those things died with Finnick. There’s far too much blood crusted over his hands to even attempt to reach into the ether and find that old self.
  
  It is rare, but there are times when he can forget this hardened armor that has cemented itself over his soul. He’s not quite Finnick--he could never be, but unprompted authenticity can sweep him away like a tide to the ghost of his past self. It is these rare instances that echo a warning in his mind. “Camaraderie is a weakness”
  
  Opinion on royalty: Against. The word royalty rots in his mouth like something left in the sun to fester and crust over. The behavior of royalty and nobility bring him back to the trauma he strives to cast aside--any semblance of it brings him back to Celine.
  
  Opinion on piracy: He is neutral on piracy, neither for it or against it. Judging pirates for their violence would be like the pot calling the kettle black. While he may frown occasionally at the grey morality of their violence, his own hands are far too stained to speak against it.
  
• history

  03

  02

  01

  Magnus

  Celine Dowin

  A wealthy and powerful widow whom Magnus was indebted to. He worked under her as an assassin.

  Relationship

  tbd

  coded by natasha

  Finnick

  
  "Death twitches my ear. 'Live,' he says, 'I am coming'" — Virgil
  
  Magnus divides his life into two parts. Before the fateful Dowin heist, and after. Before the Dowin heist, he was Finnick. A thieving orphan running the streets of Zenith with as much care given to him as a rat loose in the streets. One could say he drew rotten luck to receive the cards he had been dealt-- just another mouth to feed in one of the many underfunded orphanages strewn about the city with no memory of his parents. But Finnick didn’t have rotten luck, he thought it was rather the absence of any kind of it completely that landed him in his station in life. Luck would have made him noble. Rotten luck would have offered the mercy of never having been born into this world at all.
  
  The orphanage was a step up from becoming one of the vicious stray dogs that littered the poorer areas of Zenith, and what a small step it was indeed. In the orphanage’s care Finnick was hungry but not starving, had clothes but only until they fell apart into threads, and was given a bed but one that was shared with rodents and illness. The rest was up to him. So he stole.
  
  In the beginning, the young orphan stuck to petty things. A sweet that looked rather tantalizing in the packed alley of street vendors, a toy that he saw a noble child tugging along with zero care to it at all. But with every successful theft that lacked consequence came the growing notion that if Finnick was a child born without luck, he could simply--steal it.
  
  He wasn’t the only orphan to come to this conclusion. He and a small group of friends began to organize themselves into a band, each successful scheme earning them a step towards freedom and a life they had only dreamed of.
  
  Finnick finally left the orphanage at the age of fourteen. With a complex web of schemes under the belt of their group, their meager earnings afforded them a life that was worlds away from what they had endured in the orphanage. They were a team, a found family, relying on each other and splitting their earnings equally.
  
  Like any successful thieves, the band of orphans pathed their way to joining the Stygian Order. The fangs of their desire sharpened with every successful job, and the real money began to pour in. They were untouchable, and so were their egos. Until the Dowin heist.
  
  It was to be a simple job. Traverse the high, connected buildings of Zenith until they came across the Dowin’s set of apartments within the city. A young widow whose husband left her childless and at the head of his influential estate. With such a massive mansion nestled away from the hustle and bustle of the city, it was hardly expected that she even remembered the city apartments, much less spent any time there. Certainly she wouldn’t miss a few sets of jewels and other gaudy shows of wealth--right?
  
  The heist of Lady Dowin’s apartments was nothing but smooth sailing and the luck Finnick had been missing all of his life. Windows were left unlocked, jewelry worth more money than they had even seen in their short lifetimes were simply left scattered about. It was as if the Universe had finally, finally given Finnick something easy in his life. Something handed to him with an open palm instead of him having to claw it free from a closed fist.
  
  He was to be the last one out of the apartment, keeping watch on the dark and silent hallways while his accomplices climbed a rope they had attached to the roof one story above. It was hard to hide the smile on his face at the loot they had cashed in from this job. Finnick could imagine not only the luxury this would afford them but also the respect their success tonight would generate in the Stygian Order. He was blind to the light that flickered down the hall until it was too late.
  
  A noise, and then--Lady Celine Dowin with an attack dog. Finnick had already been halfway onto the rope, his body half dangling out the window--when a sharp pain blossomed in his ankle. The dog had leaped forward and grabbed hold of him with a gnashing of fangs. His scream of pain floated high up into the cloudless night sky.
  
  Gold and other precious jewels knocked loose from the struggle, raining down in a glittering shower to the damp cobblestone far below. But there was another gleam that caught his attention, this one illuminated by the blue hue of the moon. A knife, drawn and ready to sever the only line Finnick had to salvation. His friends, his accomplices--were cutting their losses.
  
  Before the rope could go slack and send both Finnick and the dog tumbling to the hard stone stories below, Finnick rocked his body backward, back into the Dowin’s apartment. For the first time in his life, he had failed. Finnick had been caught.
  
  “Well, look what we’ve caught here Magnus,” A voice purred in delight. Piercing blue eyes stared down at him, icy in their apathy. “A rat.”
  
  

  Celine

  
  "My kind of rebirth tasted like blood." — Anna de Noailles
  
  The night of the heist, Celine had Finnick escorted to her private estate on the wealthy outskirts of the city, where he was thrown into a stone cellar deep in the middle of Celine’s elaborate web. He spent days there, left to ruminate and starve, save a stale piece of bread thrown in during the middle of his second day. Like they had suddenly remembered he existed.
  
  The cellar was a small room of damp stone that soaked through his thin clothes and set a chill into his bone that felt like death. It very well may have been.
  
  On the third day, the guards finally retrieved him to be presented before the lady of the house.
  
  “You owe me money,” Celine had drawled, her apathetic gaze burning holes into the shriveled Finnick kneeling before her. “A lot of money.”
  
  Disappointed by the lack of fight in Finnick’s demeanor, she waved a manicured hand with a lazy, “Take him back to the cellar and kill him.”
  
  Finnick knew that being caught had spelled certain death. The Stygian Order had been clear in that when emphasizing the importance of never being caught--but he imagined it was more a side effect of the punishment he would receive, not a direct execution.
  
  He never thought himself to be a violent person. He had never needed it. A certain amount of fight was required to protect what was his in the orphanage--but even that had its limits. Yet something strange happens when a living thing marches towards certain death. Even the most docile creature will lash out in a hot streak of violence. Anything, do anything to survive.
  
  Sticky hands from his years of thieving left Finnick with a dagger in his hand and his escorting guards none the wiser. Clean hallways were soon painted in crimson, and Finnick had a line to a clean escape. But this was Celine’s web, and Finnick nothing but a thrashing insect already beginning to rot.
  
  When he was brought before her again, bloodied and panting, Celine had a different look set into her eyes. One of intrigue.
  
  “How many guards did he manage to take out?”
  
  “Three, my lady,” One of the remaining guards panted out, his voice strained with anger and pain. There was a hunger set into his eyes, one that salivated for the execution of this thieving rat kneeling before him--but Celine’s orders stood firm.
  
  “I’ll tell you what--Finnick.” Celine leaned forward in her chair. “I’m in need of a skill I value far greater than the jewels you and your little friends stole from me.”
  
  Her eyes flickered to the panting dog sat obediently at her feet. “Kill him and take his place as my attack dog.”
  
  Finnick was silent for a moment--shock still freezing his mind into an empty shell. He brought his eyes upward, to the dog that now stood with cream fangs bared in warning. He winced at the thought of tightening his hands around the dog's throat, but steadying his muscles proved easier than allowing its jaws to sink into his flesh.
  
  When it was over, Celine beckoned him forward with lazy fingers. “Good boy, Magnus,” The name gloated from her mouth in a way that made him sick. She placed her fingers underneath his chin, lifting his head upwards. “You’re going to make such an obedient dog.”
  
  

  Magnus

  
  "I have survived, but I have not been spared." — Catherynne M. Valente
  
  In the years that followed, Magnus honed his skills for violence in a way he never thought possible. Celine had proved correct, his skills as a thief and quick learning of fatal blows made him a near perfect assassin.
  
  Years were spent in her service, the debt he owed her tied around his neck like a leash. In the beginning, obedience was difficult to force into him. Debt alone weighted at the price of his life soon proved not enough to keep Magnus under her thumb, leading the widow to cast out a wide net utilizing the power and influence she stored in volume. Word made its way back of a small group that had hit the street vendors with jewels worth more than their weight in gold. With enough digging, Celine eventually had a list of names that she could hold against Magnus' throat like a knife. It was quite ironic, wasn't it? The very friends who left Magnus to this fate were now the one thing he allowed to chain him to it indefinitely.
  
  Now with a more firm collar around her dog, Magnus led a life that became something to expect. Celine would identify an opponent that posed some kind of threat to her, Magnus would be loosed to kill them, and he edged just that much closer to a life of his own. Or so Celine led him to believe.
  
  Several years passed by in this pattern. Eyes began to turn towards Lady Dowin and the way suspicious deaths seemed to follow in her wake. Gossip began to spread about the widow owning a highly trained assassin, leading Magnus to become more of a liability to her than an asset, and a tough one to kill at that. With the wellbeing of Magnus' previous friends ensuring her safety, Celin decided to cut her losses and simply--let him go under the claim that he had fulfilled his debts to her.
  
  His old life a distant memory under the weight of the trauma he endured for the sake of survival, Magnus turned to the one thing Celine had conditioned him to become. An attack dog. He took to bounty hunting with ease, and when it proved far more lucrative than any respectable endeavor, he never looked back.
  
  Faction: Formerly Stygian Order. After the fateful heist that led to his capture--the Stygian Order believed his past identity of Finnick Madden to be dead.
  
  His capture having happened so long ago, it is unlikely for those not close to him to recognize him. Besides his dead identity being known for its demise during an unfortunate heist--Magnus never made a reputation for himself within the faction.
  
  Magnus doesn’t think of the Stygian Order much. He affiliates it with a past life, something that no longer suits him. But his movements and skills can be recognized by another with experience within the faction.
  
  
  What I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay are:
  
  I gave Magnus an extremely hard shell and the sort of detachment that’s necessary for his line of work and history, but I’d like to see that shell be challenged, and for people to get under it. I was kind of inspired by Macbeth for his character a bit, he believes himself too far gone to be worth saving or redeemed, it would be fun to have events that change his mind on this, and allow him to see he is more than just his past decisions and conditioned mindset of an “attack dog” Maybe he encounters figures from his past?
  
  I love to make my characters suffer, so bringing back in the very trauma that created his character in the first place: his life being indebted to another (or maybe he didn’t actual break free of the leash Celine kept him on like he believed)
  
  If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the GM feels there’s a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival: Y
  

left

 

[CrimsonInk]

Things may have been updated/changed! View if you wish!

Dahlia Blackwater

# The Descendant

# Gemma Arterton

♡coded by uxie♡

---

Dahlia Blackwater

• 1ai
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  #THE DESCENDANT

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  FULL NAME

  Amelia Porter
  

  ALIAS

  Dahlia Blackwater
  

  AGE

  27
  

  P.O.B.

  Antares
  

  GENDER

  Female
  

  HEIGHT/WEIGHT

  5 ft 7 inch || 132 lbs
  

  HAIR COLOUR

  Dark Brown
  

  EYE COLOUR

  Dark Brown with hints of gold
  

  BUILD

  Slim, some muscle in her arms and legs
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  THE BARONS SHADOW

  
  
  

  FC: Gemma Arterton

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  REPUTATION

  An Outlaw/Renegade/Rebel in Antares, but in other cities your typical thief. She may be 'Wanted' for a few jobs she did stealing items from other Noble houses. If the coin was good, she'll do it.
  

  FACTION

  Past affiliated with the Carmine Corsair. Before she severed ties with them, she never had a true outlook on the crew itself. Most were ill-mannered and obnoxious, and a few she only tolerated. But she never tried to socialize with any of them.
  

  STATUS

  Low Society (Past), Wanted (Now)
  

  HABITS

  Biting her nails, sniffing her food and drink before indulging, and moving her jaw out of irritation
  

  HOBBIES

  Training, gazing at the stars, playing cards, and
  

  STRENGTHS

  Hand-to-hand combat, resourcefulness, pickpocketing, lockpicking, and self-reliance
  

  WEAKNESSES

  Her unpredictable emotional response (Anger), stubborn nature, drinking games, and children
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
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  likes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Apples

  
  
  
  

  A comfortable bed

  
  
  
  

  Floral Scents

  
  
  
  

  Playing card games

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Birds

  
  
  
  

  Honesty

  
  
  
  

  Sarcasm

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  fears

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Abandonment

  
  
  
  

  Snakes

  
  
  
  

  Losing her sense of self

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  PERSONALITY

  
  “I know what I am. What makes you think that you’re any better?”
  Amidst the fog of the unknown in the chaotic world, Dahlia Blackwater stands tall with her heart forged of iron and skin armored in stone. Despite growing up in harsh circumstances with a neglectful mother, Dahlia possesses an indomitable spirit. She learned to fend for herself from a young age, navigating a world filled with adversity, but tries to overcome it with determination and resilience. Not only has she learned not to rely on anyone but herself, she is a fiercely independent woman who prefers to tackle challenges on her own rather than seek assistance from others. Dahlia is selective about who she chooses to trust as she doesn't open up easily to others.
  Dahlia also harbors a deep-seated defiance against authority figures, and isn't afraid to challenge those in positions of power. Surviving an unforgiving youth has honed Dahlia's instincts for adaptation and survival. She navigates her environments with a sharp eye, seizing upon any advantage they offer. However, the chains of her past bind her still, dragging her into a sea of unyielding misery — a burden she bears with a grim acceptance.
  Beneath her outward facade of stoic and impassive, Dahlia grapples with inner turmoil of unresolved emotions. The anger that fuels her can sometimes turn inward, leading to moments of self-doubt and introspection when she's alone with her thoughts. Anger serves as Dahlia's primary emotional outlet, coursing through her veins like a protective shield against the outside world. It's a defense mechanism she developed to cope with the pain and trauma of her past. When faced with adversity or injustice, her default response is often one of righteous anger. Dahlia has become adept at concealing her true emotions from others. She sees vulnerability as a weakness and believes that showing any sign of emotion could leave her exposed to potential harm or exploitation.
  Despite her inclination to bury her emotions she is capable of letting her guard down in the presence of those she trusts completely. She allows herself to be more relaxed and authentic, where they witness a gentle touch, a fleeting smile — small gestures that speak volumes of the depth of her love and the strength of her character.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
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  The Red Baron

  
  

  
  

  ❝

  
  

  Pain is an exceptional tutor.

  
  

  ❞

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  HISTORY

  
  Before ‘Dahlia Blackwater’ was Amelia Porter. A bastard born in the depths of Antares where vice and sin was known. From the moment Amelia drew her first breath, she was met with neglect and indifference. The streets reeked of piss, booze, and shit; sometimes the smell from the sea will come by only just for a few moments. Moments where Amelia finds herself breathing in air that doesn’t make her feel like a mutilated rat in the street. She was born and raised in a brothel by a woman named Angela Porter. A diamond in the rough, who would rather drink and gamble with the men she slept with then raise her child. A child who cleaned, obeyed, and did what she could to please her mother. She scavenged for scraps in garbage-strewn alleys and learned to navigate the treacherous streets with a wary gaze. Her only companion was the simmering rage that burned within her, a constant reminder of the injustices of her upbringing. Of her mother seeing her as nothing more than a servant. She witnessed firsthand the cycle of violence and addiction that consumed her mother's life, yet she clung to the faint hope that one day things might change. Amelia didn’t know any better. Kids are easy to manipulate like that after all.
  
  Any hope was shattered the day Amelia’s world collided with that of the Red Baron, a devil who ruled Antares with an iron fist. The same man who came to collect a debt, and instead left with a child. “May your bastard be the final payment of my visit.” were the words she remembered from the man. Amelia remembered pleading and kicking the man, no matter how many times he would strike at her to stop. Black, blue, and red were colors she wore being dragged onto that boat. The girl would fight the man tooth and nail, defy his demands, and even tried to stab him. It was when he told her that her mother sold her was the point that she stopped her fight. Disbelief turned to anger, and that anger had caught the Red Baron’s attention. In return, he offered her a chance at redemption amidst the chaos of Antares. Blinded by her wrath, she made her deal with the devil and joined the Carmine Corsair’s. Where only death will part you from their crew.
  
  Under the Red Baron's mentorship, Amelia shed her former identity and embraced the persona of Dahlia Blackwater, a name whispered in hushed tones throughout the Carmine Corsair. She honed her combat skills with a ferocity that bordered on obsession, mastering the art of the blade with a deadly precision that made those bleed in misery. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior, Dahlia remained haunted by the ghosts of her past. The wounds inflicted by years of neglect and betrayal ran deep, leaving her grappling with a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions she struggled to contain. She couldn’t bear to be the Baron’s shadow and be chained to his prideful reign. The blood she spilled only reminded her of what she was. Property. Furniture. An untamed beast that mirrors what their master molded her to be. This wasn’t the redemption in life she dreamt of, it was just going from one caged cell to another. No more. She made the fateful decision to sever ties with the Red Baron and the life of piracy that had once defined her existence. So she disappeared in the night, stealing whatever it means necessary to survive her boat ride to the mainland. While also taking a couple of his prized possessions, the Baron’s telescope and compass.
  
  For two long years, Dahlia lived on the borders of society, a fugitive on the run from the ghosts of her past. She traversed storm-tossed seas and treacherous landscapes, always on the move and never stopping. One day when she was caught stealing food from a vendor, and while booking it to the docking area her eyes laid upon a ship that she would later find out to be called ‘The Leviathan’.
  
  

  
  
  
  
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  Why did they board The Leviathan?

  It was a job gone wrong. A setup to try to put her behind bars, and Dahlia knew she stayed in that place for too long for them to catch up to her antics. While trying to find a way to escape the sights of guards, she uses the docks as a way to slow them down and would find herself sneaking onto The Leviathan.
  
  

  What I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay are:

  For the GM, I wanted to see her in shambles from her hardened shell shattered and finally allowing herself to be vulnerable. That all her efforts in trying to take back her life was not all for nothing. Make friends and/or find love can also be an option. To finally feel like she is not all alone either, but I am not too forgiving for such blessings. Surprise me. Toss a coin on whether you give her a life she deserves or have her sacrifice it all for the sake of others. All power and possibility is in your hands!
  
