Futuristic 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐚 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 CHARACTERS

[mother of sorrows]

artwork by joao ruas!​

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓.

Hi, hi and welcome to the character sheets! Some stuff to note before jumping into the sheets themselves;
✦ lgbt+ and diverse characters are very much welcome.
✦ please be reasonable with your characters!
✦ keeping some secrets for yourself is welcome.
✦ quality > quantity. codes are not necessary! i would love to see characters with their own issues, ambitions, goals and flaws. c:
✦ once again, this will not be first come first serve.
This code has a hidden scroll, with the sheet below!


𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐓.

Full Name:
Nickname: (if applicable)
Age: (21+)
Species:
Gender: (if applicable)
Sexuality:

Faceclaim: (only realistic, please!)
Appearance: (if using a faceclaim, you can delete this or add bonus info)

Personality:
Background: (this doesn't have to be long or detailed; you can write only what other characters are aware of, keeping some secrets for yourself!)
Extra:
Reputation: (very much optional but just to add a lil bit of spice,you can write what the talk in town is about your character; rumors, scandals, etc. this does not have to be accurate or even true, but this is just to add some fun to character interaction later on!)

Feel free to add anything to the sheet or customize it as you see fit, but please don't delete anything (with the exception of appearance/faceclaim and reputation). Have fun and if you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask in the OOC!

 

[SavannahSmiles]

(Still a bit of a work in progress but yay pretty code)

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  Ari.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  her angel eyes saw the good in many devils.

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the dark

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  beth crowley

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  full name

  
  
  

  Artemis Aarin

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  nickname(s)

  
  
  

  Ari

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  species

  
  
  

  Angel of Light

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  gender

  
  
  

  Female | She/Her Pronouns

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  age

  
  
  

  Physically appears to be 22 years old, though she is relatively young by Angel standards

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  sexuality

  
  
  

  Pansexual

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  faceclaim

  
  
  

  Vanya Jagnić

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  appearance

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hair style

  
  
  

  Long curls that tumble towards her waist, white in color. Most days Artemis will let her curls tumble loose around her shoulders or she will pull small sections away from her face and secure them with a bow at the back of her head, with some loose pieces framing her heart-shaped face.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  eyes

  
  
  

  Azure in color like the bluest ocean, Artemis's eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes. They are generally bright with joy but will turn a stormy blue whenever she is upset.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  complexion

  
  
  

  Golden freckles that shimmer in the light (WIP)

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  physique

  
  
  

  Lithe and slender, Artemis seems small for the age that she appears and is often mistaken for being younger than she actually is. Her blue eyes are her most noticeable feature, set in a heart-shaped face with rounds cheeks and a delicate nose.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  wings

  
  
  

  White to gold ombre at the tips. (WIP)

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  attire

  
  
  

  Click for Aesthetic

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  height

  
  
  

  4'11" | 150 cm

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  weight

  
  
  

  100 lbs | 45 kg

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  eye color

  
  
  

  Blue

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hair color

  
  
  

  White

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  psyche

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ☾ personality ☽

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  Due to her up-bringing, Artemis can come across as timid to strangers, but she is simply withdraw, afraid of letting her true personality show for fear that it will be ill-received. Until she has a chance of warming up to someone, she remains distant but polite. Once she does feel comfortable around someone, Artemis has been shown to have quite the curious nature, never seeming to run out of questions or inquiries. She has a playful demeaner at times, with an adventurous spirit that beckons her into the unknown.
  
  Artemis is fairly decent at masking her emotions, which leads others to believe she is calm and collected but in reality, she is just able to hide how she is truly feeling. A kind-hearted soul by nature, Artemis's empathetic tendencies lead her to lending a helping hand whenever she is able and she is unable to turn away from a person in need of help.
  
  Her sheltered up-bringing has left her innocent to the true horrors of the world and as such, Artemis can be quite gullible at times, which when combined with her empathetic nature, can lead her to being fooled by those with ill-intentions. Artemis can also be a bit of a perfectionist; she tends to be very hard on herself when she is unable to complete a task to her satisfaction.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ☾ likes/dislikes ☽

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  『 LIKES: 』WIP
  
  
  
  『 DISLIKES: 』WIP
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ☾ fears ☽

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ➳ (WIP)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  background

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  backstory

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  From the moment she came into existence, Artemis's kind nature and sweet disposition has curated positive favor from many of the higher ranking angels. Her peers would whisper behind her back that she was the favorite and the treatment that she received from the higher ups caused jealousy and anger to grow in many of her fellow peers. At first, Artemis was oblivious to the envious eyes that stared at her wherever she went but soon her eyes were opened to the feelings of the other angels. Her ears tuned in to the whispers that would cease whenever she came within hearing and she couldn't help but notice that many would either move away from her when she entered a room or leave it entirely. Anytime Artemis tried to converse with them she was ignored and eventually, she became withdrawn from her peers, hiding her hurt underneath a mask of polite smiles.
  
  The higher ranking angels were none the wiser on how Artemis was being treated, the behavior mysteriously vanishing the second anyone of higher prestige was nearby. This cycle continued for a long time, the negative feelings building until it reached a boiling point. One day, Artemis was thrown for a loop when she was approached by one of her peers who apologized for how Artemis was being treated and explained that they wanted to make it up to her.
  
  Artemis was delighted and readily agreed to meet up with a group later that night. Artemis spent the rest of the day in an excited state, joyous that perhaps this was her chance to finally make some friends. Night finally rolled around and Artemis practically skipped to the meeting place. But the second she walked through the door she knew something was very, very wrong. Blood was spilled across the floor, splattered on the wall and the twisted body of an angel laid in a cooling pool of blood.
  
  She could barely hear the screams and cries of the other angels through the ringing in her ears and it wasn't until later when she was sitting in a cell that she realized she had been set up and framed. Bitter and heartbroken tears spilled down her cheeks, the angel unable to understand why they would do something like this; what had she ever done to them?! She tried to plead her innocence but her peers had rallied together and all corroborated that she was the one who had slain the angel.
  
  There were simply too many testimonies against her and her punishment was quickly enacted.
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Reputation

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  (very much optional but just to add a lil bit of spice,you can write what the talk in town is about your character; rumors, scandals, etc. this does not have to be accurate or even true, but this is just to add some fun to character interaction later on!)
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  Extra

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  (WIP)
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  gallery

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  HC'S

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ↬ Scrunches up her nose when she is confused about something
  ↬ Taps her fingers together when she is trying to lie
  ↬ Twirls her hair when she is nervous
  ↬ Bakes when she is stressed
  ↬ Tends to force a smile when she is upset or angry, she pretends that everything is fine
  ↬ Loves baking and cooking
  ↬ Flusters easy, blushes even easier
  ↬ Love language is physical touch
  ↬ She tends to hum softly to herself whenever she is concentrating on something
  ↬ Tends to walk around silently, like a cat. Probably needs a little ankle bracelet with a bell on it to avoid spooking people.
  ↬ Has to touch any soft or fluffy thing she comes in contact with
  ↬ Will try to pet every dog that she sees
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  light manipulation

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Constructs

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  She is able to manipulate the light she generates into physical constructs and golems. Anything she creates has to be something she has seen before and understands the mechanics of. So for example, it would be easier for to create a knife than it would be to create a gun due to the gun having more intricate parts.
  
  Any golem she creates has to be an animal or creature she has seen face to face before and cannot be from illustrations. Anything she creates has durability and if it takes too much damage, it will shatter. This rule applies to any shield or barrier she creates.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Illumination | Will O' Wisps

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  She is able to generate light to illuminate dark spaces and can use her light in a bright burst to temporary blind her adversaries.
  
  Aside from simply illuminating a room, she is able to create small, floating balls of golden light that hover around her.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

♡design by natasha., coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

the leader

narmemuth, seventh hand of the seventh shoulder

also known as: dumb asshole

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓-𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐒.

Age: Not old, not young.
Species: Demon.
Gender: None. Uses any pronouns.
Sexuality: Liking someone is enough.

Appearance: You hear the skittering of a dozen feet above you, like a spider's prattle-whisper.

It is disgusting. It is horrifying. It grins and it grins and it never stops smiling, it's open, heaving maw drooling hot blood upon the wooden floor. There are too many teeth for you to count, sharp and mismatched in sizes. It unveils it's jaw and swallows a living, thrashing thing whole.

It's torso is grossly elongated with more ribs than any humans should have and they shiver with each long, beating, echoing breath; even when you dare not look, you can feel the walls moving in every inhale and exhale. It has too many arms.

And it sees you. Even with two gaping eyes it still sees you. You wish it didn't call out to you. Not in that two-tonal, whispering voice, the one in which you swear you can hear your own echo.

You think it knows this. You think it is mocking you.

Personality:

Background: Narmemuth slipped into existence so quietly, Hell did not even notice.

