Fantasy 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝚅𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙴𝙻𝙳𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙲𝙷 𝟷𝟶𝟷: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝙳𝙸𝙾𝚃𝚂.

[.V1LLAINISM._]

scroll.

surviving eldritch 101.

C

haracter

sheet

You made it! Thank you for taking an interest in Surviving Eldritch 101, below is the character sheet; it's fairly simple, so you can add as much as you'd like! Code is not required, while it is pretty, we do understand that there are individuals who prefer not to use it. Thank you to xayah. for creating this beautiful character sheet thread code, you should check out her workshop. Should you have any additional questions, feel free to ask either me or miyabi in DM or in ooc.

NAME:
NICKNAMES:
D.O.B:
AGE: 18+
GENDER:
ORIENTATION:
ROLE:
MAJOR:

APPEARANCE:
FACECLAIM: (optional)
DND CHARACTER: their appearance, class, etc.

PERSONALITY: a paragraph or more

HISTORY: can be as short or long as you’d like.

THE FOUNDER.

open / closed

It’s safe to say that the founder is far from suave; a nerd with far too much time on their hands and far too much enthusiasm towards their world building. Their reputation is exactly that: an individual who would rather spend their time playing games instead of doing anything else productive.

THE SCAREDY CAT.

open / closed

The name says it all, the type of person to jump at the slightest scare; weak-hearted and always questioning, unsure of what is to unfold in front of them and surely, fears the unpredictable. They are the voice of reason, the one that will pull back in hopes to avoid the doom that awaits them.

THE GENIUS.

open / closed

Analytical and reliant on facts, evidence, and the logical. It’s no surprise that they’ve become the more responsible one of the group, believing that perhaps they are the only sensible one—in a way, they’ve taken up the role of the nurturer, the one that has the good head on their shoulders and most likely to bring things of practical usage. Intelligent in their own right, the Genius is one often relied on for puzzles, technical equipment, and everything in between.

THE TROUBLEMAKER.

open / closed

There are many things to call this person: trouble, dastardly, downright heinous. They figured that taking on a role in the club would keep them from being kicked out—which is wholeheartedly true, the club is the thread that keeps them tied to their academic status. In some capacity, they’ve earned the title of the one that easily breaks in and out of things, knows their way with crime, or anything remotely close to the idea.

THE EXCHANGE.

open / closed

Catsborough hasn’t had many Exchange Students. In fact, they very well could be the first one they’ve had in years, which is both a blessing and a curse. In their excitement in a new country, they’ve haphazardly written their names onto multiple clubs—without knowing the status of any of them. Fortunately and unfortunately, they have crossed paths with the Dungeons and Dragons club. The issue? Do they even know what DnD is? They’ve taken on the role of a hopeless romantic, may it have been the fact that they’re so far away from home or the fact that they’re simply built like that is the question awaiting an answer.

THE DAMSEL.

open / closed

Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, the damsel is often questioned both for their logic (which honestly, they seem to lack) and the fact that they haven’t died yet. An eager spirit, the damsel is not powered by brain but rather adventure, always ready to try something new even if it should kill them. And, in most cases it almost has. Several times. Cursed with a luck that has done them more harm than good, alongside their raging oblivion (they’re only trying their very best), the damsel makes for a fine distraction… Even though they still think D&D means Daisies and Donuts… Don’t ask.

THE TRUSTFUND.

open / closed

With their family practically owning half of Catsborough, it’s safe to say that the trust fund has always had it a bit ahem, comfortable. The worst kind of privileged —- the kind that knows it, the trust fund has always gotten everything they've ever wanted, known to flaunt their power as they do their pretty smile. But even doves have their wings clipped and the trust fund cannot always be so lucky, so now they’re here. Forced to reckon with people well below their social status all because daddy had a fit over them crashing the new Mercedes. It happens one time and suddenly they’re the bad guy! Ugh!

THE JOCK.

open / closed

The Adonis of Catsborough, this member is as ambitious as they are beloved. Striking gold in nearly every sport, they’re hard to hate despite how easy they make it. Good-looking, fit and set to be valedictorian once again, the only thing the jock really lacks is extracurriculars, ones that stand out anyways. The arts would make them one of those Y/A stereotypes, debate already over and done with but a dying D&D club? Culminating creativity and self-expression? Surely no one’s done it before. This is about to look SO good on their portfolio.

THE JOURNALIST.

open / closed

Every school has its newspaper and every newspaper has its journalist… If you could even call them that, they’re almost 100% sure that real writers don’t spend their time fussing over little D&D clubs but here they are, hoping to profile what is almost impossible to do without sounding mean. A Sharp-shooter when it comes to linguistics, the journalist is candid, professional and extremely pesky when they need a scoop- though even more so when the job of head editor is on the line. A job they’ve wanted to get to the job they’ve always wanted, the journalist simply cannot pass up any opportunities that may propel them through their extremely disconcertingly detailed life-plan. Even if it means spending a couple weeks boxed in with smelly losers. Oh well.

THE POTHEAD.

open / closed

In all honesty, they probably couldn’t tell you just why they joined a D&D club… And they probably can’t remember either. A head full of clouds, the pothead is exactly this: nothing more and nothing less. Or so, people like to assume. You see they’ve never actually seen them sober enough to tell otherwise but hey, at least someone knows how to have fun right? Both a talented “herbalist” and carrier, when all else fails the pothead is always around to make some business— and even then, their tactics are slight and their atmosphere a complete and distant zen. Some would even call them wise beyond their years, if only there came the opportunity to prove it. But only time can tell. .

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

XI.
the troublemaker

Summer 'Sam' Richards.

coded by xayah.ღ

XI.
the troublemaker.
scroll.

Dancing with myself
Billy Idol

DOSSIER
NAME: Summer V. Richards
NICKNAMES: “Sam” hates being called anything else
D.O.B: July 4th, 1966
AGE: 21
GENDER: Female
ORIENTATION: Hasn’t put a label on it
ROLE: The troublemaker
MAJOR: UNDECLARED

APPEARANCE
APPEARANCE: Telling of the times, Sam, though not tall nor short, still has a rather magnifying presence about her. With choppy hair blonde hair (or brown if she feels like it), piercing eyes and a style to match, she emanates trouble just as much as trouble emanates her.
FACECLAIM: Sophie Thatcher
DND CHARACTER: ELVIRA THE EARNEST. A magic-using Elf that seeks to heal her patrons, tender as she is beautiful and almost entirely inspired by Sam’s mother, though she would never admit it.

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY:
A cynic not born but made; they say that some people can scorch skin just like the sun, leave terrible reminders in the name of a scar. Well if people can burn then Sam would be a wildfire, raging like the flames, red hot as its passion. It’s true that whatever she does she does with little inhibition, little reluctance and that’s what makes her her. Summer — Sam.
But you cannot blame fire for being fire. Like all things, there is a cause, a spark, a beginning.

It all started with a name; one that she never quite identified with, with its happy undertones in a comparably shittier life, one that is quite ironic when it comes to her mouthy, sarcastic attitude. Always a smart reply. Always a word ahead. Sometimes it’s funny, others it’s hurtful and she’s well aware of this, too uncaring and too unattached to give a damn about.. anything anymore. Or at least she pretends to be, after all, pretending is better than hurting. She’s known pain for far too long.

It was her mother’s idea — the name. She who was more summer than Summer ever could be. A walk in the warmth, an epiphany of hope in a town with little promise. Summer knows it’s not the season she was named after, but the sentiment. Yet still, it feels so far away, still it serves as a constant reminder of who her mother would've wanted her to be and who she is far from being. Her with her lack of virtues, her with her little potential and blazing reputation. Her who was always tactless, reckless, a mess. Her name is Sam.

TRAITS

Sarcastic, cynical, deadpanned, mean, mischievous, musical, lead guitarist in a band, part-time criminal, barely a student, chaotic evil, tomboy-ish, loud, always climbing through windows for some reason, always tries to be away from home as much as she can.

AILMENT

Selective mutism; Goes quiet, detaches completely when things get too real too fast. An escapist.

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY:
Life, like a ribbon often comes undone; silky ends a silent defeat. Life is never easy yes, but it is especially hard on little girls. Little girls with pigtails who were gifted all the tenderness of a flower, but a merciless fate in return. She had to be around 6 or 7 when she found him, Grandpa Rick, devoid of all life as he sat in his favourite chair, baseball game a blur on the television. She was always a little bit different, shy on the playground and reluctant in the classroom, the answer always perched atop her lips but never dare leaving them, her childhood was filled with doubt. But with him, it was different. With him she spoke. She spent long hours asking about his life, his history, his purpose as if he were person worth being studied. And maybe he was, no one ever cared about the old man like that, not even his own son and yet, to Summer he couldn’t have been more special.

But that was the day she lost her voice. Fate had taken from her the one thing she loved most, the only person she could talk to without the doubt that so often plagued her. Just like him, her voice was taken away, the moment her mother rushed in, the moment her father called the police, the moment his body was carried away, it was just.. gone. There was nothing left to say anymore, and it almost felt as if her words trailed after his fleeting spirit, hand in hand like they always had been, like they always were.

Everything changed after that. Her father who was always a rational man became more and more frustrated with her, blue veins a work of art under red skin. It’s what grief does to you— makes you a tragedy, a piece of art in real time. Eyes meeting eyes, her unable to speak and him, just wishing she would. After all, when had daddy’s little girl become daddy’s little burden? Albeit her mother was more sympathetic, a preschool teacher who saw each child as her own, kind eyes always reassuring even from afar. She was her protector just as much as she was her nurturer, always prepared to fight over therapy bills, even when it didn’t seem to work. Even when her own hope seemed to falter. Nothing was working, but still, she fought.

It wasn’t until one rainy afternoon after her 9th birthday did curious hands reach for the piano, Grandpa Rick’s dusty old thing which he never played and yet, refused to get rid of. Something about riches and antiquity. But she always thought it looked so lonely in the corner, hardly ever noticed, a distant memory that carried its own distant memories. She outstretched a hand, placed a single tiny finger over a single dirty key and that became the very beginning to her very end. That’s when she began to speak.

It was her mother that thought of getting her lessons, ecstatic that her little Summer was finally beginning to find her voice, one ivory at a time. Her father, although not thrilled with the amount of money they’d already shelled out- with his construction work and his wife’s teaching- seemed at ease knowing that his kid wasn’t a total dud — and in fact, had even began to dance with his wife as his Sam accompanied them. Those were the happier years, the golden ages of her life- lives, since she feels that she’s lived so many. One as a child, one as a shadow, one as a wreck. Her biography ought to be an interesting read. And of course, it gets worse.

She didn’t notice her mother’s paling figure, cold skin nearly transparent under the bright fluorescent lights. The sniffles, the hacking into tissues, the ‘it’s just a coldbaby, mommy’s alright.’ But it’s never just a cold is it? It’s never just alright. She spent many of her holidays laying in bed next to her, mousy brown hair stroked with boney fingers, soothed as the dying stifled the tears, the sniffles. How could it be that just as one got better, the other got worse? Life is unfair, it’s always been unfair, Summer knows that now. She knew that back then too, watched how her dad became cold again, like ice. How he came home late while her mother was fast asleep and she still awake, waiting for his return. Always a bowl of cereal before her, always met with glassy eyes and that same red skin. She remembers once just looking at him, smelling the booze only to feel the calluses soon after, gentle, tender as she was pulled into an unexpected embrace, his large frame trembling with each sob. They both died that day, both in different ways.
One’s hope and the other’s strength, both flickering away.

The hospital was like a second home to her, she was always doted on by the nurses with wide hips and broad smiles. Pinching her cheeks, tousling her hair as the bad news piled higher and higher, never seeming to end. Until it did. That’s when she first felt it, this urge to scream. The pressure bubbling up inside of her like the makings of a volcano, growing with every misfortune, with every mistake she witnessed. She wanted to scream as her mother took her last breaths, scream as her father became more and more like the devil, breath reeking of alcohol. She wanted to scream how she didn’t deserve this life, how she didn’t deserve this name. And sometimes she still does, hot tears burning her eyes, hands taking out all her frustrations until she collapses. Just when will it end?

GALLERY

Summer 'Sam' Richards.

 

[cavitea]

XI.
the jock
scroll.

Love Shack
B52's

❝ ready, set, roll initiative? ❞​

VISAGE
NAME: Lyall Novak
NICKNAMES: Lysol, Mr. Perfect
D.O.B: May 9th, 1966
AGE: 21 Years Old
GENDER: Cis-Male
ORIENTATION: Bisexual [Closeted]
ROLE: The Jock
MAJOR: Health & Exercise Science

APPEARANCE
APPEARANCE: He's the image of athleticism, a cool 6'3" with the build of an ancient Grecian. He was born to compete and built himself to run. A mop of blonde hair always accentuates the fit man as he strolls through the hallways of the college buildings, an admiring crowd gathering where they can to congratulate or leech off the golden aura that seems to emanate from him. A smile is plastered on his face forever, a stretch of warmth that welcomes in both competition and new relationships, ease of both coming from both the friendly attitude and the ease on eyes that he presents.

