Futuristic 𝕻in 𝕻rick -- 𝕮haracter 𝕾heets

[demonology]

pin prick

applications

application info.

For this application process, there are two ways you can apply.

01. Write a synopsis of your character idea, fit with at least 10 headcannons, and then attach a writing sample.

02. Fill out a character sheet with the info below:

full name:
nickname: [optional]
age: [22-35]
codename: [this is your role!]
occupation: [what your character does for Pin Prick / Tower of Babel. for Pandora people, this is mostly optional as all of them will largely be kept underground due to the public believing them dead or wanted criminals. Still, maybe they do some mending for the Madame!]

gender:
sexuality:
species: [provided in the role description]
faceclaim: [optional; realistic only]

synopsis: [the basic gist of your character]

visage: [a paragraph or a list (ex. height, build, etc.]

personality: [fairly free-form; can be brief, bullet points, etc.]
headcanons: [10+]
fears:
vices: [5+]
virtues: [5+]
weaknesses:
strengths:

history:

roles.

mad hatter

open

An in-house advertising agent and business mogul. Working closely with the Madame, many see Mad as second-in-command. Although human, their allegiance to Georgiette is awe-inspiring, even if it is backed by a loaded contract and notoriety. They are hard-at-work constructing the latest ad campaign, stuck with hours at the computer, upstairs and downstairs. Working propaganda and forgeries for Tower of Babel, Mad Hatter doubles as both Mad Man and media takeover specialist. Their hacking isn’t nearly as smooth as Pandora Box’s or 6R1M’s, but then again, isn’t that why Madame Georgiette took the fugitives in, to help her current crew? We’ll see how much the egotistical Mad enjoys said fact.

peridot

open

The curséd seamstress, imbued with either the blessings of the mythical angel or daemon. They are dutiful, running to and fro like a chicken with its head chopped-off. The sewing machine whirrs in their head, a guiding light. Afterall, Madame Georgiette found them, bloodsoaked, in the Rassian alleyways and lifted them off their feet, washed their body clean, and offered a home free from critique. Under her watchful eye, the bloodsucking tailor keeps their hands busy with thread during the day, and when the Tower calls, with the clack of keyboards. Adept at listening when no one thinks much of a lowly seamstress, they are chopped-full of information on all of Pin Prick’s clients, big and bigger.

venus

open

Succubi/Veela model and unfortunate sex symbol, popular across the Empire. Hailing from Hellenic, it is said, even by those that work within Pin Prick, that Venus put the label on the map, something that earns the Madame’s enduring favor. Of course, the Madame chose Venus very carefully, plucking them from the masses as one of the few succubi/veela to exist, particularly within the field. Why did they choose you? Madame Georgiette told the prima donna during their first meeting. Headstrong and full of secrets, Venus only remains with Pin Prick, under the Madame’s questioning gaze, due to a contract and the low-hanging threat of revealing their true nature: a killer.

exodus

open

The Echo that reverberates below. Given they can only repeat what has been spoken to them most recently, connection has escaped Exodus. Furthermore, their criminal status has resulted in them being locked away below where the Tower of Babel rises. Communicating via sign language, voice-to-text bots, or simply a small chalkboard, they’ve managed to work around the lonesomeness of waiting for the world to end above. In particular, they’ve found solace in Beelzebub, a fellow unwanted resigned to working in the shadows. For the Tower, the pair work in tandem as foot soldiers. For Exodus, this includes being a fly on the wall, a spy when no one expects them to be, and a master of explosives. When asked why the Madam keeps them in the deep below, she scoffs and explains, With officers dripping from the wallpaper, you think they won’t recognize the one Echo that destroyed a fleet of their own? On the flipside, Pin Prick, they provide beautiful designs and draft patterns that fit together perfectly, much like their complex system of booby traps.

beelzebub

open

The origins of Beelzebub are drenched in fog, of which only the Madame can scour through, particularly because she is seen as their mother. With a ram’s horns extending from their ears, moth’s wings carefully hidden under mounds of clothes, etc., no one questions why they are held far below. Given they won’t reveal any details regarding from whence they came, Beelzebub is regarded as even quieter than their chosen other, Exodus. Yet, the mist that hangs around them is thick, suffocating, dark. To add to the smoky haze around Beelzebub, they operate as footsoldier for the Tower of Babel and weapons crafter. Making back-alley deals for guns and bullets, shrouded in a cloke, but also forging armor, fortifying the hovel basement against future attacks, and even turning metal into swords. For Pin Prick, they swap armor and swords for jewels and leather, oftentimes crafting accessories for the latest collection deep into the night, when the insomnia keeps their hands busy. Beelzebub comes from The Batting, a rarity and something regarded as an impossibility. Their background up until the past ten years will be in The Batting. Please note, for the sake of lore consistency, I might ask you to change some things upon acceptance! Please feel free to DM and I’ll explain in further depth!

gatsby

open

The rebel leader out for blood, literally and figuratively. Operating within Pin Prick as a flagship model, it’s a surprise to many within Tower of Babel that Gatsby isn’t well-known for their other pursuits. As one of the Fallen 30, they operate under the Madame’s guidance in hopes of culling Egress of its gentry and nobility. Permanently changed by the experiment, it is safe to call Gatsby a person fueled by revenge, a monster of multiple proportions. Yet, they are followed without question, devising various missions, recruiting new members, sending out footsoldiers, etc. and above all, operating as Tower of Babel’s guiding light in Madame Georgiette’s wake. That is, if the Madame can keep Gatsby from revealing their true identity in the name of protest.

nótt

open

The witchy designer and unfortunate conduit. On more than one occasions, Nott has attempted to pull the wool over Madame Georgiette’s eyes, casting illusions on their mockups to appear as full-fleshed out projects. While a brilliant artist with awe-inspiring muse, Nott still finds themself slow to work and quick to take shortcuts. Now, more than ever, it appears that their mind is not their own, as thought wisps of thought flow by and it is lost. Reports show that they have been disappearing at odd hours in the night, even when Babel duties call. As a fellow footsoldier and master of disguise, they are incredibly important for spying, something that takes on a double meaning when you enter the caverns of Nott’s mind. A creature unknown to The Top, known as a Grain, holds host in their body, directing it for their bidding when no one seems to be paying attention. Note: Nott is currently being possessed by a Grain known simply as Lee. As a result, there may be some elements to the character that may need to change to fit the lore better upon acceptance!

ramiel

taken

A building fell to pieces with crumbles and exposed wires. Crackling and stinging, attempting to undo the world beyond itself, Ramiel rose from the smoke and gunmetal. A harsh glance, a snicker through the clicking of teeth. The fire of revenge consumed him, and through the ash sparkled wings-a-feather, far away from the antiquity and elegance of home. How will she fare as a fish out of water?

cleio

taken

The Oracle. A politician’s son, a rather public figure due to a career as a pianist and a published memoir, a charming and well kept young man, Xander looks like the perfect son of Egressian wealth, and in many ways, he is not much more than a product of it. With a recent loss of identity, questions tempt the tongue as to how the prodigal son will keep himself hidden, now that he is the source of public ire instead of perfection.

verona

taken

Known for his wits and natural charisma, Ellis not only earns the charm of his contenders, but outsmarts them, too. While his trickery is impressive, his laughter has never been more genuine around a friend. The one who taught the Pandora hackers all they know, but it appears all that has come to a close. With friendship facing rough seas and the abandonment of their homes, their families, fair Verona, what will you do when the world offers endless possibilities and your wings have finally been set free?

abipsa

taken

A born leader that doesn't know when to stop squeezing. Believe her, had she a large enough knife, she'd bleed out all of Egress. It was only a handful of months ago that Ursula led her team of bounty hunters into the heart of the Empire, right there on Lazarus Alley. It all ended up in smoke, finding herself at the eye of the hurricane. Fortune befalls her team, making the mission come clean in the wash, but still, she is now lost. Lost, yet in her palms rests the cord that could collapse the Empire.

darcy

taken

AUDIO EVALUATION #1: “Subject is brilliant, albeit, self-taught but highly skilled. They will often pursue high-profile targets such as political figures and businessmen; exposing sensitive information and damning evidence. The subject uses crude language and humor, but is intelligent and well-versed in demolitions, engineering and programming. The subject is considered dangerous.” 6R1M, known as Darcy, known as Arden, hides so well, lining the fox-hole. Yet, she has been ousted, left vulnerable, and any one who knows the hunter-hacker well enough wonders how will Darc take to living underground?

raven

taken

When she holds on, she holds on perhaps a little too tight. No one had ever really wanted her in her life, so, when the government did, she felt in no position to deny them. When the scientists were done with her, Erethea was bereft once more... but they left her with something. Something terrible. And now, with this terrible heft of hers, she lives life as a bounty hunter, walking the lines between good and evil. Orphan and adult. Human and something less... or more. What will Raven do when the world beckons her, calls her to its aide in the form of a fashion line?

guidelines.

1. the due date for applications will be short, though undecided as of right now. extentions can be given, though.

2. roles are not on a first-come, first-serve basis. therefore, feel free to apply for whatever role you’d like !

3. Code is not required.

4. please reach out with questions or concerns ! other than that, we can’t wait to see what your big juicy brains come up with !

this is a bullet point.
two lines

this is a bullet point.
two lines

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

twin sylvester

RAMIEL

I don't know what you want from me
When I'm sunburnt lips and summer feet
I'm tattered like these Levi's jeans
Punch-wasted on redundancy
Now what the fuck does all this mean?
You know I'm still somebody's daughter, see
I spilled the milk you left for me
My tears are falling flawlessly now
Go on and be a big girl
You asked for this now
Go on and be a big girl
Well, everybody's gonna drown you out
Go on and be a big girl
You asked for this now
You better show 'em why you talk so loud

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

click!

ramiel

a fallen angel

full name

twin papillion sylvester

nicknames.

twiny, sylvie, ram, paps

age

twenty-five

codename

ramiel

d.o.b

june 4th

sexuality

bisexual

gender

femme though genderfluid - she/they/he

species

one of the fallen 30

occupation

hand-beading, lacing, etc. and creating intricate patterns for apliques; with Tower of Babel, they code and go pew-pew with a gun

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  that soul is done away with, and you’re a fool for thinking them still alive.

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  appearance

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'2''

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  build

  
  

  lithe but bony

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair c.

  
  

  muddied tufts of brown, bleached blond, and natural black

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye c.

  
  

  heterochromatic w/ one blue and one brown.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  details.

  
  

  Notches into a boot’s hoof, one, two, three, come into reality across the plain of their body. A countdown, but also a record of days served. Boiled flesh, taut and hungry, but she doesn’t feel the need to eat. Less than a year ago there was a person to behold, but now only fragments. She stands, wobbly but like a cattle out to the final field, not a calf just removed from the womb. Surely, nothing too drastic has changed about Twin’s appearance, though locks of hair are missing, along with more chunks of skin. Yet, even this is aligned with the person that once was. He is a tenderized piece of soul, fleshy and misunderstood. Lost, flimsy, and weary. Shoulders still hunched, matched with a cane on occasion.
  
  Yet, something is rumbling beneath his skin, peaking out like flowers from his back. What was once bundles of scars and dead tissue grows into nubs, grows into hangers for something to drip off of. Aching, still, like it always has, but in a new genre of pain. A new form. Twin hopes for a revival, a phoenix-like irrigation of the body into new heights, but they simultaneously destroy said hope. It, unlike the terrain of their back, cannot grow in the fields of the mind. Instead, they stare forward, one animal eye, one half-seeing, into the concrete walls that surround them, wishing it all to fall away to ruins, like the kind he saw before he failed. Before all became null.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  body mods

  
  

  a septum piercing with two nostril piercings connected by an ornate chain, gauges, a brand on their ribs with their test number, a similar tattoo on an ear with part of the corner missing, faint scar marks around her eyes and [TW: self-harm marks] on her arms. other scars unseen too, especially the ones across her back, vertical and parallel. they ache from time to time, and occasionally more surgeries are required for their damaged spine. a small scar lines their jaw, a clean cut from long ago.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  distinguishing features

  
  

  Beyond the porous scars on his back, their eyes are also fetching, with one side revealing an icy, almost white eye. Milky, with the pupil blending into the iris. The other holds an ever-blown out pupil shelled by an almost-black chocolate exterior, highlighted with flecks of gold. Additionally, they have a shaved head and don't quite care about the believability of their wigs, so you either see tufts of hair or a clear wig line on his forehead.
  
  Hair length [x]
  hair color [x]

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  style.

  
  

  here

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  aesthetic

  
  

  here

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim

  
  

  kitty chicha amatayakul

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
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  personality

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: An abandoned project, left for all to grunt at as they walk down the street. An eyesore. Feeding off of misused energy and stealing from local circuits, Ramiel is a newfound force, an unrelenting mutation of nature. They hang their shoulders low, avoiding those that they once held promises to. Instead, he slinks along the concrete walls of the compound, trying to find the nearest cyberfreak that the Madame has recruited. At home amongst the odds and ends of Pin Prick House, some may question if the building was ever left to rot at all, if instead its soul moved on to feast on the next whimpering fool. Fool. She knows this fact upon a glance into Xander's eyes or the briefest of remarks to Ursula. The House is haunted. Yes, by a wayward ghost known as Twin Sylvester, but also by the memories, the promises, and the flames that ate them. That burned them to the stake. Even now, months out, Ram cannot decide: did I light the flames, or did it consume me, too?
  
  𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: In order to build from square one, the structure must be destroyed. A building fallen to pieces with crumbles and exposed wires. Crackling and stinging, attempting to undo the world beyond itself, Ramiel rose from the smoke and gunmetal. A harsh glance, a snicker through the clicking of teeth. Their nights are consumed by sleepless thoughts, constantly waking to add to the oddities, the lists of things that must be done. The morning sharpens their eyes, shutting the blinds to continue to etch away at their ultimate plan. The building plans, scraped through on blue paper, and carefully tacked to the walls. Twin watches through slitted eyes and artificial light, craving the sun and rejecting it all the same. Eventually, this obsession will end, and the people she has roped in along the way will view the newly built statue, memorializing all that happened. All that Ramiel became. And they will love him again, as he will be whole once more. If they make it that long...
  
  𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖: cold, dark, crass, spritely, evasive, quiet unless inspired, inspiration is just a nice word for meanness, observant, obsessive, neurotic, cruel, unrelenting, unsympathetic, self-absorbed, haunted, disparate, possessive, flirtatious to cope, quick to anger, studious, intense, verbal maniac, eloquent, stubborn, demeaning, indulgent, callous, insecure, witty, deceptively encouraging, ever-feeling, commitment-phobic, can be playful, flippant, falsely confident, dark, demeaning, impulsive, evasive, a mile a minute, deeply avoidant, guilty
  
  𝐈𝐍-𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇: Hunger mutilates those most starved, and Twin has thirsted for centuries. Melodrama coats all of their words, as though they all should be her last. 'It's not easy,' she explains. Mother asks, 'Doing what?' It isn't an action, but rather a state. Ramiel is a marked soldier, one who should have been reported lost at battle, but now he is home. Eyeballs pop up from the gold-moulded walls, the polished floors, everywhere all at once. They eye her, in black and white, and they report their findings to one another. A specimen to be observed, calculated, measured. Found wanting, she assures. Each day brings forth the possibility that even those she holds closest will see the dehydrated, aching veins squirming beneath the surface. One day, they will see the scars, still pouring blood, leak through his dress shirt, and reveal the missing phalanges. The inhuman extremities.
  
  Her body scowls, hastening its pacing from one end to the other. It knows what is missing, and they suffer because of it. Death is a state, too, that Twin is resigned to. Death is preferable, even. Waking nightmares transfigure into sleeping daydreams, one voice reckoning her in the Divine glow and the other reaching from the Lower. They grasp one side of his shoulders, massaging naughty and nice into their bloodstream, but Twin ignores it. It is the sting of reality, the Otherness, that holds them dear. Nothing is what it once was, and each day brings mutiny of the brain. Their body convulses, resisting what was taught versus what is known, and ultimately it cannot decide which is which. It only understands the snapping beast within, the teeth emerging from the heart. It eats away at the sinews, the vessels, the cells, but it will break free from the cage. Whether or not Egress is chewed along with Ramiel shouldn't matter, but it is the one eternal food, the ambrosia, that will save them from it all.
  
  Pages and pages of journals, yellow legal pads still left in her long-dead mother's office, filled. Code written by hand or typed on an ancient writer, only to be uploaded, painstakingly, one line at a time. There is no hurdle Twin will not jump over, and no obstacle Ramiel won't float above. Branches, thorns, and barbed wire eat at their limbs, but it is a means to an end. She will destroy herself. A means to an end. With it goes the girl everyone once knew. The darling who made up for the oddities of the Sylvester name. Hasn't she always been dead? No, Egress stole her, killed her, all in the name of innovation. Ramiel is the consequence, and they will have the ramifications felt.
  
  Yet, people recall the other Twin, the one eaten by the current self. Revenge was foreign, and the only scars on the internal beast were minor bruises. A large gash in the form of grief, but it didn't disturb the beast. In fact, it humbled it, pushed it further into slumber. The breeze blew and Sylvie smiled. Their arms spread open, and all those willing came under the umbrella of their love. No one is perfect, but innocence built up Sylvie. Twiny. Always an endearing note to her name, as though you could call her forth like a dog. Isn't that what she was? Always willing to help, always one to make themself smaller for your sake. The cage is too tiny. It no longer fits the bulging mass of feathers and burned skin. It no longer contains the screams of agony from the rusted metal biting into his skin. She stalks, eyeing the victim who once knew her as kind and now sees her as a freak, ready to pounce.
  
  Kindness is earned, not deserved. So is evil, and she has lived a life of sin.
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  virtues

  
  

  protective, moral, self-aware, calculating, only they will become a casualty in their wars, exact, humorous (though dry), honest, quietly caring, loyal, apologetic but in a frankly annoying way where she looks at you like a beat dog, occasionally hopeful

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  vices

  
  

  reckless, egotistical, mean, devoid and hollowed, particular, conflicted, self-absorbed

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  strengths

  
  

  their dedication, persistence, thinking-on-his-feet, ruthlessness, creativity, willingness to throw it all away

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weaknesses

  
  

  lack of self-control, a vengeful heart, acting before thinking, anything that requires patience, selfishness, overprotectiveness

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears

  
  

  people coming into his room when they least expect it, finding someone who can read their thoughts too, never understanding what happened to them, never finishing what they set out to do, having anyone they love hurt as a result of them, reaching the end with too many loose threads.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  physical attributes

  
  

  enhance durability, telepathy (formerly could only hear thoughts of others within a certain number of feet; after ceasing medication, they are finding their abilities are a bit more powerful, though can only be accessed intentionally. Can hear the thoughts of others at an indeterminable amount of feet, potentially across the world, but still can’t communicate thoughts to others, though they’re known to transmit images accidentally)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hidden specialities

  
  

  slowly growing wings back, used to have horns though those were removed and the scars look similarly to the ones on their back; it doesn’t appear as though they are growing back anytime soon

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  likes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  still likes to bark at people they don’t like, hiding in small spots around the compound, gender confusion, drinking always before noon, hand-rolling cigarettes, cutting their hair, covering their head in a plushy comforter, slipping on a binder, feeling average, doodling designs on napkins, rare moments of laughter, meeting new people, feeling apart of something bigger, the feeling of sucking in a breath for the first time and feeling alive, attention from new people, using their hands for intricate lacing and beading, impressing her newfound coworkers, feeling like a fly on the wall for the rest of the world
  
  FORMER LIKES
  making greeting cards, wine tasting, writing waxing poetry, playing some haunted melody with the windows open to freak out the neighbors, solitude, sleeping through the day, drag racing on the outskirts of Antoinetta, correcting someone, printed paper, pen swirls, gender confusion, bubble gum, reading with the door locked, barking at people (for the meme! not actually... and only if they look at him like some sort of creature from the deep), showing off their telepathy as a party trick, drinking but never before noon,
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the sun, propriety, his frequent headaches, composing another apology that will never land, making eye contact with her friends and former enemies, bad days, writing another shitty poem that changes nothing, too loud noises, walking with the cane, the sense of former privilege, hearing the news, the guilt, wondering what Mother is up to, being stuck downstairs, the anxiety of newness, seeing pictures of those starving on their feet because of what they did, feeling like a fly on the wall for the rest of the world, the pit-fall in her stomach when she thinks about Holhorse’s prophecy, the pit-fall when she thinks about anything from the past year just a bit too much, the devastation of it all, and people too nosey
  
  FORMER DISLIKES
  balls, parties, and anything related to a sense of propriety, the sun, blue-light headaches, dancing, being laughed at for having to check if the door's locked, cooking, menial tasks of any variety, the phases, vivid anything, the feeling of sucking in a breath for the first time and feeling alive, whispers that resound across the room when they enter, bad days, having to ask someone to put cream on their back, just looking at them at all in any sense, hearing other people’s thoughts, having to attend any function with their mom,
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  history

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  raphael

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  TW: mentions of blood
  
  On her shelf, there was a book, spun together with simple thread as the binding. The pages came to life, suspending upwards with the motions of turning. A custom book, printed and cut together by one of their Echoes. She taught Twin how to collage, to create from what was already made, to use the hands for tedious work that amounted to something. The pages were thick, tenderly crafted, and they would sit for hours in the room. Lonesome, yet entertained by the sheer force of the fairy tale. Massive white wings flew from the paper, melding with black, and the story ended with Him arriving. A harrowing end, a story unfinished. She was always promised a second one, but Ulla’s fingers got too fudgy to finish it.
  
  On his shelf, perhaps even now, despite Twin’s absence, sits the half-finished sequel, uncovered from Ulla’s things.
  
  The stories came from his mother’s research. Ancient folklore made visceral. Has my whole life been a fairy tale?
  
  Her mom bent over the bowl, retching, blood-laced spittle at the corner of her lips, and the fantasy ended.
  
  She was diagnosed. She was medicated. She passed on. Twin prefers to keep the story simple. Her urn reads: Sera Sylvester: daughter, wife, mother. They wouldn't let her add 'a Lazarus Great' despite the years that moved between then and her death. Accolades forgotten, and Twin almost would've preferred if they knocked off the latter moniker. The one and only time Ova smacked them was for such thoughts.
  
  Twin still thinks it was undeserved.
  
  Ova insists that their machine would've worked. Hullson's Disease was curable; it just was Sera's time. Rhetoric retold to anyone who would listen as Twin sat there, blank-faced and praying Mother would shut the ever-loving fuck up. Lies, all of it, but he smiled. The sunshine was caught in a net, reserved where Ova couldn't taint it, and brought out on special reserve for Xander, Ellis, and anyone who looked in his direction. A giggle bought for nothing, with a kind remark genuine and authenticated by their own will. Twiny lifted the hearts of the room, as though everyone else's mother died.
  
  But wasn't that exactly how it felt?
  
  "Sera was such a lovely woman."
  
  "My son wouldn't be alive if it weren't for her."
  
  "Your mother was a tour-de-force."
  
  [/i]Wasn't she?[/i]
  
  The narrative changed to a story of tragedy. Sympathy shed quickly with a false tear forged from an overzealous yawn. Yes, she was a genius, but it's "quite unfortunate" that Ova hasn't thrown a single ball in recent years. Always stuck away in that laboratory, wasting away pennies on fiction. And that Twin? She's lovely, but unseemly. Dressed in clothes from two seasons ago.
  
  There was a staircase, one Sera had lugged Twin and Ova up to the top of, and they were quickly thrown down it. Ova, drunken in some hazy idea of resurrection, the obsession of life, and how to enter Hell, didn't notice. The goal of existence was not to craft a life, but rather to save one. Return to the depths and steal a soul that was rightfully hers. For Twin, she cried at the bottom, knees bloodied, but offered a smile to anyone passing by to the kitchen.
  
  No one stopped to witness the scene, except the friends she held dear, friends still hold near.
  
  TLDR/Quick Facts because I know none of this was super clear (or mentioned at all):
  - Ova is conspiracy nut-job, though formerly a fairly-respected researcher; has always theorized about angels, ironically; she and Sera, Twin's other mom, used to work together on various projects, particularly in the medical field as Sera was a doctor
  - Sera fell ill with a blood-born disease called Hullson's Disease, which essentially causes your body to reject vital nutrients, specifically blood
  - The Sylvester family has a long history of respectability, but after Sera passed on, Lazarus society latched onto the oddities of Ova and the family's blatant struggle in terms of wealth, especially with Sera's medical bills. They particularly suffered because Ova is known to have come from an outlying district in Tai, not from the well-bred creatures of Central Egress or Lazarus Alley.
  - Ova has drowned herself in various theories on how to enter the various metaphysical plains that angels, daemons, and ghosts exist within.
  - For the majority of their youth, Twin was the only respectable member of the family, especially since they were active and sociable within the community. People liked her because she was a 'good girl' who wanted to adhere to the values of Lazarus life
  - yeah lol we'll see how long that lasts.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  gabriel

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Youthful endeavors haunted the halls of the Sylvester home, as it was the only real life to touch the wallpaper since Twiny was thirteen. Ulla encouraged such behavior, providing in ways that Ova couldn't. While no fantastical parties were held on the premises, one couldn't deny the sheer warmth the Echo and young girl cooked into the house. An invitation over meant peace, provided Ova stayed away. She always did. Friends became as familiar as the mantlepiece, as did Ulla's voice calling for snacks, for dinner, for a game of chess, for the pool to be cleaned, all of it.
  
  Later on, Twin would ponder the fact that her true mother was paid to be there, but they'd quickly realize how little that compensation actually was. Investigation into the family ledgers would reveal just how much Ulla was there out of love, and Twin holds onto this fact with a desperation.
  
  They also held the facts that led to her participation in the Fallen 30 experiment.
  
  Nowhere in its decline did the family suffer from any sense of desperation. Compared to the people they rubbed elbows with, they were quite poor, but nothing below a normal gentry member, even one living on the outskirts in a homely village. Yet, Ova needed money. She needed it quickly. A breakthrough threatened to tear through, and she required financial backers to achieve what she so desired. A device, a can-opener to another world.
  
  What she craved, needed more than the breath in her lungs, was within her grasp.
  
  Pardon while Twin rolls his eyes.
  
  Applications came through the mail, though Ova was given one personally. A fellow investigator into the paranormal, extraterrestrial, and odd, an ESID agent and Espiritu native known as Dr. Kevorki. What many regarded as fiction, they both knew as fact. The F.30 project was presented as an enrichment opportunity that doubled as an investigation into the development of late-teens. Summer camp, really, with a few exercises put in place to test certain attributes, such as strength and intelligence.
  
  All with a hefty amount of compensation, and then some.
  
  Twin tries to ignore the fact that Ova's project began not long after they returned.
  
  Truthfully, much of the experiment remains shadowed, slippery. A large needle protruding up through his arm, the agony as her back mutilated itself, the twin chains cutting into the wings, a friendly face shadowed by a too-bright overhead light. She tries to forget the faces of those who suffered too. Many of them dead, it's better they're nameless.
  
  Their body erupted, a volcano of endless chemical soup. Confusion lined their fatty tissues, but screams of agony, of rage, permeated everywhere else. It took itself in whatever direction felt the most right. A sense of righteousness filled their vision, clouding them to anything outside of the realm of evil. Was it goodness? Parallel concepts crossing against all logic into a crosshair. A commonality. A world invaded her veins, orgastic in creation but destructive in magnitude.
  
  She tried to claw one of the doctor's eyes out. One of them, brown like both of hers used to be, looked up at her from her hand.
  
  Then, the after effects. The trickery they played to keep them still. Flashes of images in the fashion of a slideshow. More injections, and the high of adrenaline. Of cortisol rotting their brain. It's safe to call it just rotten now... Fire burning from his hands, latching onto the untied hospital gown but not his skin.
  
  She's still not responding. Perhaps we should just move onto the next phase.
  
  A gleam from the mouth of shark teeth. Was this winning?
  
  "What are you smiling at?"
  
  They didn't let her respond, but Twin had nothing to say. A laugh, pitiful and grimy, bubbled like a rotten soup. It overflowed, sending them into more fits. Something became uncontainable, but forced into the glass mason jar of their body. Gaseous poison hitting the rims of the glass, threatening to explode.
  
  It just upped the treatment. They convinced her to conform, and Ramiel remembers from time to time what it meant to not. They feel it now, as the medication washes out to sea with each bodily function. Washing herself clean, even with the influx of maddening disease and the gleam of something unfathomable.
  
  What they were naturally.
  
  TLDR/Quick Facts:
  
  - as an attempt to rebuild some status and provide some money for the family, Ova enrolls her in a summer program to test her agility, mentality, etc.
  - the experiment was marketed as a way to provide for your country, something Egressians take seriously as a point of success, and while the subjects were select, they were made to seem as soldiers of great patriotic duty.
  - of course, that was all a lie. the Fallen 30 experiment resulted in a whole host of issues, including uncontrollable rage that was subsequently, torturously rooted out of them
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  ramiel

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Ulla had passed of natural circumstances while they were gone.
  
