Futuristic Night Fall - Apps

[ERode]

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• Ivory Towerz
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Spoiler: Character Sheet Info

• Guidelines
• Character Sheet Skeleton

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  The world of Night Fall is a gauntlet, and as C-Rank Lunatics, you're currently in a strange state where you have perhaps given up too many of the benefits that came with being a 'human' in exchange for a supernatural power that you don't quite understand. Some may be euphoric simply because they can now turn into a bird or snort out blue flames, but at this current point, you possess the capability to defeat a standard human equipped with military-grade power armor or a cluster of medium-sized Lunacy-dyed creatures. If you push yourself and risk your life, you can take on a squad of five mechanized infantry units or perhaps ten to twenty monsters. It is more power than what you could have obtained through honest effort, but it is not enough power for any recognizable organization to show you any respect.
  
  Despite the relative misery of the world around you, as well as the alienation you experience from other humans, humans who could have been your friends and family just some time back, you nevertheless possess the privilege of freedom. You need nothing but your own body and some food and water in order to traverse the Outlands, the wilderness dominated by the effects of the Bright Night. Whereas others can only settle through paved roads within armored convoys from city to city, you can go any direction your feet can bring you, seeing the wonders and nightmares of this changed world. In a world where many never see beyond the walls of the city they are born in, it is a rare thing indeed.
  
  Regardless of your freedom, of your strength, however, it's a hard thing to do, living without money. You are a C-Rank Lunatic, after all. You chose to become a Lunatic, chose to risk your life with a low-quality dosage of Moondrop. If money was no concern, perhaps your desires could've been fulfilled with that instead. But that isn't the case. So you work. You have just started taking commissions, doing the kind of jobs you never could have imagined. Perhaps it's something as simple as delivering a package that you must not open to an abandoned building in another city. Perhaps it's a thing as dastardly as the disposal of a body into the depths of the Outlands at the behest of a local syndicate. Perhaps you'd end up risking your life after all, against monsters that the Foundation have set out bounties for. No matter what it is, your first commission will always be memorable, and successive commissions don't necessarily become easier either.
  
• 
  Style this as you wish. No biggie if it ain't fancy, so long as it's tidy and well-spaced. Note that there is no biography section. I prefer to keep most of the character's backstory undefined, to allow for more flexibility of dramatic twists or hidden relationships down the line.
  
  Character Image: Anime-only, babyyyyy.
  Name: Surnames are a sign that you have a family worth talking about. Otherwise, most people only care for their first name.
  Alias: Some Couriers prefer to operate under a pseudonym. Some Couriers regret their pseudonym a few years later.
  Age | Gender | Height | C-Rank
  Appearance: Optional. Toss in anything that can't be deduced from your character's image here.
  Personality: How do they act when they are with others or on the job? Focus on their exteriority here.
  
  The Defining Scar: Go over the immediate events that caused them to choose to illegally obtain Moondrop and then inject themselves with it. This will form the foundation of their ability as a Lunatic. If this were a manga, think of the contents of this section as something that can be covered within 5 pages. Subsequently, aim for around two paragraphs here.
  
  The First Commission: Go over the events of your character's first commission. They are all new to the work of Couriers, so interesting fuck ups are to be expected, and perhaps other Couriers may have even heard of it as a result. In general, I prefer that characters to have completed less than 10 commissions before the start of the IC's events. That would mean that the longest they should have been a Courier for would be one year. While the Foundation are the most reliable clients, there's possibly more money to be made working for shadowy corpos or the gangs on the city borders.
  
  The Gift: You have one line to describe your character's special ability as a Lunatic. Make it interesting and tie it to the Defining Scar. Classify it as either Transformation or Creation.
  

 

[Eteri]

Name: Rue

23 | female | 5'10ft / 179cm | C-Rank

Appearance: Androgynous build with lanky limbs. There are places on her body where her insides seem to be spilling out from under her skin, forming open crevices. These cracks resemble the seams of an old stuffed toy, which are overflowing with stuffing, but instead of cotton, wood and leaves protrude from underneath. Most noticeable are the ones around her neck. Like a scarf, petals and leaves cover most of her nape and rest on her collarbone, hiding in plain sight. On a particularly bad day, Rue can't stop the saplings that sprout at the corners of her lips and she has to forcibly prune them to properly speak. This explains the slight scar tissue she has on either side.

• Sprouting
• Flowering
• Wilting

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  Personality: Rue is neither overly friendly nor an outright asshole. She's straightforward and blunt on her best days, and rude and insensitive on her worst. There's no care in her words when she delivers news, regardless of its content, and the subject of death in its entirety leaves her rather untouched. Being a pragmatist has come a long way, and there's no need to change the formula of something that's already working.
  
  For a Lunatic, who are generally known to be self-absorbed egoist, she works exceptionally well in groups and tends to adapt to them on the run. She fills gaps with her presence and observes others with an almost ulterior motive. Jumping or abandoning ship is not something she wouldn't consider, and it's clear she's not above those options, but in the end it's almost always easier to stay and work it out. Even if it's just for the sake of her reputation.
  
  The only time Rue becomes noticeably prickly is when it comes to the treatment of the flora in her presence. Deliberately damaging vegetation is the easiest and quickest way to make her openly dislike someone. Human bodies make for an exceptional nutritious soil. At the same time, her behaviour seems to soften exponentially when she's dealing with a plant. It's not uncommon for her to prioritise its health over that of other humans - if she can get away with it.
  
  Rue is sensitive to environmental changes around her. She's usually the first to know when the weather will change, and will occasionally comment on the slightest temperature fluctuations. Most of the time this does not yield any useable fruits, but it can be a nice party trick.
• 
  The Defining Scar: They met under a dying willow. A man with nothing to lose and an adolescence blinded by apathy. He handed her a vial, inconspicuous at best, with the moon trapped inside. A farewell gift, of no further use to him, and her incentive to fulfil this stranger's wish. The day passed and, as promised, Rue scattered his lover's ashes around the tree.
  
  
  
  Where one string ends, another starts and with the lover's death came a new life. The wilting leaves of the willow bloomed in a pale lilac once again and the roots were healthier than ever. Temporary at best, but remarkable nonetheless. As Rue watched the tree's last struggles for unobtainable sunlight and height, fuelled by a tragedy, she found beauty in its transformation. How could something so ethereal exist in this ugly world? The tree met its demise soon after but that couldn't stop the buds of her obsession taking soil. Her first true desire and the beginnings of a wish to recreate this sight.
  
  But in the end, no miracle would be a miracle without its impossibility, and the teenager turning woman found no reprieve despite her efforts. Repeating the exact same steps of the day was to no use and she managed to get herself into more trouble than the handful of ashes were worth. In the silence of her room, caught in the monotonous loop of applying cream to her bruises, she noticed the gleam of the forgotten vial hidden beneath unused bandages. When Rue first held the serum in her hands, she could think of no reason to subject herself to the glaring discrimination that would follow. But now, as desperation and obsession mingled at the edges of her mind, her hands felt steady as she pushed the needle into her vein.
  
  
  
  The Gift: Willows envelop her protectively as their roots find solace in her body. Transformation.
  
  
  
• The First Commission: It was supposed to be a simple job. Fill in the last minute gaps in a group of seasoned escorts for some thrill-seeking silver spoon. The other couriers seemed to know each other, judging by their silly jokes and relaxed shoulders. Unanimously they decided to avoid her. She didn't notice, too distracted by the way her plants seemed to tense around her neck. Swaying in the air to the non-existent wind. There was no reason to listen to their paranoia, so she gathered her bags like the others and readied herself for the uneventful journey.
  
  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
  
  They struck when the day reached its lowest point. The gloom that always accompanied daytime hung lower than ever. It was hard to see clearly, so the reaction to the caravan abruptly stopping and the first bodies hitting the ground was rather late. Human silhouettes lingered at the edge of the road, announcing the presence of an uninvited party. The couriers wouldn't have been hired if they didn't have the skills to back them up, so the reaction to the unexpected ambush followed soon after. The sides clashed.
  
  
  
  Rue didn't know exactly what the reasons were for the onslaught, but she could hardly find the time to stop and ask the attackers. The fight prolonged, but no matter how hard they fought, the outcome didn't look good for her side. Luck was running out for Rue in particular, as a few moments later she fell victim to the steely bite of a Lunatic who resembled a steampunk lion. He tossed her around like a wet piece of paper and she suddenly found herself on the ground with half the stomach she had before. Even through her blurred vision, she could make out the sickly grin that widened his bloody canines. He stalked towards her, claws flexing in pleasure. As her world darkened, she felt the roots within her vibrate with rage.
  
  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
  
  Rue awoke to see the Lunacy coating the sky in a vibrant aurora. Her limbs felt stiff and heavy with exhaustion. Blood stained the air and swallowing left a tangy sensation in her mouth. Leaves crumbled under her weight as she slowly sat up straight, her hands hovering over her throbbing side. The gaping wound promising demise had closed while she was unconscious and in its place a rotting willow sprouted; its roots burrowing deep into her skin. Her eyes traced the branches leading away from her. Shriveled corpses rested at the other end, thinly covered by layers of vascular tissue and roots. A construction resembling the beautiful intricacies of a spider's web.
  