Keen eyes the color of cerulean skies wink playfully at those in his study groups, the whispered sighs unnoticed to the man with a plan. Everything must be perfect and upheld and his appearance has never been excluded from this mindset. On the field or in the lecture hall he is there, he is perfect. Now as he steps into the lair of a Dungeons and Dragons group he finds his standard for perfection is met at odd levels within the rest of the club. Is this the sort of crowd he'll be spending a semester with?
FACECLAIM: Ton Heukels

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY: He's perfect, or at least the level of perfection that everyone tells him to be. There are flaws but they are hidden, cracks in the Greek statue, a carving of marble hidden under the sheets. There has never been a simple way to go from a pedestal in the sky to a podium on the ground and yet there he is, standing alone.

Lyall is in every essence of the word: tired.

His smile breaches the air because it must, not always because he wishes it. Time ticks by in studying but the expectation towards A's is the only real motivation that drives him. It's silly for him to even muse on the subject, an arbitrary hobby that he falls into with every rising dawn and each falling dusk. He has a purpose but it seems to be only to live, a task that fights with him each day carrying the vigor of God.

The holy church has abandoned him but his faith remains strong. He is a man of conviction, even if that conviction is that life sucks and doesn't give fair handouts. What then does the image of perfection do when faced with the people who don't always expect the most? Where will his conviction lie when he closes his eyes and imagines a world where perfection is unobtainable and life all the better for it?

A hand is stretched out, longer and longer with each moment as tender fingers grasp hopelessly at the stars. He once belonged among them, he can feel it in his blood. The stardust lingers, and so he wanders again.

D&D Character

There is only one thing that Lyall could imagine being cool in the realm of Dungeons and Dragons and it is of course a dwarf cleric by the name of Gruznok Brickbeard.

Standing at an average wonderful height of four feet tall this stout man has taken on the world outside of his mountain home as a means of locating and retrieving the lost crown piece of his people's home armory. Portly fingers grasp firmly at the hands of strangers in a hearty shake as he proclaims his quest to all who dare to give him a line of sight.

This isn't to say he goes entirely over the top but it's easy to see how the process of even creating a character got Lyall a little  too involved, especially for someone who definitely doesn't want to be there. Already three pages of backstory is written and Lyall is dead set on making sure that Gruznok Brickbeard eventually befriends an enemy and even more so eliciting the maximum amount of groans from the table.

ailments

Lyall had a ruptured Achilles tendon at a young age, a diagnosis that just about wiped away his chances at a normal life, let alone a life on the podium. A scar runs up halfway to his knee on his left leg from the surgery he got, the smallest limp accompanying his gait off the field. He'll blame this on regular wear and tear, an injury from the game of the day. Another day it stays hidden, another day he limps on.

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY: Lyall Novak got the nickname Lysol early on from an enamored friend in the third grade claiming he 'cleaned up' the race track. It was a high that he would continue to run through in meets and races, the tinkling of medals proudly accompanying the blue and red ribbons on his walls. Every race was a stroll in the park for the track superstar, legs that powered him forward unrivaled by his opponents and noticed by those scouting for the future.

He dreamt of the Olympics at a young age and became determined that a real gold medal would one day sit on his chest. It is the one fantasy he wants to strive towards more than anything in the world.

Or, at least it was.

A misstep on the track, a leap over a hurdle that went wrong and the career for 'Lysol the Sweeper' came tumbling down like limbs against the roughened surface of the track. 'Ruptured Achilles' is what they told him, another big fat message for his career and dreams being over just like that. One surgery and an ugly scar up the back of his left leg later and he pretends the accident never happened. How dare they suggest something as ridiculous as giving up on the talent he had so carefully nurtured. Every step, every breath, it is all hiding a secret behind the pulled up socks and the numerous physical therapy sessions.

He surrounds himself with friends now, no matter the level of shallow atmosphere that they provide it seems to be better than being left alone to his thoughts. A nose stays stuck in his book and his feet glued to the field as he pushes through the pain and scores another goal, jumps another hurdle, wins another race. Refusal is the world that encapsulates his life, a stubbornness that comes as both a virtue and his fatal flaw as he lands another leap and throws another ball. Sweat builds up on the expanse of his chest, the sharpened dagger of pain stabbing at his leg and further into his soul, an inevitable demise he is sure will one day catch up.

But not today.

Lyall is too perfect, too confident that he can do as he pleases and achieve the once childish goals. One more year, one more step to being noticed and joining the pride of the country across the world. On track to become another star of sports and king of academics he is faced with the one stain on his record: a lack of extracurricular.

❝ How do you just forget about the fun classes? ❞

❝ I guess I never noticed it? I suppose there has to be something out there that'll take a last minute sign-up. ❞

He was right, in a sense. A club that felt more like a cult, all ran by a man with a personality as wild as his hairstyle. Lyall takes another uncertain step into the realm of Dungeons and Dragons, a scribbled on character sheet held uncertainly in his hands. Surely it can't be so awful to hang out with a crowd of ... characters for a semester but he can't see the value to it. Pretending to be a silly dwarf, how crazy can you get?

Still one will never see him falter on the meetings, a small bag of dice and folder of character sheets clutched under his arm as the uneven sound of his gait brings him towards the unimaginable and wonderful unknown.

GALLERY​

lyall 'lysol' novak.

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[miyabi]

XI.
the founder
scroll.

Over the Wall
Testament

VISAGE

NAME: Reginald Hoeffgen

NICKNAMES: No Hoes Hoeffgen, Dweeb, Reggie (never Reginald PLEASE HE WOULD START SOBBING)

D.O.B: March 15, 1965

AGE: 22 years old

GENDER: Cis-Male

ORIENTATION: Panromantic, Demisexual

ROLE: The Founder

MAJOR: Visual Arts

APPEARANCE

FACECLAIM: Joseph Quinn

APPEARANCE: Thick tufts of dark brown hair home-cut into a mullet with safety scissors and patience; stands at 6'3"; lithe; often seen wearing battle jackets, band shirts, and layers.

DND CHARACTER:

Although Reggie is a DM, he still has a character for when he is playing campaigns aside from the one's he is DMing.

Rhogar the Dishonored; a Human Fighter whose reputation had been tarnished -- dishonorable actions framed. And though he is out for the reclamation of his reputation, it has grown to no longer be the ultimate goal of his existence. Morally questionable.

PSYCHE

PERSONALITY:
Eccentricism and false confidence kept him alive, pried him from the jaws of the wicked from early years, saved him from tormentous words of his peers as they lacked the clear understanding of who he is. He breathes life to most around him, a vessel of endless energy captured in its most socially-awkward form.

Reggie finds solace and comfort as he delves into the realms of his games, seeks the resolve that the real world often does not deal him; and with this, he has shaped into a man whose fantasy world often collides with the real. While, no, he does not treat the real world as the same, the thought of an escape has aided him from the anxieties that have welled in his chest after years of peer degradation.

His heart burns for the taste of freedom, a world of which seeks the acceptance of the outsiders; for him, despite the cry for help to crawl his way into the world of normalcy, he does not want to change for the bitter life ahead of him. Reggie is stuck in his ways, has accepted the fact that he—as eccentric and maladaptive as he is—is not one to lead a life with ideologies that confine the creativity wedged in his thoughts.

He is not a pragmatic man, never the one to solely rely upon the facts when he can dive into the theories; in a way, however, this adds to his charisma, the slight charm that seems to—inconsistently—leave his lips. To some, he is magnetic, the type of man that can easily be approached with conversation. This is due to his knack for relinquishing judgment; as someone who has become the forefront of others’ judgment, he does not want to subject another to this feeling. Lost, unheard, a feeling he knows too well — afraid to subject another to the hopelessness of seething emotion paired with self-doubt and emotional complexities.

Outwardly, he is bolder than the personality that screams for air—the one that attempts to pull him back. Some mistake this as bravery, the dauntless task to seldom conform. And in a way, it is exactly that, but not without being riddled with the endless self-doubt that seems to revolve around the self-consciousness that has grown over the years. He looks deeply into the palms of his hands, traces the outlines of creases with his eyes, finds the hope between naturally dug paths, and grips it. Reggie sees the passages of ancestors, the life gifted; he fights for hope, even in his cowardice, there is dauntlessness itching to break from the flesh. Maybe then will he not be a coward in the face of danger, nor will he flee when those who need him most are at their breaking point.

Bravery is at the bottom of the barrel, an idea that he seems to have to constantly scrape up every start of the day. Yet he endlessly searches for it for the sake of others, finds a way to hide the scared child and carries the facade of a fearless man. The facade only breaks then, in the face of turmoil, as he stumbles over his words and perhaps talks a bit too fast for most to catch up — a panicker at heart.

Reggie is the hopeful, reams and reams of it slathered against pages of journals; rambles of words twisted into meanings, often branching off into more than just the pages: they end up on napkins, carved into tabletops, the tattered edges of discarded envelopes. This is his moment of peace, the factor that keeps his belief in the hopes he seems to chase. Even with this, he is the frustrated young man—torn, stained, and scotch-taped back together again; an endless cycle.

TRAITS

humorous, eccentric, creative, socially awkward, emotionally intelligent, outgoing, overzealous, impulsive, driven, fiercely loyal, anxious, talks too much when panicked, high strung, sarcastic.

AILMENT

ADHD, insomnia, slightly impaired hearing in one ear

EXTRAS

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST // PINBOARD

TIME MACHINE

In short passing moments, Reggie has lived in contemplation; how the universe came to be, the stars, and the earth; a child who often thought of the air he breathed, overanalyzed, and sought answers even when the answers were near unattainable. His parents never expected an inquisitive child, one who often got himself hurt for the sake of discovery and imagination — to be fair, they’ve never met a child like Reggie until their own.

He remembers turning onto the two-way highway strapped into the backseat as his father drove and mother manned the stereo; how the car was filled with the smell of potato chips, sodas, and rosey perfume that settled into the woven car seats. And in the distance? His mother’s house, vision obscured by piled boxes.

Now here you again, you say you want your freedom…

Life started here — the real one, never mind the few years back in Los Angeles. His mother’s bare feet kicked up on the dashboard, a map in her hands, sunglasses on to fight against the bright sun; his father, hands on the wheel, singing along with her to Fleetwood Mac and gliding along the tunes

Toby and Bobbie, lovers and bandmates, shining stars in a sea of dull conformity; an ambitious and strong-willed pair whose parents never quite approved of their relationship. Had it been the fact that Toby dropped out of college for Bobbie or the fact that they felt the rift between familial ties growing, there was no true answer — the only outcome of it was the two, Reggie, and far too many ideas that were never quite well thought out. They, however, figured that had they had each other and Reggie, the world wouldn’t be as hard to conquer as it may have seemed.

Reality settled over them like a tide, yet it never washed away their optimism. Smiles, as wide as they were, never fell on false words; genuine as they come, even in the hardest times with a 12-year-old Reggie trying to figure out his place in the world and his parents, struggling to keep jobs up until his father finally found something good for them. The thing is, the Hoeffgens never stopped believing – these ideologies never died; it wrapped itself around their fingers, urged its way further and further into their reality, and to be quite frank even now it never falters.

Never say never is a popular quote often spoken by those whose optimism clouds their judgment; and this, while it may have not been from malice and had only come about by pure goodness, was never taught by Reggie’s mother. Always say never when you think you want to give up; say that you never will give up. Always say never when you feel you will disappoint those around you; say that you will never stop until the disappointment never rears its ugly head again. Values kept the family together, as did the pure love sprouted by shared hardships and Reggie’s often nonsensical solutions that kept his parents hanging on for hope.

Oh, thunder only happens when it's raining…

Now, every origin story has its run-in with trials and tribulations; Reggie, as sure in himself as he was, still fell victim to the hands of bullies. Particularly, those who didn’t understand his fascination with the fantasy world, his music taste, and everything in between. That paired with the fact that he was new in town and still dressed in parental hand-me-downs, he was doomed the moment he stepped foot on Catsborough pavement. Think: Reggie stuffed in lockers, yet still falling out triumphantly once he’d outsmarted them; jeering bullies in hallways just as they did him, evidently having to run for his life, clutching onto his near-ripped backpack strap — far too many close calls to count, but he wouldn’t trade them for anything else.

GALLERY

reggie 'no hoes' hoeffgen.

