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noxrequiem

noxrequiem

Perpetually Exhausted
Roleplay Availability
Roleplay Type(s)

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

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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

An air of unease follows Damir as doggedly as his own strange, crooked shadow. Stiffer than the corpses he works with, and just as cold, he isn't the easiest of men to approach. There's a strangeness about him, an eccentricity that most chalk up as an unfortunate side effect of spending more time amongst the dead than the living. He does nothing to counteract these preconceived notions, allowing others to believe what they will; afterall, he rather enjoys the peace and quiet this brings, preferring to keep mostly to himself. His chosen occupation has bought him all the excuses and forgiveness for all his countless strange quirks and behaviors.

A naturally quiet man, in all that he doesโ€“from the way he moves, almost sneaking up on others, to the soft-spoken quality of his words, like bell chimes on the breeze. While polite, heโ€™s matter-of-fact, tending to get straight to the point as bluntly as possible with little regard for putting on airs--he doesn't seem to necessarily fully grasp every intricacy of social cues. While he might not be the biggest social butterfly, heโ€™s proven reliable and trustworthy in the job he does. While perhaps not exactly understood by all the townsfolk, he is for the most part respected in Lone Cross.

TRAITS
aloof, cynical, reserved, blunt, resilient, moody, strange, apathetic, honest, spiteful, soft-spoken, intimidating, direct, awkward, logical, stubborn



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:
- Enhanced physical ability: While not outright superhuman in his capabilities, he is as fast and fit as the most athletic human men out there. He's a bit sturdier and heals a bit quicker too, but is just as vulnerable to the same kinds of harm and damage a normal human would be.
- Heightened senses: Damir's natural instincts and senses are far beyond those of any typical human, with a much higher perception. He can also see in the dark quite easily.
- Magic: While not dedicated to the craft like many witches are, Damir has picked up a trick or two when it come to magic in his time as an occult hunter, mostly in the form of minor spells, charms, and protective runes. Whatever little thing might give him the needed edge in a hunt.
- Prolonged life: He isn't immortal in the same sense a vampire is, but his vampiric blood has graced him with prolonged life and slow aging.
- Weakness to sunlight: Sunlight isn't instantly deadly to him like a full-blooded vampire, but prolonged exposure is dangerous and greatly weakens him. The effects are similar in nature to severe sunstroke, and often requires an extended rest period in the dark away from the sun.
- Bloodlust: Damir cannot drink blood to gain strength or power, nor does he require it for survival like his vampiric kin; however, there is a part of him that craves it. Like a primal instinct, he hungers for it beyond control. Being in close proximity to large amounts of fresh human blood might send him into a frenzy where he feels the uncontrollable urge to sink his fangs into something and rip, despite blood otherwise doing nothing for him.

HEADCANONS:
- The scar on his left wrist is self-inflicted; in moments overcome with bloodlust, he often sinks his fangs into his own wrist to prevent himself from hurting anyone else
- 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

Death would change anyone, but it hasnโ€™t changed Hollis all that much, only compounded certain traits.

Back in the days of flesh and blood, he had been a silver-tongued conman, able to talk his way out through most anything. He had a certain energy, people were drawn to his sly, charming smile and the confidence evident in the way he carried his shoulders. A charming soul for certain, people were often quick to overlook any of his less savory traitsโ€“whether on their own or through his manipulations.

His charisma shines through even in death; he has a magnetic ability to draw others in, often leaving them uncertain whether to be amused or wary. With a penchant for sly remarks and sharp retorts, Hollis navigates conversations like a seasoned poker player, always one step ahead and ready to exploit his opponentsโ€™ weakness for his own gain. His quick wit serves as both a shield and a weapon, making it difficult for anyone to truly pin him down.

Death has honed his vices into something sharper, more pointed than in life. He walks the line of playful trickster and bitter avenger, a witty facade obscuring a soul driven by spite and stubbornness. Despite his spiteful tendencies, thereโ€™s a strange charm to Hollis that keeps people guessing about his true intentions. He lived by the gun and died with a grudge; in the end heโ€™s nothing more than a vengeful spirit after all.

TRAITS
dry sense of humor, petty, charismatic, vindictive, deceptive, quick-witted, stubborn, playful, bitter, spiteful, smooth-talking, sly, resourceful, smart-ass



History

Born in rural Louisiana, Hollis Holt was the youngest of three sons, born to a mother who just so happened to be a witch of immense talent and power. He was the only one of the three to truly embrace his arcane heritage, being naturally gifted with clairvoyant abilitiesโ€“a blessing passed down from mother to son that would someday be a curse.

Hollis had always been a restless soul, and home had grown increasingly isolating and stifling as the years went by. Hungry for more than just the quiet, secluded life he had been given, at the tender age of 16 he struck out on his own in search of adventure and fortune. Wandering westward, Hollis made a living through whatever means presented themselves to him, mainly working odd jobs and telling fortunesโ€“occasionally lapsing into thievery and gambling, which would only increase in frequency over time.

His natural charm and keen abilities earned him a reputation, and it wasnโ€™t long before he fell in with an outlaw gang. He learned to wield a gun as deftly as he read cards and began dabbling in robbery and other serious crimes. At first, the gang all thought the whole โ€œpsychicโ€ thing was just a part of his scam. Hollis never outright disputed this, only ever gave a sly little secretive smirk at their jokes. Over time, however, they grew to understand that this wasnโ€™t a game; he really did possess an otherworldly gift. He would prove himself to be a very valuable asset; his ability to foresee danger and guide them away from the law made him indispensable. And when his visions werenโ€™t enough, his charisma and cunning carried them through. For years, Hollis rode with the gang, using his clairvoyant gifts to navigate the dangerous lifestyle, all the while hiding a deep unease within himself.

While valuable, Hollisโ€™s gifts also made him dangerous in the eyes of his comrades. When a string of botched heists and near-captures began to plague the gang, suspicion quickly turned toward Hollis. Whispers spread that he could see more than he let on, some claiming he was using his powers to manipulate the gang for his own gain, while others started to maybe think that he was working with the law to set them up. The gangโ€™s leader, already a man prone to mistrust and violence, grew convinced that Hollis had been using his powers to secretly conspire with lawmen, tipping them off in exchange for his own immunity. The final blow came when a botched robbery led to the death of a few gang members, and the survivors turned their fear and paranoia into blame. Hollis became their scapegoat, accusing him of being a traitor.

One night, under the light of a blood moon, the gang turned on him. They ambushed Hollis, binding his hands, beating him within an inch of his life before dragging him to a remote spot in the wilderness. They threw a rope around his neck and hanged him from the branch of a tree, but he wouldnโ€™t die. He kicked and struggled and choked, gasping out his final words to them all: a curse. A promise. This would be their downfall. This betrayal would haunt them the rest of their days, misfortune hunting them like the hounds of hell, torturing them to the bitter end. One by one, they would all meet their unfortunate ends and be dragged to the depths of hell, and know it was him.

Having had enough, his former gangโ€™s leader pulled out his gun and shot him twice in the heart, ending his misery and his life. They simply left his body hanging there, a warning to all that they would not be crossed.

Death would not be the end for Hollis Holt.

His rage, his bitterness, and the untapped well of power inside him were too strong to let his soul rest. His connection to the supernatural, forged through his bloodline and honed through years of experience, tethered his soul to the mortal plane in the form of a silver pocket watch: the very one he had tucked away in his coatโ€™s breast pocket, baptized in his own blood when he was murdered. His body may be gone, but his vengeful spirit lingers, refusing to rest until every last twisted term of his final curses are exacted upon his former comrades.



Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:

The son of a powerful witch, Hollis was the only one of his brothers to truly inherit their motherโ€™s arcane talents. From a young age, he harnessed his clairvoyant abilities, able to see beyond the veil; glimpsing past, present, and future, communing with and witnessing the souls of the deceased. His mother taught him little bits here and there, from folk remedies, to simplistic charms and hexes. His true affinity was with the cards, however, as well as the voices of the dead. He also experienced premonitions, at random or through the touch of a person or object. Before his death, he would have been considered a fairly powerful psychic and witch in his own right.

As a ghost, Hollisโ€™s soul is bound to his old pocket watch; he is limited to lingering in its vicinity and physically canโ€™t stray too far away from it. Because of his psychic abilities in life and his vengeful grudge in death, his spirit is particularly powerful. He is able to appear and disappear from people of his choosing at will, though he may not be able to hide himself from those with powerful arcane abilities. He can change his appearance as well, from benevolent spirit to avenging wraith. This also extends to visions and illusions that he is able to project to others. He can manifest physically to a degree, interacting with the corporeal world, but this requires a lot of magical energy and he is only able to do it for a short period of time. Powerful witches may interact with him physically through magical means as well. Hollisโ€™s psychic abilities have transcended death, that sixth sense of his deeply ingrained into his soul, still receiving the occasional vision of his own.

And you best not forget the curses he laid with his dying breath.

HEADCANONS:
- Fluent in French, and knows enough Spanish to get by
- When he was alive, he had a grey Paso Fino mare named Ghost, ironically enough. He misses her dearly
- As a ghost, he can no longer experience physical sensations like a living person. He misses the taste of a warm meal, the smell of the earth after rain, the physical contact of another person; it's all been lost to him and he's extremely jealous of the living and all which they take for granted
- Up until his death, he used to occasionally write letters to his mother back home
- His deck of tarot cards (stained in his own blood) has disappeared since his murder...





Hollis Holt


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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XI.
the hierophant
scroll.















whip it
devo

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

APPEARANCE
APPEARANCE: Standing tall at 6'3" Emerson has a striking physical appearance characterized by his tall stature and athletic build. He has a smooth, warm hue and rich complexion complemented by subtle iridescent markings that hint at his otherworldly nature. His hair, dark and styled in tight coils, frames a sharp face defined by high cheekbones and a strong jawline . His eyes are a captivating shade of aquamarine, seem to flicker with an inner fire, exuding both charm and a hint of danger that draws patrons in while keeping them wary.

Clad in a tailored, dark leather duster that flows dramatically as he moves, he wears fitted button up shirts underneath, accentuating his commanding silhouette. With a confident stance and a sly grin playing on his lips behind the saloon of "The Cursed Roulette," he commands respect and intrigue, drawing patrons into his world of secrets and supernatural charm. He embodies the perfect blend of charisma and menace that makes him a captivating figure in the Lone Cross.

FACECLAIM: Aaron Pierre

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY:
Emerson a is stoic and cutthroat businessman. He is hardly polite and friendly unless it is to his clientele and employees at his establishment. Otherwise, towards strangers he keeps a strict and direct relationship. He prefers to keep dialogue short and to the point. He takes pride in making deals that he knows will benefit him in the end and loathes being double-crossed in a mutual agreement. Emerson is observant, he notices most things from a usual drink a client prefers each visit to the saloon to a type of pocket watch on a person. When plans do not go accordingly Emerson can be brash and aggressive. His composure will slip and he will become agitated and merciless when too many situations become get out of hand.
Under the facade he orchestrates in front of his clients, he harbors a deep disdain and disgust for them. He doesn't believe he should be catering and be at the beck and call of mortals, he looks at the humans as dirt and tobacco scum that clings to the bottom of his shoes.

Beneath his stern exterior, Emerson deeply cares for his supernatural and human staff. He sees their struggles and often takes the time to guide them. Heโ€™s invested in their well-being, viewing them as a crucial part of his establishmentโ€™s success. Though rarely displayed, Emerson has a dry sense of humor that surprises those who know him well. He often uses witty remarks to lighten the mood during busy nights, showing a softer side that helps to build camaraderie among his staff. His compassion and empathy for others is lacking but present for only certain few. He treats his employees and a few mortals with equal respect and values their safety. The compassion and empathy he has for his employees is why he is not concerned about being betrayed and knows they will follow him.

Vices- Manipulative, Cutthroat, Malicious, Faithless
Virtues- Observant, Attentive, Direct, Fair

Powers/Abilities

Dark Magic: Emerson is a master in spells and incantations, enabling them to cast curses, summon other creatures, or manipulate elements.
Illusion Creation: He has the ability to create realistic illusions to deceive or manipulate others.
Enhanced Strength and Speed: Emerson often possess physical abilities far beyond those of humans, making them formidable in combat.

headcannons


  • Along with acceptance of traditional currency, he accepts odd favors or soul contracts as payment, making every transaction uniquely interesting and sometimes dangerous for the patrons involved.
  • His saloon features a roulette wheel that grants wishesโ€”but at a steep price. Those who dare to play often leave with either their dreams fulfilled or their worst nightmares unleashed.
  • He has a soft spot for misfits and outcasts, often providing a safe haven for those rejected by society. He believes everyone deserves a chance, even if they come with a troubled past.
  • Despite being a demon, he has a penchant for wearing overly flashy cowboy clothing that make him an eyesore with every step, leading to a comical scene when he tries to be incognito in places.
  • He uses charm and charisma to influence local politics, leveraging his establishment to gain favors and protect his interests while subtly guiding the community's direction.
  • His establishment functions both as a place for leisure and a sanctuary for those in need, offering refuge to those fleeing danger, providing them with protection and guidance.

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY:
Emerson...Emerson, such a mortal name...a name self-forced, practically branded on the body of a demon whose understands he is above mortals. In the fiery depths of the Infernal Realm, the demon was once a respected enforcer in the court of the King of Hell, tasked with maintaining order among chaotic spirits. However, during one fateful mission, he was sent to the mortal world to retrieve a runaway soul. Instead, he stumbled upon a town rife with human cruelty and betrayal, witnessing first-hand how greed and selfishness could twist even the purest intentions.

As he tracked the soul, he saw humans exploit the weak, betray their loved ones for gold, and engage in endless violence over petty disputes. The sight of children starving while their parents fought over scraps left a scar on his heart, igniting a deep loathing for the very species he was meant to oversee. The demon was ultimately betrayed by the townsfolk when they captured him, mistaking him for a monster and branding him as such, keeping him captive. After escaping their clutches, he retreated to Lone Cross giving himself the name Emerson Cole, he began seeking revenge, finding a way to reclaim his power. He opened a saloon/brothel called "The Cursed Roulette," a popular attraction and "safe haven" where misfits, magnates, lost souls and more congregated, serving them the finest beverages and courtesans in Lone Cross and other reputable towns. He would watch and relish in the irony of hosting the very beings he despises. Watched as he obtained every bit of information on every human and supernatural being that entered his establishment.