Some minor lord ruling over a pit of souls dragged something out of nothing and set that something to math; that is the reason for many demons still shaking with the sweet shock of existence, made only to work and do so mindlessly. If asked to, Narmemuth will struggle to remember the hazy, soft early days, their mind still in a pseudo-womb and squirming against the glimpse of thought.

Other:

• official leader. Unofficially the one winning their Twitter arguments.
• eats the paperwork when they're angry.
• will help you with math homework for free.
• yells that 'I will turn this car around.'

 

[EbonChevalier]

WORK IN PROGRESS DONE!

Spoiler: Aimalio

Full Name: Aimalio Who Rouses The Meek To Action
Nickname: Leo
Age: Their body is that of a fit young man in his mid-twenties
Gender: He/They
Sexuality: Still working that out.

Face claim:
Appearance: Their true form would drive those who look upon it to righteous madness. But bound and lessened as they are still sight to look upon. The head of a powerful lion rests on its shoulders. Their body is that of a young man but their skin seems to be blacked as if it was burnt. There is a hole in their chest that reveals their heart. Beating wildly, covered in thorns and bleeding. Both their arms are made of shining bronze. From the end of their shoulders to the tips of their fingers. Burning Bronze wheels pierce the backs of their feet. Their voice is that of meek and low screaming up at the mighty and high in defiance.

POWERS: The bronze wheels on their feet make them faster and help them fly. Their bronze arms are malleable and can reform themselves into various weapons. Their eyes can see the best version of anyone he looks at.

Personality: Aimalio has a great love for the weak. It was more than likely carved into his soul at the moment of his creation but it is sincere. As the angel of the meek, he cares a great deal for the poor, the weak, and the marginalized. Their bleed constantly in compassion for his charges. He wishes them to be safe and to lead long fulfilling lives. But part of his nature urges him to inspire them to be greater. It could be as simple as teaching a bullied child how to stand up for themselves. Or helping someone learn to live with a disability. He is at his core an angel that inspires and encourages change for the better.

But change is never easy or painless.

Being an adversary is among his duties. He must be the force that encourages change. And his lessons can be hard to learn. He's hounded alcoholics and drug addicts into rehab. Forced people to confront their great fears and flaws head-on. He does this not out of malice but because he can see. He can see the best versions of the mortals he looks upon. What they could become if they push themselves to be greater. They have an understanding of the autonomy of mortals, but when they can see the path to their best selves it seems trivial. He fights against that instinct and seeks to understand the limits of mortals while pushing them toward their realized selves.

Background: They were born an aeon ago when Gedreel was wounded in combat against the bound one. Every drop of blood that flowed from his wound became a Dynamic angel of action. Their purpose and names were given to them by their father before he jumped back into battle. Aimalio being the least among them was tasked with guardianship and improvement of the meek.

Like many angels, he fell into his task with a mechanical zeal. Protecting the weak and challenging them to be greater. For a long time, he saw he charges not people but projects. Things to be observed protected and improved when needed. That was until he watched over Marcus. Marcus had grown up in a broken home with abusive parents. He struggled in school, was ostracized for his sexuality, and used drugs to cope with the harshness of life. The people who passed up Marcus saw a washed-up drug addict. Aimalio saw an artist with a unique vision to share with the world.

But subtle means he tried to help Marcus kick the drugs and discover the talent in him. But it seemed the city itself stymied any attempt to help him. Clinics were shut down. Shelters were always full. And there always seemed to be a dealer willing to feed his addiction. Faced with a problem he couldn't solve with his usual approach he took some drastic measures. Seeing that drugs were the biggest problem in Marcus's life. He went out of his way to keep any substance out of his hands. Effectively forcing him to go cold turkey. This didn't go as well as Aimalio had hoped. As the intense withdrawal symptoms caused Marcus to go into shock. Aimalio rushed him to the nearest hospital but they were unable to save him. Marcus was given cremation that was paid for out of Aimalio's pocket. Aimalio themselves withdrew from the company of angels and mortals for decades.

Having failed at the reason for their creation Aimalio felt lost. Having failed at the reason for his creation they did not trust themselves to guide mortals. But the Dynamic nature they inherited from their mother/father meant they could not sulk long. There must be action! If they could not guide mortals to their best selves. They could at least ensure they had a world to live in. Aimalio joined the Government Branch of Apocalyptic Prevention. Ignoring the comments 'No Bitches' and 'Conspiracy Nuts'. They were the child of the angel of war. They knew a just cause when they saw it.

And when blood rained from the sky one day it only proved them right.

Extra: He has Marcus' ashes in his apartment. When he comes home from work he always tells Marcus how his day went. They can't control the sound of their voice

 

[ravensunset]

Cemre Neyzi

daughter of a daughter of a daughter of an angel.

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆?

Full Name: Cemre Melek Neyzi
Age: 31
Species: Human
Pronouns: She/her
Sexuality: Bisexual

Faceclaim: Melisa Aslı Pamuk

Persona/Background: Cemre’s grandmother stood tall with wings alight with fire. She was someone powerful, once, light at her fingertips. Government; like Cemre, but unlike her, a respectable branch. She stopped threats the public believed in. Cemre’s great-grandmother, naturally, was an angel. Not an uncommon sight, not in this city, but a powerful being nonetheless. She stopped by only briefly, kissed her child on the forehead and left a burn scarred into her flesh, and receded to Heaven, where she could exist with all her eyes and wings and danger.

Cemre was born screaming, born a week after her grandmother died in an ambush, an attack, an assassination. Her mother had been powerless, but nonetheless had fought, bringing a child in here, in this battered city. Cemre was born restless, born angry, born an injustice. She was born human.

Cemre was raised among dusty streets and cold alleyways. She was always clever and she was always reckless. She earned a top grade as often as she earned a detention. She pushed once a half-angel picking on a younger kid; she got the backlash.

Cemre read the prophecy and she felt it inside her, in her bones, in her fingertips. The air around her bristled, warmed.

The power, the fire that skipped her mother smoldered inside Cemre. It was a warmth that followed her, rooms that heated up just a degree or so above what they were meant. It was almost ignorable, almost. Ice melts in her grasp.

She is not powerful, not quite, not yet, but she is noticed. She is offered a job; and she takes it hungrily. It is not the reputation she is meant for, she believes she is meant for, but it is the responsibility. They are saving the world; how can that compare to anything else?

Cemre, walking back home, hears a laugh. ‘Branch of No Bitches,’ she hears a passerby whisper to their companion, ‘They’re a joke. Prophecy-believing lunatics.’ She should ignore it. She should be used to it. Instead, Cemre finds her fist connecting hard with their jaw.

She shows up to work bruised, and angry. She looks at her teammates, fire in her eyes. She is not a leader; she is only just barely a team player. She cannot fix them, not without the funds, not without their caring. There is a story; Cemre cannot face that she is not its hero. She is too proud and too serious, and she believes with all of her still-holding-on soul.

Every day, Cemre is asked to warm up coffees and forced to listen to office jokes. Their microwave is broken, but hey, an unnecessary expense to fix when she’s around. Cemre knows she is not meant for something so common, so useless. She helps pin strings on conspiracy boards. She investigates what she can, the law is no matter. She is not nice, almost always, but she is kind. She wants to do good, she wants the opportunity for it. She thinks, often, that the city is not meant for it.

When the sky opens and blood pours down, her fingertips burn. She is almost relieved.

 

[spiderboy]

a wicked, winged thing

# god's filth, forgotten

# be not afraid

♡coded by uxie♡

❛ 𝘐 𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘞𝘓 𝘖𝘕 𝘔𝘠 𝘉𝘌𝘓𝘓𝘠
𝘐 𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘍𝘓𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏 𝘏𝘖𝘕𝘌𝘠
𝘔𝘠 𝘛𝘌𝘌𝘛𝘏 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘑𝘈𝘎𝘎𝘌𝘋
𝘔𝘠 𝘚𝘞𝘌𝘈𝘛𝘌𝘙 𝘐𝘚 𝘐𝘛𝘊𝘏𝘠 . . . ❜​

▸ DOSSIER --
FULL NAME: a mix of words and guttural syllables unlearned by the human tongues, scouth of feverish ills and if spoken, sets the speaker's tongue ablaze with an undying blue flame
KNOWN ALIAS(ES): referred to as elohim: messenger of god ; not averse to nicknames, el can be thrown around casually
AGE: uncountable, although it would argue he gained consciousness around the day genghis khan conquered persia
SPECIES: crooked wings and a broken halo does no angel make, expelled by heaven and tempted with sin. considered a follower of azazel, begrudgingly working under GBAP
GENDER: null, prefers it/he pronouns
SEXUALITY: a few drinks in, and anyone's eligible

▸ VISAGE --
FACE CLAIM: edward norton as the narrator in fight club
APPEARANCE: if caught lurking in the corner of your peripheral vision, elohim can appear vaguely man-shaped, save for the uncanniness in its features, and the mechanical shift in his jaw. shrouded in mystery, one finds it difficult to look at him straight-on. standing at 6'0", elohim is a presence felt before noticed, a cold shudder creeping up your spine. sharp and angular in frame, silhouetted by broken, jagged wings. laughably lanky, every move is executed with the poise of a newborn fawn; new and uncertain on its legs, but willfully stubborn.

slouching stature aside, its face takes after of those gone and those to come, a conglomeration of attributes it found most aligns themselves with how people have evolved today. crooked nose complimented by black eyes, and thin lips, asymmetric. his hair is a matted nest of dark brown, the dirt of the earth as if emerged from the core of the earth himself. behind an otherworldly veil of muscle and flesh, an image of god's divine construct reincarnated- an ophanim sphere blazoned in flames and all-seeing. apart from physicalities, he has a penchant for the noir and macabre, finely pressed suits and suede shoes.