  It stung worse than the cavalier attitude Ova spoke with. It gutted her more than the news that she was already replaced. It killed more vicious than the fact that Ova simply walked away, pondering the next step in her project and wary of her very clearly-changed child.
  
  There was no surprise on either side of the Sylvester home chessboard, even as they were both acting in moves and counterstrikes.
  
  Twin still doesn't know if Ova realizes what happened to her. She knows the experiment directors fed a lie that explained the change in appearance. The constant need for surgeries to remove what is growing back. Ova kept to pleasantries, dissolving into episode after episode, and using most of the monthly compensation to fund their device, which has yet to work.
  
  Pelo, another Echo, was hired after Ulla. He became her best friend, though admittedly, he likely saw them as a chore. That was okay, though, as even Twin, himself, saw their body as a weedy garden in constant need of tending. Days where leaving a sitting or sleeping position killed, reeling their brain back to what they were taught that summer. Insomnia due to hauntings.
  
  There was no need to pretend anymore. Was he always pretending? They weren't going to be worthy, they realized sitting so long at the bottom of those steps, the house crumbled around them. Sneering at passerbys, Twin rose from the Pompei-display, acceptance ringing.
  
  Look at them...
  
  What a misfortune. Who invited her?
  
  "I don't know, Madam Rebecca, but you can send your regrets to my mother."
  
  A shocked gasp, and the jig was up. Ramiel was not adored by the residents of Lazarus Alley. In fact, they were avoided with a ten-foot distance, a watchful gaze, and a sip from their glass.
  
  Unfortunately, this didn't stop Ova's new obsession with propriety. Their device began to catch a similar eye as the Fallen 30 experiment, and ESID quickly came to envelope her into their kinship. Ova was on the rise, and the only thing standing in the way of endless funding and a research team of undeniable greats was the Sylvesters' lack of propriety. So, Twin was further cursed to attend parties, tennis matches, weekend outings, beach trips, etc. where they weren't wanted. Is anyone particularly surprised by this twist of fate?
  
  The idea for Pandora's Box began in an off-the-cuff conversation, surrounded by people she'd rather not hear the thoughts of. A wild thought spurred by mystery, particularly the thought that there were... holes... in the system. A sly smile over a glass, and her eyes found Verona. Briefly, they touched on Cleio, considering the role he could play too.
  
  The remaining beats played out accordingly, and Ramiel has only drowned in it. Consumed, a virus that eats their patience and sanity. Notes strewn everywhere, thrown into the fire weekly by Pelo. Some carefully hidden, stored in the space between the outer and inner edge of his closet, between the doorjam and the wall. Information gathered and utilized to formulate a plan, convincing his peers to join in a fool's errand.
  
  A calculated set of cards, sure to bring salvation.
  
  TLDR/Quick Facts:
  - how they formed Pandora's Box
  - life post-experiment with Ova becoming more obsessed with her project and propriety
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  god, the devil

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  There was blood pouring from the slits on their back, and a strange man, recognized from an old oil painting hung somewhere within the Alley, stared them down. Something erupted under the skin, even as the man continued. He spoke in a stranger tongue, a slithering snakeish thing.
  
  "What the fuck are you going on about?"
  
  He didn't stop, and it felt as though his flesh were being eaten. Hell, it occurred to Twin as the six stood in witness to a grisly scene. A floating head, left for dead. The man, later identified as Holhorse, finished his speech and left them back to the coarse flames that consumed his mortal home.
  
  It all happened so quickly. It took Twin months to recall all the finer circumstances of those short hours, but even now they admit the details are fuzzy. I'm sorry.
  
  It was an apology on deaf ears, but there was no excuse. It had been Twin who encouraged the hackers to meet in the basement of Kerwin's that evening, despite the recent heat. It was because of them they couldn't escape in time before the bounty hunters swarmed the area, taking them in, just as Ramiel saw the last bits of their codes go through. First try. It all crashed, from the market to the tower of his cranium to the hearts of those Twin loves, to Holhorse House itself. It all drowned, with the culprit clearly being the over-saturation of Twin's tears, impulsive and needy.
  
  Seeing Ursula restrain her was enough to regret it all, though everything worsened before there was relief. A zit that required trying strength. Then, pop.
  
  Ramiel because shadowed with dirt and smoke, ash and blood. Of course, the fire consumed as they all abandoned ship, and then, as though the Madame knew everything would fall into place, the homeport of Holhorse House shimmied. Glowing with blue light, Twin forced everyone to pause, to read the encoded message.
  
  Coordinates. An offer of asylum.
  
  He almost didn't go. He almost turned himself in. But there is that selfishness, the all-consuming will to be alive, that pushes Twin forward. They were useless, in the end, and it was by everyone else's will that they made it to Pin Prick. A salvation in the form of peplums and casmere.
  
  Something snapped within Ramiel as everything turned to calamity. Lost, yet willful, they truck on, but she has found other projects to be consumed by. Other ideas to note in her ledgers. It's all smoke screens and wildfires, used to distract from the nuclear waste beneath.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  extra

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  headcanons

  
  

  - dresses masc-leaning, prefering suits or just walking around in a t-shirt and jorts...
  - firmly believes and enjoys the fact that his moms would scream if they saw him now
  - goes back Ramiel over Twin; prefers it.
  - Probably tries to add numbers to her name like 6r1m; 'what about r@m1el'; it doesn't work
  - lowkey enjoys being a footsoldier over being a coder; it was always verona's thing first and now that it seems to do more harm than good, they've tried to avoid it
  - yet, likes to shoot a fuck ton of guns and use the fun swords Beelzebub makes...
  - walks with an ornate, wooden cane. gets called an old man because of it
  - thinks the madame is a MILF
  - doesn't talk a lot anymore; lot less snarky.
  - tends to get called out for having a bad attitude but usually they're pretty fun-loving, albeit a bit unhinged, around her newer friends
  - enjoys using their newer telepathic abilities as party tricks
  - shaved his head after getting to the compound and seeing how much of it was singed off by the fire
  - the fire gave them a few burns, but nothing major; it mostly just made them down for the count for the first two months or so
  - has gotten better at typing and enjoys staying up all night gaming
  - coming soon
  
  
  OLD HEADCANONS [still applicable ofc]
  - experiences chronic pain on account of the whole... experiment thing; frequently has to have surgeries due to the scarring and 'spinal issues' on their back
  - snaps in and out of reality on days where the treatment catches up to her. tries to keep to themself on those days
  - queen of rocking the suit and king of the elegant day dress
  - used to be quite the fashionista, but doesn't really care much anymore
  - constantly dying his hair because of that mental illness
  - refuses to see a mental health professional, the one prejudice about Egress society that they adhere to
  - still makes greeting cards, something they have done since childhood. gives them to people
  - tries to lean into the oddities the experiment gave her physique through body modding
  - smokes hand-rolled clove cigarettes
  - knows how to play the pianoforte, back when Sera was alive
  - "Has all the pate soured your brain or were you born this way?"
  - does very well on computers, but prefers to write everything down, especially to use his typewriter
  - has had a bit of a reputation for being a lady killer; used to make their way around the school but now they have a thing for... cougars, so to speak
  - used to wear ribbons in his hair
  - wears a beanie when they're feeling more masc that day
  - pierced their ears for the first time with a safety pin; got an infection
  - actively avoids Ova like she's the crypt keeper
  - has done the family accounting for years, yet doubts they have the whole story since their mom frequently forgets big purchases/influx of money
  - a stock market tycoon in another life
  - perpetually snacking, particularly on anything crunchy or easy to carry in her pockets; has a bowl of trail mix on the table in the hideout
  - struggles with their vision ever since the experiment and has to wear readers; truly, they should wear glasses as they can barely see other. Has a big, wide frame pair from Rass.
  - would be lying (and frequently does) if they said they didn't enjoy the fact that they have wealth at their finger tips again
  - laughs in people's face without any regrets
  - would prefer not to get into a fight with someone but isn't afraid to
  - [tw: suicide/selfharm] has a history of self harm and attempts
  - has a tongue barbell and likes to stick it out at people who piss her off
  - did cheerleading in early high school
  - has never had a diary but does write shitty poetry in yellow ledger books
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  family

  
  

  Sera Sylvester - mother - deceased
  Ova Sylvester - mother - currently trying to find a way into hell
  Ulla - maid - deceased; was an Echo

  
  Pelo - butler - an Echo
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  now playing...

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  brand new city

  
  
  
  

  mitski

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[cavitea]

"There has to be a better means of talking than hanging spoons everywhere." . . . . . . . "No? I suppose there isn't much to expect from you."

dai mae (다이매)

SYNOPSIS: You're connecting the wrong wires to each other. There is no doubt that once there was something untouchable about this Echo, a shimmering cloth that covered his body as repeated words smelled like grass on a shaded hill, the feeling of dipping toes in the local creek. An artistically mangled collection of limbs lived to serve and entertain through strained inflections and desperate vocal chords. He named himself Dai Mae, a stolen collection of syllables repeated in the solitude of his mind and painstakingly etched onto each possession. Twenty one years felt like such a lucky number to find a name that he carved the numbers into the tepid flesh of his palms. That was a mistake. A sense of individuality that broke the mold he had nestled so neatly into, blinking eyes helpless against the peering audience. Time to make a new door. Several years later teeth flash at him from the reflection of the spoon and fingers allow the metal device to clatter to the floor, lips that part in helpless misery. The damage was done and now he finds himself in a hole, the dampness of the underground soaking into weary bones.

Dai understands his situation, sees the sparks coming from the taped wires as a finger sinks into the fleshy part of his mind. A really big fuckin' hole coming right up. There is no time for jokes but the idea of blowing up a city flicks like a knife along willing taste buds. As someone hidden deep below there is no telling the level of depravity the broken Echo has fallen to, company so rare he has turned to the teeth in the mirror.

Fingers are kept busy, another swipe of charcoal along a page, another measurement of chemicals he almost inhales. A soldier in word alone, a pest in reality. Feet glue themselves to the walls surrounding and eyes follow patterns, measurements racing through the broken synapses of a twitching head.

They already know.

POV: YOU'RE GOING INSANE.

Your starved tongue presses to roughened stone, lapping at the drop on the wall like the forgotten mutt you have come to see yourself as.

So cold.

Metal mixes with the liquid, an unknown source with a putrid composition. Maybe it's the cut on your tongue from when you tried to scream last night and instead bit down too hard. Perhaps a luckier chance would be hoping the liquid contains a toxin that will allow you to slip away. But no, you're waiting for somebody.

A form stands in the shadow of your mind, an outline you stare at from the corner table, tracking each blurred motion like an entertainment only you bought a ticket to.

The remains of fingers press into wires, a solvent worked along the stripping of metal as you fuse lines together, a contraption of your own design. Oh, you love to design; each blueprint and sketchbook filled with the dark recesses of your mind scrawled onto paper, a feverish language you keep to yourself. So delicate in lines but unnerving to the soul, a blasphemous thing.

Everything has a part to play in the inventions you give out, trembled fingers nervous despite the praise. You are perfect, are the words you will interpret in your mind, a translation you mutter to yourself in wisps of glee under the cover of shadows and sheets of chemical grime. Ticking bombs and tightened waists keep your hands busy with those words playing over and over in your mind.

Bigger explosion, skirt needs more body. Another layer, wire? Both.

Only you hear the satisfaction in your mind, a hollow shell as lips move with the words that pull from the depths of the Broca area of your mind. Beezlebub would know. Bitter are the thoughts but softened to the idea of a lamp that draws them closer, a spark that ignited a sort of something between the two of you. Perhaps it is no more than a heavily fond friendship, a licking of lips and tapping of chalk shared in unrealistically intimate moments. Beezlebub knows more than Madame above, a softness dampened by the shadows but fluttering, falling.

They are a comfort, a shadow to share the darkness with, a silence that you welcome because for once it is not alone.

When will we go back up?

An answer is never given, a spasm of lips that briefly curls into bared teeth before tightening. There is use for you above but it is out of reach, a sliding in the shadows and silence passed over by the ones you so easily blended into despite the shorting of your mind. You're capable but you choose not to be, a knife along your jawline guiding your hands through your job with a diligence as the tension is placated and you give them everything they want. Everything but the Echo you once were.

Gods of gods, this is why they locked us down here.

Us?

Just you, a foreigner, a broken wire. While the other Echos above silently dazzle the crowds you have lost the polished sheen; a broken device. You were a bomb carefully created to trigger with the correct sentences only to fizzle out during your last hurrah. Maybe that's why they keep you down here in the dark, scuttling and tapping to the tunes you remember once repeating. They don't need a broken part.

But they needed you, Echo.

HEADCANONS:

✖ A mouth that twitches unintentionally, teeth flashed in a paralyzed grimace.

✖ Over time has come to hear whispers when staring longingly into his reflection, a voice that squawks with broken tones and whispers unappreciated jokes.

✖ The soundtrack in his mind during periods of solitude consist of dystopian-esque showtunes and an anthem for being a 'short king'.

✖ Finds novelty in sculpting leftover wires into animalistic forms, heaps of bronze with wings nestled carefully on a crooked shelf.

✖ Thinks the most distasteful fabric to work with is wool, perhaps blames this on previously setting some on fire, temporarily relieving him of eyebrows.

✖ Carries a powerful magnet to pick up dropped needles from the floor, a habit towards shoeless shuffling having resulted in too many pricks.

✖ Has never touched the spiraling keratin of Beezlebub but finds twitchy fingers growing bolder with each day.

✖ Communicates primarily through morse code and sign language, a bad incident with 'accidentally' biting chalk having put him off that method for the time being. Will use a simple text-to-voice program but insists that the voice output be a thickly accented British male.

✖ Smells of motor oil and almonds, a smear of chemicals along his wrists and neck the unfathomable culprits.

✖ His sketchbooks have degraded over time, a movement from fine paper to a sketch on a paper napkin stapled carefully to a carved pattern. He has made a form of apology but seems incapable of fully returning to sketchbooks.

.

role | Exodus

scroll

location | a rat in the slime of Babel

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[miyabi]

coded by bad ending

Jamie Chung as

6R1M

hacker and

anarchist demolitionist.

