Slop of Aarix

[Aarix]

Hi! I'm gonna post my characters here
No fancy coding because BBcode confounds me...

Number of stars indicates current muse level. Spoilers contain no spoilers, I'm just collapsing stuff for space's sake.
shall add more stuff as I go...​

 

[Aarix]

Ryn
​

Name: Ryn Winthorpe
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Bi
Species: Human
Height & Build: 5'4", stocky, muscular and a little overweight
Occupation: Nightfill
Setting: Modern

Extroverted, charming, and magnetically over the top. Ryn lives every day like he's dying... because he is :^(​

Spoiler: Written Description

You can't seem to take your eyes off him, and you're not sure why.

To call him average-looking would be disingenuous: nothing about him is average. He's certainly in the lower percentile of male height, for one. Long auburn-ginger hair makes for a striking mane--it's cut choppy and almost has a life of its own, evoking fire.

His body is dense and stocky, a little overweight, and packed with the practical sort of muscle gained from years of physical labor rather than a gym membership. There's something fucky about his proportions, though--like his hands and feet are a way too big for him. So too is his voice--a dulcet baritone so much bigger than its owner, which has people doing double-takes.

His jawline is an amazing shovel. His nose has been broken before and wasn't set right. His pale skin's peppered with freckles. There's a wonky canine you can see when he smirks, which is either ratlike or raffishly charming depending on your tastes. He emotes easily, and his body-language often borders on melodrama. Those blue eyes of his are weirdly haggard and have an rare magnetism to them at once.

...Fascinating little homonculus.

Spoiler: Art

By me

By Hej

by Roqi

By Roqi

Spoiler: Writing Excerpt

Ryn’s body was needed elsewhere first. He double checked her new address, setting off at a brisk pace because there was no way he’d survive being alone with his thoughts for long. He did stop to book a place on the way. Texted Why the details without further flirtation. Before he walked the couple more blocks down, to the driveway where the hire truck was parked.

“Ryn, hey!” Adrian stopped, partway through dragging a cabinet down the ramp, and turned, giving him a smile of greeting.

“There’s my strongman.” Ava poked her head from around the van.

“The heavy machinery,” Ryn grinned too, and stopped to flex. Then he hopped up the ramp to help, because Adrian was making that cabinet look verrry heavy by himself. “Hey, you two.”

“I am sooo glad you could make it,” Adrien’s shoulder’s slumped a little. Ava’s brother’s assistance had been required to load this thing, but he had to go back to work, and that extra pair of hands was really going to be needed if they were gonna unload it in time.

God, she’d gotten her money’s worth out of that removal truck. Ryn could not fathom owning that much junk. But, good, he’d need something to burn the nervous energy now chewing away at his insides.

“Sweet place you managed to get here,” said Ryn, looking around. A nice bit of town. The streets were lined with oaks.

“I’ll give you a tour when you get up here!” She grinned sunnily.

Adrian grimaced a bit, “You know she’s on the second floor, right?”

Ryn shrugged. “Piece of piss.”

***​

It was not a piece of piss. It was work and it took hours. If there was ever a case for Ryn’s spartan decorating, this was it. Boxes and boxes and sofas and TVs and beds and tables and rugs and cabinets and boxes and boxes. No elevator here either, just manpower to get everything up the stairs and round the awkward corners and into place (Ava got indignant at the suggestion she’d be better off finding somewhere without stairs. Ryn supposed he would have been, too). Proper work. And Ryn had never been gladder to be finessing the angle of a sofa so that it would fit in through a livingroom door. He was grateful for the conversation, grateful for the work, Ava you angel, thank you for having a fucked up leg and limited choice of male friends.

She only knew him thanks to Adrian, and Adrian only knew him thanks to being gay enough to frequent some of the same bars as Ryn. Ava mostly kept to arranging things upstairs while Ryn listened to Adrian talk about his thesis on parasitic plants. He was tall and svelte, with nice cheekbones and a cute laugh. Pretty in his pastel tshirt and matching Vans and that bit of sweat from all the lifting. In a better universe, he’d be fucking him tonight instead. Alas.

Finally. Finally, that was done. It was Adrian’s job to return the truck. Ryn set the final box down in the corner of the pile, then sighed, slumping over the counter.

“Lookin’ like a home in here already,” he declared, a with a tired smile. A job’s well done, if he did say so himself.

“Water?”

“Please.”