▸ PERSONA --
social ineptitude in a suit, elohim is a mirror of humanity: a droning, repetitive blip of existence. a creature of divine function, befitted to a purgatory of office work; printing, shredding, and feeding the saber-toothed, puss-producing black hole in the gender-neutral bathroom is all within a day's work. he is no stranger to the 9 to 5 of corporate conundrum, more often found in the break room sipping lukewarm water from the company's faulty refill station than in its cubicle. skittish, curious but wary of others, like an animal with rabies; torn of all instinct and restraint, what's left is up to the imagination.

to those willing enough to subject themselves to vacant stares and under-articulated pronunciations, conversation with elohim is juxtaposed by a mouth of filth and straight, white teeth. friendly fire tended with dying coals, one finds an arm draped over their shoulder, breath hot in their ear as the fallen angel mutters something unspeakable into your ear. dwindling in sympathy and lacking in empathy, provoking action is like poking a sleeping bear. do it yourself or don't ask me at all, the words sting. means of kindness and good faith are few and far between, a blind eye turned to wayward skies. evasive to many and a prolapse of good faith, a watchful eye is not enough to keep the fallen angel from playing god. fate is a fierce meadowlark, not to be tampered.

childish, it demands attention, hands grasping in the dark. it needs and it takes, with little disregard of the consequences. to those he surrounds himself with, it clings to them, wrapped around their ankles like a sick and sorry dog. to shake him off only makes him return with a vigor, willing to lay down at your feet until you come around.

▸ BACKGROUND --
cobwebs ebb the corners of the mind, wings are but the only reminder of elohim's life before earth- that, and the bright light of the clouds opening up under him as he plummeted towards the ground. eons unspoken of, a love letter of bad luck and buried memory. any record of the fallen angel is kept in the labyrinth of combination lockers and consists of a singular piece of paper, stained with coffee rings and smeared ink- a résumé, of questionable jobs with questionable connections.

▸ OTHER --
✧ "allergic" to holy water - makes his skin boil and fester
✧ has a hard time crying regardless of how it feels emotion
✧ chews jawbreakers and ice cubes like mints
✧ diets consists of gum and shots of whisky
✧ wears sunglasses regardless of the season
✧ smells vaguely of antiseptics and bath and body works

 

[Steve Jobs]

XI.
Zachariah Mohrbacher

the dreamer.

coded by xayah.ღ

Full Name: Zachariah Mohrbacher
Nickname: Zach (used only by those closest to him), Zachariah of Lucia City, Harbinger of Awakening
Age: 25
Species: Antediluvian
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Pansexual, but Aromantic

Faceclaim: Timothee Chalamet
Appearance: He has various scars all over his body from amputations and surgeries, most notably along his side where his kidney was removed. Additionally, his left eye is glass though he chooses not to cover it up with an eye patch. Due to his chronic fatigue, it isn't uncommon to see him in a wheelchair or using crutches to move himself around.

Personality: He is antiquated and novel, ogre and unicorn, the fox and the rabbit, chivalrous, truthless, less than a saint, more than a man. His words drip with reflexive cynicism, made anemic by the leeches who raised him. Gone are the dog days of youthful innocence, replaced by overdue rebellion. Zachariah may not be physically strong, but he knows how much damage he can deal if he falls under the wrong influence. For this reason he speaks curtly and purposefully, constantly scrutinizing people for signs of duplicity. The pitying smile, constant reassurance and the desk missions are all a farce to avoid addressing his uselessness.

It's as hard for him to accept compliments as it is for him to deliver them. Actions are the only true testament to a person's character so if someone wants to be his friend, they'll have to do a hell of a job acting like one.

Background: He was a miracle born from mother's sacrifice and father's passing, the first antediluvian to survive past their first two years of childhood. Raised as their messiah, Zachariah of Lucia City rarely showed his face but tales of his miracles became a mainstay to anyone following the Church of Divinity. As an architect, he bridged the gap between dream and reality, reshaping Lucia City piece by piece. Per the church's leader, so long as he learned to use his gift, he would complete his journey to sainthood. So he kept dreaming, never resting in the name of the Divine One. He watched himself erode as his caretakers erected statues in their own honor.

He realized too late that sainthood was a futile goal compared to the ambitions of Divinity's leader. He was no harbinger of awakening, but a sacrificial lamb. So he wielded his gift one last time to escape his gilded cage and took his first breath.

Discarding his old name, Zachariah fell into the lap of the GBAP and finally allowed himself to sleep.

Reputation: His departure from the church has been met with great controversy. Given his great gift, many consider his abandonment a "waste of talent" while others felt vindicated in their previous disdain for him. Luckily, his lack of public appearances has meant that he can get through his day to day life without being recognized.

Extra:
*He's an extremely picky eater and dislikes anything with an overly mushy texture.
*Emotionally stunted teenager in the body of an adult
*Has an extremely erratic sleep schedule
*Coffee is king

 

[Thropian]

Full Name: Sariel
Nickname: Sara
Age: 30 years in Lucia City, aeons untold before then.
Species: Angel
Gender: Female


Faceclaim:

Spoiler: First pass drawing

Appearance: Humanoid in shape, her "face" lacks any real features and seems to glow from some inner light. About her head circles floating bronze rings engraved with eyes, but if observed the eyes shift and blink. From the top of her head rises a short ponytail, though it seems to be made of shadows rather than hair. Her body is made of a simple plain white silk material, which shifts into a pale skin near the hands and feet. From her back sprouts feathery wings, though they are growing upside down and would never properly function to lift her. A vial containing a single glowing ember kept on a silver chain is the only adornment she wears.

Personality: Protective and caring, troubled constantly by every woe they have inflicted. Does not like being controlled or restricted.
Background: In the earliest days of her incarnation in Lucia City, Sariel discovered just how restrictive and hampering form and function were. She sought ways to break free from these bonds, ways to return to her prior formlessness. When she discovered that humans could change so drastically over the course of their lives, and often made deals with demons to gain powers, she hatched a simple plan.

She found a human who sought power and strength, and proposed a simple trade with them. A partial soul swap, the human would get an angel's soul and all the power that came with it, and Sariel would gain the human's powers of change. Neither side got what they truly wanted, as is to be expected from a deal made in ignorance. Possessing the human's soul, Sariel felt all that they felt, every drop of joy, every stab of pain. And each unending second of agony as the angel soul ripped the human apart from within.

After the agony ceased, Sariel learned what they had gained from the human. The power to change, to grow, to learn. She began to feel empathy for all things she met, questioned orders and reasons, and realized the consequences her existence had on those around her. Initially she was unable to cope, and hid herself away from the world. After years of isolation the human soul began to yearn and hunger, forcing Sara out of hiding and into interacting with the world again.

In her search for purpose in life she managed to stumble her way into an interview for the Bureau of Apocalypse Prevention. As the interviewee has been failing so miserably, the interviewer used Sara as a scapegoat to flee the meeting and found her likable and useful enough to hire into a low position.

Extra: Her powers stem mostly from the human soul she bears, and gifts her with a flexible form and powerful empathy.
Flexible Form: The power to stretch and warp her form. Though not true shape shifting, the exact proportions of her body change at her whim. For now, this freedom of form sates her desire to be formless.
Empath: For the most part, she can gather and feel the emotions of those around her, but with a bit of focus she can pick out a person to understand or force her own emotional state onto.

Reputation: While angels aren't uncommon in the slums, one wandering about without preaching or leaving a trail of death was notable. The way she eyed the humans she passed, and the frequency with which she would vanish for long periods of time, has created a persistent rumor about her 'virtues.'

 

[.empathogen.]

whispered atrocities and truths flow at his feet. he hangs from the ceiling of the church by his toes and blood-red poppies spill from his lips. his sweet words confuse the angels and soothe the dead. clean is the one who walks opposite from him in the desert. drink of his eyes and hunger no more. he is neither sin nor virtue. rage wells in his hand and is flung like seeds to the soil. his other hand shapes the day.​

 

[aeneas.]

the leashed bloodhound

a slaughterhouse, morgue & final resting

not a saint but does he have to be?