HIT ME
FIT FOR RIVALS

REQUISITE

FULL NAME

[REDACTED]

ALIAS

—

AGE

—

GENDER

[REDACTED]

SEXUAL ORIENTATION

[REDACTED]

ROLE

DARCY —

AUDIO EVALUATION #1: “Subject is brilliant, albeit, self-taught but highly skilled. They will often pursue high-profile targets such as political figures and businessmen; exposing sensitive information and damning evidence. The subject uses crude language and humor, but is intelligent and well-versed in demolitions, engineering, and programming. The subject is considered dangerous.” 6R1M, known as Darcy, known as Arden, hides so well, lining the fox-hole. Yet, she has been ousted, left vulnerable, and anyone who knows the hunter-hacker well enough wonders. How will Darc take to living underground?

VISAGE

APPEARANCE

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FASHION

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AILMENTS

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AESTHETIC WORDBANK

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EXTRAS

etc.

PERSONA

PERSONALITY

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VICES

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VIRTUES

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LIKES

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DISLIKES

etc.

TIME MACHINE

PART I: GOODBYE, MAXINE

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PART II: AS THE WORLD CAVES IN

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PART III: OUT OF CONTROL

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PART IV: INTO THE LABYRINTH

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GALLERY

 

[ravensunset]

• .
• .
• .
• .

• 04

  03

  02

  general

  xander

  full name

  Xander Eugene Lloyd

  age

  Twenty-Five

  gender & pronouns

  Male, He/Him

  sexuality

  Bisexual

  date of birth

  June 15th

  place of birth

  Antoinetta, Central Egress

  Xander Lloyd — Cleio

  occupation.

  Former Concert Pianist. Current Wanted Criminal. Helps Pin Prick through marketing consulting, and is a hacker for the Tower of Babel.
  
  

  species.

  Oracle
  
  
  
• 04

  03

  visage

  01

  xander

  visage

  An unbalanced mix of corners and sharp edges fashioned into the shape of a boy, ironed smooth and made to look proper. Xander’s face is framed with dark black curls, their nature unruly, fast growing and aching for freedom, but cropped neat and even, short enough to just barely give it a taste while keeping it firmly in its place, unable to tangle or get in Xander’s way. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline and straight nose give him a polished appearance, as though carved from stone, with just as little softness to his features. Xander’s eyes are dark brown, almost pure black, and always set firm, observing. They seem to match the rest of his features, cold and unforgiving, but to a trained eye, they betray him, wide with a burning fire, anger and feeling and pain, his gaze avoiding all which he wishes to ignore. The eyes are, after all, the window to the soul, he’d say with a forced laugh. They’re set under dark, thick, sharply arched brows, kept as precise as the rest of the features under Xander’s control. His lips naturally set themselves into a tight frown, though often in conversation they find themselves being asked to put on a smile, shape the features around them into a delicate charm. His ears are pierced, and equipped with various studs and accessories.

  build

  Xander stands at about 5’10, his posture always straight, shoulders held up with muscles only ever relaxed only when he’s sitting behind the piano. His rather thin, unathletic build is easy to spot as brimming with tension. If his sleeves were pulled back, shirt taken off, scattered burn marks would be found. He holds himself with careful precision, yet never with ease, often making himself seem taller and leaner than he in truth is. His hands are delicate, equipped with long, thin fingers; they allow for speed with keyboards— both piano and coding. With his build, shoulders narrower than he’d like, the sharp angles of his elbows and jut of his collarbone, Xander takes any measures he can to make himself seem at least any amount older and mask his more youthful appearance, fighting to make himself look not just charming but commanding, someone worth listening to. He tends towards dressing a little more formally than any occasion calls to, and used to always be in impeccable custom made Central Egressian attire, though lately, his outfits show less care to them, wrinkles visible and frames fitted imperfectly to his body.

  fc

  Arón Piper.
• 04

  persona

  02

  01

  xander

  • fillersss
  • .

  • overview

    misc

    synopsis

    Xander Lloyd, Cleio, The Oracle. Formerly a rather public figure due to a career as a pianist and a published memoir, a charming and well kept young man, Xander looks like the perfect son of Egressian wealth, and in many ways, he is not much more than a product of it. With a recent loss of identity, the member of the former Pandora’s Box is now a known criminal, the source of public ire instead of perfection. Xander has discovered his connection to diving the future, and has just begun fully giving himself in to it. Competitive, determined, an overachiever, Xander’s deeply instilled with a need for perfection, though it often seems not even he knows what he’s really searching for. Xander’s filled to the brim with a burning hot anger, something the outwardly cold, calculated boy has carried in him his whole life, and the cracks in his façade are starting to show, as Pin Prick traps him within its confines.

    headcanons

    ● Keeps an extremely secret journal of poetry
    ● Often quotes poetry or literature
    ● Has had many short lived flings, but no serious relationships
    ● Studied Latin in school, and can use it very comfortably still
    ● Has very neat, practiced handwriting
    ● Prefers to be as in control of situations as absolutely possible
    ● Likes to be prepared and have a very detailed plan for every scenario
    ● Refuses to let his bed be unmade for even a minute after leaving it; in general keeps an extremely high level of neatness and order
    ● Always running on too little sleep
    ● Somehow both an early bird and night owl
    ● Tends towards dressing very well and often slightly too formally
    ● Owns several pieces of jewelry he enjoys adding to outfits
    ● Not very physically strong or capable of fighting
    ● Tends to be on the quiet side, letting conversation come to him
    ● Very easily motivated by any chance at praise
    ● Cannot decline any offer of competition
    ● A very sore loser
    ● Holds grudges. It’s very difficult to get forgiveness out of him
    ● Always needs to be busy, either working on something or around people. Doesn’t know how to be still
    ● Has two sets of tarot cards: one from his mother and one more recently acquired
    ● Divines most often through tarot and palm reading
    
  • overview

    misc

    strengths

    
    Xander’s biggest strength is his drive and dedication. He’s highly motivated, not just willing to stick by and complete whatever he’s set his mind to but willing to go to nearly any ends to it. His dedication to his projects has been described as obsessive or unhealthy, but Xander doesn’t know how to work if not at a hundred percent, and in the end, many of his accomplishments and contributions are due to this precise quality.
    
    Xander has an easy charisma to him, something that looks natural but in truth also came through years of work, and as a result he can talk himself through almost any situation. He no longer has the public connections and status that got him through most of his life, however, the skills he first built it with will never leave him. Both charm and manipulation come naturally to Xander, and his disregard towards others and ruthlessness, while rarely considered a positive trait, is often useful in getting himself ahead.
    
    Xander has leaned into his Oracle abilities, something he’d spent years minimizing and ignoring but now, the destruction of his old life allowed him the freedom to explore them. He has had fragmented visions, and spends many nights with his cards, practicing in the secret of his room laying them out and asking them questions, and has begun reading palms as well. He knows his gift can’t solve most problems, and it is something delicate to be used carefully, he’s able to pull upon it when most needed.
    
    

    weaknesses

    
    With someone as precise and dedicated as Xander is, it is no surprise to find he’s easily described as a perfectionist. Xander often gets caught up on slight details, needing everything he does to not just be complete but be perfect, viewing anything less than a complete failure. He often doesn’t realize when situations call for a task to be completed quickly, and struggles to balance his own time. His perfectionism often causes him to over exert himself, and prevents him from completing tasks, or occasionally, from starting them altogether.
    
    Xander can often be single-minded, choosing to approach one issue at a time and block out everything else going on around him. While good when needing to complete a single task, this causes high stress or more complex situations to be a struggle for Xander, and he can often misidentify the largest problem to tackle and allow large mistakes to happen while fixing smaller ones. This tendency mixed with his need for everything to go well and be in his control can, at the worst case, cause him to shut down when he sees that he’s unable to fully win, and he struggles to move forward from failures. Further, this means he is often unable to see his own flaws or mistakes he’s caused, as it is much easier for him to pretend there is nothing wrong than to confront a mistake.
    
    Xander has a tendency to overlook anyone outside of his work or those he’s deemed sufficiently capable. This causes him to underestimate others, and his high belief in his friends and their abilities causes him to underestimate problems they come across. Xander can often misjudge situations, overestimating his own skill, and his refusal to acknowledge possibility of failure means he does not prepare for it. He has a difficult time moving on from failure, or looking back and confronting it– he still needs to learn from his mistakes, many of which have already caught up with him.
    
    All in all, Xander is his own biggest enemy, his anxieties and need for particulars preventing growth and causing trouble often. Xander is yet unable to see the true cause of this and face the mental blockage he set up for himself.
    
    

    fears

    
    Xander recently watched most of his fears come to life in front of him. His secret identity was found out, his career crashed down because of it. His most recent fight with Twin was not one their relationship recovered from, his group and the mission that was meant to be just the three of them shattered. Still, Xander’s painfully aware of everything he still has to lose. Most importantly, Twin and Ellis are still here working beside him. He’s already seen Twin get deeply hurt and changed, and knows how easy it would be for even worse events to occur, especially now that they’re wanted by the whole country. Losing them has always been Xander’s single biggest fear.
    
    Xander’s longest fear and earliest companion, however, is that of failure. Xander throws himself wholeheartedly into everything he does, and the largest cause for that is the idea of doing anything less, of not living up to the highest standard, terrifies him to near paralysis. He forces himself to never think about the possibility, which often presents itself as arrogance on his part, but is really a result of a fear of anything else. Losing his career and being forced into hiding has only deepened this– he’s already failed at having the life he’s always fought for, and he can’t bear to be anything less than perfect at what little he still has going.
    
    Most of Xander’s other fears stem from his anxieties- being found alive working at Pin Prick, the Tower of Babel being fully exposed, never again being able to have a real life, losing the ability to play piano or his Oracle powers, various deaths and accidents, losing control, Xander’s mind finds no shortage of unlikely, unfortunate events to worry about. Beyond this, he has a distaste towards insects and feels uncomfortable when he believes he is being closely watched, though he refuses to consider these to be fears.
    
    

    virtues

    
    dedicated ● charismatic ● clever ● pragmatic ● loyal ● patient ● precise ● organized ● considerate
    
    

    vices

    
    cold ● callous towards outsiders ● jealous ● dishonest ● amoral ● hidebound ● particular ● manipulative ● pedantic
    

  personality

  To most in the Tower, Xander appears quiet, focused, and dedicated. He puts himself fully into his job, both with the Tower of Babel and Pin Prick, as though it’s all he has. In some ways, it is. His work is meticulous; Xander has always been neat and organized, everything about both him and his work placed in careful order. However, it’s not easy to mistake this trait for passion. Xander rarely looks happy, his expression set into a frown when not prompted otherwise, eyebrows narrowed. The Tower is his job, at the moment, and he believes it is now what he is meant to do, but he does not love it, not the way he once did Pandora’s Box. Xander was most his life used to being in the spotlight, and hidden away in Pin Prick House’s basement, Xander has become chained, trapped into a place he never wanted.
  
  Still, the man who’s played the social game his whole life won’t easily lose his charm or shed his armor. At an instant, he can transform into the social young man that was his public persona, the role he was born to fulfill. To those he doesn’t care to show himself to, which is almost everyone in the world, he’s charming and friendly, easy with his smile yet precise with his words. Living the life he had, Xander has learned to work a crowd. It’s a game to him, yes, but it’s one he likes to play, watching those around him and calculating just how they respond to his conversation, as precise as a computer’s response to code. While not being loud, Xander often finds himself drawing attention, his posture and tone signaling him as an important figure in any crowd. On the run and pulled away from the social scene, much of Xander misses it desparately, his body aching for the outdoors, the functions and crowds that had once been a regular part of his life. The inability to properly exercise this muscle has contributed to much of his frustration with his current living arrangement.
  
  Because of– or perhaps, in spite of– everything they have been through, Xander still cares for his two closest friends above anything else in this world. He’s learned to be cautious around others, and holds some of the members of the Tower in high regard, but outside of that, very few people hold interest in Xander’s eyes. Most of the public are just figures moving around the world, easily manipulated and worth just about nothing. Despite a friendly facade, Xander can easily be cruel to anyone else around him, having no qualms about hurting feelings. He might have temporary allies outside of the few he’s chosen to be loyal to, but he’d backstab them in a second to get himself ahead, and in the past, often managed to do this without consequences. Now more than ever before he's prone to biting remarks, allowing his hurt to spill out to those he interacts with.
  
  More than just his ruthlessness, this strive for perfection imprinted Xander with a highly competitive nature, and a nearly unparalleled drive. Xander has only two settings to approaching a new task or skill: he needs to be the very best at it, be in perfect control of what he does, or, to save himself from that, to not care about it at all. The only exception to this he’s come across was hacking with Pandora's Box, where Verona is the smartest of them, but even in that group, he needs to be good, be necessary. Xander works himself to the bone to excel at everything he does, as though his life depends on his success. He struggles to relinquish control to anyone else, needing to know the precise details of every plan of action he's involved in. For most of Xander's existence, he's had a careful plan of his life, one that remained almost entirely unchanged— he knew and was in control of every step he was taken. Only recently has this vision crashed burning down around him, and the cracks of that can easily be seen in him. In many ways, this has almost increased his anxiety and need for control, his fingers grasping to hold still everything they are still able to reach.
  
  Much as Xander might seem as the product of his parents, intelligent and charismatic and cold, a rage burns inside of him that is just starting to spill out. At his life, at Egress, at the world itself. Xander often comes across as aloof, but he feels everything very deeply, the core of his body constantly brimming full of emotion he can neither name nor knows how to unleash. He is full of sharp edges, easy to get cut on, even by accident. The only activities he’s found to help relieve even a touch of the pressure are his music, and doing anything with his group that would cause trouble. He needs it, everything they do, needs it the way he needs air, but Xander often wishes he had the ability to have his own life, go back to a world where he had the potential to leave all the trouble behind. Instead, he finds himself always drenched in trouble, his web spinning further and further out of his control.
• history

  03

  02

  01

  xander

  Ramiel - Twin.

  Xander’s once closest friend. As children and up until their teenage years, the two were inseparable. They were his other half, the person he was complete with, someone who truly knew him. The person he spent days with and the one he could call on late at night. Xander always, always knew he would need Twin beside him for the rest of his life. As they grew, their parents expected them to marry someday, and Xander thought that would be exactly the way his life would go— nothing, no one else would make any amount of sense. Twin left him, and came back different, and in many ways, he changed too. Still, Xander held onto them with everything he had. The tension between them built until it spilled out. Xander still doesn’t know how to exist knowing that the two of them will never be what he once thought, and more than that, they’ve lately barely communicated save for angry, bitter remarks.

  verona - ellis.