Each night, as he watches the humans indulge and revel, he plots their downfall, convinced that their greed and treachery deserve a reckoning. His saloon becomes both a sanctuary and a stage for his schemes, a place where he can manipulate their fates while hiding his true identity. The era of reckoning was approaching, and Azaroth was ready to dance upon the ashes of a world he loathed.




GALLERY​










emerson cole.


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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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.
 
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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, write, and was adept at polishing boots.

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.

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

Personality:
If Mags comes across as taciturn and judgemental, itโ€™s because she is. If she thinks her patient got injured in a particularly stupid or reckless way, she has no problem telling them so. However, she can be trusted not to gossip about her patients, and anything said to her- hell, even things that donโ€™t relate to oneโ€™s medical needs- is unlikely to be revealed to anyone else.

Despite her rather poor bedside manner when she thinks her patient got what was coming to them, Mags can be surprisingly good at comforting people, especially children and those who require her services as a midwife. She is calm and level headed in emergencies, and can be relied on to take action without panicking.

Though she has a rather introverted nature, Mags prefers being around people to the silence of being alone- Provided those people donโ€™t bother her too much. Sheโ€™s been in Lone Cross long enough now that most people know to leave her to herself, but sometimes she wishes they wouldnโ€™t. Sheโ€™s lonely on occasion, but not self aware enough to realize she could change that.

History:
Mags was born to an Anishinaabe woman and a French fur trader. She spent her early years traveling between trading camps, but her mother passed when she was 6, and she and her father moved to a small but growing town. Her father began to refer to her as โ€˜Margueriteโ€™ and she has no memories of what name her mother might have called her.

Having been quite successful in the fur trade, her father was an eligible bachelor and quickly remarried. When she was 8, her step-mother bore twins and Mags became a big sister to a baby boy and girl. It was a stressful birth, and Mags helped the midwife with great fascination. As a teen, Mags made one of her few asks of her father- That she be apprenticed with the local midwife. Her request was granted.

Mags learned the trade with her mentorโ€™s help, and might even have replaced the older woman as a fixture in the community one day. Until she was 19, and her step mother came home to find Mags standing over her fatherโ€™s body, the bloody knife still in hand. Rather than hang for the murder, Mags ran, making her way south and then west.

She barely scraped by for a while, doing things she still regrets, until she landed in Missouri. The small townโ€™s physician was an old man, and there was no midwife for miles on end. She offered to assist him, and the old man gave her a long look and he seemed impressed by what he saw. He asked her a few questions she didnโ€™t really understand, but he offered her room and board in exchange for her help. He also offered to teach her everything he knew. He emphasized the โ€˜everythingโ€™.

He was a bit of an odd bird, the old man was. Insisting that she grind a poultice clockwise twice, then counterclockwise once. Muttering little songs as he stitched up wounds. He made her copy his actions exactly, and eventually she fell into his habits, strange though they were.

Mags learned quickly, and though the community was distrustful of her at first, they found her eyes to be younger and her hands to be steadier than the old manโ€™s. If she had tried even a bit harder to be sociable, she might even have made friends there.

But five years later, the old man had a heart attack and died, and his son came out to collect on the will. The doctor may have taken no issue with Magsโ€™ gender or skin color, but his son did and had no problem saying so. Though the old man had left his practice to Mags and his land to his son, the son wanted it all. He contested the will in court, and the local judge ruled against Mags.

Mags had delivered that judgeโ€™s grandaughter, and stitched up his sonโ€™s head when heโ€™d fallen from his horse. She had no desire to stay where she wasnโ€™t wanted. Mags headed west again, this time with the knowledge of a doctor (and perhaps of something else as well) and the supplies of one, too- Sheโ€™d stolen them before she left. It wasnโ€™t like the son knew how to use them, after all.

She made her way west again, hitching rides with wagon trains as their medic and occasionally staying for a couple months in one place or another, depending on their need. She wasnโ€™t always welcome, though, and she moved on. About three years ago, she landed in Lone Cross. An unusual town, where the people seemโ€ฆ Strange, to say the least. Mags gets the feeling that a woman doctor of her background isnโ€™t the oddest thing in town, based on the way the townsfolk treat her. Itโ€™s nice, almost.

Sheโ€™s got a one room office and home next to the jail, where she treats patients and lays her head at night. Sheโ€™s on good terms with most of the people, and they seem to trust her. The food at the saloon is decent enough. Itโ€™s not a bad life.

She keeps up the practices the old man taught her, both those scientific and thoseโ€ฆ Less so. Thereโ€™s no harm in it, she reasons. It distracts her patients to have a song to sing with her as she treats them. Lots of people hang herbs in their doorways. No one in Lone Cross seems to care what she does, so long as it is effective.

And it does seem to be. Especially here in Lone Cross. If Mags has noticed that, she hasnโ€™t been thinking about it anymore than she thinks about the unusual coyote bites her patients come in with, or how she only sees some of the townspeople after the sun has set, or any of the other oddities sheโ€™s been studiously ignoring.

Miscellaneous:
Mags is an awful shot with any sort of gun, but can defend herself in close quarters with a knife quite well.

She has a sorrel mare (American Quarter Horse) with a white strip down her muzzle, named โ€˜Misterโ€™. Mags seems relatively fond of Mister, but she has also named each of her horses โ€˜Misterโ€™, so she clearly isnโ€™t too attached.

Mags is very fond of wildflowers, especially those in red and orange hues. She hates the taste of coffee, but drinks it anyways if she's going to be up all night with a patient.
 
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I.
the magician
























Profile



NAME: Sascha Vogel



AGE: TBA (mid-twenties?)



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.

Sascha appears a little too generic if anything. He 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.

He usually appears as an average man with 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.



FACE CLAIM: N/A, description







Personality



Much like his appearance, Sasha's personality is flexible. He is sharp astute, and quick to adapt to any situation with the ease of a seasoned con man. With a silver tongue and sociable nature, he comes off relatively open and transparent, but in reality heโ€™s rather detached.

Sascha has spent most of his life on his own with no one to look out for him other than himselfโ€”and it shows. His solitary existence has made him distant, and at his core, he is highly guarded. He never talks about his past or certain aspects of himself; he simply slides over them and leads the conversation elsewhere, or deflects with breezy humour. It's usually subtle enough that most people donโ€™t notice that heโ€™s doing it at first. His moral compass has some issues and heโ€™s not above deception or being disingenuous eitherโ€”to get people off his back, or simply to get what he wants. He views others more like puzzles or entertainment, playing mind games for shits and giggles.

Sascha is the kind of person you need to watch out for, but you don't realize it until it's too late. Heโ€™s well aware that in most cases, the key to being smart is knowing when to play dumb.







History


Sascha's mother wasn't aware that his father was a changeling. For her, it was nothing more than a one-night stand with an unexpected pregnancy that she came to want, enthralled with the idea of being a mother. When she saw what Sascha was, she had difficulties accepting it. She struggled between her love for her child and her fear of him. She grew rather paranoid and for the first few years of Sascha's life, she hid him from the rest of the world. He was kept within the same four walls until he was old enough to control his abilities and take on the appearance of a normal boy. The two of them then lived a nomadic lifestyle with his mother periodically moving him from town to town in fear that someone would figure out what Sascha was and take him away.

In the end, her fears were realized when Sascha showed a few friends his original form. The town declared that he was a demon and his mother a witch of some kind. Sascha was able to get away, his abilities making him uniquely capable of disappearing into a crowdโ€”literallyโ€”but his mother was burned at the stake by the town. Sascha was eleven at the time has been on his own since. He took to travelling from town to town, pulling cons to earn his keep and using his abilities to slip through the cracks unnoticed.

Sascha usually goes wherever the wind takes him, and a few years ago, it took him to Lone Star. The town drew him in for some reason he can't explain, and he didn't see any reason to fight it. He cheated a man at a game of cards, which was nothing out of the ordinary, except that that man was a fae who knew exactly what Sascha was. He cursed Sascha with a brand on his chest that ties him to Lone Star. It burns whenever he strays too far. (I'll figure out the details of the curse once the rp starts! but he will be trying to break the curse)





Extra



 Abilities:

- Illusion Casting: He can perform illusions regarding his appearance, which comes quite naturally and effortlessly, but also for things such as images of a fire, blood and gore, injuries that don't exist, invisibility, etc.
- Voice mimicry: Self-explanatory; he can mimic any voice
- Mind Veil/Psychic Camouflage: Cloaks his thoughts, emotions, and intentions in a fog that scrambles or distorts perception for any being trying to use psychic powers against him. He doesn't appear human, per say, but it's impossible to detect what exactly he is.
- Psychic Resistance: It's very difficult to influence him mentally or inflict some kind of psychic control. It's like trying to catch an eel. He's just slimy.
- Empathy Link: The ability to create a temporary empathetic/mental link with someone, giving insight into the person's thoughts, feelings, or desires. Not full telepathy, but a sense connection that makes it easier to manipulate or deceive someone









Sascha Vogel




coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Last edited:





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: Thin lips curl around a smile, as sly and devious as it is gentle and sweet. Pearly white teeth peek out from beneath those lips, and is that the light playing tricks, or are his teeth truly that sharp? Waves of light brown, almost reddish hair cascade over shaded eyes, which seem to flash crimson whenever you stare too closely. Long eyelashes frame those rich hazel eyes, for a caricature of innocence, yet deviance shines throughโ€“ after all, that is his nature. His jawline cuts an angle, like a razorโ€™s blade; clean shaven, an androgynous twist to an otherwise masculine presentation.

A slim build accentuates the shapes his body carves, head always held up highโ€“ pride is not one of his favored sins, but why shouldnโ€™t he indulge in it? His form is delicate and yet deceptively strong, and itโ€™s clear heโ€™s catered himself to appeal to men and women alike. Thin fingers, always in motion, reach out to capture those he finds intriguing, bring them closer so that, like a predator, he has a better chance to strike. He moves as if his whole body takes pleasure in the action it performsโ€“ each gesture made with total commitment. A sigh is not an exhale, but a full-body shudder of despair; a step taken is never without a sway and shift.

Dressed in the fashion of those who would be labeled a โ€œdandyโ€, Ishmael makes no secret of his propensity for rich colors and expensive fabrics. Over a crisp white shirt sits a waistcoat, sinched, and in a stunning yellow hue, starkly standing out against the dark grey of his striped trousers, and the dyed black leather of his boots. An ascot tie is wrapped around his neck, a brilliant lavender, a pattern of crosses upon it. Itโ€™s fastened with a silver tiepin, curled to resemble the body of a snake, two tiny red rubies peeking out as eyes. Layer atop the outfit is an overcoat, long enough to flatter his willowy figure. To compliment the clothing, he often wears a top hat, and several rings adorn his fingers. In addition, Ishmael carries a briefcase, the brown leather worn and dusty, yet the metal clasps shining as though new, a possession he is rarely seen without.

He carries no discernable weapons, and yet there is an aura around him, that hints at the danger of a creature such as him. Perhaps itโ€™s the too wide smile, or the way he seems to appraise the people around him with an almost hungry gleam in his eye. Perhaps it is the way he laughs, at once captivating and holding within it a wild glee. Or maybe itโ€™s the fact that all too often he seems to cast a horned and monstrous shadowโ€“ a glimpse at the demon he truly is.

FACE CLAIM: Evgeny Shwartz [X]



Personality

It is easy to tell when Ishmael enters a room, for eyes are naturally drawn toward this odd and enticing creature. There is a grace to every movement and every spoken word, like it is a choreographed dance he effortlessly performs. He holds an intrinsic understanding of what makes people tick, and beyond that an appreciation for that nature, a genuine fascination with the souls around him. A single glance is enough for Ishmael to tell what kind of person he is dealing withโ€“ those he can tempt, and those he cannot (far and few between as they are, sometimes a human is simply too virtuous, or a being of the night too corrupt already). His words are honey-sweet, a dangerous trap of lies and truths mixed together until one has to wonder whether even he knows the difference between them.

He carries a certain surety to him, one that too often leans into arrogance. Though he seems by some angles soft and even kind-hearted, with his wide smile and his knowing gaze, itโ€™s all a front for the cruel and manipulative creature he is at his core. He works toward his own goals, and no one else's, and whether someone is an enemy or friend might switch by the day, depending on what they can get him. He can, and will, stab his allies in the back if he thinks heโ€™ll end up on top because of it.

And still, like a moth drawn to flame, Ishmael lives and thrives on the people he is with. He is almost parasitic in nature, latching on to a host and bleeding them dry of everything he can before abandoning them and moving on to the next, better thing. Beckoning a stranger toward him, he silently promises intrigue and excitement, a shoulder to cry on, a helpful hand, or something more. He is adaptable to the extremeโ€“ in him, one can choose to see whatever they wish: a friend, an enemy, a lover. If there is a crowd, he will be found at the center of it. If there is a scandal, he is the one spreading rumors to fan the flames. If there is a fight, heโ€™ll be the one staking unlikely bets, then cheating to get his way. The more powerful emotions he elicits, the happier he isโ€“ be it outrage, scorn, envy, lust, anger, disgust, or any otherโ€“ in the end, it is all the same to him.



History

The way Ishmael tells it, his story started with an order from superiors.

โ€œGo up there, and cause some trouble.โ€

It seems, whatever else may be the case, he has lived by these words ever since. The truth of his past is known only to him, but in quiet moments, when voices are hushed and shadows run long, he may tell a version of his tale.

Long, long ago, when the world was still forming, the being now called Ishmael was reborn in the flames of Hell. Like his brethren, he was scattered, cast adrift on an eternal fiery sea. It was a pit of endless fighting, pain, and torture. And then, they were united, by a single demonโ€“ exactly who you expect. The demon spoke of grand planes and powerful enemies. They all had a purposeโ€ฆ and it was to extinguish the holy light, and bring an end to Godโ€™s empire.

At first, it had all been very exciting. There were always things to do, a flurry of action that was never boring. New experiences, invigorating ideas, and a concoction of all the worst emotions on which a demon could feed. But he tired of the eternal conflictโ€“ after millennia, it had become trite and stale. The idea of the mortal world had started to interest him. He was a demon, and as such, the disloyalty sat deep in his nature. Who could blame him for wanting to go up and take a peek? And yet, the fates seemed, for once, to smile in his favor, and so the order cameโ€“ they needed someone on the upside.

