Fantasy [Extinction Event; Ancient Whispers] Remastered CS

[Prizzy Kriyze]

You're special. Yeah, you know. You always have been.

Maybe you noticed when you outperformed every other athlete on the field in everything without breaking a sweat, save those with exceptional cybernetic enhancements. Or maybe, later in life, you figured that the likelihood of you never once having been sick was a statistical anomaly. Perhaps it struck you in the shower, when you realized you'd never lost an argument like so many others seemed to complain about. By lord, you were no fantastical super human or legendary hero, but nobody else ever really seemed to compare.

You have always been competent, ruthless, and exceptional at what you do, but have you ever once stopped to wonder why that is? Why your voice is law? Why your skin barely bruises? Certainly, no one else ever has. Why, in spite of all this, do you feel like you're a shackled, chained, and sick animal, only a quiet whisper of your true self?

This doubt is not natural to you, but the thoughts were spurred when the something contacted you. The beckon was clear as day, but only to you. Maybe it was displayed on your TV amidst the static, or maybe in a strange envelope pushed under your door by some unseen force - perhaps even whispered to you in your dreams last night.

"The cycle ends. It is time for Divinity to be gathered whole once more. Retake what is yours, and do not waver."

The shackles have been cast off. You can feel the others. You may not like it, but you know what you have to do.​

-----

This is only a list of the required parts of your character sheets. How you wish to code or display them is up to you, but make sure you touch on all the following parts. Before posting your character in the Character Sheet section it should be sent to me in a DM for review, where we can discuss what kind of powers your aspect might grant you and what you'd like to achieve in the roleplay.

[Appearance]
(Image and description. Over time, as your powers quickly mature, your appearance will start changing to fit the tone. What once was human will soon look fantastical.)

[Name]


[Profession]
(The Divines are all exceptional individuals, and their standings reflect that. Typically, they are drawn to positions of power or violence, but exceptions exist. They are Corporate Directors, Politicians, Gang Leaders, Secret Agents, Religious Leaders, Celebrities, Socialites, Special Forces Commanders, Judges, etc. This part of the CS deserves extra thought, as the nature of both your character and your eventual powers should thematically inspire what profession they've been in.)

[Age]
(A Divine is no less than 20 years old, but there is no upper limit. Consider, however, that if they're past the age of 30 to 40, people around them might have noticed that they don't seem to age - unless, of course, you'd be rich enough to afford rejuvenation treatment.)

[Personality]
(Take creative freedoms, but consider that your character is likely to feel superior to others, and to feel disconnected with the rest of mankind.)

[Biography]
(The history of any carrier is as varied as any human's, but clearly shaped by the presence of Divinity in their lives.)

[Ambition]
(Regardless of what the Divinity has made of your psyche and mortal form, you are a human at heart - a human with friends, family, and dreams. What is your character's deepest ambition?)

[Aspect]
(A theme of powers that your character embodies either through history or symbolism. It should be a single word with a wide meaning to allow for as wide a range of interesting powers as possible. Keep in mind that abilities that have definite qualities (i.e. "always works", "always hits", or are otherwise difficult to write against) are discouraged unless particularly interesting. Remember that all Divines grow in physical might and speed over time, and that they're all capable of sensing other carriers as long as they aren't supernaturally disguised or hidden.)

[Artifact]
(Leave empty, for now.)

 

[Merciless Medic]

​

Reginald Burkhardt

• General
• Persona & Profession
• History
• Ambition, Aspect & Artifact

• Age:
  28
  
  
  
  Hair Style:
  Short

  Gender:
  Male
  
  
  
  Hair Color:
  White

  Eye Color:
  Grey
  
  
  
  Skin Color:
  Pale

  Outfits:
  Black Suit Attire,
  sometimes with white lab coat
  
  Height/Weight:
  5'10" (177.8 cm)/145 lbs (65.77 kg)
• Personality
  Nothing felt like what science felt to Reginald. The world felt so chaotic, so distorted, so different from how he viewed it initially. The people were confusing and unpredictable sometimes, but the one thing he found solace in was science. In fact, he's so wholly devoted to it he'll make sacrifices to better his knowledge and that of the scientific field. He is callous and cruel under his intelligent and heartwarming gaze and while he may seem weak, the man has no fear. He just knows the probabilities and seeks to exploit them to further his survival. He lives with a powerful hunger for knowledge, compelled to learn and think too much but it has never once satiated the hunger for what and who he is. Due to this and because of his disconnect with society, he feels as if the lives of those around him mean nothing in the end. The only thing that is to live for is science.
  
