Navigation
Install the app
How to install the app on iOS
Follow along with the video below to see how to install our site as a web app on your home screen.
Note: This feature currently requires accessing the site using the built-in Safari browser.
More options
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
Fantasy π―πππππππ π»πππππππ (π x π₯―)
- Thread starter qunqun
- Start date
qunqun
Give me your herbs, worm.
-
click!
Katya
the heiress...
-
full name
Katya Pavlovych
nickname.s
Not unless you want to die
d.o.b.
November 19th
ethnicity
Persian-Russian
occupation
Heiress
Mesmerize me, I dare you to try. Hypnotize me with Medusa's green eyes
Appearance
height
5'9
weight
58 kg
hair c.
Brown
eye c.
Brown
hair styling
Long, straight, and dark brown - a rather plain type of hair when all is considered to the rest of her appearance, Katya tends to accent her hair with combs and hair sticks, usually perfectly color coordinated with her outfit and more often than not a hidden blade inside.
build
The perfect image of a Siberian princess, she has long limbs, with a lithe and lean musculature to them. Built more for speed and elegance than any kind of combat. Serene and graceful, she moves with an almost ethereal gliding quality, like a perfect model. Poise and posture perfected through years of training.
style
Expensive taste, usually adorned with gold. Often times prefers more neutral colors like black and white, though not above the pop of red. Her left hand is adorned with claw rings and chain gloves, while her other is perfectly manicured with whatever nail art she trusts her artist to decorate her hand with.
body mods.
She has two lobe piercings in each ear, and one cartilege piercing in her left ear
faceclaim/voiceclaim
Vita Mir
Personality
Serene and graceful, Katya is very careful with her words and her actions. Practically a princess, she has been raised to be the perfect heir to a very powerful company. As such, her manners are impeccable, though she usually has an air about her that can easily be mistaken for haughty pride. Though, this is more just a healthy self-respect and self-confidence that she feels obligated to exude at every moment, lest the sharks that she swims with decide that she's the weak one.
Due to this cutthroat nature of her upbringing, she has developed a vicious streak a mile wide. Calculated, she is very good at manipulating situations for her and her own to remain on top, and everyone else can drown.
virtues
Collected, Clever, Serene, Practical,
vices
Vicious, Selfish, Prideful, Manipulative
Likes
Poetry, books, jewelry, gold, champagne, fancy appetizers, nice baths, self-care, claws, chains, cold weather, roses, dew, gardening, snow
Dislikes
Starvation, bad food, stale bread, religion, attachments, egos, werewolves, maraschino cherries, vomit, silver, fancy parties
History
Birth
Katya was born below the poverty line on the streets, the youngest of eight in Siberian Russia to a Sakha family. Learning from a very young age to be more cunning and vicious than all the other boys and girls around her, she manipulated and stole and fought her way to a shockingly balanced cuisine despite her status. Vain from the start, she would carefully wash herself and clean herself, being mocked for maintaining such pristine appearances while she was no better if not worse than the rest of everyone.
One day, a man came to the village, thinly veiled disgust upon his features as he carefully looked over the children. It was a harsh winter, and they were running out of food and firewood.
He saw Katya, who seemed extraordinarily out of place amongst the grime, and he offered her mother a hefty sum of money for her youngest daughter. She accepted, and Katya's life changed from then on.
New Life
Thrust into a world of cutthroat politics and backdoor business dealings, Katya changed her nature. Vicious from the start, her quick temper and territorial nature matured from scrapping over food to a terrible force within the business world. Carefully groomed to be the perfect heir, she realized that her adoption was mostly for appearances, like the rest of this new superficial life.
However, it was better than starving in Siberia - the loneliness would be equal but at least here there was warm water and salmon roe appetizers, so she smiled and waved alongside her adoptive parents. A learned role that she would secretly rebel against through dating those socially much below her and piercing her ears more times than what was befitting a high class lady.
In the meantime, though, she was mostly raised by maids and butlers, instead of her parents, who seemed to not really want to be around her when the parties were over and done with.
That was fine, because she enjoyed their company more anyways.
Now
One word can describe Katya: Cutthroat. Despite this, she does hold loyalty to the highest value. Her shocking kindness towards staff and servants has netted her a small spy network within the household. Nothing gets done without her knowing about it, and gossip is frequent.
Utilizing this, she's made many enemies through her willingness to blackmail and threaten anybody that stands in her way.
Her father, though, couldn't be more proud of his little princess.