Earth was a feasting ground for a demon. Mortals were so easily swayed by promises of power, by greed and envy and lust, and all Ishmael had to do was offer. It was the boon of human innovation, and the world was progressing faster than ever beforeโ€“ a renaissance, they would later call it. At this time, he took up his name, its meaning a mocking joke. โ€œGod will hear,โ€ well, let him! Let him hear and weep at what Ishmael was turning his precious humans to.

The next part, he tells embellished, if he even includes it at all. But to keep to a vague notion of truth, the events that follow are really quite simple.

There is a give and take to notoriety. Who is Ishmael? A minor demon, merely a trickster that wonโ€™t be missed from the legions of Hell, or something more, something greater? When questioned, he will only answer with a smile. To him, the truth has always been malleable, formed to suit whatever helps him most in a given moment. And so, Ishmaelโ€™s name has gotten around, especially among those tinged with the strange and magical. Whispers flew like sparks on dry timber, to witches needing rare ingredients, to mortals wishing for a bit more power, to those damned beings willing to trade one curse for another, โ€œIshmael is the one you need. All for a price, of course.โ€

There are those who seek to rid the world of evil and are rigidly dogmatic in their pursuits. A demon would do well to stay away from such people, lest they find themselves in the predicament Ishmael landed in. It is not easy to bind a demon, but it is possible if one knows the right words to say and the right things to burn. Once caught, the trappings of magic are harder still to unweave, and for a free-spirited creature such as Ishmael, the chains forced upon him were the greatest humiliation he could imagine. He'd been caught unawares in a small town some 300 years agoโ€“ perhaps heโ€™d been sloppy, and too many had glimpsed his unnatural talents, but whatever the reason, heโ€™d caught the wrong type of attention. Holy men, who walked with crosses and blessed words on their lips, had nearly stricken him from this body. Heโ€™d gotten his revenge in the end, of course, and took a keepsake of his victory, but after that, he would not stay in any one place for longโ€“ it was better to keep moving.

Lone Cross, at first, was just the next town for Ishmael. And yet, upon stepping foot into its borders, he knew at once it was something special, an intrinsic draw pulling him in. Since then, it has become a sort of safe haven. A place where he can hide when he draws too much attention, his own strangeness barely standing out in the sea of oddity Lone Cross attracts. As for the rumors, well, theyโ€™ve got Ishmael worriedโ€“ theyโ€™re not even ones heโ€™s started. He has a good thing going on, after all, and the end of the world would put a dampener on his fun. No, better to sort things out now, and quick. He has a feeling things might get ever so messy otherwise.


Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:
- Manipulation: Ishmaelโ€™s greatest power is the ability to sense a personโ€™s desires, or the sins they are most susceptible to, and the skill to turn them toward that desire. There are few who are able to resist the draw of his words, and most find themselves awaking the next morning, regret heavy in their hearts, wondering whether the events of yesterday were merely a dream. Moreover, as a being that deals in misdirections and untruths, Ishmael is deeply familiar with such deceptions, and, as such, is able to sense when someone is lying to him.
- Dark Dealings: Ishmael has the power to forge deals with another being, ones which always have a cost. Once a deal is struck, both he and the other party are bound to complete their end of the bargain. This black magic is nearly impossible for either side to break, although, of course, the demon often words things in a way that bends to his benefit.
- Telekinesis and Conjuring: The material form is nothing when faced with the power of a demon. Ishmael is able to summon or conjure up minor items when he has the need for them, and has a simple form of telekinesis.
- Enhanced Physicality: Due to his demonic nature, he has increased resilience, strength, and speed, and he does not age. Moreover, he cannot be killed by conventional means, although his attachment to the body he inhabits means he is nonetheless careful about the damage it takes.
- Demonic Weaknesses: However, for that same reason he is also weak to a myriad of thingsโ€“ holy places such as churches, holy water and other religious symbols, summonings and exorcisms, and other similar occurrences or objects.

HEADCANONS:
- Ishmael is very rarely completely stillโ€“ he will tap his fingers, or sway gently, or swing his feet as he sits, or fiddle with his hair, just always doing something.
- He absolutely adores music in all its forms, and he plays the piano, even composing some of his own music (though this isnโ€™t something he often shares with people)
- Although itโ€™s not strictly a necessity for him, Ishamael loves indulging in food, drink, and sleep.
- He is wanted in quite a few towns, and has many more people who wish to see him dead, mostly because heโ€™s stolen, cheated, or otherwise offended them.




Ishmael Sterling


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Last edited:

the wild wicked west the wild wicked west the wild






overview




Name: Amelia Jane Sterling
Age: 27
D.O.B: October 26th
Gender: Cis Female
Pronouns: She/Her
Sexuality: Bisexual
Occupation: Amelia works at the local saloon as a barmaid.

โ€œAll beauty has a little of tragedy.โ€







appearance







5'6" | 170 cm

height






ginger hair

hair colour






blue grey

eye color






ear piercings

body mods






lone cross

hometown






Eleanor Tomlinson

faceclaim







Amelia has thick ginger hair that falls in soft curls around her shoulders. She often has it styled in a half-up and half-down updo, though she sometimes will tie it up fully when she's busy at work. Her hair can come across as unruly, but there is only so much you can do when serving drinks! Amelia has stormy blue eyes that sometimes come off a bit grey depending on the light. Although she has been looked down on for only standing at 5'6", she makes up for it usually being found in a pair of heeled boots. She has various small scars over her body from accidentally nicking herself while cooking, bug bites that didn't heel properly, and childhood shenanigans.


notes






psyche



Creative




Stubborn




Intelligent




Sarcastic




Determined




Competitive





Amelia is someone who typically knows what she wants and will do what she can to get it. However, Amelia's hardworking nature can get in the way at times. It tends to absorb her at times causing her to forget other details about her daily schedule. It's hard to step back from something when it's all you know. Although she can be a tad prickly and struggle to let you in, she will if you give her the time. Due to some former relationships, letting people in isn't the easiest. So typically, she stays away from anything serious. There just isn't enough time in the day!

Once you get to know her, Amelia is someone fiercely loyal and ready to be with you every step of the way to succeed. At the same time, she will also tell you when you're out of line. She holds honesty above everything, but sometimes to a fault with how blunt she can be. Amelia is independent, but if you look closely, there is a sense of loneliness that follows her. She prefers to keep even her closest friends at arm's length in fear of them leaving. Not that she would admit. If she likes you, Amelia loves to tease, throw some witty remarks at you, and just show her appreciation for you sticking close by her side. As you crack through her tough exterior you will find she is extremely kind-hearted, loyal, and a secret nerd.




chaotic neutral
alignment


likes
sketching, meeting new people, reading, dancing, nice warm cup of coffee, sunrises, stargazing, writing, etc.

dislikes
cinnamon, people trying to tear her down, large dogs, being treated like sheโ€™s stupid, ghosts/idea of ghosts, etc.

fears
not knowing what happened to her brother, thunderstorms, getting abandoned, small spaces, getting her heart broken, etc.


background



background


Amelia grew up in a family with two loving parents and an older brother on a cool October night. They were very tight-knit for the first few years of Amelia's childhood. She remembers her father being absent at times as he was a travelling merchant, but that didn't stop him from spending time with kids when he was home as well as sending back letters to them every week. Amelia's mother was bright as she took them everywhere with her around the small town. Her brother, Clay, often played on the grass. Popping out to scare one another or bolting around to play tag. However, this blissful happiness came to a stop when Amelia was 12 years old.

After a few months of not hearing from their father, word was soon sent that he died battling an illness while he was travelling. Due to heartbreak, Clay and Amelia's mother withered away within the next year. This left two kids just barely scraping the age of teenagers with nothing. They definitely had a rough start, but thankfully, someone took pity on them. The saloon's owner gave them both jobs. As kind as Clay was, he was not built for good customer service, so found another job as a cook. Amelia began as a dishwasher, but quickly found her way up, so it wasn't long before she was slinging drinks for anyone coming into town. Part of her loved hearing what everyone came passing through town for. There were so many stories she could only dream about, but was happy that way.

Clay, was a little more restless. He wanted bigger and better things, so began taking shady deals out of the back of the saloon. Amelia assumes for drugs, but never truly knows what it is as that secret died with him. She ended up having to go with the sheriffs to identify his body, but was horrified to find out she could only barely do so. It appeared like he was mauled and ripped apart by some beast. Later that night as she tried to drown her sorrows in dark ale and liquor, the saloon owner told her some newer stories. Stories that would make him sound incredibly mad, but Amelia could sense by his tone that they were true. Working so long in the industry he spoke stories of creatures that wandered into town and did just what they did with her brother. Preyed on them and attempted to steal their souls. Amelia was shaken to the core, but glad someone was telling her. The saloon owner unlocked a cabinet that would have items some may come ask for. Drinks are not only limited to alcohol. Now, Amelia's eyes were opened to a whole new kind of clientele.


present day


Amelia continues to work at the local saloon in Lone Cross. While she is not the sole worker at the saloon, she has taken on more responsibility in any area that needs it. She serves everyone with a bright smile and just as much intrigue to listen to what stories they have for her. In some ways, she is still finding more information on what may have happened to her brother all those years ago. As she has grown older, she has realized a lot more depth to the stories. They're getting darker. There is a stillness in the air that makes it feel like something bigger is coming.

Until then, dramatics aside, Amelia will continue serving customers with a bright smile and not questioning their drink orders. Just never mind how she hangs certain herbs in her home, wears a pure silver cross, and goes to church weekly despite not being the biggest on religion. There's nothing wrong with being cautious, right?




ADDITIONAL INFO







โ€” While her customer service skills are quite good, she is not one to put up with bullshit. If you overstep her boundaries you get a warning, after that? It's not her fault if you get a fork or dagger through the hand.

โ€” Amelia is a bit on her own, so owns a couple of guns and daggers that can be easily grabbed if needed. She has gotten questions about when she will be married, but just politely tells them she will get there when she finds someone. She is not against romance, but hasn't found anyone permanent, though there have been a couple of flings with those passing through town.

โ€” She adores journaling. She often will press plants, flowers, sketch, and just empty her brain by writing them down in a journal.

โ€” Amelia tries her best to be kind to those no matter who or what they are. If she senses you may not be human, you may feel her eyes on you. More skeptical and cautious than anything, but will still serve your drink of choice with a smile.


-->
 
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III
the haunted












Profile

Name: Savannah Huntington

Age: 28

Gender: Female (She/Her)

Orientation: Sapphic

Species: Human (Possessed)

Occupation: Farmer



Appearance

Description: Savannah is a beautiful and elegant young woman, standing on the skinnier side as far as weight goes and standing at the solid height of 5'5'' (1.65m). She has long, vibrant and powerful blonde hair that matches her striking light green eyes. If let loose, Savannah's hair will flow all the way down to her rear, like a waterfall of liquid gold. However, she often keeps it tied and secure in a sloppy, more functional than appealing, bun or knot.

Despite her many hours under the sun, Savannah's complexion never shifts from a fair and light color. She has delicate features that complement her womanly, if somewhat skinny, visibly attractive physical. She is often seen wearing long, dark colored dresses though obviously cheap and far from what anyone belonging to a higher class would ever wear.

Never displayed openly, Savannah's back is filled with scars, most, if not all, from her time in captivity.

Faceclaim: Katherine McNamara

MV5BMTY1MDA0MDUtODg2NS00NmFjLWE3N2YtOTlkOTA0Mjk5YmMwXkEyXkFqcGc@._V1_.jpg





Personality

[WIP]



History

[WIP]


Extra
  • Savannah is always hungry, yet regardless of how much she eats, she never manages to gain weight;
  • Animals have a tendency to not trust or outright dislike Savannah, usually showing fear. Dogs will bark and growl at her; cats will scatter and hiss; bulls, cows and horses will stomp their hooves in a territorial and threatening way. Despite showing these signs of aggression, animals never truly attack her, almost as if they're too scared to do it;
  • She doesn't know why, but Savannah's senses are sharper than usual, seemingly more predatory. She can smell blood and prey miles away; sense when a storm or something unusual is coming; hear and see from long distances;





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.

ABILITIES
Supernatural Condition - The idea of dying of disease or old age is a foreign concept to her, thanks to the demon blood within her. She cannot be killed by mudane injuries, for her healing factor kicks in too fast to do any real damage. Her senses are also extraordinary, as well as her physical strength, agility, and endurance.

Summoning - Temperance is able to summon lesser demons, also known as imps. These beings are quite useful when it comes to bounty hunting. Her imps are used to spy and gather or send information. Sheโ€™s able to look through their eyes and sense what they sense.

Deathโ€™s Touch - Demons are known to steal the life force of humans and though she is only half, Temperance is no different. Through touch she is able to leech the life-force from living things, leaving them little more of a husk of their former selves. Beings of death, such as vampires, are immune to this power.

Demonic Magic - The union between her parents was unholy in every sense of the word, but result was an offspring full of magical potential. Temperance is capable of great feats of magic without too much of a struggle. She favors the left handed path but there are plenty of tricks up her sleeve.

Transmutation - As long as she has a clear image in her mind, Temperance can teleport wherever she pleases.

WEAKNESSES
Holy Objects - Holy objects have the ability to hurt depending on how sheโ€™s exposed to it. If it is no evident by the cross shaped scars burned into her skin, holy object can cause great harm and pain to Temperance.

Demonโ€™s circle - Demon are usually summoned with the use of sigils and salt, creating a circle that can trap them in order to force them to do something for the summoner. Temperance is no different and can be summoned using this method. unless the circle is broken or sheโ€™s sent back to wherever she was with the correct phrase she cannot leave the circle. This is why she keeps her symbol and phrase to herself. Only a select few people know of it

Trap Sigil - There are certain symbols that can be placed within an area to trap demons and Cambions. Once stepped in the area, where the circle is above or below them, the being is unable to leave. Temperance can leave a demon trap but it zaps her energy, leaving her extremely drained and in need of replenishing the energy via feeding.

Summoning - Her father is a Duke of hell and thus Temperance has the ability to summon demons that are more powerful than imps. However, she is not her father and so these demons are not forced to obey her. She holds sway, yet she is still a young witch. More intelligent demons are able tricker to command and are quite capable of swindling her.









IV.