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[weldherwings]

tarni yates

• 000000000000000000000000000000000001
• 2
• 3

• 
  
  scroll

  
  

  
  

  Name

  
  

  Tarni Yates

  
  
  

  
  

  nicknames

  
  

  Tarn, Yates, Yatesy

  
  
  

  
  

  d.o.b

  
  

  22nd of December, 1967

  
  
  

  
  

  age

  
  

  Twenty

  
  
  

  
  

  gender

  
  

  Cis-Female

  
  
  

  
  

  orientation

  
  

  Heterosexual much to her dismay

  
  
  

  
  

  born

  
  

  Perth, Western Australia

  
  
  

  
  

  role

  
  

  The Exchange

  
  
  

  
  

  major

  
  

  Undecided

  
  
  

  
  

  Nationality

  
  

  Indigenous Australian (Aboriginal descent)

  
  
  

  
  

  Mob

  
  

  Whadjuk, Noongar. Her ancestors come from the Noongar Indigenous clan known as Mooro.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  

  hair

  Naturally, Tarni has light brown hair. However, she has been experimenting with highlights to bring more blonde shades into her hair. She's never dear to go completely blonde or any other colour as she doesn't want to ruin the state of her hair. She likes to keep it at a long length, passing her shoulders and touching the bottoms of her scapular.
  
  

  eyes

  Unfortunately, she had inherited her father's (the asshole's) hazel (blue-green) eyes
  
  

  height

  177cms (5′ 9)
  
  

  weight

  53 kilos (116 pounds)
  
  

  face claim

  Sarsha Chisholm
  
  

  personality - istj-a

  
  

  introverted
  

  
  observant
  

  
  thinking
  

  
  judging
  

  
  assertive
  

  
  Tarni prides herself with her integrity. She means what she says, and when she commits to doing something, she makes sure to follow through. While she may not be particularly flashy or attention-seeking, she does provide more than her fair share in keeping society on a sturdy, stable foundation. She often earns her respect in her family and communities for being reliable, and practical, and for her ability to stay grounded and logical no matter the situation at hand.
  
  Her core self-respect comes from a sense of personal integrity. Tarni believes that there is a right way to proceed in every and any situation and that anyone who pretends otherwise is probably just trying to bend the rules to suit their own needs and purposes. She has a deep respect for structure and tradition, opting for organisations, workplaces and educational settings where there is a clear and precise hierarchy and expectations.
  
  Rarely hesitating to take up responsibility for her actions and choices, Tarni is quick to own up to her own mistakes, admitting the truth even though it might not make her look good. Honesty is far more important to her than showmanship, and she’d rather satisfy her own conscience than lie to impress someone else. She strives to meet her obligations and expectations and will often become baffled by those who fail to hold themselves to the same standards. She can often unfairly misjudge other people who can’t match this type of self-control and will simply suspect that these people are just lazy or dishonest. Tarni may not speak these judgements aloud, but rather her disdain can come through which can earn her a reputation for being unemphatic or somewhat strict.
  
  

  strengths

  Tarni is honest and direct; it is the heart of who she is. She heads on every situation with plain and simple honesty. She embodies that integrity with her actions too, working hard and staying focused on her goals. Strong-willed and dutiful, patient and determined, Tarni strives to meet every and all obligation. For this very reason, her word is a promise and a promise means everything to her. She would rather run herself into a the ground with extra days and lost sleep than fail to deliver the results she said she would. Now, none of her promises would mean much if she lost her temper and broke down at every sign of hardship. Tarni is calm and practical, keeping her feet on the ground and makes clear, rational decisions based on logic and not feelings. Finally, her primary goal is to be effective in what she’s chosen to do. She yearns for order to be created and enfornced, and will create that structure and rules if none are in place.
  
  
  

  weaknesses

  Now, Tarni believes that facts are facts, and will resist any new idea that isn’t supported by it. This factual decision-making process makes it difficult to accept that she was wrong about something and can be incredibly stubborn about it. This includes going against the rules. Tarni is always by the book, and believes that things work best when there are clear defined rules. It makes her reluctant to bend those rules or try new things, even when the downside is minimal.
  
  As she thinks more logically with her head, rather than leaning on her heart, she can also come across as quite insensitive as she believes that honesty is the best policy. She may take emotions into consideration, but only so far as to determine the most effective way to say what needs to be said. Tarni can also come across as judgemental as she believes that opinions are opinions and facts are facts. She is quite unlikely to respect people who disagree with these facts, or especially those who remain willfully ignorant of them. And finally, Tarni often unreasonably blames herself. She honestly believes that she is the only one who can see projects through reliably. So, she will load herself with extra work and responsibilities, turning away good intentions and helpful ideas. However, she eventually hits that tipping point where she can no longer simply deliver. Since she has heaped the responsibility upon herself, she believes the failure is for her alone to bear.
  
  

  
  

  /

  
  
  
• 
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  tw: domestic abuse

  
  

  all men are bastards

  At a very young age, Tarni learnt a great lesson from her mother; that all men were bastards.
  
  Her father, Karl, walked out on them when she was only two months old, leaving his mother to defend herself. With a low-income wage, juggling a newborn baby, and trying to keep on top of the bills piling up, Grace Yates turned to the help of her best friend, Darren Holub. Darren was a top bloke; he allowed Grace and Tarni to move into his bachelor pad. He cooked Grace meals, would often babysit, and was extremely helpful when it came to managing money.
  
  After a couple of months, Grace and Darren became romantically involved. The pair were inseparable and lived like honeymooners. After three months of living together, and six months of dating, it all came crashing down. She couldn’t quite tell you what happened, considering she was so young, but Tarni could give you a brief wrap-up of what she had been told. Basically, Grace and Darren got into some sort of argument, and he claimed that he just didn’t love her and wanted her out of the house.
  
  Who was there to pick them up and invite them back in? Well, look who we had here, waiting in the car and ready to go; Tarni’s father, Karl.
  
  So, they went back to living together as a happy, normal family. Karl finally took the role as a father seriously and began to build a relationship with his estranged daughter. But like with Darren, there was a honeymoon stage. The only difference was that instead of a couple of months, this stage lasted close to two years. By the age of three, Karl was beginning to show his true colours.
  
  Coming home drunk and high every night. Getting into arguments with Grace, pushing her against the walls to make sure that his point got across to her. For the next couple of years, it seemed as if Grace and Karl continued to play a game of cat and mouse. Grace would pack up all their belongings and leave, telling Karl to never speak to her again. She would go and find comfort in the arms of another man for a good couple of months before crawling her way back to Karl. As Tarni grew up, she discovered just how unusual it was to be moving around so often.
  
  It didn’t really matter to her though because she had the opportunity to mix with her mob. While her mother was being blind-sighted by all these men, Tarni was spending time with her Aunties and Uncles, listening to their stories about Dreamtime and learning more about her heritage. She began to learn more about her roots and would lose herself in the tradition and culture of her people.
  
  

  the restraining order

  This poor, outdated routine carried on throughout most of Tarni’s life. By the age of fifteen, she had had enough of it. She moved in with an Aunty, allowing her mother to freely go about her reckless life choices. However, it seemed that no matter how much she declared she would never turn out like her mother, she ended up falling into the same routine as her. Finding comfort and love she yearned in the arms of boys at parties during the weekends. Skipping class to meet up with a different guy each week behind the sport shed.
  
  When she turned seventeen, she thought she had met the love of her life.
  
  His name was Dylan and she gave everything she had to him. She felt like an absolute princess around him; if she had asked him to catch the stars in the night sky for her, he’d do just that along with the moon. He would go above and beyond for her. She never once thought about the advice that her mother had given her so long ago; that all men were bastards. That was until she discovered that Dylan had developed and shared images with his friends. Certain images which she had taken for him and him alone. She found them hanging in the darkroom at school, printed to various sizes for the male gaze to gawk at her barely covered body. There was only one day those disgusting boys could’ve grabbed their grimy little paws on those pictures, and it was Dylan.
  
  She honestly thought she would be more heartbroken when breaking up with the love of her life. When she stood before him, telling him that it was over, it was like history repeated itself; he pushed her against the wall, grabbed her face and roared. He pulled on her with such great force that it left bruising. He claimed that he loved her and without her that he was nothing; yet here he stood, physically, mentally and emotionally breaking her down bit by bit. She had to cleanse herself from him.
  
  It was a no-brainer that after taking out the trash she would aim to get higher education in a completely different state from where she currently was. But when she began to apply for scholarships for universities in Australia, the word seemed to have gotten around. Each campus she applied for ended up giving her some winded apology letter, claiming she didn’t uphold the morals which they had wished for. She knew it was Dylan who had done this. Who else would’ve done it?
  
  After confronting him about it, he confessed that yes, it had been him. He wanted to be by her side for the rest of her life and couldn’t bear the thought of her moving states to go to university. Tarni called Dylan crazy, saying if he ever came near her again that she would get her Uncles to come after him. It was almost like those threats fell onto deaf ears because it didn’t stop Dylan.
  
  No matter where she went, what she did, or who she spoke with – Dylan was always lurking in the background. At first, it seemed harmless. But progressively, over time, it began to worsen. It went from sending bouquets of her favourite flower to her doorsteps to breaking in and scattering clippings of his hair on her bed. From leaving love letters about how he admired her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, to threat packages covered in his blood, claiming he was going to end it all if she didn’t get back together with him.
  
  After having to gather extensive evidence for the police (who barely believed that she was being treated in such a manner), Tarni was able to get a restraining order against Dylan.
  
  

  exchange program

  No matter what she said, no matter how well she presented herself, Tarni was getting let down by all universities left, right and centre. The images had spread across the country with captions claiming that she was a dirty magazine model and a lady of the night. No university seemed to want to take any interest in her. It wasn’t until one night, while having a yarn with some close friends, Uncle and Aunties that someone asked her what was stopping her from applying overseas.
  
  Yeah… What was stopping her?
  
  Going overseas would be a great opportunity – and plus, it meant the distant fear of Dylan showing up would be eradicated. To go somewhere where she could have a clean slate. Somewhere that didn’t know about her ‘dirty images’ and wouldn’t fall for the lives of her insane ex-boyfriend. So, she got to work and sent out letters to all the different universities in America offering exchange programs and scholarships. Months went by of complete and utter radio silence. And then… a letter came.
  
  Catsborough College.
  
  She had no idea where the hell it was in America, but all she knew was that she was going to take it. She was going to grab it by the horns and ride that wild bull for all she could. In a frenzy state of panic, she sent her forms back through, applying for every and any extra-curricular groups and activities that she could possibly discover. She wanted to show them the passion and drive that bottled up inside of her.
  
  Shortly after her acceptance letter, Tarni gathered her things and made the big move from Perth, Western Australia, to the town of Catsborough, Virginia. No family, no friends; a fresh clean slate. Exactly what she needed.
  
  

  
  
  
  

• a
• b

• h
• 
  

  
  

  
  

  character name

  Amaroo - Derivatived from the Noongar word which translates to “beautiful place”
  
  

  race

  Elf
  
  

  class

  Magic User
  
  

  alignment

  Lawfully Good
  
  

  Languages

  Common, Evlish, Orc, Goblin.
  
  

  appearance

  Amaroo has a soft, angelic face; her skin is velvet and slightly tanned. Large doe emerald eyes, surrounded by luscious lashes. Being one with nature and the land, Amaroo’s hair often blends in with the treetops as her long green hair entangles in the leaves. She has a flowing essence, bringing peace and unity in her presence. She moves one with the wind in an entrancing slow waltz as she manoeuvres through the pines of the wild. Whilst guarded with minimal plate armour, the leaves of the land are drawn to her, camouflaging her modesty.
  
  Artwork created by yuumei
  
  

  abilities

  strength

  
  

  12

  
  

  intelligence

  
  

  14

  
  

  wisdom

  
  

  8

  
  

  constitution

  
  

  10

  
  

  dexterity

  
  

  10

  
  

  charisma

  
  

  6

  
  

  60% to 90% system shock survival

  
  

  Started with 130 pieces of gold

  
  
  

  Inventory

  Plate mail

  
  

  50

  
  

  backpack, leather

  
  

  5

  
  

  Water skin

  
  

  1

  
  

  Torches, 6

  
  

  1

  
  

  Pole, 10'

  
  

  1

  
  

  Rope, 50'

  
  

  1

  
  

  Rations (2 weeks)

  
  

  10

  
  

  Sheild

  
  

  10

  
  

  Long bow

  
  

  40

  
  

  20 Arrows

  
  

  5

  
  

  Gold remaining

  
  

  6

  
  
  

  Saving throws

  death + ray or poison

  
  

  13

  
  

  wands

  
  

  14

  
  

  pertrification

  
  

  13

  
  

  dragon breath

  
  

  16

  
  

  staves and spells

  
  

  15

  
  
  

  armored foot

  6" rate
  
  

  title

  Medium
  
  

  hit point

  5
  
  

  special ability

  Protection from evil
  
  

  armor class

  2
  
  

  background

  Amaroo grew up in the wilds, far from civilization and the comforts of town and technology. Even in places where she wouldn’t know the specific features of the wondering terrains, she knows her way around; the wild is in her blood. She is one with the wild and mother nature. There are a thousand different ways to die in the wilderness, and to survive you must have muscles, wits and will; all of these which she has.
  