  She stood up, tearing the dead wood out of her side in the process and letting it gently fall to the ground. Rue noticed a steel tooth not far from her, laying innocently in a small puddle of drying blood. Like a trophy she picked it up and let it vanish into her pockets. A muttered prayer left her lips before she could think better of it. Forgiveness or guilt were not on her mind, but habits do die hard and the thought behind the gesture did amuse her. As she turned away from the bloodied vehicles she wondered who delivered the final blow to her contractor. Was it them or her?
  
  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
  
  The incident was judged as an unfortunate tragedy. The futile struggle of couriers against a hostile group of Lunatics with no witnesses other than a traumatised rookie too scared to go into much details about what had happened. The case was quickly sidelined in favour of more pressing matters and people began to forget. She was offered commissions again. Whispers of rumours never stopped but no one could be bothered to keep up with the ones of a new courier. Rue certainly didn't mind that.
  
  

 

[Writingel]

Name:
Aaron

Alias:
Hemo-Goblin

Age:
24

Gender:
Male

Height:
5'6"

C-Rank

Appearance:
When he activates his ability, every single vein in his body can be seen through his skin in a burning red color. They pale the more blood he uses. Beyond that, portions of his skin seemed to be scarred heavily, mostly concentrated on his back, but prominent running along his arms as well, with a few seen on other limbs and parts.
He often carries a variety of sharp utensils with himself, at least on commissions, ostensibly with which to puncture himself in case he needs to fight.


Personality:
Aaron is one of many men and women who hide their truest self behind a mask, although he is noteworthy in being very bad at it. Aloof and distant at a glance, Aaron can be easily warmed up with conversation and a casual interest in him or his hobbies. It takes very little to get him to talk, and it takes significantly more to get him to stop.

While not stupid, Aaron is gullible, and can be seen as a bit dumb. Tricking him is no mean feat, and though he's gotten much better at not taking people at face value, he is still very much out of his depth in this dangerous world. Because of this, while he frequently tries to come off as cooler than he is, he not-so-subtly tries to ask questions when unsure of something.

In a world as cold as his, Aaron can sometimes stick out in being unwilling to kill, or kill people, at least. While he will do it, the only circumstances were he'll let himself is either in desperation, or if forced to. Inexplicitly, he has a tendency to feel guilty about ending a human life.

Also, he hates spiders. He doesn't even want to touch them with his blood.


The Defining Scar:
Witnessing one of his three brothers getting crushed inside of his own suit of armor, Aaron saw the blood leaking out between its mechanical parts, pooling at its feet. It was the blood of a family dedicated to protecting the citizens in the Night Fall era, a legacy he dreamed of but was physically incapable of achieving.

That was the last straw in a long line of soul-rending conditions that drove him to achieve his dream through means he did have access too, rather than those he didn't.

As the son of a rich man, getting his paws on Moondrop was an easy task - the easiest thing in his whole life, unfortunately enough. Forcing it into his veins, Aaron felt his blood burn and boil, curdling inside of his own body. Something was breaking through his skin, as soon the surface of his very skin became aglow with the ghastly sight of his own arteries.

Found by his brothers, who weren't much match for his newfound power outside their armor, Aaron was scarcely able to recall much after manhandling them, besides the exile graciously granted to him by his father. Fleeing into the night, Aaron wouldn't ever see his family again, and could only wish that that was the way he'd want it.​

The First Commission:
It was easy to tell Aaron was out of his league. He was checking over his shoulders constantly, and his expression fought itself between an attempted coolness, and a nervous frown. He barely made it a couple miles before he found himself under assault by a pack of wild animals.

Somehow, some way, Aaron was able to fight them off, at the cost of his pants, and an almost terminal portion of his blood, both as a weapon, and as a cost. He would've been embarrassed at the visibility of his boxers, if he wasn't so drained that climbing into a tree felt Herculean in effort.

He didn't sleep too peacefully that night.

Stumbling through the open plains after the fact, Aaron was eventually found by another man who claimed to be a fellow Courier, and was no doubt there to help him. It seemed too perfect, Aaron thought, proceeding to not think any harder. If he did, he probably would've been spared the man making off with his delivery in the middle of the night.

Another few days Aaron spent having to track this man down. He didn't overly want to kill him, but when the man slashed Aaron's throat, he couldn't deny that the fear of death got the better of him - driven by more animalistic instincts, Aaron used the very blood spilled his opponent spilled from him to mangle him and leave him unrecognizable in the grassy fields.

Finally, Aaron, already late to an unacceptable degree, arrived at the outskirts of his destination. All he had to do was make it through the entrance-way, and drop off the very parcel that had caused him so much strife.

And then, as the pants-less man was asked for his ID, and he quickly remembered where he put it. He could handle (if he lied to himself) the guards very obviously restrained laughter. When they audibly faltered upon his explanation that he left it in his pants, he threw the package on the ground and left in a huff.

All in all, Hemo-Goblin made something of an impression, to be sure - it's just... he was hoping it'd be one that might earn him a bit of respect, was all.​

The Gift:
Transformation - he bleeds and can shape the blood that comes out of him into weapons, limbs, or just tendrils.​

 

[Madeliefje]

• Title
• Details

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  Revenant
  
  
  
  
  Age 16| Gender Ambiguous | Height 160cm | C-Rank
  
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  Appearance: After the attack on their syndicate Revenants body has become extremely scarred their isn't an inch on their body which doesn't have a mark. As such and also due to old habits dying hard. Revenant does all they can to hide their identity. Their short high and young age making it extremely hard to disguise if their a boy or a girl. Keeping themselves always hidden also plays to their strength of not truly knowing what form their are taking at any moment.
  
  Personality: Revenat is a extremely self centered unemphatic person. They have a one track mind in finishing their goal and will abandon anyone else to reach it. Their only motive to do things is to further their own goals. They aren't interested in anything else anymore. They tend to be not very trusting of others always watching out for any point expecting a knife in their back. Having said that they are extremely opinionated and will not shy away from saying their thoughts out loud, they are not shy or quite. Being so young they have that aggressive youthful spunk of always wanting to be right.
  
  The Defining Scar: As the survivor of the fall of their old criminal syndicate, they took it upon themselves to inject Moondrop in order to take revenge. They know the four faces responsible for bring down their old gang one of which just happens to be in the foundation and they will stop at nothing to gain their trust. Rising though the system till the day comes, they meet them face to face, their body adapting to any situation they need to get there. One track mind.
  
  The First Commission: Before the defining scar Revenant was already a very prominent underworld assassin practically raised from birth for the intent purpose of killing, under a different name. With a new name and identity it was child's play making the switch from people to monsters the foundation put high bounties on. Revenats new strength comes from striking unpredictably and swiftly as well infiltration, making them the ultimate assassin. They start off slow at first taking on small bounties as to not raise suspicion they also take their time learning everything they can about their target, they quickly gained the name Revenat. As no one was ever truly sure if they were just planning or already dead.
  
  Morph, Transformation, the ability for Revenant to shape their body however they please, be that keys for fingers, wings for arms, or eyes on the back of their head.
  
  
  
  

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

Name: Gabriel
Alias: Pyre

22 | Female | 5’8/172cm | Rank C

Personality: Easygoing, if a little jittery. Prefers to be moving, and is always playing with fire - assuming, of course, that lighting a fire doesn’t pose an immediate risk to her life. Open flame near gas is just asking for trouble. Even on the job, she carries herself lightly; stiffness just isn't her thing, and rigidity reminds her too much of the past. Prone to japes, trying to keep things light for herself. Unfortunately, this also has a tendency to blow up in her face, because Gabriel lacks a filter and will unwittingly press the wrong buttons until the recipient explodes. Nevertheless, she'll offer an apology and keep track of it in the future.

• Scar
• Commission

• 
  People would call it an error of judgment, a mistake made in the heat of the moment. But Gabriel always had a morbid fascination with watching things burn. The slums were a wretched place, a hive of outcasts barely kept in check by their own squalor and the efforts of civilized society to keep them there. Her parents demanded much of her, their little torch, their light in the dark. They gave her wings and told her to fly for their sake. What failed dreams they carried with them into destitution was now hers to fulfill, on their behalf. Odd jobs, thievery, extortion… the works. But that wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough for a big break, where they could rejoin the citizenry. So they conspired with each other to go further, to mold their daughter into the vessel they wanted her to be.
  
  The culmination of this was the acquisition of a vial of Moondrop. Months of painstaking work, of rejections and ultimatums. It all led up to this. Take it, they told her, eyes agleam with desire, take it and help us out of this place. We’re family, and family should help each other. They held it out, a vial of liquid that swirled in it all their wants, all their wishes. All Gabriel had to do was accept, and their journey from the bottom to the top could start anew.
  
  They never saw the signs. So consumed by their desperation, so lost in their dream, they never noticed Gabriel’s apathy. Her bitterness. Resentment. And that cauldron, simmering and seething, boiled over. Spilled after so long. That caustic rage set her parents, their home, and their dreams alight in the fires of her wrath. Their torch that would carry them into the future they wished became the spark of their demise. Firefighters would arrive soon after, but the blaze burned brightly for a day before it was finally snuffed out. Tragedy, corporate magnates said with a hand over black hearts. We will help, politicians swore, possibilities swirling in dark thoughts.
  
  As the ashes of the past died down and the vultures moved in, Gabriel found herself renewed. Cleansed. Purified. Her chains were broken, and she was free. In shaking hands, she clutched their tainted gift and smiled.
  