I am here now, as you run from me still





H I S T O R Y
โ€” Young Temperance Cassidy is a common face around the town of Lone Cross, but she is not truly known. As far as the citizens know, she appeared out of nowhere one day. Mary Cassidy had returned to town with a sweet yet shy little girl attached to her hip. They did not know the story of Mary before she passed but there was plenty of speculation. Some say that she was a runaway, perhaps from a forced marriage or from a broken one. Others believed that she had been kicked out for her masculine ways and stoic disposition. The only thing that was truly known had been the quality of her boarding house and that had been enough.

Temperance remembers their life before Lone Cross. It had been a lonely and terrifying existence. Her peers made no attempt to integrate her into their groups and the adults around her peered at her with disgust in their eyes. There was only her mother to deflect their attention. For so long they stayed because Mary had been too afraid to leave, she endured the treatment for her child.

Little Temperance had always been a nosy child, though one could hardly fault her when she would be able to easily hear from a great distance away. When she had caught word of her upcoming โ€œcleansingโ€ she had immediately went to her mother. And though the woman tried not to panic, she immediately began to plan their escape. It was futile, for their leader had known that Mary would try to escape. Temperance was snatched from her while she was held back.

There are gaps in her memory from the incident. Temperance remembers pain, she remembers something hot pressed against her skin and the feeling of burning while she was drowning. She had woken up to a dark presence looming overhead and her mother cradling her in her arms. The people who had taken her lay still against the floor.

The two of them fled then, taking all of the money and supplies that they needed before leaving. It was a long time before Temperance recovered but she did.









V.

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
































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
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coded by miyabi miyabi







Micah Rowe




TRICKSTER



Outlaw

& Dead or Alive
 
Xaniel the Caretaker​

DOSSIER
Angel Name: Xaniel
True Name: ๊“ž๊“ณ ๊“˜๊“น ๊“ ๊“ฏ๊“น๊“ผ ๊“ข๊“ฒ ๊“ซ๊“ฌ ๊“–๊“ด ๊“Ÿ๊“ฌ๊“ฑ๊“ฝ ๊“ง๊“ณ๊“ฝ ๊“ข๊“ด
Cover Name: Ezekiel Fournier
True Age: Unremembered and uncared for
Cover Age: 32
Gender: Male-Presenting
Species: Fallen Angel
Sexuality: Asexual
Occupation: Pastor of the Lone Cross Congregation

'Not all darkness is bad. Evil can travel in the light.'​


VISAGE
Hair: Hair like the midnight sky, tied carefully and judiciously in a ponytail.
Eyes: A cold, deep blue, reminscient of the Allmother's tinted eyes. Xaniel believes it to be an odd twist of fate that the body he's infested has the qualities of humanity's progenitors.
Skin: Before Xaniel's arrival, Pr. Fournier was a sunburnt man whose labor was evident by the burns on his skin. It was only recently that he appeared more paler, and a lot colder.
Height: 5'7" (174cm)
Features: A scar on his left cheekbone, and fresh cuts and wounds can be regularly seen on his back.
Wardrobe:
Regardless of his present situation, Pr. Fournier appears as a man of unbridled faith. A black cassock and stole, finely trimmed and suited to fit without even the closest margin of error. His outside attire is elegant and neatly embroidered with intricate cross embroideries. A cincture is additionally secured to the waist, keeping the cassock in place.
Written Description:
Pr. Fournier exudes a gentle and warm presence, standing at a relatively average 5'7" (174cm). His body is suitably toned and lean, though whether this was obtained through hard labor or the effects of Xaniel's infestation is dubious, at best.

His eyes are a captivating shade of cerulean that seems to shine with an otherworldly luminescence, holding an unsettling yet caring intensity. Narrowed ever so slightly, Pr. Fournier's eyes possess a gaze that can send a shiver down any god-fearing person's spine. His dark, well-defined eyebrows contrast the stark luminescence of his irises.

Pr. Fournier's chiseled facial features are framed by a neatly groomed beard and long, dark hair that is often styled in practical yet elegant ways. A few streaks of silver has crept onto his scalp, earned as badges of life experience or more likely; stress. The lines that stretch across his face tell stories in their own right: the mark sustained on his left cheekbone, the countless scars and reopened wounds that, even now, appear on his back.

'And so did his angel eyes see the good in many devils.'​


PERSONA
Personality:
Xaniel walks the earth in a body frail and delicate, a vessel that would inspire pity in most, but there is no such tenderness in him. His face, pale and gaunt, betrays little emotion, save for the occasional flicker of distant sorrow. There is a quiet about him, the kind of quiet that stretches between breaths, that fills the air after the toll of a funeral bell. His gaze, though gentle at first, holds wisdom attained from failure.

Once, there might have been compassion in those eyes. Perhaps there still is, buried deep beneath centuries of misery and torment. His hands, when they move, do so with care, as though still remembering the shape of miracles long since forgotten. Yet, to those who linger near him too long, thereโ€™s an odd dissonance. The kindness he shows is real, yes, but behind it, a vast, unsounded depth.

Where he once bore the light of creation, his presence now feels like an echoโ€”soft, but growing louder if you listen long enough. For those who seek his guidance, he offers no illusions. His inherent ability is as much of a curse as it is blessing, and Xaniel, for all his warmth, does not shield the desperate from their truths. Some call him a caretaker. Others, a guide to the end. He wears both titles with equal indifference, for to him, death is not cruelโ€”it simply is.

But there is more beneath the surface. Every interaction, every act of kindness, conceals the razor-thin edge of something darker, something inevitable. Some catch a glimpse of it in the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes or the way his touch lingers just a moment too long, as if weighing the mortality of those he aids. His voice, soft and soothing, hints at understanding, though never promises salvation.

Occupation:
Before Xaniel appeared in the material realm, Pr. Fournier hosted the Lone Cross Congregation service every Wednesday and Sunday, alongside his weekly youth group teaching. Most of the town folk knew him to be a pious man, fearful of God but nonetheless a true believer. It was only days before Xaniel's revival that suspicions against Pr. Fournier grew in magnitude. Light touches of red staining his white collar; an increasingly rapturous mind and demeanor, and hidden messages veiled between scripture. Although Xaniel arrived in a broken and deranged body; Pr. Fournier's sudden recovery in both body and mind only leads those to question even more.
Positive Traits:
+ Optimistic
+ Determined
+ Extremely pious
+ Hopeful
+ Restrained
Negative Traits:
- Unable to fathom human relationships
- Uncaring; a lack of empathy
- Objective
Likes:
+ Reciting scripture
+ The potato stew from the local pub
+ People having faith in anything or anyone
Dislikes:
- The continued death of humanity
- His fallen brethren
- Those who cannot forgive themselves


'The most dangerous anger is the one that lingers in slience; it sits; it stays; it lives in solitude; it wishes to be alone, it dwells inside.'​


ABILITIES
Abilities:
๊“ขP๊“ฑ๊“ฏK WI๊“•H D๊“ฑ๊“ฏD​
In their duties as an angel of the spirit, it was essential to keep the human spirit placated through exchanging words. Depending on the degradation of the spirit, the caster can split a part of their soul to nourish the spirit into a state where it is capable of conversation. Though the spirit is not compelled to only tell the truth; if your fading life force was in the hands of another, would you not tell the truth and nothing but the truth?

SUMMON TH๊“ฑ D๊“ฑ๊“ฏD​
Wayward spirits tend to drift if their soul is not bound to a place or object by way of emotional or physical ties. To summon a spirit of a specific nature to the caster requires one of two things: an object of significant import to the spirit or the feather of a bird native to their birthplace. Incorrect materials can lead to summoning the wrong spirit; a mistake that is not so easily rectified.

CON๊“•๊“คOL TH๊“ฑ D๊“ฑ๊“ฏD​
In spite of how this sounds, in truth, it is more along the lines of guiding the spirit to do a specific action by lending the spirit the casterโ€™s senses. Need a ghost to do some spying? Give them half of your eyesight and they can case the joint. Want a cup of hot joe and youโ€™re still stuck in the cot? Give the spirit your sense of touch and taste, and let it brew for you. The possibilities are truly limitless as long as the caster is willing to give up a portion of themselves. However, it is good to keep in mind what kind of spirit you give your senses to; as malevolent spirits will tend to abuse whatever is given to them.

BIND TH๊“ฑ D๊“ฑ๊“ฏD​
Used after the rebellion to house spirits within objects, this specific piece of Lore allowed the rebelling angels to keep human souls safe and away from His prying eyes. Although the ritual requires no materials, it is highly recommended to have a receptacle for the spirit, as well as an item of significant import to keep the spirit calm. Depending on the receptacle used, the spirit may be capable of self-autonomy. Although once considered for military use, spirits bound to puppets or dolls is frowned upon amongst the Seventh Host. However, used in good nature, it becomes a method for the angel to allow the spirit to tend to unfinished business. Xaniel, in the short time that he has been in Lone Cross, keeps a reliquary underneath the chapel altar that he uses to house any souls he comes upon. Since his habitation of Pr. Fournier, Xaniel has lost the ability to enter the interior of his reliquary, leading him to worry on the state of the spirits housed within.

Weaknesses:
- Securing materials for rituals and evocations is difficult in Lone Cross' current economical situation. To be fair, where do you even find the feather of a Sumerian bird in the new west?
- In spite of Xaniel's origin as an angel; holy objects such as crosses, statues, or consecrated grounds do give him some discomfort, the kind that urges him to flee, though these do not cause him any harm in health. However, holy artifacts or relics potent with His divinity would be more than enough to exorcise Xaniel from the material plane.
- Although the inside of Pr. Fournier is supernatural, Xaniel has only possessed a mortal. A mortal who became too ill to move before Xaniel breathed new life in it. He may be immune to poison or illness, but conventional weaponry of any particular era can cause as much damage as it would to any other.
- The vessel Xaniel has unwillingly manifested inside is far too frail to harness the full power that Xaniel had as an angel.


'All that's bright must fade, the brightest still the fleetest; all that's sweet was made but to be lost when sweetest.'​



HISTORY
May 18th, 1876
My Dearest Katherine,

As I sit to write this letter, my heart is torn between the joy of having known you and the sorrow of parting. You have always known me to be a man drawn to new horizons, unshaken by the unknown. And yet, as I prepare to venture into the wilds of this new world, I find myself shaken in a way I never expectedโ€”by the thought of leaving you behind. It is my duty to go, to follow the path laid before me, but I pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive me for the pain this distance will surely bring.

Our time together was brief, and yet it left an indelible mark upon me. Your gaze, so full of grace and kindness, lingers in my thoughts, and the memory of your touch remains as a comfort even now, though miles already stretch between us. How little I knew of you, and yet, what little I knew was enough to fill my heart with admiration and love. Had we been granted more time, I know I would have come to understand even more of the depths of your soul, the beauty of your spirit.

You are, without question, the most extraordinary woman I have ever known, and though I am bound to this new journey, I will carry the memory of you with me wherever I go. I can only hope that you will not think ill of me for leaving, for it is not out of any desire to part from you, but out of a sense of duty to the mission I must fulfill.

Though I cannot be by your side, I promise to write to you each year, on the anniversary of the night we first met. It is a small token, I know, but it is all I can offer from afar. With each letter, I will share with you the experiences of this journey, and through these words, I hope you will feel my love and devotion as though I had never left.

May your life be filled with peace, joy, and the serenity you so deserve. Until we meet again, my dearest Katherine, know that my heart is with you always.

Yours in love and faith,
Ezekiel Fournier
May 18th, 1877
My Dearest Katherine,

The sun rises once more upon this sacred day, a day to which my heart clings with fervor, for it is the occasion when I am permitted to reach out across the vast sea that separates us and offer you these poor lines. Though my hand is feeble and my ink but a shadow of the love I bear, I write now in the hope that this letter may serve as a bridge between our hearts, binding them once more in holy unity.

Ah, my beloved, how I long for the sight of your face, the sound of your voice, the comfort of your presence. Every passing day without you is but a stretch of wilderness through which I must journey, with only the light of our cherished memories to guide me. Yet, as I labor under the weight of such separation, I find solace in the knowledge that it is His will that has led me here to this foreign land, to serve in His name and for His glory. I pray you hold fast to the same faith that sustains me, as it is the beacon that will one day reunite us.

Here, in the west, the land teems with life and promise, yet it remains untamedโ€”both its wilderness and its people. The days pass like a great procession of hours, each one filled with its own toils and triumphs. Most recently, I have traveled through the towns that dot this wild frontier, and oh, the sight of the people here is a marvel. As I ride within the carriage, the very earth beneath me seems to tremble, and the wooden wheels turn with a creak that echoes like some distant song of the forest. We pass through roads where the grass grows wild on either side, and each town that comes into view greets us like a child awaiting a long-lost father.

The townsfolk, dearest Katherine, are a peculiar sort. They wave with hands rough from the soil and the stone, yet their hearts seem light, as if they are filled with the hope of new beginnings. How curious it is to see such joy upon their faces, though they dwell in places so remote and unadorned. They gather at the roadside as the carriage draws near, their voices rising in whispers and cheers, and they bless us with their smiles as though we were noblemen passing through a grand city. I cannot help but feel a pang of humility in their presence, for I, who am but a servant of the Lord, am met with such admiration and warmth. Surely, the Lord works in mysterious ways, for these people, though simple in their ways, seem to recognize His grace through us, His humble emissaries.

Each night, after the day's travels are concluded, I find myself gazing at the moon aboveโ€”that same moon that shines upon you, my beloved. It is in these moments that I feel closest to you, as though the vast sky were but a veil through which our hearts could touch. I can almost hear your voice carried upon the wind, whispering sweetly as you did when last we stood side by side.

How I long for the day when I may return to you, when this great distance will be no more, and I can hold you close once again. Until then, know that my every thought is of you, that my every prayer is for you. Be well, my dearest Katherine, and know that no matter how far this journey may take me, my love for you remains as steadfast as the moon above.
Yours in eternal devotion,
Ezekiel Fournier
May 18th, 1878
My Dearest Katherine,

Once again, the date we have both known approachesโ€”a day both sweet and sorrowful. With quill in hand and my heart full of longing, I sit to pen this letter, as I have done in years past, trusting that my words will find you across the wide ocean. Yet, my heart trembles with a weight I can no longer bear in silence. It has now been two years, and still no word has reached me from you, no token of your love or comfort to soothe this ache of mine.

