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noxrequiem

Perpetually Exhausted
Roleplay Availability
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5cc5a2dce604bc195ebc04657294b2d4.jpg
(text below scrolls)

Thank you for your interest in The Wicked West! Below is an outline containing basic information for your character. Please feel free to customize your character sheet as you see fit! Coding is always more than welcome, but not necessary! As the outline below is rather simple, feel free to add as much information to it as you wish.

Please stick to written descriptions or realistic type faceclaims. Maximum of 2 character applications per person, but please be prepared for the commitment of running them both if they both get approved.

Reminder that this roleplay is not first-come first-serve, and applications will be chosen and approved at the end of the deadline period.


Please note the current deadline is set for Wednesday September 25th by 11:59 pm. Please shoot me a DM if you have questions, require a time extension, or need any help. Thanks yโ€™all!


โœฆโœฆโœฆโ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ€ขโœฆโœฆโœฆโ€ขโ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โœฆโœฆโœฆ


CHARACTER SHEET OUTLINE:
  • Name:
  • Age: (or how old they appear)
  • Gender:
  • Species:
  • Orientation:
  • Occupation:
  • Appearance: (1 paragraph or more of written description and/or faceclaim)
  • Personality: (1 paragraph or more)
  • History: (at least 1 paragraph; you don't have to reveal every detail of your character's history, you may keep some secrets, but at least give a vague idea of who your character is and how they ended up in Lone Cross)
  • Miscellaneous: (any other information you wish to include. This could be powers/abilities [if applicable], headcanons, likes/dislikes, etc.)

  • Humans: By far the most common being out in the West, they're just your run-of-the-mill ordinary people folk like you and me. Maybe they've been searching for evidence of the paranormal and they've just found it; maybe they're brand new, completely inexperienced with this dark reality they're now faced with; or maybe they're an experienced hunter, years of experience under their belt of stalking that which goes bump in the night... The sky's the limit here.

  • Vampires: Immortal, undead creatures of the night, known for their bloodlust. Faster and stronger than any human, the extent of their abilities is in correlation with their age. Additional vampiric powers have been known to include those such as shapeshifting, mental manipulation and suggestion, rapid healing, and even the ability to inflict the vampiric curse onto others through giving them their blood. Vampires are strictly nocturnal, as the light of the sun can instantly destroy them, disintegrating them into nothing more than a pile of ash. As undead creatures, they have a weakness and aversion to holy artifacts, and the surest way to kill them is with a wooden stake through the heart (followed by burning the body). While vampires can feed upon animals, it is inefficient and unviable from a practical standpointโ€“the large majority must feed upon human prey to keep up full strength.

  • Werewolves: Lycanthropy is a blood curse, most commonly spread through the bite of a werewolf, but can originate from the hexes of particularly powerful witches. As a blood curse, it can be passed down through generations, though this is uncommon as historically most werewolves do not live long enough to have children, or have otherwise isolated themselves away from the rest of society. Under the light of the full moon, those inflicted with lycanthropy transform into wolflike monsters overtaken with a bestial instinct with no regard to any of its humanity buried deep within (at least, that is the case for most). A rare few have managed to tame the beast within, capable of shifting under moons that are not at their fullest, though their powers are weaker. Even with a greater grasp of control, most remain rather unpredictable, not fully in touch with their humanity.

  • Witches: A general term for practitioners of magic of all variations. There are as many kinds of witches as there are people, ranging from the simplest of clairvoyants and psychics to the most powerful of blood ritualists and warlocks. Some forms of magical practices include charms, talismans, glamours, clairvoyants, psychics, divination, spirit mediums, herbalists, alchemy, incantations and spells, runes, rituals, blood magic, and necromancy. While every person is capable of practicing magic, some are more inherently gifted and attuned to it than others.

  • Ghosts: Souls of the dead who have, for one reason or another, not yet crossed over from the world of the living. They may be cursed, have unfinished business of some sort, or simply be lost. Their souls are moored to this realm through the hauntings and possessions of objects, locations, and people. Some witches are capable of contacting and binding ghosts, and can interact with them through magic. Ghosts seem to feed off of magic and require it to interact with the physical world in a tangible way; the stronger the source of power, the greater their manifestation.

  • Zombies: The reanimated dead. Most zombies are soulless beings, their corpse bodies puppeted by dark magic by particularly powerful witches, many of which use them to do their bidding and can sometimes spread their magical influence onto others. There are tales told of some zombies who came back as something moreโ€“still with mind and soul intact. However, for this to be true a particularly strong source of power would be required. While their bodies naturally decay like any corpse, they can stave off this destruction through the consumption of human flesh. Tougher than cockroaches, the only sure way to get rid of a zombie is through magical means or burning the body to ashes; but as beings of dark magic, most zombies are vulnerable to holy artifacts.