  Raised by the Emerald Enclave, Amaroo grew up with ambitions to prevent civilization and the wilderness from destroying one another. Forces that seek to upset the natural balance must be destroyed as the natural order must be respected and preserved. Disruption in harmony will bring the world to its knees, so Amaroo strives to shower those around her with love.
  
  Amaroo is captured by the concept of love; rather, she is in love with love. An utterly, hopeless romantic at heart. Nothing makes her heart soar more than two soulmates finally reuniting in a warm embrace and a tender kiss. She believes that it’s everyone’s destiny to find their missing piece, and that each and every person has a yearning desire to be complete.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  ha
  
  
  
  

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[noxrequiem]

X.
the genius
scroll.

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE (NAÏVE MELODY)
talking heads

VISAGE

NAME: Alexander Beck

NICKNAMES: Alex, Beck

D.O.B: April 21st, 1965

AGE: 22

GENDER: Male (he/him)

ORIENTATION: Biromantic demisexual

ROLE: The Genius

MAJOR: Engineering

APPEARANCE

DESCRIPTION:
Standing at an even 6’0, Alex is fairly tall with a lanky frame that may look awkward on many, but it fits him well. Though on the slimmer side, he’s developed a good amount of muscle from all the constant physical labor demanded of someone working someplace like an auto repair shop. Despite his height and frame, however, he doesn’t seem to particularly stand out ever. This may have something to do with the way he carries himself—hunched shoulders and an ever-avoidant gaze. The only time he ever really does stand out is when he’s on his motorcycle, but even then most people don’t seem to realize he’s the same guy as the geek who always shows up at least 20 minutes early to D&D club.

Alex has dark brown hair that lies upon his head in thick, loose curls, which have the unfortunate tendency of losing their shape when wet or greasy. Alex will also often comb and attempt to gel his hair back, though it always eventually ends up falling back over his forehead again anyway. The frequency at which he wears a motorcycle helmet also makes him prone to helmet hair.

Alex tends to appear pensive and melancholic by default most times, seeming to be someone that is in a constant state of both exhaustion and exasperation. It doesn’t help either that his complexion doesn’t do much to hide the perpetual dark circles under his eyes, nor does it conceal the scarlet flush that rises to the surface in moments of embarrassment. However, there are rare moments where a truer part of Alex shines through, when his entire face lights up. Warm, rich brown eyes that brighten and prominent dimples that pull at the corners of his mouth when he smiles.

Function over form, Alex dresses in a way that stresses practicality over style. Never one to stand out, his clothes are rather simple and he tends to stick to dark, neutral colors—the one notable exception being graphic tees. Working as a mechanic has been a major influence on his dressing choices, sticking to clothes that are comfortable and easy to move in, and nothing so expensive and nice that he’d be too bothered by getting grease and motor oil on. He’s often seen sporting a leather motorcycle jacket for long trips and joyrides—something that offers even just a little bodily protection in case of emergency. However, he will usually forgo this if it’s hot out and he isn’t going too far. Other commonplace items in his wardrobe include t-shirts, hoodies, jackets, flannels, work pants, jeans, work or motorcycle boots, and converse. He only really accessorizes with the occasional watch, but he might wear something else if it was gifted to him.

FACECLAIM: Bryan Dechart

D&D

CHARACTER:
A human paladin named Corus.

At a young age, an orphaned Corus was taken in as an apprentice of a holy order of knights. He was trained to take up his order’s cause and become a vanquisher of evil, a shining beacon of light in the dark. A strong sense of honor and justice was instilled within his heart, and the skills needed to uphold these ideals in a chaotic world were tempered into his blade. By the age of 18, Corus had successfully completed his training, and was inducted as a full-fledged member of the order.

Corus’s first few years as a holy crusader went well. He lived much like an adventurer, albeit one with a righteous cause, handed a series of missions by his order that he always managed to successfully complete. It was while he was away on a solo mission that his entire world would be turned upside down. Upon returning, the paladin found the guild he called home to be nothing more than an ashen pile of rubble. There was nothing left. No one left. Just the bodies of the many people he had known and loved, slaughtered and half-buried under the crumbling remains of a fallen citadel. The evidence was clear—the very evil his order had sought to destroy had destroyed them first. Corus was the only thing left.

There was nothing left here for the paladin. He buried and laid to rest the bodies he could reach, the ones that weren’t already entombed in the rubble of their home. It was only by mere chance he hadn’t met the same fate; the letter summoning him back to their headquarters for an emergency gathering had gotten lost and never reached him. Now, he had to somehow find the strength to salvage what he could and carry on.

For the first year or so, Corus spent all his time chasing rumors. Rumors that other members of his order had survived and were now wandering as he was doing. These whispers never amounted to anything, and any little hope that remained in his chest shriveled up and died. He was truly alone. As the last member of his order, he felt responsible to be their remaining legacy, carrying on their commitment to justice and honor, and vanquishing the very evil that had destroyed them.

In the end, however, without his holy order to back him up, Corus has become little more than a glorified mercenary. Descending into cynicism and bitterness, he is not the man he used to be. Yet, honor and chivalry still have a strong grip on him, which has been detrimental to someone who is by now supposed to be a hardened mercenary—often doing too much out of a begrudging sense of duty and the goodness that still remains in his heart.

PSYCHE

PERSONALITY:
Despite Alex’s reputation as being somewhat of a genius, he isn’t someone who conforms easily to the nerd archetype. In fact, he might seem almost cool if not for his love of fantasy novels and comic books, or his membership in the campus’s Dungeons & Dragons club.

Laidback and easygoing, Alex has a calm and reassuring presence. He’s helpful and highly dependable; if you ask something of him, he’ll find a way to get it done. He’s also by far one of the more mature and sensible members of the club, which has thrust him into a position of responsibility that he has only begrudgingly accepted. Luckily, he’s pretty patient and tends to take the group’s antics in stride.

Practical and incredibly resourceful, Alex is often relied upon to solve problems—both in their gaming sessions, and the real world. He tends to rely on facts and logic, which has ended up leading him to being somewhat cynical. Still, he’s insightful enough to be thoughtful and fairly emotionally intelligent as well. And while he’s very good at finding solutions to different issues, he just wishes the others would stop creating so many in the first place.

Already a naturally quiet and unobtrusive person, the events surrounding his expulsion from MIT have only compounded these traits. Now with a second chance at Catsborough, Alex is trying to keep his head down and away from trouble—not the easiest thing to do considering the kinds of people he’s surrounded himself with.

TRAITS

quiet, laidback, dependable, easily flustered, practical, loyal to a fault, resourceful, humble, patient, aloof, insightful, considerate, clever, passive, adaptable, rational, mature, cynical

TIME MACHINE

HISTORY:
Like many, Alexander Beck had a childhood that could be described as normal and uneventful. The only child born to a lower middle-class family, they managed to scrape by one way or another, just affording all the essentials with the rare low-end luxury good here or there. As for the family themselves, Alex’s parents were neither amazing nor horrible. The household was one marked by periods of dysfunction, where tensions between his parents were high, intermittently broken by periods of calm. Because of his parents’ obvious stress and the tension between them, from a young age Alex felt his life wasn’t so much his own—it was his job to hold things together and make everyone happy. No doubt a heavy responsibility for a kid, but things could have been worse. As a result, he had always been a quiet and mature child who did his best to stay out of the way and appease those around him. This all may make things sound worse than they really were, but Alex would say he had an average and fairly positive childhood. Sure, things weren’t easy, but his parents did love him and tried their best for him. After all, no one was perfect; Alex knew that better than anyone.

In school, Alex was quickly labelled as a “gifted child”—someone who had gotten near perfect grades, with minimal effort. Despite his seemingly natural talent for schoolwork, this obviously only added to the mounting pressure of high expectations everyone seemed to have for him. Unable to bring himself to disappoint them, Alex worked hard to maintain this academic status, eventually developing somewhat of a reputation for himself as some sort of “genius.” While one might expect that this sort of label would have led to a target painted upon his back for the attentions of unrelenting childhood bullies, this wasn’t really the case for Alex. Sure, he faced plenty of teasing and the occasional instance of bullying, but it wasn’t too much worse than what most other kids dealt with. This might have had something to do with his personality, it was likely at least partially because he had a solid friend group: mostly a blend of kids who might otherwise be social outcasts if not for having one another. [WIP]

BONUS

HEADCANONS:
- He owns a 1985 Yamaha V-Max motorcycle (his pride and joy)
- His favorite band is Talking Heads
- He keeps an extra set of dice with him just in case anyone forgets theirs
- He tends to chew on his bottom lip when he’s nervous or deep in thought
- Smokes cigarettes on the rare occasion, but is somewhat secretive about it
- He likes fantasy novels, and his favorite authors include J.R.R. Tolkein, Terry Pratchett, and Ursula K. Le Guin
- Has the bad habit of not paying attention to where he’s walking, inevitably leading to him tripping or walking into things (this has happened on his bike as well, which led to him slamming on the brakes and flipping over the handlebars)
- Often sings along to music when he's alone
- Famous for always pulling Irish goodbyes at parties and social events
- Adopted a stray cat that lives at his uncle’s garage and named him Otto, short for “Otto-mobile” (get it?)
- He never buttons his shirts all the way up
- Almost always wears a helmet when on his motorcycle, and if you ride with him he’ll make you wear one too

LIKES

late night motorcycle rides, dungeons & dragons, the smell of gasoline, arcade games, early mornings, the smell of leather, fantasy and sci-fi, sunrises and sunsets, roadtrips

DISLIKES

traffic, talking on the phone, standing out, gossip, large crowds, excessive complaining, wearing formal attire, talking about himself, sleeping in past 9

GALLERY

alexander beck.

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[ravensunset]

XI.
the exchange
scroll.

come on eileen

BASICS
NAME: Sorcha Donohue
D.O.B: August 5th
AGE: 22
GENDER & PRONOUNS: Female, she/her
ORIENTATION: Bisexual
ROLE: The Exchange
MAJOR: Education

APPEARANCE
APPEARANCE: Standing tall at 5’9, Sorcha has a lanky figure, all skin and bone with next to no visible muscle. Sorcha has little natural balance or awareness of herself, enhancing the awkwardness of her build and making her rather long, bony limbs often get in the way. Sorcha’s movements are often sudden and exaggerated, using the full extent of her presence, and very often with little thought behind them.

Sorcha’s hair is a medium brown, and reached down just past her shoulders. She tends to keep just the ends of it curled, and her bangs cover her forehead. Her hair frames a rather long face, with a long nose and sharp cheekbones. Her smile appears often and easily, wide and bright, covering the bottom part of her face, and her dark brown eyes shimmer with energy.

Sorcha tends to dress in pastels, particularly pinks and yellows, and will on occasion trace dark liner around her eyes. She loves any manner of cute accessories.

FACECLAIM: Shelley Duvall

DND CHARACTER: A dwarven fighting-woman by the name of Greta. She’s very short, very buff, and gets to swing around a massive hammer to fight. Greta has short cut brown hair, brown eyes, and wears very heavy somewhat dirty armor all the time. Greta was trained by her dwarven community and was sent off into the world to do some good and let some of her anger out. Her personality is mostly angry but also surprisingly flirty due to Sorcha’s own tendencies leaking through. This is Sorcha’s first time playing D&D and she has a very loose grasp on the mechanics, and mostly picked whatever options sounded the coolest to her. She often forgets what she is or isn’t able to do, and she typically isn't able to come up with creative descriptions for Greta's actions, but as long as Greta is smashing enemies, Sorcha’s happy.

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY: The first thing anyone notices about Sorcha is that she’s cheerful. She’s almost always got a smile on her face, often the most upbeat person in the room. She seems to have a boundless amount of energy, being extremely talkative and always chatting with anyone nearby, a thick accent making her speech distinct, and she never seems to stop to rest. Her schedule is filled to the brim with various clubs and activities, yet she still always seems available if called upon.

A conversation with her will reveal her friendliness as genuine, her wanting to help and taking interest in others, and being very eager to make connections of any kind. She’s flirty with almost everyone she talks to, though in most cases, she doesn’t mean anything by it. Despite all the activities she’s signed herself up for, she’s not shown much skill for or connected to any just yet, and she takes no effort to persuade to skip a meeting or even skip class. Sorcha’s extremely open to new experiences, enjoys a good thrill, and has very little personal boundaries. Her grades are far from the best, and she’d never be described as intelligent, though this doesn’t seem to bother her much. She’ll come across as hopeful, optimistic, not dwelling on any one topic too much and never one to look before she leaps.