Do not mistake my words for reproach, beloved, for I know not what circumstances may have befallen you, nor do I question the strength of your love. It is merely that this silence feels like the hand of some cruel wind, pressing upon me as I labor in this distant land. Each passing day that I go without your voice or your words leaves me further adrift. And yet, I remain ever hopeful, praying that perhaps your letter has simply been delayed by the whims of the world, or that soon a messenger will arrive, bearing the words that will restore light to my heart.

Until then, I must content myself with the mission set before me, for it is the Lordโ€™s will that sustains me even in these trying times. I trust that He guides us both and that our paths, though separate for now, will one day converge again.

This past year has brought little by way of excitement, Katherine. My journey, which once moved with such urgency, has now slowed to a languid pace, like a river obstructed by stones. I go from one town to the next, often with little more than a few days' travel in between, tending to the townsfolk who dwell in these remote places.

The townsfolkโ€”simple, kind souls they are. I see in them both strength and resignation to the hardships of their lives. I offer what aid I can, be it through scripture, prayer, or simple comforts. They receive me with gratitude, and yet I cannot help but feel a growing sense of discontent within myself. I had imagined that my service here would be one of great purpose, full of trials and triumphal exaltation, but now it seems as though my mission has become a slow march of monotony. I know that such thoughts are temptations of despair, but how can I help but long for more when the days blend into one another, and my heart is heavy with your absence?

And yet, as I tend to these humble souls, there are moments of tranquility. There is a purity in their simple lives, a reflection of Godโ€™s grace In their eyes, I see that my journey, albeit slow and uncertain, is not without meaning. It is a small solace, my love, but it is one I cling to, even as I yearn for the day when I shall be granted the comfort of your touch.

Do you think of me as I think of you, dearest? Does your heart still beat with mine, despite the miles and years between us? I pray each night that it does, that you are safe, that you are well, and that soon, your silence will break, and I shall be blessed with the sweetness of your response. Until that day, I remain your ever-devoted servant, trusting in the Lordโ€™s plan and holding fast to the hope that we will be reunited, either in this life or the next.
Ezekiel Fournier
May 18th, 1883
My Dearest Katherine,
It has been five long years since last I wrote to you, and even now, as I pen these words, I am struck by the breadth of time that has passed. Half a decade gone, and still no word from you, no reply to ease the ache that has settled deep in my heart. I fear that perhaps my letters have not reached you, or worse, that my words have been met with silence for reasons I cannot know. Yet, even after all this time, my love for you remains as it was on the day I first left the shores. The distance has done nothing to diminish it, though it has tested me sorely.

The years since my last letter have not been kind, beloved. For a time, I found myself wandering from town to town, languishing in despair, as though I had been abandoned not only by you but by the very purpose that once guided me so. Each town seemed a mirror of the lastโ€”faces worn with hardship, hands calloused by labor, and hearts weighed down by the burdens of life on this unforgiving frontier. I, too, began to feel as though I were lost in some endless cycle.

There were moments when I thought I might never rise from this pit, that my faith itself was failing. But the Lord, in His infinite mercy, reached down to me in my darkest hour. He reminded me of the mission I was sent here to fulfill, of the strength that lies not in grand gestures, but in perseverance, in holding fast to the path even when it seems shrouded in fog. And so, I rose, Katherine. I rose from the ashes of despair and found my purpose once more.

I now travel along the path of the first transcontinental railroad, a marvel unlike any I could have imagined. To ride upon the train is to be carried by a force far greater than oneselfโ€”a beast of iron and steam that thunders across the land, its power humbling yet exhilarating.

The landscape changes with every passing mile, and yet there is something constant in the motionโ€”an unspoken promise that we are moving ever forward, toward some distant horizon where the old and the new will meet. It is a strange and wondrous feeling, my love, to be part of something so vast, so much greater than any one man. And yet, as the train carries me through the wilderness, I cannot help but think of you, and of the life we might have shared had you been with me on this journey.

I write to you now from a place called Lone Cross, a town that lies at the edge of this new frontier. It is here that I have decided to make my stand, to establish a church and spread the Lordโ€™s gospel to those who live in these remote parts. The work will not be easy, for this land is hard and unforgiving, but I am resolved. It is here, in this humble town, that I will carry out the mission to which I have devoted my life.

I long for you to join me, Katherine. To stand by my side as I undertake this great work, to build a home here in this strange and beautiful place. Yet, I understand if you have reservations. I know the dangers and hardships that life here presents, and I would not ask you to leave the comfort and safety of home unless it is truly your desire. But know that my heart yearns for you, and that I will always hold a place for you here, should you choose to come.

You will find me in Lone Cross, Katherine. It is a small town now, but it will grow in time, just as my hope has begun to grow once more. I pray that one day soon, your footsteps will lead you here, and that we might be reunited at last. But if that day never comes, know that I shall love you until my dying breath, and that every prayer I offer is for your well-being and happiness, wherever you may be.
Yours in eternal love and faith,
Ezekiel Fournier
1884
My Dearest Katherine,

This letter, I fear, will be the last I ever write to you. A year has passed since my last, though it feels like an eternity. So much has happened here in Lone Crossโ€”work to be done, souls to be tended toโ€”but I shall not burden you with the details. My hand trembles too much to recount them, and my heart is too heavy to dwell on what has since passed.

I write now to ask for your forgiveness, one final time. I had always hoped that my letters would one day bring you back to me, that we might be reunited in this life before our Lord calls us from above. Yet now, I see that this was not to be. I have fallen ill, Katherine, and though my mind remains strong, my body has grown too weak to continue this journey much longer. There is no hope of recovery, and I have made peace with that. But before I go, I must reach out to you, as I have done so many times before, in the hope that you will hear me, even if my words arrive too late.

I long to see your face, to hear your voice just once more before my time is done. If there is any way for you to come, if you can find it in your heart to forgive the years of silence; the distance that has grown between us, then I ask that you come to me, here in Lone Cross. But if it is too much, if your life has carried you elsewhere, then know that I understand. I do not wish to burden you any more than I already have.

The thought of leaving this world without having said a proper farewell to you grieves me, but I trust that Godโ€™s will is at work in all things, even in this. Know that my love for you has never wavered, that every prayer I have spoken since I left home has carried your name to the heavens. And though I will not see the fruits of all I have worked for here in Lone Cross, I leave this world with the hope that my efforts have planted seeds that will one day grow into something beautiful.

Katherine, my beloved, I am truly sorry for the pain I have caused you, for the years I have spent away, and for the silence that has stood between us. But most of all, I am sorry that I have made you a widow. Though my time here is short, I pray that you will find peace and happiness after I am gone. If we are not to meet again in this life, then I trust that we will be reunited in the next, where no distance, no illness, and no sorrow can separate us again.

Farewell, my dearest. May God bless and keep you, now and always.

Yours in eternal love,
Ezekiel Fournier

Relationships:
TBA

Extra_ N/A


'Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that He cannot heal.'​


'Be not afraid. You will suffer no longer; for I have come to reap what He has sown.'​
 
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Name: Lazarus Love
Age: 40
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Orientation: Heterosexual
Occupation: County Commissioner (Chairman)
Appearance: b42ec17ed15675636ab592aba5530a23-3420678687.jpg
Personality: He's an ambitious and goal oriented person. Very driven, dedicated, and also stubborn Lazarus is known to be high-handed in both his business and personal dealings. No one can say that he's not fair, or a hard worker though.
History: From a Boston Brahmin family (New England Elite). Enlisted in the Union Army during the Civil War and served with distinction, even earning the Medal of Honor. Attended Miskatonic University after the end of the conflict. As county commissioner he's done a lot of work developing not only the town of Lone Cross, but communities outside of the county seat.
Miscellaneous: Although he is generally considered an honest man there are persistent rumors that Mr Love is in some way corrupted or at least benefiting from his job as Chair of the County Commission.
 
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XXV.
LA MALDICIร“N.
scroll.












Profile

NAME: Magdalena Saturnina Rincon Sandoval

AGE: 24 years old.

GENDER: Cis female.

ORIENTATION: Questioning.

SPECIES: Witch - specifically a curandera, a Mexican folk healer.

OCCUPATION: Freelancer - Mag sells small tinctures, poultices, and potions while travelling on the road, though procuring her services for curses and hexes isn't advised.



Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

Magdalena has a silhouette made up of layers. A wide brimmed hat, thick black braids down her back, brown hide jacket, heavy bags, gun on her hip, sun-blistered lips - life weighs heavy on her shoulders, yet she wears it fearlessly. Standing at 5'4", underneath it all is just a woman with tanned brown skin and wavy black hair, windswept and weathered from long travels and sleepless nights. Her eyes are dark brown- bordering on black- and almond shaped, small against a round face and baby fat that's barely left her cheeks.

You'll never find her empty handed. Mag wears her inventory wherever she goes - wherever the earth will take her, she'll have a jacket full ready of small bottles and jars for sale. Wherever in the world she is, a faint jingling will follow.





Personality

Once, there was a girl who only wanted to heal. The world only existed within the valley of her pueblo and the small cures she could offer only fueled her ideals, to travel and to heal the broken pieces of a tumultuous world. But when the truth rang in the form of loss and humiliation and bloodshed, it taught Magdalena the most harshest of lessons - nature was fair, cruelly so. She could not manipulate destiny or fate, but maybe Mag could find someone else out there in the world who could break this curse of bad luck, whatever maldicion lingered inside her that could be broken. Pragmatic, curious and scrutinizing at any moment, Mag is well versed in self-sustenance even when out travelling by herself. After arriving to the States, it's rare to even hear her speak - though she was taught some English by her father, she speaks with a notable accent and finds it easier to get by without having to speak much at all.

Something in Lone Cross is singing out to Magdalena in her sleep. Something keeps ringing through her dreams and into her waking hours, a hum of energy that rings off of her like a tuning fork. Mag trusts that fate will lead her to where she needs to be, and soon, Lone Cross will enter her horizon.

TRAITS
principled, resilient, careful, nature-oriented, loyal, deeply curious, resourceful, knowledge seeking, quietly kind, blunt, wandering soul.



History

Somewhere in Coahuila, Mexico . . .

Power laid simmering in a valley doused in sun against sharp mountains - Magdalena's small pueblo lay close to a singular leyline that sang like sweet music, a small conduit to her, to her mother, to her mother's mother, and so forth. Though curanderismo was a staple of their culture, something powerful laid within a stone's throw.

Generations upon generations of curanderos were born from this spring, and yet Magdalena's mother Betsabรฉ had struggled through each childbirth, so many children yet none that possessed the gift. Her children were her lifeline, but Betsabรฉ had been desperately trying to keep their traditions alive and pass their knowledge to the next generation. They were so isolated from the world, but over the years the world came to meet them. Soon, the food was scarce, the need for healers higher than ever. Many of the men left looking for work up north, and their elders, women and children, those who weren't fit or strong enough for the labor promised in the States, anybody left behind was who needed the most care. Broken bones, a flu that spread one year and killed two, sustos, their traditions were rooted deep in their community and Magdalena felt it was her duty to repent and serve her people as soon as her gift manifested. Her family was trusted - Betsabรฉ had been the only daughter, and it took thirty years for their next curandera to be born.

Though their father was gentle, he was in and out for work, unable to decide if he should leave for this wondrous work that his uncles and friends had left for. If she closes her eyes, Magdalena could still taste it. Her mother's cooking, that became her own cooking as she learned how to chore, the dirt on her feet, rain on her skin, the smell of her father's aftershave. It wasn't until her thirteenth birthday in the hottest night of summer that her gift arrived - it rolled in, like a slow rot, an illness that seized her body.

The world outside their small pueblo had been a slow simmering pot - waiting for tension to break as the world outside turned upside down over the years. Mexico was in an upheaval, and as she got older Magdalena's slow rise in abilities took a turn for the worst. Her mother had taught her an important lesson: they were not only gifted to heal, they could influence wonders if needed be, through rituals and practice. But it was their obligation to do good by the world. Magdalena's not sure if she still holds that optimistic outlook.

Somewhere in Coahuila was a dead teenage boy, a spell gone wrong that backfired horribly, and a warrant out for her arrest. It's been years since she hopped a train car and hightailed it along with her paisanos to what lay beyond the border, but her life on the run has been a harsh one indeed.



Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:
- Curando: Magdalena is a folk healer and witch, a practitioner who channels her magical ability through folk cures, potions, and various rituals. A witch with her power should be able to lay curses, cast hexes, or otherwise channel witchcraft but due to a curse placed upon her birth, Magdalena's abilities are doomed to backfire. Any spell she tries to place can only cause the reverse effect. It is an exceedingly frustrating curse to try and circumvent.

- Sixth sense: Though a very limited ability, Magdalena's abilities can allow her to become a conduit for power with certain preparations, and can even allow her to act as a spiritual medium, a bridge between life and death if only for a moment. She has not honed this ability at all yet, but in the present she's able to somewhat sense supernatural or otherwise unhuman energy within a few yards of herself. The hairs on the back of her neck will raise, her ears will ring, Magdalena will know and will seek it out.

HEADCANONS:
- Misses her old horse, Calabasita.
- Has become surprisingly adept at hitching rides from anyone amicably. Rode along with a travelling circus for at least six months.
- Thinks American names for places are dumb.
- Keeps a journal full of writing for practice. Sometimes journal entries in Spanish, as well as a few small maps made for herself, but many pages are dedicated to writing out names or words. Places she's been, people she's met, whatever helps her read and write English better.






MAGDALENA R.S.


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
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Rancher.















scroll

Aly



Kitsune




ใ…Žใ…Ž














01.

full name




Alyndra Saphielle








02.

age




Looks 25 (is actually 125)








03.

sexuality




Bisexual (Biromantic)




































  • Assurance.



    Trust is earned, not given freely.













โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก


Finished
 
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0.
THE FOOL
scroll.












Profile



DEMON NAME: Ornias

VESSEL NAME: Jude Foley


AGE: Vessel Age is 19

GENDER: Male

ORIENTATION: Omnisexual

SPECIES: Lesser Demon

OCCUPATION: Farrier



Appearance

DESCRIPTION:
The demon form is not meant to be looked at and Ornias wouldnโ€™t go anywhere without his โ€œvisageโ€, meaning the boy, the body that was in the wrong place at the wrong time when the last body perished.
Orniasโ€™ currant chosen visage usually carries a sharp, mischievous expression, careless grin and a sunburnt nose. He wears worn down clothes, maybe a couple sizes too big, threadbare and sunbleached. He's got hazy, gray eyes, stringy flaxen hair and smile lines that prove heโ€™s stepping into manhood. A face thatโ€™s just youthful enough to still get called a boy. Imperfect.