  The Gift: A flame that purifies the wicked. Creation.
  
  
• 
  The corporations of the post-Nightfall world are always looking to gain an edge over each other. Such is their nature. The commission was simple - intercept another Courier carrying a package. Presumably sensitive information filched from the corp. Standard commission. The corporations never liked people who liked looking into things, so Gabriel didn’t ask any sensitive questions. She managed to wrest some information from her employers regarding the mission.. The route they were taking had been marked out, what affiliations they had, available resources, so forth. All Gabriel had to do was take that package off their hands and she would be paid.
  
  Things are rarely so simple in practice, however. The enemy Courier was a paranoid man. Mercurial in nature and possessed of a weak mind, he’d conscripted a few gangers to guard him on his way to the drop-off location. Trailing him was a difficult affair as a result. He turned his head at the slightest movement, hands itching towards his weapons. But by picking off those bodyguards and forcing him to take alternative routes, she would manage to corner him in an abandoned building. Already jumping at shadows, it wasn’t long before the other Courier broke from the pressure and started lashing out at anything that moved.
  
  This caught the attention of a syndicate, who desired the package for themselves. Easy enough to sell it off to a rival corporation - and they would put them into their debt. A commission for other, dubiously legal dealings. Or so they thought to themselves, slavering for their prize. They flooded the building with men and women, intent on killing both Couriers. But the first one was already dead; Gabriel had executed him brutally, grabbing his face and setting him alight. The stink of burnt flesh filled the air, and as the syndicate members approached, so did a musk of fear.
  
  They demanded a handover. Gabriel politely disagreed. Much like an ancient religious figure of old, she brought the building down on them by setting the place on fire, determined to drag her attackers into Hell. The resulting fire made escape extremely difficult, but she’d turned the building into a massive grave for an entire syndicate's hit team, their screams echoing into the long dark.
  
  She never earned a single coin for her work as a result of the package being destroyed. But it earned Gabriel her alias - Pyre.
  
  

 

[Nellancholy]

Name: Anisa

Alias: Janus

Age: Early 20s
Gender: Female
Height: ~165cm
Rank: C

Personality: When communicating remotely, Janus' demeanor ranges from flirtatious to boastful, depending on her mood and who she is talking to. However, whenever speaking in person she has a timid and yielding face that nonetheless has yet to prevent her from carrying out her jobs. Despite her passivity, she occasionally helps people out outside of commissions by building or repairing small things. The fact that they never last doesn't seem to bother her. Frequently makes impulse buys now that she has more money, and compulsively occupies her hands whenever it isn't necessary to do something else. (Probably owns a fidget spinner?)

The Defining Scar:
The sun shines and the rain falls on the rich and poor alike (or so they say), but one thing that was abundantly clear was that prosperity was distributed very, very unevenly. Anisa was one of the many who struggled: being able to attend a shabby public school was well enough, but there were few prospects beyond that which didn't involve mopping floors or stacking plastcrete in corporate buildings for decades. That or throw in with a gang, pull off robbery, trafficking, and assassination for profit before dying in a hail of bullets. Anisa dared to aspire to something that wasn't quite parallel to the first option, but headed in roughly the same direction. And so it was that she enlisted in the Mars Rangers, which happened to be the marketing-speak name for the security forces of Mars Co., one of the biggest manufacturers in the city and beyond.

The training was tough, but her needs were met during that time. She grew to admire her unit's instructor, one Valla Carstein, during that time. The middle-aged captain was everything Anisa believed she was not: heroic to the point of self-sacrifice, perpetually unfazed, well-respected by all who addressed her. After the first phase of her training, Anisa's unit was assigned to a "field exercise", what should have been an easy operation to assault a group of scavengers who had looted a Mars Co. shipment and retrieve what belonged to the company. A simple operation that would have gone perfectly fine with an experienced captain and a team of green recruits most of whom had never fired a weapon at a living being. But it didn't take long for things to go sideways: several of the scavengers had acquired Moondrops of questionable quality, and with the Rangers at their door, they used them in desperation.

The chaotic transformations and manifestation of gifts led to a rapidly spiraling situation, and in the ensuing battle, many of the Ranger cadets were wiped out. Even the valiant Captain Carstein was left severely poisoned, with several internal injuries, and pinned down under a girder. Her power armor, depleted of energy could not avail her of its strength. But even in its damaged state, it held up. If only she could be extracted, she could likely be evacuated in time to be saved. But Anisa was the only one with her. And she lacked the reach to hit all the emergency releases of the armor simultaneously. Lacked the strength to tear the armor open or lift the girder that held them both in place. She could do nothing.

A larger deployment of the SSS was able to extinguish the flames and kill the scavengers (or worse), but it was a little too late.

Captain Valla Carstein was declared KIA, and cremated with honors. Anisa was dismissed. Having not cleared even 3 months of active duty, it was a miracle that Mars Co. paid for her prosthetic leg, though of course, not any of the maintenance. And with that, Anisa was cast out to languish once more.

She had to fix her mistakes in order to continue to live and strive. She had to get stronger. She had to fix what was lacking: let no object fall apart when she needed it, and let no matter stand in her way when she needed to save someone. The Moondrop, it seemed, took that quite literally.

The First Commission:
The first was by all means a simple job. Venture outside the city and retrieve a sports car that some bigwig had lost from a convoy after it got attacked by Lunacy-dyes animals. It was an easy enough effort to track down the vehicle, surrounded by transformed foliage and still gleaming brightly beneath the aurora even with the paint scratched. Her Gift allowed her to make the repairs in a fraction of the time they would take, with far fewer materials.

But the moment she entered the car and turned the key, a chill ran down her back. It seemed that some of the Lunacy-dyed beasts were still in the area: they had likely come to see the car as their possession, as useless as it was to them. She was still unsteady on her prosthetic leg, her nerves rarely allowing her to form a coherent thought more frequently than every other minute.

Even so, it was that leg that allowed her to floor it and shoot like a bullet back to the city, not daring to let up for a moment or look at the mirrors for fear of what she would see. She barely reached the heavily guarded entrance to the city before the engine block fell out, alongside two of the tires.

Nevertheless, the vehicle was still...maybe 60% intact, and minus the repair costs, 30% of what she would be owed for a pristine car was given to her.

Now, she would simply need to repeat something so dangerous, every few days, for the rest of her life...

The Gift: Transformation. Cause changes to inanimate matter that persist only temporarily. Repairs last longer than disassembly, destruction, or new construction, but they all inevitably revert to a prior state. Visions like glowing orbs or small fairies appear visibly on whatever her gift is working on.

 

[Resting Witch Face]

Name: Alexander Bartholomew Ezekiel Davenport
Aliases(he cycles them out regularly): Pinocchio, Joker, Salem, Jack of Spades, Pretty Boy, Mad Hatter, Beggar Prince of Wonderland.
27 | Male | 5'7" | 98lbs | C-Rank
Appearance: He looks like a sickly prince, remarkably thin for his height, seeming as if a stiff breeze would knock him over at any given moment.

Personality: Despite looking like he might snap at the slightest inconvenience, he's patient and calculated, preferring to stick back and let things play out before moving in for a swift coup de grace. He tries his best to stay silent and listen but sometimes his ego gets the better of him, leading to fiery and... eccentric outbursts which often lead to him losing his commissions and falling into a deep poverty-influenced depression.

THE DEFINING SCAR: Ace of Spades
"My father was always a sore loser... The Davenport family made big on underground casinos, places to gamble food, drink and money so maybe you don't starve today. Thing was, many a person came and went from the gambler's den hungry. Hungry and bruised. I never was much of a gambler, cared more for the art of the cards than the material gains, but that never stopped the old man. He always told me, 'Alex ye'll do great things. Ye'll rob this world blind and leave 'em shakin' yer hand while yah piss into their boots.'

But my father was always a sore loser. Never took too kindly to someone robbing HIM blind, whether it was stranger, friend... or family.

To this day I always swear by my mother's grave that I ain't never touched a drop of Moon 'till that night, but, of course, my word wasn't exactly good enough for him. 'Yer a cheatin' fuck! My own son, drinking the Devil's Wine to swindle me of my dinner!' To think, he'd be willing to shoot his own son up with Moon juice to prove a point over a loaf 'a bread an' a damn beer... not like I was against the idea, I always toyed around with becomin' a courier, but anyone I ever talked to told me that you should get your drop somewhere the blood flows nice, like your thigh or neck. Bastard stuck me right in the eye, so I burned his casino to the ground and filled my pockets with his fortune... He used to tell me that madness ran in the family, that it'd come for me just like it came for my mother, and him. He was right, but that's not saying much. After a few months on the run,
​

I learned that we're all mad down here."

THE FIRST COMMISSION: Ace in the Hole

"It was a few weeks after the accident at Daddy dearest's cellar and I'd been on the road for too long, shambling along the gravelly intersections in a haze. Whatever that cheap bastard stabbed me with wasn't exactly high quality moonshine, and more than once I found myself jumping at shadows or calling out to empty rooms and streets. It was like I was high on something, I couldn't feel the ends of my extremities and the world was blurred and dull. I'm sure before long I collapsed but I barely remember anything at all after the city came into view, just the feeling of cold hands on my arms and my legs scraping against the dirt.