Getting to know Sorcha might reveal her as lonely. She’s trying to keep busy every second of every day to not have to be left alone. Sorcha loves this country she’s found herself in, for a reason she might not even understand, and wants to fit into it, but try as she might, she’s still an outsider. She chooses to ignore the curious looks and questions she still gets, and doesn’t at all know what the future’s going to look like for her. Sorcha’s extremely honest, and as open as she knows how to be, yet there’s a lot about herself she’s still learning. The cheerful, friendly personality she makes is fully genuine, but it is just as much a choice she’s always making.

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY: Sorcha was born an only child to her two parents in Ireland. Her childhood was largely unremarkable: she lived with her parents and grandparents, she played with the other children in their town, she once broke her arm falling out of a tree, she complained about having to study. She grew up, made friendships, went to high school, kissed both boys and, in secret, girls, learned to smoke, lost friendships, kept her grades just high enough, grew up. She entered college still living in her parents’ home.

The decision to leave was a mix of her parents continually declaring that it was about time for her to move out, the desire to experience just something else burning as it built up in her chest, and increasing political unrest in her country making that option more and more appealing by the day. Sorcha didn’t have the grades for anywhere too fancy, but with the help of her college advisor, managed a rather impressive entry essay to apply to exchange programs, and rather liking the sound of the school’s name, ended up at Catsborough College. She’s figuring out an entire new country, unfamiliar places, and living for the first time somewhere so far from home, but she’s brought her optimistic attitude with her and with the help of the D&D club, even picked out her first dice set! She's certain she's going to have a wonderful time.

GALLERY​

sorcha donohue.

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[demonology]

kero "crow"

elfish proto-groupie with a mean streak

the pothead

♡coded by uxie♡

crow läger

the pothead

name.

kero omnira läger

n. names.

crow [preferred]

gender.

female - she/her

age.

twenty-two

d.o.b.

June 3rd

occupation.

handywoman, local computer repairman, and Sunny Springs Trailer Park maintenance head

role.

the pothead

major.

Film

always had a roof above me. always paid the rent. but I've never set foot inside a tent. can't build a fire to save my life. i lied about being the outdoor type.
ive never slept out underneath the stars. the closest that I came to that was one time my car broke down for an hour in the suburbs at night. i lied about being the outdoor type.

what happened to that chubby lil kid?

𝘼𝙋𝙋𝙀𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀: Here is my handle.
Here is my spout.

Her body is a series of functions. Functionality chipped away at bit by bit. The stomach is made for eating, not spewing. The hands are for shifting gears, not packing a bowl. Yet, they do not act in tandem. She was once a child, freshly stolen from her parents, and she stood in confidence of her motions, following the rhyme in full. Beat by beat, and she was perfect. Except, now, as the years drone on and her body betrays her, she is reminded that her home was within her soul because she had one. It's dubious what remains, tatters laying to waste amidst the grave she dug.

Kero Jäger stands at approximately 5'10'' and weighs 168 lbs though she hasn't been to a doctor in four years. Her person is a forceful mystery, with only her face studied in the mirror. This is clear is how she presents herself, with flows of fabric adorning her body. Sagging sweatshirts, fantastical skirts, worn t-shirts from concerts past, etc. She hides in the cloisters of her clothing, dancing around the world with her long, ancient fur and knee-high platforms.

Her shoulders slump forward, curled in defeat and wearied by the years. Yet, she still stands with grace unseen, at least by her. There is a purpose in her movements, one which she's forgotten, one that captivates. This is a woman to write poetry about. This is a woman who becomes victim of those songs, of those small miracles of sound and language. Yet, she refuses to acknowledge what has been done to hurt her. What has changed her. This is not a body broken but a body changed. A teapot with gold veins. She simply has yet to try out the stove once more.

---

𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙨:
𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵: 5'10''
𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵: 168 lbs

𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳: Bleached-blonde dreads piled into tumbles on her head. Oftentimes, she lets the roots grow out longer than what might be stylish for the time.

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴: piercings. tattoos: x, x, x, x
𝘴𝘵𝘺𝘭𝘦: Thrift store finds become closet staples with Crow. Old vacation sweatshirts that swoop down to her mid-thigh. Long skirts that harken Stevie. Crocheted shawls and sweaters whose origins remain mysterious. Patch-work jeans several years old, origins equally dubious. Piles of costume jewelry. The smallest hint of punk intuitions with her band tees, many of which reference her time in the UK and some are more homegrown, such as her endless collection of Dead merch. Boots and platforms that curl around her ankles, sometimes all the way up to her knees. Bandanas and headscarves. A penchant for green. And of course, the staple: her massive fur coat.

full closet.

𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘤:
picrews that match her vibes: x, x, x

𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙀𝘾𝙇𝘼𝙄𝙈: FKA Twigs

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *​

𝘿𝙉𝘿 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙀𝙍: An elf magic-user, whose origins of power are a carefully guarded secret. With bronzed skin, pock-marked with freckles and moles, and hair of ivory grace, Crowlei stuck out amongst their wood elven brethren. Crow, the character upon which Kero's name derives (particularly because her name already sounds akin to the bird's screech), struck out on their own upon entering adulthood, always seeking adventure rather than hiding amongst the leaves like her kin. Yet, when asked, they claim this isn't their goal -- to seek adventure as only the most courageous can. No, Crowlei appears marred by darker forces, based on how their expression shadows when pestered for the source of their power. "I want to rid myself of this terrible disease," they explained, once, after casting a spell and the others watches as their body became pale and then ran-through with blackened strings. Black veins. "And perhaps save you idiots. That is why I have joined you."

CROWLEI PICREWS: x

Spoiler: secret abt crowlei :3

-- essentially their sorcerous abilities derive from some deal their parent made with an Otherworldly creature, one they have yet to recognize and find (rather, Kero/Reggie has yet to come up with), in exchange for everlasting protection from those who might seek to harm poor Crow

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *​

𝙋𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙏𝙔:
mysterious ❂ serene ❂ impish ❂ jaded ❂ slightly cruel in the name of being 'honest' ❂ ethereal ❂ deprecating ❂ avoidant ❂ admittedly lazy ❂ logical ❂ worldly ❂ a self-described ne'er-do-well ❂ mischievous ❂ quiet ❂ closed-off ❂ casual when it comes to things that upset her ❂ internal over external ❂ a jester

---

𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴:
The sun is captured between the hammered-in nails of her grasp. Once upon a time, Crow gave the rays freely. She offered a home under the tree branch of her arm to any passerbys. As she's traveled the river, men have sought to steal her Vitamin D, collapse her oars, and tear scratches into the bottom of her boat. When she found herself at the bottom of the pit with English rain splattering Pollack onto her hair, she returned to Catsborough intent. Forged with sun's fire, bars and a moat were drawn. Knights stand guard, all mirrored-images of Kero, Kero, Kero. A full vetting process, complete with an application, is required at registration, and even then, she may cast you aside if you threaten the structure and personnel's resolve.

As a result, it's often a question on her party member's lips, Why is she here? She huffs, puffs out her skirt, and plops into the chair nearest the Founders before lighting a joint and offering to pass it around. Her smiles are cool, demure, as though she were Mona Lisa and everyone else were mere visitors of the Louvre. She offers her weed, her sarcasm, her records (for the ambiance), and her unsolicited advice. Yet, there are rare Polaroids of Crow's affection, the times where she leans up on the gas and allows the car to idle. Allows the trap door to stay closed. Her smirk when someone saves Crowlei in a campaign, her off-hand compliments, her jovial jibbing and fibbing, and invitations to join her on the next futile and ridiculous adventure (from meeting a guy named 'Wumbo the Weed Man' for cannabis plants to foraging for mushrooms (the psychedelic kind) to offering her trailer for a movie night to going out for donuts and milkshakes after a sesh). Soft pits line her heart, areas where her party members can dig in if they look hard enough. Sometimes, there isn't any searching necessary. Kero offers her hand, freely, even if after she hides it in her sweatshirt sleeve.

She holds a quiet, undulating stare, shivers of quiet peace. Crow lays her head on the table in the midst of Reggie's description, eyeing the others at the table. Her eyes close, and most believe she's sleeping, bleary-eyed and bloodshot from her latest j. No, you're mistaken. The bridge stretches across the moat during these moments, the times where she is caught off-guard by how comforting being stationary can be. Like it wasn't a prison sentence to come home, repent, and tend to being a good kid again. No, it was exactly what she needed to do to be here. To find herself in a treehouse, surrounded by nerds, playing a silly game while she rests and feels the scratching of pencils across a page, the quiet thud of figures moving across the board, and the vibrato of their precious DM's voice.

Though, perhaps it's just that the weed finally getting to her...

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *​

𝙃𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙊𝙍𝙔:
The smell of dead cicadas and stagnant river. Her mother stood over the edge of the dirt, where the tree roots tunneled into the earth, shying away from the light. Another world lied beneath, and their phalanges drilled and mined for gold. A small miniature tempted the edge, wrinkling her nose at the carcass that lied beneath.

A thwack from behind and she crumpled like the can flying from his hand. It swirled into the open-faced garbage can.

"You two get away from there. I'll start digging."

She stepped away from the dead river and the dead rabbit. Mr. Snuffles.

They had just fed him last night.

The burning pit of chemicals returned to their crusade on her sinuses. The small doll waddled away, back into the brown-glass of the windows, of the smell, of her mother's teeth, and the whites of his eyes. The dirt on her hands stared back at her. Dared her.

She wandered to the woods, the edge opposite to the dirt driveway. Dirt. Dirt. Dirt. She wiped her hands on the front of her blue dress, pocketing them and fingering the ripped seam of the interior. Looking back, she watched her mom and him suffocate in talk and their highs. When she snapped her face back, it eyed the barrel of a shotgun. The metal beast stared her back down, and she froze like Bambi.

"Hey!"

She doesn't remember who said it first: him or the hunter.

"What're you folks doing out here?"

She could feel the authority in his voice as it bound her atoms together. She was a suckling pig.

She could hear the police in his voice.

She could hear the end.

---

It was the first time she'd ever met Niki. Ini.

Her nose pinched, briefly, like she smelled something awful. Her eyes set on Kero, arms folded.

"I'm not surprised," she told the police.

They still had her in the blue dress. The pocket was only two sheets of fabric, flapping under her skirt. She kept her palm pressed against her thigh, sweating. Then, a pair of Chuck Taylors. Classic black. They stepped into her vision, turning it monochromatic. Kero's eyes were the only part that moved, like a baby doll tilted just too far. That's all she was. That's all she could be.

But instead of scooping her up, Niki kneeled in front of her.

"You don't know me, kid. I'm your sister." She held out her hand, cigarette pulled back in the other. "Niki." She waited for her hand to stretch out, meet her half way, but it didn't so Ini instead used her nails to pull at her curls, fluffing them up and out. "You're Kero."

Crow nodded. Niki watched before stepping back.

This was how it began.

---

A field of homes like the one from the woods. Some moved. Some didn't.

They were white, green, yellow, blue. Some red, some orange. Never purple. Except when she painted Niki's shutters, but that came two trailers later. This one was yellowed white with green accents. Lace curtains and orange shag carpeting. A crappy vacuum and a crappier radio. Later, a TV. One trailer later. The coat of brown left her lungs, and there was no tar to be found. No rooms she could not enter. No splintered dishes, splintered wood.

Simply her thoughts and the magazines Niki bought. There was work for her sister.

Later, school for her.

When she turned on the radio for the first time, she yelled in agony as the screech of static. When she finally figured out how to turn the dial and adjust the antennae, she heard the tumbled speech of Syd Barrett. She gasped. The rest of her days were filled with icon after icon, each more troubled and akin to her mother than the last. But she loved them the way she could: as though they were the malformed thoughts of her mind but she could do nothing other than embrace them or starve from the loneliness. Suffer at the memories that those thoughts stemmed from.

She couldn't. She'd die otherwise.

Eight years later she boarded her first bus. The first day after the rest of her life, that's what Nami had called it. Rather, it was simply the day after her first Dead concert and she'd left a hastened note for Ini, who worked late and had missed her sister's early onset breakdown. Nami offered her angel's dust, and she giggled at the name. Pixies make dust, not angels. Her friend didn't laugh, but the man working at the amp across from her did.

We're called The Warlocks.

This time, she cupped her hand around her mouth and giggled. Wizards?

"Next you'll tell me your lead singer is Sauron and your bassist is Gandalf."

"Actually, I'm the bassist."

"Well then, are you magical?"

Silence. She'd have to work for his laughs. For his affection. Love.

A more modern Crow will tell you this was the beginning of the end. That she should never have boarded that bus. That the records weren't worth it. That she was worth it. Except the music was the only thing that kept her afloat, a life raft.