Ornias has always been one to choose unassuming people as he likes to roleplay as if heโ€™s just another cog in the machine, another human. Its the easiest way to get what he wants after all. Youthful exuberance is also a good excuse to hide his pesky demon make as Ornias himself is also flippant, impulsive and playful. Although not as innocent as the face suggests.
FACE CLAIM: Charlie Plummer [X]



Personality

To the naked eye Jude is a self destructive, careless, disoriented youth trying to find his place in the world but more often than not running from points in his life that arenโ€™t fun or content. Landing in one destructive environment after another.

He is, by default, chaotic because he often feels the need to express himself. He lacks a vocal filter, and is known for being frank. This mixed with his callous tendencies make for a hot temper that often highlights the more negative aspects of his personality, such as being flat out snappish.

Ornias is the personality behind Jude, however, and Orniasโ€™ being is based in indecision and easy rides and itโ€™s an undeniable fact that he doesnโ€™t have the tools to create a stable existence. Heโ€™s fun loving and rebellious to his core which also means heโ€™s often the catalyst for his own mishaps.

Try as he might, all of Orniasโ€™ decisions seem to bring him more misery than happiness. A terrible mix with the fact that he has absolutely no sense of caution and will fight for freedom without a sense of what freedom actually is. He will sacrifice everything for what he thinks he should strive for.




History

History repeats itself and to know who Ornias is you have to know why he is.

The story is a story, Ornias would tell you, itโ€™s not real. Butโ€ฆ

โ€œIt is said that during the construction of Solomonโ€™s Temple of Jerusalem eons ago Ornias appeared at sunset and took half the wages, food and energy of the young workers. The boys grow thin and weak and some died. Solomon asks one why he is losing weight, and the boy tells him about Ornias. Incensed, Solomon asks God for help to have authority over the Demon. The archangel Michael gives him a ring with a seal engraved upon it that will bestow the power upon Solomon.

Michael tells Solomon, โ€œYou shall imprison the Demon and with his help you shall build Jerusalem when you bear this seal of God.โ€ Solomon gives the ring to the boy and instructs him to fling it at the Demonโ€™s chest when he next appears and orders him to go to Solomon.

When Ornias next appears, inhabiting a workers vessel, the boy does so and shouts, โ€œCome! Solomon summons you!โ€ Ornias screams and promises to give the boy all the gold and silver on Earth if he will give the ring back to Solomon and leave him be. But the boy binds the Demon and delivers him to the king.
Solomon finds the Demon trembling at his gates and goes to interrogate him. Ornias says that he is descended from an archangel, which was a lie, and was sent away from heaven after a mistake. Solomon binds the Demon with his ring and sets him to work cutting stone from the quarry. Terrified by iron, Ornias begs for a measure of freedom, promising to call up other Demons but it is no use and he is destined for slavery until the ring belongs to no one.โ€

Nowadays Ornias hasnโ€™t been forced to work as he doesnโ€™t know the one who bears Solomon's ring. The higher demons will sometimes ask for him but not for a long time. He keeps a low profile and takes from beings who are weak and pathetic. The ones who wouldnโ€™t be missed.




Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:
- Unholy Aversion: Hanging around Ornias can make beings, specifically mortals, feel drained, tired, hungry and confused. Prolonged time can worsen the effects and weak beings like the youth or the elderly. Ornias feeds on this โ€œmortal energyโ€.
- Voice Mimicry: Can mimic voiceโ€™s heโ€™s heard at least once.
- Invulnerability: Injuries that would be fatal to humans, have very little - if any - effect on Ornias. If the โ€œvessel" receives too much damage, he will simply find another human to possess, leaving their former vessel to die. Although regeneration helps keep the meat suit mostly intact and while being hosted the human body can be made to perform extraordinary feats and resist some damage.
- Weakness to Iron
- Weakness to Holy Water
- Weakness to Exorcism
- Weakness to Higher Demons Ornias is a lesser demon, more like a thrall and must head a higher Demonโ€™s command if called upon.
- Weakness to the bearers of Solomon's seal In his past Ornias was branded with Solomon's seal and forced to work for mere mortals. Gross.






Ornias


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Applications are due tonight at midnight! Please reach out if you need more time!
 






Elizabeth "Birdie" Wilder
















hunter & hunted














โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก





Name: Elizabeth โ€˜Birdieโ€™ Wilder
Age: 26
Gender: cis woman, uses she/her pronouns
Species: Human
Orientation: bisexual
Occupation: former hunter of the supernatural, current prostitute and blood donor

Appearance:
When Birdie was born, her skin was a light brown. These days, it often has a pallor to it, as though she has been drained of color. Except for the freckles dotting her cheeks, the skin she shows off -which is quite a lot- is unblemished and free of scars. What hides behind the white ribbon choker she always wears on her neck and the matching bracelet on her right wrist is anyoneโ€™s guess.

Her hair is dark and thick, the gentle curls cascading down to her waist. She changes her hairstyle frequently, wearing it up or down or in a braid depending on her mood. She has full lips, often painted, and a long straight nose.

Birdie is a little over 5โ€™8โ€, and wears heeled boots that put her at nearly 5โ€™11โ€. She is full figured but with very little fat, and wears clothes that show off her body. There was a time when she used to enjoy perfumes and toilet waters, but instead opts for bathing often with neutral soap as her โ€˜specialty clientsโ€™ prefer her to be as unscented as possible.

She is generally very fastidious about her appearance, health and hygiene as much as is possible, to the point that it has annoyed people in the past. Sheโ€™s much less obnoxious about it now than when she was younger, and sheโ€™s proud of her good looks and having all her teeth- Admittedly, the second is not the highest bar.

Personality:
Birdie isโ€ฆ Forward, is one word to describe it. Sheโ€™s certainly not shy, which is a good thing in her profession. Hard to ask a stranger to pay to take you to bed, if youโ€™re bashful. Sheโ€™s quite socially adept, having learned the hard way that her quick wit, charming chatter, and warm grin arenโ€™t always welcome. Though she can certainly navigate a tricky social situation using those three, sheโ€™s also found that sitting in companionable silence has its own rewards.

The womanโ€™s got a healthy ego, and is not immune to flattery. She very much appreciates being appreciated, and will receive compliments with a beatific smile and maybe even a kiss on the cheek.

Though she may seem the shallow and somewhat lazy type, Birdie was raised to be a hard worker and old habits die hard. She likes to be doing something. Or someone. Idle hands and all that. She wasnโ€™t always keen to help some of her old โ€˜managersโ€™, but she likes her boss and the other girls here in Lone Cross well enough and assists around the brothel when she can. She also helps out in town when thereโ€™s occasion to, ignoring the judgemental looks of some of the church going folks whenever she passes by.

Birdie is the type to learn from her mistakes. Sheโ€™ll apologize very genuinely if she knows sheโ€™s in the wrong, it's just rare that she actually thinks she is. Sheโ€™ll often forgive others for their mistakes, but if she thinks their actions were intentional, she can nurse a grudge better than a coin-short gold miner with his last drink for the night.

History:
Birdie grew up with a gun in her hand, silver bullets in the barrel, a cross around her neck and a flask of holy water in her bag. She did not have much of a childhood- The Wilder family did not raise children, they raised protectors. People to defend humanity from the scourge of the supernatural, from the things that go bump in the night, from things that do not care about the trivial life of a mortal.

Birdie did well in this role. She thrived in it, even.

But things change, and things happen. Things happened that Birdie doesnโ€™t talk about, not with anyone. Not that she talks about her childhood as a hunter either. A galโ€™s gotta have some secrets, after all.

As far as anyone has been aware for the last six years or so, Birdie is just another fallen woman, who made her way to prostitution when she fell on hard times. But Birdieโ€™s never been quite as desperate as some of her peers.

Sheโ€™s a shrewd businesswomen, and has often managed to wrangle more lucrative arrangements with her brothel owners than others might. And if the Sheriff has an unusual issue on his hand, she offers to look into it. For a price. Sheโ€™s protective of her savings, just in case she has to run.

The first time a client hits her, she lets her manager handle it. And if they donโ€™t- Then she packs her bags and moves onto the next town. She also moves onto the next town when she finds herself digging graves in the middle of the night, a silver bulleted or staked body pushed into the earth as far as she can get.

Itโ€™s the oldest profession, after all. Thereโ€™s always a need for it, anywhere you go.

Then she heard about Lone Cross, a strange town with strange happenings. She packed her bags again- this time out of interest, instead of necessity- making sure the wooden stakes were sharp and the holy water recently blessed, and arrived two years ago.

Since then, sheโ€™s established herself at the local brothel and even started offering a more specialized service, after a long conversation with the manager. After all, the local vampires canโ€™t exactly go about draining all of their neighbors, at least without raising a fuss. So instead, they can visit Birdie- Sheโ€™ll give them her blood willingly. Not a lot and not too often, but enough to get them by.

Sheโ€™s got to be careful about it, of course. She fainted a few times from the blood loss, in the early days. But sheโ€™s mostly got the trick of it now, scheduling out her specialty clients so as not to lose her health. Sheโ€™s learned a lot. Not everything she wants to know, though, not yet.

No one in Lone Cross knows her history, and sheโ€™s buried most of her hunting equipment except for the wooden stake she keeps on her bedstand when her specialty clients visit. She hasnโ€™t killed anyone- or anything- since arriving.

Whether sheโ€™s truly put her old habits behind remains unclear. Maybe sheโ€™s just waiting for something. Or someone.


Miscellaneous:

Birdie is left handed, has a good singing voice- though she needs someone else to play the piano, as sheโ€™s awful at it- and is quite the darts player.

Something gained, something lost: Birdie made a deal with a witch when she was younger. Her mind is not exactly impenetrable, but she is very difficult to influence or read via magical or supernatural means. This has had unexpected consequences, unfortunately- It may mean her mind is protected against meddling, but it puts a target on her back if this protection is noticed by any creature hoping to do said meddling, as her resistance is stronger than most normal humans could manage on their own.

The price for this, of course, was steep. It was worth it, at the time. She believes it will continue to be, but that remains to be seen.
 





IV.
THE PUPPET.
scroll.












Profile

NAME: A name forgotten, now cruelly referred to asโ€”Marionette.

AGE: Appears to be in her early twenties before she died.

GENDER: Cis female.

ORIENTATION: Bisexual.

SPECIES: Reanimated. Yet, something else lingers below the surface.

OCCUPATION: Depends who you ask. An underling to a powerful warlock who completes all tasks asked of her. Mostly serves as a gun for hire and bounty hunter for the most coin, but considering none of that coin lines her pockets she is no more than a slave.



Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

Marionette often wonders if her skin was once kissed by the sun or if she was partial to keeping indoors. Unfortunately she will never know, her a dull, greyish complexion greedily hides those lingering questions. The skin is punctured akin to a pincushionโ€”riddled with dozens of bullet wounds that occurred before her death. A medical savant may notice the wounds were purposely non-fatal, as though someone wanted her to suffer.

Once she may of been described as striking, yet a perpetually broken nose that tilts to the left; aptly lifeless eyes, the right a milky-white in colour, while the other iris appears almost eerily black. Permanent dark rings frame her eyes, with furrowed, thick brows and clumped eyelashes. Sometimes something more can be seen in those dead eyesโ€”a glimmer of hope and longing but itโ€™s often dashed by her current predicament.

Black hair has lost its lustre and shine, brushing up against her shoulder-blades. Always tied in a loose bun with a neatly tied red, silk bow, that to anyone magically-inclined will notice it is imbued with magic.

A lithe and deceptively muscular frame that has been honed in the last eight months. A frame that is built for endurance and agility. Adorned fittingly by her Master, he has dressed her in fine leather and mostly black garbs. He enjoys dressing her up, often having Marionette change her look on a whim for his amusement.

A well-worn rifle is slung over her back. Preferring to take her targets out from a distance, but the knives that are concealed on her person show she isnโ€™t afraid to get up close and personal.

FACECLAIM: Sonoya Mizuno.




Personality

Marionette lacks identity. She wonders if the maggots in the grave managed to eat away any semblance of personality she once had. However, one who observes Marionette enough realises there is more than a shuffling corpse in front of them.

For one, she is highly observantโ€”those dead eyes seeing all. Marionette is a woman of few words, silently stalking her surroundings, in an attempt to remain one step ahead. A type of hyper-vigilance that makes it difficult for her to trust or even relax. A stoic sort that wonโ€™t allow herself to engage in most forms of hedonism.

Unknowingly to her Master, Marionette appeared to be well-read in her prior life with an inclination to high intelligence and insight. Her unpretentiousness and silence is what makes her unpredictable and dangerous. A strategist at heart, with a curious mind, but often then not will silence that part of herself for preservation. Instead she dreams, or rather lets her mind wander, considering she doesnโ€™t sleep anymore; her Master does which gives her some semblance of free time. This is enough for her, enough to keep her going for the time being until the moment is right.

Humanity is something that Marionette battles with. While out of necessity for survival she consumes human flesh (only the deadโ€”well these days) and has maimed and killed people at the behest of her Master. This isnโ€™t to say that moments of humanity glimmer underneath all that death. Marionette is kind to animals and children, and when possible ensures that she doesnโ€™t hurt the innocent. However, it all depends on the orders of her Master which messes with her sense of free-will and autonomy.

Unbridled anger simmers under it all. An anger that once made her impulsive and reckless, but her Master has worn away this rebellious side. This has made her more obedient and malleable, even without the magic. To some this makes Marionette a tragic figure and itโ€™s hard to not pity her.

That is up until she pulls the trigger or buries the knife in-between your ribs.

TRAITS
observant, intelligent, adaptable, quiet, a secret dreamer, practical, unpredictable, becoming complacent, melancholic, socially inept, stoic, reserved, non-trusting, steely, mostly obedient, forgetful, calculating.



History

Eight months ago . . .

She remembers inhaling dirt within a pathetically shallow dug grave, barely two-feet deep in the red earth. The woman clawed her way out, greedily gasping for air, as eyes saw the shadowy figure standing over her final resting place. Not even a shoddily made cross marked her grave.