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄.

NAME: " הר בשן " / Seung Montierth.
ALIAS: Most people just call him Monti for short.
AGE: It's so tedious to keep track at this point.
SPECIES: Angel.
GENDER: Prefers to present as male.
SEXUALITY: Easy there buddy, tolerance is difficult enough.

FACECLAIM: Lee Jongwon.
APPEARANCE: With a scowl, glaring eyes, and aged wire-frame glasses, Monti was basically *made* for corporate torture. In the grand game of cards called life, he had been dealt a bitter hand that only soured over time—him with it. Rarely does he smile and if he does, it was probably forced for a company photo or a poor intern tripped over a stray wire. Despite his flesh suit looking to be in its early 30s, the man is basically an old grump hoping for a pension plan. "Tall, dark-eyed and mean" as many reports go from anonymous colleagues; despite his reclusive nature, his presence looms over others like an omen of judgement. However, that could just be the by-product of being HR. Totally not because he's 6'4" and the action of standing up from his dingy little desk he's been crouched at can trigger heart attacks what.

PERSONALITY: Monti is the guy whose severely overworked yet refuses to use any of his leave days. An enlightened mind but a god-awful conversationalist, normally slugging away from any ounce of attention and prefers to stay in his office if he isn't dragged out by the ankles. To his superiors and colleagues, he's cordial and to those outside his circle, they better be ready to be subjected to his attitude. Like a shark, Monti can smell blood and if he finds just a minuscule amount of fear, he will capitalize on it. No matter how much he likes to deny it, his cold heart shows *a little* warmth for his group of underdogs. Besides, he gets a little kick out of making the lackeys of the other branches fidget and fester. In his heart of hearts, he has a soft spot for certain people, but his person suit is one of wit and intimidation, weaponizing the two attributes to avoid unsavory social situations.

But when he lectures you, he sure can lecture.

All talk and a little bite, if anyone needs someone to rip a bandaid off—literally or figuratively—Monti is the man to call on. Almost like a dysfunctional parent, he's blunt and doesn't like to sweeten his phrasings. He can get a bit harsh at times, but know that it's out of frustration than genuine anger, they don't call him the "King of Sighs" for nothing. Not much of team player, barely a leader, and mostly a mediator. If GBAP was a herd of chaotic little sheep, Monti would be the barking (severely underpaid) cattledog gathering everyone together. His goals mainly revolve around not getting anyone killed, filing reports, archiving old flyers—oh—and reminding everyone to *please* pay their share of the expenses for the next branch outing or there will be no choice but to cancel it.

BACKGROUND: Nothing but a foolish angel who gambled with fate. Betting all his chips on the table only to have them taken away, hedonistic desire consuming his body of light—trapping him in a wingless cage of flesh and bone. No longer is he a Montierth but a hollowed shell of regret. Mourning the loss of who he once was—once paved on a path of adventure, a member of a branch that meant something, now scarred with mistakes no longer fixable. After a mission that went sideways, he was let go like a deadweight to a grand vessel and picked up by a puny raft. The GBAP is nothing close to what Monti once had, but he could settle for them. It's not like he has a choice after all.

REPUTATION: ❝ENTER HR❞

You find yourself in the metaphorical doghouse; in the office filled to the brim with rusty filing cabinets, illuminated with dying light bulbs, and decorated with peeling wallpaper that should be in a retirement house. It is safe to say that you fucked up. For there stood the menacing thing that smelled of smoke and copper. The branches that *didn't* bully yours (at least not always) say that he will be their last sight before meeting their maker. To them, he was the bloodhound who always knew when they were lying when he'd question if they brought him decaf, the maestro who could play with their pulse like a drum. Though to you, he's much less than that—you know that most days, this guy could barely walk up the fire exit stairs when the elevator broke.

His eyes meet your's and you immediately hear his sigh. The grip on last month's infographic entitled "TOP 10 TIPS TO DOOMSDAY PREP" tightened in his hands. His job as the branch's honorary "babysitter" was not the only thing he had on his plate and it's more than obvious that your presence in his mingy dungeon was not welcomed. But you also suspect that it was not a surprise either. With a sharp cry from a filing cabinet and its swift close after it ate the document that was once in the archivist's hands, he finally directs his full attention,

❝𝐒𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐜𝐞—𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐧?❞

❝Hi to you too, Monti.❞​

VIBECHECK:
♱ is not paid enough to endure anything here
♱ a chronic smoker who probably chews some tobacco out of stress
♱ either leaves immediately when the day's done or has to be dragged out for closing, there is no in between

 

[demonology]

the wanted man.

early eagleton, wanted criminal

& professional demon seducer

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 *& 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄

Name: Early Eagleton
Age: thirty-one — they kinda don't remember
Species: Human. Having manifested singing talent by being born too close to a saint, they've always had a golden voice. Now, their soul is tied, both in blood and... quite literally.
Gender: they/he
Sexuality: is still figuring that one out.

Appearance: Faceclaim of Gerard Way. WIP description.

Overall Persona: devilish, gleeful, insecure, witty, a biting undertone of seriousness, seemingly lackadaisical, extremely (un)lucky, charismatic, wary, highly competent in very few areas, careful, emotionally-obtuse, practical, unhinged and immoral by some metrics (not their own, though), instinctual, energetic, seemingly carefree, casually risky, wisened, holds themself like someone once quick to anger and now is eerily calm, calculating, wistful, naturally beguiling, furtive, questionably cutthroat over the people they love, aloof, a butterfly that you can’t ever get a full glimpse of before it flutters off, a charlatan, sinful, determined.

In-depth: A hopeless case of an almost feral child. Now, dangly curls are fluffed back and smiles come easily. Careless, impractical wisdom and kindness. Easy to fall in love with someone who isn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes. Enjoy him, laugh with him, but don’t love him. Amongst the department, Early settles into deceptive freedom. Affection can come easily, instinctually, because of their upbringing. But never should last.

Now, it does. Imperfections are countless, but they are common. Reproach is quick to follow, but never to last. Lost in the sea of conflictions and paradoxes, Early is forced to grow. Pride can be found in either court. Victory, even. An ego supported endlessly.

But which one offers salvation?

Now a rat, sticky with spilled beer. Forgotten, left to roam the corners of the bar. Slipping through the wooden pockets and finding solace in the paradise of walls. A mouse, actually, thirsting for some cheese, a warm fire, and a family to breed. “Remember your teachings, Earline.” Charm becomes a shield, but easily chemical warfare. The spit now flies from his cheeks, painting adversaries in a hydrochloric mixture sure to bring their faces to his fist. There’s nothing left of Early, anymore. Flashes, an improperly cut-up piece of film. A slipped-in frame of juvenility.


Other:

• an opera prodigy as a child turned musical powerhouse
• has a magical voice that can have unintended consequences
• the emo-looking detective vibe on a hellraising team-player
• is always spending the budget on food.
• has mafia connections

 

[cavitea]

an anomaly

a growing threat to the threads

ira, many names, many lies

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.
𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: the broken crust of a voice mentions something called Ira; once they remember the owned that word.
𝐀𝐠𝐞: a body is young, but broken, souls split from a remembrance of darkness and the youth of twenties.
𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬: human at birth, questionable throughout
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: accepts all, cherishes none
𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: a smile will be offered at most, plans more important than the throes of bed.

𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦: loosely based on Yeule.
𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞: Once there was something worth looking at that belonged to you. There was a chest that rose and fell in the drumbeat of your life with blackened wings you called hair, starry nights you called freckles. at a height of 5'10" you wobbled in your skyscraper boots and dressings, soaking in the filth of neon lights until it illuminated you; until it shone through you. You wonder briefly passing by a mirror shop: Where did this person go?

Now you are morphing and changing; chunks of sinew and rebellion stitching themselves together with a holy needle, set quietly down on the hearth of a fire long stifled under cold. Androgyny satisfies a pit festering on your heart, rattling the bones of your ribs in a jail cell of repent. Consistency falters at your feet and with it the snips of hair and sludge of cheap dye. Always moving, always changing.

Never you.

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: You are sickening, disgusting. A mirror stands before them and in it blink the eyes of guilt, a threshold of doubt twirled over like a ballerina dunked in tar. The voice keeps coming back and whispering, pulling along strings anchored down in the Earth; you are only a marionette.

Somehow you like it, convince yourself the scratching on your temporal lobe is as friendly as the smashed bruised on your face; you did that to yourself, after all. Air enters into your lungs and you want to spit it out. There is no clean oxygen underground, but you've never been underground. For years you've lived like this, a manic state of hypoxia and crushed cereal.

Breathe in, exhale, exhale, exhale, exhale, exhale, exhale.

You want to kill the thing inside you, the thing you call yourself. Is it?