That and the mass of wires. Groupie part-timed as roadie. You do the heavy lifting and I'll do the fixing.

Moose taught her. She evolved from him. And when the offer came, once more by Nami, to join her for David Bowie's tour stop in London, she marked her calendar. She packed her bag. She left The Warlocks a note, leaving her love for solely the Dead and not Moose. She landed herself in England.

And she was swallowed whole.

---

Digested and spat back out. She started out innocently.

Walking through the fluttering snow, Crow settled into the fur of her coat and shivered. It still smelled of marijuana and sweat. She wrinkled her nose. Nami found her out in the cobblestones and reeled her in as a skilled fisherman. They saw Ziggy. She sparkled with angel dust. And a new misanthropic lover set his gaze on her. He saw the miles of lyrics and amazement held in her body. A creature. A muse.

She gags now when she hears the word. I was 17!

Another Syd. This time Sid, not to be confused with the Vicious kind, though of the same vein. Sid Jack. Jacob, he clarified, but it just sounds so much better as two first names.

Quickly, she suggested he change his name to Jimmy Hash, because at least that'll make people laugh. She formed him into the picture-perfect image of a man on fire. He slipped into the cracks of punkdom, through to the straits of new wave. Kero was there to guide his hand and she chuckled at his crediting towards her. She was perfect and malleable while still directing him.

She doesn't talk about the night it ended. The night she bought a plane ticket back home.

Another dead animal and it occurred to her that it could've been -- should've bene her.

---

Kero Jäger and her myth. It sputtered like a lemony car, dead, once she returned. Her hair was matted, shaven from her depression. She had to be picked back up and put together. The horror story for any child thinking they could make it on their own. They shouldn't have to, she'll tell you. She did, though. Even if all she, all anyone, sees is failure. Not the circumstance, the context that pointed the finger at many. At more than just herself.

So she drowned in school work with the music as a pastime. A lifetime. That's what she was building. A good little girl forced back into the corner.

She didn't stay there for long.

College, surprisingly, offered a similar sense of freedom and Kero took to it. She became Crow, crawling from her murder of two into a sea of bottom dwellers. She controlled her body, her mind, her class schedule. She found solace in the complexity of computers, in the logic of what lied beneath her record player or her amp. Her neighbors became friends as she repaired their sink drain or their steps. She looked through life with the camera lens, finally controlling the narrative as her own. The songs she should've been writing taken to the visual realm. The stories she had always been writing.

Best of all, she found the freaks. Her party. Another narrative she couldn't control and yet. Yet. She helped. She was credited, too, and when her character went into final saving throws or was on the ropes within a battle, there were her friends to save another character. Another plotline. And she for them.

Peace. She attempts to spread it amongst the group, to each of them, yet she doesn't know how to hand herself the same kindness. She is unconventional, yet Crow tries, through the several feet she fences off between herself and her friends, to assist. To hold together the patch-work she's becomes the thread of.

---

𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙨:
- a mythic origin. born in the midst of the forgotten wood within bumfuck Michigan
- lived a nomadic lifestlye then and still does
- was eventually rehomed by CPS, brought to live with older sister just outside of Catsborough; trailer park goirl
- at age 16, ran away from home to follow the Dead around; wound up in the UK for a time (grateful dead -> david bowie -> uk tour in 1983; ended up experiencing some *trauma* and returned home to finally let her wings rest at 18
- got a high school completion diploma (yes, she will call it that and not just a GED; its different); did a year at community college before transferring. Is currently a rising senior

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *​

PINTEREST | PLAYLIST

𝙃𝙀𝘼𝘿𝘾𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙉𝙎:
-- quite good with kids; she's just a bit awkward to start
-- does community service projects all the time and pretends that its by force when really its by choice
-- isn't super good at math and finds it the most boring part of the game; usually forces Reggie or The Genius to do it for her
-- deals pot because hello! Why wouldn't she!
-- probably the best trip-sitter ever
-- unironically enjoys light shows
-- talks about her groupie days but usually in vague terms
-- owns a car that she's painted on and lets the gang draw/paint on too. pictured here.
-- no one really knows how she ended up in DnD or even knowing how to play, but rumor has it she thought Reggie looked cool while putting up the posters and wanted to check it out bc she thought it was a rock group
-- in actuality, she met a girl back when she was a nomad who had played because she'd heard a Led Zeppelin song and told Crow about it
-- yes, she does dye her hair to look like her character.
-- carries her weed around in a thermos in a crocheted bag she made. It's in the shape of star.
-- doesn't enjoy physical contact with most people and is particular about her personal bubble. however, for her friends, she's often more affectionate than people expect. still, the type of affection depends on the person (ex. might give a hug to someone but opt to hold someone's hand)
-- head in the clouds, but really she just prefers to be plugged into her walkman. walks around with her headphones on her always
-- will offer her couch to anyone who needs it. open invite, no need to even ask
-- seen reading a lot of random paperbacks that she checks out from the library, usually something with a knight on the cover implying fantasy, though she also reads the classics
-- her records are her friends and if you touch them without asking, she will smack your hand away like a cat. thwack.
-- always provides for a pre-dnd smoke sesh for any who want to be involved. she always has a new hypothetical everyone has to answer.
-- 'what would you do if you had a bite-sized ronald reagan?'
-- 'no, duderino, he's like a clone of Ronald Reagan, not the real thing. What would you do?'
-- 'you can't eat bite-sized Reagan for crimes he didn't commit!'
-- terrible with directions
-- seems like a useless sack of lazybones but she's a computer goirl
-- and yes, she'll fix your computer for free
-- will try to get everyone to participate in her documentary about dnd
-- a lot of people underestimate her wisdom and the accuracy with which she sees things. she comes across like a useless stoner, but she has a watchful eye and will give you advice if she thinks you really need it. it's always choice, though, so you know she means business.
— she has never revealed to anyone what happened to her at 17/18 while in the UK. She’s joked that she’s banned from London, but other than that, there’s no mentions of it

Spoiler: secret

— the truth is that the musician she’d been musing for, Jimmy, left her to be arrested after his band played a bar and destroyed it. Of course, that was par for the course within his scene, but that wasn’t only what happened
— A woman, slumped over at the bar, had to be rushed to the hospital. Kero was next to her, unsure if it was the beer bottle broken over her head or the heroin. It was Nami
— when Jimmy bailed her out, he told her he was sorry about Nami but that he’d need her to pay him back for the bail.
— While toxicity was apparent in any of her relationships with rockers, particularly the ones who were ten years older, Jimmy took on a new level. He prevented her from seeing Nami before she passed. He sunk into his own addiction, even after seeing what it had done to her friend, and despite what Crow had done to build his career and his status amongst musicians, she was expected to pay for everything, even things she had no hand in.
— For six months, she played along, no longer the same groupie, but still passed around amongst the band, who weren’t very punk at all. It was the music, from The Cure to Queen to English Breakfast. Yes, being the groupie was her identity, with independence taken, but she still holds the concert shirts with a reverie. It wasn’t the music’s fault that she was abandoned in a foreign world. It was hers.
— It took her three months to squirrel away enough money for a plane ticket home and to renew her passport. John, the pub owner that called the cops that night, assisted her with these things, something she will never forget and always thanks him for when she sends letter to London now.
— she left in the night having dumped nail polish, super clue, and feathers all over his leather jacket. In red, she wrote: Poser.

-- more to come

what happened is that i killed that fucker.

i lied about being the outdoor type . . .

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[livingdead]

II.
the scaredy-cat
scroll.

song
artist

BASICS
NAME: Edward Rogan Hoffmann
NICKNAMES: Ed, Eddie, The Dork
D.O.B: April 2nd
AGE: Twenty
GENDER: Cis-male; he/him
ORIENTATION: Bisexual
MAJOR: Performing Arts
ROLE: Scaredy-cat

APPEARANCE
HEIGHT: 5’10”
HAIR COLOR: Brown
EYE COLOR: Brown
FACECLAIM: John Francis Daley

DND CHARACTER: name, appearance, etc.

PSYCHE
Optimism that never wears out and a kind heart, Eddie has the will and the passion but never the courage. It’s by chance he’s stumbled into everything he does, never reading the fine print, always closely by someone else as if he needs to be shielded from deadlines and his countless fears. Easy to fool, even easier to walk over, Eddie happens to laugh with them even if they’re actually laughing at him. It’s just as often that he’ll be in over his head, seeking approval, putting on a false facade of confidence in order to pull through. Ed makes a good entertainer, though, both intentional and when not, never entirely too serious and always having a good story to tell.

Awkwardness, dull moods, they’re somehow aching, present when they shouldn’t be. When they should be, Eddie’s the first to take it in. He’s just too kind for his own good, he’ll probably end up crying with them. No road to take, in fact too many paths to choose from, he takes comfort in escaping the world he can’t avoid indefinitely—one day, will he be the last to hide and face his fears?

traits

alert, caring, creative, dramatic, forgiving, genuine, intuitive, kind, disorganized, impatient, impulsive, ambitious, emotional, insecure, cowardly, clumsy, dependent, reasonable, cooperative, sociable

ailments

hello ailments here

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY: can be as short or long as you’d like.

GALLERY​

-->

eddie hoffmann.

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Gao]

click!

HEDGE

the damsel

Full Name

Nicholas Snider

Alias

Hedge, Nico, Nick

Gender

He/Him

age

Twenty-Three

D.o.b.

2nd of July

Major

Music

• .
• .
• .
• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  WHY COWS IF WE CAN JUST GET MILK AT THE STORE?

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  appearance

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'11"
  (180cm)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weight

  
  

  170lbs (77kg)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair c.

  
  

  Jet Black

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye c.

  
  

  Dark brown

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Hair

  
  

  Generous wax scooped into shocks of black, the thorny hair lends itself to his name: Hedge, Hedgehog. Ritualistic in slathering fingers with a goopy fragrance of something nose-wrinkling, the hold durability evokes surprise and envy of many. The gel in question? Vicks Vaporub.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Eyes

  
  

  At first exposure Hedge’s long delayed stares appear confrontational. Layering pressure under eddying seconds of silence, cooled magma needling others with hostile judgement is a genesis of regular conflicts. In truth, he’s loading, and the tense gaze is smoothed over once cogs click into understanding.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Distinguishing

  
  

  Usually peppered in some kind of damage, Hedge wears the consequences of his actions proudly. Bruises and scrapes from ambitious fights or endeavours, scabs picked from still-tender pink skin; he’s a risk-taker, and it shows.
  
  Oversized leather jacket his armour, gelled hair his jewelled crown, a 5’11” Hedge is easy to spot in a crowd. Animal prints, fishnet, silver and all forms of spike, fingers are lined with cheap copper rings that stain skin basil green.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  DND CHARACTER

  
  

  Lorem ipsum.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Face-claim

  
  

  Louis Partridge.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  personality

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  Traits

  
  

  Slow-witted, reckless, danger-prone, irrational, sensitive, allergic to following plans, disruptive, distractible, reactive, overestimating himself, gallant, loyal, confident, high-spirited, experimentalist, eager, well-meaning.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  In Detail

  
  

  Snips of snails and puppy dogs' tails; That's what little boys are made of. Pinching worms from mud to wave in faces of screaming girls, boasting bruises and soda-pop burps like proud accolades, Nicholas Snider has never been known for his maturity.
  
  And why should he? How could he? Youngest of six, swaddled in adoration and fed endless attention, responsibility is an unknown flavour to Hedge’s palate.
  
  When he speaks, words crack the air like a spoon through caramel pudding. Attention-grabbing and lacking nutrition, all tough chewing and empty calories. With a head scraped clean of logical thought, plenty of whimsy can take root in an aquarium skull. Amongst pale and diluted currents, thin ribbonlike streams with neither rhyme nor reason. Flowering in the vase of a hollow socket, he finds the world and its people are dizzying and not always easy to partake in.
  
  Density goes hand in hand with bravery. Harbouring a bubbling wellspring of equal portions headstrong and stupid, Hedge is but a grating blur of energy and determination. Overcompensating, obnoxiously eager, the first to spring hand into air, stood from chair with urgency: “Me! Me! Pick Hedge! I’ll do it!” —Servient nature a need to be included, to be useful.
  
  Confidence comforting, malaise tempered by stepping into shadow to splash grim corners in light, demean visage of danger into no more than shape and silhouette; presentation of damnation deters nothing. Leviathans are only clothes piled on a chair, colossal spiders only branch shadows against glass, deep wells of opaque nothingness only a very charming rug.
  
  Wet dew eyes and tissue-plugged nose— “Hey man, check my tooth. Is my tooth loose? Tooths?” —do not correlate to blood-lined enamel and his close-knit companionship with trouble. Akin to the delicate things sequestered to damp moss-laden towers, petal flesh soft-edged and humming with quaking blood, Hedge is very much a maiden in peril. Held hostage not by deceptive wolves or witches with their lime venom apples, but the cruel hand of his own, brilliant stupidity.
  