  

  If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the GM feels there’s a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival:

  Yes please!
  
  

  SPOTIFY:

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

req.

pers.

hist.

misc.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[orpheus.]

the descendant - fc: Willy Cartier

 

[Harrowhark]

• The Scribe
• The Crusader

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    Blade

    
    
    
    

    Dutchess Aurelia Keiran of Solas

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Runaway

    
    
    
    

    AURORA

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    Alias

    
    
    

    Blade Longsword

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    age

    
    
    

    twenty-four

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    gender

    
    
    

    Male (allegedly)

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    p.o.b.

    
    
    

    Sirocco Sands

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    d.o.b.

    
    
    

    November 29th

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    height

    
    
    

    5'9

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    weight

    
    
    

    140

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Status

    
    
    

    Royalty

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Faction

    
    
    

    Carmine Corsair

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Role

    
    
    

    The Scribe

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    fc

    
    
    

    Amita Suman

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    Destiny

    
    
    
    

    Do you ever want to run away and start over? Wipe the slate clean. Begin all over again with a blank canvas? It's okay, we all feel that way sometimes. It doesn't mean you don't love your life or the people in it. It doesn't mean you wouldn't give your last breath to see them happy. Sometimes when we yearn to be selfish, it means we have been selfless for far too long.
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    Visage

    
    
    

    Build: Thin and lithe. An entire lack of muscle tone only achievable through living life without a care. While tall for a woman of her status, it hardly aids in her disguise. Against even the smallest seamen, her size stands out. While her alleged title may explain this, it will still be uncomfortably obvious that she does not belong at sea.
    
    Eyes: Black as the night sky, when light hits them it looks like shining stars. Still filled with innocence and life. Her eyes are wide as she gazes upon the world for the first time.
    
    Hair: Never been cut. Dark strands go all the way down to her waist when down. However, now she is sure to hide it, inside a hood or hat, it doesn't matter, as long as it is kept away.
    
    Distinguishing: Smooth skin, completely free of scars and blemishes. Not a single callus or sun spot. A lifetime of shelter has left her weak. Incredibly regal and elegant, her straight posture and smooth movement is a clear red flag to any scoundrel that she is associated with the crown. Perhaps, someone of noble enough prestige could recognize her face. It would only be a matter of time before they realized from where.

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    • .
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      PERSONA

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      Impatient, Overzealous, Impulsive, Disobedient, Authoritative, Perceptive, Bold, Persistent, Decisive, Conformist, Naive
      
      

      Virtues

      
      

      
      Authoritative- Aurelia is used to commanding. While not everyone is a fan, at the end of the day, she can get things done. If a group is in need of a leader, she'll rule with an iron fist. What does it matter if people don't respond well to demands? She hardly notices the resentment.
      
      Bold- Possibly out of a complete lack of experience, Aurelia is not afraid to jump into situations when she wants something. For better or for worse, she is living her life with little caution.
      
      Persistent- In the same way, she won't stop until she gets what she wants. Never being told no will do that to someone. In her mind, nothing is unattainable.
      
      Decisive- Decisions come naturally to those in complete control over their whole lives. While she is often left out of large political decisions, her words do have a level of influence that most do not.
      
      

      Vices

      
      

      
      Impatient- Aurelia is used to getting her way. Again, never being told no will do that to someone. All her life, she's had her every whim fulfilled. Life at sea will be a rude awakening.
      
      Overzealous- Far too eager to see the world, this will be her downfall. Everything is brand new and exciting. She can't help but look upon it with the awe of a child.
      
      Impulsive- Spoiled youngest child behavior. She does what she wants instantly without a thought to the consequences. Nothing has ever gone bad for her before, why would it now?
      
      Disobedient- How many times do I have to tell you this bitch is spoiled? The only person she listens to is her father. Even now, she has found herself listening less and less as the years go on.
      
      Conformist- Even within the realm of her rebellion, Aurelia has become used to following the rules and fitting the image of a noble. She would never try to stand out or go against societal standards. She doesn't understand why others would not do the same.
      
      Naive- Born with a silver spoon full of propaganda in her mouth, Aurelia sees the king's way as the right way. She has never even heard another point of view, only that those against them are evil and not to be trusted. Having never seen the world from outside of rich or royal perspectives, she lacks an understanding of even the most mundane things.
      
      

      LIKES

      
      

      
      Thunderstorms, Birds, Massages, Competition, Tea, Ballgowns, Gardens, Purple, Rock Skipping, People Watching, recently killing a man apparently
      
      

      DISLIKES

      
      

      
      Sunrise, Wind Chimes, Scarecrows, Itchy clothes, Fairies, Fog, Bugs, Mess, Breaking the Law, Uneven Ground, Multitasking
      
      

      FEARS

      
      

      
      Being burned alive, Babies, Bears, Magic, Deep, Dark Water and Marrying a man
      

      
      
      
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      EXTRAS

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      HABITS

      
      

      
      Chewing her Hair, Bowing, Formalities, Demanding, Frivolous Spending, Sleeping in
      
      

      HOBBIES

      
      

      
      Ballroom dancing, Drinking a little too much at formal dinners, Stargazing, Hunting, Pottery, Chess, Flute
      
      

      STRENGTHS

      
      

      
      Leadership, Sneaking by without being noticed, Ambition, Optimism, Perfect pitch, Appealing to world leaders, Aim
      
      

      WEAKNESSES

      
      

      
      Inexperience, Any type of fighting, Maintaining a lie, Deep sleeper, Fire damage, Pretty women
      
      

      HEADCANONS

      
      

      
      - Doesn't do "goodbyes"
      - Wears boots that are too big, stuffs them to fit
      - Can beat anyone and everyone in chess
      - Does not know a single shanty
      - Is a decent artist
      - Sleeps better at high tide
      - Often pushes romance to the side lines
      - Forgets its an option all together and that flirting is a thing all together (TLDR: oblivious)
      - Does, however, get very distracted by dancing women
      - Really any woman doing anything vaguely attractive
      - Thinks swords are just for cool fights wdym you kill people with those
      - Really bad actor
      - Has multiple Fairy Tales memorized word for word (Like this kid with shrek)
      

      
      
      
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      INTERVIEW

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      REPUTATION

      
      Frigid and unlovable. Married to the only man in Solas who was stupid enough to look past her years of rejecting every man in sight.
      
      This mysterious scribe though, carries several rumors to his name. One of which being he writes against the crown under a psudonem, something of which, if true, could put a target on his back.
      
      

      FACTION

      
      Obviously, her loyalty will remain to the crown. Aurelia would never dream of thinking any different. Carmine Corsair is the only faction she would ever dream of identifying with. For now.
      
      

      STATUS

      
      Aurelia may be a dutchess, but the scribe was of low social class. Something she will never get used to or understand fully.
      
      

      MOTIVE

      
      Running away baby! A little adventure, a little spice, and very out of her element. Life has never felt so freeing as killing a man and fleeing the scene of the crime.
      
      

      BOARDING

      
      Stolen itinerary from the pocket of Mr. Scribey himself. Convenient that the ship is leaving right when she needs it!
      
      

      ROYALTY OPINION

      
      Good! They are our kind, benevolent leaders! The princess's biggest stan!
      
      

      PIRACY OPINION

      
      New and forbidden. Aurelia has idolized pirates as the explorers of the world, the people who get to go on endless adventures. She does not know that pirates are #cancelled for their crimes against humanity.
      
      

      EXTRAS

      
      Only character I dont have a playlist for sorry!
      
      
      

      
      
      

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    history

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    A Child is Born

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    Born the youngest of three children, Aurelia was given all she could want in this world. Even without the care of her parents, several nannies often watched over her, giving her all of their attention. With age, they turned into tutors, filling her mind with history, literature, and politics. What more in this world could a girl want?
    
    Even in being molded into the eventual, perfect wife, Aurelia never despised this shaping of her character. As a child, she lived for the attention royalty garnered, the cheers a small wave could bring. She didn't know any other way of living, so how could she long for more?
    
    Even more so, she longed for the day when, if lucky, she’d marry a prince. Solas may have no male heirs, but surely, Aurelia would have her happily ever after. With a royal merman or the princess’s long lost brother, she would fall in love and live her life as queen (delulu fr). Her childhood days were spent daydreaming of when perfect would begin.
    
    In contrast, her brothers never once thought of their future wives. Their days were filled with horseback riding, hunting, culture, and experience. Unequal in only what was done in public. In more private affairs, the boys reveled in the mischief that was teaching their sister inappropriate lessons for a woman.
    
    By ten, Aurelia could hunt duck like the best of them, swear like a sailor, and bet on horse races with generous accuracy. While knowing these behaviors must be kept in secret, Aurelia could hardly imagine why. Why would a man not want his wife to share in his hobbies? To come home after a long day of shooting and have twice the duck to feast on, to speak freely as his equal, and to perfect one’s gamble; were these all not desirable outcomes for the union of a match?
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Coming of Age

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    At some point, every young girl must make her transition into adulthood. When the time came, she was more than happy to start taking the calls of suitors. While there are no princes in the Sirocco Sands, one must always start somewhere and work their way up. Barons and Earls can easily be switched out for Viscounts and Dukes when a young lady reveals herself to be a desirable wife.
    
    It seemed Aurelia was quite the popular conquest. Callers lined down the halls on the best days of the marriage season, yet none of them her prince. It wasn’t about the title, not anymore, but about love and fairy tales. She wanted what those in the storybooks had, true love. Rejecting countless men in the span of a year, she was starting to lose hope.
    
    But most women spend more than a year looking for the one, it was hardly unusual. However, as a year turned to two, her reputation amongst the men of the sands began to sour. Now regarded as a tease, a gold digger, a woman only looking to waste their time. How could they not see, she wasn’t the problem, they were.
    
    No man could keep her interest for long. Even if entertaining for the fleeting beginnings of courtship, once they knew the real Aurelia, the one who shared in their interests, they weren’t as pleased as she might hope. If a man could not accept her, how could she call him a true love?
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Summer

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    At the dawn of the fourth year, her mother made her promise she would accept a proposal by the end. With neither of her brothers married, Aurelia saw no reason to rush, but the number of eligible men was dwindling.
    
    As luck would have it, this year was different. Instead of continuing the same search in Sirocco, her family would spend the courting season in Zenith, her father being a special guest of the king’s. With such proximity to the royal family, Aurelia couldn’t help but feel that this year, she would find her true love.
    
    After days in the carriage, they had made it. That moment, seeing the castle under the moonlight, it made her heart pound. She didn’t need an oracle to tell her that this was her destiny.
    
    This hope quickly dwindled over the next week, suitors here being no different from those in Sirocco. Still, she chose to attend the first ball of the season with an optimistic mind. Someone here had to be different. Anyone at all-
    
    The Princess.
    
    Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat as she laid eyes upon silk and jewels, finding herself starstruck in a way she had never been.
    
    Oftentimes, Aurelia would tell other women what wonderful wives they would make. In her mind, this was the highest form of compliment, being the main goal of a noble woman.
    
    In this moment, she needed something better to say, something better than being the perfect wife, for the princess was far more than that. Her beauty, her grace, it all exceeded that of anyone she had ever seen. In this moment, Aurelia knew she was not the one who deserved a happily ever after as a queen, that right belonged to no one but the Princess of Solas.
    
    If she were anyone else, Aurelia would be at a loss for words, but years of talking to royal men left her at ease in introducing herself to a princess, even if none of those men were anywhere near as beautiful.
    
    What should have been a summer of looking for a husband became the summer of a beautiful friendship. Secret sleepovers, hours of gossip over tea, and countless balls spent ignoring men in favor of dancing with each other, Aurelia had never known friendship like this. She spent weeks at a time without speaking to anyone else.
    
    But all summers must end.
    
    Without having made the decision herself, her mother found a duke who was not put off by Aurelia’s tendency to ignore him. The wedding was all too soon, but at least the princess was by her side, a comforting bridesmaid in this marriage to a stranger.
    
    That night, it was not her husband who called on her, but the princess. One more garden walk between friends. It was always going to end like this. Silent tears and fingers intertwined, they couldn’t stay out long, lest her new husband get tired of waiting.
    Try as she might, Aurelia couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye. For this summer, she had found her true love, she had spent the months courting and wooing one person. Perhaps not a prince, but a princess.
    
    That night under the full moon, the stars fell into place, and when their lips touched, it was more magical than the kiss she’d shared with her husband. She understood then what the women in those fairy tales must’ve felt.
    
    How could she stay with her husband after this?
    
    In the night, Aurelia fled. Living the rest of her life with a husband she doesn’t love is not her destiny. Perhaps, being queen is not either. With enough money to stay in an inn for a week and her father’s pistol, she would let this roll over, and find a new identity that will keep her close to the princess. It is the only way.
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    This Week

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    Unfortunately for an unchaperoned, young woman, it is difficult to avoid the king’s guard. When rumors of a kidnapping start swirling, the country must be kept safe from whatever criminal could take a woman of royal blood.
    
    Aurelia, while trying her best to avoid leaving the inn and keeping her face hidden, was found within a matter of days. A reporter from the castle, heavily associated with the king’s guard. They’d only known each other in passing, but it was enough that he would recognize her face.
    
    Like when hunting, there was a moment where Aurelia knew she had been spotted. In that moment, one must act swiftly or their prey will fly away.
    
    But the scribe was not a duck, he didn’t have the chance to spread his wings and fly.
    
    It was only instinct, but it seemed most of Aurelia’s instincts were betraying her these days.
    
    She could no longer hide in the city, her crime making her stay far more risky. Aurelia did what she must; raided the scribe’s pockets and went back for her things from the inn.
    
    By the morning, she will be gone. Hopefully one day, she will have her fairy tale ending.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Future

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    I would like Aurelia to be HUMBLED. Woah, people in the world suffer? Thats so sad. Her ass needs a little hardship. I also would like her to question her loyalty for the crown and question if there is a world where she could return. Worldview shifting shit. Perhaps, if we get far enough, I'd like to see her given the opportunity to make worthwhile change for someone on a personal level and grow to realize that the royals aren't the ones making those changes for most people (if that makes since idk how to write).
    
    Open to any character relationships anyone proposes. Personally, I would like her to experience betrayal of a close friend. For some spice.
    
    If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the GM feels there’s a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival: Y
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    gallery

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    rel.

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Princess

    
    
    

    Friend? Mistress

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    Best friends to lovers. Pretty woman wow!
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Duke

    
    
    

    Husband unfortunately

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    Probably an okay guy. It's not you, it's me type feeling.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    freedom at last

    
    
    
    

    Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to the silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  nine lives

  
  
  
  
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  Elera Korey

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  # The Crusader

  
  
  
  
  

  # Hannah New

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  

  
  
  

 

[Wyll]

Luc Cardin​

• Basic Info
• Personality
• History and Bio
• GM Questions

• 
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  Full Name: Luc Cardin
  
  Alias: Gallin Forestson
  
  Role: The Gemini
  
  Age: 28
  
  Place of Birth: The Cascades
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  Appearance
  
  
  ​
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  Height: 6” 0’
  
  Eyes: His eyes are a deep chestnut brown (ironic as the poor lad is allergic to chestnut). If the sunlight strikes his eyes just right, they actually appear to me more of a golden brown. His eyes typically don't carry much expression; neither disdain nor excitement. His gaze always moving; his eye lids never quite fully open; the best way to describe his eyes would be bored and watchful.
  
  Hair: Short and black, sometimes braided. How he looks is half of his lie and his hair is half of how he looks and so he goes to great lengths to take care of it. The curls must be curling at all times; the hairline must be as sharp as a needle point. When braided, it is a single, thick, tight braid on each side, running from front to back and finished up in a ponytail, which is actually a "warrior's wolf tail" but is also definitely a ponytail.
  
  Distinguishing features: Always seen with a pen on his ear and a notebook is sure to be somewhere on his person at all times. After all, a scribe must be ready to scribe at all times because one never knows when inspiration will hit or anew story will develop.
  
  Detailed Description:
  Luc is a 6-foot man who sits at 185 pounds and has dark skin. His frame is fit but far from intimidating or muscular, such that he doesn't command much presence. Most people could bump into him and barely stagger. The boy was clearly built more for endurance and stamina more than he was built for strength and power. His muscles are small but firm, not likely to dish out much damage but capable of taking in a lot.
  
  His eyes are chestnut brown but lighten up to an almost golden-brown when hit directly by the sun and he styles his hair in a typical burst fade, usually braiding his hair when the top gets long enough. His outfits will typically have oranges or yellows in them, complemented by blues or blacks. He is a fan of the open shirt look and so one can just assume that all his shirts will have buttons ad he will use a total of zero of them. The abdominal muscles that peek out as a result are not large or attention-grabbing, but are well-defined nonetheless.
  
  Should he speak, his accent and tone suggest high-class upbring, an accent he picked up from his schooling. It is the same practiced cadence, a soft yet projected voice, with all sounds expertly enunciated. His speech is honey and his whispers are nectar and shouting? He knows no such word.​

  
  

  
  
• 
  
  "Happiness always comes at a price; I am what happens when you get happiness you can't afford ”​
  
  

  
  

  
  Likes:
  

  • Watching performances
  • Being quiet and still
  • Swimming
  • Learning
  • Writing
  • Music
  • Travel

  
  Dislikes:
  

  • Crowded places
  • Loud noises
  • Spicy food
  • The cold
  • Rushing
  • Nobility

  
  Fears:
  

  • Getting close to people
  • Death, straight up
  • Happiness
  • Change

  
  Habits:
  

  • When cornered, he defaults to taking attention away from him, even if he has to lie
  • He tends to twirl his pen around whenever deep in though and/or anxious
  • Physical confrontation is always the very last resort for him

  
  Hobbies:
  

  • Writing stories and poems
  • People watching
  • Card games
  • Deep diving
  • Star gazing

  
  Strengths:
  

  • Resourcefulness
  • Debating
  • Planning
  • Tenacity
  • Writing
  • Stealth

  
  Weaknesses:
  

  • Traitorous sweet tooth
  • Direct combat
  • Self-loathing
  • Trust issues
  • Closed-off

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  Personality Details:
  Inwardly - simply put - Luc is a walking ball of trust issues. However, there is none he trusts less than himself. He grew up hating liars and wanting to fight for truth, only for his life to play out in such a way that he had to become chief of liars in order to survive. This creates a personal dynamic where Luc takes no pleasure in his lies; takes even less pleasure in the lives he has to take to protect that lie; yet fears his own death so much that he will protect it at all costs. He does, however, occasionally question what's the point of fighting so hard for a life when all he uses that life to do is the one thing he hates.
  
