Realistic or Modern 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 ; the fabled

[miyabi]

scroll

Cruel

TORI AMOS

I

the

Dossier

the dossier

SHEET

Name:

A.K.A.:

Fable/Urban Legend: (again, remember that this will be the “villain” of the tale or legend)

Age: (what their glamour presents them as; 21+ — note that they’ve likely been alive for centuries)

Gender:

Orientation:

Occupation: (Fits within the modern-day occupations; some orthodox, some unorthodox.)

Residence: Heaven’s End, Red Heights, or Grimm Ward

Appearance: description or faceclaim.

Personality: list or a few paragraphs.

History: (keep in mind the villain title of fable or legend; however, this does not mean that they are the bad guy. They’ve likely been framed/misunderstood/etc. Fables in fablebrooke still will see them as such, though.)

Magic item: if applicable, this item will not be in the hands of your fable; instead, it is hidden in The Pit.

XVIII

the

fables

the truth

Everybody knows the story of Sleeping Beauty.

Put to sleep due to a grudge, they always lament; due to the evil fairy's envy, heart too heavy to spare even a young girl. But what if really was to protect her from something worse - something that only slumber could keep at bay?

Or the wicked sea witch, tearing out a mermaid's song and voice. Perhaps there was some part of the deal that was not mentioned, exchanged words that are conveniently left out?

The blood on the big, bad wolf's paws might not have been that of a red-caped girl. If only somebody had asked him first.

It doesn't matter. Nobody ever asks.

These stories are often twisted; lies that are projected to save the face of the heroes in them.

When Hansel and Gretel came across that witch's home, it was for ill-intent, their greed proceeding them as she took them in selflessly. The queen of hearts, it is said she is the evil that kept wonderland plundered into their fears; but she had gone mad, the work of Alice and the hatter. It is only when cruel words adorn your name, that the world sees your story as the truth.

That's all you are to them - a monster, a villain, something grotesque that drags souls screaming into the night. An outline of a shape to scare children to bed. A shadow to be hated, feared - and oh do they fear you still, even in their gold-lined houses and behind delicately built fences. You are left to haunt the streets now, the parts of Fablebrooke everybody else forgot. Or wants to forget.

III

the

rules

the rules

i. Due to the content of this roleplay, you must be 18+ in order to participate!

ii. Bigotry and ooc drama will not be tolerated; we aim to make this a safe space and will not allow for persons to be uncomfortable due to another player.

iii. please be able to post at least once per week. With this, there is a TWO PARAGRAPH MINIMUM. We understand that life gets in the way, but please inform us first before dropping or disappearing!

iv. This roleplay is NOT first come first served, there will be an application and decision making process!

v. Note that this roleplay will in fact have depictions of violence, gore, and other such topics that, again, are not suitable for younger audiences and for those who cannot handle such topics.

Fablebrooke

When the fables had to flee the Woodlands, it was only a matter of time before they had to find another home before completely wiping off the face of the earth. So they’ve ended up here, tucked somewhere in Chicago with their small community—at war with each other, losing their riches, everything they’ve ever known.

There are pieces of the Woodlands to look back on, slowly fading with the test of time. And with this, their Tree of Life at the epicenter of Fablebrooke, it is the only magic left that keeps their blood pumping.

Tree of Life

Life holds its place in its roots and takes hold of the leaves that slowly wither. A fickle thing; it changes with the paces of life, ever green and bright in this small town of darkness. The Tree of Life follows the lifelines of Fablebrooke’s citizens, shares the centuries of heartbeats that only now seem to fade away. With the deaths in Fablebrooke, the Tree is slowly dying; its demise follows Fablebrooke’s fate as it slowly inches towards its own decay.

Mirror, Mirror...

Some things cannot be revealed, once again... these lips are sealed. Rhymes and riddles, reams of information condensed into the reflecting shards of the Magic Mirror. There are, however, limitations to his power: how the mirror may only reveal the moment in which they are living--only a clue of their location, but never the exact. It is known in Fablebrooke that the mirror is broken, missing shards dealt by the hand of unknown persons; place the pieces back together and heed its wonder.

Glamour Spells

Lips red as rose, hair black as ebony; use this spell to conceal against the enemy. Glamour Spells are simple, the tie between passing amongst the ordinaries and keeping non-human appearances at bay. But everything comes with a price—as expensive as they are, they are required in order to live in Fablebrooke so not to disturb its image. Just like any market, there are counterfeits—often bought from witches rather than Fablebrooke Officials.

The Pit

Leaving everything behind was not just a personal tragedy - it was tearing your own identity out of your hands.

Everything you brought with you, anything magical was at risk; it matters not that you had it since birth or that it was left to you by a fairy godmother, or that it was the only thing connected to your life before. The human world is dangerous in the ways the deep dark woods never were and the magic in your items would have slowly rusted away.

So you hid them.

A crypt, sprawling in the depths of the city - how long ago it was, that you were there. All you own from your previous life lives on there, waiting only for you to return.

It was long ago, yes. The crypt's entrance has long crumbled into itself and you have not yet found a new way in, no matter how much you want to. Your magic lies somewhere in the dark, primal ground, perhaps under your very feet as you walk the city - with no way go find it again.

But it is an old city indeed. Perhaps there are still paths people have yet to walk.

The Ordinaries

Regular humans, the ones who think of your stories as mere tales to raise children with. Here for one blink and gone the next, with their may-fly lives - you've seen enough of them to know that they're utterly without magic and knowledge. And for the best of you all, it needs to stay that way.

The Districts

Fablebrooke has been made up of various districts, all defining its inhabitants. From the Rich of Heaven's End to the wanderers of the Grimm Ward and the seedy nights of the Red Heights; each fable has found their homes in either one of these areas.

Heaven's End

Sparkling, expensive and a place you can't enter without a dress that's worth more than a family's rent. The highest point of Fablebrooke, lined with secure penthouses and sleepy mansions - the cement never cracks here. Only the most prestigious of the Fables live here. **note that, for the most part, the inhabitants of Heaven's End are the princes, princesses, kings, queens, and heroes that have kept their status; though there aren't that many. while a "villain" fable is able to live there, it is unlikely; and very much unwelcomed by the other residents.

Red Heights

A sticky hand, smudged eyeshadow, bleeding nose of a district; addicting like the cheapest drug and just as dangerous. Filled with neon lights, over-trashed alleyways and anything for the right price, it's the club-house of Fablebrooke. The parties never seem to quite die out here and neither do the residents.

Grimm Ward

Abandoned, like a babe by a cruel step-mother, Grim Ward stands. At one point it must have been a bustling industrial zone; now only crumbling apartment buildings and yawning warehouses stand in the echo of memories. This is the disctrict where Fables go to be forgotten - or to forget.

♡design by terrorkitty, coded by uxie♡

​

UNCODED CS HERE!

​

Name:

A.K.A.:

Fable/Urban Legend: (again, remember that this will be the “villain” of the tale or legend)

Age: (what their glamour presents them as; 21+ — note that they’ve likely been alive for centuries)

Gender:

Orientation:

Occupation: (Fits within the modern-day occupations; some orthodox, some unorthodox.)

Residence: Heaven’s End, Red Heights, or Grimm Ward

Appearance: description or faceclaim. this is the appearance they have when using glamours; if your character has a "monster/beast/inhuman" form, feel free to add those details in as well.)

Personality: list or a few paragraphs.

History: (keep in mind the villain title of fable or legend; however, this does not mean that they are the bad guy. They’ve likely been framed/misunderstood/etc. Fables in fablebrooke still will see them as such, though.)

Magic item: if applicable, this item will not be in the hands of your fable; instead, it is hidden in The Pit.

 

[demonology]

HERO

guinevere .

the adulterer.

♡coded by uxie♡

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: Hero Monet
𝐀.𝐊.𝐀.: just H
𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄: Guinevere from The Knights of Camelot
𝐀𝐆𝐄: appears twenty-nine
𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑: closeted non-binary (she/her pronouns for now)
𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: closeted queer.
𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: freelance illustrator

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄: Heaven’s End
DETAILS: Tucked away into the corner of Claude’s estate, Hero is all but a prisoner, squirreled away day after day in her ex-husband’s guest cottage. On the estate, only a few hundred feet from her home, is the cathedral. To her right is an expanse of greenery, a verdant forest she gets lost in and remembers the days when she was not royalty, when she was a peasant who once was accused of witchcraft. Inside, her cottage is decorated simply, though if she had a choice, it would overflow with color. Between gauzy curtains and hand-made doilies are pots of flowers she’s nurtured from birth herself. There are very few items in her home indicative of her personality — such as her drafting desk or her collection of twinkly lights. On her lavender comforter lies her cat, Bea.

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄: Played by Poppy. Bleached-blonde hair that she has redone every four weeks like clockwork, yet she doesn’t do anything with it. It remains stick-straight, often a greasy mess against her scalp. Her brown eyes are piercing, yielding so much anguish. It is unclear what the nature of that anguish is. Her body is lithe, but not by choice — Claude monitors her figure. Otherwise, she’d care very little and be a bit more thick around the middle. Her nails are always done, but often chipped as she does a lot of work with her hands.