Ava poured two glasses, and slid one to him.
“I certainly get my friendship’s worth out of you.”

“Certainly do.” Ryn straightened up only enough to drain half the glass in one go.

“Adrian should be back soon. Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?”

“Sorry. Got a date lined up.”

“Oooh?” She lit up a little, “Is he cute?”

Ryn hummed.
“Bad boy,” asshole. “Pretty eyes,” physically unremarkable. “Took me for a ride on his motorbike today.”

She smirked against the rim of her glass. That explained the hair.
“My cooking definitely can’t compete with that.”

“Another time?”

“Whenever. I owe you.” She petted Ryn’s shoulder.

God, Ryn did not want to unpeel himself from this countertop. He wanted to stay here, have dinner with some friends, and then he wanted to have a shower and lie down and not have to move again. But he said he’d wanted Why, so that was what he was getting.

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

1. You are trying to walk your dog but it has a SEVERE problem with this guy. Better apologize!
2. You're waiting at the doctors office and Ryn is too. He's super nervy. You know what's easier for him than thinking about his appointment? Striking up a conversation with a random.
3. You're hitch-hiking like it's the 70's. Ryn and his comically tiny car are here to the rescue. Hope you like his music selection!
4. Is your OC a magic researcher of some kind? It'd be very appealing to run some tests on this little mutant....

 

[Aarix]

Heron
​

Name: Oliver "(The) Heron" Hastings
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Sexuality: STRAIGHT (bi but mad about it)
Species: Human
Height & Build: 6'8", broad-shouldered, sleekly athletic
Occupation: Computer technician.
Setting: Modern

A grim goliath of a man who's an aloof observer of his wretched species. Borderline-ascetic, dominated by guilt and obsessed with self control in the pursuit of stoic self-perfection. He's smarter than he looks.​

Spoiler: Written Description

He's giant. Clothing hangs down from broad shoulders—somehow, he’s still managed to find stuff that’s loose on him. Sheer unadorned masculinity.

You’ll feel his eyes on you like a sniper’s laser. They’re a swampy hazel. If light hits him at the right angle, those deep-set sockets hollow out like a skull’s. His nose is an absolute monolith of a thing—knock him flat and he’d make a great sundial. The angles of his jaw are unusually acute, giving him an undersized mandible which further exacerbates his pin-headed silhouette.

If you could see him in a wetsuit (which you’re not going to unless you’re awake very, very early) you’d see the sleek contours of a powerful machine, made for endurance and strength in that order. Long, strong legs and a bulky chest. He’s not chiseled like a model; his brutal fitness regime's not about looking nice. Still, there’s no spare weight on him.

He holds himself with a soldier’s dignity and a veteran’s burned-in vigilance. His skin’s a slightly ashy shade of olive-pale, and patterned with scars most people are tempted to assume are from combat. Belying any militaristic impressions, though, is thick black hair comes down just past his shoulderblades. The split ends therein testify the fact he’s not cut it for years. It’s lank with grease despite his best efforts (which consist solely of 3-in-1 shower gel).

All this makes him look brutish. He’s certainly not trying hard to alleviate this impression, what with that chilling hyperstoicism. Crowds (who's average constituents he stands a head above) part for him like a shoals of fish.

(If younger: he's similarly haunted, but rake-thin, much less healthy looking, and somewhere in the middle of growing his hair out.)

Spoiler: Art

By me

By 575pfe

by Jagal

By me

Spoiler: Writing Excerpt

A summer storm lashes the empty beach, whips the black water into ragged peaks. You’d have to be a very strong swimmer or a suicidal r****d to brave surf like this. Heron does his laps. Or tries.

It’s always worth the commute a little way out of town, there’s less people here. Less regulation. He could scream out here and there wouldn’t be a single soul to hear him. Part of him wants to, but he doesn’t. He’s too focused on breathing, anyway.

Dawn’s first light carries no splendor through this turbid sky, but lightning does; brilliant white crescents cut in the waves for spit seconds. It’s as disorienting as the waves that push and pull against all his efforts. Nature truly is magnificent in how much it does not give a shit about the creatures who try and test themselves against it. Insect, man, all same. It’s important to feel that worthlessness sometimes. Get a reality check on the farce that was the human ego. Some perspective.

Heron needs it today.