  The biggest indication of his trust issues is how he suddenly gets deeply and, perhaps, illogically skeptical and uncomfortable when something good happens to him. He's been happy before and has seen what happens when fate comes to collect the bill. That bill left him alone, scared and a shell of his past self. In his mind, that will always be the cost of happiness; pain. And if that is the case, he has chosen to live a dull life. If he never allows himself be happy, then perhaps he can avoid experiencing the same hurt and confusion he once did.
  
  Outwardly, for starters, he puts on the name of Gallin. As Gallin, Luc puts on a facade of confidence. As his father once said, "You can look like anything you want, as long as you don't look like your problems." And so, despite the internal battle, he still carries himself as a generally friendly person - although, the keen-eyed will notice that his smile is always late, as if he has to think about it and that he is never one to start conversations, but will engage with you if you come talk to him. He can be described as charismatic, friendly and smart. However, above all other virtues he has, he is one loyal son of a gun. He may have the worst case of trust issues ever recorded, but for the few - very few - that manage to break through that wall, he will protect and defend them even harder than he protects himself. These are the people that know him as Luc. Everybody that isn't on that exclusive list of people, however, will report that Gallin is a genuine sweetheart but they don't know much about him. And that's just the way he wants it.
  
  He is the type to hold grudges and wait for the right time to enact his revenge. In combat, he is more likely to run and hide, then attack from the shadows. He knows he is not the strongest or the fastest, but is smart enough to analyze his attacker and either figure out a way to win or a way to escape if winning isn't an option. Often times, he is not able to outmatch his opponent, but he is likely able to at last them. Or at least keep getting up until they just get tired of fighting him. On the rare occasion that you evoke enough emotion from Luc to actually get him upset, a good apple pie will likely absolve you of most, if not all of your sins.
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  
  Please read his history first, the answers to the questions on the left will make much more sense if you do​
  
  

  
  

  
  
  Reputation:
  Luc Cardin seemingly fell off the face of the Earth. Nobody has heard from him or heard his name since he so embarrassingly lost that fight over the girl who had his heart. Many presume him dead. Few know he live and know that to keep him alive, they must never utter his name.
  
  Gallin Foretson, on the other hand, is a prolific reporter. His name is well known, even occasionally being invited into noble circles. His papers, articles and stories are most common within Zenith, where he resides, and The Cascades, where he is from.
  
  Why did they board The Leviathan?:
  Luc firmly believes that there is something out there, maybe even someone out there, that will make all the difficulty he has faced in his life worth it. He knew he wouldn't find it in one place, however. And so, when he heard about The Leviathan, he figured "what better way to find what I'm looking for than travel the seas in search for it?" So he used his persona as Gallin to gain a spot on the ship. After all, it only made sense for one of the capital's most beloved reporters to tell the story of this legendary vessel.
  
  Faction:
  None
  
  Status:
  High Society
  Currently residing in Zenith and often mixes and mingles with nobility, occasionally being slipped coin to make them sound oh so noble and strong in his stories and articles.
  He hates The Game, yet, must play it in order to survive.
  
  Opinion on Royalty:
  Against. He is living this detestable life because of a noble. Has mixed and mingled with nobles enough to know that most - not all - have no bone of truth in them
  
  Opinion on Piracy:
  Neutral. Hasn't had much encounter with them but is fascinated by the life of adventure they seem to have - it's the writer in him.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  History:
  The story of Luc Cardin begin in one of the many academies in The Cascades. He was a promising young writer, full of talent and creativity and would often use his stories to inspire hope in classmates that he noticed needed the pick-me-up. Many would have described him as a beacon of positivity. And there was one daughter of nobility that found Luc's positivity attractive enough for the two to start dating.
  
  Her father, of course, none-the-wiser, because God forbid his daughter get married to some nameless, faceless nobody from some nameless, faceless neck of the woods. However, he was smart enough to know she was hiding something from him. And, so, her father asked one of her friends to watch her. That boy, in his watching, caught her sharing a kiss with Luc. However, Luc also caught him watching.
  The two fought.
  Life was lost.
  The girl ran.
  Luc walked out of that encounter a different man, the blood of somebody else on his hands. He'd never seen that side of himself before. He'd never taken a life before.
  
  As luck would have it, Luc and the boy looked similar enough that it would be possible to mix the two up. And so the story was sold that Luc and the boy fought over the girl. Luc lost, and left the academy out of embarrassment. And the boy, Gallin Forestson, walked out victorious. This was the first lie in the series. The Cascades had strict laws, and he knew what the punishment for taking a life would be. And so it was clear what he had to do. He had to bury Luc Cardin, and rise as Gallin Forestson.
  
  Luc was now living somebody else's life and he hated it. He hated the lying, he hated that he'd taken another's life, he hated that he could never be truly real with anyone again. However, he hadn't given up all hope. He went back to his love, the girl he had been found with, wanting to cling to the one thing in his life that was good...and she walked by him like they were perfect strangers. Now, he gave up all hope.
  
  He accepted his fate; cursed to walk this earth as another man; unable to trust lest he kill or be heartbroken again; so distant from who he really is that he is slowly starting to forget; truly appalled by who he had become yet to scared of death to give it up. So he would live this fake life; walk this cruel Earth, because surely, somewhere out there, there was something that would make all this suffering worth it. And he swore that he would find it.
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  What I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay are:
  He's going to be salty, but put him in situations where he has to trust others; let's work on that closed heart of his
  
  If possible, would be cool to see someone (maybe from the academy) that knows Luc, knows Gallin and immediately calls him out.
  
  Ultimately - potentially separate from the last point - I'd like to get to a point where he has to drop the act and be Luc again, consequences be damned.
  
  
  If not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the GM feels there's a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival:​

  
  
  

  
  
  

 

[Mypilot]

— Antarin "Tarin" Estor

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  #CROWN'S SPEAKER

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ⮚ role

  the ambassador
  

  ⮚ age

  31
  

  ⮚ gender

  male
  

  ⮚ pronouns

  he/him
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  faction: kingsman

  
  
  
  
  

  status: none

  
  
  
  
  

  fc: enrico ravenna

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  - nickname(s)

  Blade (to the King)
  

  - height

  6ft
  

  - build

  lean, less muscle than he has known before
  

  - eye colour

  abyssal blue
  

  - hair colour

  brown near black
  

  - birthplace

  zenith
  

  - reputation

  He is known in the certain circles. Some respect him for his continual loyalty to the crown, his devotion to their fine kingdom. Others whisper that he is without autonomy, just some puppet to parrot what the King’s ideals are. And others, for their own reasons, might despise him for working for the crown.
  

  - purpose on Leviathan

  He boarded the ship with legal means, appointed by the King to spread peace and good will around to those beyond Zenith. This is what is written on paper. Antarin wonders if perhaps he is more so intended to make sure that those who need to stay in line, do. And to be the king's ears as well as his voice.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  pers.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  likes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  morality

  
  
  
  

  purpose

  
  
  
  

  strong ideals

  
  
  
  

  freedom

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  indecisiveness

  
  
  
  

  tomfoolery

  
  
  
  

  selfishness

  
  
  
  

  meniality

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  fears

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  failure

  
  
  
  

  disappointment

  
  
  
  

  loss

  
  
  
  

  ...frogs

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  - personality

  
  His hand on his sword, the king's hand on his heart—protector, preacher, puppet. His is the knife-point of duty pierced clear through to bone. Antarin is the word he speaks, the truth he tells, he is Orpheus unable to turn around to see if Eurydice is still there, if she trusts him. If he trusts himself. (Does he trust himself?)
  
  Antarin finds that duty is a blade gripped with a white-knuckled hand. Expectation is a weight he bears, because it is his to bear. It cannot be anyone elses, he cannot allow it to be anyone elses. If this task he has is not his, then he has nothing. So stand straight, Antarin. Know thyself, Antarin. The king has his eyes, his faith, his weight on you. You are Atlas, holding up the world (a kingdom only), you are the lock over the city gates (do they really need your everlasting protection?), you are black adamant, unyielding (do not let the doubt in, do not let the doubt in). Loyalty is his god, justice is his blood, and what is he if not his job, his role? What is his purpose if not to speak the words of the King?
  
  Perhaps to some there is a difference between the work and the heart, but Antarin finds that both are sewn as one in his chest. He has been fed from the hand of obligation all his young life, fed a healthy mix of lies and truth so that he might grow trusting but intelligent, proud of his kingdom but proud to be in the inner circle of knowledge too. See how beautiful our nation is, Antarin? But there is danger lurking, only you shall see it, only you shall tend to it, carry it in your palm like this and share the burden of the crown. What pride you should take in this!
  
  Antarin believes, fundamentally, that he cannot complain or find true issue with how his life had been laid out. How could he, when he has seen worse things for others? It is an unassailable truth that not all of the king's realm is living in peace and prosperity, yes, and so there can be no other option than to show gratitude for what he has. Honour binds him, keeps him steady. He finds strength in purpose, and finds purpose in others. In truth, he has very little drive to bring any sort of benefit to himself, yet believes it is his due to serve his community. His price to pay simply for living on the right side of the economy.
  
  This war of doubt and duty are a thick coat smeared across his skin, a hard-dried outer layer that even he cannot scrub away. But beneath it, binding and blue, is a desire for absolute serenity. Beyond the weight of his burden, his responsibility, his guilt, there is only a single unbeating line that hums a near silent note in his heart.
  
  Antarin desires silence. He desires stillness. He finds peace in a calm sea, in a sky covered by cool clouds, in the soft patter of rain on stone and wood. He dreams of a simple house in a simple town, quiet and alone. He fantasizes of having the strength to sever all ties to the throne, those golden threads that bind him. He imagines the peace that would come in simply allowing himself not to care if others lived and died.
  
  But that is not him.
  
  No, he will always wear that top layer. He will always be hard angles, cutting edges, the straight-backed pride in a job well done. He must be the working man, the loyal guard, the easy-to-approach diplomat who will ease your fears and settle your anger. He must. He must.
  
  

  
  
  
  
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  hist.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  the kingsman says:

  
  

  
  

  ❝

  
  

  Hold still, let me look at you. Are you alright?

  
  

  ❞

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  - history

  
  On a surface level, his is a story that tells itself neatly and well: a child of a loyal noble family, a bright home in Zenith, and a rope that guides him neatly into King Rowan’s hand. Antarin cannot look back on his youth with anything but softness, for it was his and it was enough.
  
  Antarin was certainly not lacking in central male figures in his life; his father, a lordling of moderate repute, played a constant role in Zenith’s politics. Outspoken and willful, it was not uncommon for Antarin's father to be one of many beating hearts in the political hive of the capital. To young Antarin—small, impressionable, so like his father in looks—it was a life he could see in such beautiful light. He imagined his father as a generous hand, passing wisdom that would lead to the betterment of their peers, which in turn would lead to the prosperity of the kingdom itself.
  
  Antarin's father was a blueprint for his ideals and, like any firstborn son, he sought to become the very man his father was. In his adolescence, this took flame in a fiery passion for justice, for crown and kingdom, in holding their city high above him in adoration (a blade he had tied willingly over his head) with a ceaseless sense of nationalism. It was all the itching obsession of growing up funneled directly in the direction of his father’s ideals. What more could his family want?
  
  And the years carried on. As he reached a point of adulthood, his zeal for his kingdom was turned into a knifepoint—fight for your kingdom, guard it with your life—and his twenties became a tumult of combat. Duty and honour bound him, his blood is the kingdom’s blood, and his hand was it’s blade. His passion had simmered into something cool and molten, a unyielding certainty that this was his purpose.
  
  Yes, his militaristic ability brought his father pride, and certainly the family could not complain. And yet… Through his family’s will, Antarin was guided into King Rowan’s good graces. It was a subtle thing at first, simply meetings with those in positions of power and up and up, gaining favour for his strong will, his clever thinking, his desire for diplomacy after seeing so much needless violence and poverty in the streets and outskirts of their kingdom. Look how good his heart is, see how much he cares. Isn't it charming?
  
  Before Antarin knew it, he was in King Rowan’s own council, one of many smiling bright faces to aid their king who was invariably busy with the care of his wife and maintaining a strong face for their nation. Antarin was made to put his sword away, figuratively speaking. (In actuality, they could never take it from him.)
  
  Antarin desires peace—his morals make it so. Becoming so relied on by the King is good work, becoming an ambassador to broker good will even more so. He brings honour to his father and he knows he should find happiness in this, even if the work does not make his heart sing all of the time. Antarin understands the importance in what he does, happily tolerates the weight and responsibility even as it wears him down, down, down with each visit to an impoverished district, each dark and miserable meeting with people who have suffered enough but do not get the care they need from the kingdom. He would do anything for the well-being of his kingdom, it’s people, but what does that look like with such carefully observed influence as his?
  
  King Rowan is a good man. Many would agree with this, and that must make it fact. His reign is agreeable, it is peaceful, it does not enact any strong changes that pushes too much in any “wrong” direction. But does that make it right simply because it is not tyranny? Not falling into civil strife? King Rowan makes choices that are safe, are favourable. And Antarin is the hand he guides, the mouth he uses to speak. If this means that he must be the one to face those in need and tell them there is no money for their family, no protection from the thieves in the night, no chance of the lower caste to shorten the gap in wealth between themselves and wealthy members of society, then that is simply his job as the king wills it. Isn’t it?
  
  

  
  
  
  
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  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  - detailed appearance

  Antarin has a striking and intense face he has been told (much to his embarrassment at the time, for he still is not sure if that is a compliment). His eyes are deeply set in his face, with strong well-defined eyebrows to add to what he assumes is an “intense” gaze. His nose is straight and prominent, adding a degree of symmetry to his face. Antarin prefers a fine beard and mustache, well-groomed when he is able, and not too unruly or long. He has an angular, but strong, jawline that is softened by a mouth set in a constant neutral expression. His skin tone is sun-warmed hues and quite brown when in too much sun, and his shoulder-length wavy hair frames his face—often loose, although he has been known to tie it back when working.
  
  

  - detailed likes

  Antarin is made warm by a sense of morality, people who strike with purpose. He is charmed by certainty in one's ideals, even if they do not align with his own. He enjoys the freedom of the sea, the smell of salt and brine.
  
  

  - detailed dislikes

  Antarin is annoyed by indecisiveness, by tomfoolery. He cannot tolerate a lack of good will, of selfishness, of brutality in the face of innocence. He despises busywork, being given some menial task that any fool can do.
  
  

  - detailed fears

  Failure, disappointment, crushing defeat. He holds his King’s faith in one hand, his strict morality in the other. He is afraid of a time when his King’s will might have him loosen his other hand.
  
  

  - habits

  Pacing, talking in his sleep, counting on his fingers when he has nothing else to do. He cannot stand partially open doors, he will close them or open them fully always. He constantly checks the weather. He rubs his wrists when he is nervous and unsure. He hums when doing physical work, some songs that might be known and others that sound entirely made up.
  
  

  - hobbies

  Work is his craft, his purpose. He has little time for anything else, but finds joy in tasks that require his hands. Labor is not unfamiliar to him, and the wood of a ship always needs tending.
  
  

  - strengths

  Carrying a tune (but he will not sing), wielding a blade, balance (perhaps more so in body than mind), woodcraft, quick-learning of physical tasks. A quick reader, a fast thinker.
  
  

  - weaknesses

  Individuality, a sense of self. Dancing, which might be ironic as swordplay is seen by many as a dance. Small talk, card and dice games (any luck he might have seems to vanish when he plays).
  
  

  - opinion on royalty?

  …loyal. Yes, always loyal.
  
  

  - opinion on piracy?

  On a level that aligns with his duty, he feels obligated to be opposed to piracy. On a moral level, he finds his personal views depend on the pirate. On a level of allure a pirate has? Well…who can be sure?
  
  

  - pinterest

  link
  
  

  - spotify

  link
  
  

  - for gao: character goals

  BREAK THE MAN. Loyalty to the crown unto death? BEGONE. Let him watch the duty he clings to crumble to BITS around him. I want him so attached to the crew that he would bleed himself dry for them, every last little lawless rat. As for injury, to quote a show: “You can punch me, kick me, pull my hair, I am a-ok being stabbed, biting and scratching are on the table, you can use fire.”
  
  I want him to go from hesitation, uncertainty in himself and his role, doubt in his past and every single one of his "accomplishments," to pure devotion towards this ragtag crew. His devout belief in his king and nation will crumble, and the singular love for the members of the Leviathan will take its place so completely, so utterly, that he would ruin the world for them. He would become a creature of wrath to defend them, a beacon of love to cherish them, and the antithesis of everything he has ever known to take whatever form he thinks they need to not only live but live well.
  
  Antarin spent his whole youth with gold-tinted glasses, believing that the crown is everything and his king is his guide. He used that belief to help others, but always with limitations because of what he was told was the right and wrong way to do things in King Rowan's name. He will learn that there are ways to help others that does not have him confined to another man's rules, that so much has been swept under the rug amongst their people, and that he can do so much more if he simply stopped holding on to someone elses ideals.
  
  

  - for gao: y/n question

  Y E S. Can and will adjust anything about Tarin to make him work.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

req.

pers.

hist.

misc.

♡coded by uxie♡

— Bec

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  #LITTLE WHISPER

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ⮚ role

  the urchin
  

  ⮚ age

  22
  

  ⮚ gender

  male
  

  ⮚ pronouns

  he/him
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  faction: none

  
  
  
  
  

  status: low society

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  - nickname(s)

  Boy; Bird
  

  - height

  5ft 4in
  

  - build

  bone thin, all long legs and arms
  

  - eye colour

  olive green
  

  - hair colour

  ashy brown
  

  - birthplace

  kestyr
  

  - reputation

  He is unknown, a nothing creature who had to give himself a name. He could vanish and not a soul would know he has gone.
  

  - purpose on Leviathan

  Bec snuck his way aboard hiding in the storage and supply crates. He follows the Leviathan because a whisper told him he should, and he is half whisper himself. It is not divine faith that guides him, but simple curiosity.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  likes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  music

  
  
  
  

  conversation (observing)

  
  
  
  

  touch

  
  
  
  

  sin

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  speeches

  
  
  
  

  organized religion

  
  
  
  

  his face

  
  
  
  

  endless time

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  fears

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  soldiers

  
  
  
  

  still water

  
  
  
  

  raised fists

  
  
  
  

  strong emotion

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  - personality

  
  Bec the nobody, the unknown. He has always belonged to nothing, a mere breath away from nonexistence. He is familiar with the dullness of day-to-day survival, finds drudgery in scrambling for the scraps to stay alive. Utterly disenchanted with his life, with his home, he simply exists because...well, there is nothing else to do, is there?
  