In terms of style, Hero dresses quite feminine — once again, not by choice. She prefers flowy fabrics of pastel shades and creamy cottons. A circlet adorns her neck. A wire-craft A sat next to a similarly forged G. Sewn to the inside of her dressing gown is the metal L she left behind long ago.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘: bullet points bc I’m lazy

• Lacks life experience; hasn’t really made many decisions for herself and thus goes along with whatever she thinks people want her to do; a people pleaser with a fawn response
• Models her personality after the strongest one in the room; ironic because she used to be extremely decisive; a leader; people would look to her to model themselves after her because she was such a force.
• Nit-picks on people; grammar police
• Worries about her own physical appearance despite not wanting to care
• Has a complex about goodness; wants to do good and be good but this often doesn’t come easy to her or is seemingly less straightforward than she thinks
• An artist; she does illustrations for book covers and other freelance work; it is one of the few things that brings her joy and allows her to contemplate
• Despite the fact that she thinks she has a hard time being kind, it comes quite naturally to her. Always gives compliments (terrible at taking them); good with children and animals
• Loves a good puzzle; spring is her favorite season

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘: bullet points again

• Unlike the fable as it is known now, Guinevere wasn’t always of Noble birth. She was born out of wedlock to a lord and his mistress. Her mother and she lived in the woods as peasants for most of her young life. She began traveling with Lance and Arthur and the other knights as political strife broke out between the non-believers and those most allegiant to God’s will. She served as a poet, a musician, and an artist amongst the knights, known for her piety and simple-living that was emblematic of what a proper woman of the period should be. She was a bit like (stay with me) Phyllis Schlafly or like Joan of Arc for her era; she was thought to be a better leader than Arthur himself at times.
• The fable from there aligns with the story told today: Arthur asked her hand in marriage. She was crowned as Queen once the war ended and he sat upon the throne. He wouldn’t have made it without her and Lance, who had become a trio of best friends throughout the years. As the folktale will tell it today, she was a greedy, maligned woman, power hungry. She manipulated both men with her feminine charms. It was not Lancelot’s fault that he chose sin, yet the same cannot be said of false-pure Guin. She betrayed her king. This was on par with betraying God.
• Most of that is true, she’ll admit — besides the part where she was power hungry. It was dear Arthur, who abused her and shied away any and all affection she had unless it was otherwise convenient or wanted. She was a woman locked in a gilded cage, and there was Lancelot. Kind Lance who thought they were freeing their country from a moral less tyrant, only for his best friend to end up in the same place. They found comfort in one another. They found the remains and ash of that old friendship, the one that sustained them for years on end. It was a single kiss — if it had been on the hand or even the cheek, Arthur would not have even batted an eye. But it was a dirty, dour thing spent in the dark, damp corner of a turret. That’s where Guinevere has remained ever since.
• For Hero, there are two truths: her own and the one Arthur – now known as Claude – holds. Lancelot’s does not matter — their whereabouts are known only to Claude. To this day, Hero cannot resolve which is the truth: was she innocent or an adulterer? It was not — is not — her fault that she cannot bear Claude a child, that she doesn’t even want to. Women today, in this world, are not symbols of a man’s bravery, fortitude, fealty, of their holiness as projected through the female form. She is not a whore because she did not love his cruelty or mania. But she is still impure, is she not? Believe it or not, centuries of religious zealotry and gender rules are hard to unlearn.
• For most of her life, Hero has been under Claude’s lock and key. She supposes she is lucky to be alive. In theory, she is supposed to prove herself worthy once more and take up her position as his wife again. But, despite everything, this has little appeal. She got into this mess — became the villain of this tale — because she was trapped and sought any light she could. Until Claude changes, she cannot change. It hasn’t even occurred to her that there could be another option (actual freedom).
• Until recently. She’s been let loose from her cage, unguarded, for the first time in forever. Of course, she’s been a woman about town before, but not on her own. Claude, for reasons indiscernible, has cut Hero a deal: go out, find Lancelot, and bring him back. If she does this, she will be free forever. If she does not, and she fails to return in the time frame given, Claude and his Knights will hunt her until the ends of the earth.

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐌: the ring . . . the mythic object she once bestowed upon her true love, deflecting any and all enchantments.
A description from Merlin’s notes: It laps up high with its staunch edges, sipping like the spring from whence your love dredges.

𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑:

• pinterest [ X ]
• My goal w/ Hero is to explore the “woman trapped in a gilded cage” trope but like what happens when she actually leaves the cage, how she ended up in such a situation in the first place, etc. I’m most interested in seeing her refind and refine herself — who is she without the men around her?

 

[miyabi]

Felix
Abney

The Fiend

click

full name & fable.

Felix Abney a.k.a Grendel (Beowulf)

age.

appears to be thirty-two years old

species.

human-presenting; monster

gender.

cis-male

orientation.

pansexual

residence.

grimm ward

occupation.

archivist at the fablebrooke library

faceclaim.

kim jihoon(

x

)

Suddenly then
the God-cursed brute was creating havoc;
greedy and grim, he grabbed thirty men
from their resting places and rushed to his lair,
flushed up and inflamed from the raid,
blundering back with the butchered corpses.

An ironic thing: how Beowulf was declared the hero as he sought out eradication; how he hunted, bloodthirsty and yearning for another stream of crimson. Peace had been taken, an entire village of giants — or, rather, beasts — muddled into the ground, becoming piles of waste. Though his purge, a seemingly successful venture, had become crueler than death itself.

Grendel, a final survivor, branded a beast born from the everlasting pools of destruction. He who is left alone, isolated, to mourn the loss of what he’d known; he who simply wanted to see what those smaller than him saw; curious, docile, never evil — and perhaps that is what brought upon the destruction. Had someone seen him? He chose blame, drifting into the voice of sorrow as he continued on — secluded. Maybe his actions had led to this lasting dread, the curiosity and fascination; he is why they are dead, and thus, he must reap the consequence.

How painful it must be to be branded a beast, to be hunted by villages as they are fed lies — indulging in them. To watch as they search, harass, leave him to his fears; he is nothing but the shell of himself, touched by desolation. Who knew that one man’s words could influence the minds of many? Wretched things humans were, bloodthirsty animals, hungry for the next kill without just reason.

The turmoil of it all is that he began to believe the lies, too.

As they found his home, burned it and him with it; the ripping of flesh, it seethes, stings — he feels the perforation of his body. What had he done to deserve this? Was it a crime to be enthralled by the complexities of man? Was his existence the highest form of punishment? Why?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

He hears it, feels the warmth of it; rivulets of red, a sticky feeling. Though his vision, clouded, blurry, peppered with anguish. Claws rip flesh to ribbon, the air putrid and salty; his breaths are hastened, no — he could barely utter a singular tune of it. A strained stirring of wind, it shares the story: one of fear that had lingered far into hatred. He could not stop himself, he wouldn’t. Even as the screams of horror surrounded him, even as his skin tore bit by bit from dull pitchforks, his claws bare further into the stomach of a stranger.

This is the beast they wanted to see, the one that they had created; one push, that is all it took.

steda nægla gehwylc stýle gelícost
haéþenes handsporu hilderinces
egl unhéoru aéghwylc gecwæð
þæt him heardra nán hrínan wolde
íren aérgód, þæt ðæs áhlaécan
blódge beadufolme onberan wolde

Every nail, claw-scale and spur, every spike
and welt on the hand of that heathen brute
was like barbed steel. Everybody said
there was no honed iron hard enough:
to pierce him through, no time proofed blade
that could cut his brutal blood caked claw

thus i fled

✦

 

[orpheus.]

-placeholder-
Count Dracula​

 

[SavannahSmiles]

scroll

use right arrow key to scroll

❝

You are shaking fists and trembling teeth. I know: you did not mean to be cruel. That does not mean you were kind.

Näcken

full name

Sascha Voss

aka

The Drowned, The Man in the Lake, He Who Sings

urban legend

Näcken from Germanic mythology and folklore

age

Appears to be 23

gender

Male | He/Him

sexuality

Gay

occupation

Music Tutor

residence

Grimm Ward

Origin

Neoni

01.

A thousand eyes they see all the worst in me

height

5'2" (157 cm)

weight

110 lbs (50 kg)

Glamour Appearance

A fair young man of slender build, with long silvery hair that trails to his waist and piercing blue eyes, with smooth pale skin that is without blemish.

Monster Appearance

His fair skin takes on a shine that glimmers in the light when he moves, as if he is being viewed from under water. His movements become graceful and lithe, like a predator stalking its prey. Though his eye color remains the same, his pupils become slits and his hair moves ethereally as if floating through water. His smiles turn sharp, revealing pointed teeth and his fingers become tipped with claws perfect for rending flesh from bone.

faceclaim

Hakken on Twitter/Instagram

02.

A thousand nights I've spent counting all my sins

Sascha hides his fragile heart behind sharp words and cold glances. He is terrified of falling in love again only to lose them like he lost Engel, so he pushes everyone away. Loosing someone can't hurt him if he didn't have them to begin with. But deep down, underneath the pain and anguish lies a broken man that desperately wants a connection with someone.

likes

answer

dislikes

answer

fears

Falling in love again and loosing then like he lost his first love.

03.

Is redemption out of reach? Is this all I'll ever be?

~ Sascha lived in his pond deep in the woods, it was a peaceful if boring existence
~ The rumors of a creature that feasted on human flesh kept the humans away from him, until one day one man braved the fearful whispers and went searching for this 'beast'
~ At first Sascha was cold towards Engel in an attempt to drive the man away but he kept coming back and slowly, Sascha felt the ice around his heart beginning to crack
~ He fell into love before he knew it and the two shared their first kiss under a clear night, only the stars their witness
~ But his dreams of a life with the man he loved shattered like glass upon flagstones
~ Blood tainted his water and his wail echoed through the forest, fingers grasping at Engel's lifeless form left on the banks of his pond, murdered by the townsfolk for fornicating with a monster
~ Sascha took up the violin that he used to play music for Engel and poured his rage and anguish into a song, his voice joining the melody in a haunting cry
~ One by one he lured the villagers to his pond and by the time the sun crested the horizon, the water was full of bodies
~ Sascha carried his lovers still form away from the carnage and buried him on a hill where he would always have a clear view of the stars
~ The rumors of the massacre followed Sascha as he wandered through the world, townsfolk fleeing at the sight of him.
~ It wasn't his first choice to settle down in Fablebrooke but it was the first place that didn't immediately chase him away with torches and pitchforks

04.

Laying down my past I scream, this is not the end of me

05.

