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Multiple Settings Modern Fantasy, Mature Themes, and Wings!

Sub Genres
  1. Action
  2. Realistic
  3. Romance
  4. Supernatural


New Member
Hi all, I'm looking for a male counterpart (love my romance) for a character I've created, who I'll post below. He, and the world I'm envisioning, are based off of a web-comic called "the Croaking." Not centered on the plot, just loosely based on the world: it's a modern one inhabited by winged people who, depending on their species, take on the characteristics/talents/personalities/stereotypes of whatever bird they represent. (And then, what about those who don't fit in with the stereotypes?) In this world, Corvids—Ravens, Magpies, Crows, etc.—are known to be violent and gang/cult-oriented (Sort of a play off the term “Murder” for a group of ravens.) They’re sort of the dregs of society, an underground community where violence, murder, torture, drugs, and prostitution thrive as they attempt to gain power. In opposition, Eagles or Hawks (and religiously, Doves) inhabit the highest echelons of society, attempting to either segregate or purge the world of those violent low-lifes stalking in the shadows.
So, this is the world our characters would interact: in a rigid hierarchy among various groups, which presents lots of potential for drama, psychological themes, and social themes that would be interesting to explore. As a result, I expect violence and gore, mental illness, and other mature themes. And of course romance ^-^ Below is the angsty, violent, but potentially tender fellow your character -- essentially whoever you can imagine and want to RP -- willing be interacting with. See my profile for other RPing preferences ^-^


New Member
Fen Serica1630500644983.png
“People don’t change—they just find new ways to lie.”
Amazing art by Grish!

  • Gang: Needle-Claw Mischief |Gender: Male | Sexuality: Bisexual | Age: 20 | Sun Sign: Scorpio | Birthday: October 29
    Species: Eurasian Magpie | Scientific Name: Pica pica |Wing Color: Iridescent black with white halfway down the primary feathers
    Hair Color: Black | Eye Color: Black | Height: 6'1"​

Fen Serica puts his fists up, grounds his feet, and sets his sights on his opponent like a heat-seeking missile.

The Jay-winged kid across from him raises his arms in a grandiose gesture, wings spread, probably hopped up on drugs, and drawing a savage, animalistic wave of shouts and cheers from the audience. He’s over-confident, jittery, impatient; he barely treads water among the overwhelming flood of shouting and spurring. He’s drunk on it, his fifteen minutes of fame in this filthy hole in the wall, where people—Corvids and non-Corvids alike—place bets and watch a duo of street fighters tear each other apart like roosters in a cock-fighting ring. There are no rules, no tap-outs. Getting stabbed in the throat with a concealed switchblade, strangled to death in a headlock, or beat in the head repeatedly until you’re nothing but a shivering, brain-dead pulp is fair game. The more blood, the better. The blood-thirsty animals surrounding the ring, who put all their cash up on either head, better see red soak into the dirt—it’s what they paid for.

The chaos passes through and over Fen without consequence. His dark eyes are clear in a way that can only be witnessed inside the ring; elsewhere, they’re fogged and dazed on the drugs he gets as a payment, his only method of money-making. Otherwise, he’s penniless, just another Corvid in just another Mischief, apathetic to the idea of being a productive member of society. He wasn’t raised that way. Fen was taught from the earliest age that if you can take what you want without paying or working for it, you should—always. No one told him this—it’s just a social expectation for a Corvid. And the lesson was proven to him time and time again, when his mother would use him as a ruse for shoplifting, when his father would return home with stolen items they could never begin to afford, when he could intimidate his peers into giving him their possessions, when his father would beat him and his mother for the pure pleasure of it. No one ever told him there weren’t consequences; Fen knew that too, when he would get scolded or a slap on the wrist for taking things that weren’t his, when his father was killed for stealing from a rival gang, when his mom began prostituting herself out of their shared house to keep up the money-flow that had ceased with her husband’s death. Violence thrived in his house. Now it thrives in Fen.