  Kestyr is kind enough not to ostracize him as an outsider, to exist as "one of them" even if he cannot live truly among them. Not one of them is willing to feed him, to love him as their own, to give him a hand calloused from work. Bec cannot blame them, for he images he would not do so either. Kindness is not a common trait in Kestyr. And is it really their fault that he learned to flinch, to cower, and to fear? Those are traits ingrained in any street rat. But even the rat wishes to be fed.
  
  It is a strange contradiction to dream of a hand held lovingly against ones cheek and yet to be so repelled at the idea of that much proximity to others, the horror of the intimacy in being known. There is comfort in being alone because it is easy, it is familiar. Yet there is that undeniable draw of belonging somewhere, even if it is as a seed in the heart of another. To be a brother, a son. To be able to bear the weight of seeing your reflection in another's eyes and finding that you are known.
  
  But what is there to know, really? He twists his personality little by little in several direction depending on what he finds is necessary to stay alive, unseen, at an arm's length. He isn't really sure what lies beneath if one scrubs away the layers of pretense and survival. Does he have a personality worth sharing? Is there anything to him at all, or is he just a waif of a boy stubbornly clinging to the arid ground?
  
  One can tug and tug on Bec like a weed, and they will see how ungiving he is. Do not get too close, do not show too much of your heart, he cannot bear it. He cannot help but shy away, a lick of shadow repelled by the sun of another's soul. He is translucent, transparent, fading away. He is as silent as a whisper, as quiet as a ghost. He is half in the grave, cold to the touch, hungry for warmth that he can never have.lick of shadow repelled by the sun of another's soul.
  
  

  
  
  
  
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  hist.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  a whisper:

  
  

  
  

  ❝

  
  

  (do you see that golden, molten purpose?)

  
  

  ❞

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  - history

  
  Bec was not born into a family he knows of. His mother was a brief swipe of paint on the canvas of his life, a presence best described as “sort of there until not.” However, her brief participation in the start of his life is the only reason he is alive at all, so in some way that accounts for something. What made her decide to care for her child just long enough to allow him to continue living, Bec will never know, because at some point he was abandoned to the unforgiving streets of Kestyr.
  
  A second miracle of life, then, for the residents of the port town are not known for their pity and selflessness. Bec was scraped up, tended to by some aged matron who perhaps simply didn’t care for an empty nest. This was not a relationship of love, far from it, but of simple companionship. Bec, barely able to speak yet, knew to care for his guardian in little ways: cleaning, finding food, making himself scarce when she grew tired of his presence.
  
  Her age played its timely part, and in a few scant years she passed. Bec was ousted from a home that was, really, never his, and thus became a creature of the streets. This was his favourite part. Recognized as someone who had existed in Kestyr since childhood, he was not outwardly ostracized, but old enough to effectively fight for his own survival, he was neither welcomed anywhere with open arms.
  
  Because they did not know him in youth, and because really no one did, he was called ‘Boy’ because that was what they saw him as, and cared not to learn his actual name—although he did not have one at that time. He was not called Boy because of his actual gender, for in his youth he had no defining physical characteristics to reveal him as belonging to either group, and by the time those physical characteristics began to show, Bec was far more comfortable being Boy than that alien alternative.
  
  Childhood, adolescence, and that first burst of adulthood smeared by in a haze of petty theft, rotten food, obsession with the animals he knew better than his fellow man, the horrible self-teaching of his own body and mind, and the sudden appearance of a self-given name that was hardly a name at all: Bec. He weakly learned the language of Kestyr from sheer will, eavesdropping and creeping and being a general nuisance in places where he shouldn’t be. He was nimble, both because the starvation made him light and because climbing in Kestyr was a superior way to travel than walking blindly in the mists. Notably, somewhere in this he lost an eye, although you would be hard-pressed to ever learn how.
  
  And then a whisper came to him one day, a soft pitiful noise. A sound unlike any other. The mist hid its speaker, and Bec does not know if anyone was even there. But it spoke of a city of balance, of royalty, of cobblestone and politics. It spoke of the ship that waited to be filled, but not of the purpose that ship. It whispered to Bec to go, and because Bec believed in the knowledge of the mists and the secrets of the world, he went.
  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  - detailed appearance

  Bec’s appearance is observed in small moments. He makes it alarmingly difficult to see all of him at once, hiding some portion or other, and will make odd wincing faces if he knows someone is able to see more of him than he wants. His clothes are loose and comfortable and certainly not of any value. He has a hawkish nose, an angular chin and a face shaped like a diamond. His remaining eye is an olive green that looks a bit feverish in his sallow, pale skin, and the other eye is a rather quality replacement that looks suspiciously expensive for a street urchin. His hair is an ashen brown that looks threaded through with streaks of silver despite his otherwise youthful appearance, and it hands at his ears in loose untended locks. His fingers are like a pianists, long and perhaps the only part of his body that can be considered elegant.
  
  

  - detailed likes

  In Kestyr, there was such silence from the mist that smothered all things, but it was infused with the sweet music its people created. Even now, Bec is drawn to string and chord, to a song sung or a note hummed. He enjoys that melody that is made from a soft conversation, the sound voices make when they carry to his ears. He loves (the idea of) a touch, of (the thought of) a hand gentle on his face. And he loves the way people sin: glut themselves on food when there is plenty, use skin and warmth as a tool for joy, take and hoard and use recklessly and with abandon. It is a miracle to see others live.
  
  

  - detailed dislikes

  There is so much boredom in a speech, where all the joys of soft conversation get whittled away to some dialogue if ideologies. Similarly, he despises organized religion for the same reason (faith is like him—small, slight, hard to spot—and should be loved the way he wants to be loved, which is to say with quiet, distant reverence). And then there is the distaste that comes from within: the reflection of his own face bearing down on him, and the horror of endless time alone with his thoughts, his future, his beating heart.
  
  

  - detailed fears

  It is a smart thing to fear a soldier. They are not led by their own mind, and instead are led by a leader’s thoughts, and the problem with that is those thoughts can seldom be changed when put in a different head. It is less of a smart thing to fear still water, it’s mirror-like reflection and the creeping feeling it produces. Or the emotions of another person, their confusing array of rage, of terror, of adoration or exaltation. These things are difficult to predict, and are best left alone like a wandering bear. Bec is also afraid of raised fists, fast hands, quick movements, because of the implication of what follows.
  
  

  - habits

  He might stare at nothing a little too hard, he might speak as if every conversation is a secret, he might look in every which way except in your eye. He will tap a medley against a beam, a door, a railing, his bone-thin thighs. He will whistle at the birds, he will lean a little too far over the railing, he might look like he will let himself fall right down.
  
  

  - hobbies

  His hobbies are few and they are his. Bec can and will befriend every bird in the area, although he favors those of carrion: vultures, crows, condors, hawks. He likes the intelligence in them. He likes to study little things, like the way a leaf bends a little in a certain wind, or the pattern the rain might drop into a puddle one two three one two three. He would draw these things, if he had the talent or the time or the materials. Bec collects shiny and missing things, first because the crows brought them to him once, and now because they are his meager possessions. His current collection is a shiny little silver brooch with some strange green opaline rock at its center, a large nail bent at its center, four buttons of various sizes, two bits of bone (one a tooth, the other just a darkened shard), and an earring missing it’s jewel.
  
  

  - strengths

  Despite his aversion for any real intimacy, Bec has a good knack for altering himself to appease individual people. Mostly he will stay the same, quiet boy, but he finds that certain words sound better in certain ears and he doesn’t mind a bit of pretty, false speech for a chance at better treatment. Bec is quick on his feet, agile and able to jump a good distance, as well as climb and run with surprising speed and grace. He likes the ropes, climbing and seeing as high as he can go. He has very little fear for his own life when it comes down to it; death does not frighten him, only the pain of a beating.
  
  

  - weaknesses

  There are, frankly, a lot of weaknesses in Bec’s heart. He is unable to look anyone in the eye for longer than a second, he is incapable of prolonged physical contact, he is unwilling to put forth any real effort in maintaining a relationship. He trusts others very little even as he enjoys them very much. He is odd, he finds himself ugly, he finds his speaking strange. He cannot hold his own in a fight, and in truth he would not even try, simply lie still like a dog and wait.
  
  

  - opinion on royalty?

  Not worth the spit.
  
  

  - opinion on piracy?

  Fear them, oh yes, for they are not his ally either. But respect them, for they are the raised fist.
  
  

  - pinterest

  link
  
  

  - spotify

  link
  
  

  - for gao: character goals

  Honestly, I just want him to have a good time. Unlike Antarin who I want SHATTERED AND BROKEN AHAHAHAH, Bec is a good boy who needs a little sunlight and water and he will grow into a big strong fern. Maybe. Optimistically.
  
  

  - for gao: y/n question

  I am still presenting my freshly peeled flesh as payment, so yes.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

req.

pers.

hist.

misc.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[lucenti]

the advisor.

scroll

Yuudai

Hagino

ㅎㅎ

01.

full name

Yuudai Hagino

02.

role

The Advisor

03.

age

Twenty-Eight

04.

p.o.b

The Capital

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• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  we do not see eye to eye.

  
  
  
  

  but that is fine. i will witness you from afar.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  visage

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim

  
  

  tatsuya kitani

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'7

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair colour

  
  

  black

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye colour

  
  

  brown

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  desc.

  
  

  Bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, bitten fingernails. Yuudai had always taken meticulous care of his appearance. It was a given, an unavoidable duty that came with representing the crown. Being in the public eye always meant exposing himself to scrutiny, and any flaws discovered were ultimately not his own, but his lord's. Yet now, on the brink of boarding the Leviathan, all those worries seem to have faded, to have vanished into the billowing waves below. Overshadowed, perhaps, by something far more troubling.
  
  Even then, despite the slight, easily overlooked change, it is impossible to ignore the grace with which Yuudai continues to carry himself. One that had been hammered into his posture since childhood, leaving no room for anything but dignified elegance. Broad shoulders pulled back, a sharp chin tucked in, hands always neatly folded at the level of his hips.
  
  A particular kind of tidiness that is easily spoilt by the unruly curls of his dark hair. They had always been a source of trouble over the years. Wild, with a mind of their own. Although Yuudai loves the curls that fall to his shoulders, he is also the one who complains about them the most. At least they frame his oval face and complement the colours of his brown eyes.
  
  As for his clothes, Yuudai usually wears the style that is common in the regions he visits, always modified to be suitable for longer journeys. For the most part, he chooses neutral colours that would not attract attention or distract. Only the purple lapel pin, which Yuudai adorns whenever he is on duty, adds a touch of life to his outfit.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  persona

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  In the great act of uniting opposing parties, there's not much left to be desired from a single individual. Somewhere in the pursuit of his duty, Yuudai's identity bled and spilled like ink on wet paper. Where did his own worth begin when the firmly glued mask of an ambassador was so much more important?
  
  Docility runs through his veins, forcing a thin smile where an indignant snarl should have taken its place. "Avoid eye contact, relax your body, kneel without actually kneeling. You're in the presence of royalty and nobility, and though you represent one, never forget who you really are." His parents meant well when they crushed his young fantasies where bright stars still made up most of his world, but at the same time they could never fathom what it meant to constantly submit to a larger ego. It helped a great deal when it came to avoiding unwarranted aggression from nobles or closing a long overdue treaty, but it also left much to be desired in terms of his personal development. Even now, with no obligations to bear, no royal eyes to search for flaws, and the possibility of his own selfish desires to take root, Yuudai can't help but opt out and instead continues to slowly stir in his stifling passivity.
  
  Whispers speak of a coward, a doormat, nothing more than a fanatical follower of the crown, and while they are not entirely wrong, they miss the part where this behaviour works to his advantage. Yuudai appears to most as no threat, at best a wet puppy following in the footsteps of the first to show him kindness. Pathetic, miserable and yet pitiful. 'How could someone like him be harmful to me?' He lowers their defences, their guard, and so not many hold their tongue in his presence. A fact that has served him well in his long career. It would be wrong to say that Yuudai is a manipulator, acting to siphon off false pity points, because he is not. This is his painfully honest self, laid bare and stripped down to its innermost layer, something cultivated since childhood and which he can't escape now. Still, it's a weakness turned into a strength, perhaps a testament to his resourcefulness - or a sign of his desperation to be completely and undeniably useful.
  
  Yuudai's life has always revolved around the needs of others - his family, his King, the citizens of the capital - so it's no wonder he finds his purpose in their satisfaction. He lives to serve a cause, a dedication so strong that he is likely to die for it. Selfless is one way to describe this trait, though it's less by choice than by circumstance. It is also for the sake of the crown that he finds his resolve, his only backbone. The royal wishes are his commands, and Yuudai will see that they are fulfilled, no matter what the cost.
  
  Jaded by years of trudging through the muddy ground of royal politics, Yuudai knows to take every sentence and action with a pinch of hidden agenda. He has learned to get used to being reduced to a mere cog in a larger scheme, and the bitter taste in his mouth that came with that realisation soon turned trite. In fact, there aren't many verbal insults left to upset him - he's heard them all, and even then, if someone manages to hit a nerve, Yuudai's reaction is neatly sorted away. To the inside, where it slowly simmers to an end.
  
  There are times when Yuudai feels too much. His passion for doing good is genuine, and his compassion for the suffering fills his heart to the brim. He knows what the world could be, what working together could achieve, but time and again he has come up against barriers that have taught him to expect less. When lives are reduced to numbers on a piece of paper, calculating how much they can subtract and add to keep their profits high, he knows there's something wrong, even if he can't fix it. Disappointment hits harder when expectations are already high, so it's better to bury hopes deeper until they never rise again.
  
  A lesson that applies not only to his work, but also to his personal life. A painful one.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  likes

  
  
  

  
  
  

  fairytales

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  myths

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  campfires

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  ballroom music

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  gold

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  newborns

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  chess

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  silk and satin

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  sheep

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  waltz

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  biscuits

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  

  
  
  

  the smell of sickness

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  excessive drinking

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  rodents

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  hail

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  leather

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  bodily harm

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  raw fish

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  uncomfortable lodgings

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears

  
  
  

  
  
  

  A lonely death, a silent one. Extinguished in a single breath, with no one to mourn the memory. Is it selfish to wish for another's grief in order to prove one's own importance in the world? If so, perhaps it's the only thing Yuudai could willingly indulge in, knowing full well that it was a wish for his own sake.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  The next one is a bit arbitrary, even hilarious to some. Yuudai has always feared the depths of the forest, the spiky dangers that lurk just a stone's throw away. The unknown is never something comfortable, and for him it manifested itself in the shadows cast by the lush forests on their land. Too many armed robberies while traversing its paved roads can do that to you.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Heights were never his favourite either, or rather that what could fall from above. Even the smallest pebble hurts when it is thrown from a roof, and Yuudai had to experience this all too often in his childhood.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  habits

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Staring off into the distance, completely unfocused on the present when a conversation turns sour. However, when spoken to, he still manages to respond perfectly or remember everything that has been said.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Folding the corner of a book to mark the page on which he has paused. There have been attempts to persuade him to use proper bookmarks, all of which have been rather unsuccessful.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Will deliberately lose any game he plays.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  When he eats a slice of bread, he will go for the crust before enjoying the softer middle.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Has a slight obsession with smells. It's the first thing he tends to notice when he meets someone new, and usually leaves a stronger impression than any feeble words they might exchange.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Attempts to take up as little space as possible, maintaining an appropriate distance from anyone's personal space. Becomes increasingly uncomfortable when breached.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  If his hands are out of sight, he WILL fidget with them in distress. Also a master at noticing when someone is paying attention to him.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hobbies

  
  
  

  
  
  

  He has many different collections, from coins to stones to simple leaves. Little souvenirs he has collected on his many travels. Yuudai has decided to take some with him on the Leviathan, although he is worried about whether they will survive the journey.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  A passionate dancer. Partner dances are where his heart blossoms.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Had calligraphy lessons and enjoyed them immensely. Owns a notebook filled with pointless sentences so Yuudai could practise his handwriting.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  Not surprisingly, a bit of a bookworm. Has spent hours doing nothing but reading and will gladly do so again.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  strengths

  
  
  

  
  
  

  socialising

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  unassuming presence

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  well-connected

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  falsifying handwriting

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  lockpicking

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  great potential for blackmailing

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weaknesses

  
  
  

  
  
  

  combat

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  passivity

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  lack of drive

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  unconditional obedience

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  pessimism

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
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  lore

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  It was written in your legacy, handed down from generation to generation, binding you to the malevolent post at the royal feet. Fighting was futile, not against the iron grip of your own blood. Merciless, as if they were not prey like you. Not that rebellion was even on your mind. Wasted effort, really. In your bright eyes, there was nothing greater than working for the golden crown. To serve the country and its men, to make your family proud.
  
  Your peers did not understand the importance or the duty you carried. They saw your rigid posture as a joke, and your obedience as an invitation to have their own fun. This did not make your childhood the most pleasant experience, nor was it a great first impression of High Society, but it was the best introduction you could ever have received. Dogs eating dogs. A feeling that would not change even as you grew older.
  
  『••✎••』
  
  Entering your service was everything you ever dreamed of, and then some. The nobles never changed, no matter what city border you crossed, nor did the streets get any nicer, but the fulfilment you found in your position would soon make up for the shortcomings. Being needed was pleasant.
  
  The King was anything but what the dirty rumours of the streets whispered, or what your family promised you. You could see the genuine kindness and care in his actions, the wisdom in his eyes, the will festering in his bones. He was understanding of your mistakes, holding your hand as you settled into your duties, offering advice and guidance at first despite it being your duty. Your time together was plentiful. You were his left hand, the mind he turned to in uncertain and doubtful times. You've seen him more than your own family, and yet that still didn't diminish the quality of your interactions. In fact, you couldn't help but feel a tinge of something every time your eyes met, a silent spark of knowledge exchanged when the council turned to your favour. Like two children sharing the same secret.
  
  『••✎••』
  
  What was this treacherous emotion circulating in the depths of your consciousness? The one that raised your temperature, made your fingers tingle, and made you long for someone beyond your reach?
  