Miscellaneous
Powers
Katya can cause the illusion of pain, any kind of pain, localized anywhere on the body. She has to be looking at a person in order to inflict it, though.
HCs
- Scorpio Sun, Taurus Moon, Gemini Rising, Gemini Mercury, Taurus Venus, Scorpio Mars
- Collected barbies and play-sacrificed them ritualistically to a stuffed octopus
- Aesthetically plans outfits to what claw rings she wants to wear
- Can eat a ghost pepper and stare at someone without changing expression
- Saves pictures of mice in tulips on her phone
- Still secretly steals the little hors d'oeveurs from fancy parties
- Really simps over women
- Taken up opera singing and ballet dancing as hobbies. Y'know. Casually.
- Good at flower arranging
- Likes a good worm
now playing...
People I Don't Like
UPSAHL
β‘coded by uxieβ‘
Last edited:
Gao
[sad jester jingle noises]
hello qun my little sugarplum
-
click!
GRAY.
The Medium.
-
Full name
Grayson Lavicchi
Nicknames
Gray (don't)
Pronouns
He/Him
sexuality
afraid bi
Occupation
Accountant
I JUST THINK MAYBE SOME OF YOU SHOULD BE LIKE, NORMAL.
appearance
height
6'0"
(182cm)
weight
160lbs (72kg)
hair c.
Raven Black
eye c.
Gray
build
A pale cast, he is a sylph of Stygian layers. Held to strict guidelines with no purchase for sloth or slack, a tall presence that crosses rooms like an incline of oil-black carrion; those absorbed in their own devices may fail to notice the Medium perch in their presence, as he settles, crosses one long leg over the other, and lets pale fingers open a book to its marked page.
Hair
A bleed of poets ink spills a hymn of funereal formality, a short style governed with perfectionism and frequent fuss. Under the jurisdiction of intrusive gaze does he heed atavistic reflex; checks the state of his hair and frets over a particularly errant strand.
Eyes
Cinereous matter wreathing sooty iris, there is a vicious needle to the Mediumβs natural stare. A pick to ice that spiders with fracture, they see paths and often stray to its distraction, flicker with focus to descend on dunes of filmy skin and wet runs of suppuration. With light molasses in its urge to break the horizon, lethargy weighs bones and pestle blues sweep to stain under eye canvas; inhabitants of the veil all but make pariahs of Graysonβs secular gaze.
Scars
Two faces of the same feeling, this slender crescent guttered by ring-wearer. Incising scar beneath his left eye, the mar is vague and pallid, coalesces to skin of matching hue. It may be healed and knitted with history, yet Gray is yet to settle the flintlock memoryβ the very trophy of it.
Modifications
Languorous melt to the malignant maw of tequila, memory has been chewed and spat out a bygone night of feather boa and crude couch tattoo. Origin of the smiley face and its artist are consigned to hungover oblivion, which Gray thinks is for the best.
Distinguishing
It is an appearance ridden with insomnolence, starved haggard of smiling or relaxation. Lacking comfort and satisfaction, he diffuses air with silent admonishment and looks down upon others with arrogant sagacity. An energy so dismal, eternally pinch-browed and scowling. It does not take long to reach the sombre understanding that this caricature of luminous doom is all he has ever known, that he has grown so very intimate with this vacuous black.
Face-claim
It's our babygirl Cillian Murphy
personality
Traits
Compassionate, ambitious, responsible, perfectionist, hopeless romantic, emotionally durable, tidy, grumpy, prude, control-freak, a mentally ill adrenaline junkie.
iN DETAIL
Born with a gilded spoon pressed to the flat warmth of his tongue, thereβd never been opportunities for self-reflection. Dreams and the illusion of free-will crafted out of childish idealism, heβd been fated to fulfil what had been charted in detail from boyhood: a burden, marionette strung with barbed tethers of legacy and luxury.
Anchored by the perfectionist design of his familyβs making, Grayson encapsulates every part he never wanted to play. Even as a boy, mature, or some semblance of it. Ambition his lodestone, dawn-lit wisps of enjoyment from the addiction of success wound tendon deep; an identity formed and calcified around the vulnerable anatomy of parentsβ approval is a double-bladed pendulum, spear-headed precedence that drowns the smallest of failures into suffocating terror. Heβs wreathed tight, bridled so taut that any strayed seams become a noose to the slope of the throat.