It’s carved a body that is fit for his kind of work, thin but lean, and muscled enough to take someone down with a flood of devastating, well-placed punches. His shoulders are broad, eyes deep-set and nose crooked, knuckles bloody and scabbed, black-and-white hair short-cropped and out of his face. He has more than enough scars to show for his work, one cutting across the bridge of his nose, another on his cheek, and dozens raised on his shoulders, back, chest, and legs. The ones on the inside of his elbows and the crook of his neck tell a different story, his after-hours hobbies, the ones that are just as dangerous as the trauma he puts his body through in the ring.

But his most obvious feature?

Fen only has one wing.

The left is black and white, unremarkable for his species. The right is gone, sawed off at the shoulder blade—the result of a mishap with a Murder of Ravens, the most violent Corvids. Needless to say, Fen can’t fly—the worst kind of torture for a winged creature. Instead, he fights, the imbalance in his frame and open space on his right side providing a unique advantage over the other fighters.

Fen’s style is honed like the edge of a switchblade, quick and ruthless, unlike the tanks that try to take him down with raw strength. His pain tolerance is legendary: Fen can be hit in the face, in the gut, in the kidneys, and shrug it off with enough adrenaline to numb him out until the fight is over. His mercilessness is similarly legendary, taking advantage of any vulnerability that presents itself to him during a fight. It stems from a deep-seated rage that simmers inside of Fen, a mixture of anger at the world and at himself that drives his fists; whether it means smashing his opponent’s face into the floor repeatedly until every bone is shattered and every facial orifice is spewing blood or beating his rival within an inch of his life even though it’s obvious Fen has already won, it becomes obvious that there is no way to quench the rage when it’s been released. It’s what makes him such an effective fighter, catching the attention of those serious bet-takers who want to keep their cash-flow steady.

Now, surrounded by a constant din of vicious cheering, the two exchange a flurry of punches, dodging, striking, parrying—and suddenly, a blow to the face. Fen stumbles back amidst a howl of cheers, refusing to unfurl his fists to touch the hot wetness that streams down his face, off his chin. The rush of blood that floods from his nose is cathartic; the sharp pain that throbs there is grounding. It centers him, renews his focus and his goal. Red flashes in his vision, his dark eyes erupting in a fire that will only be quenched with complete destruction. A fraying rope has snapped, a ticking time-bomb counts down to the last milliseconds.

The anger won’t follow him out of the ring. It never does. Only when someone raises his fists against Fen, a trigger that brings back memories of paternal beatings and vulnerability that made it impossible for him to defend himself, does the anger go prompt-critical, a nuclear melt-down that refuses to cool down until the threat has been neutralized. Unsurprisingly self-destructive, Fen wants nothing more than to be alone with his painkillers, lost in a dazed, foggy stupor that ebbs the pain in his joints, broken nose, and split lips. If not high, he’ll drink, a surprisingly subdued drunk entirely apathetic to the world, to his failures, to the destructive life he’s created for himself. Fen doesn’t care. He doesn’t go around beating things to a pulp because he can—only because he gets paid, because the opponent in the ring is the only obstacle that stands between him and that one thing that makes it all worth it: the drugs. It isn’t hard to manipulate Fen; anyone could use him for their own ends, he wouldn’t care. As long as he gets his own brand of monetary or drug-induced pleasure out of the deal, being used is the least of his concerns. Never a leader, Fen is a follower in the strictest sense, an attack dog trained to be sicced on anyone at any time for the right treat. Dangle it in front of his nose, and he’s as loyal as they come. What else is there? He has no self-respect. Just a dual obsession, an addiction, waiting for the right person to assume its face and fulfill his desires.

But now, with bared teeth and a heavy brow, Fen immediately lashes out, landing a devastating kick to the back of his celebrating, distracted attacker’s knee, sending his posture buckling. Face blooded, eyes wild, Fen seizes a handful of his opponent’s hair and finishes the fight with his signature move: Once, twice, again, again, he smashes the smirk off of his arrogant challenger’s face, crushing it into the sweat- and blood-slicked floor. Bones buckle beneath the force, teeth break, lips bleed. The cheering intensifies. When his broken, unconscious victim is reduced to a quivering, bloody heap, Fen slackens his grip and stands with a single wing folded behind his back, bloody but victorious. His investors clap each other on the shoulder.

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