  
  Profession
  Head Scientist of a Top Security Research Facility, Delta-23 Omega-00 - designations given to the secret facility within the lands of Delta numbers and under the ground. Incredibly intelligent, observant, and with barely anything holding him back like a family, he's married to his job and will die by it. Stand by it. He's done just about anything for science and the reason he's in the top security section is because he can keep a tight lip while working on dangerous things relatively safely. He's seen some interesting things unfold and wouldn't bat an eye encouraging or convincing someone to take the fall for an experiment to test his hypotheses.
• History
  He found out fairly early on that he didn't injure as badly as the other kids did when he was in school and he found out that simply asking kindly for others to stop bullying him simply led them to just... Stop. Like they were taken aback by his kindness despite what they did and did what he said. It was a strange feeling, and people were confusing. He didn't know if it was his voice that compelled the weaker minded to listen or if he tugged at their emotions in their hearts when he was kind or if it were both, but it happened. And he was left oddly a void within himself. What was he? Normally, existential questions didn't start until one was in their twenties or thirties, but he matured faster than most and started when he was eleven.
  
  But when he was taught science in school, everything began to click together. He was so lost, but now it was like a gateway had opened up to him. Lost within the vast mathematical formulas and the chemical DNA of the universe left him finding more and more ways to piece together what he felt he was missing throughout all of his life. Meaning. Or a semblance of such, as he didn't know if he'd ever achieve the full meaning or purpose as nobody else did in their life.
  
  It became later known that he was advancing quickly, hitting college level science and maths by the time he was a sophomore in high school. And even further than that, he started his course on getting a Ph.D. and got the degree as soon as he was 20. It was an amazing time to be alive, he had so many things to do, so many things to see, so many things to piece together. He began working on machines, creating them to do simple tasks before realizing he can combine these into an amalgamation of Goldberg machines and then giving them computer chips to make them more compact and functional. Everything he touched, he took apart so he can reverse engineer it and put it back together, making it far better than it was.
  
  But then as he learned of space and of the darkness that laid betwixt the stars, he felt pulled towards the voids, his own soul feeling as if it belonged with how empty and incomplete it felt. It was enough to make one man go mad with want and knowledge. What secrets laid within the universe? Black holes, wormholes, portals that led to different dimensions - he wanted to find them all, learn about them all. His drive for knowledge was immense, fueled by his inner turmoil of emptiness, and he couldn't get enough of it.
  
  His creations had led him to be sought out by the government. Wanting to see where this will lead him, he was set to work in a private lab in a top secret facility. It didn't take long for him to hit head scientist either, as he began to make the calls, disguising it as the military wanting to see these amazing ideas he had.
  
  And with a bit of convincing, they too will agree.
  
  He, of course, found the military men oafs who did not understand the intricacies of the universe that they were breathing in and he was furious by how little those same people and those he worked alongside or over cared about his ideas. While he can make them care, it was always their families, their friends. While he had a family of his own, mainly parents and siblings and some friends growing up, they melted away as he began to get lost in his work. He didn't need them. Nobody needed them. Science and the advancements he was making was all he needed. All they needed. Why didn't they see that?
  
  Sacrifices for the answers he needed was uncommon, but still happened. He'd always get them alone, play on their dark desires or enable their curiosities. Or maybe convince them that there is a higher purpose beyond the stars, and all they needed to do was take that leap of faith.
  
  The leap of faith that ended in their deaths.
  
  It was when he felt the pull. The urge. Heard the voice. It was like the stars or some cosmic otherworldly being spoke to him. He felt it. He craved it. He would go mad if he surely didn't have it. All that was left was to kill all the rest so he may unlock the secrets of the universe. Maybe finally he can understand himself and why no matter how much knowledge he absorbed, he couldn't find the answers as to why he felt so empty.
• Ambition
  Reginald wants to be the one people looked up to. Wants to be the one people will recognize as a leader in his field and hold him up on a pedestal. And, most of all, he wants science to thrive. His one big goal is to find the world's best power source, unlimited in not only the energy it provides but insight on the meaning of the universe.
  
  He is a void of all knowledge. It will fall unto his mind eventually.
  