So this is my origin, can't take back who I've been

Engel Voss

Sascha's first love and one he lost all too soon. His dreams are haunted by Engel's lifeless eyes gazing unseeingly up at the stars he loved, his pale fingers clutching a carved pendant that Sascha wears hidden underneath his clothes.

character name

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character name

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character name

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06.

But it's where I start again

magic item

His violin, the one that lured so many humans to their deaths. He relinquished it gladly, unable to bear the sight of the pair of initials carved onto the back.

aesthetics

hello

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

MICAH

eve

the first human

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[BuggaBoo]

Withdrawn.

 

[birth of venus]

LA LLORONA

Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Seńor es contigo...

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[noxrequiem]

the barghest
scroll.

Profile

NAME: Ciaran Conroy; a.k.a. the Barghest

FOLKLORE: Omen- Black Dog

AGE: Appears early to mid 30s in human form

GENDER: Male

ORIENTATION: Asexual panromantic

OCCUPATION: [WIP]

RESIDENCE: [WIP]

Appearance

DESCRIPTION: [WIP]



FACE CLAIM: Chris Cornell [X]

Personality

TRAITS

[WIP]

History

Other

Ciaran Conroy

coded by xayah.ღ

***WIP***​

 

[noxrequiem]

mordred
scroll.

Profile

NAME: Morgan Clement, a.k.a. Sir Mordred

FOLKLORE: Arthurian Legend

AGE: Appears 24

GENDER: Cis-male

ORIENTATION: Bisexual

OCCUPATION: Bouncer at The Looking Glass

RESIDENCE: Red Heights

Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

Morgan is tall and lanky, with a sinewy frame of tight muscle, suggesting a martial prowess of grace and finesse earned through hard physical activity. His features are sharp as a blade, and his pale skin is often marred by scrapes and bruises. Blue-grey eyes are sunken deep into his face, the same gloom as the sky before the storm breaks– the most striking similarity to his father, yet far more melancholic and distant. Thick, curly raven locks cascade messily from the top of his head, the ends of the strands often casting shadows over the severe lines of his face and darkening his eyes. Handsome, but a cold chill personified.

Morgan dresses like a punk disaster, completely in line with his delinquent persona. His chainmail of old has been swapped with a tough leather jacket; tall leather riding boots updated with the more modern heavy set of motorcycle boots. Soft flannels, ripped denim, clunky silver jewelry– all in a dark color palette. The prettyboy image wouldn’t be complete without the inclusion of some light makeup, usually in the form of dark charcoal lazily smudged under his eyes.

Morgan’s skin is branded with a handful of notable tattoos:
* The solid silhouette of a trio of ravens in flight along the line of his right collarbone.
* An intricate, stylized symbol of the sun, reminiscent of a flare of light. There are sixteen points, four of which are larger than the others like the cardinal directions of a compass. It is situated in the center of his abdomen.
* An anatomical bleeding heart skewered by three swords on his left wrist. Those who are observant enough might recognize that the swords are those belonging to Arthur, Mordred, and Lancelot: Excalibur, Clarent, and Aroundight respectively.
* A black serpent wrapped around his right calf, seemingly sinking its poisoned fangs into his skin.

FACE CLAIM: John Supnik [X]

Personality

Morgan Clement is naught but a shadow of his former self.

Once upon a time, he had been the shining ideal of a chivalrous, noble knight: fair, humble, and just. At court, he was known for his thoughtfulness and charming wit; on the battlefield, it was his honorable actions and calm bravery. The young knight was a hopeful idealist, and this made him beloved by many. He was one of the rare few who could truly be called pure of heart.

But even the brightest of flames can be snuffed.

Morgan’s ideals made him naive; and that naivety made him the perfect scapegoat. Whispers were abound, rumors and sabotage over time warping perceptions of him. Once known to be gentle and pure, he was now said to be violent and lascivious. His trust and honor took hit after hit, until it all collapsed before him like a house of cards. Everyone in his life had turned their back on him, leaving a knife buried in his own as they did. Shattered and broken to pieces, he became disillusioned with the life he led and the heroes he had looked up to. Grim with determination, he picked himself up from his fall from grace, still clinging onto his ideals with white-knuckled desperation– they were all he had left. If that made him a villain, then so be it.

Today, the Morgan Clement of Fablebrooke is a far cry from the noble Sir Mordred of Camelot. The hurt and betrayal has never healed, festering within him. This has warped him into an angry and spiteful person, unable to trust and open up to those around him. He is much like a kicked puppy; a beaten-within-an-inch-of-his-life, stabbed-in-the-back kicked puppy.

His inability to healthily cope with everything that has happened to him has led him to indulge in various vices and substances to numb the pain– and by extension, numb his true self. The one aspect of his personality that has remained untouched is his charm and wit, which has given him a bit of a bad-boy flirt reputation– despite the fact he never initiates himself (he will shamelessly reciprocate, however).

Temperamental and cynical on the surface, there is an undeniable melancholy and air of apathy beneath that is hard to ignore. He is someone who has been so viciously beaten down by life that he has all but given up. Despite the “I don’t give a fuck” attitude he protectively wears like a suit of armor, deep down he can’t stop caring with every inch of his big, bleeding heart.

History

Morgan Clement’s fate was never his own.

Better known to myth and legend as Sir Mordred, he was the bastard son of King Arthur. The two would not truly meet face-to-face until Mordred’s early teens whereupon he was taken back to Camelot and sworn as squire to Sir Lancelot, finest knight of the Round Table, and Arthur’s closest friend. Mordred’s true identity was kept hushed, only Arthur and Lancelot privy to the truth of the boy’s heritage.

[WIP]

Magic Items

* Clarent: If Excalibur was the blazing light of the shining sun, Clarent was the long shadow it casted upon the ground. The opposing twin to King Arthur’s sword of legend, Clarent is a bastard sword of glittering dark metal, beautifully created with the finest of details and craftsmanship. Forged with powerful enchantments, the edge seemingly never dulls and the wounds it inflicts are most wicked–unable to be healed at all except by the most powerful of magics. A weapon of such power requires immense care and responsibility, so very few are considered worthy enough to wield this blade to its full potential.

Morgan Clement

coded by xayah.ღ

​

 

[iridescent.]

surrounded by idiots

xoxo

nero kraisee

scar

reveriee ©

• .
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• 04

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  general

  scar

  full name

  nero kraisee

  aka

  (taka) scar

  fable

  the lion king

  age

  appears in his mid-twenties

  gender

  male

  sexuality

  pansexual

  i'm surrounded by idiots

  occupation.

  bartender, exotic dancer and part-time model.
  

  

  residence

  has an apartment in both red heights and grimm ward since he works in both locations
  

  
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  visage

  01

  scar

  ht

  5'11"

  wt

  145lbs

  hair

  quite long and jet black, it is either left untouched to frame his face or is slicked/combed back using a liberal amount of hair wax or gel. he takes great pride in his hair.

  eyes

  a molten chocolate brown that’s easy to get lost in but you probably don’t want to do that.

  dist. feat.

  a large, jagged scar directly over his left eye. he’s long since accepted the stares he receives whenever he walks past people and now goes out of his way to accentuate the scar with makeup or jewels.

  true form

  when not using a glamour, nero is an absolutely gigantic lion. outfitted with golden brown fur, a dark brown mane and liquid honey eyes, he can honestly be considered cute. however, razor sharp teeth and huge paws with long, sharp claws may say otherwise. having grown up as a lion, using a glamour was very strange and he only spent a few hours using one. now, however, its been years since he last was in his true form.

  style

  almost all of his clothes are some shade of black and it is very rare to see him in any sort of color. if one does happen to catch him in a color, it's most likely red. his closet is filled mainly with black jeans, black and/or white shirts and leather jackets.

  mods

  both of his ears are pierced and he’s often seen sporting dangly earrings. to “pay tribute to his true form”, nero has a black & gold tattoo of a lion on his forearm.

  fc

  "bible" wichapas sumettikul
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  • fillersss
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  • likes & dislikes

    misc

    likes

    reading. solitude. quiet. libraries. taking cat naps. fancy cars. expensive liquor. black clothing. leather. the smell of the earth after rain. summer. dancing. photography..

    dislikes

    nosy people. waking up early. loud noises. crowds. showing emotion. liars. fires. mornings. jelly donuts. laziness. backtalk. house cats. strong smells.
  • likes & dislikes

    misc

    hobbies

    
    modeling. dancing. taking photos. reading.
    

    

    habits

    
    runs his hands through his hair when he's nervous. licks his lips constantly. yawns a lot.
    

    

    fears

    
    ghosts. failure. people getting too close to him. lots of blood. spiders (don't tell anyone).
    