  Xander met Ellis through Twin as a child. Their trio was quickly forged, set into stone, but for the earliest years of their friendship, Xander and Ellis were not overly close, only together due to their mutual friend. However, during the summer Twin was gone, Ellis and Xander found comfort in each others presence, their friendship beginning to deepen. Ellis has been a constant for him, someone he trusts wholeheartedly, and he admires the intelligence and kindness of the other man, his ability to keep calm, his easy elegance. Over and over, they see their own positions reflected in each other. After the events of Pandora’s box this only heightened, the two confiding in each other in ways they hadn’t before. Ellis’ friendship is one of the few pieces of Xander’s life he’s managed to hold onto without it shattering in his hands, and he holds Xander grounded, the only thing still providing him with hope, keeping Xander's sharp edges from destroying all he has left.

  character name

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  coded by natasha

  history

  Xander was born in the heart of Lazarus Alley, the son of a powerful politician. His father didn’t want a child to raise, but one for appearances, to paint himself as a family man, to check off another point in his list of accomplishments, and of course, continue his familial line. He knew nothing but success his whole life, his family established for generations in Lazarus alley and soaked through in status and wealth.
  
  Xander’s mother, beautiful and ambitious and cold, came from a less traditional household. She was the result of a marriage between a wealthy, established Lazarus alley born celebrity and an Oracle from out of town, a newcomer with little to their name, an uncommon arrangement of love rather than politics. Her family fought hard to be accepted, to show their love as a pride and not a shame, and in the end, they had wealth and success and a few tricks up their sleeves, and most of all, knew how to throw a party. Xander’s mother didn’t want love. She wanted more money, and more parties. Her marriage was a political move, and her husband wanted a child, and she relented.
  
  Xander grew up often in the public eye. Brought to meetings and public events, and as he grew, coached on the right things to say and how to act. He spent much of his time outside, making friendships with children of parents interconnected in a web of wealth and calculated relations, only a pawn in a bored politician’s game. It was early in life that he met Verona and Ramiel, though their bond was firmly cemented, in Xander’s eyes, forged to be lifelong.
  
  His father rarely spoke to him beyond instructions, or voicing expectations or even desires for him, and Xander’s chest filled with fire, a need to live up to them. He was born only to be a perfect child, and he would be it. He was charming and polite and brilliant, a top student from an early age, and never refused a request or stood up for himself. If his eyes burned his perfect smile covered it. If his knuckles bruised from hitting walls at night, well, that was easy to cover up, too. A desire for rebellion boiled up slowly, starting quiet in his toes, but him? Cleio and Verona and Ramiel, they were always built to be filled with it.
  
  His mother spoke even less. She was disinterested, mostly, always busy, maintaining finances and planning parties and meetings for her husband, socializing and smiling. But there were evenings, infrequent, when she would remember something. She’d sit Xander down and take out an old set of cards. They were white, with elaborate drawings in shimmering gold, and she would tell him, with no detail missed, about an event that would take place only the next day. She’d let him help, draw a card for her to interpret. Xander learned quickly that asking questions would simply stop the process and she’d turn back to the woman she always was, so he didn’t, just sat and watched.
  
  Xander was always different, in a way, from his two best friends. They burned outwardly; he showed that part of himself only to them. They joked, late at night with bottles in hand, that he was most useful to throw off suspicions. Xander laughed, too, but he knew there was more to that. He needed them, and the mischief and trouble to survive, and he’d be as sharp and good at it, as driven as he was to the ambitions of his public life, and they needed him in return, not just as a shield but as a part of the plan.
  
  When he was 17, Xander spent a summer alone. Well, not alone, he had almost everyone he’d ever had in his life, but Twin left to summer camp, and he realized that was one and the same thing. He loved both his friends, but it was different, with Twin, more than that. It was a burning, not just in his chest but his throat, in his fingers, an unconcealed truth, it was not his usual fire but instead sunlight, it was a half of him that was missing whenever they weren't present. On the day before she left, he found his mother’s tarot cards sitting atop his piano, and when he touched them, time stopped. He saw nothing he could explain, a tangled mess of metal and pain, wings and claws, not a fire being extinguished but the entire sun. He begged him not to go, the only thing he’d ever allowed himself to ask for. There wasn’t much anyone could do. The summer was spent full of worry, learning the tarot cards and almost destroying them as they, again and again, would only turn up readings of disaster. When Twin came back different, he wanted the world to end, to burn the way he did. But he couldn’t. Not so simply. They had a plan and he was committed to see it through, but his life, his career, his family’s politics, they marched on unaware. And to the world outside, so did he.
  
  Xander took up music at a young age, a hobby his parents called appropriate and good for him, and he couldn’t remember when he decided, or perhaps simply realized, when that it was the same as he was. Pretty, and proper, and entirely controlled, a tool, twisting to any configuration, and bursting full of emotion, and violence, begging desperately to be unleashed, uncontained, a secret hidden behind every press of the key. Xander’s parents didn’t care what he did, so long as it was public and brought a good reputation and he was good at it, and he was. Quick-fingered and dedicated, he became known for it among the residents of the city despite his young age. Xander was always lying in public, always putting on a cover, but behind a keyboard, no matter how many people watching, he was always telling the truth.
  
  The public eye was never something Xander could leave, and in some parts of him, the parts that were revealing themselves to be his parents in him, he didn’t want to. He was still a boy, wanting approval, wanting to prove himself worthy of being wanted. Xander, with his appearance and his concerts and his tarot reading a mere party trick for guests to laugh at and a memoir he published two years prior about his music and journey and done largely to paint his family in a good light and sway the judgment on one of his father’s political projects, Xander’s name was sure to be known. Part of him loved the attention, the normalcy of it. Part of him couldn’t wait for his trio to make the world collapse forever down around them. Some of him was desperate to break free of his life. Most of him wanted the only thing in the world he couldn’t achieve; to return to how life was before.
  
  Pandora’s Box’s first hack crashed the stock market for two days. Xander had been on top of the world, fingers brimming with power. He could do anything. They could do anything. They were good, careful, and escalating in their boldness, each hack larger than the last. He watched Twin, too, come alive with each hack. The world cracked more and more solidly into its two pieces, Xander and Cleio, Cleio and Xander, the rift growing. He could just keep himself afloat. Everything only got more complicated, a trio of hunters moving closer and closer towards him.
  
  Xander, for most of his life, thought that only him and his friends were special. That only they, in this world, burned alive. That no one could even come close to touching them. But the Hunters did just that. He was caught, and for a moment, the two parts of him were caught in the same place. If asked, he’d say the night was indescribable. It was the same fabric his visions were made of, consuming him, but this time shared between the group of six. When he woke from it, his world was on fire, in more ways than one.
  
  Xander Eugene Lloyd, public figure, renowned pianist, perfect son of Lazarus Alley, died in the fire, and was exposed as one of the criminals behind Pandora’s Box. Xander, Oracle, Cleio, criminal, escaped, and found his way to Rass, to the Tower of Babel, to the so-called safe haven of Pin Prick House.

left

 

[livingdead]

ellis celestin

# verona

# toby regbo

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[erzulie]

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• 
  

  FRAGILE & UNHOLY

  Eula Evangeline

  
  
  
  
• HISTORY.

  ORIGINS.

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  TEEN YEARS.

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  CURRENTLY.

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• PERSONA.

  Vices.

  Here.
  
  

  Virtues.

  Here.
  
  

  Fears.

  eula is scared of becoming a monster, scared that she has been a monster all along. it is why she weeps when the mistress comes to her, tugging her leash to lead her to a new sinner, a new victim. there is a deep fear in her heart that she will come to like what she does, completely disregarding the value of life in favor of a meal. it is why she apologizes as she fills her maw with the meat offered to her.
  
  

  Strengths.

  Here.
  
  

  Weaknesses.

  Here.
  
  -->Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Vel quam elementum pulvinar etiam non quam lacus suspendisse. Ultrices sagittis orci a scelerisque purus semper eget duis at. Donec pretium vulputate sapien nec sagittis aliquam. Facilisi etiam dignissim diam quis. Eget sit amet tellus cras adipiscing enim. Ultricies tristique nulla aliquet enim tortor at auctor. Facilisi morbi tempus iaculis urna id volutpat lacus. Ipsum suspendisse ultrices gravida dictum fusce ut placerat orci nulla. Ut etiam sit amet nisl purus in. Fringilla phasellus faucibus scelerisque eleifend donec pretium vulputate. Fringilla phasellus faucibus scelerisque eleifend donec pretium. Vulputate dignissim suspendisse in est ante in nibh. Lacinia at quis risus sed vulputate. Mauris sit amet massa vitae tortor. Congue quisque egestas diam in arcu. Auctor elit sed vulputate mi sit amet mauris commodo quis. Nunc sed augue lacus viverra vitae congue.
  
  Id cursus metus aliquam eleifend mi in nulla. At imperdiet dui accumsan sit amet nulla facilisi morbi. Nunc mi ipsum faucibus vitae aliquet nec ullamcorper. Vel quam elementum pulvinar etiam. Amet volutpat consequat mauris nunc congue. Viverra vitae congue eu consequat ac felis donec. Facilisi nullam vehicula ipsum a arcu. Elementum pulvinar etiam non quam lacus suspendisse faucibus interdum. Purus faucibus ornare suspendisse sed. Feugiat pretium nibh ipsum consequat. Ac tortor vitae purus faucibus ornare suspendisse sed nisi lacus. Diam quam nulla porttitor massa id neque aliquam vestibulum morbi. Ridiculus mus mauris vitae ultricies leo integer malesuada nunc vel. In est ante in nibh mauris cursus. Nunc aliquet bibendum enim facilisis gravida neque convallis a cras. Semper feugiat nibh sed pulvinar proin gravida hendrerit lectus.

  “standing in silence, feeling both complete and incomplete.”

  
  headcanons: [10+]
  

  • enjoys gazing at the sky at night, especially when it’s full of stars. she likes to think that her angel is looking down on her.
  • eula is slowly unlearning some of the things taught to her by the church, though she is still holding on desperately.
  • she favors silken fabrics, the type that glide over skin all smooth and fluid-like.
  • having been covered heavily for the majority of her life, eula sometimes feels uncomfortable in the clothes that she has to wear but she hides it well. though, it’s more of a fear of fully letting go of her past.
  • ava still prays to the angel that kissed her when she was only a child. each kill is dedicated to the angel in hopes of forgiveness.
  • hates madame for what she makes her do, yet she can’t deny that she does hold certain aspects of prin prick in her heart. she could very well be trying to fill the hole that the church left.
  • hides behind the persona of a rambunctious woman who loves to party, despite the fact that social interactions drain her. that she still hasn’t grown accustomed to eyes looking directly upon her.
  • definitely needs someone to help her come into her own, without a catch. or at least without a catch that she’s aware of. eula is like a bird stuck in troubled waters, she doesn’t know whether she wants to fly or sink into the depths.
  • has a cross from the church that she just can’t part with. she doesn’t wear it but she keeps it tucked under her pillow.

  
  
• VISAGE.

  
  
  “the unholy trembles before the divine, and looks it’s terrible beauty right in the eyes.”
  
  a single kiss, lips pressed upon cold flesh had begun the process of her becoming. she had not been molded with experienced hands like clay, yet her rough edges were smooth all the same. she has been told, by those who have gazed upon her beauty, that she is proof that only fools associate evil with the dark. she is all deep brown skin, deep like the most fertile of soils or the cosmos that others reach for with longing in their eyes. glitter twinkles on her skin like stars in the night skin, urging those to take a closer look and make a wish should they feel deserving.
  
  had the angel purposely shaped her features in a unique manner? a face that some deem hard to look at yet they find themselves entranced all the same. there is something vaguely unnerving…otherworldly hidden in her features but soft enough to fool the eyes. those eyes of her, the deepest of blues, hide their true emotions behind fluttering lashes. it is hard to see the hunger that lurks within. their watery depths camouflage the tears that threatened to roll down full cheeks. they say so much yet so little. her face, both hard marble and soft clay.
  
  she grew as though she had been attempting to reach the above. her body grew into itself softly, delicate in a way to not disturb the world around her. her body of gentle curves, pleasant to the eye and invoking a feeling of protectiveness. she is avian like in her grace, her movements fluid and almost floating when she arrives. she has been compared to a bird, something of fragile bones and sweet songs. yet they forget of the birds of prey, with talons ready and eyes poised for an attack.
  
  eula has become a blank canvas for the house of pin prick, but as a way to start anew. where before, her hair was full and often braided down, it has been shaved close to her head. her face and body are void of any alterations in the name of continuous transformation.
  
  
• 
  

  BASICS.

  name.

  eula evangeline.
  
  

  nickname.

  eve.
  
  

  codename.

  venus.
  
  

  occupation.

  a pretty face and sharp teeth hidden behind a closed lip smile. eula is a head-turner, a top model who charms audiences. but she is also an attack animal, leashed and guided towards those who may cross her owner.
  
  

  gender.

  female.
  
  

  sexuality.

  unsure | it is an aspect of her life that eula was the least focused on. she could not and would not entertain ideas of romance and flesh as an idol for her angel and thus, Him.
  
  

  species.

  veela | a human believed to be kissed by an angel, endowed with the divine goal innately. using their unnatural beauty, gifted by the angel, they use their looks and sensuality to entrap ne’er-do-wells, cannibalizing them.
  
  “just then, an angel of the him stood before her, and the glory of him shone around her, and she sore was terrified. and the angel said to her, ‘Fear not, fear not. Be not afraid’.”
  
  synopsis: an idol, forced to see the truth and snatched from her throne. eula was revered once upon a time ago. raised by a religious group known simply as the church, they taught her of her origins and the nature of her gift. kissed by an angel , it was her duty to help the sinners who sought to repent and at times, were too terrified to do so. all too soon, the truth was revealed and she fled into a world she knew nothing of. she was found, but one prison was only traded for another.
  
  
  

  SANCTIFY
  years & years

01.

02.

03.

04.

05.

code by birth of venus.

 

[mother of sorrows]

ursula bride

scatter-hearted, rabbit-toothed, dark-blooded

♡coded by uxie♡

ursula bride

abispa

25

afab nb

bisexual

accursed

P.O.B

degree

visage

Ursula is not pretty. She's not much of anything, if we're being honest.

She looks like painstakingly made painting that must have once demanded great care and was now left to rot; her movements are of something that drowned and crawled out with mud beneath it's nails. A tall, lankly figure, thin armed and with a neck that stretches like a curious goose's, a straight body with no hint of curves. She is awkwardly built, like a spider curling into itself to die; she is as much a stranger to her own body as any onlooker. Her skin is pale, a constellation of dots and freckles littered across it.