The ocean’s not so cold—he’s gotten to know the seasonal currents here, and it takes more than a bit of rain to sap away summer’s warmth—only the wind and rain are. This thin swimrun suit is not sufficient, but he’ll suck it up. He’s survived colder. He needs to keep moving though, get the most out of this while his body—and the ocean’s good will—will tolerate it. The fact remains he’s just a tube of air-breathing meat.

On sunny days, schools of little fish flit around the rocks here, teaming shards of living mirror. Today, the only sign those rocks are here at all are plumes of white water thrown meters in the air. Waves like this could smash bones so easily, pulp flesh on jutting barnacles. Oh, doesn’t that sound nice. Want your fucking romantic ocean suicide? Of course not. Heron doesn’t have that luxury.

He knows he shouldn’t be out here. Fucking r****d.

So he drags himself from the surf, gasping, lungs and limbs burning by now as the rest of him freezes. He’s been out there long enough that continuous gravity is sickening now, his body anticipates the beach to keep moving under him, throw him around. Yes, nothing like risking one’s life at four in the morning to get the blood pumping. Fucking idiot, what the fuck was he thinking.

Don’t think. Move. He sucks a breath through his teeth and breaks into a fast sprint up the beach. Shit knows what's in the softer sand near the banks; letting waves wash over his calves provides better resistance anyway. The rainwater is easier on his eyes, but it’s just as much of a pain in the ass as it slicks stray strands of hair all over his face. Oh, boo hoo. If it was such a problem, he’d shave his head.

Nothing matters. Exertion is purifying. He makes it all the way around the point and it is still nowhere near enough he still wants to scream. Sprint then. Keep going. And going, untill—

Tired, you piece of shit?

Heron isn’t, he really isnt’t he just—his breath raking between his teeth and he sinks, hands on knees as nausea roils through him—pushed too hard. Go on, walk in in then, princess. He stays to the hard sand and jogs slow back to the end of the point. The clammy clinging warm of the suit and the cold of the rain are both discomforts to be ignored. Along with everything else.

When he’s back to beneath the cliff he stands before the surf. The sun’s well and truly up by now, chasing away all the unreality of dawn. His skin is numb.

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

1. Heron shall fix your computer.
2. Heron really, really needs some extra cash. He'll teach you guitar. How bad can it be? How bad can it be.
3. Uh oh! Your useless ass is drowning/caught in a riptide at da beach. Lucky I've got the best swimmer in the world for ya here, hey! Put the Hero in Heron for once.
4. Speaking of the beach... Is your OC a mermaid or a selkie or a sea monster or something? Why not say hi during Birdy's morning swim? :^)
5. Friday night at the bar... Ooh la la, who's this tall glass of water sitting all alone? It's Heron. How about striking up a conversation with him? Go on, I'm sure it'll go awesome (spoiler: it won't.)

 

[Aarix]

Xave
​

Name: Xavier Chen
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Straight
Species: Human
Height & Build: 5'9", very thin.
Occupation: Musician, sound engineer.
Setting: Modern

Amazingly well put together workaholic. Charming, generous, benevolent, and wonderfully professional... yet scarily calculating. Rockin' rebel meets cunning politician.
Also may or may not have been a bit of a badboy ladykiller back in the day.
​

Spoiler: Written Description

Woah, this guy should be a model—is he a model? His pretty face and snappy dressing tell you he might be. His darkest-brown hair's so nicely coiffed, and—oh, that's some nice cologne. He's a portrait of masculine style. Those pierced ears keep him from looking too formal, though...

His monolided eyes are so dark it's hard to distinguish iris from pupil—they radiate a subtle, friendly warmth. He speaks and holds himself with polite confidence. His medium-olive complexion is flawless, and makes him look younger than he is. His features are wonderfully symmetrical and he's got a nice jawline. Put simply, he's very handsome. His voice is a pleasant tenor, easy to listen to. There's something terribly disarming about him.

Examination of his elegant hands—their calluses and immaculately kept nails—would let you know he's a string player. The especially heavy wear on his right and middle & index fingers mark him as an upright bassist specifically. He wears a watch on his left wrist, though its dial is worn on the inside for more surreptitious checking. If this gives you the impression of an industrious professional, you'd be right.

If he's to remove some layers, you'll see he's phasmid-thin. Is this dude eating enough? Geez. Maybe he really is a model.

Spoiler: Art

by shrimp_bimp

by roqi

Spoiler: Writing Excerpt

Xavier threw a pointer of acknowledgement.
“Carson, you’re the best sound guy I’ve had for weeks.” But alright, seriously now. Kill your darlings? Xavier was a professional executioner.