  Secretly, you knew what it was, and so did he. Only a blind man could miss the literal stars you would bring down for your lord, and even then, the vibration of unfiltered admiration in your voice would be more than enough to expose you.
  
  Who do you think you were? A mere street dog seeking the comfort of a lap? The flames should be extinguished when they are young, snuffed out before they can ignite a wildfire. But your heart dared none of that. For others, you returned to what was normal for a king and his servant, the proper distance, the proper looks, but you both knew that this was not the end.
  
  『••✎••』
  
  With a sick wife, the King's mind grew weary with each passing day. The court turned hostile, the public's remarks stung a little more. None of the doctors you see entering her abode left with a face that promised her recovery, and you could see his temper shaking like a building on the verge of collapse. He resigned himself to the privacy of his isolated chambers, far away where the sickness induced moans of his love could not reach. His duties continued to be carried out with dignity, but his presence among his own people waned. You could see the public's faith faltering, and you knew something had to be done. So turning, heavy-footed, you knocked at your lord's door.
  
  『••✎••』
  
  You did not know what it was that finally made him look at you. To see who was standing before him, who had served him faithfully since you were just a little boy. You know that it had nothing to do with your looks or your unwavering loyalty to his cause. Perhaps it was that unfiltered source of unconditional admiration that you provided. The absolute care you were prepared to give to anyone who even remotely acknowledged your undying love for them.
  
  He was not serious about you, not at all. Lingering touches were the furthest he would go, but that was more than enough. You were already gone, polishing the ground beneath his feet to gold and diamond. The lines you walked were dangerous and the consequences damning, but couldn't it be all right to be selfish just once?
  
  『••✎••』
  
  Oh, what a mistake it was. What a fool you were. How did an innocent conversation turn into last night's disaster? This was not what you wanted. You could see regret matching yours in his eyes as he realised who the real person in his sheets was. How the figure beneath him did not match the appearance of his memory. Now the lingering whispers of a false name, spoken in fiery passion, did not seem like a fleeting mistake of his.
  
  You were thrown out as quickly as you had been let in. His downcast lips were the last images imprinted on your mind. It would be the final time you would see him before the sudden order to board the Leviathan arrived, and when you saw the cold letter you knew that the story was over.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  reputation

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Wherever the King's feet bless the land, Yuudai will follow his step, like a dog to a call. The upper echelons of Zenith know him by heart, while in cities such as the Cascades or Sirocco Sands, only those in power may have heard of him. Those who do know him tend to see him as a simple extension of the King, and thus dictate their opinion of him based on how favourable the royal blood appears in their eyes. More often than not, this earns him a superficial show of respect, though Yuudai has also experienced his fair share of nasty taunts and thinly-veiled dislike.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  about the leviathan

  
  

  
  
  
  

  On paper, appointed by the grace of the King. In truth, it seems more like an exile. Out of sight, out of mind. Yuudai knows he has no say in the matter, and yet he can't stop longing for another place. Boarding felt final, perhaps, because it was foolish to believe in anything else. But an order is an order, no matter how unjust it felt, so Yuudai will do his best to prevent the ship from sinking.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  status

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Kingsman by choice, High Society by birth.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  opinion on royalty

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Unwavering loyalty, no doubt. Recent events have not swayed his position, as Yuudai believes himself to be solely responsible for the incident. In his eyes, the King's vest remains clean and polished to perfection. If they were ever to meet again, Yuudai would see to it that his feelings were buried deep in the seabed, locked away and forgotten, to wither away.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  opinion on piracy

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Those who oppose His rule and direct law might as well have denied themselves the right to live in Yuudai's polarised mind. They could have held him at gunpoint before, and he would have thought better of them than witnessing whatever foolish performance they would commit as pirates.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  fairytale

  
  
  
  

  alexander rybak

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  connections

  
  
  
  

  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  • aaaaaaa
  • aaaa

  • 
    
    
    

    connections

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    King Rowan

    
    
    
    

    What was left to say in a relationship as unbalanced as theirs? Love may have cloaked Yuudai's gaze, while loss did his. Something never meant to be indulged, yet he still tried to grasp a fragment of what might have been under different lives. Now Yuudai pays the price with nothing but a broken bond (did it ever exist?) to begin a long journey.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
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    misc.

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    extras

    
    

    playlist (x)
    
    pinterest (x)
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    gm

    
    

    for my character:
    
    either yuudai will end up with a worse codependency @ someone other than king rowan, or he will turn around 180 degrees and find the first piece of true happiness. either way, will it be a fucking rollercoaster of emotions? hell, please. maybe some little public scandals to fuel the rails? don't think everyone would be happy if they knew their king was cheating on his wife. if it happened once, who's to say it hasn't happened before? how could they trust someone who wasn't even loyal to his own love? what if a certain someone was essentially fired for this mishap? i mean, as long as his life and purpose didn't revolve around this job, he'd be fine. right? (definitely not)
    
    
    willing to be contacted at a later point? yes, please.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[floralmoon]

XI.
Armağan Kaplan

the soothsayer.

coded by xayah.ღ

the soothsayer

— basics

full name

ARMAĞAN KAPLAN

alias

KADER

age

27

gender

they/them

sexuality

bisexual

— visage

height

5'2" / 157.48 cm

hair

bald / shoulder length black wavy hair

eyes

pale sea green

assertive

visonary

temperate

stubborn

blunt

vengeful

— description

Whispers of a historical storm swirled around the Cascades, many people began boarding up their houses or seeking shelter, but one family was preparing for the arrival of their child. The Kaplan's had no time to prepare for the monstrous waves and winds that were heading towards them, the two bunkered down in their small home, Deniz Kaplan lie on the floor, screaming in pain, but nobody would be the wiser as they were deafened with the sounds of thunder. After many hours of labor, Armaǧan was born, and at the same moment, lightning struck the home.

Years later, Armaǧan's father, Ahmet, accepted a job under the King, while in this position, he overheard two members of the Covenant speaking about "the children". He tried to gather as much information without being caught, but alas he did. He was given two options, quit & stay quiet, or lose his life. His only reasonable option was to leave the position as he had a family to protect.

As Armaǧan grew older, they began showing signs of divinity, being able to predict things in the near future, and on occasion receiving messages from unseen forces, this concerned their father, as they did not want to risk their child being abducted by the Covenant, or worse. So, Deniz & Ahmet decided that it would be best to keep the existence of Armaǧan and their powers a secret. Regardless of living a sheltered life, the child grew and blossomed into a beautiful & intelligent human.

In the days leading up to the Leviathan leaving the port, Armaǧan's parents decided that it would be safer to board their child onto the ship, allowing them to leave the Cascades and be protected from any harm due to word getting out about their powers. The only condition that had to be followed was that Armaǧan could no longer use their family's name, the must adopt the identity of Kader, a nomad with no substantial history.

reveriee ©

 

[peachpuff]

"Louise Fletcher"

# The Navigator

# Daisy Head

♡coded by uxie♡

Ardella Winmore

# The Apprentice

# ZhuZhu? Clara Paget? NiNi?

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[NiftyNat]

T.W. The history section is particularly heavy on violence and blood. There are also topics of heavily implied pedophilia and sexual abuse. So please read at your own discretion. And feel free to throw stones at Quinlan if you read through the history and connections tab.​

➳❥ 𝕯𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘 𝕿𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖊

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖌𝖊

𝕱𝕮: 𝕯𝖎𝖓𝖆 𝕯𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖎𝖗𝖊

♡coded by uxie♡

the scourge.

scroll

Dolores

Thorne

ㅎㅎ

01.

full name

Dolores Thorne

02.

alias

Dol, Lori or Res.

03.

age

Twenty-six (26 years old)

04.

gender

Female (She/Her/Hers)

05.

P.O.B

The Cascades

06.

Status

Privateer

07.

Role

The Scourge

• .
• .
• .
• .
• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Death

  
  
  
  

  is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  visage

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5’3” or 160cm

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weight

  
  

  50kg or 110 lbs

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair colour

  
  

  Ebony Black.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye colour

  
  

  Dark Chocolate.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair

  
  

  Dolores's sculpted face is framed with an uncontrollably elegant wave of thick, ebony curls. Every ringlet is unique, spiralling down in glossy waves with a rich, black sheen when they catch the light. Her hair has a lively and bouncy texture that beautifully combines tenacity and softness. It is like an untamable mane she has to subdue with a fabric headband.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eyes

  
  

  Large, seductive doe eyes surrounded by thick, black lashes that softly stroke her cheeks as she blinks. A set of deep, umber eyes with the appearance of having been covered in rich, dark chocolate. Beneath her innocent stare is the eye of a killer capable of far more pleasant things, like revenge.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  skin

  
  

  She has a soft, sunkissed copper complexion with a warm, bronze undertone. Looking closely, you can see the tiny freckles dappling around her nose and cheeks, adding a charm to her overall appearance. Like specks of cinnamon, they fabricate a lovely glow to her smooth and youthful skin.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  build

  
  

  Her body is gracefully proportioned despite her small stature. She is blessed with narrow shoulders that slope gently, leading to slender arms and hands that seem almost fragile but surprisingly strong. With a cinched waist that accentuates her lithe figure, her hips subtly flare, giving her a soft, feminine silhouette. Her legs are well-shaped and slim, and she has an air of lightness and daintiness when she moves. Despite her delicate size, her presence was the sort to captivate others through poise and grace.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  body mods.

  
  

  Despite the fierce air of independence that surrounds her, the branded mark on her wrist tells a story of binding allegiance. Dolores carries a clear sign of the King’s pardon—a double-edged sword of freedom and servitude.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  face claim

  
  

  Dina Denoire
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  persona

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Cynic. Calculative. Cruel.
  
  These are the words that would describe Dolores Thorne the best. In the eyes of others, she delivers absolute judgement with cold and ruthless accuracy. When the crown has numerous swords under its command, Dolores is its dagger, small, precise and lethal.
  
  A cold and guarded individual. She refuses to let anybody in her thoughts and heart, not because she fears them but because she has grown weary of human connection. Everybody is out to get her, and it is up to her whether or not the weakness of being emotionally vulnerable is worth it for that one moment of understanding. In her eyes, it is a risk she is still unprepared to take.
  
  This young maiden isn’t as unemotional as you might think. Agitation is the most extreme expression she can express. Piss her off; she won’t opt for immediate death. No, she will simply fling a dagger at a tendon with lethal precision, just enough for you to shut up and enough for you to suffer.
  
  Dolores is fully capable of delivering the type of action that would hinder the saints of the group. She could produce a different perspective on a few situations that demand a decisive and unflinching resolve. In some scenarios where others might hesitate due to ethical concerns, the maiden with the curly mane would step in if needed with a ruthless efficiency that leaves no room for doubt. This could either make her a formidable asset or a complete nightmare to work with.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  likes

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Knives

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Blood

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Sea shanties

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  A hot bath

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Targets

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Darts

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  The night and the stars

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Cleaning and proper hygiene

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Lavender-scented stuff

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Flowers

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Tall people

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Fur and feathers

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Diseases

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Coldness

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Liars

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Thieves

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Hypocrites

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Mud

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Loud noises

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Affection

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Children

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Lusty and abusive men

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  strengths

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Singing

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Accurate aim

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Lie detection

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Following orders

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Dextrous body

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Unbreakable fighting spirit

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  How to hide a body

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Intimate knowledge of the human psyche and anatomy, specifically how to break them. (This is a fancy way of me saying torture for interrogation.)

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weaknesses

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Emotional vulnerability

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Deep and honest conversations

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Cooking

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Shitty hair products

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Team-work

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Skin-to-skin contact

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Shelves, she’s short (She puts the short in shawty.)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Pet Allergy (Feathers and furs should be enough to have her in a sneezing fit.)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Lifting or any activities using muscle, so she’s shit at close combat too.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ➳❥ Being taken advantage of. Used and discarded like an unfeeling piece of flesh.
  
  ➳❥ Being tickled. Try, and you’ll get a dagger to the throat.
  
  ➳❥ Re-living the worst parts of her past. Dolores doesn’t want to admit it, but the next time something traumatic happens to her, she will be pushed to the brink of insanity, which will cause her to break in all aspects, mentally, physically and spiritually. And she doesn’t want that.
  
  ➳❥ Being emotionally vulnerable with someone.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  habits

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ➳❥ A clear sign of agitation is with foot or finger tapping. Lip biting is for anxiety.
  
  ➳❥ Whenever she sneezes, she always assumes there’s an animal around. She will always pinch her nose and inspect the area fervently when this happens. And if an animal is around, she’ll wave a middle finger at it while moving away.
  
  ➳❥ When a sea shanty is being sung, she will definitely join in.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hobbies

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ➳❥ Journaling in her spare time. There are also some sketches in addition to every entry, and they’re pretty decent.
  
  ➳❥ Maintaining her daggers in a perfect condition.
  
  ➳❥ Cleaning: She thrives in a clean space, so expect her to keep the ship and its canons tidy and cared for. No barnacles are safe.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  headcanons

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ➳❥ “What’s my body count? It should be in the triple digits now… Wait. What does sex have to do with it? Yes, I’m still a virgin… Consensually, at least.”
  
  ➳❥ She puts the fatal in femme fatale.
  
  ➳❥ A firm non-believer of romance. Cupid is dead, and you can’t change her mind. But when she’s ‘in love’ with someone, she will deny it until it becomes more of a manic obsession.
  
  ➳❥ She has a particular dislike towards people taller than her, which is almost everybody. She sometimes envies them when she sees them, ideally reaching the top shelf.
  
  ➳❥ Blood and guts don’t make them flinch. But mud? “Ew, get that shit away from me.”
  
  ➳❥ Mob wife husband energy.
  
  ➳❥ She has a resting ‘I don’t give a fuck’ face. She also has a relatively good poker face.
  
  ➳❥ Proper personal hygiene is essential to her. Dolores has an extensive hair routine, including olive oil and lavender drops that leave her smelling like lavender.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  playlist

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Choice

  
  

  
  
  
  

  When a blacksmith forges a new blade, first, a thought of a design bubbles through their head; this is followed by choice—a choice between the metals that are to be used to craft the blade itself. With too much ferrite, the blade breaks, and with too little steel, the blade dulls. Each minuscule decision or mistake will have an everlasting effect, forging resilience or fragility (I suppose you could say the same thing when taking responsibility for a child.) Every birth of a new weapon must always begin with a choice. It is simply a beginning stage that would sprout many outcomes with one correct path.
  
  The path that Omar Thorne took changed the life of a young and lost girl, for better or worse. In one fateful night outside the towering spires and ivory walls of the Cascades, a young girl, barely clinging to life, bore the clear and horrid outline of her bones beneath her pale, sallow skin. Besides the origami lantern that clung to her shaking and vulnerable hands, the girl had nothing, no personal items, no identity and no memories.
  
  Later on, this entry was found when Omar’s journal was found: “It’s a somewhat off-putting day for me today. Nothing in particular was worth noting down until I met… her. I was just going on about my day, dumping the newly executed bodies outside the walls; the things out there are much better at cleaning up the bodies than our cremation centres, to be honest. I’ve never had the pleasure of exploring beyond, so seeing them just standing there with those lifeless eyes of hers was quite unsettling.
  
  I’ve seen and caused the most gruesome sights any human eyes have ever witnessed, and yet that little girl managed to slither an eerie chill throughout my spine. As she emerged before me, it was as if the shadows themselves birthed this girl.
  
  I don’t know what came over me, but I wanted to bring her to the light, into this bright city. So that’s exactly what I did. Perhaps the people can finally see that I’m not the monster they want me to be.”
  
  Omar Thorne is the infamous executioner of the Cascades. He has served as the government’s axe with ruthless efficiency and an imposing presence. He was a figure who sternly commanded fear and respect in equal measure. His reputation was built on the unflinching justice he delivered, which is far from the image of a saviour who approached the ghoulish child. Something in him stirred; perhaps it was the flicker of humanity long buried beneath his stoic exterior.
  
  The union of the executioner’s firm hand and the girl’s potential hinted at the paradox of creation that could emerge from destruction, revealing that even in the harshest places, enveloped in darkness, the seed of compassion could take root and flourish. As he lifted the girl’s frail body into his arms, her head rested against the cold metal of his executioner’s armour, a stark contrast to the warmth and life he silently vowed to restore in her.
  
  From that single choice of compassion grew a girl with a mild spark of humanity in her eyes. The once gloomy girl looked less… ghoulish and flourished under Omar’s fatherly care and love. Under his guidance, she learned how to read, write and look after herself. From that moment forward, the little girl was named Dolores Thorne, the adoptive daughter of Cascades’ infamous hangman.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Forge

  
  

  
  
  
  

  In order for a raw piece of unshaped and untamed metal to properly form its destined shape, it must endure gruelling periods of blistering heat from the forge’s relentless inferno. Even though this process is a brutal endeavour, it is essential for transforming a simple alloy into a weapon of precision and power. In this process, the metal is heated until it glows brightly, nearly on the verge of crying, only to be beaten into submission by the blacksmith’s hammer. This relentless cycle of heating and beating ensures that the metal becomes capable of withstanding the demands of battle without breaking. I suppose you could say the same thing in this gruelling phase of Dolores’ teenhood.
  
  There enters Quinlan Wright, whose outward appearance of stern authority masks a far darker reality. Quinlan held a significant position within the Cascades as its judge; the people saw him as the human embodiment of order and discipline whose decisions were unquestioned and justified. He commands respect and obedience from those around him, including Omar Thorne.
  
  Together, they would make the most unlikely friends; one embodies lawfulness and purity, while the other is death and blighted. These people couldn’t be wrong anymore about who the real monster between them was.
  
  When Omar would leave the young girl, Dolores, under his care, the atmosphere would often ominously shift. Quinlan, the supposed protector in Omar’s absence, transformed into a hunter. Quinlan’s predatory gaze would fix upon her, and how she wished it remained as a mere gaze. These horrific encounters of cruelty and exploitation scarred her body, mind and soul, filling her with a sense of dread and helplessness each time she found herself alone with him. The scars he left her may be invisible, yet they profoundly impacted her shattered innocence.
  
  When Omar Thorne started catching on, the rage that bubbled inside him wasn’t the only emotion he felt. However, before he could take action and in an act of cruel twist of fate, Omar found himself trapped in a web of more deceit and betrayal. A stoke of misfortune for Omar and luck for Quinlan. He was wrongfully accused of a crime he is so adamant that he did not commit. In the last entries of his diary, he even accused Quinlan of orchestrating this whole conspiracy to get his dirty hands on Dolores.
  