Small, fragile teeth that look like they got torn out of a doll's mouth, always a little red with blood. Wispy blonde hair, haphazardly cut short like tall summer's grass. Her face is sharply thin, lips a small rosebud, cheeks like a fox's. The most defined feature of Ursula are the long, dropping eyes, painted a bloated gray. They remind eerily of a stuffed deer's watching you from a wall.

sypnosis

A born leader that doesn't know when to stop squeezing. Believe her, had she a large enough knife, she'd bleed out all of Egress.

headcanons

• Most people would consider her ugly. Ursula only cares a little bit.
• Uses she/her or they/them pronouns.
• An awful singing voice, but a darling at playing instruments.
• Smokes to keep her mind off things.
• A great posture, only slouches when unfocused.
• Very expressive, even when she doesn't mean to be.
• Dangerously contagious laugh.
• Has a prominent voice; thought-out and careful.
• Painted red nails, very neat.
• Loves unnaturally spicy food that would kill a lesser person.
• Better at keeping technology out than working with it inside.
• A camera looks at her for 0.0003 seconds and her eye starts twitching.
• Refuses to fall for Joe Mama jokes.
• Her friends are about the only ones who see her genuine grins.

Do you feel the same right now?

personality

Sometimes Ursula is like the fire crumbling a castle's stones under siege.

Her ambition is too large to hold; it leaks out of her, drip drip drips right there on the floor everytime she guts herself for another person. Had she the education, she might have been a great politician - or an exceptional saint. Fever-dream charisma that you'd have to kill for, a passion rising up in her chest that you couldn't fake if you studied it for decades. It is the fact that she believes every word she speaks, every ideal she sells to her team; inspiring, devoted, a person that will make decisions when others falter in the face of them.

Awkward, perhaps. Unsure of social skills and clumsy, flushing red under compliments and too-close attention. She isn't one for scripted speeches or song that would crumble or make a country - but it's far too easy to see why she commands followers, why anybody bothers to listen to what she has to say in the first place.

But sometimes, she's a little like the fire from a lighter; there for a moment, burning blind and gone the next. When the world is dark and nothing is right, Ursula will sit by herself and do the biggest mistake she could possibly could: doubt herself.

virtues

here

here

here

here

vices

here

here

here

here

likes

here

heree

here

here

dislikes

here

here

here

here

backstory

People say you can never quite beat out the stench from your very being if you're born in the slums. You can clean the dirt from under your nails and hide the urge to lunge for money once it drops on the ground - but there is a chasm between you and the elite, one that makes song everytime you try a little to hard to cover it up.

Ursula wonders, when people look into her eyes, if they see the smoke rising out of Devil's Kettle.

A memory, now. Ursula a child with bleeding soles and worn hands, sweat pouring down her neck from nerves; one eye peeking out the blinds and a hand gripping the windowsill - outside on the street a woman with dry gold in her eye socket, shining every so often in the evening sun. The woman is laughing, laughing, her arm heavy with a fabric bag that cost more than all of Ursula's five sisters.

In her mind's memory she is always stuck on that cusp of doing something horrible.

What she did doesn't matter. It's what she grew up to do.

From a child of burning eyes and tattered clothes she grew; and she grew hungry. Hungy not for food, but for dragging the world to her own level. She created the team not just for money - of course she needs it, everybody does. She's not proud enough to say she doesn't. But the team?

It meant more. It always meant more.

love language

here

MBTI

here

fun facts

here

Heize - We don't talk together (Feat. Giriboy)

coded by Stardust Galaxy

 

[LeilaRF]

Linda Perhacs

Peridot

R

equisite

name

Perryn Ageishi

age

26 years old

Gender

Cis Woman

sexuality

Bisexual

Species

Blesséd

Callname

Peridot

Synopsis

Perryn is a soft spoken seamstress, and a doting and devoted employee. She takes pride in what she toils; seams that aren't hers but are hers to make. The humming of sewing machinery quiets the ringing in her ears, and the hunger that swims in her veins. She bears a primal thirst that seems like it will never cease, slowly engulfing her like kudzu to a tree. However, she is remarkably persistent with her trimming, just as she is with most everything in her life- persistent and perfectionistic. She keeps herself ever so busy, and intentionally so.

A

ppearance

Her large, monolid eyes are deeply dark to the point of near blackness, like that of a frightened doe’s, and emanate a sense of perpetual, gentle sadness in her gaze. Her skin is a pale olive, soft and featuring undertones of rose-colored flush, though bearing the scars and coloration of a rough upbringing. Thin wavy hair falls to the small of her back- black but fulvous when catching the sunlight. Her figure is soft and plump, and she stands at 5’3”.

Faceclaim

Serena Motola

p

ersonality

She is charming in her own strange way, though rather bashful, shying away from attention and crumbling like flakes of mica after any amount of time in the spotlight. After all, with a keen ear and a demeanor that warrants little suspicion, she is a magnificent fly on the wall. Under scrutiny, she becomes a fortress- impenetrable and unknowable. With those she knows and trusts, she is sweet as can be- just like the honey that she cooks with and stirs in her tea. Perhaps she can be too dutiful, trying too desperately to prove herself worthy. She is known as a bit of a try-hard and stick-in-the-mud, but her dedication is admirable at the least.

VICES

Lacks Assertion, Single-minded, Anxious, Inferiority Complex, Clingy

VIRTUES

Loyal, Considerate, Intelligent, Observant, Driven

STRENGTHS

Highly observant and a professional eavesdropper, Perryn’s mind is an archive of information and dirt on clients and the like. She is incredibly intelligent and possesses a great memory, and is also very detail-oriented. She also possesses the ability to turn invisible, though her powers are untrained.

WEAKNESSES

Perryn struggles to operate independently, often relying on others to bark orders at her. She prefers to work away from the heart of combat, and struggles when put in the thick of it.

FEARS

Crippling fear of rejection and abandonment, being forgotten, imprisonment

HEADCANONS

-

She can’t pick a favorite color; there’s something she loves about everything in the spectrum.

-

Though she is proficient with a sewing machine, she occasionally opts to sew by hand with needle and thread, or knits personal projects in her spare time (though she rarely has any.)

-

She has a “pet” mouse named Kyward. She calls it hers, but in reality it tends to just come to her occasionally for scraps of food and attention before returning to whence it came.

-

She loves tea, and always offers to brew some for guests that come over.

-

She is a master at disguising her emotions, but only does so when necessary. She prefers to be genuine.

-

She often plaits ribbons in her hair.

-

Though her voice is breathy and thin, she loves to sing and hum.

-

She is a morning person, and is often up very early though she doesn’t necessarily go to sleep early.

-

She used to play the xylophone in high school.

-

She loves to wear lacey, lolita-esque fashion.

-

She wears large, round spectacles with thick lenses, as her natural vision is quite poor.

h

istory

Perryn was born, raised, and lived most of her early life in a quiet part of the coastline of Rass with her mother. Her father died when she was very young, about three or four years old. She remembers little of him, but she does remember that when he wasn’t working on the assembly line he would harvest oysters on the coast for the family to eat, and would bring her home little “treasures” in the form of pearls and abalone shells. When he died, Perryn was too young to understand why her mother became so distant and bitter; a heart-wrenched shell of who she used to be to her. She wasn’t financially or emotionally equipped to raise a child alone, but she did against all odds, and Perryn remembers vaguely and through layers of dense fog the nights that she and her mother shared; a childhood of disillusionment, of rats boring through cupboards, of religious fanatics, and of not quite enough of anything.

When she reached her late teens was when her mother passed. It happened so quickly that it seemed like some kind of mistake. The quietness in that home on that day was grotesque; the sea pawing at the shore seemed to be the only sound she could hear, humming a mocking eulogy for her mother and the mess she left behind. It was clear she couldn’t stay there, not if she wanted to survive, so she packed her things and traveled to the big city in central Rass. A land of opportunity, she had hoped, but it was too quickly that she realized the naivete of such a thought. She couldn’t find work. She took to stealing to survive, and the meager scraps weren’t enough.

Only on the fourth day of her time in Rass was the first time she had killed a man, and the first time she drank human blood. She didn’t know what she was doing at first; she was just so hungry, and it was like a primal instinct to sink her teeth into his skin. The Madame herself found her lying there in the alleyway, a pitiful thing- weeping, drenched in blood, paralyzed with fear and shivering like a wet dog. Madame Georgiette raised her up from nothingness and sat her back upright; a more than welcome release from what she had been lately. She owes everything she has now to her, and would be content to live her life repaying that unspoken debt.

g

allery

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

coded by bad ending

The

madame

creative director

& rebel leader.

I PUT A SPELL ON YOU
NINA SIMONE

REQUISITE

FULL NAME

Geörgét of the Fates

ALIAS

The Madame Georgiette, simply The Madame if you prefer. Georgie, if she's feeling sweet.

AGE

Ageless; appears like she's entering quite gracefully into her early fifties. Her I.D. profile will pull up that her age is 51.

GENDER

femme-presenting

SEXUAL ORIENTATION

not something particularly relevant to a timeless soul.

Occupation

The CEO of Pin Prick House and creative director

VISAGE

APPEARANCE

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FASHION

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AILMENTS

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AESTHETIC WORDBANK

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EXTRAS

etc.

PERSONA

PERSONALITY

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VICES

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VIRTUES

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LIKES

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DISLIKES

etc.

TIME MACHINE

PART I: GOODBYE

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PART II: AS THE WORLD CAVES IN

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PART III: OUT OF CONTROL

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PART IV: INTO THE LABYRINTH

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GALLERY

 

[mother of sorrows]

siòbhan.

an idea you could be if only you were braver

♡coded by uxie♡

Siobhan was a dancer, once. Before the ankle.

You can still find glossy, overshined pictures from that time - if you're particularily daring, you might even pull them out in their presence. Old magazine interviews, photoshoots, talking of Siobhan as a promising debutante. Them in painfully white dancing dresses and yawning black suits. A teenage awkwardness to their smile, but their eyes so loud and proud - Siobhan might not have been kind then, either.

But that might have been the cusp of them finding out what it truly means to love art.

FULL NAME. Siobhan Cross.
AGE. 24.

 

[Wandering Owl]

and I am reverting to impossibility
one tiny thread in this abject infinity

nsira ebersol - 23 - nótt - witch

⛦ ☽ ☙ ⛦ synopsis ⛦ ❧ ☾ ⛦

Nsira is surrounded by mishaps. She misplaces objects, loses track of time, forgets her own thoughts. Carelessness, some call it.

You don’t have to talk to her for long to see how much she truly does care.

She cannot change the way that ideas and impulses slip through her fingers like sand, but she can set structure upon structure, patterns and pins and tacking-thread, to hold the shape of what she knows to be true. She cannot use her own face for so much of her work with the Tower of Babel, but she can hold on tightly, as she always has, to the identity that is truly her own.

She crafts, design after design, dazzling ideas scrawled on scraps of paper. She is crafted, again and again, into a thousand different characters, a patchwork lie made to seek the truth. She pulls all the threads of herself close around her body, as though that will stop it all spilling out through the cracks, and she is pulled, inexorably, by the singular shining strand that threatens to tear the rest apart. She takes in every part of the world, wringing from it seemingly unending inspiration and joy.

And now, it may consume her in return.



⛦ ☽ ☙ ⛦ headcanons ⛦ ❧ ☾ ⛦

❧ Specializes in glamor/illusion magic
❧ Keeps a journal with ideas, bits of inspiration, memories, anything that she wants to make sure she remembers. She’s been writing in it more than usual, recently.
❧ Pretty quiet around new people or uncomfortable situations, but very chatty once she gets to know someone
❧ The epitome of “organized chaos” - she usually knows where everything is, even in the midst of her mess
❧ Very active with her hands when talking or restless
❧ Doesn’t throw old clothes or scraps of fabric out; "you never know when they could be useful!”
❧ Developed her own shorthand for notes, has to make an effort to make them readable on designs
❧ Sings or hums when she works
❧ Strongly believes that the most important factor in channeling energy is personal connections and intentions, so she often uses mundane objects. She can be pretty derisive of people who think witchcraft can only be done properly with expensive or rare materials
❧ “Do you have a scrap of paper? It’s easier to explain if I draw a diagram.”
❧ Gives out protection charms even though it's not really her field. She knows they may be mostly placebo, but she hopes her intentions carry through
❧ Uses a lot of mantras to reassure herself and help her focus
❧ Has a bit of a sweet tooth, which is more prominent when she’s stressed. Her desk is often littered with wrappers
❧ Tends to pick up on/remember little obscure details and miss out on the big ones
❧ Will make little makeshift models out of whatever she can find, to explain complex or 3D concepts

⛦ ☽ ☙ ⛦ writing sample ⛦ ❧ ☾ ⛦

coded by weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

coded by bad ending

xavier dolan as

GATSBY

gunslinger leader

& sharpshootin' model.

hacker
death grips

REQUISITE

FULL NAME

Asterix Rumple Walker

ALIAS

Trixie, Trix, Gatsby, *TR1X, Runt

AGE

Twenty-seven

D.O.B.

April 1st

BIRTHPLACE

Wayne, Hartland

GENDER

Non-binary; they/them; struggles with forgetting they aren't bound by traditional masculinity, so they will refer to themself as a 'boy' on occasion; Please do not follow suit unless you'd like a fist to the throat

SEXUAL ORIENTATION

Not something Gatsby is particularly worried about.

SPECIES

One of the Fallen 30

ROLE

Gatsby

OCCUPATION

Flagship model for Pin Prick, infamous for party-boy pursuits. The fire-thirsty and blood-hungry member of Tower of Babel, ready to maim. Tends to work with everyone at least once, as they prefer to be prepared for all kinds of ‘battle and bloodshed’.

VISAGE

APPEARANCE

Slanted angles built by angels and over-salinated skin wracked by tears. Trixie’s figure is Santa’s bag, endless and host to other’s desires. Something unlike themself. With droopy eye-lids that speak of Hades and death-white paper across bone, they are a painting, a marveled, marbled statue. I’m just a boy, they’ll joke, sheepish yet the eyes tell all. Arms crossed for crucifixion, easy lean to the chair, and they are apart of the scenery, they make the world bleed. They were forged to be adored, either by virtue of destroying the atoms that bind, stuffing them as a suckling pig for feast, dipped in gold like a Midas ice cream cone, or simply, as they are now. Back meant to be broken, but Trix can’t stop. Refuses. The marrow has fused together, and their limbs will need to be broken, beaten over and over, for them to stop. That’s what the unflattering muscle is there for, the string of metal piercings, the sinews of scars that never healed right, all those bones that broke, that healed. Gatsby, the life of the party, until they die, embers stamped into Pompeii ruins.