  • Demons: (Usually) malevolent supernatural entities that are neither living nor dead. The vast majority of demons are confined to the pits of Hell, though some can be (foolishly) contacted by mortals. However, a rare few demons have escaped the netherworld and walk amongst mankind in disguise. These are usually those of the trickster variety, sneaky and minor enough in power that they wonโ€™t be missed in the abyss, commonly possessing a mortal vessel. The kind that make unsavory and unwise deals of power at crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Rarer still are those more threatening in ability, though some have indeed managed to make it to this plane of existence through the means of dark magic before. Weak to holy artifacts and often bound by magic.

  • Wildcard: The Western skies are limitless, and so is the possibility of what lurks in the shadows cast by new moons.
    Playerโ€™s choiceโ€“ if none of the above ideas appeal to you, please feel free to choose a different kind of entity for your character. I only ask that you be mindful of powerscaling and stay reasonably realistic. Other than that, go wild.
 





XX.
judgement
scroll.












Profile

NAME: Damir Sokolov

AGE: Appears early 30's (actual age is closer to 90)

GENDER: Male

ORIENTATION: Asexual panromantic

SPECIES: Dhampir

OCCUPATION: Lone Cross's one and only undertaker




Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

A tall, skinny figure with a gaunt face and pallor that projects the image of a sickly, underfed man. Despite a somewhat frail appearance, muscle and sinew wrap around a tight frame in a way forged by long days of hard labor and strife. Various scars span across a canvas of colorless skin, each a remnant of memories from another time, another life. The most striking of which mars his left wrist, layers of mangled savagery jaggedly carved into flesh in nothing short of an animalistic craze.

A stoic face constructed of sharp lines and harsh edges; there is nothing to suggest any sort of softness in his features. A large hooked nose sits prominently at the center of a pale face; the only bit of color being the icy blue-gray eyes framed between thick ink-black brows and dark shadows under the lower lids. Hidden beneath thin lips are bone-white canines a little too long and pointed to appear completely naturalโ€“a secret kept away by stony, unchanging expressions. Long, messy dark locks of raven-black fall in layers down his shoulders; untamed, despite any efforts made otherwise.

Rarely ever seen without the wide-brimmed hat of rough suede atop his head, casting deep shadows over his sharp features. Always in dark colors that bleed his form easily into the night, dressed in a practical sense while rarely ever exposing skin. A trademark long black leather duster packs all the essentials, while concealing the array of weapons and occult tools (and whiskey flask) nearly always on his person.

FACE CLAIM: Edward Ironstone [X]




Personality

[WIP]



History

Very little is known about the mysterious undertaker of Lone Cross who first showed up a couple years ago, other than the fact he must be an immigrant given the slight lilt of his words that betray an Eastern European heritage. Ever one to play the cards close to his chest, the full extent of Damir Sokolov's history--including his true name--is known to few other than himself.

Hailing from far across the ocean, from somewhere amidst the shadows of the Carpathian Mountains, Damir was born the bastard half-vampire son of a powerful vampire lord and a human woman of minor nobility at the turn of the 19th century. His birth was heralded a tragedy, the final nail in the coffin for his mother's already strained and struggling noble family. They would soon fall to ruin, the little finances that remained dried up and any sliver of respect they may have had replaced by mistrust and fear over rumors of the bastard half-human child.

In his teenage years, his mother fell ill, weakening by the day but with no means or money to pay for treatment. With few options, Damir set out to find his vampiric father and implore him for his help in saving her. While Damir would indeed find his father, he would not walk away with the aid he sought. His own father all but laughed in his face, coldly rejecting his progeny in more than one way. All efforts had been for naught; his mother, the only person to have ever shown the young dhampir any form of love or care died penniless and disgraced.

Feared by humanity and scorned by vampirekind, with nothing more to lose Damir would leave his home, drifting from town to town. An inherent ability of all dhampirs is sensing and identifying the presence of vampires, and like others before him Damir would make a living by traveling between villages getting paid to find and oust any vampires lurking among their numbers. It was during this period of time that he would meet a man by the name of Andrei Sokolov, a hunter of monsters and supernatural entities, and be taken under his wing.

For the greater part of a decade Damir would apprentice under Andrei, learning the ins and outs of supernatural hunting and making a living from it. It was neither a particularly easy or pleasant life, but one he excelled at nonetheless. His relationship with the older human was complicated to say the least, but the fact Damir would take his surname on as his own should speak enough for itself. 12 years after their initial run-in, Andrei would pass; not slaughtered in battle by any beast, no. He would die plainly in bed, his aging body unable to stave off an infection.

After this, Damir Sokolov was on his own. The years that went by were quite blurry, but he made quite the name for himself as a hunter, reliable in his expertise and always getting the job done. Remaining mostly alone, he threw himself into his work. He held an equal disdain for humanity and vampires, nor did he particularly care for any other beings either. He had an odd concoction of spite, anger, and apathy in his heart and used the rush of violence of his job to quell these emotions, constantly on the move all across Europe before making his way to the ever-expanding "new world" of America.