  
  Aspect: Void
  Shadows that can be morphed and be used by the individual. Instead of merely giving refuge for those who need it, it can be a powerful weapon once morphed, copying the characteristics of the forms and powers based from the constellations above, only limited by one's imagination and understanding of physics. If light were to cast shadow on an object, what would happen if shadow were to eat the light? Or perhaps become the object the light hits? Clearly, the light can't be all superior. The shadow can simply consume all, it merely became the void.
  
  This is the unknown. This is what people call the boogeyman. This is what people call unholy or ungodly. This is what people call eldritch or fantastical. This is what we call fear.
  
  And fear brings knowledge.
  
  
  Artifact
  ERROR ERROR
  UNKNOWN
  ...
  FOR NOW
  
  

The meaning of the universe is just within my grasp... I must not dally... I have to know. Reginald Burkhardt

Spoiler: Music

I'll add more when I find them

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

Kyros Echnaton
“Darkness covers all, the world is silent
For the creator rests in her horizon.”

General Information

Gender
Male

Age
Twenty Eight

Height
Six Feet

Profession
High Saint of the Temple of Sol

Appearance
White hair, pale skin and grey eyes. As if to offset the albinism, Kyros dresses extravagantly in black, red and gold to add a few colors to his palette. His frame is slender but powerful, as it is often accentuated by rigid elaborate suits and jackets; the quality of which betrays the money and resources he has on hand. He strides with confidence and authority, elegantly weaving through the room or commanding attention as he sees fit. The mask he shows the world is one of theatrical emotions and convincing lies, and when he is with people of little consequence, his trusted few, or by himself, his apathy shines through.

Biography & Personality

Biography
Even if Echnaton was a chosen name originally, the family had made it their own and given it the respect it was due by coercion and manipulation. A few hundred years ago, its progenitor established the Temple of Sol: a religion drawing inspiration from ancient Egyptian teachings and modern messages of love, life, and the nurture thereof. After a rigorous marketing campaign it took hold in several small, undeveloped countries, and further provided their miseries by siphoning every single dollar out of their pockets and into the family's vaults. The greed spurred its early leaders to spread further, prey on the weak and vulnerable by offering a community, and creating a hierarchy within the organization itself. Of course, the Echnatons were at its center, the patron saints of the entire religion - said to be closer to the Sun God than any other. The central members of the Temple of Sol resemble a cult, and its members can be driven to fanatic frenzy at only a command from their masters.

It's old, old money by now. Kyros was raised in the lap of luxury, conditioned and educated with centuries of social manipulation. His early childhood was little more than indoctrination into the family. His position above the men and women who worshiped the ground he walked on, and the core tenets of the Temple were driven into him. Unfortunately, before he had the opportunity to fully integrate, someone had finally had enough, and the entire family was executed for heresy on a routine visit to one of their branches in a smaller megacity. Everyone except Kyros, who was deemed too young to travel at the time. The rest of his upbringing was in the hands of his church, with priests and important religious figures as stand-ins for his mother, father and many siblings.

And he was, in fact, divine. The masses following him found themselves riled at his speeches, his educators marveled at his mental aptitude, and the inner circle of Temple of Sol leaders were impressed by how aptly he organized to maximize profits. These days, cups with the Temple's logo on it are nearly just as plentiful as "I love Jesus" t-shirts throughout Nutopia. Still, Kyros wants more. He just knows fate has picked him, and he's patiently awaiting the day he can commandeer his army of followers into the glorious light of the sun, to fight for a cause he has not yet understood.

Personality
Kyros is calm and calculative, a schemer at heart. The value of those around him is only a measure of how much they can do to further his own goals. Thanks to the worship he's experienced from a very young age and the Soul's powerful effects on his body and mind, he has a very realized God complex. He knows that he can get whatever he wants, and it leaves him disinterested in anything that doesn't feel like a challenge. This has lead him to obsessively chase a perceived state of physical and mental perfection that always seems just out of reach. Little excites or fazes him, but he finds comfort and pride in his control and power. So much so, any perceived slight against his position is met with disproportional consequences, as his pettiness is just as great as his ego.

Power

Ambition
Total domination. Kyros wishes to spread his influence to every corner of the world, have every major leader in his pocket, and control everything - or destroy everything, should the world not bend knee.

Aspect
The Sun
Sol is a fickle mistress, giving and taking life as she sees fit. Rays of light scorch or nurture life at her behest, and the entire world revolves around her. Without her light, we are lost. Without her warmth, we will freeze. Without her grace, we are nothing.