    

    fun facts

    
    - goes by both taka and nero
    - writes with his right hand but does everything else left handed
    - has reoccurring nightmares of his brother's death
    - pretends not to care but does. a lot
    - favorite color is green
    - very fast can probably dust you
    - dislikes even numbers
    - not a fan of pain
    - wears contacts during the day and glasses at night
    - knows all the latest music
    - sighs a lot
    - takes him over an hour to fall asleep
    
    

  personality

  those that have talked to nero have often commented on how guarded he is, how they can’t seem to figure him out. and well, that’s sort of the point. he doesn’t want people to figure him out, doesn’t want them to know much about him or his life. secrets should stay secrets.
  
  he has a good reason to be guarded since his life has been absolute shit so far. born as the youngest, the youngest no one gave a damn about, he was left to his own devices and did everything he could do to get the attention he deserved. he became stubborn, obnoxious, impatient and all around reckless, traits that have stuck with him through to present time. but try as he might, the personality change did nothing to get anything changed.
  
  then he discovered all of the corruption in the family and his stubbornness increased tenfold. he point blank refused to participate in it, refused to bow down and abide by his parents ideals. as terrible as he was, nero’s morals just simply didn’t align with theirs.
  
  what they do align with, no one but himself knows. it’s safe to say they don’t align with anything corruption related or power hungry monsters, but other than that, it remains a mystery. that’s him though; a mystery.
  
  some claim that they’re his close friends, but if someone asked him, he’d say he doesn’t have friends. he prefers to keep to himself and doesn’t speak much unless he has to. though he still possesses the stubbornness, impatience and recklessness he had growing up, it only shows itself when he’s annoyed or, and he’ll never admit it, trying to get someone’s attention.
  
  there is, however, another side to him that only appears when he’s working. at work, he puts on a flirty yet indifferent front, a front that somehow manages to draw the intended target in. instead of stubborn, he’s charming. instead of impatient, he’s touchy and complimentary. instead of reckless, he’s grounded and knows what he wants. instead of being nero, he’s someone else.
• history

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  scar

  character name

  Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Etiam in semper risus. Morbi porttitor metus in velit hendrerit, ac ultricies mauris pretium. Aenean sagittis magna non lorem dignissim, in posuere tellus tincidunt. In hac habitasse platea dictumst. Aliquam in consequat libero. Mauris non gravida felis. Sed erat augue, mattis eu fringilla nec, porttitor eu est. Vestibulum vestibulum diam vitae lorem efficitur luctus. Pellentesque sed fermentum dolor. Curabitur sodales arcu sapien, porta mollis sapien vulputate a. Maecenas eu augue vitae tortor molestie scelerisque. Suspendisse quis egestas lacus.

  character name

  Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Etiam in semper risus. Morbi porttitor metus in velit hendrerit, ac ultricies mauris pretium. Aenean sagittis magna non lorem dignissim, in posuere tellus tincidunt. In hac habitasse platea dictumst. Aliquam in consequat libero. Mauris non gravida felis. Sed erat augue, mattis eu fringilla nec, porttitor eu est. Vestibulum vestibulum diam vitae lorem efficitur luctus. Pellentesque sed fermentum dolor. Curabitur sodales arcu sapien, porta mollis sapien vulputate a. Maecenas eu augue vitae tortor molestie scelerisque. Suspendisse quis egestas lacus.

  character name

  Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Etiam in semper risus. Morbi porttitor metus in velit hendrerit, ac ultricies mauris pretium. Aenean sagittis magna non lorem dignissim, in posuere tellus tincidunt. In hac habitasse platea dictumst. Aliquam in consequat libero. Mauris non gravida felis. Sed erat augue, mattis eu fringilla nec, porttitor eu est. Vestibulum vestibulum diam vitae lorem efficitur luctus. Pellentesque sed fermentum dolor. Curabitur sodales arcu sapien, porta mollis sapien vulputate a. Maecenas eu augue vitae tortor molestie scelerisque. Suspendisse quis egestas lacus.

  coded by natasha

  the beginning

  born under the name taka, the youngest of two princes, nero knew he was never going to become king. and he was okay with that since the idea of shouldering that kind of responsibility did not appeal to him in the slightest. so, like any prince would do, he explored the land with fellow cubs, tumbled in the brush, tried to hunt a buffalo which resulted in a gash to the face (hence the nickname "scar"), and got into a boatload of trouble.
  
  one might think the youngest child is the one that gets the most attention, is the most spoiled of all the children, but that wasn’t the case with nero. it was all older brother soon-to-be-king fasa that got everything. safe to say nero was all but forgotten. he tried anything and everything to get his parents attention but it was as if he were invisible. nothing he said or did made a dent on their attention, so the young lion gave up.
  
  over the years he was known as the rebel prince, the bad one, the one no one wanted their family to be associated with. did he care? not really. sure it would’ve been nice to have a few friends around but he accepted it for what it was. his royal family wanted nothing to do with him so he was going to do his own thing.

  the middle

  ostracized as he was, he couldn’t help but notice the corruption the rest of the family had sunken into. overcome by an intense thirst for power, they’d fallen into the trap of dishonesty, bribery and greed; anything for money and control. nero decided enough was enough and confronted fasa about it (the older of the princes having followed their parents footsteps), a confrontation that resulted in an intense fight. when the fight ended, the problem remained unsolved and nero walked away with a huge gash over his left eye.
  
  deciding he couldn’t remain here anymore, nero ran off to a different land and laid low for a few years. upon returning to his own kingdom, he discovered his parents had passed away (and fasa denies having been involved with it) and that he also had a nephew—a shocker because who in their right mind would have a child with his older brother? if one expected him to receive a warm welcome after returning to his home, they’re mistaken. the new king and the prince fight even more often than they had before, fasa practically glorifying in the corruption their parents had started.

  the present

  a year after nero returned, the brothers were spotted engaged in an intense argument on some rocks overlooking their kingdom. deciding to end the argument, nero turned and began walking away. fasa went to swipe at him to get him to come back and resume, however, lost his balance and fell over the edge of the rocks. by the time nero got to him, he was dead. though he vehemently denies killing his brother, no one believes him. the brothers couldn’t stand each other, they were fighting again and nero was the last one seen with fasa before he died. of course they’d believe that nero killed him.
  
  so he did the only thing he could think of; he fled for good.
  
  adjusting to the “human” world wasn’t easy. he hated having to wear the glamour, hated having to walk on two legs when he was so used to four. but if it meant living in a world with others like himself, so be it. thankfully for him, the glamour he paid for was pretty good looking so a handful of modeling offers came his way. yet, they weren’t enough to make ends meet so he took up various jobs around town, bartending being his one of choice. and well, if he discovered he had a knack for dancing without clothes on to rake in the cash, no one had to know.

left

 

[jones573]

Name: Lord Nicolas Gorman

a.k.a: Bluebeard

Fable: Bluebeard/Fitcher's Bird

Age: He appears to be in his early to mid thirties.

Gender: Male, uses he/him pronouns

Orientation: Bisexual, though that is not well known. It is certainly his relationships with women that have made him (in)famous.

Occupation: Landlord/real estate developer

Residence: A mansion in Heaven’s End

Magic Item: A large silver key that can unlock any door

Appearance:

A tall man who seems to be of European and East Asian descent, Nicolas is fairly attractive. He has a charming smile, but it rarely makes an appearance. Of particular note is his long dark hair and his beard, which are said to look almost blue in color under certain light. The same was true for his father, and his grandfather before him.

(Faceclaim- Anthony Thornburg.)

Personality:

Lord Gorman is a man of his word- few though they may be- and expects the same of others. When he hires an escort for a night, he pays the price they ask, and always tips. When a rental agreement is signed, he expects it will be followed. When he gives a key and instructions not to open a certain door... He expects that door to stay closed.

He tends to be fairly reserved and does not socialize much. This isn't to say he never goes out- His status as a social pariah does not stop him from going about his life in pursuits of both business and pleasure. He just tends to be alone, or with company he's hired for the night. It's unclear if these habits are due to his ostracism, or are actually his own preferences.

Gorman's reputation and his power in the community as one of the primary property holders has made him into an intimidating figure that few wish to test, but in reality he is slow to true anger. He may snap in verbal frustration when cross, but he rarely takes action against someone without serious consideration first.

History:

Lord Gorman has had seven brides, each younger, more beautiful and more destitute than the last. Only the seventh still lives.

After their wedding, Nicolas gave Anya a large silver key and told her it would unlock any door in her new manor home. She was free to explore as she wished. His office, the library, the conservatory, any of the bedrooms were hers to do with as she pleased. The riches she might find within- golden coins, jewels of all shapes and sizes, priceless artifacts- were hers to spend, save, or give away as she desired. All he asked was that she stay out of one room- The final door, plain and wooden, at the dim end of the cellar hall.

But Anya, like the other brides before her, was a curious woman, and decided she would see what lay beyond the simple door as soon as her new husband was away. Unlike the other brides, however, Anya was wary that she might lose the valuable key and so tied it to a long white hair ribbon and wore it around her neck.

When Lord Gorman left on business, Anya snuck into the cellar and opened the forbidden door. She cried out in shock when the door swung open, and dropped the key. It would have fallen into the pool of blood were it not suspended from her neck.

The room beyond the forbidden door was a ghastly sight, and its contents not fit to repeat. But Anya now knew the rumors that her husband had been married before were true- And she knew what had happened to his wives.

When Lord Gorman returned, he asked Anya to see the silver key he had entrusted to her. Anya had since removed it from its ribbon, and pulled it from her pocket for his inspection. Nicolas saw that there was no blood stain upon it, and smiled at her beneath his dark beard. At last, he thought, he had found a wife that could be trusted.

Over dinner that night, Anya told him of the plants she had observed in the conservatory and the books she had read in the library, and Lord Gorman told her of the people he had met with while on business and the sights he had seen, and presented her with a gift he had bought for her, of a small golden bird with emeralds for eyes, that sung a pretty tune when wound up.

Are you happy here, Lord Gorman asked Anya. Very much so, she replied. Then added wistfully, if only she could see her brothers and her father once more, and assure them of her happiness. This was easily arranged, he told her, and ordered a carriage made ready.

Anya took the carriage the next day, and at every stop she made, she told anyone who would listen what she had seen. By the time she made it back home to her family, half the kingdom knew of Lord Gorman's crimes. But when she, her brothers, and the mob that followed them returned to the Gorman manor and stormed into the basement.... The room behind the plain wooden door was empty of blood, bodies, and all other proof.

The king of the land could not afford to alienate his richest and most powerful noble, and refused to imprison Lord Gorman based only on the word of a peasant girl. But the tale spread regardless, and Lord Gorman's name became synonymous with murder, bloodshed and uxoricide.

Unlike many of those who have been maligned wrongly, Lord Gorman has never protested his innocence, or railed against the injustice of his treatment. Nor has he confessed to the crimes he was accused of. He has simply endured the ostracism and hatred in near solitude. In his current role as landlord to much of Fablebrooke, he has done littel to improve his reputation among his fellow fables, even if he is relatively fair in his dealings. The good opinion of his neighbors, tenants, and larger community does not seem to be of much interest to him.