He continued his life in this odd new country; there was plenty of jobs to be had. But overtime, his quest and passion for some form of wayside retribution would lose momentum. Every little experience and moment that led him to today is unimportant; perhaps stories to be told another time. However, his spite and anger had been a wildfire blaze of passion--but a fire burning that hot and bright can't be sustained for long. Time took its toll, and that vengeful ire would slowly sputter out to smoldering embers. Damir was tired, this hatred couldn't sustain itself; he had gone through things that could no longer really justify it either. It was time to hang up his hat, to retire from this lifestyle. He wanted something quieter; just a little bit of peace.

That's how Damir found himself in Lone Cross, a hunter of near-legend relegated to town undertaker. Taking a break, living a semi-settled life while putting his occult expertise to good use in ensuring the town stays safe from threats of the undead by acting as watchman and guardian of Lone Cross's deceased.

Unfortunately for him, looks like he won't quite be getting that retirement he was looking for.



Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:
-

HEADCANONS:
- Has two black draft cross horses named Hemlock and Oleander; trained for both riding and pulling the hearse
- Hides it well, but he's an alcoholic
- His accent is slight, but gets thicker in moments of anger or frustration
- If you're observant enough you might notice that his shadow casts in the wrong direction; one of the effects of his dhampirism
- Fluent in or has some sort of understanding of most Romance and Slavic languages






Damir Sokolov


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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XII.
the hanged man
scroll.












Profile

NAME: Hollis Holt

AGE: 29 (at the time of death)

GENDER: Male (he/him)

ORIENTATION: Bisexual

SPECIES: Ghost

OCCUPATION: Outlaw and psychic (formerly)




Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

[WIP]

FACE CLAIM: Richard Madden [X]




Personality

[WIP]



History

[WIP]



Extra

*
[WIP]




Hollis Holt


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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XI.
the adjudicator
scroll.















whip it
devo

VISAGE
NAME: Emerson Cole
NICKNAMES: Mr. Cole
D.O.B: -
AGE: 32 years old
GENDER: Cis-male
ORIENTATION: Pansexual
ROLE: Demon
OCCUPATION: Saloon Owner/Adjudicator

APPEARANCE
APPEARANCE: Standing tall at 6'3" the adjudicator
FACECLAIM: Aaron Pierre

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY: a paragraph or more

traits

hello traits here

ailments

hello ailments here

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY: can be as short or long as youโ€™d like.




GALLERY










emerson cole.


designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Last edited:
Placeholder
-blood warlock/dhampir-
fc:dacre montgomery

Destin Moon
xvi. the tower
  • i
    ii
    iii
    iv
    full name
    Destin Eugene Moon
    AKA
    The Bastard Prince of Lone Cross
    age of appearance
    25
    date of birth
    June 20th, 1839
    gender
    Cisgender Male
    sexuality
    Biromantic Demisexual
    species
    Dhampir/Warlock
    occupation
    Sherriff of Lone Cross
coded by natasha.
 
Last edited:







XIII.
THE BUTCHER















๐”‡๐”ข๐”ž๐”ก ๐”๐”ž๐”ซ
david kushner

๐”…๐”ฌ๐”ก๐”ถ
NAME: Solomon Black
NICKNAMES: Sol (sau-L), The Butcher
AGE: Mid-Thirties in Appearance
GENDER: Cis-Male
ORIENTATION:
SPECIES: Vampire
OCCUPATION: Muscle for Hire
works at the night shift at the saloon and make sure that no one gets too rowdy

๐”„๐”ญ๐”ญ๐”ข๐”ž๐”ฏ๐”ž๐”ซ๐” ๐”ข
"Suffering feels religious if you do it right."

Sol always wears his hat tipped down, obscuring his eyes from anyone trying to get a read on him. It's a worn black hat that has browned at the folds and scratched along the edges as if knocked off his head more than once. The hat band is just a twirled piece of leather with a mother-of-pearl bauble, sinching it tightly. From there, one can see the pallor of his skin; it is not sickly white but as if the flesh had been overlayed with marble. As long as one doesn't fixate on it, Sol just looks like he needs some sun, but if one looks closely, one can see the black veins underneath his flesh. He hides his face behind a well-trimmed mustache and a tight beard that goes into his dark brown hair. Most of the time, he's rolling a toothpick or holding a cigarette between his lips. His words are always mumbled around it, not really articulating anything that wasn't worth understanding. Occasionally, he may pop a wry grin, but it'll lack teeth.