Artifact
N/A

 

[StarPrincessVal]

[Appearance]

Height: 5’ 10”
Weight: 150 lbs.
Hair: Black, Long
Eyes: Grey

[Name]
Elizabeth Mallory

[Profession]
Chairwoman on the Board of Directors for the Noctis Cosmetics Company. She started out as a model for the company, but after years of success she slowly made her way up the corporate ladder.

[Age]
70

[Personality]
If anyone truly knew Elizabeth, they’d describe her as being as fake as the cosmetics she sells. Kind, sweet, and caring on the outside, inside she is a storm of selfishness and ferality. With her prolonged life it has become harder for her to keep up appearances.

[Biography]
Growing up in a particularly wealthy household with parents who worked most of the time, there were two constants throughout Elizabeth's childhood: Caretakers for when her parents were gone and inflicting pain on others. The two often overlapped, with her caretakers being her favorite victims, but it wasn’t until she was twelve that she made one bleed and truly discovered her calling. Her parents would often take her side when she acted innocent so she learned she could get away with her cruelty by putting up a facade, most of the time. After some trouble in school she learned to further distance herself from the “accidents” she caused by choosing people she rarely interacted with.

By the time she was twenty, she had a routine down. It was much easier to lure people to her, and she had a place to be alone with her own apartment. Her “accidents” quickly evolved into murders. It was easier than she thought. After all, people went missing all the time, and nobody cared. If she was careful who she chose and where and when, she could get away with it no problem. And her success in the modeling industry gave her access to a whole new caste of victims. With her increase in fatality so too did her bloodlust increase. The length in time between victims shortened. She found when she drank or bathed in the blood of the victims, she felt stronger, more confident.

For fifty years she slowly made her way up the corporate ladder until she landed a seat on the board of executives, thanks to her extensive knowledge of the product and modeling. Claiming she uses rejuvenation treatments, she is unsure of what keeps her so young.

[Ambition]
To experience true love. Love that wasn't overpowered by her bloodlust.

[Aspect]
Blood - Our bodies an hourglass, our blood the sand. Drops like red rubies, determining our fate. All of it shall be mine.

[Artifact]

 

[kasigi]

• 01
• 02
• 03
• 04

• Name: Arden Garsch
  Nickname/Alias: Huntsman
  Age: 36
  Gender: Male
  Height: 6'0
  Weight: 180
  Profession: An underground crime lord spurred on entirely by his own desires.
  Theme:
  
  
  

  
  
• Biography: A street kid with a troubled childhood, Arden had been molded by the gangs that fester beneath the noses of common man. With no recollection of his parents, either from a lack of presence entirely or because his brain needed a way to cope with the traumatic first years of his existence, becoming another cog in the crime machine was a natural progression for him. Consider the state of his being: to what extent would indoctrination be necessary when dealing with a child who had been tossed away like simple trash at birth? The crime lords up top had Arden under their thumbs before the kid even realized it, and Arden, the lapdog that he had been become, eagerly carried out their dirty-work.
  
  He was efficient. Very efficient. He did what he was told, no questions asked. As he aged, the gigs that he took were more extreme until eventually, at the age of 16, there was a climax.
  
  He was given the task of murdering a member of a rival crime family. It was standard, given to everyone in the family as a form of proper initiation as they transition into adulthood. Arden had become desensitized to the violence that his life had been engulfed by, so the concept of murder wasn't exactly foreign nor something he was put off by. If it needed to be done, so be it.
  
  However, as the struggle began, Arden's senses became overwhelmed with an emotion that was entirely unexpected as the man finally dropped, lifeless. A genuine thrill, and a desire to indulge in his kill. He couldn't control his desires, and by the time he came back to his senses, there was absolutely no trace of the man he had just murdered. He found satisfaction in his successful manhunt and desired more. His morality could no longer compete with his primal cravings, even if he knew that these feelings were entirely offensive given what the average human psyche should experience in a similar situation. Arden wanted to kill again, and he knew he couldn't stop himself. As time passed, he knew that he had to keep his feelings locked away within. They were criminals, but his peers and superiors did everything out of necessity, seldom finding pleasure in their heinous acts. Of course, those around him eventually took notice of how eager he was to kill again. To hunt. If anyone needed to be taken out, Arden would practically beg to be the spearhead of the operation. His insistence on taking these tasks was unwavering, and he refused to tolerate any push-back.
  