I woke up on a gurney in some quiet, dingy apartment complex. Before I could get to my feet I felt something sharp press up against my windpipe and noticed a rather stocky man standing to my left with a knife to my throat; he wouldn't give his name but rather insisted I call him 'Shopkeep.'

Shopkeep had a job for me, and judging from my current situation I owed him big time for his little rescue act on the city border, so I obliged. He told me he needed a package delivered to him and that I would need to purchase it from some local... dealers... He seemed hesitant to call them as such but it didn't strike me as odd. Maybe they were new business partners, what did it matter anyway? I took his money and moved to the door before he called out to me, with a grating voice like stone against my ear drums.
'Oh and, don't even think about running into the night. I know you're one of those... freaks... but that doesn't mean I can't or won't find you.'

The meeting spot was a dingy alley not far from Shopkeep's building, rank with the stench of human waste and other notable, disgusting smells. Then, three goons walked out from behind a particularly rancid dumpster holding a small suitcase. 'Where's Shopkeep? Who the fuck are you?'
I explained that he had sent me as a middle man, and that I had the cash. That seemed to ease them back a little and we did business, but not before the sounds of the street adjacent fell silent. No foot or vehicle traffic sounded through the thin stone corridor, and suddenly we were all on edge again. Why was it so quiet? Well, we got our answer in the form of a volley of gunfire shredding through my friend's business partners.

A rival gang, I could only assume; here to plunder whatever business dealings were going on here for themselves. I thought I was going to die as well before something in me... clicked. Suddenly I felt a heat rising in my chest, like the draft from a kiln bubbling up through my throat and out of my mouth. It was a new sensation, something I had never experienced; I bellowed loud enough to startle the gunmen, loud enough to even startle myself. It sounded as if one of those lunacy beasts had crashed into the city, a grand cry to wake the heavens. Then the visions started again.

I was worried that I would lose myself in the haze but to my surprise, my hallucinations were very real to the others as well. What I had thought to be just in my head was screaming towards the group of gunmen like a bat out of hell, causing their ranks to falter and for some of the weak-hearted to run terrified into the night. Those that stayed simply emptied their weapons into the walls and the street before realizing there was no such beast barreling towards them, but by then it was much too late for them...

After that incident I went back to work for Shopkeep full time, though he never actually told me what was in the case. He was, however, ecstatic that I had not only his package but his money as well; he decided I was good enough to hire full time. I found myself going back time and time again whenever I was short on food or good clothing... what? A man needs to look his sharpest even when the world is falling apart."

The Gift: Blackjack of all trades (Creation)
Alexander utilizes illusions to disorient and distract his opponent before executing them with his very real blades, ranging from copying himself, vanishing into a murder of crows or even crafting an intricate nightmare to trap someone in, as he just loves to share his madness with others.

 

[Spoiled Bread]

Name: Stella Weaver
Alias: Weaver
Age: 21
Gender: Female
Height: 162 cm
C-Rank

Personality: Stella is quite obviously someone who used to be spoiled as she tends to complains a lot. She's blunt yet manipulative, and likes to assert dominance whenever she can in an attempt to seize as much control as possible. This makes her clash quite often with the authority figure above her.

The Defining Scar: The Weaver used to be a small family that dedicates themselves to maintain the communication network in a relatively small city somewhere in the far north. However, when the local mafia teamed up with local cult to take over the city, the Weavers and their network towers were the first one to be eliminated as to cripple the city's ability to respond to the incoming coup. Stella was the sole survivor of that attacks and spent weeks in hiding as the city was plunged into chaos between power-hungry factions.

It took months before the next convoy from another city came to visit and Stella immediately took the opportunity to hitch a ride away from the city. Unfortunately for her, the city she arrived in was no less unforgiving, albeit in many different way. Her family's name has no influence here. She lost her family, her works, her city. Everything slipped away from her control... She wants all of it back. She wants more. She wants revenge. The shady man she met in the back alley offered her a tool. A risky tool, but one she was willing to take.

The First Commission: Her first commission was a manhunt. Someone stole important data from a syndicate. They want it back. Numerous Lunatics were hired to comb the undercity, but in the end no one was able to find the man. The commission was considered a failure... Then some time later said data was found being sold in the city's deep web and bought by rival syndicates for some hefty amount of money. Stella wasn't that stupid to disregard the true value of the data. The man was dead, got sliced off by her string traps. She's the one who sold the data after she realize its true price. She didn't care about the resulting tension between those syndicates as long as she get her money.

The Gift: Transformation - Stella can produces spider silk

 

[SavannahSmiles]

Mariposa

scroll

Name
Hyacinth

Appearance
Standing at 4'11" (150 cm) and weighing roughly 100 lbs (45 kg), Hyacinth seems small for a girl her age and is often mistaken for being younger than she actually is. Her lilac eyes are her most noticeable feature, set in a heart-shaped face with rounds cheeks, full lips and a delicate nose. Her onyx locks tumble well past her waist and she generally keeps it braided out of the way when she is on commissions.

Personality
Like a butterfly fluttering between flowers, Hyacinth flows through life with a sweet smile and a kind word. She hides what she is truly feeling behind a mask of pleasantries and polite smiles, never one to fully open up to someone least they take advantage of her vulnerability. The world has taught her that the only person that can be trusted is herself and that she is the only one that decides her fate.

Defining Scar
It looked beautiful, she thought, iridescent blue wings shimmering delicately against the splashes of red staining the snow around it. It perched proudly on fingers that would never move again, a stark contrast to the pale pallid of death surrounding it. It was the young girl's first time seeing a butterfly and the sight took her breath away, how such a majestic being could exist among such carnage.

She shifted closer, small fingers slowly reaching out to brush against one paper-thin wing. The insect startled, wings beating as it took to the skies in flight. 'Take me with you, I want to fly too.' She begged but she received no answer as the speck of blue faded into the night. Shoulders slumping, a frown creased her delicate features as her hands curled into fists.

'I'll be free too, even if I have to pry my freedom from their hands.'

Standing, the youth brushed snow from her thread-bare clothes and reached down to pick something up. She turned the vial this way and that in curiosity, wondering how such a small thing could make grown men tear each other apart to obtain. Her eyes sparkled as she gazed at the captured moonlight and despite the cold, her fingers were steady as the needle pierced the pale skin of her forearm.

First Commission
It was supposed to be a simple task: deliver some supplies to the city nearby, an easy mission for someone new to the work of a Courier. She was agile and quick on her feet and her rough childhood had taught her how to move like a ghost if she wanted to. The day had progressed well enough, she had minimal encounters with wild-life and she was growing confident that she would finish this job with little difficulty.

But a small girl unaccompanied and outside in the wilds made for an easy target. The Lunatic attacked as the sun slipped below the horizon and the night filled with the sound of screams and flashes of blue as her survival instincts kicked in and a swarm of butterflies surrounded their prey.

She was sure she made quite a sight when she arrived at the city covered in blood that was not her own but the package was successfully delivered and she received her payment, so that was all that mattered.

The Gift
Creation: She creates glowing blue butterflies, a swarm at her command, whose gossamer wings rip and tear through her enemies.
​

17 years old | Female | She/Her | C-Rank

♡design by minajesty, coded by uxie♡

Spoiler: Info

Name
Hyacinth

Appearance
Standing at 4'11" (150 cm) and weighing roughly 100 lbs (45 kg), Hyacinth seems small for a girl her age and is often mistaken for being younger than she actually is. Her lilac eyes are her most noticeable feature, set in a heart-shaped face with rounds cheeks, full lips and a delicate nose. Her onyx locks tumble well past her waist and she generally keeps it braided out of the way when she is on commissions.

Personality
Like a butterfly fluttering between flowers, Hyacinth flows through life with a sweet smile and a kind word. She hides what she is truly feeling behind a mask of pleasantries and polite smiles, never one to fully open up to someone least they take advantage of her vulnerability. The world has taught her that the only person that can be trusted is herself and that she is the only one that decides her fate.

Defining Scar
It looked beautiful, she thought, iridescent blue wings shimmering delicately against the splashes of red staining the snow around it. It perched proudly on fingers that would never move again, a stark contrast to the pale pallid of death surrounding it. It was the young girl's first time seeing a butterfly and the sight took her breath away, how such a majestic being could exist among such carnage.

She shifted closer, small fingers slowly reaching out to brush against one paper-thin wing. The insect startled, wings beating as it took to the skies in flight. 'Take me with you, I want to fly too.' She begged but she received no answer as the speck of blue faded into the night. Shoulders slumping, a frown creased her delicate features as her hands curled into fists.

'I'll be free too, even if I have to pry my freedom from their hands.'

Standing, the youth brushed snow from her thread-bare clothes and reached down to pick something up. She turned the vial this way and that in curiosity, wondering how such a small thing could make grown men tear each other apart to obtain. Her eyes sparkled as she gazed at the captured moonlight and despite the cold, her fingers were steady as the needle pierced the pale skin of her forearm.

First Commission
It was supposed to be a simple task: deliver some supplies to the city nearby, an easy mission for someone new to the work of a Courier. She was agile and quick on her feet and her rough childhood had taught her how to move like a ghost if she wanted to. The day had progressed well enough, she had minimal encounters with wild-life and she was growing confident that she would finish this job with little difficulty.