Creation of compassion, it is pale hands that usher bug from bedroom to garden, stows romance novels underarm and wears a heart emblazoned crest-like on the same sleeve. For beneath his gloam and regimen it is veins of care that underlie the thin skin draping over framework. Cares not only for what is seen as woodland and benevolent, but also those wretched and salvageable. It is simple, almost childlike naivety, that he does not see empathy as a baring of supple throat, not an offer of heart to altar and knife, but a lance to be wielded. It permeates in everything he sees and hears, as if to stir the sea, prove it can still be moved, know that his humanity remains intact.
This vein of care he cannot dig through skin to uproot, grab it like a frayed rope and unspool it in ribbons of viscera, be it ranting, fussing, comfortable silence, all of Grayson is seeped in compelling honesty.
Yet concocted under the hierarchical blood of his father, Gray harbours more anger than heβd ever like to admit. Spun thick with ire, it weaves under skin and steals away to white blades of teeth long before he can consider its consequences. For rage is a self-sustaining force that retraces the hug of well-worn steps, like father, like son, hissing and spitting syllables of fragmented glass; tongues abuse freedom.
There is something barely tethered, unspooling in maddening sequences borne of a famished youth; enticement of the unknown. Grit and stain forbidden from the poise of his seraphic palms, wealth has coloured Grayson naΓ―ve, but the sheltered and pearlescent unmarred flesh begs no deterrence for curiosity.
An empty feeling covets for distraction, dangerβ to shrug control and feel the thrill of corporal embodiment. Found and relished in the risky glimpses of shimmering ardour, ephemeral rushes in the peak of a speedometer, drink of cigarette smoke or a railing of a bridge, heβs quick to become an ark of lost ambition. Reckless, dismissive to obligations, snoozing alarms, there is leonine laziness not yet indulged and unknown divine freedom from letting a stray thread split into an entire seam.
Habits
Insomnia wreaks havoc through any acceptable sleeping schedule. Accidental naps are promptly followed by flustered claims, "not asleep, only resting my eyes".
Rearranging things, tidying others' clothing and hair.
IDK SNORTING COKE IS KIND OF BAD.
Fears
Claustrophobia.
likes
Romance books, hazelnut coffee, cats, neatness, rain, libraries, the ocean, calligraphy, vanilla, jigsaw puzzles, peculiar socks, spiders & other creepy crawlies.
dislikes
Sweet or spicy foods, small spaces, loud rooms, people crying, brash personalities, flirting, painting, violence, yellow, physical touch, pianos and finger food.
history
Atonement
Childhood was a cave.
Outside coloured spring lilac, inside lined morion quartz and mute greetings. When everything is drawn as a precise staccato breath, all remnants of adolescent enjoyment are stifled in a blanket of overcast sky. A distant, reserved flavour of apathy filled its place, pooling the spaces around gold-lacquered birth-right and comfortable trust-fund. Resplendent in its security and mythic grandeur to others, it was a childhood lost in a miasma of decay, greased on prayer and verses of the bible.
And what could have predicted it? Who could have? Not divined in the muck of oolong tea leaves, a splay of tarot or bowl of sanguine entrails, nothing to foretell of flesh torn from ossein and veins of marrow suckled like ruby foam. Lifting veil like a vestigial layer of warm skin, it is haunts of decay and cruor that plague the periphery. Faces mangled asunder and bodies a ruin of sour viscera, it is soon to be pursued by spoil, ashen flesh swollen sea-green and crushed plum, corneas desiccated dry once withered and coated with flies.
And when the sun rises it makes no difference, ceases not the separation of oil and wet skin slippage, the larvae eggs hatched to mulch inside fertile tissues and vinegary meat. Slack jaws rattle with every inhale, sacs of acid and pus away with churning rhythm. Each morning he rises from bed turned casket, struggles to exist within his own skin as it has been stretched over each bone beam. Scraped away fat and meat, left to thin near translucent membrane.
Sterile light of a child psychiatrist's office was weekend obligation, stung at the crescent of his lashes with ascetic air. Womanβs buttery smile in stark contrast to a boyβs bloodshot eyes and sallow wax skin thatβd stare back, he has learned not to complain, grasped onto principles of courtesy and routine long before heβd even understood why, for obligation is his first language, questions his second. Principles bestowed by the man who reigned his family name, it had been father who demanded he stave, relent, normalcy means fast them for aeons.