  Losing his path through fathomless lands, it always began as an inkling, deformed to the undercurrent drag of a black sea. Impulse built in flesh splitting apart seams of logic and floating them unfastened and unheard from his focus, sounding of nothing but eddying white noise. Try as he might to stave off compulsion, running cold as ice and just as vicious, pulse quickens and urge begins— you should help.
  
  Uncharacteristically gentle for a boy of his ruinous appearance, Hedge is sweet as a glucose cube and warm as butter smeared over toast. Unforeseen, endearingly dumb is a comforting attribute for many. Cooked soft, mashed with butter and lucuma, he never tires of being a space to rest, to listen, to talk about the expanse of all things meaningful and meaningless.
  
  When a joke cuts a section too deep, The Clown’s chisel and hammer, Hedge can only ingest the portion slice with a confused laugh. Crush it between teeth, let it slide down his throat as a tight, uncomfortable lump. Something dwells sensitive and bitter in the corner of his lips, but acceding aches a breadth less than kicking up a fuss, instead carpeting a horizon of content inclusion to hide the ugly words pressed into skin.
  
  He’ll let it curdle sour and hide hoarded in the hollow spaces of his chest, inedible. Hide the flicker beneath lashes and seal away vulnerability just to be worthy of belonging.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Habits

  
  

  Hot sauce goes on everything. Everything. If it doesn't colour him bright red, it's not hot enough.
  
  Thinks headbutting will solve problems. This, in fact, creates more problems.
  
  Lash pulling and skin picking when nervous. Mindlessly raking at his jaw especially, if left to his own devices he'd probably exfoliate his body bloody.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  Fears

  
  

  Being left out or replaced. Stepping on something crunchy. Birds.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  likes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Donuts, his hair, friendly wrestling, strange food combinations, mood-rings, others bailing him out of trouble, worms, pink (but in a totally divine masculine way), being included, heavy bass, talking about family.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  dislikes

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Zebra print, bananas, hot cars, socks with holes right at the toe, wind chimes, noise complaints, aggressive pigeons, puzzles or riddles, cursive writing, failure, music theory.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  CONTENT WARNING FOR DRUG & ALCOHOL MENTIONS.

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  VOL. ONE

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Robbed of a planned pregnancy, another newborn stemming from the notorious household came as a surprise for some, dread for most.
  
  Another boy? How many is that now, six?
  
  What is there to do when destiny is predetermined, born under the scraped, scarred Snider namesake?
  
  Home was overgrown lawns, a brown couch outside rented to half mustard foam and half rusted springs. Beer bottles for garden gnomes, flowers acidized dead in vomit and urine, a woman’s barked voice held equal weight in its stench. Eyes smeared robin-egg blue and lips cracked magenta from wet rims of cask wine, cussing neighbours to slurred filth over mesh fences, white tank-top stained with bile and skin stretched translucently thin over bony hips; his mother seeped with languor and a miasma of cigarettes.
  
  He remembers their house brimming with strangers every weekend, air acrid to breathe and plagued with heavy music. Fridge rattled with every open and close, disturbing egg and expired condiment, raucous conversation and slushy sentiments exchanged outside his bedroom window; how the noise hushed him to sleep like off-set thunder, reverberating floorboards like brittle bones to meld into his blood.
  
  Clinging to parental leg while she’d smooth hair in intoxicated stupor. Drinking the gentle nectar that oozed from fatiguing somnolence, childhood is a blurred, fond reminiscence to Hedge. Roof stained butter-yellow and reeking of tobacco, pattering soles at break of dawn went underfoot, amber glass left fractured and wet on the frayed living room carpet— the floor is lava, a sibling would warn and scoop him underarms, stay on the couch.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  VOL. TWO

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, games of house including twig cigarettes and juicebox liquor for chronicle realism. Albeit freckled and snot-nosed, there was shelter in the eyes of the Sixth Snider. An orchid not yet succumbed to gnashing saw of ice, surviving above an environment that could’ve, should’ve sealed over and swallowed him whole.
  
  Childhood is a vein that can never be exhumed, nor uprooted from damp soil chests to split sepal and pluck petals. Leaking salience in ink blots, smooth as a blade peeling away apple skin, there’d never been a comparison available to view his family as unconventional.
  
  Mistranslated as normal, every mother mistakes vicks vaporub for hair gel. Every mother stores products so long that they crumble to dust powder on the tongue. Every mother wears sunglasses and has a hard time tasting her food and every son has a responsibility to pull apart footwear for shoelaces strong enough to secure her upper arm. Soaking epidermis in needle and blotted veins, skin pocked, littered in tar constellations and rough as silt, it is good to be helpful.
  
  It haunts the periphery, a sick mother, her medicine, and six boys willing to do anything, give anything, to keep her happy
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  VOL. THREE

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  “Can you hear that?”
  
  For a skull tenderised with mallets Sabbath and Zep, part-time attention-span and selective hearing to droned plans, Nicholas has always possessed the ears of a Pinscher. Growing up in the constant hum of noise, shaped by its comforting late-night lull, sounds weave in ropy, thick lines that feel almost palpable.
  
  Sometimes in only echoes, identifying a familiar car and footsteps of each family member, sometimes only in wounds, tired-eye teachers gobbling at flea-fed rumour, tongueless, swollen ghosts of gossip and scrutiny, wayward Snider family.
  
  He can match a pitch, tune by ear, and when he hears his mother knocking, grovelling and clawing out the innards of cupboards for cash, Hedge can only see the good. Empathy added up in his body, water and alkaline, it is the core of cut fruit, a source of light that urges, he should help.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  MISC

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  Headcanons

  
  

  ➢ Absolutely spectacular at head-butting. There’s nothing in that skull to protect.
  
  ➢ Refer to him by his full name and he might shit himself.
  
  ➢ Dude. Dude look. Dude. Dude you’re not looking. Dude. Look. Look. Look at me while I do a sick jump over this moving car.
  
  ➢ Cried when he stepped on a snail because he, ahem, “broke the little guy's body AND his house.”
  
  ➢ Prone to becoming very frustrated when he doesn’t understand something. Likes those that are patient with teaching.
  
  ➢ Wants to help with everything, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he was capable of following directions. Says he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t.
  
  ➢ Can't even stack chairs without something going amiss. He figured it'd be more efficient if he threw them.
  
  ➢ Leather jackets are his safety blanket. Sometimes it's just you and your favorite special unwashed spaghetti-stained item of clothing against the world.
  
  ➢ Claims he knows how to skateboard. Has never actually been seen on a skateboard.
  
  ➢ He’s like the little brother you never wanted, but are happy, if not mildly exasperated, to have.
  
  ➢ Still waiting for the Donuts and Daisies. And the Dachshunds and Daffodils. And the Dessert and Decorations.
  
  ➢ He's not crying. Just "sweating from the eyes". Because he's tough. Yeah.
  
  ➢ Licks plates clean. Both his plates and others.
  
  ➢ Ask him to do anything and he will do it. Just be prepared to suffer the consequences of him making mistakes.
  
  ➢ Doesn't understand much of DnD, but BOY does he get invested. Struggles to stay in the chair when things get good. Wriggly.
  
  ➢ The embodiment of "fuck off, demons". The type of person to hear a noise in the dark and walk towards it.
  
  ➢ Recalls fond memories that absolutely horrify others. “My brother once locked me in the dog kennel for two days,” peaceful sigh, “man, good times.”
  
  ➢ Expects people to remember ALL of his five brothers after mentioning them once.
  
  ➢ He knows he shouldn’t but… some of the dice look awfully tasty.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  misc

  
  

  Spotify + Pin-Board are WIPS !!

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  now playing...

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Rebel Yell

  
  
  
  

  Billy Idol

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[blue-jay]

clymene "minnie" allbrook

# studio art

# the artist

NAME: Clymene Allbrook
NICKNAMES: Everyone calls her "Minnie"
D.O.B: January 27th
AGE: 21
GENDER: Cis woman
ORIENTATION: Pansexual
ROLE: The Artist
MAJOR: Studio Art Major + Anthropology Minor

APPEARANCE: Shoulder-length curly black hair, 5'5, 120 lbs, big smile
FACECLAIM: Kyanna Simone Simpson
DND CHARACTER: Minnie's DND character is Pythia, a lawful-good human cleric committed to restoring order in the world and assisting the helpless. Pythia wields a lance and a plethora of spells typical for a cleric, including the spells to heal, dispel evil, purify food, and more. Raised to be a devout follower of the prominent human religion, Pythia left the church not as an evangelical, but as a vanquisher of evil and defender of the innocent. She spreads the word through her deeds rather than her words. She is principled, living by a code of stoicism.

At this point, Minnie is a decently experienced DND player and can lend a hand to the newer players if needed.

VIRTUES: Witty + responsible + straightforward + helpful + independent + imaginative + well-intentioned + knowledgable
VICES: Defensive - self-critical - blunt - obstinate - action-oriented (not always great with words/emotions) - overworker
PERSONALITY: Minnie could be described as a mom friend: level-headed, responsible, and always looking to help others. She's direct, meaning that she's honest and genuine but also sometimes blunt and lacking in tact. She's certainly not one for drama, but she's not afraid of a little healthy conflict since she has good intentions and believes in her ability to work through it. On top of her love for helping others, she takes great enjoyment in being able to help herself: she's very independent. She routinely declines offers of help, occasionally to her detriment. She has a (childhood-rooted) fear of being an inconvenience, but she's not entirely aware of that. She's living proof that being action-oriented has both its strengths and weaknesses.

Being a nerdy and artistic person most of her life has made Minnie a bit defensive. She doesn't go snapping at people randomly, but she won't hesitate to speak up if she feels she's being insulted, underestimated, or treated unfairly, and it's much more likely that she'll feel that way when talking to people she doesn't know well or trust. The best way to connect with her is simply by being genuine; she appreciates it. Minnie, even with her flaws, makes for a loyal and sincere friend who loves funny and deep conversations and expresses affection through action (and art) more than anything—she's less talented with words.

Minnie's responsible and organized nature helps her plan, schedule, and be productive but hinders her ability to improvise and adapt. Once she has a plan or a thought in mind, it can be hard for her to let go of it, especially if the reason for an alternative isn't particularly convincing. Above all, her nature allows her to pour herself into her art, which is incredibly important to her. Simply put, Minnie loves to create art. She loves conceptualizing it, giving it a backstory, sketching it, realizing it, and everything beyond and in between. She promised herself she wouldn't get completely sucked into her work like her parents, but she does sometimes find herself neglecting sleep or skipping a meal to put the finishing touches on a piece. Like most artists, she's very self-critical and pretty much never wholly satisfied with herself.
LIKES: Oil paintings, sculptures, community centers, helping other people,
DISLIKES: Here

HISTORY: Minnie was the kid who was always picked up last from school. The kid who was the best drawer in art class and helped the other kids with their drawings. The kid who learned maturity and independence perhaps a little sooner than they should've had to.

She was the daughter of two professors of classical studies—a fact to which she owes her Greek name. Her mom, a scholar of Greco-Roman myths, and her dad, a scholar of Greco-Roman engineering and architecture, met in grad school and hit it off instantly. They were a perfect match because it was mutually understood that they both loved their work as scholars more than each other. Although Minnie's parents didn't realize it, having a daughter would complicate things: she had to learn the hard way that they both loved their work more than her. They weren't abusive; just neglectful. They rarely gave their daughter attention.

Thus, Minnie's childhood consisted of a lot of being home alone, making her own meals, having fun by herself or with neighborhood kids, and generally learning to be resourceful and responsible without any encouragement. This was a blessing for her parents since it allowed them to devote nearly all of their attention to their work without much (if any) guilt. The only time Minnie ever really had meaningful interactions with them was when they went on long spiels about their work. Through them, Minnie learned all about classical Greece and Rome: the mythology, the history, the politics. Minnie would be lying if she said she didn't find it all fascinating. She particularly liked the mythology: the magic, the monster-slaying, the epic quests. The stories of various classical heroes enriched her imagination, and she took to art as a way to capture the wonder. She started with pencil drawings of Perseus and then worked her way up to detailed paintings of the Hydra. In high school, she started working with sculpture. It soon became her favorite medium.

In her senior year of high school, a friend introduced her to Dungeons and Dragons. She instantly fell in love with it, and she didn't care about the game's less-than-favorable reputation among the general public. She also found a new application of her artistic talent: making materials for the game. She drew maps, painted dice, and (her favorite activity of all) sculpted and painted minis for her and her friend's characters as well as NPCs. By the time she graduated high school, she had finished two long campaigns and thoroughly enjoyed them. She's now in college, majoring in Studio Art and minoring in Anthropology. As soon as she heard about the DND club, she rushed to join. She very often lends her artistic abilities to their campaigns, particularly in making minis.