But a small girl unaccompanied and outside in the wilds made for an easy target. The Lunatic attacked as the sun slipped below the horizon and the night filled with the sound of screams and flashes of blue as her survival instincts kicked in and a swarm of butterflies surrounded their prey.

She was sure she made quite a sight when she arrived at the city covered in blood that was not her own but the package was successfully delivered and she received her payment, so that was all that mattered.

The Gift
Creation: She creates glowing blue butterflies, a swarm at her command, whose gossamer wings rip and tear through her enemies.
​

 

[Midrick]

​

Name: Billy

Alias: Machinehead

Age: 24

Gender: Male

Height: 6"0' Ft. (182 cm)

Rank: Rank C

Appearance: Possessing an average height and build, Billy isn't a walking pile of hypertrophied muscle or a beefcake by any means, but working with machines and tools most of his adult life has left him with an athletic and deceptively strong frame. Long, unkempt bangs cover the upper right portion of his face, concealing the crisscrossing spiderwebs of burn and shrapnel scars that mark where he had previously been injured. He is rarely found without a cigarillo, lit or unlit, in his mouth.

Personality: Clinical is the way Billy would describe himself, always treating life as a problem to be solved with efficiency and rationality. He prefers careful consideration and analysis to spontaneous action. Always triple checks and brings seemingly excessive amounts of whatever he may think he need for a task because he would "Rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it." Not a social butterfly by any means, but can politely hold a conversation, the easiest way to get him to talk your ear off is to mention anything technical in nature, from method of operation, internal parts, or repair. Billy usually has a fairly even temperament, some would say bordering on deadpan, except for when someone or something ruins his carefully constructed plans and strategies, intentionally breaks something he's working on, or takes his tools and doesn't put them back where the borrower found them. These are the main 3 ways to make Billy lose his cool faster than a fusion reactor with no coolant, and a lunatic juiced up the gills with enough tech to make a rifle platoon look paltry in comparison is usually someone whose good side you want to stay on, plus he can fix your shit if you ask nicely.

• Scar
• First Commission

• 
  Orphaned or abandoned, Billy never really knew, but from a young age he was fending for himself on the mean streets of a merciless world. All of that changed when an old man offered him meal and board in exchange for labor. Billy hesitantly accepted, preparing to flee if he sensed any foul play afoot, but none ever came. Instead backbreaking work and gruff words became his reality. As he grew older the old engineer came to see Billy more and more like a family member, and the same could be said for Billy in finally having a positive role model in life. It wasn't to last however. One of the local syndicates had been using the Engineer and his ward as armorers and weapon-smiths among other uses for their needs in whatever conflict that the syndicate deemed to pursue. One day however, the old man had had enough, years of silently watching his creations destroy and harm the victims of the syndicate had finally taken their toll. unveiling his newest and arguably greatest creation to the group of enforcers who had come to remind the two why it was in their best interest to obey the commands of the syndicate. A custom and heavily modified mech suit turned them into little more than pink mist. The syndicate, none too pleased at a challenge to their authority, sent more bodies at the Engineer and through weight of numbers eventually disabled the old mans battlesuit long enough to to kill the engineer. The blast of the overclocked power supply was enough to level half of the workshop where the two resided. Hit with fist sized chunks of shrapnel and pinned beneath burning debris, Billy should've died with everyone else, but his will to survive overrode the fear and biological weakness of his injured body.
  
  After pulling himself out of the husk of a building that he had called home for most of his teenage years, and was greeted by the sight of carnage and bloodshed. Despite his wounds he limped his way into one of the intact vehicles that had survived the firefight, in a fevered search for anything that could stabilize himself. In the half destroyed SUV, he found a case filled with vials of distilled moonlight, all shattered, save for one. Taking one long look at what was left of the wrecked battlesuit, a million questions and possible scenarios flew through his mind.
  
  an iron will and thirst for vengeance was born within him that day, he would avenge the closest thing he had to family, consequences be damned.
  
• 
  Having someone who understood tech was essential really for any group of couriers who wanted a chance to make real money. An ancient server bank had been uncovered by surveyor teams, and the corp that had put together the group of lunatics had elected to headhunt Billy for their generously funded expedition to recover whatever uncorrupted data remained. Despite the attacks by the Lunacy dyed fauna, the tean was making good progress. the real problems didn't start until various other groups of couriers that had came for the data as well. what was supposed to be a simpke search and recovery mission turned into an all out war between the teams of couriers. Despite almost all of his team perishing, Billy was able to canibalize their equipment as well as that of any other fallen lunatics to increase his firepower and survivabilty, to the point where he would simply stroll through crossfires and pitched firefights. eventually he recoverd all that he could from one of the remaining server stacks. Expecting pre collapse blueprints for some piece of wonder tech or weapon, instead, what he found was petabytes of music that was stored in an underground facility for whatever reason. returning to the corp that had sponsored the mission with the data, they had been rightly upset when what they had paid for was essentially worthless. despite their outrage, a little coecerion with the multiple automatic weapons grafted to his body helped them resolve their disagreement, a deal was a deal after all. Before he left the city where the corp was located, He uploaded the copies of the files to the local city network before leaving on the next convoy out. Pettiness, it seemed, indeed did go both ways.
  

The Gift: Transformation - The perfect union of flesh and metal, Billy's body can interface and integrate foreign matter perfectly without fear of rejection.

 

[Seraphine]

Judah

character theme

"Vulcan"

General Profile

}

Age

27

Gender

Male

Height

6'4

Rank

C-Rank

The Gift

Creation

𒅒

"Just as a forest nymph's trail ushers in blooms, so too does the scorpion's embrace call forth the venomous stakes of hell to rise."

⫘⫘⫘ 𒅒 ⫘⫘⫘​

Personality

A melting pot of glowers and glares, Judah radiates all the intensity of a scorched, desert sun. His presence is not one easily forgotten, nor is it stifled; much like rays of sunlight, it reaches all. Though he may not seem like it, he is slow to choose or enjoy violence outright, preferring instead to stalk and bide his time. But once he pounces, he is no stranger to scorched earth methods; for those he deems a threat, there will never be any half measures.

True to his roots as a revolutionary, Judah finds himself straddling the delicate balance between adhering to and disregarding the Foundation's authority, guided by his own personal set of morals.

Unlike a good portion of Lunatics, he also is not utterly devoid of feeling; he still cares, and thus hurts and hurts well. To counteract this, a striking blend between slow-burning caustic wit and bleeding cynicism colors nearly every facet of his being. Once in a while though, the dying embers of a once white-hot flame of idealism and purpose peek out, reminding that not so long ago, all this came about because what was most dangerous about him: his desire for change.

⫘⫘⫘ 𒅒 ⫘⫘⫘​

Defining Scar

The air was thick with the aroma of vinegar and citrus peel. It swirled and mixed with the heat, sweat and tension rolling off the bodies of hundreds of farmers, clad in whatever was left of their protective gear when they were first indentured in. Rusted, flickering bay lamps pockmarked the narrow dirt awnings of every tunnel, while every few paces, rows of heavy-duty glass terrariums bridled dozens of scorpions. Dusted boots trudged to the tune of a hundred thousand hisses, the clang of aluminum air pipe entwined into the earth bleeding it all into one grueling, sixteen-hour symphony. Now and again, after one too many stings, a fellow or two would keel over and convulse to the ground. If they were lucky, the day's slight supply of antivenom would fix things right up. If not, off they went⸺dragged to their dirt bunker to suffer and sleep it off, or sleep it away, forever.

Sleep, he thought bitterly, meeting the bloodshot gaze of every man who had sacrificed three months' worth of pay just to meet here, just for this moment. That is all we want. Just a few more hours to sleep.

He took a single, shuddering breath and looked down.

For a moment, he saw feather-thin threads of daybreak trickling through that dirt wall. The cot sagged under the weight of his long, wiry frame; beside him, curled up and caked in garden grime was his baby sister. She did not have to be awake at the crack of dawn, but he knew she always was when he shot up. Dark, empty eyes stared into the colorless, venomous abyss stored inside the needle. Use pain to distract from pain. Hardly a groundbreaking concept. It was an escape paved in the thorns, but it got the job done. Adrenaline spiked, heart pumping, alert for the slightest crack in the glass, or a wave of a scorpion's tail, or the whispers...

The whispers that had masterminded it all; the convincing, the collecting and the silent calling...

That was what lay in his hands. The key to bettering the lives of every underground farmer in every sector lay in his hands, and fifteen other men just like him. Singled out for their strength in both stature and character, riding on nothing but the hope that they'd survive the brutal metamorphosis of Moondrop and lead what they'd all been silently calling for: the workers' revolt.

A final, shuddering breath escaped him. Dark, empty eyes stared into the lunular abyss inside that needle, and for the first time in a long time, they gleamed.

⫘⫘⫘ 𒅒 ⫘⫘⫘
​

First Commission

Until they themselves were past the city gates, not a single word was allowed to slip past their diseased lips. He was to take them as far as possible into the Bright Night and leave them there. To ensure no returners, he was to trap them; twenty or so victims of tuberculosis into cages of his own making, or otherwise mercifully disposed of.

Fresh out of a year-long workers' revolt and surviving the Foundation's psychiatric examination room, fate had a twisted sense of humor, handing him such a harrowing task as his first commission. Sacrifice the few for the greater good of the many; a notion he had carried out countless times underground. There were never enough resources to properly treat sickened scorpions; the most effective and extreme measures were always used. Single out, safeguard, and snip away from the rest of the population; rinse and repeat and carry on with your shift.