Smiles dot dimpled cheeks all the same, harpy eyes contorted with broken spine in the mania of observation. 'Trouble' is what they've breathed of you, 'friend' to others. Another day begins and the act starts over, a rummaging of mismatched phrases and connotations. You place them together and once more they form the friendly cackles of something beloved, if not annoyingly so. One must assume that is you, it is all the you that you have left.

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝: Where the manila folders of most rest comfortably under the oppression of dust there are no markers of someone by the name of 'Ira'. Speckled tabs worn over shaking penmanship skips conveniently over the last name in the bundle, thread needled through papers and files forgotten. Something used to be there, you're convinced that has to be the case; stories of months, knowledge of plenty leads everyone to believe that surely there must be some documentation.

The search can continue tomorrow.

𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫:

• smells faintly of dish soap and raspberry soda; eats raw packets of ramen under their desk
• has recitation of holy scriptures embedded into skin, slurs every other word of them
• can, will, and has harassed a young child over the toy in a McDonald's Happy Meal
• dresses in broken crayons and neon signs, bits and pieces picked from others
• nobody is sure if they really have a desk, hovering in ghoulish stances

 

[Sear]

the one who bleeds

what a cruel, sick joke you are

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤NEITHER HERE NOR THERE; LESS THAN HUMAN

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: as ill-fitting as their own body and mind is; orpheros
𝐀𝐠𝐞: rotting from within; where is age if life is dwindling
𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬: there is a desire to be human somewhere within them, but antediluvian is not one
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: ever-changing, ill-fitting, all and none at once
𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: intrigued by few, casting aside all

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞: a prison of flesh and bone, tearing at the seams at the protruding bones that look so, so wrong. you stare - and you stare again, and there is no end to the skin wrapped tight around limbs that have been grossly distorted from the vaguely human-like figure. what mockery is this of a human with its jagged, adorned and painted, claws that curl from nail beds and bones that rip through the flesh to twist toward the sky in a singular wing pressed close against their spine.

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: and it seems, they have taken their existence as a joke to heart.

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝:

𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫:

• sleeps in odd locations, a preference for desks and rarely their own

 

[AreSneksSly]

the cabinet man

you can't see me behind the screen

i'm half-human and half-machine

♡coded by uxie♡

╰┈➤ DESPERATION DOES CRUEL THINGS TO US ALL

Name: Hafiz Anang
Age: 37
Species: Human, long ago
Gender: Male
Sexuality: It doesn't matter anymore

Appearance
Chocolate tones cover him from head to toe. The pads of his fingers are rough, off-pink. His hair is shorn close to his head. Harsh eyes glare out from under soft, delicate lashes.

Those lashes are the only soft thing about him.

Grotesquely welded to his body, chunks of it covering over the left side of his face, metal meets flesh to form a messy, grotesque union. Where his left eye should be is a single crimson lens. Protruding from his chest are a tangle of wires, each tucked back into metallic compartments. Were you to hold your head close, you could almost hear it; the whirring of engines and capacitators; the chugging of liquid from origins unknown; a soft, steady heartbeat, hiding beneath it all. Look even closer, and you may even catch sight of a stray vein or two, peeking out from under the steel plating.

Comprised of roughly 75% metal, Hafiz is what happens when back-alley cybernetic enhancements are taken to their logical extreme. Strip him bare and all you will find is more; more metal, more wires, more tubes. The only parts of him that remain from his days as a mere human are the right side of his face, his right arm, flesh from the shoulder down, and a small portion of his chest. It's hard to even call him 'alive' anymore. Pop a wire and you may find the same rich, red wine that runs through your body, but pop another and you might end up with neon blue liquid running down your hands. "It's coolant," he'd joke, voice low, rough. But he would be just as in the dark as you.

Reputation
The Cabinet Man. A quaint nickname from his younger days as a street hacker. Though most in the Ministry have taken to calling him the Metal Monstrosity.

Whispers of his name have passed around the lower streets of Lucia City:

"He'll do anything for a price."

"He can crack any system."

"He's just a robot with synthetic human skin attached."

"He can't feel a thing."

Some are true. Some are exaggerated. Some are just plain absurd. But Hafiz doesn't keep his ear close to the ground. He has a job to do, after all.

Efficient, straight-forward, even-tempered. These have all been used to describe him before.

Party-pooper, dickhead, snitch. These are just as valid.

To put it simply, Hafiz doesn't fuck around. To him, his job as an agent of the GBA is exactly that: a job. He has no higher dreams of saving the world. He doesn't even care if it's in danger. At the end of the day, he just wants to get paid and go home.

Personality
Hafiz doesn't like to talk about himself. Hafiz doesn't like to talk, period. He's charming in that way; endlessly dour, cynical, and blunt. If he has something harsh to say to you, don't expect him to pretty it up. Courtesy is a luxury scant few can afford, and he is broke as shit.

A hard worker, a terrible listener, a morally-apathetic husk; these are all terms Hafiz would use to describe himself, and though the last may be a little too personal for his liking, no one's taken to denying any of them yet. He's very... difficult, having taken to shoving others away whenever they get too cl— I mean... acting very professional with his coworkers. And who could blame him, really? He's not here to make friends! He's here to do his job, damn it! He doesn't have time for stuff like emotional vulnerability and becoming likeable!

Maybe someday he'll make a friend. Someone who can tolerate his constant monotone, his inability to emote, his brashness, and his disgusting, rusting form. But until then, I think it's fair to simply describe Hafiz Anang as a giant, massive, no-nonsense bitch.

Background
Sofea.

The light of his life. His baby girl. The only person he'd walk through hell and back to save. The only one who can make him smile, even after everything.

Once upon a time, Hafiz Anang was a normal man. Scraping by with a measly construction worker's salary, he couldn't have asked for a better life with his wife and daughter in their shitty, cramped, and miraculously affordable apartment. 25 and flying high, he was happy. He was satisfied.

And he was also remarkably stupid.

Hacking had always been a passing hobby for Hafiz, just a way to pass the time in his free hours. It could also be incredibly, and I mean incredibly lucrative. Drain a few dollars from someone's account there, take a commission here; it didn't matter who he was targeting as long as it meant a few more bucks for his family.

This lack of caution didn't last long.

You see, Hafiz was messy with his tracks. He'd always targeted smaller, unassuming members of the public, and so thought that no one would go through the trouble of looking for him. But when a knock on the door roused him out of his catnap one dreary, pouring evening, the man on the other side was anything but unassuming.

Hafiz's first major wound was a gunshot to the shoulder, courtesy of the man he'd soon come to know as the herald to his spiral into a life of crime. "Humphrey Jackson," he'd introduced himself as, cheeks pulled back to reveal a sneering smile. "I'm a big fan of your work, Mr. Anang."

Things get messy here. Like most of history, the peasants and the paupers are oft written-off in favour of the bigger characters; people who've earned a spot in the limelight. Amongst the gang that'd soon be known as 'The Vines,' though, Hafiz was not one of them.

What I can tell you, however, is that with each year Hafiz spent with this gang, more and more of his former life eroded away. Forced to quit his job, forced to augment his body, forced to watch his wife die at the hands of his boss; in Lucia City, they say your soul is just another bargaining chip. After all his years working with monsters, Hafiz still wonders to this day what his is worth. If it even counts as one at all.

Taking apart The Vines did manage to bag him a sweet new job at the Ministry though, so I guess things weren't all bad. Cheer up Hafiz. You get to be part of something greater than yourself now.

Extra
- He's 6 foot flat. Terrible slouch, though.
- Sofea is 13 and an incredible artist. Amongst the knick-knacks and tools he keeps in his body's compartments, there'll always be at least one crayon drawing tucked safely away.
- A pottymouth. Trying to be better, but it tends to slip out when he's stressed or tired.
- Partly deaf in his left ear.
- Certified DILF

 

[smolfluffball]

Frog

"the nutjob is on the case!"

#toads are fake #the birds are bleeding

♡coded by uxie♡

FULL NAME: Jason Kaczmarek. He goes by Frog.
NICKNAME: Ribs, Ribbit, Croaker, Froggy, Jay. Most are what he refers to himself as. He welcomes any other names people want to toss at him!
AGE: Maybe 23, or not.
SPECIES: Completely Human! (Half-angel, actually.)
GENDER: Male.
SEXUALITY: Attractive people.

APPEARANCE:
Contrary to what that one chick in the office says, his skin is devoid of any strange markings and is instead a solid tone a touch darker than alabaster. With a face free of wrinkles and an eager sparkle in his light blue eyes, it's easy to see that this man has not yet been beaten down by the world. His frog green colored curly hair and dark brown square glasses covered in loads of small stickers make him look like someone straight out of university, and his always brightly colored nerdy-chic clothes set him apart from all of humdrum dull colors the fuddy duddy elders always wear. He can clean up nice, however, if he ever decides to brush his hair and put on a suit (he'd rather die though).