He's tall, not the tallest you've ever seen, but he cuts a substantial figure. His shoulders and chest sit wide on his frame, straining against his thick denim shirt. His cuffs are constantly rolled up a bit, allowing one to see the nasty scarring around both wristsโ€”poor healing from flesh cut on manacles or ropes. Yet, it is evident that he wants you to see this. He wants you to know that he is a dangerous man. Sol always wears short, tight gloves that never get in the way of gambling or shooting. He doesn't seem to take them off as if he's hiding something even nastier down there. Pants sinch around his stocky, high waist. Thick from corded muscles and the overconsumption of alcohol absolutely tells of a lifestyle built around beating the shit out of men and pissing on their bodies.

He wears a knife on one hip and a heavy, well-used revolver on his other. His belt hangs loosely as most gunmen wear it, but not in a way proudly stating that he's not to be trifled withโ€”but definitely suggesting it. Thick pants hug tightly to an ass that many a saloon girl have nodded at in appreciation and then lead into the most well-kempt black preacher boots anyone had ever seen. One could practically see their face in the reflection. They are used and worn, but they've been taken care of and had parts replaced on them as needed. Sol had been asked to be buried with his boots on, and it was the only request that the gravedigger honored because they sure as hell didn't bury him with any respect.

FACECLAIM: Chris Brown (the model)

๐”“๐”ข๐”ฏ๐”ฐ๐”ฌ๐”ซ๐”ž๐”ฉ๐”ฆ๐”ฑ๐”ถ
"We are cursed with the tendency of violence."

Sol is equipped with an extraordinary wit and compassion, but neither is on display. The first thing to know about him is that he is stoic and bored in equal measure until he is not, and then he is mad. Prone to a short, violent temper, there's a reason he earned the nickname "Butcher," and it has only grown worse with age and fangs. He's indifferent, to say the least, but money in his pocket will always get him to care one way or another.

๐”“๐”ฌ๐”ด๐”ข๐”ฏ & ๐”„๐”Ÿ๐”ฆ๐”ฉ๐”ฆ๐”ฑ๐”ฆ๐”ข๐”ฐ
"But you have to satisfy the monster. The monster has loved you for longer than anyone else."

Powers

SPEED & STRENGTH: Sol has the regular speed and strength of a vampire, but his almost inhuman intuition on the nature of fighting only heightens it. Fear makes men sloppy when it comes to fighting, but sheer terror can make them more dangerous than ever. And Sol can handle both.
REGENERATION: Despite not having a sire, Sol has figured out a few things about his anatomy. If he takes in enough blood and concentrates hard enough, his body can weave itself back together. Of course, there are always limits. Beheading, staking, and the sunlight are not things he can overcome.
PHYSICAL VISSCITUDE: He can only use this power to become more monstrous. He cannot become something he was not or never was (i.e., he can't shift into another person or animal). But he can transform his hands into claws, teeth into a fang-filled maw, and he's even used it to turn his bones into weapon-like protrusions. All of it is a weapon for killing, and none of it is to make his life easier.

Abilities


GUNSLINGING: He learned to shoot a gun before he learned to shave, and he's only gotten better with time. While he's not a perfect shot, he doesn't miss his targetโ€”even if it takes two bullets to put them down.
PUGILISM: Sol was basically engineered to fight. His body is tall and large, his arms are long, and his fists are as dense as boulders. He's lost fights, of course, but he's only become smarter and tougher because of them. While one may get more hits on him, he's standing by the end of it.

โ„Œ๐”ฆ๐”ฐ๐”ฑ๐”ฌ๐”ฏ๐”ถ
"I am the end of all things; I have seen the fall of babylon. I have drunk the blood of kings."

Solomon wiped the dirt from his tongue; it was acrid and tasted of the ashes of other men. He placed a heavy hand on the rickety wooden cross that overlooked his grave, glancing at the hole he'd crawled out of. The twisting of other bodies in the mass grave gave it an odd sort of lookโ€”as if he'd escaped out of one hell and back into this one. He stood up, using the moon's light to anchor himself on that lonely expanse of ground as it met the sky. There was a pale flickering of lights in the distance, probably Holly Hills, where he'd been hung. He ran his calloused hands over his neck, feeling the rope burn healed but scarred over. Oddly enough, he remembered the snap, but darkness didn't follow that. It was more like the feeling of a larva crawling out of its cocoonโ€”fevered and violent. Had he become a butterfly? He sure as hell didn't feel like it. Actually, it felt like there was a hole in his gut, and it wanted to be filled. He reached for the cross that he wore around his neck, but it was gone. The odd sensation jerked him out of his strange melancholy. He'd given it to his brother, Job. That's right. He'd allowed himself to be caught and hung to save his brother and his new wife. Had they made it? Solomon scratched the edge of his face. Honestly, how had he made it? The newest memories burned, but as he dipped back, they got cooler.

early years

Solomon was the son of a traveling preacher and a dead woman. She'd passed before he took his first breath, but when he did, it was a scream of anguish as if he was aware of what his birth had cost. His father was a mean man, believing love was shown through pain because that's the only way God had shown the man love. The preacher even sold his older son, Job, to be able to pay for a new tent. He explained to Solomon, who was still a babe then, that God had asked the same of Abrahamโ€”to part with your son to serve the will of God. So, Solomon grew up alone with the preacher, whose only outlet of love was violence.