No psychiatrist or acrid lozenge brought remedy, unorthodox parenting sealing atlas-weighted fear into a tight cupboard, compartmentalised away for an illusion of normalcy. He could spend eternity till reduced to bone dust on the imperial flooring of his family line to gather a footing, to succeed in garnering patriarch approval. To seal protest and batter the inside of your mouth bloody with silence; his fatherβs blood is scaldingβ he has felt it, lathered its boil over a cold fist βthe darkness more so, and the hug of a cupboard burns skin more than admonishment ever will.
So his ribs become a warchest, storing away each disregard and reprimand like a library of cruelty. Left to darken like wood in rain, like applebark cooked in sun till brittle and flaking. He fills his mouth with gravedirt, spins a silky tapestry from the larvae that hatch in its soil in which to be a faultless descendant. There is something rotting in him, bearing an accolade of each ring, one for pointer, middle, thumb, a ring for skull and its wine-red retribution.
Seasons are dissolving on his tongue like dust, like particles of summer and dead fruit. Eden is full of vacancy, blooming fetid with sinuous absences. Heβll watch the world tilt into sleep and long to follow, as Icarus loves the sun in its yellow yolk warmth and ambition, yet loves the ocean all the same, one wing dipped in solar flame, one in salt brine. Split a moth by the wings and the body always holds to half.
Morbidity settled home like river-laden silt, and what was once heavy and asphyxiating through youth became only an inconvenience. Indifference rolled from boned shoulders, sombre-toned heir swathed in his short-tempered arrogance. A pretentious adult with a bad mouth, yet redundantly countered with a streak of strict pacifism.
Even now, declining interest recedes in a slow crawl down his spineβ testament to a gossamer-thin disguise for struggling mental health. After lacking identity from years of prioritising only success, feeling more absent than river Lethe nothingness, lost to an undefined oblivion, the need for following obligation has felt quiet as of late.
He has stopped bucketing water from the sinking ship, knows there will be no port, awaits for its keel.
It is small suffocations that are begging him to capsize.
MISC
ability
The ability to hear, see, communicate and physically interact with spirits of the deceased. An ability thatβs far more inconvenient than practical since Grayson has no control over what they decide to do.
Giving rise to peculiarities, snatching items and angrily putting them back where they belong, glaring at flickering lights or reprimanding whatever, whoever, is tapping the wall at 3am; most people are wise to dismiss his behavior as delusions.
But when alone do they love to interact. Heβs sleeping? Time to play with the light-switches. Heβs looking a fraction too calm? Time to pick up some expensive fine china and float it around. Heβs having an important conversation? Time to play footsies beneath the table.
Summoning is a possibility, yet is paired with the annoying ordeal of possession or inviting less-than-desirable spirits into the establishment.
Headcanons
β’ Has sonic hearing for βew is that a spiderβ and will scramble out of nowhere to put it outside before anyone can kill it.
β’ Charm level of Styrofoam. Thinks letting someone borrow a pen is top tier flirting.
β’ Hates all sport, but great at speed-walking. Mildly terrifying if he decides to sprint anywhere.
β’ Has a lead foot when driving omfg bro chill the road ain't going anywhere.
β’ Passionate that people who fold page corners in books deserve to die. Use a bookmark.
β’ Says confusing and morbid things in his sleep. Occasionally sleep walks. Blair Witch era.
β’ Doesn't eat breakfast. Running on caffeine and hatred alone. Takes his coffee with milk, but no sugar.
β’ Finds horror themes boring, and is notoriously difficult to scare.
β’ This single hair is out of place so I'm going to fix it for you.
β’ Cat fanatic. Likes cat-themed items, calendars, socks, etc.
β’ Owns a cream-colored Persian cat named Oatmeal. He robbed her from his neighbour's 7 year old daughter. Mind your business.
β’ Has little custom sweaters and hats made for her.
β’ If you interrupt silent reading time he will start manifesting that you die. Let his fictional people kiss in peace.
β’ Just a very distressed ghost dad tbh.
β’ Perhaps the only white man who doesn't walk towards scary noises, just tells the demonic entities to stop touching shit. Same energy as pet owners who wake up and sit upright because they hear someone eating plastic.
β’ Takes the "Am I Gay" quiz once a month just to lie on every answer and feel secure in his heterosexuality again.
β’ Stared at his dead grandmother throughout her entire funeral because her ghost was bitching from the front row. Funerals are just really awkward for him.
now playing...
Make It Stop
UNEASY LAUGHTER
β‘coded by uxieβ‘
Last edited:
Users who are viewing this thread
Total: 2 (members: 0, guests: 2)