The woman didnโ€™t remember anythingโ€”not even her own nameโ€”but fragments swirled around haphazardly in her reanimated brain. The figure announced themself as her โ€˜Masterโ€™, and that they were responsible for her return from the dead. Her days among the living would be spent serving them until her inevitable demise as those before her.

They crouched down, spindly, deft fingers tying a red bow in her blood-encrusted hair. To remove the bow from your person, is to cut your strings.

Four months later and the woman now had a nameโ€”or rather a pet name. Her Master explained that only those who proved their usefulness were awarded a name. The woman could read between the linesโ€”those who hadnโ€™t perished by now. Despite all the dangerous and horrific situations he would put her in, she wouldn't succumb or give up. Her Master would accept jobs across the country to those with the coins, but his hands never got dirty. That was what the woman was for.

It was a demeaning name, a name that made her sick. Yet, it was a name nonetheless. Marionetteโ€”like the puppets, you see? Itโ€™s fitting isnโ€™t it?

Another four months passed. Her Master had grown rather fond of her, he had clued on that Marionette had come back from the dead with more brains than most. It made her more useful than the countless souls that had come before her; utilising intelligence, strategy and skill instead of mindless, brute strength in the tasks he demanded of her. It also made her dangerous because he could see the autonomy that threatened to slip out. Yet, he relished in it. If not encouraged it. Spurring her on, watching her feebly attempt to escape her fateโ€”to only pull the strings he tightly grasped until she collapsed. All false hope was dashed and slowly he cracked her open. Akin to breaking in a horse, he would eventually break her in too.

For Marionette and her Master, Lone Cross was merely the next stop in their travels after receiving a rather large bounty for a wife who had fled her husband.



Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:
- Numb: Simply put, Marionette doesnโ€™t feel pain. Sometimes she longs for itโ€”to feel human again.
- Tough: Marionette can take a lot of physical damage before she is down for the count. Broken bones can be pushed back in place, mended by the consumption of flesh, while bullet wounds and melee damage do little to deter her.
- Regeneration: Flesh seems to serve more of a purpose than prolonging her inevitable demise. Marionette has found it can resolve any damage to her physical form, reverting back to when she was reanimated.
- Decaying: At the end of the day, Marionette will decay without the consumption of human flesh. Sheโ€™s easy to identify due to her smell of rot and decay that follows her around.
- Amnesia: Marionette has no recollection of her past apart from snapshots. It appears the consumption of flesh helps with aiding her memories and recall but she is often forgetful after a period of time since consumption.
- Spellbound: Marionette is under the spell of her Master who has the ability to merely speak and she must act accordingly. To end the spell she could remove the magical object on her person, but as her Master has told her it will also kill her.

HEADCANONS:
- Marionette is able to read and write but keeps this as a closely guarded secret, pretending to her Master she cannot.
- Is a good shot at long range, preferring to get higher ground and aim down the barrel of a rifle.
- Whoever dies by her hand, Marionette will always try when possible to bury them and give them some semblance of a burial marker.
- Dreams of a future beyond this all, but often wonders if its dreams or memories.
- Hums a tune when alone, one that she doesnโ€™t know the name of but knows it is sentimental to her past.
- Her Master is a powerful warlock, with an inclination to necromancy. Many came before Marionette to do his bidding but none have replaced her.
- Carries a small ledger that she writes in from time to time when she is alone to catalog her thoughts and memories.
- Marionette has no need for sleep, or rather cannot sleep.
- Enjoys watching the stars at night while her Master sleeps.
- Isnโ€™t one for words, will only speak when directed by her Master or when absolutely necessary. Partial to grunting and nodding instead.
- Surprisingly a naturally good cook when given the opportunity.






MARIONETTE.


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Last edited:





IIV.
THE DEPUTY.
scroll.












Profile

NAME: Named after his late father, Wyatt Jr. McCall.

NICKNAME/S: The other deputies call him โ€˜Juniorโ€™ to further cement he cannot fill his fatherโ€™s shoes. This has caught on with the locals in Lone Cross but prefers Wyatt or Deputy McCall.

AGE: Twenty-five.

GENDER: Cis male.

ORIENTATION: Bisexual โ€” with a lean towards men.

SPECIES: Former human recently turned into a blood-sucking parasite, as his father would say.

OCCUPATION: Wyatt is one of the deputies in Lone Cross. While he is decent at his job, always willing to help; he doesnโ€™t have the same tact and firm grasp on Lone Cross his father had.



Appearance

DESCRIPTION:

To his fatherโ€™s dismay and contrary to his name of Wyatt Jr., he looked nothing like his senior. Wyatt had many of his motherโ€™s soft features; gentle and downturned blue eyes, rounded nose and cupid bow mouth. The only facial feature in common with his father was his angular jawline but even that has been smoothed by his motherโ€™s genetics.

Secretly well-groomed blonde hair is parted down the middle and falls to the nape of his neck, brushing up against matching stubble. Since being turned, Wyatt applies a herbal remedy that darkens his complexion to try mask his vampiric status. If not for the remedy, Wyattโ€™s once golden, sun-kissed complexion has become starkly pale. Wyatt spends each morning filing down his fangs that seemingly return each night.

What Wyatt did get from his father was his height, standing at 6โ€™2โ€™, with a carved out yet stocky build from attending to errands around town that no one else wanted to do. He makes a habit of staying fit and has become self-conscious of never being a โ€˜twigโ€™, which his father berated him for being when he was a child.

Usually sporting his nickel โ€˜Deputyโ€™ badge, with some effort being placed on the clothing he wears. He is partial to whites and blues, and while he wouldnโ€™t admit itโ€”Wyatt often wears more form-fitting clothing to accentuate his figure. If it wasnโ€™t clear already, Wyatt is particular about the way he looks and how he is perceived, and frankly is one to want others to find him somewhat desirable.

FACECLAIM: Matt Barr.




Personality

Wyatt is everything his father isnโ€™tโ€”he remembers his mother soothing him as a child after his father roused on him. Nothing wrong with being sensitive Wyatt, you can change the world with kindness. Your father will understand one day. Wellโ€”his father never did. Wyatt was always told to โ€˜toughen upโ€™ and drop the deep compassion and kindness he naturally gave to others. He carried himself with high morals and a good-natured nativity that didnโ€™t always turn out well in the hostile world; especially considering the unsavoury characters that passed through Lone Cross. Yet, it never stopped him from helping those in needโ€”no matter who they were.

No matter what life has thrown at Wyatt, especially the criticism he received from his father growing up, he always radiated a cheerful and positive aura that came equipped with a soothing smile. He was always good with comforting others and found most of his deputy role was spent offering an ear or shoulder for the locals of Lone Cross.

Wyatt lets others walk over him, not one for confrontation, often being the laughing stock at the sheriffโ€™s office for the stark difference from his fatherโ€™s demeanour. This usually means that Wyatt is given a list of tasks that the other deputies donโ€™t want to do and will not complain. In fact, Wyatt is hard-working and dutiful, and will spend most of his time working to better the lives of those within Lone Cross.

Wyatt holds a lot of guilt and resentment for his parentโ€™s murders. A deadly concoction of self-criticism and self-judgement further developed from his fatherโ€™s consistent criticism as a child. He craves love and adoration from others and has a unstable sense of self that can be dependent on the approval of others.

TRAITS
good-natured, clumsy, dutiful, sensitive, resilient, caring, cheerful, compassionate, self-critical, too idealistic, patient, hopeless romantic, steadfast, self-conscious, overly forgiving, cautious, naive.



History

A year ago . . .

โ€œUgh, fineโ€ฆโ€ Wyatt conceded, gesturing towards the saloonโ€™s barkeep, โ€œlast one, alright? I gotta get home before my father skins my hide.โ€ Two glasses of sloshing, amber liquid were pushed in front of him and the mysterious gentlemen by his side.

โ€œThatโ€™s right, I get the privilege of talkinโ€™ to the sheriffโ€™s son, eh?โ€ He was fifteen years his senior. The southern twang in his tone enveloped an alluring spell on Wyatt. Nothing more than some gunslinger passing through Lone Crossโ€”but that is what made this more exciting.

โ€œAh, yesโ€ฆmy fatherโ€ฆโ€ A long-winded sigh and a pause that lingered a second too long. โ€œHeโ€™s been the sheriff for most of my life. I thinkโ€ฆyeahโ€”almost twenty years now.โ€ Wyattโ€™s father was well-respected and a cherished fixture in Lone Cross. He kept this place moving like a well-oiled machine. He could stop a drunken fight by merely pushing through the saloonโ€™s doors. It was a mixture of fear and respect, but his father also had a softer sideโ€”not that Wyatt ever got to experience it. His father treated him like a child. Even now he had a bed time.

โ€œSo what would the sheriff have to say about his sonโ€ฆโ€ The manโ€™s stool inched closer, his dusty-panted thigh against his own. Wyattโ€™s cheeks flushed, โ€œ..talking to some stranger well after midnight?โ€ The cowboy dangerously grinned. Wyatt downed the rest of his drink.

***​

Buckling up his pants and tousling his hair, Wyatt stumbled out from the all-too-familiar alleyway behind the saloon. The night sky swayed above Wyatt, threatening to crush him. A searing, welcomed pain thumped in his skull. It quietened the thoughts that swirled in his head.

Thankfully it wasnโ€™t a far walk back to his home. Part of him hoped his father was still awakeโ€”that he would see his son didnโ€™t return home when told. This pitiful rebellion had developed in his late adolescence. Instead of confronting his father for his relentless teachings, arguments, orders and abuse he preferred a more subdued approach. One that he knew pissed his father off. Wyatt giggled to himself like a mischievous schoolboy.

Wyatt enjoyed the rhythmic sound of his boots crunching up against the gravelly road. He relished the walk-of-shame; the light tingling on his lips from the strangerโ€™s beard, the late-night stumbling from too much liquid courage and the sense of closeness and intimacy to someoneโ€”albeit short lived. Above all he loved his fatherโ€™s reaction. There was something about being able to watch his face scrunch up in explosive anger for something Wyatt purposely did to get this exact reaction. Usually he got the reaction as a child for a lot less. It didnโ€™t matter if he polished all of his fatherโ€™s boots and spurs until the crack of dawn. Or if he split open his knee but picked himself up without tearing up. No matter what he couldnโ€™t please his father.

That is why he was surprised when his father asked him to be a deputy, and to eventually take over his fatherโ€™s role as sheriff. Wyatt couldnโ€™t imagine anything worse. Sure his father was getting old but he hadnโ€™t softened with ageโ€”he still made it clear how useless of a son he was.

Wyattโ€™s eyebrow cocked at the warm glow emitting from the open door to his parentโ€™s modest, wooden home in the middle of town. It sobered him up a bit, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. His father wouldnโ€™t have left the door open. He purposely locked it after Wyattโ€™s bedtime.

Stairs creaked with each slow ascent towards the door. The buzzing from flies emitted inside. Something was terribly wrong. Wyattโ€™s stomach churned, bile on his tongue.

โ€œMa?โ€ Wyatt croaked out, hand steadying himself on the entryway. He could see a bare leg jutting out from the kitchenโ€™s doorway. Bloody footprints were treaded throughout the hallway.

Wyatt forced one foot to move ahead of the other. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. The silence was deafening, only causing the buzzing of the flies to bounce around in his head.

Then he saw it. The absolute massacre in front of him. The kitchen may as well of been painted red. His motherโ€™s paisley-blue nightdress was tattered. Her mouth ajar but frozen in time. He knew she wasnโ€™t alive considering her torso was on the other side of the room. As for his fatherโ€”he was unrecognisable. The only reason he could tell it was his father was by the glimmering sheriff badge pinned into the stump where his head used to be.

A month ago . . .

โ€œHey, Junior, Keatingโ€™s widow needs those hay bales tied and stacked.โ€ Deputy Carter jeered, a rumble of laughter coming from the other deputies.

โ€œSure thing, Carter.โ€ Wyatt grinned through the annoyance. He enjoyed Ms Keating, and frankly spending the night stacking hay bales beat listening to these morons.

Wyatt made his way through town, familiar faces waving towards him. Heโ€™d dip his hat in return, offering an easy smile. Wyatt only took up the deputy role because of the guilt he felt after his parentโ€™s murders. It dulled his grief enough to get out of bed each morning. They didnโ€™t have much of a choice but to appoint him as a sheriff, without his fatherโ€™s leadership, Lone Cross needed more warm bodies keeping everyone in line. Not that he would ever admit it to his father but he was enjoying the job. He got to help more people in town and had garnered some semblance of authorityโ€”even if it was undermined by the other deputies. While the other deputies were sent out to deal with โ€˜real problems and crimeโ€™, Wyatt was given a long list of tasks that no one else would do. Heโ€™d become a jack-of-all trades in the last year; from farming, hauling, cleaning, building to even scaring rats out of the saloon. Wyatt knew it was nothing in comparison to what his father provided for this town. Yet, he felt a sense of pride in being able to make a small, impactful difference in the lives of those within Lone Cross.

Wyatt spent the afternoon stacking up the hay bales while Ms Keating provided him with tea and recounted the same old tales she told him each visit. He was sure she was losing her marbles but he found it comforting hearing the same stories. He enjoyed the sense of knowing what to expect.

The sun had tucked itself away over the hills, the moon illuminating Wyattโ€™s gleaming upper body. He had decidedly taken off his shirt when he started this afternoon. The last year had carved out his physique with defined muscle. Not minding the lingering stares from the men and women of Lone Cross while he worked away. In fact, he seemed to have someone admiring him nowโ€”a shadow that was only identifiable as a person by their blinking, pearlescent eyes.

โ€œYou know, I donโ€™t mind the staringโ€”but you could at least introduce yourself.โ€ Wyatt announced smoothly, leaning on the pitchfork that he speared into the earth. The figure leered, creeping from behind the barn in one stride.

Wyatt stood there somewhat awkwardly, having expected them to say something. Instead they moved forward silently. Eyes blinking at a steady, rhythmic pace.

โ€œThe silent tyโ€”โ€œ Wyattโ€™s words caught in his throat. It felt as though his tongue had shrivelled up. He was unable to speak. Wyatt fumbled backwards, almost losing his footing from the hay strewn about. He couldnโ€™t believe what he was seeing. Shaky hands tried to loosen the holster around his fatherโ€™s pistol.

He couldnโ€™t take his eyes off the stranger.