  Years later, Arden had become well-known within the inner circles of crime for his efficiency and brutality. It didn't take long for him to develop a cult following of individuals who would follow Arden to their own graves. Utilizing their dedication and trust towards him, he successfully took control of one of the major crime families, with his inner circle working directly under him and organizing his "hunts," wherein important or powerful targets were chosen for Arden to kill. These hunts, of course, did more than satisfy his desires, as he was often able to absorb the families of rivals or accumulate other influence due to the importance of the people he took out. Those outside of his family knew of their ferocity and death-bringing, but it was unknown that Arden was always directly involved with these killings. Unfortunately, Arden's desire to kill was not limited to important, and even civilians could become his prey. His exploits could not be considered mere legend due to the sheer frequency of the killings; however, those who have dug too deep in search for answers usually end up becoming prey themselves.
  
  As with a majority of the criminal families, in order to avoid the wrath of the mega-corps, they've needed to adopt a particular slipperiness in order to avoid being pinned down. Growing complacent is a great way to lose everything, after all.
  
  Personality: A boisterous loudmouth, conversation comes easily to Arden, utilizing his more charismatic traits to get closer to people. He puts his desires first and foremost before anything else, including those he would consider family, as his understanding of what a real friendship or relationship should be like has become warped entirely. His manner of speaking is rough and unrefined, unlikely for a man of his precedence, but it makes it easier for him to convince those around him to be unassuming about his intentions. Beneath the surface, there's a lot of self-loathing for what he's become, and he truly wishes that he could finally satisfy his desire to kill and redeem himself for limitless sins hes committed during his lifetime. He's surprisingly sympathetic towards his victims, viewing them simply as prey with otherwise no other ill-will towards them.
  
  Ambition: To continue the hunt until he's satisfied.
  
• Appearance: A lithe man possessing a fair complexion and angular facial features, he stands at around 6'0. His ice-blue eyes are piercing, especially when contrasted with his snow-white hair. Overall, his build is skinny and barely possesses any prominant musculature; however, it isn't noticeable in his daily life due to the large jackets he usually wears, usually layered on top of a dress shirt that lead down to standard slacks and dress shoes. He is seldom seen without jewelry, golden rings adorning fingers on each of his hands.
  
  Aspect: The Predator.
  
  Everything that breathes, everything that moves, everything that thinks, they are all prey before the predator, ever-seeking the ecstasy that the hunt provides. Seemingly insatiable, the predator will hunt until none remain, until their hunger is satisfied.
  
  Artifact: N/A
  
  
• More music:
  
  
  
  

BASIC

PERSON

PHYS

EXTRA

..

code by RI.a

 

[NecromancerNight]

[Appearance]
With a small build, chubby cheeks, and the child-like innocence in his eyes, Levi seems to be much younger than he actually is. His brown hair is lazily tied into a ponytail, and his blueish green eyes are always vacantly staring into the distance.

[Name]
Levi Empedocles

[Profession]
Psychology Major

[Age]
22

[Personality]
An absolute airhead with extreme trust issues. With a privileged upbringing, Levi is very entitled, but this trait rarely shows since his charm makes others follow his every whim. He has also a superiority complex. Levi is unable to hate anyone, any negative feelings means disregarding them as a lesser being.

The only time he is wholeheartedly nice is when he is focused on crafting. Crafting is the only harbor where he can take a rest from the messy outside world.

[Biography]
Born with a sliver spoon in his mouth, Levi grew up completely spoiled with riches. But with his parents rarely coming home, his caretakers completely disgruntled by the brat, Levi longed for connection. Living in a mansion didn't allow for him to make friends, and even if he did meet anyone, his entitlement drove them away.

One day, Levi realized everyone became infatuated with him. He didn't undergo any personality change, so Levi thought he must be doing something right. He doubled down in his annoying behavior, and everyone loved him even more. Thus Levi slowly became completely unbearable.

One thing that Levi noticed was everyone around him seem happier once they loved him. The butler stopped arguing with the chef, the driver smiled more often, and the maids always hummed a cheerful tune while cleaning. Yet the world outside was full of pain and strife. Levi wondered if love can make the world a better place? To find the answer, Levi studied for the first time in his life.