When Solomon was about eight, he witnessed three men enter his father's preaching tent, angry with the salvation that the man had sold them. There was three loud pops and two men exited, neither of them were the preacher. Sol approached the tent cautiously, waiting for any other sound to pass. Silence filled the air as the edges of the white tent started to turn red. So, he swallowed a wad of air into his lungs and passed through the opening. His father and another man lay dead in the middle of the tent, curled around a gun. The other man had a hole where his eye once was, and the preacher's gut was bubbling blood faster than crude oil from the ground. He was alive, but he could barely speak. His fingers weakly clawed at the ground, trying to grab his cross, which had landed on the dirty carpet Solomon always had to throw down for the tent. The young boy knelt and picked the cross up, holding it so tight in his hand it made an indentation. His father looked up at him, his eyes searching Solomon's faceโ€”the boy didn't know what he was looking for. But he turned away from the preacher as he died, not giving him peace. Solomon then took off his father's boots, the nicest pair he had ever seen in his life, his Bible, his cross, and all the money from his pocket. He also picked up the gun and whatever else he could cram into the saddle bags and left. The tent burned that night, but Solomon didn't stay long enough to pray over his father's ashes.

formative years

Solomon found Job a year later, working for a small group that rustled cattle and horses. It wasn't noble work, but it was still work. They were unsure of letting a kid as little as Solomon in, but Job convinced them. Jim Hatchet, who ran the outfit, only came around when Job stated that Solomon could read and recite the Bible from memory. Maybe these men would feel less damned if a child read them scripture every night.

Jim Hatchet was violent but industrious, so the outlaw group grew quickly. The two most vital pillars of that group were the Black Brothers. Job had grown up with the smarts, charisma, and good looks of their mother and Solomon with the size, anger, and brooding wisdom of their father. It was no surprise that Solomon was the member of the group that many whispered about in the small towns they passed through. He was the meanest and cruelest of the lot, they'd sayโ€”basically a feral animal. Yet, Solomon didn't think of himself that way. As one of the few members of the outfit who could read, he took it upon himself to pick up every book he could. His favorite was playsโ€”fond of the works of Shakespeare. Somehow, the English playwright was less dramatic in his wording than God in the Bible.

Soon, Jim Hatchet's small rustling outfit became known as the "Hatchet Gang. " They had amassed a small wealth from not only stealing and selling livestock but also robbing, beating, and burning places down. They were well known in their little territory and were only getting larger. In that time, Job had met a woman who had stolen his heart in a mere second. Her name was Maggie Leah Jones, and she would be their downfall.

Pleasant Years

After a year, Job wanted to marry Maggie, but she would only say yes if he left the gang. Solomon didn't think that was a bad request. She didn't want much but a homestead, a loving husband, and a familyโ€”she couldn't have any of them while they were still in the gang. Of course, Jim wouldn't let them outโ€”promising violence if they even tried. By this time, the law had been tight on their tail. One night, they'd caught up with the gang, and a nasty shoot-out followed. Job and Solomon used the confusion to leave with a nice pot of money to start their future.

Job married Maggie, and Solomon witnessed it. They'd started a new life far away from the Hatchet Gang and their ilk and thought themselves safe from Jim and his sadistic tendencies. Andโ€”they were. Because it wasn't Jim that caught up with them but the law. A stand-off led to the Black Brothers parlaying with the law. Job tried to talk his way out of it, but they were not going without the brothers' heads. Solomon then came to an agreement with them. He'd let them arrest him, show them where all the Hatchet Gang's hideouts were, and they could do whatever they wanted with the man. The only condition? They let Job and his pregnant wife go with their ill-gotten gains. The law agreed, and Job hugged his brother tightly, assured this would be the last time he would see him. He also gave him their father's cross, making Job promise to give it to his child. Solomon then turned himself in. Unfortunately, he got more than he bargained for.

Pre-Mortem

They beat Solomon within an inch of his life every night he was in jail. The man had hurt a lot of peopleโ€”and killed more than his fair share. It shouldn't have been a surprise that they were more than happy to treat him with all the violence he'd given over the years. The night before he was to be hanged in the middle of Holly Hills, Solomon was given a cellmate. He was barely conscious when they'd dropped the man in, but he'd come to after some time. There were holes in both of Solomon's hands, the unfortunate side effect of having been nailed to the beams of the cell so he could remain sitting up while they beat the shit out of him. He knew he would die tomorrow, hanging or not. Solomon felt bones rubbing against organs they shouldn't. Every breath was painful, and he could barely see from his right eye.