This is no different, his mind argued desperately. Just imagine... imagine them as insects.

But as the hours stretched on, soon nothing could distract him from hearing the sorrow of twenty damned souls; not the wind, the creak of the caravan's wheels, the horse's steady hoof beats, or the whip of his rein.

When the wagon finally stopped hours later, Judah could hardly meet them in the eye. They could hardly stomach the sight of him either; sheathed in barbarous layers of scorpion scale with a horned tail to match, he was the grim reaper made flesh.

"Wait."

Before he could corral them out of the wagon, a hand reached out and gingerly made contact with his serrated one. "You... you don't need to do this."

The voice and hand belonged to a woman. Amid the haggard, poverty-stricken slum-dwellers that made up this ill batch, she stood out as higher class. Judah stared daggers at her. Don't make this any harder than it already is.

"I mean it," she repeated, gripping her tattered coat as a bitter cough followed. "They... never let me run tests before... before I was let go. But I... I'm sure of it."

Judah's eyes narrowed. Now that he had a good look at her, the frock she had one was no ordinary one. Patches of different fabrics were sewn on, but there was no doubt. It was an old lab coat, the same kind the corpo's scientists would wear underground, charged with studying scorpion venom. Careful as he had been to lock out emotion, a sliver of curiousity embedded itself in his next words.

"Sure of what?"

⫘⫘⫘ 𒅒 ⫘⫘⫘
​

A DAY LATER

Dr. Janna Skein. That had been her name, in another life, another time. Before the whispers of revolt, she had been on the verge of a breakthrough. Two compounds in scorpion venom she found, contained the antimicrobial properties necessary to kill tuberculosis, one of the most prolific diseases ravaging slums across cities. In the hands of the Foundation, the cure could in theory go out to anyone. But the one thing it could not cure was the corpos' avarice; in their hands, the price they'd set alone guaranteed the medicine would be dead in the water. When the revolt erupted, she lost nearly everything, and found herself the victim of the very monster she tried to slay.

And when all was said and done, Judah found himself defying the very orders he had been given. Instead of culling, his venom-tipped spears had cured. Instead of leaving behind nameless, faceless strangers to brave the Bright Night, he was bringing simple folk back home.

Of course, nothing was certain. They rode back on the feverish word and hope of Dr. Skein, whose reaction to the venom left her, and a good portion of the already immuno-compromised group, flat on their backs as their bodies fought poison with poison. Some miraculously, showed signs that they were on the mend. Save for two or three mindless Lunacy-warped animals, few obstacles stood in Judah's way.

That is, until he realized the figure in the distance was no animal. It was a Lunatic; a seasoned Courier, despatched to investigate his enormous delay. It was meant to be a relatively straightforward, simple task after all.

There was no room for reason between Lunatics. Having slowed to a stop, the pair barely exchanged proper identification before the Courier, Phase, disappeared before his very eyes. Within moments, strangled cries erupted from behind, from inside the caravan. Judah ripped the flap away and struck like lightning; a stake flew straight for the Courier, but it was too late. Twenty whittled down to twelve, and now she was behind him, with only a hair width's in time to block the blade to his throat with a scaled, serrated hand.

A fierce struggle followed. Gravity lulled his massive frame off the driver's front, sending them both to the ground. Impaling her first with his tailpiece and then with a trifecta of stakes through the chest and legs, Judah scrambled for the only means to neutralize their pursuer's power⸺the reins. Logic dictated that was the only reason she had stopped the caravan; she could not teleport onto moving targets. Whipping the horse back to life once more, the caravan thundered across the last few miles of bowed plains to their city.

⫘⫘⫘ 𒅒 ⫘⫘⫘​

No revolutionary hero's welcome awaited him, for whatever noble qualities had guided him would soon waste. The fact that his Lunacy-dyed venom had helped cure a dozen from imminent death was overshadowed quickly by his gross deviation of Foundation orders and killing of a fellow Courier. His fate was sealed: forbidden from his home city, barred from ever seeing his family, his little sister. Like a true scorpion, he was exiled, cast into the twisted desert and beyond.

CODE BY SEROBLISS / VALOROUS ORDER

 

[Steve Jobs]

DAHLIA FREEMAN

# transformation

# ewa labak

♡coded by uxie♡

"The immature poet imitates and the mature poet plagiarizes."​

NAME: Dahlia Freeman
ALIAS: Mimic, Chimera...it's a work in progress
AGE: 25
GENDER: Genderfluid (Any/All)
FACECLAIM BY: Ewa Labak
RANK: C
HEIGHT: 5'11"

PERSONALITY: Where there was once a person is now a collage of faces.

When Dahlia reaches out there's a sense of familiarity when he speaks, giving the impression of someone far warmer than he really is. It's only when he leaves that the verisimilitude of friendship fades, leading to the realization that they merely mimicked their previous disguise. Their stories are rehearsed, their expressions are trained, and their tone is a contradiction. The words are a diversion to study the people around her because she can't dissect people through vision alone. Still, she makes sure not to be greedy, only taking enough to add a new trait to her collection.

The "real" Dahlia comes out at the break of dawn, chewing Lunacy-dyed bark while watching the sunrise. They repeat the phrases they've stolen until they become hers, voice growing closer each time. They don't chat in those odd hours, preferring the company of animals and broadcast television. Nonetheless, they understand that teams are a necessary evil and does not shy away from communication. Little seems to faze them, responding to conflict with ambivalence or condescension. The only evidence of true humanity appears to be their appreciation for physical comedy and pain, though only when it comes at the expense of their enemies.

---

THE DEFINING SCAR​

They do not consider it a scar so much as a series of pinpricks, eating away at their skin until the needle finally struck a vein. Each corpse was another mark on their body, tattooing their family's shift from hunter to lapdog. A smarter person would stay within the city where they'd be free to pursue domesticity, but Dahlia was a Freeman.

And they could not resist the call of the wild.

Dahlia's curiosity couldn't be satisfied by cadavers or captives, so she requested a vial and leaped outside the city walls, enveloped in the lunacy she studied.

---

THE FIRST COMMISSION​

Despite becoming a freelancer, Dahlia still wasn't afforded the luxury of refusing work from the Foundation. Her former supervisor commissioned them to eliminate a defector who stole a case of experimental Moondrop vials. Thought to be a remedy to Rejection, it was a prize for anyone willing to get their hands on it, syndicates included. With help from two black-ops members, Mimic managed track the defector to a pharmaceutical manufacturing site. All she needed to do was infiltrate the building, turn off security, and let the other two take the rein. Unfortunately, the security guard was also a Lunatic and a predator at that. The moment Mimic entered the security room, he launched himself at them, fangs nearly sinking into her neck.

The dance between predator and prey left them ragged, just barely disabling the security cameras and allowing their team members to enter.

Still they continued their search, donning the shape of their slain enemy and a mask to obscure the parts he had no time to study. The team converged at the leftmost wing of the facility where they cornered the defector.

With a syringe in his hand, he declared that it was too late! The Sundrop was already shipped. The Foundation would be knocked off its pedestal and a new corporation would take over. He just needed to tie up three loose ends.

Unfortunately, there was a reason why the medicine was still in its experimental stages and after getting splattered with the traitor's innards, Dahlia learned the cost of taking what didn't belong to you.

A phone call later, the package was intercepted and the vials sent back to the proper facility while Mimic reported their results to the Foundation.

"Had you known this would happen?"

"No, but it's absolutely fascinating what you people will do to live outside our walls."

---

THE GIFT​

Dahlia can transform into creatures they have seen, though its likeness depends on how much knowledge she has of them.

 

[Tau]

Ivory Vanthorn
"Ivory" | 26 | Female | 5’5" | C-Rank​

​

The glamorous past. The global civilization. A world unknown, but waiting to be unearthed. What a dream, to wander those ruins of wonder, unbound by the curses of the sky. But for the average person, the closest substitute was a generational folk tale, or an artifact which had miraculously escaped recycling. That wonder was the one thread of commonality maintaining a dying relationship, and it was fraying with the passage of time.

An ancient tower outside the walls, from which had come many gifts of affection, had been marked for death in the name of expansion. Spurned on by a heart fueled with stories of hope and love, Ivory did the unthinkable and took the needle. Standing by that tower, she confessed her desire, and the thread snapped, unraveling the rest her life.

.

​

Ivory loves exaggerating, but is never loud, and rarely loses her head. The remnants of a polite and elegant reputation are there, but she’s relaxed a bit on social conventions and will readily mock or tease for fun.​

Creation​

Create a construct that reflects a hyperspeed civilization simulation which progresses according to its surroundings, then summon a Great Person for one task.

.

​

Ivory’s first gig was to safely escort the son of Eikeland Steel‘s CEO to a nearby city. It didn’t take long to realize she wasn’t needed for protection at all. Instead, the man had hired her as a different. sort of escort.