HEIGHT

6’6’’; The Madame’s current theory is that the Experiment did something to their growth hormones, but really, they’re just ‘built different’ (Their words, not Georgiette’s)

BUILD

muscular with broad shoulders; not a facet to their physique they’re particularly proud of, but The Madame says it looks good on camera

PIERCINGS + TATTOOS

Ears are lined with thick, 8g-2g silver rings, with about 6 on each side in varying sizes. As a result, their earlobes sag, especially due to their need to tug on each one at least once. A septum piercing, simple barbel. Tattoos are primarily patch-work oddities that they or their closest friends and family drew. The only one of note is the Roman-type W on his heart.

FASHION

When working below in the Tower, they tend to dress simply, yet comfortably: a wife-beater, sweatpants, and fluffy bunny slippers. Of course, when residing above, Trixie dresses becoming of a Hartlandian-turned-model, sticking to highly stylized versions of the workwear they grew accustomed to. More here.

AILMENTS

Has to take Wolfsbane medication for beastly anger issues, certifiably depressed and traumatized, thinks that they’re one of the four horsemen and that anyone apart of the Fallen 30 were actually just harbingers of death who survived being killed (they try not to talk about it, though, as most people think they’re batty); should be diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and OCD, but isn’t

SCARS

Their signature: the scar that cuts through the left side of their lips, down from the nose, just through the corner. Born with a cleft lip, their parents had their palate repaired when they turned 17, just before being roped into the Fallen 30 experiment. Whilst away, they ripped open the stitches and proceeded to make the wound even larger, resulting in the scar. Beyond that, there are small patches across their body where skin is missing, either from burns or their dermatillomania.

AESTHETIC WORDBANK

gold-plated pistols, manic grins, slouched effervescence, smug-set jaw, crucified arms crossed, cryptic messages, impulsivity, jesterly, denial, control, a thorny crown, drinking until the day is forgotten, smokey accents, hazy recollections, screams of agony

AESTHETIC

link.

FACECLAIM

Xavier Dolan in Tom At The Farm

EXTRAS

AESTHETIC – here

PERSONA

PERSONALITY

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Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Elit at imperdiet dui accumsan sit amet nulla facilisi morbi. Amet consectetur adipiscing elit ut aliquam purus sit amet luctus. Auctor augue mauris augue neque. Eu augue ut lectus arcu bibendum at varius vel pharetra. Et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas integer eget. Velit aliquet sagittis id consectetur purus ut faucibus pulvinar. Varius vel pharetra vel turpis nunc eget lorem dolor.

VICES

overzealous, intense, delusional, a liar, a cheat, a scoundrel, impulsive, violent, blood thirsty, anything but humble, follows their own mind first and foremost

VIRTUES

Righteous, self-assured, charismatic, beguiling, bold, convincingly authentic, witty, well-timed, will-ful, loyal, convincing, quick-thinking, intelligent, good at keeping morale up, able to be subtle, a fantastic liar, a ‘team player’

LIKES

gunsmoke, luxury items with a heft to them, getting their makeup done, walking the runway, feeling like all eyes are on them, receiving a new letter, people shivering in their wake, feeling free on rare occasions, getting high off their own supply, the sight of blood, having all their ideas confirmed / generally being correct, feeding their ego, feeling hot, giving themself a new tattoo when the voices compete and they need something to ground them, shooting things, chewing on a piece of straw from home, getting lost in Gholling, impressing The Madame, singing, writing something worth repeating, forgetting for those few brief moments when they first wake up in the morning

DISLIKES

reading reviews about themself, not receiving any new mail for awhile, reading the news, taking their medications, needing to see Doc, waking up with someone they don’t recognize, Siobahn, paparazzi that get handsy, shitty literature, anyone who says jack shit about Wayne (especially if they’re praising Gacy), being alone, being with people, being anything at all.

TIME MACHINE

PART I: THE SAND

Actual narrative coming soon.
– born in Wayne, Hartland. Popped out to a woman named Aster and a man named Charlie in a small, wood-laden house. The floorboards weren’t straight, so the dust was the first thing Asterix inhaled. Not the breath of life. The scent of death.
– a swinging toddler, unruly as hell. ‘Just like his father’ Trixie mimics dear mother now
– As they grew older, Aster and Charlie departed more and more, leaving young Trix in the arms of Historia, a girl no older than sixteen. Charged with reeling in the tykes (as Early, a childhood friend, was always a must), she tended them while Aster and Charlie were off saving the stars for their wee one. Sort’ve.
– Aster and Charlie were both apart of Calloway’s group, typically just called The Line by anyone familiar enough with them to need a name. Cab Calloway, an infamous smuggler, dealer, and community leader. Trixie’s father, Charlie, was his cousin’s kid, making him family, while Aster was always a little shit who ran errands, snuck aruond for abit of change, perhaps some candy or a new bandana
– Peachy-keen, sunshine, and fresh laundry. Wayne stunk of horse dung, but it was home. Until Lykan Gacy entered the picture, and the world crumbled, bit by bit, as it always had been. Now, it was simply unable to be ignored.

PART II: AS THE WORLD CAVES IN

actual writing coming soon. For now – notes !

– Calloway moved most of his operations to Oasis, Hartland’s one major city. Other villages began to cut off contact, wary of the new hoity-toity fella who was buying up as much land as he could under the Empire’s guidance. There was only Calloway’s home and warehouse that remained, besides the stables and Mags’ Millinery. They managed to keep the home via some sort of grandfather clause. The storage facility was lost, and with it, The Line moved, closer to Hellenic, where the real money still dripped.
– Aster went with him, so did Early. Charlie almost did, too, if it weren’t for his grandmother’s house. It remained, untouched by even a single pink slip or eviction notice. There were years built within this house, within Calloway’s, too. He remained, a dutiful guard. The separation was bitter-sweet, but necessary. Always necessary.
– Trix remained with their father. The reasoning for this was left to smoke; primarily, it was safer for Asterix to inhale deadly dust than to risk being shot while Mommy went on a drug run. It was better, truly
– Until Gacy decided Charlie had to be put to work, until he found out that Trixie was nearign the age to start riding.
– Charlie was one of the first cowboys to work for The Pony Express. Trixie would follow soon after.
– At 17, they had finally saved enough with their meager earnings to get surgery on Trixie’s cleft palate. Of course, the week before, they’d received the letter in regards to the experiment the Empire was requiring participation in. Offering a grand sum.
– Charlie and Aster decided, over the town square’s port, that they weren’t going to send their kid.
– While Trixie was at home, recovering, Gacy called on Charlie to do a run. ‘Special delivery.’ Trix sensed then that there was something off, something in the way Charlie shifted and kissed his kid’s head one last time.
– He didn’t come back. Gacy believes it was the Nephilim that took him.
–Of course, Trixie found this out over a pair of soft-wristed handcuffs and ESID agets fighting to get them into the cart. The holding cell.
– When they arrived to Espiritu, they were bloodied, beaten, and coated in Hartland’s earth.
– They say it was their already boiling anger that kept them alive, that kept them from succumbing to the torture and their body’s yearning. Except, underneath the veneer, Gatsby can admit that there were moments where the vitals machine beeped so slowly it was a lullaby.

PART III: OUT OF CONTROL

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PART IV: INTO THE LABYRINTH

actual writing to come. For now- notes!

– After being sent home, they found their home in tatters.

GALLERY

 

[miyabi]

coded by bad ending

Emma Stone as

FINNICK

Black market dealer

& Fashion genius.

SHITLIST
L7

REQUISITE

FULL NAME

Maxine Atilia Saint, formerly. Elvie Malum, currently. She'd renamed herself for a plethora of reasons, though the most prominent is to sever her ties to her family. Elvie, because she thought it suiting; Malum, Latin for evil, disaster, chaos.

ALIAS

Finnick, El, Vee; though these nicknames are readily available, she'd rather you call her by Elvie (or Finnick, though typically used for operations) — there is only the exception given one's closeness.

AGE

27 years old.

GENDER

AFAB, non-binary; Elvie has gone through many cycles of self-discovery and has found comfort in knowing that they are secure with whichever pronouns are used to identify her.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION

Pansexual; there is not much to explain about this, Elvie's interests solely rely on more than gender.

ROLE

FINNICK; one could say the victim of the wolf's bane project — a gifted designer and highly profitable black market dealer. Finnick had found her way to the top, falling into the title of the head of Pin Prick's Black Market. Though, despite being held deep within the hands of such an organization, Elvie has made her rivals within the same scope. A rival to most; aggression and chaos bundled with twine. A Wolfsbane Project survivor.

VISAGE

FACECLAIM

Emma Stone

FASHION

Elvie thinks of their designs and fashion as revolutionary; a complete rebellion from fashion norms, challenges the eye and crushes the ordinary under platform heels. Inspirations for their designers are: Thierry Mugler, John Galliano, and Vivienne Westwood.

AILMENTS

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AESTHETIC WORDBANK

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EXTRAS

etc.

PERSONA

PERSONALITY

Where there is genius, there is obsession and madness. Few choose to claim it and, unfortunately, Elvie has claimed such role; now, don’t get this wrong, Elvie is much more than the gun-toting, knife-wielding maniac. They’d rather keep the blood off their hands—physically, that is. The thing is, when faced with Elvie and her ambitions, there is the look you get when you are faced with an insurmountable danger: a shaky ladder, the inevitable kiss of death, a rip of the sleeve, whatever it may be. It seems that Elvie, in all of the extravagance, is someone who’d lost a few too many stitches; perhaps in more ways than one, the stitches had already been loose before—never secure, always ready to unwind.

VICES

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VIRTUES

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HEADCANONS

- Requests that models are drag queens/in drag during runway shows.
- If they do not like what you're wearing, they are quick to rip off an article, sleeve, etc. as a basic improvement; then says that you look better and it was because of her.
- Many of their designs are based on Victorian and Mod fashion silhouettes.
- Takes the minimum requirement of medication after escaping the Wolfsbane Project; dislikes the full effects and feelings, feels that it gives them a creative block.
- Always drinking black coffee and copious amounts of sugar.
- High Maintenance: regularly upkeeps the split dyed hair, opts for makeup, and does not care how long it takes, likes higher-end things but why pay for it when you can steal it?
- Passionate about fashion and rebellion; dislikes oppressive regimes (who does aside from the oppressors) and often organizes protests. In fashion.
- Black Market division head and dealer, won't be afraid to tell you your product is shit.
- Always dresses up, doesn't matter where you're going with them. Would rather die than be caught wearing something ugly.
- more to come

DISLIKES

etc.

TIME MACHINE

PART I: GOODBYE, MAXINE

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Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Elit at imperdiet dui accumsan sit amet nulla facilisi morbi. Amet consectetur adipiscing elit ut aliquam purus sit amet luctus. Auctor augue mauris augue neque. Eu augue ut lectus arcu bibendum at varius vel pharetra. Et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas integer eget. Velit aliquet sagittis id consectetur purus ut faucibus pulvinar. Varius vel pharetra vel turpis nunc eget lorem dolor.

PART II: AS THE WORLD CAVES IN

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Elit at imperdiet dui accumsan sit amet nulla facilisi morbi. Amet consectetur adipiscing elit ut aliquam purus sit amet luctus. Auctor augue mauris augue neque. Eu augue ut lectus arcu bibendum at varius vel pharetra. Et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas integer eget. Velit aliquet sagittis id consectetur purus ut faucibus pulvinar. Varius vel pharetra vel turpis nunc eget lorem dolor.

PART III: OUT OF CONTROL

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PART IV: INTO THE LABYRINTH

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GALLERY

 

[demonology]

coded by bad ending

yeule

BEELZEBUB

jewelry-maker

& weapons-smith.

 

[blue-jay]

XII.
raven

erethea muir.

coded by xayah.ღ

ERETHEA — down, down to hell; and know thou sent me thither

BASICS --
FULL NAME: erethea muir
NICKNAME: some may affectionately call her eri (said like "airy") or thea
AGE: 24
GENDER: cis woman
SEXUALITY: pansexual
SPECIES: one of the fallen 30
ROLE: raven
OCCUPATION: sews for pin prick, does anything for abispa and darcy
SYNOPSIS: when erethea holds on, she holds on perhaps a little too tight—she's afraid of being let go.

erethea was (and, in a way, always will be) an orphan. she knows this. she knows that she is defined by lack—by what she is missing rather than what she has. she has glimpsed the vast canyon between "orphan" and "child." between human and something less. no one had ever really wanted her in her life, so, when the government did, she felt in no position to deny them. once the scientists were done with her, erethea was bereft once more... but they left her with something. something terrible. and now, with this terrible heft of hers, she lives life as a bounty hunter, walking the lines between good and evil. orphan and adult. human and something less... or more. what will she do when the world beckons her, calls her to its aide in the form of a fashion line?

APPEARANCE --
VISAGE: erethea has brown skin and a small sharp face framed by black locs. she remembers that a girl at a children's home showed her how to do her hair this way. erethea had never cared much about her hair before, often leaving it unstyled. the girl, however, was so kind about it that erethea endeavored to grow and maintain the locs. she has kept true to that promise ever since; the locs fall nearly to her waist now. erethea has the dark eyes of both prey and predator; oblivious when wandering, but deadly when focusing on something. erethea is 5'6 and appears thin, but years of hard labor have given her strength that is hidden by her smaller frame. erethea has a calm air when left alone, but takes on an intensity when invoked. she often looks pensive, and has a softer voice.
FACECLAIM: erethea's faceclaim is aliya will, though i won't be using too many pictures

PSYCHE --
PERSONALITY:
- some say that life is about hard work. others say it is about the fulfillment of aspirations. becoming rich. mastering a craft. none of these ever quite resonated with erethea, and, at some point, she figured that, for her, life is really about love: about loyalty and pledging herself to someone else's wellbeing and goals. she doesn’t desire money or esteem. her contentment has always seemed to lie in the beauty of other people—in being close to them and of use to them. erethea is an allocentrist at heart; in her mind, the self is simply a means of creating and receiving love. some may call her altruistic, although she wouldn’t use that word for herself. living this way is what she wants to do.
- a life of transience has made erethea tough and observant. she has a talent for reading people and situations, which lends itself to her ability to serve others. she can endure and recover from pain and hardship without much complaint. her resolve comes from her wish to help those she cares for, and, because of this, it is near unbreakable.
- although erethea has chosen a life of being of seeking love and serving others, she rarely ever feels secure in her position. a life of being lost or let go time and time again has made her cynical about how much she can be loved before she becomes boring or a burden. her love language is promises, but she doesn't ask them of people. so she lives in a constant state of questioning—of being ready to be abandoned again while knowing how much it will hurt. resigned but very far from numb.
- as a friend, erethea is empathetic, soft-spoken, and a good listener. she is understanding but also willing to provide alternative perspectives to people she believes need to hear them. she can come off as impassive or vacant, but she's actually quite sensitive to the actions/emotions of others—she's just not very expressive.
- erethea doesn't care much for morality. she will do what is asked by those she cares for, no matter the consequences.
- when not doing things for others, she finds herself drawn to art and literature. she likes learning about and seeing the ways in which people have captured themselves and other people. she has her own small whims and desires and will pursue them when she's feeling curious. she can even let her curiosity get the better of her. however, she considers these whims ultimately mutable. if they get in the way of her duties, she will put them on the back burner.
- her constantly looking to others gives her the impression of a lost puppy dog. although people may want to protect her, she doesn't expect anyone to.