  The very system he had served so faithfully turned against him. The accusations of his crime were meticulously fabricated, leaving little room for doubt in the minds of the jury and the judge, Quinlan Wright. His trial was swift and decisive, and the verdict was determined before the trial started. As the final judgement proceeded, the same cold efficiency he delivered was now used against him. He was sentenced to death, but the bitter irony was not lost on him. And in his final moments, his mind was filled with thoughts of Dolores, the child he found without a parent. He regretted being in a position where he had no power to help the little girl he had failed to protect.
  
  As the blade descended, he died, knowing that the pure white wolves would feast on the girl he found within the umbrage that engulfed the ivory city. He wondered if she would’ve been safer within the shadow’s embrace.
  
  His death would serve as a stark reminder of the flaws within the very system he had upheld. It became a testament to the dangers of power one person held.
  
  Quinlan Wright remained to be the source of Dolores’ misery as she soon found herself under his care after Omar’s execution. While some saw this as an act of kindness, Dolores perceived this as a death sentence. It was a much more gruesome and soul-depleting verdict even Omar wouldn’t have been able to execute.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Sharpen

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Sharpening a newly forged blade is one of the most crucial periods in the process of creating an efficient tool for violence. It is the stage where the blade lacks a precise edge, and with proper care, even the dullest blade can be honed to perfection and purpose. In this stage of Dolores’ life, she’s slowly entering adulthood, much like a forged dagger. Her raw potential needed direction and refinement to become lethal and precise.
  
  Using the hardships she endured as a grindstone, her will to survive and flee from the wolves sharpened as well. In a desperate attempt to escape the nightmarish household that had become her prisoner, Dolores boldly decided to follow in her late adoptive father’s footsteps and become Cascade’s next executioner.
  
  As she dove deeper into her new profession, she uncovered the unsettling additions behind Omar’s occupation. His role not only involved delivering justice through executions but also included the lost art of interrogation. She was given her late father’s journals, which meticulously documented his methods, guiding Dolores to the precise techniques for execution with cold and calculated efficiency.
  
  Through those journals, she felt closer to her father’s spirit and in her darkest times, when she found herself in desperate need of comfort, she would often be found reading the item. Despite the horror of her late father’s methods, a small part of her found a twisted admiration for his expertise and dedication. Determined to utilise every advantage she has, Dolores studied Omar’s guide fervently. Whenever the opportunity arose, she practised these methods on the prisoners, her unwilling participants, and picturing Quinlan’s face made her job much more bearable for her.
  
  Taking a life became more routine for her, as if she was a simple cog in a mechanical system known as justice. With each execution she performed, no matter how cruel, the boundaries of her morality blurred, and the distinction between right and wrong grew fainter. The clearest sign of her complete detachment is her abandonment of her late father’s journal. She became so desensitised to the violence that her actions were guided more by muscle memory than a conscious thought. This marks a dark evolution in Dolores, transforming her into an efficient instrument of death and the symphony of information her victims played under her cruelty even caught the eye of a particular King and a Cascade Judge.
  
  As Dolores slowly rose as the executioner, it disturbed the judge greatly. Driven by his twisted desire for control and lust, he found himself once again crawling uninvited towards Dolores’ bed. But he was quickly met by a fearless woman who drew a dagger against his… manhood.
  
  A tense pause filled the room.
  
  After the sound of rippling fabric shattered the silence between them, the sharp blade sliced through Quinlan’s… parts with an agonising precision. For once, she finally felt justice coursing through her veins as a chorus of fear and pained screams echoed through the room.
  
  With a menacing grin plastered on her face, she asked him a simple question, her voice dripping with venom. “What’s the matter? Has the blade grown too sharp for you?” She taunted.
  
  With eyes so empty, she proved the saying ‘eyes are the windows to the soul’ to be false. They either haven’t seen Dolores’ eyes, or Dolores’ soul has wholly left her.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Sheathe

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Every blade needs its sheathe; without it, it remains a dangerous hazard. In this stage, Dolores desperately needs a sheathe, a protective covering that gives her deadly skills purpose and direction. And this surprisingly came in the form of a crown.
  
  In the aftermath of her act of defiance, Dolores attempted to flee, but she only managed to evade for less than three days. She eventually got caught and was brought before the King himself. The King himself weighed the circumstances; despite the gravity of her actions, there had been no loss of life, a factor that played in her favour. This ultimately led her to be pardoned and be marked as a privateer. This new status offered a semblance of legitimacy as well as a path away from the nightmarish memories of her past.
  
  From the early moments, the brand settled on her wrist; she was no longer Cascade’s executioner but a sanctioned agent of the crown.
  
  For the past two years, Dolores has acted under the crown’s orders as its blade and expert informant. Even though her skill set is situational, she still finds purpose in them through her ability to deal with knives and death.
  
  The King sheathes another tool in his arsenal: Dolores Thorne, the mistress of daggers and interrogation.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  TL ; DR

  
  

  
  
  
  

  ➳❥ Dolores’ parents remain unknown, and she was found outside the walls of the Cascades by its very executioner, Omar Thorne.
  
  ➳❥ Teenhood is where her trauma arc begins—abused in the worst ways? Tick! Loss of parental figure twice in a lifetime? Double check! Lived with your worst enemy? Triple that thing!
  
  ➳❥ Dolores’ training arc. When she was at the proper age to make an appropriate living, she immediately said, “Aight bet, you want an executioner? I gotcha, fam.” This is the stage where she learnt all sorts of interrogation techniques.
  
  ➳❥ Oh! And she also neutered a Cascades Judge. This led to the king’s pardon, branding her as a pirate and a kingsman by contract. She has been roaming around Solas for the past two years under royalty orders.
  
  ➳❥ Fun Fact: The stages of her life mimic the appropriate process of making a dagger—her weapon of choice. A witty nudge to what she is, just another tool within the king’s gigantic arsenal.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  extra

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Lethal Woman

  
  
  
  

  Dove Cameron

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  connections

  
  
  
  

  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  • aaaaaaa
  • aaaa

  • 
    
    
    

    connections

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Omar Thorne

    
    
    
    

    “I miss you, dad…”​

    
    Known for his unwavering hand as an excecutioner, he found his life irrevocably altered the day he saw a young girl outside the ivory walls of The Cascades. When he took Dolores in under his wing, he hoped the people would finally see him as a kind and gentle person, but they still saw him as the cold and calculating hangman. Little did the people know the worst thoughts they harboured for Omar manifested themselves in the form of Dolores later on.
    
    Despite what the people may think, Omar was a fantastic father figure. Dolores grieved heavily when the justice system he worked for took his life. In his final thoughts, he regretted failing her as a father and protector.
    
    In Dolores’ solemn and quiet moments, she may be seen whispering a prayer for her father’s spirit. Whether for her health or some spare guidance, she will always remain grounded through her father’s spirit.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Quinlan Wright

    
    
    
    

    “I hope you go through all the circles in hell with your entrails sagging behind you. Touch me again, and I will make that your reality.”​

    
    In every trial, there is the jury, judge, and executioner. Quinlan is Cascades’ most beloved judge, but in Dolores’ eyes, he is the executioner of her innocence and virtue. After Omar’s death, Quinlan took in Dolores, and people saw this as an act of kindness; unbeknownst to them, death would have treated her more kindly than Quinlan’s company.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Extra

    
    
    
    

    QUOTE HERE​

    
    Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Cras ullamcorper erat purus, quis mollis metus auctor vel. Duis eget luctus justo. Donec aliquet fermentum porttitor. Morbi quis dapibus odio, at viverra leo. Integer ut dictum lacus, nec congue odio. Nullam sapien ante, interdum ut mattis eget, varius ac justo. Pellentesque eu ante nec nibh vulputate ullamcorper.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    
    

    misc.

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    reputation

    
    

    “Some say she tortured people in their cells for fun.”
    
    “Gruesome woman with an even more gruesome of a father.”
    
    “That brute had a daughter? Poor thing to be influenced by a monster like that.”
    
    “Death surrounds her like a plague wherever she goes. She’s the human embodiment of a scourge.”​

    
    Within the purifying gates of the Cascades, she is known by the people as the executioner who taints their hands red within their pearly white walls. In a more recent gossip about her, she is known as the executioner who mutilated the righteous Judge Quinlan. If she were to revisit her homeland, she would have her eyes peeled for Quinlan Wright.
    
    Dolores is a relatively well-known individual who caused scandalous rumours two years ago, leading to her being a privateer. She has made a name for herself by delivering precise executions to most thieves and criminals who challenged Cascades’ justice system. The stench of death around her continues to sour the tastes of some people.
    
    As for the other places she has visited, she has remained civil and mindful, remaining only as a traveller to some.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    motivation

    
    

    “Must there always be meaning and purpose?”​

    
    In this stage of Dolores’ journey, she is simply drifting and mindlessly pursuing the King’s requests. She lives her life day by day, hoping she will eventually find her true purpose. She has yet to find her personal motivation, and every year that ticks past, her heart grows heavier. Nobody wants to feel like a void of uselessness.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    boarding

    
    

    “As per King Rowan’s orders, I’m obliged to board the Leviathan. I suppose a smooth sailing will be too much to ask for if he intends to place me there.”​

    
    Dolores will board the Leviathan by the King’s orders and papers. As the voyage sets, she will represent the King’s wishes and keep the ship from sinking metaphorically and literally.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    faction

    
    

    “No.”​

    
    None. Dolores is a Privateer. For the past two years, after receiving the brand for her crime, she has lived her life as such, a pardoned criminal who is now being used at the King’s discretion. She’s neither related to pirates nor royalty.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    opinion on royalty

    
    

    “I’ve been told by so many I should love them. Will I? Fuck no. But the fine print in my contract says I have to obey them or else I ☐☐☐ ☐☐☐ ☐☐☐, so here I am. (¬_¬)”​

    
    Despite being pardoned by the King, Dolores feels no attachment or appreciation to the king and nobility. Her loyalty to them simply quells her purposelessness. Within their service, Dolores can keep going through her life with purpose. However, her loyalty to them remains a distant thread that can easily be broken under the correct circumstances.
    
    Dolores takes a neutral stand when it comes to royalty.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    opinion on piracy

    
    

    “Hey, if executioner can be a career option, anything is possible. Though, as long as they don’t trouble me specifically or get close to me with their nasty teeth, then I suppose they’re alright.”​

    
    As long as it doesn’t affect or bother her specifically, she has no issues with it. She believes that people are free to do whatever they want, and she deeply admires the freedom and courage of piracy. People who don’t fear the guillotine are something she can respect. However, if a pirate ever crosses her personally, she won’t be afraid to skin them alive.
    
    Dolores takes a neutral stand when it comes to piracy.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    dolores' development

    
    

    “I want… What do I want?”​

    
    At this point, Dolores doesn’t know what she wants from her life. She remains an aimless servant to the crown. But as my baby, I would like her to have a good ending, a suitable purpose for her to strive and settle for. But I would want her to earn that, whether it would be through cruel lessons or a reminder of her father. I’m most definitely down to anything for her to achieve that. She is a rather deadly individual who is capable of actual murder, but I would want her to mellow out near the end. This is where the found family trope will be critical for her development.
    
    Dolores is the type of character who has nothing left to lose, so for her adventure, I would want her to finally find something worth living for. So basically, it's a redemption and healing arc for my girl.
    
    Traumatic encounters are very welcome as well. However, the best way to do this is by revisiting the final boss of her trauma, Quinlan Wright. She could either kill him or expose him for the true monster that he is; either of those options will work delightfully for her and me!
    
    Oh! And perhaps Dolores finds her birth parents. Her amnesia leaves a multitude of possibilities that can be utilised at the GM’s discretion. This will definitely need some work, but I’ll flesh this out if and when accepted.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    availability

    
    

    Yes! Definitely! Absolutely! This character, in particular, is an absolute exclusive for a scrumptious Gao RP. So if they’re not accepted, feel free to always get in touch with me! ♡♡♡
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Pinterest

    
    

    The Scourge
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[escapist]

• Sorta-kinda finished

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    The Old-timer

    
    
    
    

    Maltke Cycek

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Rain

    
    
    
    

    Sleep Token

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    Known as

    
    
    

    One-eyed Maltke

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Age

    
    
    

    fourty-five

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Gender

    
    
    

    Male

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    p.o.b.

    
    
    

    City of Umbra

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    d.o.b.

    
    
    

    February 22th

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    height

    
    
    

    6.0'

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    weight

    
    
    

    181 lbs

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Status

    
    
    

    Wanted

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Faction

    
    
    

    Disorganized piracy

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    Role

    
    
    

    The Old-timer

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    fc

    
    
    

    Mads Mikkelsen

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    Visage

    
    
    

    Build: If there's a part about his body, that Maltke can be proud of, that's his physique. Years of baking his skin under the sun, working on the decks and having his flesh thorn in the battles are paid off; despite his slightly crooked posture and the fat what have been grown on his otherwise firm muscles, his presence still exudes remnants of the power and strength his younger self owned. Even if his bones cry silently, his stocky, tall frame is easy to notice and recognize.
    
    Face: Speaking of recognizable features, Maltke's face wears the signs of his eventful past. Both in Umbra and among the pirates having visible scars cause respect among men who have weapon hanging from their belts. The diagonal slash on his left cheek only underlines and highlights the pitch-black eyepatch which is covering and hiding the remaining pus droplets in his eye socket. The restless gaze of the other eye however mirrors just enough emotions. Similar to his stubbles, his rarely ever washed hair started turn into greyish already. Under his mustache that he grew as the only part of his camouflage, his lips are usually twisted in a bitter smirk regardless what he feels.
    
    Clothing: Maltke wears dirty and worn clothes, prefering practicality and simplicity. Boots, trousers and a loose shirt are the trinity of his wardrobe and the one fragment above all: his coat. The old, body-length cloth is made of black fur and by caring, practiced hands. It looks heavy and warm but Maltke wears them most of the time, even under the scorching sun. He seems to be really attached to it somewhy.

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    • .
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      PERSONA

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      Amusing, Amicable, Bitter, Dramatic, Equable, 'Instinctive', Opportunist, Pathetic, Rude, Stubborn, Superstitious
      
      

      Personality in detail

      
      

      
      It's hard to decide if the defeatist mentality made his body sick or his aging body caused the melancholy but in any ways, after the defeat Maltke felt himself more miserable and worthless than ever. Years have been soothing the denial into acceptance even if the tart flavour has never stopped lingering in his mouth. He perfectly represents Bergson's snowball, keep rolling, rolling and the more layers of years are around its core the harder is to keep the growing snowball together. The layers influence and fight with each other, yet the desire of the snowball's innermost part stays what determines his fate: that child, full with ambitions and adventurousness, wanted to be a pirate. The other layers on the other hand make the dream come true, ruthlessly.
      Being born in Umbra, where legends and myths fill the air, Maltke's quite superstitious. Ironically enough, he believes in nothing above him and believes in everything what lurks below. It's hard to distinguish his beliefs from the 'whims of the old man' especially because Maltke holds onto both with remarkable and comical stubbornness. He finds the subject of his faith only natural and about his whims, well...they serve another, greater purpose.
      He has never been enough to be a captain but he has a special power what made him that good of a second(?) mate: the way he affects to a company that he is the part of. He seems to be always there, always having an opinion or a rude comment, when he's around probably something amusing will happen...it happens so imperceptible that even Maltke himself don't notice that he is a naturally comical character. He slowly blends into the company and becomes "that annoying old fart", "that weird Maltke", "the tale-teller Maltke", "barking Maltke", until the moment he becomes "our Maltke". His secret is simple. After he accepted his own lack of worth, it was much easier to connect with others. Hating himself and adoring others' company make Maltke the sort of pathetic side-kick who lives for others instead of himself. How could such an existence end?
      

      LIKES

      
      

      
      The sea's smell, The waves' rocking, Card games, Drinking-Eating-Smoking trinity, Company, Banter, Clouds, Friendly brar brawls, Rain
      

      DISLIKES

      
      

      
      Carmine Corsair, Drinking water, Unknown food, Working, Pride, Fog, Luxury, Courtesy, Redheads, Perfumes, Rain
      
      

      FEARS

      
      

      
      Drowning, Bottomless water and everything what can lurk bellow, The Red Baron, The thought of getting weaker, Failure
      

      
      
      
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      EXTRAS

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      HABITS

      
      

      
      Smoking and doing it very aggressively until he doesn't start coughing from the fourth drag, Spitting on the ground, Whining about everything, Munching loudly, Presenting a whole palette of inhuman sounds of amusement: he snorts, coughs, spits, shrieks, gurgles, Scratching his face
      
      

      HOBBIES

      
      

      
      Doing physical training, Scanning the horizon and the water for danger, playing card games, mostly terribly, Wasting time with so-called fishing, Doing favors (he won't admit though)
      
      

      STRENGTHS

      
      

      
      Experienced in close combat, Exceptionally dangerous with knives, Good in taking advantage of the environment during a brawl, Candor, He isn't paranoid but will always keep one eye open, connecting with people
      
      

      WEAKNESSES

      
      

      
      Old wounds still hurt - hit his right knee and he'll on the ground, His missing eye provides a big blank spot, Can be predicted and outsmarted in a fight, Can't say no to do any innocent favor, Defeatist mentality, Bad ballance, Dangerously bad aim
      
      

      HEADCANONS

      
      

      
      - Thinks that peeing in the sea from a boat is the epithome of freedom
      - When he doesn't find a joke funny, he lets out a loud, forced laugh then suddenly gets deadly serious and stares blankly to thefunny guy until they would be ashamed of themselves - his blank stare's world champion
      - Always apologizes after he sneezed in the air or into someone's face
      - Not like he's quiet but he' especially loud when he sucks in cardgames - and he isn't a good player
      - He swears he once kissed a siren [I mean I know the RP has fantasy elements but look at him. Would you believe to that guy?]
      - If you want to make him confused and silent for a few second, just compliment him.
      - Never ask him about what lives in the water: he has a whole book of sea monsters in his mind
      - Always has a story from his past to share
      - He insults himself as naturally as he takes a breath but if anyone else dare to do it... "who do you think you are, brat?!"
      - I know I already mention this but he is such an annoying whiner; he won't do anything against what he's whining about though
      - As fast as he can get upset, he'll cool down and forgive to almost anyone
      - "I don't want to act like I know everything 'cause I'm older and want to give an advice but..." - Yes, he does give advices. Some are good, some are worse.
      