The man in the cell across from him just hummed and wrote in a small notebook as he looked over Solomon's body. He was dressed extremely well, with his long, black hair pulled against the nape of his neck. When he finally spoke to Solomon, his voice had a strong British lilt. Solomon just smiled. The man asked what was so funny, and Sol told him he'd never heard a Brit talk and that the voices he'd visualized in Shakespeare's works hadn't been close. The man turned his attention from what he was working on to Solomon, finally amused enough to focus on him. They spoke slowly and gently through the night about Shakespeare's works and finally settled on the fact that Solomon would join the man in New York to see a stage play of Hamlet when it opened. Solomon just humored the man as he coughed up his own blood. Sure, he could be in New York City next month, but first, he had an appointment with the hangman. The man only laughed and told Solomon that death wasn't an excuse but a reason to be there. Sol didn't know what he meant, but then again, he was so tired and in pain that he fell asleep shortly thereafter. Or at least, that's what he thought had happened.

Mortem

When he was awoken the following day, everything hurtโ€”burned. The lawmen kicked him awake and were surprised that he hadn't passed in the night. Solomon asked about the man that had been there, and they had no idea what he meant. They dragged him out of his cell, out the door, and to the platform in the middle of town. They didn't even clean him off or change his clothes. He was bloody, bruised, and raggedโ€”and the onlookers loved it. They announced who he was to great fanfare. All Solomon could do was shiver in the bright sun. He felt queasy, in pain, and like something wasn't right. It was more than organs rubbing against bone. Something was wrong with his fundamental being. Without even a stir in his stomach, he vomited bloodโ€”more than he thought capable. Everyone looked on. Some were horrified, but others cheered. When he finished he stared at the sun, every part of him hurt as he did. Solomon didn't even feel the rope around his neck, or the platform drop underneath him.

Post-Mortem

After Solomon woke up from the grave, something came alive in him that had never been there before. That something told him to find someplace dark to sleep during the day, and it also told him that he needed to eat. It was fine with deer, rabbits, and coyotes in the beginning, but it quickly wanted human blood. He tried to argue with it, this beast inside of him, but it won out every time. The euphoria he felt afterward was absolutely addicting. He couldn't tell you his first victim during that time, just that it had been a complete accident. Solomon had woken up the next night underneath a rock and bathed in blood. A concern came over him when he'd finally eaten enough that he won his mind back from the beast. He needed to find Job and Maggie. He needed to make sure they were alright.

Before their run-in with the law, they'd started building a cabin along the Natchez River. It was beautiful there, the winters weren't too bad, and the summers were sweet. Solomon would make a cabin across the way from them and find his own wife. Their families would grow up and old together. It would be the sort of peace that they could have never had from their father or Jim Hatchet. Solomon felt one of those dreams was dashed, but he hoped that at least Job was alright. Of course, he should have known better. Hell was angry that it had been deprived Solomon and was taking it out on everything he'd once loved. He found the cabin or at least what was left of itโ€”it was nothing but blackened sticks against deep wood. After some questioning, he was able to find Maggie. She'd been forced to marry a local man to have a house for her and Job's son and the food to feed him. Solomon couldn't blame her, but he had to ask her what had happened.

She nearly screamed when she'd seen him sitting on the porch after sundown. But she held her hand over her mouth and ran to him, pulling him into a tight hug. Maggie didn't ask how he was alive or why he felt so off. She was just glad to see him. Maggie told him that the Hatchet Gang had come for them, as the lawman had revealed who had fed them the information. They had burned down the house, killed Job, and thought they'd killed her as well. But she'd lived, and the town doctorโ€”her new husbandโ€”was able to bring her back to total health in enough time to have her son. She'd called him David. He couldn't believe his brother was dead. The only person in his life that had ever treated him with kindness and compassion. They had carved a small piece of the West for themselves and foolishly wanted to make it their own. Tears ran down his cheeks, but they were hot and red. Maggie stepped back and grabbed onto the cross that had once been Solomon's. Oddly enough, he was glad to see it around her neck. He recoiled from her actions, but she swallowed her fear and approached him again. Maggie begged Solomon to stay and see his nephew, but he couldn't. He had many many men to kill.

lone cross

The following many years were a blur to Solomon. He fell to his baser instincts, traveling from hideout to hideout and killing every single person that inhabited it. He searched for Jim relentlessly and devoured the man's gang every step of the way there. Blood-drunk and power-hungry, he barely registered as having once been human. It was easy as these weren't trained or experienced men. None had managed to replace Solomon in prowess and instinct. Eventually, he ran out of bodies but gained the information he wantedโ€”where Jim Hatchet was. The man lived in a lovely house overlooking a lake. He'd gotten old and fat but was surrounded by a loving familyโ€”something that neither Job nor Solomon could ever experience. Solomon spared the children but ripped through everyone else in the house, saving Jim for last. He slowly pulled the man apart and decorated the fence out front in his entrails, keeping him alive as long as he could. Sol let the man know that he was still alive, and all that destruction had been wrought by him and him alone. Jim died after a long while, and Solomon was impressed. He looked over the children with a wry smile and told them they should find him if they wanted to avenge their family. He'd relish finally being able to die. He then lit the entire thing on fire and watched it burn for as long as possible.