VIRTUES: loyal + perceptive + resilient + empathetic + allocentric + soft-spoken + stoic + level-headed + resolute (when given a task/mission) + artistic + curious
VICES: lacks her own purpose - low self-esteem - clingy - amenable - sensitive - allocentric - cynical - self-sacrificing - prone to melancholy/dread (tends to ponder existence) - amoral
FEARS: being let go, not being of use to anyone, dying alone, drowning
HEADCANONS:
+ has a habit of carving names in places, even if she shouldn't. she usually carves the names of people she considers friends
+ can recite some of her favorite childhood books word for word
+ worked in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant when she was fourteen and knows some good recipes as a result
+ tried to visit her father in prison once, but couldn't make it past the gate
+ she doesn't snore, but she is irrationally afraid that she does. she'd hate to ever inconvenience someone she was sleeping near
+ knows the birthdays of anyone who's ever told her by heart. that includes birthdays of kids she met at orphanages, social workers, or people she worked for through her childhood. she never forgets
+ snuck into a piano recital with an orphanage boy when she was twelve. when they got back, the boy was beaten by the headmistress. he took all the blame, so erethea was not beaten. she's wanted to learn to play piano ever since.
+ cried whenever kids would flee an orphanage she was at because she wished they would've taken her with them
+ strangely good at board games, but often loses on purpose
+ loves ghost stories. her mom used to tell them to her
+ both loves and dreads the snow. it was great when she had somewhere to stay but made living on the street awful
+ takes promises very seriously. promises are a part of her love language, but she rarely asks them from people because she doesn't want to trouble them. she makes quite a few though, and has a habit of keeping them
+ had a minor speech impediment growing up
+ has never been to the beach, but would like to—to see the jellyfish
+ she cleaned for a university for some time after escaping from the fallen 30 experiment. she had bathroom duty in the main library and read extensively, often to calm herself down. one day, a professor caught her and scolded her. she never did it again while she worked there
+ loves bread and butter. it is simple and cheap, she has eaten it a lot throughout her life, and it is still so good
+ writes poems about everyone she meets and natural phenomena to focus
+ used to dress very simply, but has recently experienced a surge of fashion inspiration

STRENGTHS:
+ resilient and resolute
+ can keep a level-head
+ plenty of street smarts, shrewd
+ enhanced durability, competent with pyrokinesis (specifically hellfire), mild levitation
WEAKNESSES:
- struggles without directions/commands from a superior if things get complex
- may underestimate herself/overestimate opponents
- sometimes too self-sacrificing to where it becomes irrational
- a weak swimmer, scared of drowning
- waiting makes her a bit anxious (a lot of things require waiting)

THE PAST --
HISTORY: not much is known about erethea's past. some may think this is due to a concerted effort by her to conceal it—she will tell you that there simply isn't much to know. she was born in leninbog to a poor mother. where her memories begin, her father is in prison, where he has remained her entire life. her and mother lived in a small two-room apartment that they entered through an alley. it was squished between a multitude of similar homes carved out in the same building.

at first, her life was simple. her and mother had a daily routine—they would wake up and eat a meager breakfast. then, mother would leave for the day to go work, while thea stayed behind and found something to occupy herself in the small apartment. early on, she found ways to have fun by herself. she watched tv. she read the few books sitting around the apartment over and over. she carved her name into the wall behind the bed over and over. "erethea. erethea. erethea." the front door would be triple bolted. she always received strict instructions from her mother to never open the door for anyone but her. mother would return at the end of the day with food, both for dinner and for breakfast the following morning. they would eat a small dinner. mother would tell erethea a story. and then they would sleep.

when erethea was eight, the routine came to a sudden end—one day, mother didn't come home. she decided to wait out the first night, going without dinner and sleeping by herself. she waited out the next day, drinking water from the tap, which she wasn't usually allowed to do. on the third day, she felt sick. on the fourth day, she cried. on the fifth day, erethea stepped out into the world. she felt compelled to justify it: her mother had always said to not open the door for anybody, but nobody was there. mother had never said that thea couldn't open the door for nobody. it was, erethea thought, a different matter altogether.

she never saw mother again, but she did get to know leninbog. this is where her story gets hazy. she jumped from orphanages to shelters to living on the floor of anywhere that would employ her child's labor to orphanages again. her mother hadn't been particularly loving, but she had at least been gentle. erethea went across leninbog, from place to place, from job to exploitative job—everywhere was ungentle. she met so many social workers, so many minor bureaucrats, so many foster parents, but they always had a way of losing her—of letting her go. many of the adults she met were cruel. many ended up in prison. she always looked within them for that gentleness that mother had, but it was never there. at least, not for her. no matter where she was, she worked diligently to please those around her. she was usually the most helpful child at the orphanage or the star employee of wherever she worked. but it never stopped people from letting her go. when erethea was fifteen, she was sitting on the street with a "will work for food" sign. a man in a suit walked by and asked her if she would be willing to participate in government research involving young people, intellect, and motor functions. erethea was unable to say no.

those adults, erethea would say, were the cruelest of all, and it pains her to think about them. when they were finished with their experiments, she thought that they were going to kill her. maybe they had been planning to, but simply forgot until it was too late. adults always had a way of forgetting erethea, after all. somehow, she found her way out of the facility and back into the world, but she knew she wasn't the same. she felt awful. she suffered for a long time until she gained some control over whatever terrible weight they had put on her. she thought about almost starving to death in the apartment all those years ago. she thought about waiting at the door. she thought about opening it and finding "nobody" there waiting. she decided to put this terrible weight to use. she trained, became a bounty hunter, and got in with darcy and abispa.

after their last mission, erethea and her companions sought refuge with the madame in the tower of babel. erethea is still adjusting to the new location and, potentially, a new purpose. at least she gets to put her sewing skills to use.

 

[arthur morgan.]

coded by bad ending

Jeremy White as

HATTER

Psychotic Beast

With the taste of power.

SHITLIST
L7

REQUISITE

FULL NAME

Name Here

ALIAS

Mad Hatter and sometimes Sinister;

AGE

31 years old

GENDER

Gender Identity Here

SEXUAL ORIENTATION

Homosexual

ROLE

Mad Hatter

VISAGE

APPEARANCE

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FASHION

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AILMENTS

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AESTHETIC WORDBANK

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EXTRAS

etc.

PERSONA

PERSONALITY

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VICES

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VIRTUES

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LIKES

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DISLIKES

etc.

TIME MACHINE

PART I: GOODBYE

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PART II: AS THE WORLD CAVES IN

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PART III: OUT OF CONTROL

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PART IV: INTO THE LABYRINTH

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GALLERY

 

[fantasy]

neo

beelzebub.

name.

neo ???

n. names.

beel/s, beelzebub

age.

he has a poor concept of time, and how much of it has passed from then and now. most assume he’s somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, therefore when inquired he picks a number between 26-29.

codename.

beelzebub

occupation.

for pin prick, his nimble fingers work steadily to craft various pieces of jewelry and accessories to embellish the newest collections—meanwhile in the depths of the tower of babel, he’s seen constructing weapons of all sorts and in the shadows conducting negotiations for bullets and guns.

gender.

doesn’t concern himself with such frivolous matters; he cares little for what people refer to him as, but is more accustomed to he/him pronouns.

sexuality.

bisexual

species.

satyr

face claim.

lee jong suk

a foreigner in the garden of chaos. tread lightly and you might find a flower that reminds you of home. contort yourself small and suffocate your nauseous identity. you’re a foreigner in the land of the starved, and you are not made to withstand such greed. it leaves you gaping, until there is little left of the person you knew before. what remains is slightly blurred and out of reach—these memories are echos, fast-fading and pale in color.


misfortune is all you’ve ever known. marked with an inconceivable darkness, difficult to see until it isn’t — before you burn anyone who dares to venture close enough to the fire. you live because you are too stubborn to die, clawing at survival with the desperation of someone who knows what it is to have nothing, to have no one, until you do. you find home in the marrow of another’s fate, creating for others and tinkering away when the world grows quiet becomes your solace. but, you are a foreigner and you do not belong.

false security cannot glue back together your broken fragments and create something whole.

you lure me to the flame

A feeling such as this ought to be forbidden, like it shouldn’t exist in the aftermath of horrors.

Guilt laces in his stomach, and a feeling of dishonor that cannot deserve softness gnaws at his heart, encroaching on his soul like an insatiable parasite searching for the bountiful fruit of regret and fear seeping from his heart. It’s the belief that his bloodied palms cannot hold anything so precious, yet he seeks their light like a moth to a flame, listening to the words they speak and almost convinces himself for them to be true—that he could be something more than what they made him.

“But, Mr. V you already are a good person.” The little girl uttered, eyes lifting to meet Sahil’s own as astonishment sneaks into his visage; a gentle shade slipping into murky hues and softening the normally hardened gaze. “You think so?” He murmurs, but the question was directed towards himself, rather than the tiny being sitting across from him. He hadn’t realized when their conversation drifted past numerical equations, and confusing passages, for Sahil often enjoyed conversing with the children he tutored past regular lesson plans. His question for the children was one of harmless nature; “If you could be anything, what would you be?” Most blurted out frivolous answers, such as wishing to be the birds in the sky, while others pondered the question further and wished to be the best leader on the island. Yet, when faced with the same question at the hands of inquisitive students, the question weighed heavily on his being—almost suffocating.

“I’m cutting our time short for the day in preparation for tonight’s gathering. I hope to see you all later today.” Clasping his hands together to commence the ending of their class, a chorus of cheers sounded from the group. Bidding each of them goodbyes, Sahil watched as they dispersed from his sight and in tow to their homes not far from where they were.

The sun still sat tall in the sky as hues of blue bled across the expanse. The day was still young, yet exhaustion seeped into his being like unrelenting waves crashing to shore. Although, Sahil had no one to blame except himself—preparations for the event and what all to come took precedence over sleep in the late hours of the night. Even when he found the time to lay down, his mind forbade him from succumbing to the sweetness of his blankets and the comfort behind closed eyes.

Gathering tonight to symbolize the harmony of two clans was something Sahil stressed relentlessly to Akua, who was less than pleased with the idea. It took him days to ease her into a reluctant agreement as many things did, for he was as insistent as she was stubborn. The Shati were a presence Sahil avoided when possible, finding the likes of them to be annoying and unwanted, but he couldn’t deny the importance of peace between them, even when the line dictating peace only seemed to grow thinner and thinner with each day.

--

Twinkling lights above and the low thrum of music weaves itself amongst the crowd; the air crisp and heavy with musk and mingled breaths of intoxication. Within the masses of people stands Sahil who finds his salvation at the bottom of amber liquid, it tastes saccharine—almost cloyingly sweet and clings to his tongue. His fingers trace patterns around the edge of the cup, eyes fleeting from person-to-person observing the waxing and waning of emotions across their faces. Moments ago Sahil found himself in the company of others, conversing lightly with any he crossed paths with, but now he stood an outsider looking in. Never much of a social butterfly and these sorts of events always made it more apparent how much more he enjoyed his own company.

Suddenly, something cackles in the air that hits his bones, leaving Sahil uncomforted; wary. He feels it in the air, before he hears it above the music and piercing through the crowd, before his feet are carrying him forward. By the time he reaches the scene, something akin to a disease has already stretched out, overtaking the minds of the clans with dripping tongues and feverish teeth, they descend upon each other only able to see what was right in front of them and not what awaited them—war was nigh on the horizon.

Akua’s words are a knife, dropping like gravity in this space of unruliness, nips at the feet of Shajarans as some drag along and others linger bearing teeth. She’s behaving the exact opposite of what Sahil expected, and for a brief moment pride blossoms in his chest amongst the muddled feelings of anguish and rage. Sahil’s hands grasps the grieving mother, who struggles to stand on her own, feet faltering to withhold her own body weight. She begins to unravel before him; a mantra of grief spilling from her lips, unrelenting in their assault. It feels as if he has failed her, failed Akua, failed his people for the horrors of tonight.

How could something so horrible sneak from under his nose?

“Leave him. Your chance will come, but today is not the day.” Sahil speaks to Akua, referring to Day who stood not that far. His gaze is unrelenting on the leader, before he departs from her presence with the mother. He knows he cannot bring her son back from the dead, but the words he speak are ones brimming with a promise.

He would rain hell on the Shati for the days to come.

then you fire.

• his wings suffered from a bit of damage after being transported through the portal—he’s grown to become very self-conscious of them and rarely shows them off.
• horrid posture; he’s constantly hunched over or slouching and doesn’t readily realize it until someone brings it to his attention causing him to instantly straighten.
• puts hot sauce on everything he eats somebody please stop him before he gets HBP
• he only remembers fragments of his life before being transported—yet, the horrors he witnessed fighting the feed seem to stick with him and haunt him through the night.
• the horns sprouting from his ears are sensitive to the touch; please refrain from touching them unless asking first.
• his name is derived from the character neo from the matrix; a movie he used to be obsessed with.
• a bit of a hoarder; any item he can get his hands or collect goes in a collection that he never needs, but can never part from
• his fingers are always tinged with the black dust of coal that he can never quite rub off
• the times that neo is able to drift off to sleep, it can be extremely difficult to awaken him as he sleeps very deeply
• forgets the amount of strength he carries and can be a bit heavy-handed. things are broken almost routinely when neo is around

battered and bruised in your multicolored maze.

♡coded by uxie♡