Levi learned everything exceptionally quickly, except for how human minds worked. He became obsessed on finding the answer, and perhaps a solution to fix the mind of those who lack love. This is the reason he choose to study psychology. Levi always felt he lacked a part of something, which hinders his abilities to understand humans, and his gut told him he is closed to finding the answer. Or maybe that feeling is an indication for something bigger, something much bigger than he ever could've imagined.

[Ambition]
To fix the broken minds of humans, and create a utopia where there is no strife, only love.

[Aspect]
Love--
Eros, Ludus, Storge, Pragma, Mania, Agape, Love comes in all different shapes and sizes. Love is the force that unites things, that brings them together. Love mixes and blends and combines. Love can make us greater, or lead to our ultimate downfall.

[Artifact]
(Leave empty, for now.)

 

[Meredith]

Ambition There is nothing Mira would not do to protect her brother. Their fates were intermingled, she was certain, but Roman had never put much stock in it. His gentle words superseded his disbelief; Bellamira trusted that he believed her, because she had to, but he doubted her like everyone else. He’d spent half of his life so far taking care of her when she was unable. He deserved to live the rest of it, after her demise, even if she fixated on the idea of his death. He deserved to be correct in his doubt. It came with the understanding that her own death was inevitable. It would be worth it to die, she thought, if she could only set up her brother to survive and succeed: to pay him back for all of his wasted energy. The time he could never get back from her. He would survive if fate would allow her to make it so.

Bellamira Orison 5'8" & 112lbs | Socialite | 29 Years Old​

Appearance
Long black hair, braided into itself, thick eyeshadow and mascara leaking down her face. Bella’s taste is extraordinarily expensive. She has a love for platform boots and facial piercings; the sparkling of her silver tongue and teeth infectious in the light. Her blue eyes are always bloodshot. She often slurs her words, but those closest would remember her differently, sober and lucid and gloomy. It’s been several years since Bella has last stayed well through the day. The woman is no less alluring when inebriated.


Aspect: Oracle
There was always a chance Mira would “freak out” in public.
She called it ‘seeing light’ for as long as she could remember. Sometimes, the dread closed in, imposing, threatening, grabbing at her throat and plunging her into darkness. Sometimes, it was more subtle, the intense urge to get the fuck away from wherever she was or to ditch an item or person as soon as possible. None of these things are easy to comprehend from the outside.

Her trance-like speech, though, grabbed attention like nothing else. Mira is divine; her eyes pools of depressed consciousness and half-clarity, tears dripping down her face like a mother in mourning for the universe she created. It was poetry; Oftentimes, it was knowledgeable, though not always correct.
It was bearing down on her. It wasn’t something she had wanted, but it was a gift in a way, something bestowed upon her like a cancer eating through her body. It was too much to be relied on for advice. It was too much to choke on words of death and destruction.
At the least, it wouldn’t be long, she was certain.

Biography
Bellamira has sashayed through life with a justified sense of hedonism.

In the most distant recesses of her mind, she could remember struggling. As a child she faced constant rejection - she and her brother Roman never had the chance for an ordinary upbringing with ordinary parents, instead passed between a seemingly unending stream of relatives both close and distant throughout their childhood. Although Roman was mild-mannered and polite, Mira was decidedly “hard to handle” and few put up with her for more than four or five months. The only exception was their great-Aunt Mildred – the pair’s first guardian – but she was killed in a home invasion when they were nine, and the children had been quietly ushered away before anyone could ask them too many questions. She hadn't believed Mira when she said they should all go back to her son’s house for the night. Nobody ever did.

The core of the problem was that Bellamira could always perceive the seemingly inevitable rejection from the first moment she was introduced to new people. Therapists called it anxiety, but the visions of suffering and loss seemed so real to her - and they always came to pass. It forced her mind to focus on endings instead of beginnings. The isolation grew as the pair were shuffled from setting to setting. She slipped into obsessions about the horrific acts people commit against each other, war atrocities, crime. While Roman tried to keep the peace and stay in school, Mira spent their little money on alcohol and pot, sleeping through the days and getting too inebriated at night (when nobody was awake to disturb her) to suffer from the acute knowledge of her (seemingly imminent) demise. The girl had predicted deaths before. Her own seemed completely unavoidable. What was the point of long-term goals?