One thing to note is that his eyes are not always so light blue, his skin is not always so pale and his nose is not always so button shaped. Subtle changes they may be, but over the course of a few days his eyes might shift from blue to green, or possibly hazel. His nose might grow slightly larger after about a week, although it never stays the size it grows to. If he's feeling particularly frisky one day, he may come into the office with brown eyes, when they were blue just yesterday. His skin always stays some light color, but he sometimes seems to tan while sitting in the office. It's nothing to worry about, and, honestly, if anyone brings it up, then it sounds an awful lot like a conspiracy theory...

​

REPUTATION:
"I overheard him ask the coffee maker how its kids were..."

"He's taken all of the paper, pushpins and sticky notes from at least four desks in the office to add to his insane conspiracy board. Where does he even keep it? What supply closet is he hiding it in?"

"No, no. You don't understand. He's taller than he was last week! Is it the shoes? Or magic?"

"He talked to a window latch today. A window latch. Asked how the birds were, like he always does. Can someone fire him already?"

"Pretty sure I saw him whispering some nonsensical story into his hot chocolate once. I've stayed away from him since then."

"I don't want to sound like the whacko, but I swear I've heard some slithering hissing noise come from his cubicle on more than one occasion. I think he has a secret pet snake or three or- Actually, he might be a snake."

"No one saw it, but I did. I did. When his face was covered in patches of dark flesh. When his hands were cracked black. He came back the next day looking the same as always, but I definitely saw him covered in something that he should probably get checked out."

"He told me that toads are fake creations that the Lords made up to diminish the magical power of the frogs. I was eating a burrito."

​

PERSONALITY:
In a different life, under a different name, this weirdo was not actually much of a weirdo. The aspects that he clung to from that past life were an adoration for learning new things, a deep hatred for what he is, a fear that he can no longer speak of, and a penchant for making shit up. When he fled to Earth and killed off the angelic side of himself, he went hardcore into the weird and has not really been able to find a way out of it.

That isn't to say he's only weird. He's actually quite intelligent and surprisingly kind, when he's not rambling on about a conspiracy theory. His actions frequently contradict his words; he follows through with most of what he says he'll do, though he will grumble about pretty much any boring office work that gets handed to him. He's passionate about various things (not his conspiracy theories, surprisingly enough) and is loyal to people, even if they don't consider him a friend in the slightest. If someone ever does express any form of friendship toward him, he will bring it up frequently and brag about it to anyone who would listen (and even to those who wouldn't). Frequently he can be found with a smile and an odd, maybe funny, thing to say to someone to distract from a sour mood, since he thinks life might suck but there is also beauty in it. That, he gets from his angelic ancestry. He doesn't want to acknowledge that fact. He wears his heart on his sleeve and matches his clothes to his mood of the day, so its always easy to tell what he's thinking.

Except for when he drops his human side and his real appearance peeks through, but that's only happened once since he's been on Earth.

Frog is also incredibly cheeky, secretive and intensely manipulative - the dude has literally adapted a conspiracy theorist persona to obscure his true nature. People poking holes in his conspiracy theories or any other theory that isn't conspiratorial tend to make him clam up or get flustered. He's fled conversations before more than once because he couldn't come up with a good response to what someone said. Being asked personal questions or others wondering about his backstory or gossiping about him, personally, not just his conspiracy theories, might make him snap and lash out. These moments are incredibly short lived and he apologizes for them after he's gotten over it. He just really does not want anyone to figure out anything about him, seriously. He's a normal human guy! Nothing weird about him except his theories!


BACKGROUND:
Picture, if you will: Heaven, a baffled angel mother, an absent human father and a half-angel with mostly human features except for the patches of disfigured black skin that are decidedly not beautiful going on a trip to the library to check out approximately twenty books. This was a common scene during Frog's youth, although it should be noted that back then Frog went by neither Jason nor Frog. He went by, and was, something else entirely.

The absent father figure is a disservice to Frog's human father: he was actually present in the young boys life, just on Earth. Frog learned from a very young age how to traverse the lands of Heaven and Earth so that he could visit his father whenever he wanted to. He quickly discovered shortcuts and ways to sneak around the angels he couldn't look at without hurting, all so that he could visit his favorite dad in his favorite dimension. It helped that Frog always had a soft-spot for humans deep down inside of him, inherited from his mother, an angel of beauty. That love for humans only fueled his desire to go to Earth, over and over again, so much so that he began picking up more human traits than angelic traits.

This grew and evolved, then spiraled, into a very personal problem that involved a child of two different races feeling torn between his home and what his heart truly wanted. The details don't need exposure, but: Frog always thought angels were terrifying. He never fit in. Humans were less so. He almost fit in. He couldn't say that to his mother or his father. He couldn't say that to anyone. He knew no one would understand.

Up until a year ago, Frog's home was in Heaven. After a weird, definitely freak accident involving a very historically important angel statue and his back and so many eyes turning to look at him, he ran away. To Earth. To start over, potentially, or to just hide until the angry angels got over themselves. Thanks to his dad's suggestions and help, he was able to fit in as a normal human perfectly. Now, what kind of job could this normal conspiracy theorist guy do?

Why, work for the one government branch that's based entirely around a conspiracy theory... Perfect! Except Frog doesn't believe in it. Oh, but, uh, he does! Definitely! Yeah, the chains are going to break any day now, guys. Birds are bleeding, you know? That's where the bloody rain came from. Frogs are princes and toads are fakes, the dimensions are going to collide in three years, forty-four days, sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, every sheep is a liar, the Firstborns are actually awake and partying away from all the schmucks, and the Lords are a collection of intelligent flies.


EXTRA:
- Might have broken a famous angel statue, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory.
- Maybe has shapeshifting magic, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory.
- Possibly just method acting, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory.
- Crushes on people too easily, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory.
- Allergic to rats and mice, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory.
- Does not like coffee, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory
- The birds are bleeding, but that sounds like a conspiracy theory.
- The birds are bleeding, but that sounds like a conspiracy—
- The birds are bleeding, but that sounds like—
- The birds are bleeding, but that—
- The birds are bleeding—

 

[blue-jay]

moth in a matchbox

# divine scorn by a plague of locusts

# half-demon half-human

♡coded by uxie♡

"Never before had there been such a plague of locusts, nor will there ever be again. They covered all the ground until it was black. They devoured all that was left after the hail--everything growing in the fields and the fruit on the trees. Nothing green remained on tree or plant in all the land."

Full Name: Eudora Lefevre
Nickname: She has none yet, but she's not opposed to them.
Age: Twenty-four
Species: Half-Demon/Half-Human
Gender: Woman (she/her)
Sexuality: Pansexual, though usually slow to experience attraction

Faceclaim: I may add a FC later, but I'll just rely on the description for now.
Appearance: Eudora looks like a woman on the verge of what you'd call beauty yet held back from it by something inarticulable. She has cool brown skin. Her eyes are large and dark brown, though they appear practically black in most lighting. In shape, her eyes are hooded and slightly upturned. Her gaze often has this glassy, faraway look. To some, it appears dreamy. To others, it may simply seem inattentive. She stands at 5'6 and is on the thinner side. Her hair is dark brown, though (like her eyes) will seem black in most lighting. It reaches down past her shoulders in tight curls and coils. She has a straight nose with a soft bridge and rounded tip, full lips, and a diamond-shaped face. She has this air of coolness about her, as if (perhaps from poor circulation or being left in the cold without a coat) she would be cool to the touch. Her smiles are small and kind but do little to take away this air of coolness. Eudora has no body modifications and keeps her nails short. She has several scars on her body, though, individually, they are nothing worth noting. Although her hair is healthy, she doesn't usually do much to contain it, preferring to let it fall free. Her cheeks are often slightly blushed.

"I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come."
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings."
- Richard Aldington, "Childhood"​

Background: Twenty-four years ago, Celine Lefevre had reached a sad point in her life. She had studied diligently to become a doctor at a hospital in Lucia City. She had achieved her dream but also realized that life had passed her by—she had neglected love and friendship. Her loneliness, compounded with the newfound stresses of her dream job, sent her into a deep depression. And then a demon appeared. She called him Bruco.

He was strange. He was cold. He was enchanting. He told her that he had the power to create life, similar to her own healing magic, and that together they could give life to a child that would return life tenfold. He wasn't lying; only omitting some of the truth. Celine carried the child for nine months. At some point during the pregnancy, Bruco disappeared, suddenly wary of commitment. Celine tried not to slip back into her depression. After all, she was going to have a beautiful baby who could create life: a blessing.