During those years of utter death and destruction, Sol had earned the name "The Butcher." Bounty posters were hung around towns with an amalgamation of his face sketched on them. It was terrifying to see. And when compared to his old bounty posters, it failed to have anything resembling a person in it. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to lay low for a while. He'd never met his sire in New York City, so he decided to venture there. Unfortunately, such a long trip would require money, and he hadn't needed it for such a long time that he had none to speak of. The only thing he had were his boots. After some questioning, he discovered Lone Cross, a town with a larger supernatural population. When one wanted to hide, it was a good idea to be a tree in the forest.

๐”Š๐”ž๐”ฉ๐”ฉ๐”ข๐”ฏ๐”ถ
"You're a weapon, and weapons don't weep."










SOLOMON BLACK


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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Marguerite "Mags" Cadeau
















#midwife and physician




#cara gee










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก






Name: Marguerite Cadeau is what her father called her, but as far as anyone in this town is concerned it's 'Mags' and always has been. Some people also call her 'Doc', but she's had a hard time parsing if that's out of affection or meant to be mocking.
Age: 32
Gender: Cis woman? If Mags lived in a different time period, or was more aware of herself, she might entertain the identifier of non-binary. But she doesn't and she isn't, so.
Species:
Human. (Also, maybe a witch. Much to her consternation.)
Orientation:
Not really any of your business, inโ€™it? (She's pansexual.)
Occupation:
Mags makes her coin catching babies, setting bones, and stitching up knife wounds. Lone Cross seems to have a lot of need for all three, and then some.
Languages:
Mags is fluent in French and English, and can get by in Anishinaabemowin.
Appearance:
Mags has the light brown skin and straight black hair common in Mรฉtis people, and her eyes are very dark as well. Her hair is worn long past her chest, though she does occasionally tie it back with a leather thong when she is working. She is a little under five and half feet tall, with a slim but slightly muscled frame. Mags' somewhat judgemental seeming eyes are set beneath dark eyebrows and usually her hat as well, a black wide brimmed flat crown. She has various small scars across her body from the bumps of everyday life, as well as a long scar that cuts diagonally across her abdomen and twists and pulls at the skin of her stomach.

Face Claim: Cara Gee in Strange Empire


More info coming soon!
 
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(I'm kinda new to coding and cs on this site so I just copied the code from yours cause I saw you talked about tarot card-ing the ocs anyway, I hope that's okay! Happy to switch formats if not, this is a place saver kinda thing)











I.
the magician
























Profile



NAME: Sascha Vogel



AGE: Twenty-?



GENDER: Male



ORIENTATION: Pansexual



SPECIES: Changeling



OCCUPATION: Outlaw/Con Man








Appearance



DESCRIPTION:



Sascha's true appearance scares most humans and he rarely allows anyone to see his original form. He himself has not seen his own face since he was a child and cannot say what he looks like now, though he does know that he has long white hair, grey-ish skin and eyes without irises that give him a distinctly otherworldly look. He can wear any number of faces, but he usually has one secondary appearance that he uses as a default. It is somehow both unthreatening and unsettling at the same time.

The irreverent apathy of Sascha's actions clash drastically with the generic mildness of his features; his gentle blue eyes and boyishly cut blond hair. His cheekbones are moderately high but not overly pronounced, adding a subtle, softer definition to his face that hints at the underlying bone structure without being too sharp. The light scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks gives him a youthful, outdoorsy look and his lips have a natural, slight curve to them that suggest a readiness to smile.

He appears a little too generic if anything. Sascha gets a kick out of setting up his features on the outskirts of the uncanny valley, his face a little too symmetrical and his skin lacking the kinds of small blemishes that come with being human. The subtle cues that should convey warmth and approachability are distorted and eerieโ€”his smile twisted, his eyes hollow. Most people don't notice, not paying much attention to the inconsistencies, but the ones that do always seemed deeply unsettled the more they looked, avoiding him if possible, even if they can't put their finger on why.



FACE CLAIM: N/A, description








Personality



]WIP]







History



[WIP]






Extra



*
[WIP]









Sascha Vogel




coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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XV.
the devil
scroll.












Profile

NAME: Ishmael Sterling is the name he goes by, though few, if any, know his true name.

AGE: A nebulous age- he could be 25 or he could be 40; it's truly hard to tell

GENDER: Ishmael's concept of gender is simply whichever most aligns with what he deems fun at that moment. The body he currently occupies is male.