The truth is a tricky thing, with many sides, but the truth is this: Nicolas Gorman did not kill his wives. He feels the guilt of their deaths all the same.

Writing notes: If your character has a sister/daughter/friend who you would like to have been one of Gorman's dead wives, please let me know- I'm always down to create some pre-existing grudges/drama for characters!

lord of murder

"bluebeard"

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

LAMBERGAR.

the monster tearing vienna apart.

in his defense, if you saw the prices...

♡coded by uxie♡

A.K.A.:

Fable/Urban Legend: Pegam and Lambergar.
Age: Early thirties.

Gender: Cis male. Probably.
Orientation: Bisexual.

Occupation: Officially, a line cook and sometimes server. Unofficially, being nosy doesn't pay.
Residence: Grimm Ward.

Appearance:

Personality:

History: ... 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 ...

The most common, and generally accepted version, is this.

There is some scholarly debate about whether the origins of the story trace back to pre-Christian Slavic belief of a righteous thunder god killing the snake-devil Veles, symbolizing the defeat of spring over winter, or sky over the underearth. There is definitively some inspiration, sure; but most researchers with skin in the game agree that the base came from a historical fight between a Carnolian and Czech knight. Additional Christian faith have been sneaked into the story, turning the natural into a test of faith.

And the story, even with the anonymous tweaks, goes as this.

Pegam is a knight under the emperor. He is loyal, faithful, servant-like. He is called to the emperor's side when


Less often, outside of literature contexts, they are used as an example of dualism in patients with encephalogical injuries; an anxiety of split personality, feeling as though one side is the devoted Pegam and one the monstrous Lambergar.

Magic item:

 

[morcetyx]

Name: Lucien Morgenstern

A.K.A.: Lucifer (He is NOT slick)

Fable/Urban Legend: The fall of Lucifer, Abrahamic Religion (christianity, judaism, etc.)

Age: Presents himself around 24

Gender: Transgender Male (He/Him)

Orientation: Homosexual, though he must feel a deep connection with someone before being attracted to them beyond looks.

Occupation: Server at a seedy restaurant by night, painter by day (he hasn’t touched his brush in months)

Residence: Red Heights

Appearance:
Blonde curls cascade just past his collarbones, the framing layers complimenting his sunken green eyes. Pale skin melts into subtle freckles and dark beauty marks. It is not uncommon to see his hair display new colors and styles throughout the months. High, prominent cheekbones and a prominent bump along the bridge of his nose to match. His stature is small and light, showing subtle hints of muscle under the soft skin. It is not often he smiles outside of work, and even then his smile shows an underlying awkwardness in its use. Luckily customers are much too drunk to notice, or maybe the last thing they are looking at is his smile. Tattooed along his back are eyes melting into black wings, a nod to the past he can’t escape.

Personality:
Burn with a curiosity, a hunger that cannot be filled. A form that once tried to cram itself inside whatever space it could, breaking off pieces of himself as he did. Now, shaved down to the bones that hide in his flesh, he finds the resting soul within him. 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.

He believes he is nothing more than rotting flesh and fragile bones. His kindness says otherwise, but the pleas fall on deaf ears. He cannot see the good he does. He is too focused on the bugs splattered on the window. He is quick to help others, reveling in the feeling it brings only for a moment before shying away from its light. He shies away from others unless it is necessary, finding himself struggling with the simplest of conversations unless it has been planned out extensively. Unable to read between the lies, he requires explicit instructions and invitations to do anything.

He has been taught certain rules over the years, and struggles with the changes in these social workings that he spent years memorizing. Courting has changed from subtle remarks and flowers to lying in bed together. Invitations have gone from beautiful designed cards to a brief passing mention, without so much as a date or time. He finds humanity to be exhausting. Humanity finds him to be odd, different. Not like them. He no longer desires to be like them, yet when he walks into work, he puts on the best smile he can muster and the subtlest flirts one can offer. He does not mean either.

History:
There are countless versions of his story. Each meant to fit someone’s agenda, never to tell the truth. He fell because he loved himself more than God. He fell because he became to prideful. He fell because he wanted the throne. He fell because he wanted to give humanity free will. He fell because he wanted to take free will away. He fell because he went against God’s plan.

He fell because it was God’s plan.

To be born just out of reach of the heavenly glow that he yearned for. To feel the love of his god, only to be rejected at every turn. He was born without father. He was born without mother. To yearn to love. To yearn to be gentle. To yearn to stop his teeth from sinking into the flesh of the ones he loves. He was born filthy. Born fallen. Born to never be seen as pure. He would never be pure. Nothing could wash the blood from his hands. The door had been closed since before he was born. It would never open for him. That did not stop him from desperately clawing at wood until the red had long stained his skin.

His life was never his own. His fate was never his own. Even his body was never his. Maybe that was why he fell, because he had changed something of God’s design. Maybe his change was according to God’s plan as well. He wouldn’t know. He’d never know. Cast from heaven. No god would be able to redeem him. No god would be able to purify him. It was only him and his blackened wings. It had always been that way. Cursed to be alone. Cursed to stain everything he touched. He was free. Did he want to be?

Magic item: He brought nothing but his faith (does he even still have it?)

fallen angel

lucifer

• aaaaaaaaa
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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[GodlyDnD]

Name: Rumpelstiltskin

A.K.A.: Rumpelstiltskin

Fable/Urban Legend: He spins gold for the promise of getting the first born child to take away.

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Orientation: Undetermined

Occupation: He is a weaver, with good skill at that. He travels from place to place with his mobile traveling cart with his weaving equipment, ready for work at weaving desirable items of clothing or other things.

Residence: Grimm Ward

Appearance: He is small such that to some he is like an imp, not much more than just three feet high, with a crooked back, from which he bends a little forward.

Personality: He is suspicious of those who are not familiar to him and he is not skilled at gaining trust, but can become likable to those with whom there is opportunity for more time for him to know them. This has sometimes led to suspicion of him over matters if those are not resolved, and his responses are not generally appropriate and that is not helpful.

History: Estranged from any and all family, as his small stature, affected by a traumatic fall, left him being considered too deformed to be considered equally acceptable to his problematic mother and father, who still catered to wishes of their parents, he fled when he learned he was about to be taken to an institution for undesirables. Rumpelstiltskin found little for any work other than the weaving he had learned when younger from his maternal aunts, which he learned to do really well, and he improved on that as his one reliable source for income, while always watching for whatever looks like good deals that might be offered for his skilled weaving. He wanders about with his cart ready for the most interested prospective customers when he is not already busy with weaving. He made few real friends but any who are friends with him have a rewarding friendship for that.

Magic item: Only any of whatever means there are to spin gold that he has, which is doubtful.

 

[miyabi]

hi everyone!! discord invites will be sent over the weekend. for those who asked for an extension, don’t worry! just let me know when it’s all finished!

 

[monkeydoll555]

hi everyone!! discord invites will be sent over the weekend. for those who asked for an extension, don’t worry! just let me know when it’s all finished!

Gonna need an extension I'm sorry, things have been hectic

 

[miyabi]

Gonna need an extension I'm sorry, things have been hectic

that’s fine! thank you for letting me know, I’m in no rush to get this started!

 

[wowie]

Spoiler: Cotal Ixtlilxochitl Character Form

Name: Cotal Ixtlilxochitl (Snake + Dark Flower)

A.K.A.: Tlatoani Ixtlilxochitl (roughly translates to King Ixtlilxochitl, ‘Tlatoani’ denotes royalty), Cotal (close cabinet and friends)

Fable/Urban Legend: (again, remember that this will be the “villain” of the tale or legend): Tlahuelpuchi

• Aztec vampire, likely adopted from European folklore. The Tlahuelpuchi are a species largely recorded as women but have been known to contain some men and are not transformed but rather born cursed. Traditionally they feed off of the blood of humans, preferably infants, and possess powers of transformation. They're undetectable to humans, unless caught, but possess a glowing ring of light to other supernatural creatures/shamans. Finally, to enter a victim’s house forcibly they must transform themselves into a bird and fly over in a cross pattern (can be bypassed with explicit permission).

Age: 25 (Was born in 1475, 10 years prior to Hernan Cortez’ arrival in the Aztec city-states)

Gender: Male

Orientation: Pansexual

Occupation: Owner of 'Oro' (High end luxury fashion house to both humans and fables; additionally provides contractual labor of both physical/magical to Fables of Heaven's End, anything for the right price)

Residence: Heaven’s End

Spoiler: House Ref

Pardon our dust! Unfinished part discovered, check back soon!

Appearance:

• Cotal stands at 5’8 ft with 2B curls (usually slicked back), dressed rather simply with a silk shirt and culottes paired with a rotating array of jewelry pieces. This stands in stark contrast to his royal attire of brightly patterned cloth of various animal fur paired with textiles (gold/silver/copper/cotton/rock crystal) worn in more traditional clan events. His body is that of lithe muscle, built for speed and agility in combat rather than brute strength. While other glamoured tlahuelpuchi have varying shades of blue pupils, Cotal has bright pink to denote his family's lineage. Stretched across his back are the tattooed coils of a two-headed snake in the style provided below, with both heads etched on the dorsal side of his hands. This tattoo is colored bright jade with the eyes of each snake head jet black with red accents (see below). Attached is Cotal’s ‘Tonatiuh’ form (sun deity) which grants him the full range of his abilities, all of which stem from his lineage as the current monarch of the Ixtlilxochitl bloodline. As depicted below, this form voids his eyes to a opaque black while deepening his skin to that of an ashy grey hue. Additionally, Cotal's head becomes emboldened with a white light and replaces his curls with extended flames.
  • IMPORTANT NOTE: Cotal has fingernails ending in neatly shaved claws of high durability. He has fangs too! They're present in all forms but are smaller in glamour, replacing the upper and lower canine teeth of Cotal (upper are longer).