After nine months, Eudora was born. Soon, her magic power, the union of her mother's and her father's, began to show. She could create and control life, but only a specific kind of life: arthropods. Bruco had failed to mention that he was a demon whose magic power was over vermin. He was mainly associated with images of devastation: swarms of locusts. Celine knew it wasn't fair to her newborn daughter, but she was disappointed and broken. As Eudora grew and her power began to show more—as roaches settled in the drains, as moths ate through her clothing, as ants marched across the kitchen—Celine's depression returned. She grew to hate her daughter, who could only create life that crept and crawled—who could only create life that lacked beauty. Her hatred showed in the way she raised Eudora: callous, distant, restricting, and belittling.

Eudora knew early on that her mother hated her, but didn't begin to understand it until she was much older. Her childhood and teenage years are scattered broken fragments: trouble making friends, being bullied, being misunderstood, being manipulated, being taken advantage of. She cried a lot, but she wasn't weak. Although her mother despised it, she embraced her power. She became fascinated with prophecies of old and with intimations of an apocalypse. The idea of apocalypse baffled her: the way her birth had been an apocalypse to her mother, the way people disregarded and underestimated apocalypse until it was upon them. The devastation one could cause. She wanted to do something good. Even if she had ruined her mother's life, maybe she could save several others.

And so, she's here now.
Personality:
Eudora is a very sensitive girl with a complex relationship with words. Words escape her. Words make her. Words efface her. She doesn't know when she's saying too much or too little or nothing at all. She only knows that she's saying what she feels compelled to. She thinks in stories, poems, diagrams of insects, whatever other material she's taken into her sharp memory. She relates her bank of images and information to everything she experiences: each sound, each smell, each thing that's said to her. The line between the humanities and the real life before Eudora is thin and not very important to her. She's far from naive, however--she's read the darker, more realistic material and the history too. If anything, her deep sensitivity makes her cynical, afraid of touch and certain words and feelings. She remembers things strongly, especially upsetting or traumatic things.

Eudora, even if she is powerless practically speaking, is strong-willed and not one to submit herself to things that don't feel right to her. She has an eccentric but strong moral compass, knowing surely what she feels is right and wrong and unafraid to voice it when she feels compelled to. She doesn't like hurting people, even those who have hurt her. However, sometimes her proclivity for paranoid thinking and abstract reasoning can render her morals twisted or compromised. If she makes mistakes, she can and likely will deeply regret them. If someone can tolerate her unique use of language and needs for certain levels of space, she can be a good person to talk to and a great friend. She's eccentric, but not completely unaware of other people. Empathy can be complex, but it is something she's willing to tap into to help herself and the world around her. There are times when the world is scary, though, and she questions how much she can help it--or herself.
Magic:
- Eudora's primary magic power is the ability to control and give life/form to arthropods: ants, millipedes, locusts, and so on. She also has an empathic form of communication with them. She can also manipulate their size and physiology, though not in ways that push nature too far. She also doesn't like doing that because it feels cruel.
- Surprisingly enough, Eudora did still inherit her mother's ability to heal using magic. Although, this talent only presented later in her childhood and is mostly overshadowed by her arthropod magic. Eudora can heal wounds. With the necessary preparations and time, she can cure infections. (I imagine the extent of this power will be determined partly by the GMs, so I'll leave it kind of vague for now.)
Reputation: (very much optional but just to add a lil bit of spice,you can write what the talk in town is about your character; rumors, scandals, etc. this does not have to be accurate or even true, but this is just to add some fun to character interaction later on!)

Extra:

 

[plague rats]

curiosity killed the cat

oswald wright

9-5 wizard, 24/7 loser

♡coded by uxie♡

but satisfaction brought it back​

Full Name: Oswald Wright
Nickname: Oz, Ozzy
Age: 41
Species: Human
Gender: Cis male, he/him
Sexuality: Bisexual

Faceclaim: Lee Pace
Appearance: Oz has a gentle, slightly weathered face, just beginning to show the fine laugh lines around his warm hazel eyes and ever present smile. His sandy hair is usually kept shaggy and his scruff is flecked with a few grey hairs that he likes to think make him look distinguished but do little to offset the generally disheveled look he has. He's tall enough to know all the jokes but the way he holds himself in a crooked slouch tends to make him look smaller. In decent shape for a man his age. He can usually manage to wrangle himself into business casual clothes but just from looking at him you can tell he'd rather be in sweatpants.


Personality:
Though he's creeping towards middle aged Oz has maintained an easy, boyish charm. It works best on elderly women and weirdos but its strength lies in its earnestness. Oz likes people, likes talking to them, even likes arguing with them. He's the type of guy to 'yes, and' even the dumbest of ideas just to see where they'll go. Unpretentious and entirely unashamed, he's driven by sheer curiosity. Every problem is a chance to learn something new and he relishes in them. He's open-minded and fairly compassionate, though not the most tactful guy in the world.

A proponent of the 'work smarter, not harder' mentality, Oz has never met a corner he couldn't cut or a rule he couldn't bend in the name of either efficency or experimentation. His recklessness results in a near blatant disregard for agency protocols and safety regulations so over the years he's learned how to cover up his messes at least enough that they can't be traced back to him. While he excels in field work and research, the day to day minutiae of his job still escapes him. His reports are labyrinthine screeds and his expense reports could drive the most jaded accountant to tears.

As much as he enjoys his work, he's fatally unambitious. Having managed to evade actual responsibilities most of his life, he's developed an extremely short-term way of thinking and problem solving. His need to learn everything he possibly can about any given subject can often lead to him missing the forest for the trees and once he's sank his teeth into something it's impossible for him to let go.


Background:
There isn't much special about Oswald Wright. He was born and raised in the slums of Lucia City, one of dozens of children in a close knit extended family. There were months they barely scraped by and weeks spent sleeping on a cousin's bedroom floor but he was loved and happy. With all the adults in the family working, it fell to the kids to look after each other and as soon as Oz could crawl he was getting into things he shouldn't have. The more mobile he got the more adventurous he became and with no shortage of siblings, cousins, and niblings to sweet talk into his mischief the Wright children were well known menaces in their small corner of the world. No dark alley or abandoned building was safe from them, though their trouble rarely escalated beyond the occasional vandalism and petty shoplifting.

Oz's real trouble came when he first fell in love with magic. He'd always had an overactive imagination, a way to turn the quiet trudge of a mundane life into something bigger. Once he learned he could impose those fantasies onto the real world with a little work, it consumed him. Being as human as they come Oz lacked any natural talent for the stuff so he threw himself into the study of it, tearing through books on magical theory, history, and practice. In all other areas he was a below average student and magic never came easy to him but he didn't care. It was something big and exciting in a world that often felt too small and cramped. Being entirely self taught has its drawbacks- it took him nearly a week to figure out what he'd done wrong after he turned his sister green and he was grounded for his troubles. But at least he'd learned something.

His obsession didn't waver as he aged. Early adulthood was a series of dead end, low paying jobs that he would inevitably be fired from when he tried to magic his way out of a problem or just didn't show up to work for a week because he was busy hunting down a rare book. It was on one such search that he met Voso, a low level, paranoid worm of a demon with delusions of grandeur. Most people had the good sense not to waste their time striking deals with someone so unimportant. Oz did not. Curiosity has always trumped his survival instincts and when Voso offered to aid him on his never ending quest for knowledge Oz jumped at the opportunity. And the price he paid seemed reasonable enough.

Unlike their slaphappy underling, Voso has grand ambitions- dreams of controlling Lucia City from the shadows, manipulating the government all the way up to the Lords. Though Oz has mostly learned to tune out their rants about their eventual rise to glory and to be frank, most of their plans don't make any sense to him to begin with.

Because fortunately for everyone else, Voso's greed is matched only by their lack of ability. With their limited power and less than favorable reputation among pretty much anyone who matters, options for infiltration were limited. But it's easy enough to hide someone where no one's looking. So one forged resume, a few lies, and a handful of threats later, Oz was a proud employee of the Government Branch of Apocalyptic Prevention. As luck would have it, he's not only at least okay at his job, he genuinely enjoys it. Getting to actually study paranatural phenomena and research obscure theories that no one else cared about was a huge step up from moving boxes and bagging groceries. And it was nice to have his parents proud of him for once. Somehow eighteen years of bad pay, worse hours, and zero respect did little to dampen Oz's naïve enthusiasm. Even Voso's occasional fits are manageable if he feeds them a few pieces of vague gossip picked up around the office to feed their incoherent long game plan for domination. Sure, Oz hasn't made much real progress on those plans but that's fine. Everything's fine and nothing can ever go wrong.