They were kicked out for the last time when they were sixteen or so – it was hard to remember that far back. Roman got a job. He never spoke to her about any sort of necessity for her to do so; Mira’s brother had been the one at her bedside while she held her head cradled against her knees, body covered in sweat and quivering like a newborn deer, and he understood that nobody was going to hire her as strung out as she always was. Not even in the shadier circles he'd come to find himself in: Bellamira herself knew better than to pry into dangerous affairs.

They shared a studio for a few years. Without the external pressure of chronically disappointed guardians, Mira got better. She began to paint, to exercise, and even to sing. She took up shooting with Roman on the weekends. He’d been at the hobby since his time as a youth ranger, but she surpassed his skill in months. She felt safer outside once he gifted her a pistol on their birthday. Most things were easy when she really tried. It became hard to relate to the idea of struggling even if she could remember it, as Mira found that most of her problems disappeared overnight when she came of gambling age, and bought her first in a series of many dozen winning scratch tickets. She'd noticed the trend before, how her gut feeling seemed to predetermine the future in ways seemingly impossible. Luck, one might call it. She kept meeting the right people at the right times, and they kept paying attention whenever she opened her mouth. Becoming a socialite within Roman’s criminal circles became easy, too, with the funds to present herself.

It became a sort of game. The world was full of beautiful and lovely things: if she was destined to die young then surely she was meant to see as many of them as possible before that time. Doubt was fading in the rear-view mirror, but every so often it reared its ugly head. She came to wonder why her brother had taken care of her throughout the difficult years, when getting out of bed seemed an insurmountable task. It was difficult in success to remember why her brother had supported her in her failure, and when she had asked Roman why he had abided her uselessness for so long he’d only replied that it was “hard to live without a soul”. She didn't understand what to make of that.

So it remained in stasis. Gala-gothic aesthetic and a two-bedroom apartment with full amenities carried Roman as he moved from a simple drug runner to a sort of street surgeon. Mira’s reputation intermingled with his; the pair were known to others as eccentrics good at ‘what they do’. What they did, within the actual mob, always seemed up for contention. She was an artist, an aristocrat; he was an urchin and surgeon. The pair became a sort of dilemma. There was a price to collaboration with Roman - the price of closeness to his sister among others - but he was good, and she was better, quick hands and a quick shot in times of crisis.

Something about their situation, though, seemed to drive Roman mad. The distance between them grew greater in his success. Some objections so fundamental that simply perceiving their truth would threaten to break them apart. She heard him up at night, hardwood creaking under heavy footsteps, murmuring and considering with words that (like the contents of her visions) she felt too much fear to examine. The gunshot that echoed through her dreams prevented her from questioning him too deeply. It was inevitable, but that did not mean she wanted to spur its course.

The way it happened.. she had not expected it. He didn’t kick her out, but he stopped coming home. She expected him to come back. She waited for weeks, then months, living in a two-bedroom apartment and reserving a woefully empty bedroom. She turned away patients with the promise that he was coming back. Without an eviction notice, it was easy to pretend. At some point, though, that delusion fell apart. Her home became precious in a way it had not been before: a gift she no longer expected and a museum of the past simeltaneously. She could pay her way, by then, but still the apartment became more of a refuge than an object offensive to her pride; it was a proof, she knew, of what love remained between them. Codependence, but not closeness. Love, but not trust. Obligation.

When his debtors came to collect, Mira took the heat. There was no choice: she hadn't a clue where he went and did not pursue him for the fact she was unneeded. It was clear, then, that Roman would not be back. Her life became more difficult under the hands of the syndicate. They had lost a good part of their investment in the pair already; if anything, her existence became supervised and at times uncomfortable. Years later, when he finally left the address of a PO box for return mail on a letter, she rarely bothered to write him back. It was in a nowhere town he didn’t live in, anyway. Such limited communication caused more problems for her than it was worth.

She had no delusions of power. It seemed that the compassionate thing to do would be to die quietly, she thought, and to avoid inflicting this anxiety on anybody else. But her brother did not need to die in the same way. He deserved better; if she was doomed than he was the cause to which she would be a martyr. To make a place for him with her death would put her at peace, somehow.

 

[Plutoni]

ROMAN

by thy mercy.