Spoiler: Cotal Ref

• Additionally provided are the monster forms of every other tlahuelpuchi, the holes being utilized to help them echolocate, as well as a tlahuelpuchi near starvation. In glamour they've learned to copy many varying characteristics of humans so as to remain inconspicuous, but all preserve their ice blue pupils.
  • IMPORTANT NOTE: They have fangs too! They're present in all forms but are smaller in glamour, replacing the upper and lower canine teeth of each clan member (upper are longer).

Spoiler: Tlahuelpuchi Ref

Personality:

• Cotal’s personality is saturated with pomp, fashioning himself as a king similar to King Louis XIV in his utilization of routine as a method of control. Under his rule the clan upkeeps a strict daily schedule to a meticulous degree of care, allowing Cotal to individually oversee every action the tlahuelpuchi take.
• Although he seems frivolous and vain, Cotal has a streak of cunning intellect which has continually defended his position as the current royal patriarch of his species. Quick witted with a keen eye he prefers to maintain a degree of authority around his subjects but has been rumored to go on excursions outside of Heaven's End for undisclosed reasons. But it's safe to say that the clan isn't stranger to seeing people (both human and Fable) leaving his chambers disheveled in the dawn's early light.
• Secretly, Cotal has a soft spot for villain Fables in other districts and might be persuaded to help them if a good enough plea is made.

History: (I am taking the traditional story of the Tlahuelpuchi and adding false context surrounding Hernan Cortez, while expanding some of their powers through this lore.)

• The Tlahuelpuchi were a race of cursed individuals within the Aztec empire, feared for their power but pitied as beyond salvation. They were split into makeshift familial units which later joined into 4 distinct clans, scattered throughout modern day Mexico both due to shame and infighting among them. However following the arrival of Hernan Cortez and the plagues which swept the empire as a result they became the chief defenders of the Aztec nation, uniting against a common enemy. Their unique gifts would render them immune to human ailments and thus impervious to smallpox/measles which decimated local populations. Tlahuelpuchi magic helped sustain the empire despite its dwindling numbers, but would ultimately be crushed due to the sheer size of the Spanish Armada. Following the siege of Tenochtitlan (Aztec capital), Cortez would lead a purge of the tlahuelpuchi which would last a total of 8 years and successfully decimate 3 of the 4 primary clans. Cotal’s family (leaders of the remaining clan) would offer the Ixtlilxochitl homestead as a refuge to survivors and successfully hid them from Cortez, subsequently being gifted with the blessings of the Aztec pantheon to be exalted as the only individuals of vampiric blood to wield the sun. Cotez would return to Spain and proceed to villainize the tlahuelpuchi as being a savage race of child consuming abominations (a half-truth about their habits of consuming the blood of youth, which doesn't require death). In the following centuries, a series of unfortunate encounters with humans would dwindle Cotal’s proud family to a mere few and following an attempted coup by other clan members would leave Cotal as the final tlahuelpuchi of pure Ixtlilxochitl blood (and thus the last with the sun’s blessing). Cotal’s quick ascension to power has only hardened the ruler and his nearly 100 year reign has been marked as a time of stability, but one of a return to traditional court roles rather than the preceding era of strong community. Taking notes from the empires he’s seen rise and fall, Cotal has maintained power through employing pervasive measures of control and housing the clan in an ornate mansion resembling modern Versailles (gilded cage).

• Although pompous Cotal is aware that his lifestyle is maintained by the clan’s usefulness to the heroic Fables, a fact he resents.
• In total the clan is formed of about 90 able-bodied tlahuelpuchi, with some additional elders who reside with them. Cotal is one of 4 males and one of the youngest as after their move from Mexico no new tlahuelpuchi have been able to be carried to term.

• Powers/Abilities:
  • All clan members possess an extreme sensitivity to sunlight which manifests itself in a lack of pigment in their skin as well as a painful blistering if under sun for an extended period of time + optical sensitivity to sun rays. Additionally, they have pointed ears and prominent fangs with monochromatic pupils shaded various blues under glamour.
  • Transformation into various animals (namely birds)
  • Lycanthropy (wolf form is temporary)
  • Aptitude to learn various types of magic (most have general skill with practical applications such as healing/sewing/etc but can pursue higher forms of magic, combat being the most difficult. Unable to learn any spells relating to necromancy, mental manipulation, or the production of light.)
  • All clan members have some form of tattoo with the clan’s symbol, a black marigold, but the majority have additionally opted for elaborate recreations of Aztec stone carving art to be etched onto themselves
  • Require to feed on the blood of youth at least once a month (preferably human but can be animal too), failure to do so will result in rapid decay and hunger frenzy
  • Expanded physical abilities beyond that of an average human + expanded senses
  • Subtle glow surrounding their heads to Fables + magical individuals
• Ixtlilxochitl abilities (royalty):
  • No sensitivity to any forms of light
  • Inhuman healing factor (near invulnerability to physical attack) with 3 primary weaknesses (besides the Fable tree’s death): a blade given proper rites by a priest, the removal and consumption of their heart (will kill who consumes it), voluntary surrender of their life (ie: fatal wounds done willingly to themselves with the intent to unalive themselves)
  • Has no aptitude of practical applications of magic but is the only variation of tlahuelpuchi with the ability to utalize mental abilities (mental domination/persuasion/telepathy/dream or nightmare projection), puts the tlahuelpuchi in an extremely vulnerable position with being at the mercy of the mind they enter but can have extremely good results against a weak/unsuspecting psyche.
  • Ethereal physical appearance/beauty (more than that of the average vampire)
  • Ability to channel the sun (can instantly purge any other tlahuelpuchi or creature weak to excessive light, create intense heat and flames, can resurrect nearly any individual save for other royal tlahuelpuchi or those given last rites, ability to channel light as a healing property to other individuals) [currently chained to the Crown and unable to be activated]

Magic item: the Crown of Tonatiuh

• Stored in The Pit since the clan’s arrival
• Distance from it weakens Cotal’s powers and cuts off his ability to transform into his Tonatiuh form (no sun god abilities)
• Due to his weakened state the heroic Fables have felt comfortable keeping the clan around, Cotal remains bitter at his loss of power
• To regain his abilities in full, permanently, Cotal needs to don the Crown once more. His initial decision to remove it was voluntary but heavily encouraged by heroic Fables who were hesitant to let the clan reside in Heaven's End.

Spoiler: Crown Ref

 

[jones573]

the witch

#hansel & gretel

#mariana santana

♡coded by uxie♡

Name: Alandra Dortchen

AKA: ‘Totenkinder’ to some, also known as ‘Bruxa’. Some people whisper 'child eater' when she passes.

Fable/Urban Legend: Hansel & Gretel

Age: She appears as a woman of about 30 years old

Gender: Cis woman, presumably. She/her/s pronouns are fine

Orientation: Bisexual

Occupation: Shop owner of ‘Odds & Endings’, supplier of Fablebrooke’s magical needs and desires. In Fablebrooke, Alandra is something of a social oddity. No one wants to be seen with the childkiller, but everyone wants her services. In fact, it is in large part due to her magic that Fablebrooke even exists, and continues to be hidden from the eyes of the ordinary folks. She is the primary source for glamors, both officially licensed by the government and those bought under the table. Because of Fablebrooke’s restrictions on what can be bought and sold, and on magic in general, what is sold in her shop is… A limited selection. But if you’re after something you don’t see on the shelves, it never hurts to ask.

Residence: Grimm Ward

Appearance: Alandra looks to be a woman of Brazilian descent, with wide brown eyes and thick eyebrows. Her hair is brown with a slight curl, usually worn down. It is currently at a length just past her collar bones, but has been longer or shorter over the many years. She has two moles, one between her eyebrows and one on her left cheek.

Personality: Like the woods she grew up in, Alandar is ever shifting. These changes however, are stretched in periods over years at a time. Some decades she is helpful, others she is vengeful. It is lucky that she was in a charitable phase, when Fablebrooke was founded.

However, some things are constant- She is slow to anger, but quick to judgment. She often speaks cryptically and sometimes abrasively, rarely giving people the answer they want to hear. She is clear headed and decisive in difficult situations.

Alandra is very awkward with children, but is fond of pies and blue flowers (with the exception of pansies). She enjoys baking and weaving. Her biggest dislike is entitled people, which unfortunately there are a lot of and she is not allowed to curse anymore.

Magic Item: n/a

Spoiler: History

CW for child death, cannibalism & body horror

This is how the story goes: There is a witch in the woods. There is a wolf in the woods. There are wild, dangerous things in the woods. Parents know this, and send their children into the woods regardless.

She was a girl, unloved and unwanted. Her sibling by contrast, was the golden one, showered with affection and adoration. When money got tight and food was scarce, it was decided that she would go into the woods alone.

She was lost and afraid, and spent a week alone in the woods, terrified of every noise and the hollow of her belly eating away at her from the insides. At her lowest point, she stumbled across it: A charming cottage in a clearing, with blue flowers in the window boxes and a pie cooling on the sill. There was an old woman sitting in a rocking chair, who stood and gave her a speculative look as she approached.

“There’s usually supposed to be two of you,” the old woman remarked, as if this was some fault of the girl’s.

The girl did not know what to say to that, and stared with round eyes at the pie. It smelled of strawberries, and was the most delicious looking thing she’d ever seen.

“Well, you might as well come in then,” the old woman said. “Let’s get you fed.”

The old woman gave her bread and cheese and a thin slice of meat the girl could not identify with a glass of goat milk, and slapped her hand when the girl reached for the piece of pie the old woman finally cut for her.

“Use your manners,” the old woman told her.

“Please,” the girl said softly. The old woman smiled at her, and let her eat the pie.

—-

The girl stayed with the witch- for that was what the old woman was- for a week, and then a month, and then a year, and then another. The witch taught her things- Simple things, and then more complicated. The girl was a fast learner and an excellent student once the witch had taught her to read- a magic in itself- and the girl poured over old volumes of magic late into the night, eager to impress the witch with her skill and knowledge.