“Mnnblehm,” Ryn stuck out his tongue a bit, and wrinkled his nose, “Can’t just string together consonants like that, man. You try sayin’ it ten times fast,” Yeah, the consonants. That was the problem Ryn, and anyone else, had with their band name. No other problems. Sure. Yes. It was very hard not to cackle.

Xavier rested a hand delicately on his heart as he looked to his conspicuously silent friend.
“Et tu, Heron?”

Heron inclined his head gravely.

“Sorry, Xave,” Casey offered. And he left it at that, despite the poking eyes beneath Ryn’s gradually-ascending and increasingly-mirthful eyebrows.

“Well.” Xavier cast a glance around, “Better to have this conversation before the marketing really ramps up, as Why says.”

“You’re not that cut up about it, though, right?” Ryn asked quickly.

Xavier waved a hand.
“A band by any other name would rock as hard.”

“You kept the iambs.” Casey was impressed.

“It’s drilled in,” Xavier pressed the tip of a finger to his temple, “You don’t want to know how many Shakespeare productions I’ve run tech for.”

A little flicker of amusement in Heron's eyes.
“A shame you couldn’t pick up the wordsmithing by brute force.”

Xavier shook his head sadly.
“Okay, new name. And we'll put it to a vote this time." He look around at his bandmates, then Why, “I assume we have a day or so left for this decision,” Some assurance for Casey, before he even had to speak.

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

1. Xave + band are playing at some wedding. You spill some booze or somethin on him. awkward!
2. You're here to audition for one of his bands. Better impress him! It also helps if you're a good hang...
3. Xave's got an instrument/bit of kit to sell. Get haggling!
4. You n Xave get stuck in an elevator together at the WORST possible moment c'monnn he's got places to BE

 

[Aarix]

Casey
​

Name: Casey Brandis
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Gay
Species: Human
Height & Build: 6'1", bodybuilder
Occupation: Burger flipper.
Setting: Modern

Chronic insomniac struggling for a feeling of control. Smarter than he looks. Beaten up by impostor syndrome every day of his life.​

Spoiler: Art

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

• You're strangers on a bus together. So. This is weird. But Casey has something he needs to warn you about.

 

[Aarix]

Blair
​

Name: "Blair"
Age: Early 20s (he doesn't know exactly)
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Straight...?
Species: Human
Height & Build: 5'8", rail thin.
Occupation: Mercenary, healer, magical object peddler, diviner... whatever you wanna pay for.
Setting: Fantasy.

The grind never stops. Especially when you are addicted to the expensive magical drugs you need to do your expensive magical work. Blair is a grown-up street rat who never had any pride to begin with; he'll do absolutely whatever it takes to survive.​

Spoiler: Art

[placeholder, so that those images don't end up absolutely massive]

[placeholder, so that those images don't end up absolutely massive]

Spoiler: Writing Sample

Once he's positive the coast is clear, Blair crouches beside the dying stranger. Looks her over. Pretty young thing. Somebody's stabbed her, obviously. And left, without even taking her jewelry. People confound him, sometimes.

"Lucky I was passing through, eh?" Very lucky indeed. He flicks the crystal emblem pinned over her heart, "Kataran noble, right?"

He presses a hand to the side of her neck to gauge her pulse-- it's stuttering and weak, and she's still losing blood. He sighs. The fingers of his other hand hover just over the wound, careful not to get any gore on his coat. He splays them, calling forth the soft glow of his magic, and Acedajin's pain subsides... slightly.

"That's one hell of a wound you've got there. But I can heal you. I'll help you out, you help me." He tilts his head a little, and gives a mirthless hint of a smile, "How much is your life worth, d'you think? I can't afford to fix this much damage cheap and, by the looks of it," he gestures about them to the desolate streets, "you can't afford to shop around."

He pauses for a moment, wondering if she can even respond. Maybe she's keeping quiet just to spite him--he wouldn't blame her, it's a bitch of an ultimatum. It's not one he's making for fun, though. Pulling someone from the brink is devastating work. Blair doesn't have the luxury of being kind.

"Clock's tickin', love," he murmurs. He slides that hand up to her face to cradle it gently, and looks down into her eyes. His own are dull and cold--there's neither pity nor cruelty in them. "It'd be a right shame for this world to lose such a pretty face."