Magic:
-Clairvoyance: Magic learned from Voso as part of their deal. Mostly manifests as a form of remote viewing, allowing him to locate lost, hidden, or distant targets. Can be frustratingly vague at times- the stronger his personal ties to the target, the easier it is to find and targets with powerful magic give off a stronger signal. But it can be blocked or obfuscated by magic, both intentionally and just by overload in areas with high concentrations or activity. He also needs to have some idea of what he's looking for- a name, a photo, or at least a description. It doesn't help that Voso has influence over this magic and has been known to interfere with it when angry with Oz. Comes in handy if you ever lose your keys though.
-Oz specializes in transmutation with an emphasis on animation. Essentially, he can give a kind of temporary 'life' to inanimate objects. These objects are somewhat limited by their form and are rendered 'dead' if damaged beyond functionality. The more complex an object the more difficult it is to control. The magic fades after about an hour, though repeated application to the same object can extend its lifespan. Magic in general requires a great deal of concentration for him and an improperly performed spell can end in disaster. His tendency to 'experiment' with spells doesn't help.



Extra:
-adult man who still has roommates
-vapes in the bathroom
-talks shit, gets hit
-desk is completely covered in half finished work and tchotchkes
-has a highly ritualized organization system that makes sense to absolutely no one else
-brings terrible homemade cupcakes for office birthdays
-talks with his hands a lot

Reputation: Oz is just kind of... there. As far as anyone can tell he sort of appeared in the office one day, like mold in the break room fridge. And nearly two decades later nobody's been able to get rid of either of them. If people find his unending enthusiasm grating he hasn't let it get him down. Aside from occasionally catching him muttering to himself while he works the weirdest thing anyone can say about him is he's allegedly a three time divorcee.

 

[Vagabond]

Keeper

The Steel Crusader

The sword and shield - sans sword

♡coded by uxie♡

「 We think of tragedies as present or fading, but some exist in the back of the mind. Of a time and a life that no longer is, that screams out - hoping for aid that never comes. It is old, it is aged, and it is ancient.
Though time has forgotten, the heart tries and fails to mend the broken pieces of what once was. What is no more. 」

Identification ||
➤ Alias: Keeper
➤ True Name: Lost to time
➤ Age: Unknown
➤ Species: Demon
➤ Gender: Male
➤ Sexuality: Pansexual

Visage ||
Often preceded by a black-banded owl, Kenshin serves as the harbinger for Keeper's imminent appearance from the haze of fog at first light.

A formidable presence, Keeper is a massive individual standing at 6'7" and weighing over 300lbs without considering the weight of the armor he dons. His face is perpetually masked, many assume there is nothing behind the helmet - the truth, though, has yet to be seen. And if he has it his way, it will remain that way for the indefinite future.

From a distance, he is unmistakable - covered in a purple-hued black coat that extends down to his ankles - accented by gold buckles and armor plates that cover his torso and sides that match perfectly with his gauntlets. Along his belt are blue crystal-like origami figures that radiate with unnatural energy. Blessed by the divine some might claim.

He is also never seen without his energy kite shield. It is a unique weapon, something the strange figure holds near and dear in an almost sentimental manner. Emblazoned on the front of the shield is an owl that fits the demon's companion. The energy part is generally not activated unless in combat due to the heat it generates and its ability to cut through most household materials with ease.

At times, wisps of black smoke seem to slip out between the cracks of armor - a trick of the light or perhaps a hint at what lurks underneath.

Persona ||
「 This man wants something from the world and he is still trying to figure out how to get it. 」

An unnerving observer, similar to his companion, Keeper has a sharp intuitive eye for trouble. He seems content with watching things play out, figuring out dynamics, learning the intricacies of social hierarchies, and where individuals stand with one another. Much like a stagnant camera in a room, one cannot shove off the feeling of being watched if Keeper is in their radius.

wip

Background ||
The silent watcher bound to be his master’s keeper, there is little known of this strange figure. Whispers follow him, his purpose unknown. Some believe his former master is gone and like a ronin, he is without a home.

Some swear he has wandered between communities like a ghost - reappearing every few years. Rumors echo that he is but a shadow. Unreal, or at least not human. How could he be? Outliving generations with ease and showing no sign of slowing down? The effects of age do not bog him down. No man made of flesh and bone can be unbothered by time.

Still, he comes where trouble goes. He offers aid in exchange for information. He is a vagabond and a vagabond he will stay, but for now, he makes his home within the ranks of the Government Branch of Apocalyptic Prevention.

Extra ||
➤ text
➤ text
➤ text

Reputation ||
➤ text

 

[xayah.]

the diversity hire.

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  REQUISITES

  
  
  
  

  FULL NAME alynqe.
  NICKNAME good for nothing. waste of a body.
  AGE a total with one added to it every year but overall forgotten nonetheless.
  SPECIES antediluvian.
  GENDER male. one of the few clear things about his existence.
  SEXUALITY too many other concerns plague him to find himself attracted to one, if any, person.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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  VISAGE

  
  
  
  

  Alynqe is a vision.
  One of fire and disaster with just a tinge of ice and reprieve. He bears upon his body physical manifestions of humanity's unholy fusion with the sleeping firstborns as all antediluvians do.
  The man is clearly a man. And like every man, he is trapped inside a prison of skin, muscle, and bone. But only his, and so many other antediluvians, could make such a common dilemma seem excrutiating and unbearable. His tall stature is overshadowed by muscle and bone wound tightly in unnatural positions that threaten to pierce paperthin and pale flesh with every move. His limbs are long, proportional even, but the extremeties are colored tar black and slowly reach to the elbow or knees in a dripping pattern. Leather gloves are deliberately worn to cover most of it. A sunken chest and outlined ribcage greet you coldly where the warm heart should be, and even his blood runs colder than usual.
  Nonetheless, above the collarbone, perhaps you would not suggest that such a person as he could ever be the result of centuries, nay millenniums, of cursed unions. His face is normal, only slightly misaligned, with eyes full of a grey that is reminiscent of steel. His lips are curved upwards, almost to an unnatural degree with a thin, well structured nose and hair the color of soot. Streaks of white adorn it, although it is unclear whether these grew in from age or his wretched blood. If not for the nearly dead look of his eyes, a testament to his body teetering through life while being conditioned for death, perhaps someone would've mistaken him for human.
  But Alynqe is a vision. An antediluvian one and in his wake is a record of ancestral sins that his body and his childrens bodies will carry to the end of their days. Perhaps then they will find themselves in good company, among the fellow dead who seem more like their rightful place than the living ever will.
  

  
  

  scroll.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  gallery.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  requisite

  
  
  

  visage

  
  
  

  persona

  
  
  

  history

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
• persona.

  
  
  
  

  PERSONA

  
  
  
  

  A man shaped by failed ambitions. Despite the circumstances of Alynqe's birth, unfortunate appearance and all, there still seemed to be a path into the future carved out specifically for him. He was intelligent and a quick learner, a fact remarked upon often by his peers, but most importantly, he was realistic. In a world where he would never win any competitions for being beautiful or loved, he finds himself treading through life the only other way he knows how to. With grit and ambition.
  But Alynqe is a man incapable of finding himself ever crossing the finish line. He is impatient, easy to anger, and tempestuous on his best days. He desires to be self-sufficient, molded that way from years of solitude and equipped with a multitude of mild proficiencies from his many, many previous jobs, but often finds himself begrudgingly asking for help, shunning possible friends and allies alike by keeping his relationships shallow and short. His passions are fleeting, ever-changing, and his attention flits from one object to the next without a second glance, but when he steadies himself and focuses, you will find a man who puts his very being into all that he does, producing results unexpected of someone with a character like him.
  Years of failure, mostly self-induced, have brought his original ambition from a roaring flame to a mere wisp. He brushes aside any recognition of these feelings and dives headfirst into any work thrown his way nowadays regardless of whether he feels any joy or interest in it. All he wants is to live up to the value that was seen in him early on, but as the years pass, his belief in the foreseeable future having a place for him fades. Alynqe doesn't believe in the so called apocalypse, much less anything rooted in the unbelievable and easily warped history of millenium long ago, but he has arrived at the Branch of Apocalypse Prevention for reasons unknown to him, and he's determined to leave a mark this time.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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  HISTORY

  
  
  
  

  Not much is known about Alynqe. He is a man, a monster to most, who keeps his secrets close and shys away from seeming vulnerable. He's held a multitude of jobs, many he's not proud of or particularly invested in, and left half of them of his own volition, the other half not. His family, if there are any, are a mystery, faces he can't be arsed to remember without serious thought about them. At present, Alynqe is a man who works for the Branch of Apocalypse Prevention much to his coworkers' chagrin, and although there are often questions about how and why he ended up here, especially regarding his qualifications, those will have to remain questions for the foreseeable future. The people of the Branch of Apocalypse Prevention have a bigger problem to worry about, no?
  
  Magic-wise, Alynqe has the ability to leave marks on objects touched by the bare skin of extremeties as if the tar-like color on them is capable of being washed off (it's not). If he so desires, he can choose to bring the object into his proximity or bring himself to the object. The act is suffocating, effectively rendering him incapable of performing anything except catching his breath for the next ten minutes at least. It is always more tiresome to go to something than to bring something to him, and he rarely uses it, a bit too afraid that it'll kill him before he has the ability to do anything great in this world.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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• ignore me too

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