But still she needed the witch’s guidance in many things. “Will I ever be as powerful as you?,” the girl asked the witch, and the witch dodged the question. “When will I be a witch in my own right?,” she asked the witch, and the witch dodged the question. “What is to become of me,” she asked the witch, and the witch finally answered.

A witch was not born, she explained, but made. It took a certain aptitude, which the girl had. It took dedication, which the girl had. But it also took something else- The consumption of kin’s blood. A drop was all it took.

“That is why there is usually two of you,” the witch told her. One to learn, one to bleed. Without her sibling and with no way to get home, the girl would never really be a witch.

She wept into the night, and the witch consoled her.

“Why did you bother teaching me, then,” the girl sobbed, and her mother- for that was what the witch was, even if not by kin’s blood- wiped at her tears.

“Because you wanted to learn.”

__

The years passed, and the young woman and her mother lived alone in the woods. The young woman still studied and practiced her magic, but it was not with the same fervor as before.

One early spring, a huntsman knocked on their door to inform them that he was building a cabin in the next clearing, and would be grateful if he could set up some sort of neighborly exchange with them- He could provide them with fresh meat, and they could provide him with fresh vegetables, perhaps.

This was very unusual. The woods are a mercurial place, after all, not prone to staying still. A witch’s cottage rarely appears to anyone but those who need it. The huntsman explained that his mother had been a witch, much like themselves, and as such he was able to navigate the places of deep magic. It made him an excellent hunter, and best of all, not the sort of neighbor who was afraid of the young woman and her mother.

The circumstances were odd, but the two women agreed to barter with him and help him settle into the woods. Neither were great hunters, and the chickens they kept were largely for eggs, not slaughter.

With the help of their magic, the huntsman’s simple cabin was built within a season, and true to his word, he was a good neighbor. He brought venison and rabbit, and they shared many meals of well seasoned stews and laughter.

It so happened that the huntsman and the young woman fell in love, and they were happy. Her mother approved of the match and saw that her daughter might have a good future, even if not as her mother’s successor.
But, as so often happens in these stories, the man the young woman loved- He left one day, and did not return.

And, as so often happens in these stories, her waistline grew along with her despair.

It was a hard winter, that year. The snow fell as thickly as the woman’s tears, in drifts that blocked the cottage’s doors and windows. The young woman and her mother had been counting on the game the huntsman would catch, and had not prepared for the lean season as they might have. And the woman, whose mother relied on for many tasks, could not shovel the walk to the chicken coop or chop the firewood without pain radiating from her hungry, swollen belly.

They starved, the two of them, but especially the young woman. She could not be a witch and she could not be a wife and with the way her pregnancy was going, she suspected she would not be a mother, and her will to live flickered like a candle. She pushed her meager food onto her mother’s plate and pretended she was already fed, and she grew gaunt, her eyes and stomach protruding from her thin frame like grotesque, bulbous tumors.

She thought she would lose the child many times, but eventually the labor pains came, and her mother boiled water and prepared many potions and did all she could to ease the birth.

Her making ready was for naught. The child breathed once, and died.

The young woman cradled the small body in her arms, trying desperately to get her child to latch at her breast, to drink milk she could not provide and her son could not drink. Her mother tried to pull the dead babe from her, but despite her weakened state, the young woman’s grip was like iron.

She sat with her son for three days, neither eating nor sleeping.

Eventually, she came to a conclusion. The huntsman had not provided her with a home or a future. He had not provided her with a child to love. But he had provided her with kin. And she would not waste that.

She ate slowly at first, and then more ravenously as the hunger that had been stayed by the birth awakened. Her mother was alarmed and cautioned her- Only a little blood was needed, no more than might fill a teaspoon. Too much, and she might awaken more than a hunger for sustenance, but a hunger for power that could not be controlled.

But the young woman ate until she was full, and slept when she had finished. Her mother, despairing at what her daughter had done and might become, washed the blood from her face with a warm washcloth and sat down to wait and worry.

Her worry was for naught.
Though her daughter’s body had been weak and her heart broken, she was still strong in will and mind. When she woke, she was more powerful than her mother had ever been, but not so much that she was overtaken by it.

Her mother was proud.

A witch is not born, she told the young woman. A witch is made.

A witch cannot be killed, she told the young woman. She must be replaced.

Her mother was ready, she reassured her daughter, and walked into the woods to die.

—-

This is how the story goes: There is a witch in the woods. There is a wolf in the woods. There are wild, dangerous things in the woods. Parents know this, and send their children into the woods regardless.

The witch encountered many children in her time, and kings and queens and knights, and farm boys and seamstresses and all manner of people. The woods are a mercurial place, after all, and she found herself in many new places to help those in need- And to punish those in need of such a thing, too.

When the children came, she assessed them. Sometimes they only needed sending home, but sometimes home was not a safe place, and she had to send them elsewhere. Sometimes, one or even both showed magical aptitude, and she wondered if it was her time to teach. There were twin boys once, and the dark haired one showed remarkable promise.

Witches are often women, of course, but there is no rule that they have to be, and it was the closest she came to really considering retirement. But in the end the boys wanted to return home, and so she made sure they got there.

It so happened that many, many years after she had become the witch, that she encountered a pair of twins named Hans and Greta. She brought them into her cottage and fed them a hearty meal, and even made them a strawberry pie.

Greta showed quite an aptitude for magic, and it became clearer as the days went on and they slowly began to open up to her, that neither child ought to return home. The witch supposed then, that this was her time, and dusted off the old pair of beds in the attic- The one had been hers, and the other had sat empty throughout her childhood.

Having not had a typical experience, the witch was unsure of how to proceed- Surely she didn’t keep Hans at the cabin with her while she trained Greta? From what she knew of children, they got bored easily without a task, and bored children might turn to mischief or even destruction. Perhaps she pricked his finger and simply sent him on his way?

But at this point, the cottage had traveled again, and even if she could send him home, she knew he wouldn’t want to go.

She would wait, she decided, until the next town they came to or the next visitor happened by. She could take his blood then, and send him on to a new life.

In the meantime, Greta’s training went very well. She already knew how to read, and was perhaps an even quicker study than the witch had been, though Greta was older than the witch had been when she’d first started. They had only been together a few months, and Greta know which herb and how much to add to a potion just by scents alone.

But something was… Off.

Perhaps, the witch told herself, she was just unused to children. Perhaps there was no reason to fear the glint in Greta’s eye when she performed some small feat of magic. Perhaps there was no reason that Greta watched her brother with such sharp eyes besides familial concern. Perhaps Greta’s questions about the worst forms of magic were simple curiosity.

It was not, after all, as though the witch had only ever done good in her life. She had cursed a fair number of people who had deserved it, and a fair number of people who hadn’t. She’d destroyed and killed and maimed, when someone had paid her for it or even just when she had felt the urge to do so. She would not pretend otherwise, and answered Greta’s questions about the possibilities of magic as honestly as she could.

When Greta asked how and when she would become a witch in her own right, the witch did not dodge the question as her mother had. She responded that when the witch felt she was ready, Greta would taste her kin’s blood and eventually take over the cottage in the woods and the responsibilities that came with it.

Greta was not willing to wait until the witch felt she was ready.

That night while the witch slept, Greta woke under the light of the full moon and slit her brother’s throat. He did not even have time to scream.

The witch woke from a fitful dream with a keen sense of wrongness. She pulled herself up the ladder to the cottage’s attic, and saw Greta feasting on her brother.

Only enough to fill a teaspoon was plenty. Half of a premature infant was almost too much.

How much was a jugular of a nearly grown man? An arm?

Too much, the witch realized, as she saw the wildness overtake Greta’s eyes when the young girl caught her watching.

She laughed at the witch, taunted her, set the cottage ablaze, and fled into the woods. The witch followed her, afraid of what she might do.

Greta arrived in a small hamlet, covered in blood and soot and tears.

A witch in the woods, she claimed, had killed and eaten her brother, and was trying to do the same to her.

The town rallied quickly and the witch was greeted by pitchforks and torches when she arrived.

She battled with Greta, determined not to let her mistake be unleashed into the world.

They destroyed the town in their fight, toppling the church tower and burning the buildings and leaving destruction in their wake.

For three days they fought, and eventually but barely, the witch won.

She trapped Greta in a spelled circle of white pebbles and fine sugar, and coerced a potion down the girl’s mouth.

And Greta began to heave and retch and gag, until her brother’s remains were forced up her throat and onto the ground beneath her. The witch set fire to them, and then to Greta herself.

No longer a witch, Greta burned and burned, and the witch was satisfied.

The townspeople, however, were not.

They cornered the witch, and all but empty of her magic, she could not defend herself. They bound her and burned her and threw her body into the woods to be lost to time.

But a witch is not killed. A witch is replaced.

Each time it rained in the forest, the charred remains of the witch grew a thin, fine layer of skin over the skeletal remains. Each time a deer stopped to shuffle its nose in the empty eye socket, a finger bone twitched. Each time the snow melted in the spring, more and more of the witch returned.

Eventually, the witch had enough strength and enough presence of mind to pull herself away from the moss that kept her attached to the forest floor, and crawl in the direction she sensed her cottage to be.

When she reached it, she was that it too, was healing from the fire that Greta had sent. It was only a frame of a cottage now, with fallen beams strewn about the floor, but the wood was not as charred as it ought to have been.

She spent nearly a year there, lying on the threshold of the cottage door, before she could pick herself all the way up and hobble inside. Slowly, she began to rebuild her home.

The years passed with no interference from the outside world- Travelers may find a witch in the woods when they are in need, but have much more trouble doing so when said witch is in no position to help.

Eventually though, the witch began to feel her normal self, and set about planning what she would do the village that had so mistreated her. She was surprised when a traveler came one day, and even more surprised by his reaction.