No one knows what happened inside the private vehicle. All that’s known is that a man of great confidence went in, and a man with a crushed soul stepped out at the end of the journey. Neither Ivory nor the man have spoken a word about it, leading imaginative people to run wild with theories. Almost all of these side against the crazy Lunatic, imagining various powers bewitching him.​

Spoiler: Full Pic

 

[Skyswimsky]

Luna Everheart

'Magia'

21 | Female | 173cm | C-Rank

Personality

Luna seems a bit reserved at first, but soon enough, her caring and kind nature shines through. She holds a strong belief in the goodness of people, often taking on more than her share to help others. She's not shy about expressing her opinions and will stand firm in her convictions. Her approach is gentle yet determined, revealing a deep commitment to what she feels is right and true.

The Defining Scar

In the quiet aftermath of a profound shift, Luna drifted aimlessly. A once purposeful life dwindled to mere echoes, as happiness and hope faded away, eclipsed by the relentless weight of circumstances. She found herself in a sterile prison, devoid of recovery promises, offering only a future constrained by insurmountable limitations.

Thus, the spirit crumbled, despair propelling her toward a breaking point. A decision was reached. A resurrection. A dramatic and enigmatic transformation of rejection and acceptance. An ending had always a new beginning.

The First Commission

Luna's first commission was out of pity. A body-guarding gig out of the kindness of the client's heart because of what Luna had become. A underground-artist who expressed the desire of freedom through music. With a common enemy at hand, however, the concert did not go smoothly.

It was there that 'Magia' was born, as the crippled girl blossomed into a being that struck fear and excitement into foes, allies, and bystanders alike. Some would call her a hero, while others pointed in fear at a Lunacy-Dyed beast.

The Gift

The power to undergo a stunning, fantastical transformation into a mystical and heroic form.

Appearance

Spoiler: Normal

Spoiler: Transformed

Spoiler: Bonus

 

[AnonyMouse]

Tsukiko Yamada​

Aliases:
"Tsukihime"
"Moonchild"

Age: 23

Gender: F

Height: 5’8” (172cm)

Rank: C


Gift:
Create a flock of phantom birds as all movement slows within a radius around her. Only those blessed by the birds' touch may move freely within her territory, but destroying them will weaken or end the slowing effect.
​

• Overview
• Defining Scar
• First Commission

• Appearance​
  Despite being of Caucasian descent, Tsukiko prefers Japanese attire, is fluent in that language, and has a strong accent when using any other. She aims to be well-dressed, but avoids excessive finery. Likes small trinkets, baubles, and jewlery, but never anything too expensive. She is naturally blonde, but dyes her hair black, and her eyes are a pale grayish-blue, but take on a silvery glow when channeling her gift.
  
  She tends to remain very still and is not prone to fidgeting or getting anxious, even when forced to wait for long periods of time. Blinking is often the only sign that she is alert and present, and her eyes carry an (unintentional) intensity which some people find unnerving. She almost never smiles, but is not nearly as unkind as she seems -- she is more likely to say, in a deadpan, "that was funny," than to actually laugh. Her mannerisms are extremely polite, even when addressing people younger than her or of lower rank, which gives an air of professional stoicism or emotional detachment.
  
  Personality​
  Tsukiko carries herself with the grace and elegance of a foreign dignitary. Humble and servile, yet rigid in her beliefs, she is a slave to her own sense of honor. Treats others with respect, even those who do not deserve it. Her composure, discipline, and self-control makes her seem markedly "safer" than your average madcap Lunatic, but that polite, polished facade hides a woman who obsesses over every detail. Would-be clients may find themselves assaulted with a barrage of questions, often unreletated to the job, and if they still choose to hire her, will find a Courier who moves at her own pace, often finishing tasks far past the deadline because she wanted to get everything juuuust right. Anything less than perfection is a failure. Seemingly irrelevant things can annoy her and these tiny annoyances build and build until she snaps. In these moments, her true Lunacy is revealed.
  
  Due to her tendency to want to control or understand everything, Tsukiko tends to work alone. The only silver lining is that she does not hold others to the same standards she has for herself. When forced to be in a group, she will analyze each person very closely, try to read them, try to predict what they will do. She is not a fan of controlling or manipulating others, but instead wants to understand them, so she can work around their various quirks. 'Trust' means knowing a thing's trajectory. Trust a cat to meow. Trust a dog to bark. So, those who lean toward chaos or "just wing it" will quickly earn her ire. However, she is also non-confrontational, preferring to simply avoid fools, than risk wading through the quagmires they create. The best way to work with her is to give her a solo task. She is willing, perhaps even eager, to take orders and prides herself on faithfully executing these assignments. She likes to be praised, even if she doesn't show it.
• 
  “Only those who are perfect, are chosen. And only the chosen will inherit the sun.”
  
  They called themselves The House of the Rising Sun. Most called them a cult. They descended into the earth after the world fell apart, an extended ‘family’ of xenophobic dreamers, who sealed themselves in a bunker, a decadent prison barely fit to accommodate half their number. But somehow, through rigid discipline and a dogged pursuit of perfection, they survived. And some might even say, thrived, small in number, but strong in will, and clad in the armor of dogma.
  
  The House’s first generations were content in their isolation, trapped in a dream-like fog of their own delusions, pantomiming the ideals of a Eastern Empire which existed only in their addled minds. But the inbreeding caught up with them. They called themselves a dynasty. Most would call it a genetic cesspit. There were cities now, and survivors. The bunker didn't need to remain sealed all the time, nor could it. So, they began to take in new believers. Wanderers. Orphans. Outcasts. Fresh minds to mold to their ways. Somewhere along the way, they learned to bottle the Sun and their culture bent toward its worship.
  
  Tsukiko was one such acquisition. They called her ‘Moonchild.’ She was too young to see the insult it carried, or notice the way they grinned and sneered when they said it. She was different. Different was bad. Some thought she could change. Most felt she should die. But none of that mattered. Tsukiko worked. She toiled in the hydroponic gardens. She swept blood off the dojo floors. She shoveled waste when the water purifiers clogged. They always clogged. Tsukiko knew that if she pursued perfection in everything, she could be chosen, too. Even an outsider like her could drink the Sun. Simply being in the House wasn't good enough. She wanted a seat at the table.
  
  But the Sun does not rise daily. To distill its radiance into liquid form takes time. Thus, the Selection only takes place every ten years. Tsukiko was eleven when she saw her first Selection, too young to partake, but old enough to bear witness. Many are tested, but only one is chosen -- only one gets a seat. Each one, a master of men, the sword, the pen, the bow, the fist. But, most importantly, they were masters of themselves. Strike perfectly. Sweep the floor perfectly. Scrub the toilets perfectly. Wear your garments perfectly. Tie your hair perfectly. Prepare dinner perfectly. If any error is made, no matter how small, prostrate oneself and bear the lashes perfectly! Do that and you, too, can become a Master.
  
  By 21, she had become a finely-tuned instrument, pointed at a very specific target. On the Day of Selection, she was flawless. She seated herself before the Masters, submitted herself to their questions. Her answers were impeccable. Her etiquette, exquisite. All day, she was tested. Not an ounce of sweat dropped, nor tear shed. Her blade struck true. She gave them exactly what they wanted: Perfection. Last came the archery test, something she had always felt was her strong suit. The targets were positioned. The arrow, nocked. The first one: bullseye. The second, bullseye. The third, bullseye. Her form, perfect. Each shot further than the last.
  
  She breathed in deep as the final target was set up. Easy. She could do this in her sleep. Tsukiko's eyes drifted closed as she nocked her arrow. The room fell silent. She exhaled and released. Without even looking, she turned to her sensei and bowed, for was sure she had done him proud. They could deny her no longer. But rather than applause, the attendees gasped. Pinned to the target was a white pigeon. Her arrow had neatly pierced its neck. A bird, here, in this sealed bunker!? Her sensei calmly approached the target with a pair of calipers in his stern hand. He took his measurements, ignoring the dirty creature's death throes as he did so, and delivered the results: "1.203 millimeters left of center," he said in Japanese. "Fail."
  
  Something within her snapped at that moment. Tsukiko raised her bow and fired twice more in rapid succession. Her second arrow split the shaft of the first. Her third struck the ceiling as she was tackled to the ground, screaming at the top of her lungs that it wasn't fair or right and she deserved another chance and how did that fucking bird get in here! Who had done this!? And WHY! But she was swiflty silenced by the weight of men bearing down upon her, knees in her spine, and hot breath in her ears. "How fitting. The filthy white girl, beaten by a filthy white bird," someone sneered.
  
  ‘Moonchild,’ was dismissed and told she could try again in ten years. There were other candidates waiting their turn, candidates who better fit the mold of what a Master should be. Candidates more perfect than she would ever be. She stewed in her tiny chamber, pondering what she could have done differently. Nothing. She had been perfect. They needed to change. No, everything needed to change! And to do that, she needed…
  
  The Selection marched on without her. Two days later, a candidate was chosen and the whole House celebrated, servants and Masters alike. Sakura blossoms and festival lights filled the bunker’s halls and chambers. The sake flowed freely. But blood flowed too. That night, their candidate was slain, murdered on the operating table before the Sundrop could kiss his veins. Tsukiko took the vial of golden liquid and plunged the needle into her neck. Am I perfect enough now? The House raged when they discovered the Moonchild had stolen their light. Surely, it would kill her, this flawed creature. Such a waste. But, as its radiance coursed through her veins, a world blossomed in her mind. Ethereal birds took flight.
  