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

1. Welcome, welcome! Have a look at Blair's wares! He'll definitely have something you need.
2. You and Blair have been hired to conduct some kinda mercenary work together. Kill a monster. Protect a caravan. Extort some bastard. Whatever. Blair doesn't care as long as he's getting paid.

 

[Aarix]

Adriel
​

Name: Adriel Berith
Age: Mid 40s
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Irrelevant.
Species: Ex-Human.
Height & Build: 5'4", waifish
Occupation: Saving the goddamn world.
Setting: Fantasy.

Adriel is an instrument of divine will, having relinquished her humanity in exchange for the power and purpose of heaven. All she once was has been consumed in holy fire.
...Or so she'll have you think.​

Spoiler: Art

[placeholder, so that those images don't end up absolutely massive]

[placeholder, so that those images don't end up absolutely massive]

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

• You look like you could use some mystical guidance. For a small fee, of course.

 

[Aarix]

Xaanik
​

Name: They have lots of names.
Age: Centuries. Nonhuman to begin with.
Gender: Varies.
Sexuality: : )
Species: Fallen Angel of Death (woo edgy)
Height & Build: Varies.
Occupation: Helping : ) (resume includes: feudal lord, soldier, wartime nurse, midwife, psychomancer, and DJ to name a few. And that's just in one universe...)
Setting: Any.

Angels exist to serve mankind, and so does Xaanik, despite fucking that up severely enough to be expelled from the hivemind of heaven. She only wants to help.
(Probably only works as a sidecharacter, since she's so un-human.)​

Spoiler: Art

Spoiler: Writing Sample

Xaanik cocks her head, and watches him for a long moment. The fatalism is good. Always interesting, when young men were convinced they had so little to live for. He’s not wrong. But it’s interesting. She flattens her hands on the table.
“I need to… assess you. Um. There’s a few ways we could do this. Depending.” She looks over at him, noting his seal, “You’re a mage, yes? Are you skilled with aura work?”

“Not especially.”

Xaanik hums.
“Then we do this in tangible terms. So. Uh.” she rakes some hair back from her face, “Would you prefer a bite or a kiss?”

Heron’s brow twitches.
“Literally?”

“Yes.”

“From you?”

“Oh. I can be male, if that helps.”

“No. Fuck, no. I’m not…” Heron shakes his head, and looks away.

He is, but that’s none of her business.

“I don’t mind. But this assessment requires fluid contact. Unfortunately.”
She waits patiently, with a pleasantly neutral expression.

Heron wrinkles his nose.
“...The kiss.” Neither option appeals, but this would be better than an infected sore.

Xaanik nods obediently, and stands. Makes her way around to his side of the table, and settles a hand on his shoulder. It does absolutely nothing to assuage any of Heron’s visible distaste as she leans in. The closer she gets, the more human details Heron realises are missing. Her skin carries lines of age, but she doesn’t have pores, or warmth. She doesn’t seem to breathe, unless it is to speak. She does, a millimetre from his lips.

“Please relax,” she murmurs.

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

1. You've been invited to a very exclusive rave. The DJ is mage, and their performance is putting all the pushermen our of buisness for the night. You'll have fun. (I'll play another character alongside Xaanikfor this one (a stranger? one of your characters friends?) because you might not have heaps of opportunity to interact with Xaanik herself.
2. You need help with something magic related and boy is Xaanik keen to help. Hell it doesn't even have to be magic.
3. There is a war going on. Your commanders are getting desperate enough to try and summon shit from hell to help them. And by shit I mean Xaanik.
4. You are a priest. Xaanik has come to you for spiritual guidance. She seems to need your advice pretty badly.

 

[Aarix]

Jayden
​

Name: Jayden
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Bi
Species: Human
Occupation: Mercenary/Assassin
Height & Build: 5'6", Slim, athletic
Defining features: Tattoos over her chest and arms, piggish little nose.
Setting: Fantasy.

Jaydyn (at least, she's pretty sure that's how you're meant to spell it) is no stranger to the brutality and injustice of this world--in fact, as an assassin, it's pretty much her line of work. There's no harm in enjoying it where you can. And distracting yourself where you can't.​

Spoiler: Art

Spoiler: Starter Prompts

1. Jay's here to fucking kill you < 3
2. You want someone dead. Negotiate rates with her.
3. You're betting on a dog fight, gathered to spectate, and you happen to be next to her. Or, like, some other betting-event if you're not into animal cruelty.