The figure was smiling. The same dangerous grin. Unlike that fateful nightโ€”fangs menacingly protracted from his grin.



Extra

POWERS & ABILITIES:
-wip.

HEADCANONS:
- Doesnโ€™t feel he will ever be worthy enough to wear his fatherโ€™s sheriff badge that resides in a drawer.
- Has been able to hide his identity as a vampire to most of the unsuspecting residents of Lone Cross.
- Definitely has major daddy issues.
- Used to wear his late motherโ€™s silver necklace, but since he has turned he canโ€™t wear it without burning his skinโ€”it now mocks him, hanging on his bedpost.
- Youโ€™ve got a tedious task you canโ€™t be bothered doing? Deputy Wyatt is your guy!
- Ironically is religious and would attend the local church each Sunday. Now he canโ€™t even display the crosses in his home.
- Survives on animal blood, vowing to never consume human blood, despite the growing and insatiable urge building up.
- Wanted to be a farmer when he was younger. Serves his desire by religiously helping a late farmerโ€™s widow tend to the crops of a local farm in Lone Cross.
- Will always prefer to solve a civil matter before resorting to violence or arresting someone.
- Carries his fatherโ€™s pistol but is yet to use it since it came in his possession.
- Vows to kill the man who turned him.





WYATT JR. MCCALL.


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Last edited:







X.
THE EXORCIST















โ„ญ๐”ž๐”ฒ๐”ค๐”ฅ๐”ฑ ๐”ฆ๐”ซ ๐”ฑ๐”ฅ๐”ข ๐”‰๐”ฆ๐”ฏ๐”ข
Klergy

๐”…๐”ฌ๐”ก๐”ถ
NAME: Theodora Fern
NICKNAMES: Sister Fern, Thea
AGE: Thirty-Four
GENDER: Cis-Female
ORIENTATION: Bisexual
SPECIES: Human
OCCUPATION: Missionary from Advent Lutheran Church
is actually an exorcist of demons and the corrupted divine

๐”„๐”ญ๐”ญ๐”ข๐”ž๐”ฏ๐”ž๐”ซ๐” ๐”ข
"To be made of flesh was humiliation."​

The first thing one notices about Theodora might be her green eyes, a face covered in freckles, her unruly brown hair that, even though it is pulled back, still makes a dewy corona around her head, her herringbone styled pile coat, or maybe it would be the clerical collar around her neck. Her cassock is the same black as any other clergyman but has thick brown dust highlighting every edge and crease. It cinches in at the waist before coming down less as a robe and more as a dress. On her feet are a set of brown packer boots, worn and broken in thousands of times over. Sometimes, she wears a large-brimmed black hat that encircles her head like a full moon made of ink. There's nothing on her that is ostentatious unless one believes that a woman shouldn't be in the church.

Theodora's silhouette, especially in the black cassock, looks like an ominous shadow stretched across a rickety board on the floor. She's long with stately shoulders, matronly hips, shapely muscular arms, and long legs that account for her short waist. It's hard to guess her age, given that her eyes glimmer and shine like a starlit maiden, but then knife-sharp lines around her eyes denote that she has seen some evils. Her cupid bow lips make it easy to smile and assure, but she is quick to speak of the wrath of God. She's chipped a tooth, which gives her a bit of a mischievous look, but it's offset by the prominent cheekbones but deep-set blue eyes. While these would sound like attractive features on another woman, Theodora is not a polished marble statue but a cracked effigy to the idea of a woman. She's been abused by the harsh nature of the world around her, and she doesn't hide it.

Her voice is deep and rough, as if she has inhaled smoke since she was first pushed from the womb, but it is clear and with an alluring cadence that marks the word of God. Theodora's fingers are calloused, but not from working on the land but from taking every issue and problem into her own hands to fix it. She believes most things can be fixed with the right scripture and labor. If they can't, well, they're antithetical to God's plan.

FACECLAIM: Elissa Bibaud

๐”“๐”ข๐”ฏ๐”ฐ๐”ฌ๐”ซ๐”ž๐”ฉ๐”ฆ๐”ฑ๐”ถ
"Pitch black winter nights live in my bones."​

Theodora is welcoming, kind, and outspoken about her beliefs. She speaks clearly and always from the stomach, so her voice can cleave through even the loudest areas. She knows to smile afterward and ask for forgiveness before reminding everyone of their place in the world as God's children. She never turns down to speak to someone in need of guidance. Maybe she doesn't have the answer right then and there, but she will think about it, pray, and return with her earnest suggestion. She is a kind soul but doesn't let anyone abuse that kindness.

Of course, that's all the part she plays. Theodora is an enigma to most. The only thing she seems to love is God, as she spares no love for herself.

๐”“๐”ฌ๐”ด๐”ข๐”ฏ & ๐”„๐”Ÿ๐”ฆ๐”ฉ๐”ฆ๐”ฑ๐”ฆ๐”ข๐”ฐ
"My head is bloody but unbowed."​

Powers

NOTHING BUT HER FAITH​

Abilities


CLERGYWORK: While many wouldn't believe this to be an ability, it's insanely helpful in keeping her house and soul in order. Because the thing that will protect people against the evils of this world, both perceived and real, is a strong foundation and an even more robust structure.
MARKSMANSHIP: People will loathe to admit that Theodora can outshoot them. She's a woman, after all, and these things aren't meant for her. But put a rifle in her hands, and she can shoot the beer bottle out of your hand from a ways. How she learned such a skill, many don't know, but it has been handy taking care of the rats that occasionally find themselves in the larder of the boarding house she is staying in.
SWORDFIGHTING: Among Theodora's few worldly possessions is a pure silver blade with holy markings inscribed, with a handle made of oud and inlaid with gold. While she is no knight of old, she can wield it with surprising efficiency.
EXORCIZING DEMONS: And now we get to Theodora's primary mission, her ability as an exorcist. While it is usually a station held in the Catholic faith, she's learned to adapt it to her Lutheran doctrines. Usually, those of the Lutheran faith believe that not giving demons their belief or their faith is enough to deter them; Theodora has seen them in the flesh. They don't possess a mortal's soul and try to leech it out like a hole in a bucket; instead, they are physical manifestations that are more than happy to snatch up one's body and soul. She has taken it upon herself to learn everything she can about the subject to be a righteous sword against their corruption.

โ„Œ๐”ฆ๐”ฐ๐”ฑ๐”ฌ๐”ฏ๐”ถ
"So violently I know the world."​

Rivulets of holy water traveled down from the hilt of Theodora's sword, mixed with blood, and sizzled against the flesh of the creature below her. He begged and pleaded for her to stop. They were all lies, hoping he could appeal to her motherly natureโ€”despite being the reason she was no longer one. His flesh warped and twisted, reflecting his demonic nature as Theodora only pushed harder on the blade. She could feel his body's crunch underneath the blade's pressure. It felt good. "I didn't lie, Thea, when I said I loved you," the demon said, his face twisting into her husband. It hurt so bad to see it, the light from the burning cornfields around them bathing it in an eerie pale light.

"Cease demon," she commanded. "Tell me, when did you kill him? When did you take his face?"

"I never took his face. It was always mine."

"Liar!" she exclaimed, pulling the sword from his chest and holding it above her. "I cast you back to Hell." She paused, the tears stinging her ash-covered face. "Tell Odette that Mommy is coming for her soon." She then decapitated the creature. The area around her became bright and painful, blinding her and ripping her hands away from the sword. She crashed against the ground, and there was nothing but blackness afterward.

birth & its rigors

Theodora Pratt was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she strained against it so hard she chipped her tooth. Or at least, that's the story that her mother told. The girl never knew any sensibilities, stretching out every polite sentiment to its breaking point before withdrawing. She was an absolute monster of a child and a heathen of a young lady. However, her life had afforded her some luxuries. She could read, write, debate, consider philosophy, play the piano, write poetry, hunt game with her father, and swordfight.

The last of them wasn't exactly asked of her as a young woman in high society, but something she had asked to learn after seeing it at a fair. Her parents were against it, rebuking her interest as insanity, but she eventually wore them down. Initially, they tried to get her into fencing, but she conned the teacher into teaching her sabers. And sabers then evolved into broadswords. By the time her parents had learned of her training, she was so in love with it that parting her from this love would send her spiraling. So, all they had to do was cope until she became infatuated with something else. Little did they know it would be someone else.


a romantic period

She met Elias Fern when she was eighteen, as he filled in for their regular pastor at the church. It had been an absolutely miserable day, and Theodora assumed that the old pastor's bones had softened in the rain. Pastor Fern stood before the congregation, his form as meek as a mouse and his eyes hidden behind thick glasses. Theodora boredly thumbed through her Bible as they were working up to his sermon. The older women in the congregation snickered and shuffled in their seats, boredly fanning themselves. Yet, when he started to speak, his voice was as clear and relaxing as a stream trickling over a pebbled basin. Everyone hushed as he spoke so passionately about hope, love, and forgiveness; they almost forgot that their usual pastor only liked to bathe them in fire and brimstone. When he finished, a silence passed through the church as a few "amens" popped up, and they moved on to readings. Maybe others had thought him too soft, but Theodora had found him perfect.

During their first date, Theodora had worn blue and rarely spoke of swords or hunting with her father. By the fourth, she was garbed in red and told him about her adventures in the areas not made for women. He listened raptly, finding her charismatic nature as enthralling as she had found his sermons. They fit each other, her a thorned rose bush and him a gloved hand. Barely a year after they had met each other, they were wed in New York City. She decided to take up his name and mission, sloughing off her entitlements to be with him. And, of course, his mission would take him west. He found NYC too confining and aimed to spread the word of God into the world.

finding god

Theodora had been excited about the mission when they first started, but by the time they landed in the West, she had begun to learn why her family was so adamant and why she would hate it. It was dry and hot, and the dust caused her to sneeze and hack more than she cared for. Being the wife of a pastor was a strange thing. She was happy to help him set everything up, clean things, and tear them down. She ensured everything was perfectly suitable for his sermons, and he was happy to have her help. The congregation members quickly called them Yankees, and they looked down on her not being the perfect pastor's wife. She initially scoffed at them, but her husband begged her to try to make friends. Theodora was not the friend-making type. It was in that time of isolation, that she would take her husband's sermons and start pouring through them, editing them, and adding a bit more here and there to make them more palatable to a different audience. It was at that time she found herself discovering the word of God more and more enrapturing.

Years passed, and Theodora and Elias were happy to welcome a child into their home. They called her Odette, and she was the light of their life. Unfortunately, she was prone to illness, and during one terrible weekend when she was racked with chills so bad that all she could do was scream and cryโ€”Theodora couldn't tend to her anymore. Elias stepped in at that moment, seeing how his wife was at the end of her wits. They were waiting for a doctor to come and tend to the fever. The pastor felt it was his duty to stay with their child and told Theodora to head to church and let everyone know that the Sunday sermon wouldn't happen. Racked with guilt but understanding that her husband meant well by it, she headed to church. Everyone who came to the door sniped at her about her turning them away, but she didn't have the energy to appease them. As the sun set, Theodora closed and locked the doors, spending some time in the church before heading back. Yes, it felt selfish, but she didn't know what to do. Elias was as perfect as ever; she was just a chaotic storm in his life. Looking up at the meager stained glass window at the far end of the church, she saw a strange shadow. At first she thought it a bird, but as she approached it the glass shattered and rained all around her. At her feet landed a beautiful sword the likes of which she had never seen. Theodora looked up to see something that, to this day, she is incapable of describing, but she knew in her heart it had to be an angel. And it told her to go homeโ€”that her daughter was in danger.

losing god

There was no sound when she kicked down the door of her home. Theodora's heart fell to the pit of her stomach. She held the sword tight in one hand as she ran through the house to Odette's room. There, she saw the most horrific sight; her daughter was lost to her, and worse yet, everything pointed to the fact that her body and soul had not been committed to Heaven but instead sent to Hell. Elias was nowhere to be found, but his markings were everywhere. It had been him that had done this. But... why? Theodora crumpled to the ground and spent tears from her eyes until there were none left to give, until the sea would be jealous of what she had created, and she would flood the world with grief.

a sacrilegious ordaining

God had given her the sword... to what? Theodora hadn't been able to protect anything. At first, she loathed the thing. Then she came around thinking she could use it to slay her husband. Why not? He'd taken something beautiful from the world; it was only fair that he pay for it with blood. Maybe the beginning of her road was selfish, but as she pushed forward, following the trail of the creature named Pastor Fern, she felt herself being called more and more to action. He'd hurt so many people, and every place he visited was desecrated and coated in blood. Theodora took it upon herself to clean up the mess he had caused. To sanctify the filth he'd created. And in this task, she found her calling. The words from God came easier and easier, and her belief lit her chest like a furnace in a train. The brighter it glowed, the more determined she was.

When she was in a small city, Ashburg, tending to the masses and cleaning up the mess left by her husband, she befriended a Catholic Priest, Sam McDonnell. By all accounts, she and Father McDonnell shouldn't have gotten on, but he found her and said they shared the same mission. He taught her what he knew of exorcising demons and actually believed her when she spoke of everything she had seen. She spent some years under his tutelage and hunting down more minor demons in Ashburg. At that time, she was ordained as a pastor of God by her superiors. While she wasn't promised to a congregation, she was promised to her mission.

Priest McDonnell died at the hands of her husband at the Fillmore Farm outside of Ashburg. Shortly thereafter, Theodora exorcised the creature that had worn his face, hopefully sending his soul to Heaven and the demon returned to Hell. She buried two bodies that morning, but the demon's words rang out in her mind: "What I have done is nothing but a drop in a bucket of what awaits the future in Lone Cross."

lone cross

There was no grand entrance when Theodora Fern came to town. She was just a woman in all black hopping off the train with a small collection of luggage and a long, cylindrical tube that many could assume held a camera. Around her neck was a cross. It swung, catching the sun and threatening all that beheld it. She had only been a few months, but she attended every sermon. She observed everyone there with an eye that many might call watchful, but others would know it as judging.

๐”Š๐”ž๐”ฉ๐”ฉ๐”ข๐”ฏ๐”ถ​
"Tell me where did the blood on your palms come from? Self-Divination, or sacrifice?"​










THEODORA FERN


coded by xayah.แƒฆ
 
Last edited:






RAHUL. | WIP.
















BANKER,




& SOMETHING WORSE.










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก



 
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