• 
  She found him all alone, in the lunacy-dyed woods, far beyond the walls. Enemies all around. A polished metal case at his feet, caked in mud. He was beset by beasts... but he was a beast himself. Tsukiko studied their battle. His movements, sloppy. His strikes, predictable. He was winning, but only just. Raw power. No grace. No training. A dim candle, destined to be extinguished... if she merely waited long enough.
  
  But she saw in him a reflection of herself, a small thing struggling against a world that wanted him dead. Even if he survived, what then? Serve people who also want him dead? Her orders were simple: recover the package. It said nothing of what was to be done with the one initially tasked with its transport...
  
  Thus, a decision was made. At last, she decended upon him, with a rain of arrows and a flock of ethereal birds, shimmering wisps in the Bright Night. His enemies fell. But he did not. As the world stood still, he gazed upon her and she upon him. Some might call it a standoff. She would call it a mercy. This could have been over before they ever met. In silence, his wild eyes danced, trembled. But, when his gaze met hers, he saw only serenity.
  
  "Are you a Courier?" the beast asked, his voice trembling, childlike despite its feral snarl.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Th-they sent help?" he said, his visage brightening ever so slightly, despite the blood and gore on his maw.
  
  "They never send help."
  
  The joy faded. His lips curled back, baring bloodied fangs, as he growled.
  
  "I am merely aiding a fellow traveler," the woman said as she calmly lowered her bow and the frozen world around them resumed its natural rhythms. Leaves that had hung in the air fell to the bloodsoaked earth. "As is the proper thing to do."
  
  Weariness makes fools of us all. Too tired to fight -- and too naive to recognize that he ought to -- the beast began to return to its human form... if a Lunatic can ever be considered 'human.' As fur and fangs and claws melted away, she saw he was neither man nor beast, but a mere boy. Skin stretched into place beneath his tattered clothing. There was pain writ upon his face as muscles writhed and bones shifted beneath his flesh. As she watched him, she felt immense relief that the moon's blessing had not cursed her with such a 'gift,' and knew that she was right not to slay him.
  
  This boy explained that he must deliver this parcel to the next city, but, no matter how hard he tries, can't hang on to it in his beastial form. He loses it every time he comes under attack. "I see," Tsukiko commented. He continued talking, going on and on and on about how his family needs this and how he must get it there, no matter how long it takes. As he spoke, she picked up the steel case, wiped away the mud and gore, and studied the desperate bite marks etched into its hardened surface. What a fool, this boy.
  
  She had her prize. One arrow between the eyes and this could all be over...
  
  "I am headed that way. We shall travel together," she said as she placed the package inside her backpack, but kept a close eye on him as she did so. He made no motion to stop her. He was far too trusting... and she was far too kind. "Let me know when you are ready to proceed, then take point. I will cover you."
  
  Thus began their strange alliance. He led the way, on swift paws, his tail wagging excitedly. She never had a pet. Is this what it's like? She followed, with her bow. Monsters came, sometimes in hordes, sometimes one or two shambling out of the moon-drenched night. He howled and gnashed and tore through them, like a wild, desperate animal. She picked her targets methodically, surgically. It took him until the night of the second day to finally come to the realization that they could travel faster if she mounted him. In his beastial form, he was certainly large enough and fast enough. She had reached this realization almost instantly, but held her tongue. 'May I ride you,' is simply not something a lady asks.
  
  In this way, they reached their destination by dawn. Outside the walls, he returned to his human form and they were allowed into the city. He profusely thanked her and, amidst a torrent of promises that he would somehow repay her for her kindness, finally asked for the case back, so he could complete his assignment. But, as she gazed upon his outstretched hand, Tsukiko's eyes turned cold. She clutched her pack, where their shared prize was concealed. "No. I cannot," she said. Panic washed over the boy's face, fear that this was all a trap. It was always a trap! Kindness didn't exist anymore. But, even one as naive as him knew that if she wanted him dead, they would have settled this beyond the walls, not here under the watchful gaze of the SSS.
  
  She laid a hand on his shoulder and explained he's as good as dead if he delivers this to his client. "They do not run this town. You chose the wrong side. But... if you come with me, I may be able to help you," she explained. "You are new to this. So am I. No one gets it right the first time, but they can give you a second chance. Steady work. You can live."
  
  But I got it right the first time, she thought, as the boy slowly nodded and followed her into the darkness of the city. Although she didn't show it, she was immensely relieved. This is perfect. I can accomplish my mission with my honor intact. We may even become colleagues.
  
  Down the alleys and into the bowels of the city they went until, at last, they arrived at her contact. The guards asked questions. Whispered phone calls were made. But, ultimately, the boy was allowed to accompany her inside. Three knocks and a secret password later, they were in a smoky room, standing before a well-dressed man behind a desk. Tsukiko bowed her head as she presented the package, thoroughly cleaned, of course. The client was pleased, a toothy grin spread across his features as he passed the case to a guard and it was carried away. He did not even look inside. Another guard entered with the funds and she received her payment. The stack of bills was... larger than anticipated, but to count it would be rude, so Tsukiko merely bowed once more and graciously accepted the cash.
  
  "I threw in a little something extra," the client said as he retrieved a cigar from his desk drawer and reached for what she assumed would be a lighter. "All I wanted was the goods. Didn't expect you to bring the little fucker who pinched it from us." A single shot rang out. The boy's brains were on the wall and his body on the floor before she had a chance to react. Tsukiko did not flinch. Her gaze remained on the man, unblinking and cold. "Ya know, you took so damned long, I was about to send another. But this... this was worth the wait." He chuckled, nodding with approval as the gun was returned to his drawer. Now the lighter came out.
  
  Tsukiko bit her lip. Her unflinching gaze quivered, but no tears formed. "You have no honor," she said under her breath, through clenched teeth. "He had a family..."
  
  "Huh? Come again?" the man said, cupping a hand to his ear. "His family? Hahahaha! Damn, they were right about you. When you do a thing, you do it all the way. I like the way you think, bitch," he said, wagging his cigar at her. He made a circular motion of the room. "Goddammit, I shoulda put some fucking plastic down. Ay, clean this shit up and maybe I'll have more work for ya, hmm."

 

[4scorelightnings]

Āyat
"Viola"

25 | Female | 5'3 | C-Rank

Appearance: ​

In the bright night, her long thick hair is violet, but jet black in the forlorn exposures of the everyday. Her eyes are jade green, and her skin the color of cinnamon. She wears layered colors of cloth sewn from comfortable and durable materials.

Personality: ​

She is intense. Above all kind--a deeply caring and loyal person, and with that comes being sincere, intentional, and honest, yet her neurosis and paranoia can be so overpowering that she is sometimes too much to bear for those close to her. Because of this, she can be intrusive with people, and obsessive with things. She's unstable, often oversharing, and is both easily wound up and easily hurt. She is however always and continuously curious about everything, though this can get her into more trouble than intended, as she often feels impulsive enough to talk to anyone at all, regardless of whether she knows them or not. She oscillates from idealization and devaluation with things around her and people, which often leads her to isolation. She can be described as eccentric in the way she goes about things, but maybe it's because she's lonely.



The Defining Scar: The bright night affected her in ways she didn't expect, for even though the neurosis was always there, nightfall pervading her life only seemed to intensify it. In her darkest hour, she had acute paranoia and compulsory behaviors that made her question everything, even the people she loved the most. Her mental derangement made her life completely dysfunctional as she sunk further into delusions of grandiose or of evil, and no in between. She lost those people due to her internal darkness, the evil thoughts persisting even after being left alone in the underground life of human kind. Isolated in the misery that she couldn't keep the people in her life she wanted to most, she turned to the black market.

She ended up purchasing from a provider she knew of from a friend, and in her lowness, cried tears of yearning and aching, spawned from the desire to make the people she loved most feel comfortable and at peace with her. Drinking it, she felt herself become lifted from the shackles of her paranoia, her intrusive thoughts, and her distrust of others. But alas, that feeling of being weightless and free from herself, was only short-term. Instead she gained something more utilitarian. Hard ridges formed along the crevices beneath her jaw. Now when she sang, a frequency was omitted that made those around her at peace, tranquil.

Immediately, she went back to her lover, for whom she had driven away in her madness before, ready to make amends artificially, selfishly. However, she was heartbroken to find them happy and at peace with another. With nothing left to stay for, she ventured into the outside, where dangers lied in sporadic apathy to her heart's fresh wound.

The First Commission: It was hard to persuade clients that her skill actually benefited anyone long-term, as she herself wasn't in a place to put herself up on a pedestal. But she was finally able to get some real practice with her song when in passing a city she got word of a great shelled anthropoid about to storm the entrance, its giant size and mutated carapace making it impossible to kill even with a couple of couriers assigned to the task.

She made her way to the outskirts, where the monster was buzzing with ire, readying again to charge and kill those that stood in its way. In that moment she was frozen, and the animal looked at her with the kind of hostility that she loathed from people. And so she made her vocalization and felt in the tones of her singing touch ridges of her throat, moving and altering her voice into a frequency that became a drone, almost trance-like music. The great beast stopped shaking in their anger, their eyes turning from malicious red to their natural shade once more. She went up to the creature and touched it as she sang. In its trance, she walked it down into the valley, where it could no longer hear the sounds of the city and be triggered, and walked away, expressionless but with the song still on her lips.

The Gift: Creating drone frequencies from her body that seep into the brains of lunacy-dyed and lunatics and entrance them to feel halcyon around her.

​

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