      
      
      
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      INTERVIEW

      
      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      

      
      
      
      
      

      REPUTATION

      
      As the second mate of the Bastards' Company, One-eyed Maltke has the same reputation as an old story. Some seasoned pirates might remember to the rumors about his younger self, maybe in some tavern his face still hangs under the shabby wanted caption and some night the pirates of the Carmine Corsair might tell the tale of how they destroyed the notorious Bastards' Company but overall, the story of One-eyed Maltke became forgotten already.
      
      

      FACTION

      
      Nothing have changed, despite the passed years Maltke still identifies himself as a pirate of freedom and probably will until he dies. Being part of the disorganized piracy, even just nominally, is a matter pride.
      
      

      STATUS

      
      Since he has a bounty on his head and he is still alive, he technically wanted but over the past ten years he didn't get attacked even once and not because he could disappear so perfectly; even the bounty hunters forgot about his existence.
      

      MOTIVE

      
      "Being on the mainlands isn't for me...I tried, I really did but bloody hell, I can't stay caged through my whole damn life! A pirate needs adventure, treasures, women...firstly I gotta find a ship that makes my weary bones excited again and then I'll figure out the rest."
      
      

      BOARDING

      
      [Now we reached the most uncertain part of the sheet. Either he just sneaked up the night before the departure or asked a favor from an old friend, I'm even open for cooperation with other characters to get my character on the ship - the 'how' depends on what kind of conflict you prefer]
      

      ROYALTY OPINION

      
      "Royalty my ass!" *He shifted in the chair and spat a substantial amount on the ground.* "You think at the beginning of time there were equal people on the world? Not at all! Much less and thus I think me and His Highness are from the same, very-very old mother. I mean someone has to maintain the order but the nobles don't deserve...the hell are you doing?! Don't write that down I don't have that much of a death wish!"
      
      

      PIRACY OPINION

      
      "Look, I won't say that pirates are the beacons of light or some shit. Let's take me, I stole, cheated, lied, killed, tortured...I'm pretty much a scum yet the sins are the tools for my kind to be free on the endless seas instead of getting rotten and forgotten on the mainlands...freedom has its own price. Pirates don't deserve any dreamy gaze of a kid, any flirty look from women, any polite nod or handshake from man, just a slipknot around our necks..."
      
      

      FUTURE

      
      So, I imagined that this journey would be Maltke's last journey. I want him to be the part of a company again, making his heart warm up again and once he finally accepted/realized how cruelly beautiful life is, he dies. Tragic, right, however I aim to shade the tragedy of his story with firstly, my own optimism which I can't get rid of somewhy and secondly, with the fact that Maltke is pathetic. I want the 'reader' to feel sorry for him but also to maybe laugh on him and then feel themself a bit bad or to feel pity - I'm not sure if I can express myself enough but I think this way Maltke Cycek would be an interesting character and playing as him would be a great challenge for me as a 'writer'. In case Maltke can get on the boat *wink-wink*, we can discuss the time and the event in which he dies.
      
      
      

      
      
      

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    history

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    A Child is Born

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    The city of Umbra. Cold, rude, true enough for his family too. Maltke was born as the seventh child even if he had only four living siblings. He listened his mother' fairy tails and learned speaking, played with his siblings and learned to walk, his dad, according to the traditions after Maltke passed his eighth year, gradually teached him the art of tracking, hunting, preparing the meat, chopping wood, defend himself - everything a man had to do. His childhood wasn't worse than anyone else's: a few slap on the face or harsh words but despite all that, Maltke Cycek grew up in a cold, yet loving environment that he still can call home. However as always, the adolescence brought its problems with itself.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    From youngster to pirate

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    Maltke has never been actually good in anything that he could useful to his family who had less and less enough food on the table. Instead of working he rather spent his time at the port, watching the arriving and departing boats, his eyes lighted up when he saw the rugged seamen, imagining the adventures they had experienced on the endless sea. The more he argued with his parents the more he was listening at the port if any boat needed swabbie. When he found a simple merchant ship, he fleed from home and didn't return for a decade. Years passed and Maltke learned to live on the seas. He moved from ship to ship until he finally stumbled in a pirate at a bar, called Dalton. The only occasion Maltke Cycak made a good first impression ironically during a bar fight, but in any ways, Dalton invited Maltke in his crew and with that, the most chaotic and adventurous period of his life.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Failure

    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    Maltke quickly got used to the lifestyle of a pirate: with every battle he got more experienced, he lost his eye and gained respect among the crew, friendships forged. His twenties was all about money, blood and women, he lived the life he always wanted. The name of One-eyed Maltke became well-known and feared, the ship became his home, the crew became his family. When he reached his thirties, Maltke finally got bored of the pointless wasting of his life a bit and wanted to do something greater. Around this time, Dalton came up with the idea of destroying the Carmine Corsair. During the preparation Maltke's blood was boiling and the whole crew was ready for the battle of their life - the arrogance and the loyalty towards each other took their mind, leading the Bastards towards an inevitable doom. The day of the highly anticipated sea battle and the destruction Bastards' Company came and passed quickly. The water had never burned with such intensity than on that day. A few ship was already flowing broken in the water, painted with pirates' blood who gave their life for their freedom even if it wasn't necessery. Maltke remembers back to the bloody battle like the most beautiful and touching event of his life. Both side fought with all they've got but as the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon, something happened that determined the outcome of the battle: The Red Baron outsmarted, overpowered and defeated the famous Dalton 'Bastard' Morgan. His friend lifeless body just touched the wooden deck and Maltke was already attacking the Baron. Maybe because of his lack of focus but he was no match for the King's dog. During their quick fight, the gravely injured Maltke fell in the sea but somehow he managed to survive and float away with a plank. On that day, Maltke Cycak lost the battle of his life and yet, he was alive.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
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    gallery

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    rel.

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    Dalton 'Bastard' Morgan

    
    
    

    friend/captain | dead

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    A ruthless and infamous pirate who ruled the part of the see which is now within the borders of the Carmine Corsair. The Bastard, similar to other legends of that era before the Carmine Corsair[I just want to sound cool, not actually manipulate the lore/history.] built a strong crew out of nothing and started an endless campaign. This was when Maltke joined to the crew. Besides the successes of the Bastards' Company what made them famous was their relative honor to other pirates, rarely attacking the 'colleagues'. The exception was the see battle with the Red Baron.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  nine lives

  
  
  
  

 

[Jesster]

major SA & murder mention in the history. tried to keep both as brief as possible but its still there ​

• .
• .
• .
• .

• THE ESCORT

  full name

  miu konohana
  
  

  courtesy name

  venus
  
  

  nickname

  ven
  
  

  gender

  cismale | he/him
  
  

  age

  twenty two
  
  

  p.o.b

  antares
  
  

  sexuality

  men.

  VISAGE

  build

  Lanky build of 5'11, olive skin sticks to bones like tattered sunlight, ink staining flesh in attempts to reclaim sense of self.
  
  

  hair

  Stygian strands spliced short and precise, it is not often there isn't a rosy oil laced within, styling on a daily basis for when it's not, a rats nest of ink lies atop his head.
  
  

  eyes

  Raven black, and often rimmed with charcoal Miu's gaze often holds a feline gaze to it, paw batting glass of table or lit with exhaustion from the burden of manwhore manipulation resting on his shoulders.
• Empathetic

  Keen

  Intelligent

  Witty

  Social Butterfly

  Level headed

  Secretive

  Cynical

  Control Freak

  Always flirting???

  Go sit in a corner??

  Paranoid

  Manipulative

  PERSONA

  Indifference cuts through like a knife, slicing past all your defences until his cold walls of apathy are your only shelter, Miu is no stranger to tactful manipulation in getting exactly what he wants. You think you know him? Perhaps, he’s given you the impression of standing out like a diamond in the rough but if it came down to being a temple of rest and love, he would abandon you in the blink of an eye.
  
  Disregard for other feelings but his own, a trait learned from doting mother whose hand caressed his cheek as they danced with death singing to him that this is a dog-eat-dog world, and to avoid the life she’s lived you must shrug off the gold lining of connections, friendships slipping through fingers like sand.
  
  He’ll whisper pretty lies and soothe your worries away with loving words dripped in alchemized honey, small bits of sunny child turned storm from streets of sanguine knuckles and ruffians who’d rather brawl than talk a pretty penny but ultimately lies rest as a chipped sculpture unable to fully let anyone within his fortification formed with mud and stone. Behind flirtations, and sugar cube words he hides apathy well, his kindness almost genuine although those who look will note charcoal irises do not share the same intents as charming smiles.
  
  Hold him like water, stagger away like a bolt of electricity, drop him like glass. Whatever. He’s reflective, amicable to the nimble words & their hidden meanings that escape others. It’s his best trait. a secret language of dissection and discretion. He reads the mood well, but it seems, as always, he doesn’t care enough to favour you or anything at all. So, tell him your words of poison. They spill into the ocean just as quickly.
  
  But, in an incurable way, he lingers.
  
  He’s the shadow that accidentally steps on your shoe in bustling backstreets, the kid you hold the door open for, the boy you lock eyes with when a fight brews—he is nowhere and everywhere. Perhaps it’s a subconscious act, a deep-rooted part of him that yearns for the affection of others, one tiptoe at a time. This is how misunderstandings occur. Quiet ignorance hogs the limelight and suddenly it’s so easy for everyone to turn on him. The lack of gregarious displays leaves him as a blank canvas for his clientele and the public to contrive their own “understandings” onto. No care to reality and simply waiting for himself.
  
  There is nothing special about the way he operates. It is a dull routine set by what he’s seen from those around him; wake up, do your hair, seduce a man and go to bed. This is the driving factor he must accomplish—being alive—and if his acts of gratitude appear less than, he has no choice but to endure.
  
  Misunderstandings and forbearance is not all he is lathered with, words coming without second thought whether that be philandering or ones lined with silver daggers lacking cynical plans of evil, or mastermind decoding as occasional silence overtakes often wrapped in his own smooth-brained mind often simply not hearing those around him, although oft is it mistaken for narcissistic ignorance.
  
  The innocence in that is also not taken well.
  
  Opportunity to slither his way out of these difficult situations and put himself at the same foreboding as society, he does the least amount of work possible while remaining more successful than most. Although you’d like to whisper the sweet lie of uncaring when it comes to souring faces at your victories of sweet riches, the judgement you hold for yourself isnt the same as others. You know yourself to be daunting, unworthy and undeserving, but they dont. Now they do.
  
  Now its true.
  
  Quiet and understanding, he sits in the backdrop of most things—right until that thrill of exhilaration runs in his veins, across a stage of sunlit skin, leading all the way to his heart. He’s always appreciated chaos—loud, blaring, and in his hands—but it is in times like this, when he depends on it most to grin in sparkling spotlight, that he thinks it appreciates him too.
  
  While spotlight often calls your name, mostly in the shadows of a brothel, miu sits in the backdrop of most things right until the thrill of chaos overtakes blood running through veins offering loopholes to toy with peoples lives as his has. Loud blaring mischief sits in the palms of his hands, finding comfort in his all but forgotten friend that sits on his shoulder, horns sticking out of head and soothing stinging wounds he thinks that it must appreciate him as well, for he has been nothing less of a servant to its whims.
  
  Egoism knows your craft well.

  
  

  MISC

  LIKES
  cake, or any food actually, omg is that a piece of chocolate??, completely ignores it was on the ground, drinking, card games, dogs, theatre, money, any bodies of water, fruit
  
  DISLIKES
  religion, wealthy people, monarchy, rules, commitment, death, violence, confrontation, spiders, winter, small spaces, sweat
  
  HOBBIES
  flirting with people who very obviously don't want to be flirted with or even talked too.
  oh what's that you're doing?? reading? how very sexy of you.
  
  hair and skin are passions in a not jeffrey dahmer way.
  can name off skin products as if his life depends on it but won't be able to solve 2+2.
  
  although lacks the funds to get his hands on any decent materials, Miu enjoys painting.
  vehemently denies this to avoid being asked to do portraits or anything.
  
  HABITS
  telling lies he can't remember
  
  tapping his feet when anxious or pacing given the circumstances of sitting or standing
  
  using random accents for no reason
  
  humming to himself when bored.
  
  STRENGTHS
  Flirtation, seduction, hand-to-hand combat, lying, manipulation, pocket picking/general thievery
  
  WEAKNESSES
  Keeping his mouth shut when people, patience, communicating with people outside of manwhore moments, literacy, cooking

  
  
• BACKGROUND

  
  

  “Forget what you feel, and remember what you deserve.”
  
  A mantra whispered from the lips of a broken mother, trying to prepare her son for the world to come. Her eyes and body had borne witness to the rage of pirates, and sanguine stained fists, a life she would have wished not even on her closest enemy.
  
  She tries her best to groom you into apathy, a cold hardness not strange to the streets of antares, but a little boy ushers a bug from the room to keep it from being squashed and offering scraps so generously gifted to canines roaming the streets, giving her fleeting disappointment and little hope for the looming future.
  
  No longer do you play with little kids your age, helping them from tripping over their own feet, but rather you watch from the sidelines, mothers eyes boring into you. Kindness will not be tolerated no more, and if you do punishment swivels down, axe to neck. You will be strong. You will learn to survive the everchanging environment around you.
  
  There is no room for melted sugar in this port, unless it comes in the form of derived pleasure.
  
  By two and ten, you learn masking your emotions from your mother is more easier than breathing in the piss laced air or watching her spend most hours at the brothel, raking in little money and it is without hesitance you vow to yourself and her that you will not live the life she has and will do anything to accommodate that wish.
  
  It starts with a small purse of coins that provides you both with a months worth of meals, and you down spiral from there. A kiss on the cheek in the brothel scores a fist to the cheek or money that will keep you alive, and you ride on the hope it’ll be the latter. It is for convenience you find yourself working there, body sold on the exchange of food or coins, sometimes both.
  
  Sipping wine of red, you know how you will make your future under the stage name of Venus, a maneater who will let nothing subside his path.
  
  While Miu stays home and tends to his mother who falls ill with sickness, night shadows Venus who works the brothel with charming smiles, and quick hands that pluck purses and distract his victims of thief by other means. It is not dislike of your job that keeps a foul taste in your mouth, but the sweaty bodies of disgusting pirates who always crave more than they can afford.
  
  It becomes slightly more bearable as you watch the women work in even cruder conditions, and you swallow the contempt, weathering each client with the pleasure of davy jones locker. It is not until you come upon william, a pirate who’d rather talk than entertain with other ways that you allow the slightest joy to slip in walls of steel.
  
  William spins tales of life at sea, and you ask him to take him with you after the fifth visit. He says yes, and you spend a year on sea, but half of it you do not remember for he keeps you in a state of blackout drunk constantly, allowing his crew to pass you around like a piece of meat, and once you are finally sober enough without the drug and alcohol coursing through your veins and you are back home in the familiar streets of antares, you never return.
  
  It is only a year later that you see William, the only option left to return to the brothel, although this time boyish charm is long left behind and you carry the heaviness unbecoming a man who’s only just now hit eight and ten. You ask for a break and leave, only to find he’s followed you, begging for a moment’s attention and this is where your fist meets his face and you do not stop unleashing unholy rage until he is a battered corpse on the ground.
  
  Only after do you have concern if he’s alive or dead, checking pulse to find nothing. Panic overtaking all your senses, you run to the only trustworthy person, confessing your sins to her and she urges you to leave. You cannot stay here, if you do, William's crewmates will kill you. You are now wanted, and not for the reasons you hoped.
  
  Fleeing Antares, although never having been anywhere else you remain outcasted, Miu now nothing more than a distant memory as Venus overtakes. You try and swallow what little bits of him remain, seeking the life of glory you once thought you could grasp, but can rusted iron pass as minted gold?

  
  
• MISC.

  • .
  • .

  • GAO'S CORNER

    What would I like my character to get out of this?? Torture.
    Just kidding.
    Venus spins tales of apathy, appearing to be alone and content with such while quite the opposite- boy yearning for connection, I would love for him to be able to open up to people aside from blooming enough to lure them to the bed and eventually drain their pockets. He needs to be shown the world isnt as bad as his mother (and william) made it out to be. Hoping for some character development and found family xoxo.
    
    Am I willing to be contacted at a later date? erm, absolutely!!

    
    

    
    
    

    REPUTATION

    Venus’s reputation varies from person to person. Some say he’s chill and excellent in bed while others complain about a silver tongue made of daggers, and crimson fists. Antares paints him with murder, and Sirrico paints him as a delectable boy toy. Its up for interpretation, but it mostly depends on who you talk too.

    
    

    
    
    

    BOARD REASON

    Escaping life and name long left behind is one reason to hop aboard the ship, but rebuilding and rebirthing a new future for yourself is a prospect that Venus hangs onto with the desperation of an abandoned mutt. Nowhere to go, and no one to be with he hopped on The Leviathan seeking to twist his destiny, and find a new purpose that doesn’t involve him spreading his legs, and draining pockets. Money no longer a problem, loneliness plaguing although he would rather chew on nails than admit even he cannot stand being alone.

    
    

    
    
    

    BOARD MEANS

    How he hopped on board is not a well-kept secret. Denying seduction, he does not deny cornering a man bragging about his savings to make his way on board, and almost on impulse, Venus took this chance to sing pretty words leaving an unsuspecting man of fingers digging in pockets. Caught red handed, he brawled his way out of it, but got the documentation and funds he needed. He is not ashamed and is not accepting criticism.

    
    
  • ROYALTY VIEW

    Disgusting pigs that pay well, Venus grew up hating them and the power they held at their finger tips despite no monarch to rule over Antares. Although he wonders if perhaps life would have been kinder if there was. Despising the funds they bear with no burden, he doesn’t particularly care for them, but select few he will tolerate. It’s a 50/50.

    
    

    
    
    

    PIRATE VIEW

    As a child admiration was poured upon pirates, thievery keeping money in his mama’s pocket’s. Most treated him with kindness, and he returns the sentiments to this day, but with reserved hesitancy after william and his crew although he acknowledges it was just the particular crew who held ill will. Some comfort is found in childhood constant.