NAME
Roman Orison

AGE
34

GENDER
Male

PROFESSION
Surgeon​

↓​

APPEARANCE
Roman's face and figure have grown into a long, aquiline kind of grace in his later years. It casts a tall shadow, the 6'2 stature and the still, collected ease that weights it, the broad and arrogant yoke of his shoulders that warps crowded hallways away and around him. He has all the heavy steadfastness of a rock in the tide, a large, cool presence that soothes where it should intimidate. Part nature, part intent, and he's always been told he has a lovely smile - its brilliance softens his stark colouring, the cropped black hair and pale features, the scar, the sharp and yellow directness of his gaze. Perhaps he should've almost been frightening, in another life; in this one, though, there remains only the sense that the edges are smooth, and the touch is kind. The port, not the storm.

PERSONALITY
The voice and hands as steady as God. Roman's arrogance is almost fascinating to watch, so consuming and inscrutable and total as it is, and even still so oddly difficult to pinpoint. To pin down just what it is about this man, his slow, easy smile and placid words, the mocking humour, how his eyes burn when he holds the fragile pulse of another life between his fingers.

BIOGRAPHY
As a child, Roman used to study what it was to be good. How to be well-behaved, undemanding - he did his best to fulfil it. It was born partly out of necessity, to be the balm to his little sister's aggravations, to make Bellamira's excuses after the screaming and tears were done. To patch up her scrapes. Tidy her room. Their guardians often remarked upon how mature he was for his age. He never resented her for it - llooking after her was all he ever wanted.

He doesn't speak of some of the things he did in the name of that end. A star pupil forced to leave school at 16, leave the scholarships and little after-school clubs for the only job that gave him enough cash in hand for them to pay rent, and it was a wilderness that he found himself willingly lost in. He had always been practical. Practical to a fault, even, and he simply shelved thoughts of university and a career with little pain. It was easy when he could come back to their studio, to Mira, and see the light in her eyes slowly begin to shine again.

Gang associations began to suit him, ironically enough. It suited his unshakeable calm, the growingly apparent lack of remorse. He was treated as something of a curiosity, at first, and it was a curiosity healthily laced with suspicion despite the inconsequence of his role; his cards remained close to his chest, and his motives were murky. He didn't want them to know Mira's name, her face. He didn't want to drag her in when he was only just beginning to paddle. But, of course, Roman still knew how to be good. Tolerance slowly turned to trust - his higher-ups saw an ambition in him that they knew they could put to good use, and the slow introduction of his precious, jealously watched-over sister within the fold appeared to be the final missing piece within his puzzle. It took only two bloody, back-alley altercations for his unusual talent to become of note, the delirious slurring of the other runner as he pulled him back to the safehouse, how Roman 'came through the light' to save him. He soon found a battered copy of Grey's Anatomy slammed on the table before him, a hand waved vaguely to the point of 'study'. He was too distinct as a runner, anyway - too tall, too bright in the eye - and they'd decided it was time to invest.

Their investment found his own feet soon enough. A back-alley doctor for all those who feared the facial recognition in the great city hospitals, and for those who simply could not afford them - and he was exceptional. His little sister had settled into their circle, by then, and for a time, Roman was almost content. But the decay had already begun. As he paced alone in his practice in the dead hours of morning, he knew it was by his grace alone - his mercy - that these people lived or died. He dreamed of it, this terrible, nameless power, the lifeblood that stained his hands, his shirt. It felt like madness, a shapeless ambition to be greater. For them all to see the good he could do. He began to disappear. He bought a new apartment without telling Mira, applied for graduate schemes at the largest district hospital to be found, and invested in enough forged paperwork to succeed. The Orisons' goodbyes were bitter. He was made senior doctor at a ridiculously young age, little did the hospital know. Fortunately, he'd forged that too. Dr. Roman Halpine still supposedly had a sister, though terribly ill and living far from here, unable to travel to visit; it was because he now also had colleagues, a reputation and a successful, old-money fiancée, and he wove this story for them amongst the rewritten tale of the upbringing that he perhaps once could've had.

AMBITION
Sainthood, for lack of a better word. Roman knows he's been given a gift, and he needs more. He wants the very city to have felt his touch.
Somewhere in there is still a fierce, protective love for Bellamira, full of teeth and long, wretched nights spent drying her tears, cutting her fruit, holding her when it all became too much. He knows that he'll be watching over her forever, in a way. Maybe once he would've said his ambition was only to see her smile. These days, reality has made him settle for simply keeping her safe in their distance.

ASPECT
The Angel | Cosmic fire and screaming glory, righteous, unknowable, terrible. Merciful. Repent - grovel upon the sickened dirt from which you came - and pray that salvation may yet know you.

ARTIFACT
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