He was not fearful or suspicious- a common enough reaction when meeting witches, if less preferable to grateful and hopeful- but angry, and full of hate. It appeared that in the years she had been sequestered in the woods, her legend had not.

Child eater, he spat at her before fleeing. The witch recalled her dead baby in her arms, but knew that wasn’t what he spoke of.

She was only hated for that which she had never done.

—---

This is how the story goes: There is a witch in the woods. There is a wolf in the woods. There are wild, dangerous things in the woods. Parents know this, and send their children into the woods regardless.

Parents, the witch knows, will fail their children and society will look the other way, will forgive it.

Unless that parent happens to be her.

 

[GodlyDnD]

hi everyone!! discord invites will be sent over the weekend. for those who asked for an extension, don’t worry! just let me know when it’s all finished!

Did I miss that invite?

 

[demenscous]

THE BANSHEE
scroll.

whip it
devo

VISAGE
NAME: adeline blake.
NICKNAMES: addie is the only one she really goes by.
D.O.B: july fifteenth.
AGE: presents herself at twenty five.
GENDER: cisgender female.
ORIENTATION: bisexual.
URBAN LEGEND: the banshee.
OCCUPATION: bookkeeper for local library.
PLACE OF RESIDENCE: grim ward.

APPEARANCE
GLAMOUR FORM: an endomorphic built, hourglass shaped woman who stands at 5’4, weighing around 140 lbs. medium length, raven-black hair that falls to just below her shoulders and piecey bangs that frame an oval shaped face. crystalline-like, aqua blue eyes with lighter flecks of blue that fleck around the outer rim of her iris. dark, wispy lashes line the perimeter of upturned eyes that pair with dense, bushy eyebrows. a button nose and a full, flush pout complete a harmonious facial structure.
TRUE FORM: a woman who could be compared to a wet rat. she stands tall, around 5’11 and is usually seen hunched over singing laments of impending doom. large, tired, eyes, and strands of hair cover her face. her true form is seen as terrifying, and her reputation as a harbinger of death doesn’t seem to help.
FACECLAIM: billie eilish.

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY: an observatory, quiet woman. she “thinks before she speaks”. adeline hasn’t been this way for the entirety of her life, however. a learned trait, mostly because being dubbed as the harbinger of impending doom isn’t a great introduction.

despite her bad reputation and infamy for being the bearer of bad news, she’s actually quite practical and sincere. someone who genuinely cares about those she’s close to, and friendly to those that’ll take the time to get to know her past her exterior.

she’s quite introverted, though, and isn’t very outward or expressive toward people she doesn’t know. she prefers to observe quietly, and analyze situations before she steps forth to speak. that being said, she has a good head on her shoulders and typically makes sound judgement calls.

in friendships and relationships, she typically is seen as a therapist so-to-speak. she’s a listener with intent to understand, rather than to listen just to respond. her friends are fond of her mostly because she doesn’t “kiss and tell”, and keeps secrets that’ll go to her deathbed.

traits

observatory, introverted, self-aware, analytical.

ailments

hello ailments here

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY: the banshee, typically depicted as a woman in a cloak wailing to warn those of impending death/doom, is a piece of irish folklore dating back to the eight century.

her legacy is evolved from a form of keening, which is a mournful, sorrowful song wept by women at funerals. historically speaking, she has been seen weeping, crying, screeching her mournful warning generation after generation. she’s mostly seen as terrifying, and those outside of grim ward typically tend to stray away from her, mostly because she’s associated with death.

nobody stopped to think of her warnings as a sign of her being good, though. she only wishes that they be mindful of what’s to come..

GALLERY​

adeline blake.

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[khai.]

nami mayari

☽

she, who swallowed the moon.

the bakunawa

☾

she, who mourned the night.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

Nuno Rowe

The Trickster

click

full name & fable.

Nuno "Wren" Rowe ; Native American Folklore Trickster

age.

appears 27 years old

species.

human-presenting

gender.

cis-male

orientation.

questioning; all he knows is, he doesn't discriminate

occupation.

Activist, mentor for local LGBTQIA+ center

faceclaim.

eddie spears(

x

)

Your face darted among the swords
like a river’s shifting light and we danced
in a rain of silver for the last time
together. Darling, I would have died for you
but I never had the luck.

penned by (x)

i do not believe forgiveness

✦

 

[tieflinq]

BRIDIE.

• 1ai
• 2ai
• 3ai
• 4ai

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  req.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  dullahan.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  * name.

  bridie black, aka the dullahan
  

  * fable.

  the headless horseman (of folklore fame, not sleepy hollow)
  

  * occupation.

  bouncer, occasional performer
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  horseless

  
  
  
  
  

  enforcer for hire

  
  
  
  
  

  drag freak

  
  
  
  
  

  dark and stormy

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  * age

  31
  

  * height

  6'2
  

  * build

  tall, narrow, muscular. she has broad shoulders and narrow hips - clearly a lightweight fighter's build.
  

  * glamoured form

  to navigate the mundane world, bridie appears as a tall, pale woman. even the magic of a glamour cannot fully cover her true nature, however, and her face has a... keenness to it, a sharpness, something in the edge of her cheekbones and the crooked bridge of her nose that suggests a hungry shadow stalking through the night. her eyes are wideset and inky-dark, her nose distorted from numerous breaks, and her hair is white-blonde and long - unless she has a night of boredom, in which case it's choppily sheared over the bathroom sink, leaving the ends jagged and uneven. bridie favours leather for both practical reasons and aesthetic appeal, and is rarely seen in an outfit that isn't at least partly suitable for riding her motorbike. the seam that joins her head and neck together is sometimes concealed by a choker; she often enjoys going without it, purely so that she can retaliate to the comments it provokes.
  

  * true form

  without glamours, it would be very clear that this was no human being. her entire head is a creation of her glamour, and without it, it is a dry and desiccated thing, almost mummified from centuries of existence with little darting eyes sunken into the yellowed flesh and an ever-grinning mouth filled with sharp teeth. bridie's true body is taller and stranger - there's something too angular about it.
  

  * demeanour

  she has an air of debauchery about her, and very close behind it, the sense that it would take very little to push her into violence. though she affects a relaxed, louche posture, her eyes are often scanning her surroundings for danger or easy prey - or a woman who catches her interest.
  

  * etc

  bridie is rarely without injuries - black eyes, split lips, bruised knuckles. she smokes, and has a bad habit of flicking her lighter when she's bored or agitated. as well as her body being glamoured, her steed has been. it was immediately obvious to her that an entire horse would stand out in an urban environment, and she's opted to permanently conceal it by disguising it as a motorbike. while it has severed most of her communication with her steed, she appreciates the discretion it offers - and the fact that it makes her look cooler.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  pers.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  likes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  leather

  
  
  
  

  rainy nights

  
  
  
  

  knuckle dusters

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  cold leftovers

  
  
  
  

  bad tippers

  
  
  
  

  horses

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  fears

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  bringing trouble to those she wants to protect

  
  
  
  

  being stuck in this job forever

  
  
  
  

  never knowing tenderness

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  * gender

  woman...ish, she/her
  

  * orientation

  lesbian
  

  * personality

  bridie isn't an asshole - not really. she can be on edge and quick to anger, quick to threaten, but it's a trait formed by habit as opposed to something innately within her. before she'd been forced to live amongst the ordinaries, she'd lived between warring fey factions, and it's left her like a tightly-pulled bowstring. her tongue is sharp, but so is her wit; with a little alcohol to ply her, or enough time spent with her, she opens up into a woman that is equal parts funny and flirtatious, if a little sleazy. when paid or in debt to someone, she's as loyal as can be - like a dog, like a soldier.
  

  
  
  
  
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  hist.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  wriggling off a pillory -

  
  

  
  

  ❝

  
  

  leather seats, broken teeth

  
  

  ❞

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  * residence

  red heights
  

  * history

  before she ended up in this strange corner of chicago, bridie spent her life on the run.
  
  there was a life before that one - she's sure of it, but any memories she has of it are nothing more than wisps, the faintest sensations that remind her of something long gone. by the time she was bridie, she had already died and been returned to life, and whatever she had been before was no more. bridie and her kin had become the slúag, the fey hosts of the restless dead, and she was compelled by deep, animal instincts to hunt and be hunted in return. far from being the calculated psychopomp that she was mistaken for, the dullahan was instead acting on primal urges that forced her onwards - like salmon forging upstream to their birthplace, ready to die, like a rabid dog, snapping and snarling. she roamed dark and misty moors ceaselessly for centuries, never tiring and never unseating herself from her spectral steed. her head, rotten and dead, scoured the horizon in search of life, and then she mindlessly pursued it til its bitter end, desperate to sate the gnawing hunger deep within her, following the urges of the strange soul that occupied her festering body.
  
  at first, life in fablebrooke was... alien. bridie yearned for the thrill of the hunt. she had no idea how to fulfil the new desires of her glamoured form - not by hunting, not by chasing, but by mundane means that were entirely new to her. through trial and error, she learned how to keep her head and body connected. she ate. she slept. she found an apartment in red heights, and started working as a bouncer and enforcer for the owner of the club beneath it. when she finally wandered into the back rooms of the club and discovered the tantalizing performances that were held there, she couldn't resist joining in. the old urges still linger. she drowns them out with smoking and hook-ups, by tinkering with her bike, by peeling away leather onstage at the club - and when she can't drown them out, she feeds them. after all, there's always troublemakers in need of a fright.
  

  * magic item

  though she had little to her name until she left the woodlands, bridie had one magical possession that is now lost within the pit. her enchanted whip, an unholy black creation that perpetually drips rainwater and stinks of blood and horsehair, was the source of her horse's endless energy, and her ability to herald death. it was said that the crack of thunder on a dark night was the sound of a dullahan out on the moors, urging their steed on. without it, she is forced to maintain her glamoured steed by more mundane means.
  

  
  
  
  
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  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

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misc.

♡coded by uxie♡