ORIENTATION: Being a demon, Ishmael is familiar with lust in all its forms. The mortal body is just one facet that draws him to a person, and an appealing physical appearance is not a requirement for him. In modern terms, he would be considered pansexual.

SPECIES: As demonic as they come.

OCCUPATION: He likes to think of himself as a businessman, but by others, he's been called much more unpleasant things: a liar, a scoundrel, a con man, a thief, a robber, a trickster, and a bastard among them. He supposes he is all of that too.




Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

[WIP]

FACE CLAIM: [WIP]




Personality

[WIP]



History

[WIP]



Extra

*
[WIP]




Ishmael Sterling


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 





III
the haunted












Profile

Name: Savannah Huntington

Age: 28

Gender: Female (She/Her)

Orientation: Sapphic

Species: Human (Possessed)

Occupation: Farmer




Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

[WIP]

Faceclaim: Katherine McNamara


MV5BMTY1MDA0MDUtODg2NS00NmFjLWE3N2YtOTlkOTA0Mjk5YmMwXkEyXkFqcGc@._V1_.jpg





Personality

[WIP]



History

[WIP]



Extra

*
[WIP]




Savannah Huntington


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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PTOLEMAEA



Ethel Cain












CAMBION.















I.

I am no good nor evil, simply I am,










name


Temperance Ann Cassidy







age


Twenty-One.







gender


Cisfemale.







sexuality


Sapphic.







species


Cambion | Witch & Demon.







occupation


Proprietor | Temperance owns a boarding house that she abruptly inherited from her mother.













II.

And I have come to take what is mine





HAIR
Dark brown hair flows like crashing waves. the tresses have pulled many brushes into their depths, snapping them in two when her curls ensnare them. Like some mythical sea creature Temperance tames her hair, securing it in dainty styles that her mother often did for her.
EYES
The color of a starless sky and precious onyx stones. There are times when the whites of her eyes are swallowed by the darkness of her pupils, giving the appearance of two endless voids.
HEIGHT
5โ€™6โ€.
SKIN
Warm brown. There are various brand marks in the shape of a cross all over her body. She uses magic to hide them.
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES
She has noticeable bunny teeth then she smiles. There are times when she is feeling intense emotions that her eyes will turn completely black. Her nails are also sharper than normal.
AESTHETICS
โ€” coming soon.









III.

I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood





PYSCHE
The Deep Sea Anglerfish uses its light to trap their prey. That light draws them close, leaving the victim unaware of the gaping maw that looms just out of the lightโ€™s reach. โ€œTemperance Cassidy, youโ€™re such a doll! Youโ€™re such a light in these dark times!โ€ Her smile of all pearly gleaming slightly bucked teeth. Her light shines over the community, drawing them further into her grasp. Gentlemen tip their hats and women offer kind smiles to her. Itโ€™s almost sad how her light blinds them.

It wasnโ€™t so long ago that she was introduced to the town. It was a spectacle in every sense of the word. No one had known that Mary Cassidy had been pregnant. As far as anyone knew, there had been no change. She was still seen carrying firewood under each arm and on her back, hauling fresh game to her home, and performing feats that were surely too straining for a pregnant woman. Imagine the shock when she suddenly came through town with a toddler on her hip.

Temperance grew into a model young woman. Her curiosity drew her to life beyond their property and her mother did not stop her. Instead she was quite blunt with the ways of the world and society as a whole. A woman who has been shaped by her environment and careful teachings. A sense of hesitancy surrounds her. It seems as if sheโ€™s always holdingโ€ฆsomething back. Make no mistake, she is sincere in the way that she sends warm meals to the poor and helps her elders across the street. Those who seek her hearth are treated care and consideration without a doubt. Temperance is a kind woman indeed, but there lay some else behind that pretty smile of hers.

โ€œYou remind me of myselfโ€ฆhad I not been raised like I was.โ€ Her mother had told her more than once, in one way or another. Her words are met with a loving smile, a flash of teeth. Mary spoke of freedom not gained until later in life, strength and ferocity that had been smothered for the longest of times. Her words were met with a smile, as bright and sharp as the blade of a knife. Temperance knows the truth in those words. She is everything that her mother could have been and far worse at the very same time. Some gaze into her eyes and are able to catch a glimpse of the being just out of the reach of her light. But most brush it off, thinking themselves foolish for being unnerved by such sweet eyes and fluttering lashes.

The light shines brighter and they pull forth warm memories. They remember the nurturing way that she ruffles the hair of the kids that flock around her, the care in which she looks after her customers, and the carefree way that she carries herself while donning such feminine clothing and perfume. Temperance merely smiles when they note how different she is from her mother. And unfortunately for them, theyโ€™re right.


INTERESTS
Info.
AVERSIONS
Info
ABILITIES
Info.










IV.

I am here now, as you run from me still





H I S T O R Y
โ€” coming soon.









V.

Run then, child. You can't hide from me forever
































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
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