    
    

    
    
    

    FACTION/STATUS

    Fear of commitment to person, place or thing keeps Venus’ name to only himself although consideration has led to interest in the Stygian Order, a place that sounds fitting for boytoy thief. However, as of current, he remains a lone escort, wanted to a well paying crew in Antares, who would pay a pretty penny to have him brought back, dead or alive. He has not dealt with a many of bounty hunters, but prepared for them to come knocking on his doorstep.

    
    

    
    
    

    EXTRA

    spotify and pinterest coming soon xx

    
    

蠅取草

coded by reveriee.

 

[erzulie]

The Shipwright

basics.

full name. dianthe mae chastain
nicknames. lina
age. 26 years old
gender. cis-female
sexuality. demisexual
place of birth. the canals
status. outcast

visage.

“your existence is proof that generations of your face has been loved…”

physically. she is steel over flesh, stubborn marble unyielding to a sculpture’s experienced hands. beneath her flowing and pretty fabrics lay a body built from years of hard work and the desperate need to survive. dianthe is all feminine curves and toned muscle. though her body is lithe there is no denying the strength that she wields.

hair. years have been spent…wasted on trying to tame her unruly locks. each strand refuses to be subdued, bouncing back stubbornly when tugged on. her hair is made up of loose curls, often adorned in flowers of her choosing. a feature of hers that she values, her hair shines with health. the type of brown that appears almost black, until it’s true color is revealed by light. look carefully and one might notice a glint of something shiny and sharp woven into the strands.

eyes. deep brown, like soil that has been kissed by spring rains. her eyes hold all the similarities to that of a doe’s wide eyes that give her a look of youthful naivety. but look closer, within those eyes stir something mischievous, something calculating even.

skin. a lovely shade of dark brown, deepened by her love of spending her time under the sun. her skin is by no means perfect. from the roughness of her hand, to the blade scars that litter her body, dianthe’s skin tells a story of the hardships of life and lessons learned.

persona.

vices. secretive, vengeful, emotional, blunt, competitive,

virtues. long-tempered, creative, passionate, observant, gentle

likes. the smell of sun dried clothing, honeysuckle, beautiful fabrics & jewelry, ornate daggers, small animals, sweet perfumes, sunbathing, weaving
dislikes. pirates, surprises, spicy foods, gloomy weather, rough and restrictive fabrics

strengths. despite her young age dianthe is a skilled carpenter. her vivid imagination and keen eyes have aided her in creating impressive vessels over the years. though her specialty focuses on sea crafts she has also been commissioned to create homes and businesses.

dianthe is light-footed and knows how to disappear when need be. her steps are quiet, along with her presence. it grants her the ability to creep up on others or successfully ease drop.

coming from a culture that values nature has given dianthe a vast amount of botanical knowledge. she enjoys not only learning about flora from her home but from other places as well. dianthe can easily discern edible plants from poisonous plants. she can also use them in a medical sense.

her biceps and calloused hands are proof of her physical strength. dianthe has spent her life doing physical labor, from climbing trees to cutting wood and carrying reed. she is not stranger to hardwork.

weaknesses.
dianthe knows how to defend herself but she has no formal training with weapons. her strength lies in attacking fast and dirty in order to win. everything around her becomes a weapon and there is no honor when fighting is concerned.


fears.
dianthe has one fear and that fear is the complete destruction of her home and culture. she is truly loves the canals and is terribly afraid of coming back to nothing when she returns from traveling.

background.

childhood. days were spent bare-footed and free. adults smiled fondly as a wild hair child approached them, hands caked in dirt and holding a unfortunate gecko or rabbit that she had found. she would tug her siblings along, urging them into following along with whatever it was that she was doing. little dianthe was too young to notice the tension when visitors came or shy her mother suddenly wanted to play hide and seek at their arrival.

adolescence. she had always known that she wanted to build things. her mother could only shake her head and sigh when dianthe would follow her father to work. she watched with keen eyes and jumped for join when she was allowed to work on smaller projects. many believed that she would soon tire of the labor that came with carpentry but dianthe’s interest only increased.

she was only a girl when she began to understand the tension of unexpected visits. she was only ten as she hid within the tall trees of their home, watching as people that she knew and loved ran in fear. tears streamed down her eyes as she watched women, men, and children dragged out. it was the first time that she knew the truth of her mother’s game.

dianthe was eleven when her sister had been taken and her mother held her firm as she was dragged off. the girl had broken loose then, only to be cut down when she’d refused to let go of her beloved sibling. the term pirate had been forever burn into her heart and a deep hatred settled there.

adulthood. she had lost her father by the time she was old enough to be considered a woman. she had learned of the contempt towards her home and why they rarely ventured out. her father had attempted to seek a way to gain protection and had been ridiculed for it. the pirate came for him for his sheer audacity and to break their spirits.

dianthe had soon decided that it was up to her. she took on her father’s name and carefully crafted a new identity. daniel was born and soon began to make a name for himself as a talented craftsman. she would use to newfound fame to forge powerful connections with powerful people in hopes of gaining protection for her home.

miscellaneous.

reputation. under the cover of her male counterpart, daniel, dianthe has built a reputation of being a skilled carpenter. nobles seek her out for her eye for aesthetics and ability to sniff out high quality materials while others have sought her out to build and repair their ships.
why did she board the leviathan? she helped build it for one. who better to look after the vessel than the one who helped create it?
how did she get on board? she was given the position of the official shipwright for the leviathan.
faction. none
opinion on royalty. they upturn their nose at her homeland and for that, she holds no love for them.
opinion on piracy. her eyes freeze over at the mention of their ilk. there’s a deep hatred in her heart for pirates. she remembers forced lodgings, burying family, and praying that her sister would one day return to her. she snarls at the mere mention of them.


what I would like my character to encounter/experience/develop in this roleplay are. Dianthe has always hidden her true self while in Zenith and has suppressed her upbringing in hopes of making a name for herself and eventually being able to be given a title so that she can protect it better. I’d like for her to be within reach of that goal but somehow loosing it. And perhaps gaining it in a way that she didn’t expect.

if not selected in the first round of applications, I am willing to be contacted at a later date if the gm feels there’s a fitting opportunity for my character to make their grand arrival. [Y/N]

coded by incandescent

 

[floral]

Evelynne

The Canary.

01.

02.

03.

• .
• .
• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  01.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  01

  
  

  
  

  name.

  
  
  

  Evelynne Clair "Lovett"

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  02

  
  

  
  

  a.k.a.

  
  
  

  doesn't mind Eve or Lynne.

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  03

  
  

  
  

  age.

  
  
  

  25.

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  04

  
  

  
  

  gender.

  
  
  

  female.

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  05

  
  

  
  

  p.o.b

  
  
  

  the canals.

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  06

  
  

  
  

  faction.

  
  
  

  n/a

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  07

  
  

  
  

  status.

  
  
  

  high society (formerly), outcast

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  visage.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height.

  
  
  

  5'5

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  appearance.

  
  
  

  now that she is leaving the Lovett family she slowly taking back things they controlled. such as her appearance. she doesn't bother with make-up anymore. doesn't don a bunch of jewelry, nor wear clothes that draw the eye. simplistic. that is what she was back then, and what she desires to be now. she's brought jewelry with her with plans to sell it. if the Lovett's were so willing to toss it just because she wore it, then they wouldn't mind if she sold it off. right? she has wild, red hair as free as she once was running through the uncharted lands of the canals. it's long, cascading far down her back. when she has the energy, she may work it into a braid. other wise, she maintains it just enough to keep it healthy and clean. some may call it unkept, but it reminds her of her childhood. (she also just doesn't have the drive to style it currently. who cares how their hair looks when they are focused on getting back what was taken?) kind green eyes, that seem to radiate both gentleness and a glance of pain. eyes that always seem to be looking through you as if she's lost somewhere far away. and maybe she is just that. lost in another place. she's grown quite weak from malnutrition and poor care after the birth of her son. she looks frail and often pale in the face.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim.

  
  
  

  eleanor tomlinson.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  02.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  psyche.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  one may describe her as song without a soul. just like the one's she sings when demanded too. that's what she has become while in the Lovett house hold. Evelynne once carried herself with such carefree passion, running through forests and along rivers. now in the lands full of cobblestone paths and carriages, she's lost that carefree spirit. and it's only become worse since her son is being kept from her. she's grown weary of people approaching her. especially those whose first words are compliments to her looks. she thinks they will be just like the young Lord that's held her captive all these years.
  
  Evelynne at heart is just a kind soul that needs to heal. she's loyal to those she trusts. willing to protect them even if she can't protect herself. she has a soft spot for kids of all ages. the younger they are the more likely she is to baby them. smothering them with care that if often met with annoyance and irritation of the receiver. she finds herself unable to stop even when they lash out at her. maybe it's her way of dealing with the fact she cannot see her own child.
  
  she hates being in the spotlight or put on the spot. preferring to withdrawn into herself or people she's close with. she isn't a leader type and doesn't know how to guide or instruct others. if put into a stressful situation where she must take control, she will panic. unable to make decision for herself, let alone others. she will second guess any choice she makes and fear her choice will end in a bad result. anxious. if things do end result she will feel hopeless for days on end. isolating herself in guilt.
  
  the Lovett's have oppressed a lot of her free-sprit and confident personality. her years under their roof have left her tense and easily started. whether someone crushes by her or just walks near her, she will flinch. no matter how hard she tries to hold it in. perhaps the ship will do her some good in helping her reclaim who she once was. free from the Lovett's control, she can finally find herself again.
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  virtues.

  
  
  

  kind, loyal, playful, free-spirited, modest, imaginative, honest, resourceful

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  vices.

  
  
  

  easily startled, nervous, hesitant, feeling hopeless, timid, tense, oppressed.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears.

  
  
  

  tall men. yelling. chains. sounds of glass crashing. death. being trapped. being alone.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  likes.

  
  
  

  trees. rivers. the sea. nature. flowers. singing. the color green. butterflies. sweets. children.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  dislikes.

  
  
  

  sudden noises. being cornered. jewelry on her wrists or neck. being called "Miss Lovett". alcohol. talking about the Lovett family. being alone.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  hobbies.

  
  
  

  tsinging. swimming. sewing. running through nature. horse-back riding.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  strengths.

  
  
  

  knowledge of nature. horse-back riding. climbing trees. singing. patient. understanding. honest. balance. sea/ship experience. light footed.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  weakness.

  
  
  

  timid. anxious around men. skittish. easily startled. horrid liar. discourage. feelings of hopelessness. lost. weak.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  habits.

  
  
  

  sleep walking. mumbling. pulling at her hair. tugging at the sleeves of her dresses. closing her eyes and counting in her head when intimidated or scared.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  ❛❛

  ❜❜

  the caged bird sings with a fearful thrill, of things unknown but longed for still.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  03.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  history.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  TW: mentions of kidnapping, glossed over SA (it's implied but never directly mentioned descriptively. ), traumatic childbirth experience, forced into giving child up/has child taken from her.
  
  the sound of light laugher and rustling leaves. the sight of red hair full of twigs and flowers. a pair of boots caked in mud. a dress stained from grass and dirt alike. the voice of a scolding, but kind mother. that was the life of Evelynne Clair. her child hood. born a child of the canals, she was a child who soared high. soon as she learned to walk you would find making way for nature. a playful, whimsical child that could not be contained to a room.
  
  Evelynne was a child of a one night fling. a hushed promise for more. though that more never came. her father never came back after boarding back on the ship he came. her mother always had hoped he would return. always looked to the sea with expectant gaze. though by the time Evelynne was 5, her mother seemed to accept the reality he would never return. the didn't stop her from raising Evelynne with all the love she could give. Evelynne was her joy. in return, her mother was her whole world. it was the two of them against the world.
  
  her childhood was uneventful truly. she spent her days exploring the nature of the canals, feeling the sun on her face and grass at her feet. the evenings she returned home and helped her mother with cooking, chores, whatever needed to be done. they would sleep and the next day would come, a repeat of the day before. it truly was a peaceful life and Evelynne would never have traded it for anything. no fortune or promise. no title or land.
  
  the evening of her mother's birthday had been the turning point in their lives. the two were walking along the water line, singing as they often did. a melody sweet to the ear. songs of joy and charm. their voices carried along the wind, reaching the ears of nearby men. those men being rather infamous pirates. her mother told her to run. and she did, hand in hand with her mother. until her mother fell. her mother kept yelling for her to go. to keep running. she couldn't bring her feet to move. how could she leave her mother behind? the group that had taken them was small, and used the the women as tribute to a larger pirate group. apparently having owed them a debt. a new life for Evelynne began that day.
  
  she had just turned 15 that year.
  
  life on the ship was not as bad as it could have been. her and her mother were treated better under them than under their kidnappers. that doesn't mean they were pampered. they were put to work just as if they were part of the crew. they were viewed as such, just another part of the crew. no special treatment, nor was their cruel treatment. they simply just became workers on the ship.
  
  time passed and while she craved the touch of land beneath her feet, Evelynne found she didn't mind the sea to much. she still woke at dawn to the ray of sunlight on her face, and wind in her hair. she worked hard as any other on the ship. it had, in a way, become her second home. weeks blended into months, and months into years. her mother seemed to adjust to the change as well. falling in love with a man on the ship. if her mom was happy, she found that she too was happy. no matter how much she might have missed the nature of the canals.
  
  she was 19 when their ship, their home, fell under siege of the royal navy. a long tiresome battle ended with the pirate's loss. many passed on in the battle, those that lived were taken prisoner. more died on the navy ship. her mother had been on of those few that passed. it broke her. she didn't have time to grieve. she wasn't allowed that. it wasn't long that they arrived to Zenith. their arrival to the capital had been a spectacle. the guards boasted of the capture. showing off the prisoners like some proof of victory against piracy. like trophies. prizes to display.
  
  as it happened, a wealthy man who had just become a Lord, took interest in Evelynne. bribed first bribed the guards for a moment alone with her. asked her name to which she only gave her first. she would never let anyone take the name her mother and she shared from her. he made himself seem like a savior. she was a fool that let herself believe it. he ended up paying the guards a lot of coin to have them 'let her go into his care.'
  
  he had promised her freedom. truly he had moved her from a cage of rust to a cage of gold. he claimed her as the new Miss Lovett. his mistress. a wife. his family protested but to no avail. they claimed her be a witch. a siren. truth be told she was neither a witch nor siren. a song bird at best. a canary that sang at the command of others. much like the ones that miners used in caves. she lost the heart of her songs the moment her mother died.
  
  the young Lord tried to get her to fall in love with him. he was kind in his own way. she saw him as nothing more as her captor. the more she rejected his 'kindness and love' the more out bursts he had. the Lovett family treated her horribly and the members of high society always hurled sugar coated venom her way. she had no one to rely on.
  
  6. long. years. that's how long she was trapped there. yanked around at the whim of a young lord, having learned to either put up with his wishes or suffering worse. when he wasn't around she was either ignored or commanded like a servant. she felt trapped in that house and wished everyday for freedom.
  
  when news arrived that there had been an accident she never held her breath more. the news of the young lord's death was a wave of relief to her. she knew the Lovett's wouldn't keep her anymore with their son gone. she felt she would finally be free. until she fell ill the next day. suspected of being with child, the Lovett's ordered a doctor. when it was announced she indeed, was pregnant, the Lovett's had her locked into her room. they made it clear that she wasn't allowed to leave until the child was born. half 'bastard' it might be, but it was still their only son's child too.
  
  Evelynne fought day and night with them. wanting to have the child as her own. she may have resented the father of the child, cut she knew how much her mother loved her. she wanted to be the same kind of mother to her baby too. the Lovett's didn't change their mind. they were adamant they would keep the child and "would be so kind as to give her the freedom she had wanted so bad".
  
  given she was already far along, it wasn't much longer till it was time. the doctors cared little about her well-being. only the baby boy. soon as he was born, he was taken away. even despite Evelynne's cries of protest. it was a miracle both the boy and mother survived. even more so that Evelynne managed to recover from it. they had treated her like an animal. maybe even worse. she had rope marks on her wrists for days after the childbirth.
  
  they kept her in that same room as she recovered before giving her a ultimatum. she would board the leviathan with the ticket the young Lord had planned to give her as a 'gift' or she would be thrown to the streets of Zenith. where she disappear like smoke. she got the message plain as day. board the ship or be disposed of. she chose the ship. hoping to gather the resources and power to one day take back her son from the cruel Lovett's.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  extra.

  
  

  click

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  misc.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  head canons.

  
  
  

  ✧ favorite flower is lavender.
  ✧ relaxes when given a 'peace offer' of a sweet treat. particularly small sweets such as cookies.
  ✧ will not wear bracelets or anything around her wrists.
  ✧ grimaces every time she is called 'Evelynne Lovett' or 'Miss Lovett'
  ✧ sleep walks often. it's gotten worse after the child birth. she may sleep walk around the ship muttering to herself about 'they took my son'. people think she has gone crazy.
  ✧ tba

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  reputation.

  
  
  

  high society may know her as the mistress of young Lord Lovett. they either do not care about her, or drag her name through mud. words such as "Lord Lovett could do so much better than a criminal." it doesn't bother her anymore and she doesn't try to correct them. she learned her lesson the first time.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  why did she board? Is she aboard legally?

  
  
  

  a ticket shoved into her hand, she has no choice really. it's either board the ship or risk being killed in the capital. as much as she wants to stay and try to take back her son, she can't do so if she's dead. her ticket is real, not faked nor stolen. the late young Lord Lovett had bought two tickets. hoping to woo her with a trip. even if she told him she didn't want to be on the boat. even now, she's being forced onto the ship by her 'parents-in-law', at least now she doesn't have to board with unwanted company.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  opinion on royalty?

  
  
  

  resents them. royalty. the cruel nobles. high society. all of them. how they have treated her since capture has left her wounded and taught her that she is not as forgiving as she thought herself to be. while there are some kind nobles she will make exceptions for, the crown is not one. neither is the Lovett family. If they were pronounced tomorrow, she would not care one bit.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  opinion on piracy?

  
  
  

  call it doubles standards all you want, but she is actually okay with piracy within reason. she loathes the crew that kidnapped her and her mother. though besides the kidnapping, the pirates treated her better than nobles ever did.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  what do the cards speak of for her future?

  
  
  

  i would love for her to grow back into the person she was. learn how to grieve and process all that she has lost. perhaps learn the strength to stand on her own feet. to form meaningful relationships built on trust. both friendships and found family. overall want her to finally learn how to be free again and have hope. hopefully gather the strength she needs to get back her son.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  bag of bones

  
  

  
  
  
  

  mitski

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