HEADCANONS:
- here

 

[.chxrryette.]

The Occultist.

scroll

Patty

boo

The Occultist

01.

full name

Patricia Patterson

02.

nicknames

Patty, "the school witch"

03.

d.o.b.

April 10, 1964

04.

age

21 years old

05.

gender

female (she/they)

06.

orientation

Demiromantic Asexual

07.

major

Psychology

• .
• .
• .
• .
• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Occult

  
  
  
  

  the subject of supernatural, mystical, or magical beliefs, practices, or phenomena.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  visage

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height

  
  

  5'5" (~167cm)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  weight

  
  

  121 lbs (~55 kg)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  hair colour

  
  

  Dark Brown

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye colour

  
  

  Dark Brown

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  appearance

  
  

  In addition to her thin skin and pale skin due to a lack of sunlight, Patty has the appearance of a sickly and frail woman with pale, easily bruised skin. Sometimes, a bone can be seen poking through thin skin. She maintains her slim figure because she is subjected to a strict diet that her health-obsessed mother enforces. It is difficult to see how nutritionally deficient her body is due to the layers of clothes she wears, despite fluctuating temperatures. Her unruly and fluffy hairstyle and black eyeshadow that darkens her eyes do her no favors in terms of improving her disheveled appearance. While she could look more put together, she couldn't be bothered to put in any effort. Who would be checking anyway?
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  persona

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  Patty has the energy of a middle-aged man who is balding, has gone through two divorces, has been fired from every job, and is simply fed up with the world. It’s a surprise she hasn’t converted to Satanism yet just for the hell of it.
  
  …Right?
  
  It is safe to say that ignorance is bliss in this situation with Patricia, a person who is full of secrets you may or may not want to know. A superstitious person, she believes in the occult and related phenomena. In fact, her life and activities are mostly dictated by the supernatural. She avoids opening umbrellas inside, says no to threes because it brings bad luck, and doesn't cross her fingers. However, Patty is more than happy to step on every crack in the sidewalk to break her mother's back.
  
  Seriously though, why hasn’t it happened yet?
  
  The residential graveyard is one of her favorite places to walk in the evenings and late at night, and she often reads there while talking to herself as if she were talking to someone else. Her favorite hobby is rummaging through the remains of abandoned houses and buildings looking for spirits.
  
  The knowledge she possesses about conspiracy theories, aliens, the supernatural, and otherworldly creatures is one of her many defining features, but also one of the main reasons why her peers consider her an outcast.
  
  She is invisible to the rest of society at Catsborough as if she were a ghost. It is common for her to phase in and out of social environments as she daydreams about the unknown and supernatural in her own world. If someone cares enough to learn about Patty, they will discover that she is an enigma in and of herself. Her phraseology and use of riddles (most often from dingy second-hand witchcraft books) accentuate her off-putting personality.
  
  The frankness of Patty's conversations can sometimes border on rudeness and she is not afraid to point out other people's shortcomings, annoyances, and sheer stupidity. Consequently, her monotone voice has become associated with deadpan humor, causing her fellow DnD members to chuckle whenever she speaks. When she refers to someone as a "dim-witted shithead with the personality of a stale potato chip", she usually means it seriously. But, whatever. As a result of studying the occult, she is acutely aware of every possibility of the world ending, adding to her pessimistic outlook in even positive situations.
  
  “Why does it matter? Soon enough the eldritch gods will grow tired of our antics and kill us all. So, I mean, shoot your shot but they’re making us all their bitches someday.”
  
  In spite of Patty's scholarly negligence, her mother is determined to morph her into the perfect breadwinner child, driving her to attend college despite her refusal to work.
  
  Some redeeming qualities do exist in Patty, despite what many people believe about her.
  
  As a creative person, she has a lot to offer. For example, her only extracurricular involvement is the DnD club, not because of credit, but because of her genuine love for the game. In addition to her ability to develop a picture for her players, she is also a skilled actress when portraying various NPCs, further exemplifying her creativity when DMing or co-DMing campaigns. Although her DM-style can be extremely punishing, including killing players' characters for lack of strategy - or you know, COMMON SENSE - some players find it addictive. Patty's make-believe worlds are never boring, and there is always action around every corner for those who dare to join her campaigns.
  
  The virtue of temperance is also something Patty adheres to. In stressful situations, Patty rarely raises her voice and remains calm in the face of danger or death.
  
  In addition, she is very confident and self-assured. Patty does not let Catsborough's societal norms apply to her, and she is very satisfied with who she is and what she can accomplish. She is not looking to change herself into someone she is not (*cough cough* fuck you mom *cough cough*). While she longs to have an active social life, it isn't her top priority. That spot is reserved for other things, such as getting possessed by a ghost at least once. Overall, she is very happy with how her life is and would not change anything about it.
  
  Quite frankly, she would be fine if the world ended right here and now.
  
  …Wait, WAIT SHE DIDN’T ACTUALLY MEAN IT—
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  virtues

  
  
  

  
  
  

  creative

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  confident

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  temperate

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  knowledgeable

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  vices

  
  
  

  
  
  

  pessimistic

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  negligent

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  brutally-honest

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Overly-serious

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  childhood

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  In the eyes of an outsider, Patricia's mother Mariam had a life rife with misfortune. Her life was difficult in a small village in Turkey, where she had to care for her younger siblings, was trapped in a loveless marriage with a foreigner, suffered two miscarriages, and then was sent to the Americas with him against her will. As she sought out more from life than bad luck at every turn, she became pregnant with her first successful pregnancy. During pregnancy, she did everything possible to avoid disrupting the baby's development and was terrified if she didn't feel it kick at least once a day, forcing her husband to take her to the nearest hospital only to be told the baby was asleep.
  
  Mariam was certain that her daughter would be the saving grace in her life after finding out she was pregnant with a girl. She was capable of achieving more in her life and accomplishing things Mariam could not. Mariam did not plan for the complete opposite to happen.
  
  In came Patricia Patterson, Mariam’s one and only daughter who will be her pride and joy for a total of only five years. In the 17 years following, Patty's mother would learn her daughter was an unruly sort who would violate every value she held dear.
  
  When she was a child, Patty was expelled from preschool for cutting other children's hair and insulting them so much that they cried (who wouldn't cry if they were called a "butt face"?). Teachers who wanted the class to act as a whole for activities would have a hard time interacting with her as she refused to socialize with other children her age. Patty's father used to leave for months at a time for what he calls "business trips," leaving Mariam to parent her alone. Therefore, Patty was homeschooled for the entirety of her childhood due to her mother's intervention. Patty seemed content, learning at her own pace and not having to interact with other children, but Mariam was concerned about Patty's social skills.
  
  As soon as the neighbors' kids went outdoors to play, Mariam would force her daughter to accompany them. However, as Mariam watched expectantly from the window, Patty would stare at her feet and avoid eye contact as she stood awkwardly to the side. Due to her unapologetic rudeness and resting bitch face, children who would approach her would immediately run away.
  
  It was Mariam's hope that Patty would soon grow out of this strange phase of childhood.
  
  Spoiler alert: it was certainly not a phase.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  adolescence

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  In her teenage years, Patty disliked her mother a great deal. Mariam's desire to force her ideals on her daughter only intensified as she grew older. As a result of these desperate attempts, Patty has become increasingly rebellious and aware of these attempts to control her behavior.
  
  Nights were spent wandering the streets on her own, sneaking out of the house through the back door or even her bedroom window. Certainly dangerous, but Patty had little concept of danger at this age because of how protective her mother was.
  
  Every once in a while, she passed a bizarre Victorian-style house on the street that was surrounded by wilting trees and vegetation. The front yard was unkempt and weeds were growing like tangled vines. In certain outings, Patty would even see a ghastly, elderly woman rocking back and forth on her creaking wooden chair and watching the street with an attentive look. When she spotted the woman watching her intently, she sped up her walking.
  
  Among neighborhood children, the house was notorious for being the home of a ghostly woman who murdered her previous husband. While she was sure the rumor was nothing but a silly child’s tale, Patty could not help but speculate.
  
  When Patty's curiosity got the better of her, she confronted the elderly woman. As it turns out, she was actually very kind to Patty and one of the main reasons why she became fascinated with witchcraft. In Mrs. Bishop's introduction, she described herself as a possible descendant of a Salem witch, a widow whose husband died of a rare disease and someone who lives alone in "this old forsaken house."
  
  In order to learn more about Mrs. Bishop's superstitions and interest in the occult, Patty snuck out to her house almost every day when her mother was not looking. Having finally found a passion that didn't come from her mother, Patty felt like she had finally connected with someone.
  
  Several years later, Mrs. Bishop passed away peacefully in her sleep. It is still unknown whether Mrs. Bishop killed her husband, but Patty has some theories about it.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  adulthood to present

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Patty became even more engrossed in occult practices after Mrs. Bishop died. She learned in secret since her mother would object, often reading books Mrs. Bishop lent her at night with a flashlight.
  
  Mariam removed her from homeschool as soon as she was old enough to attend college and forced her to apply to Catsborough. Her preferred fate would have been to die rather than attend public school again, yet here she was, known as the socially deprived outcast with otherworldly interests.
  
  However, one particular flyer caught her eye in her freshman year as she walked through the college's hallways. It advertised a DnD club and listed meeting times for the week. She had no idea what it was, but the mention of creatures captured her curiosity. After attending one of the meetings, she became enamored with the game and mechanics. Despite being a new member, she quickly learned the rules and began to attend regularly.
  
  The club has helped her gain a greater sense of social tolerance, even if she's still lacking some skills when dealing with other people.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  Same Graves

  
  
  
  

  The Ghost Club

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

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  DnD

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  • aaaaaaa
  • aaaa

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    connections

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Mother

    
    
    
    

    Even her mother knows how much her daughter dislikes her. If her mother had been more open to her interests and supported her, Patty would have really appreciated it. Her mother, however, seems to think that's too much to ask.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    Father

    
    
    
    

    In all honesty, Patty doesn't know much about her father. Her life with him is characterized by periodic appearances and disappearances, so Patty usually forgets about him. Despite the fact that she did not care, it was at least a comfort that her father did not impose unrealistic ideals on her as her mother does.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
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    misc.

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

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    Lord Zurball the Knowledgeable
    
    “How dare you insult the likes of Lord Zurball, his name is not “balls.” He is a very serious mind flayer who does very serious things."
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

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    Chaotic Evil
    "yeah, you heard me right."
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    class

    
    

    He is a magic-user Mind Flayer who specializes in psionics.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    species info.

    
    

    The first appearance of this species was in the Strategic Review #1 published in the Spring of 1975. Afterward, it appeared again in the Eldritch wizardry expansion in 1976 and the Monster Manual in 1977.
    

    

    
    A Mind Flayer is “a race of super-intelligent aberrations who believe themselves to be the dominant species of the multiverse. They consume brains, they have tentacles, and they create thralls of lesser species, one would be forgiven if you referred to them as the spawn of the Great Old Ones like Cthulhu” (credit: link). They also communicate through telepathy, one of Patty’s favorite attributes of the species.
    
    The basic races were not appealing to Patty after she joined the DnD club. After learning of the Mind Flayer's existence (and its similarity to Cthulhu), she argued for the right to create a Mind Flayer character.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    

    description

    
    

    As far as ruthlessness is concerned, Mind Flayers are unmatched. Insidious masterminds and conquerors, they view every race as inferior to their own. Those who are "lesser beings" are mercilessly brainwashed, then turned into loyal thralls who would die to protect their master. The evil agendas they followed were the same as those of Lord Zurball.
    
    Zurball (or "balls" according to his party members) is a self-proclaimed lord who was cast out of his colony for trying to absorb the knowledge found within an elder brain, the center of a mind hive.
    
    Since his connection to his colony's collective mind has been severed, he wanders the land with whatever party he latches onto. In spite of the fact that most party members don't take him seriously, he views each member as a potential slave for his new empire that he will build from his own blood and sweat.
    
    Someday.
    
    Maybe.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

Spoiler: Role Description

THE OCCULTIST
There are a lot of superstitious people in the world, but the occultist is by far the strangest. In addition to ghosts, myths, and creatures similar to them,
they believe in all types of supernatural phenomena. Ghost-hunting in graveyards is a favorite pastime of the occultist, as are explorations of abandoned
houses and wearing signs that say "the end is nigh" on the side of streets. Their strange beliefs often make them seem odd, and they usually have to defend
their conspiracies in the face of doubts about their sanity. However, all of that changes when Catsborough is attacked by the very creatures the occultist spends
their nights studying. They should try and help as soon as possible! But first things first, tell everyone “I told you so,” because they damn well did.

 

[fantasy]

the redeemer

;; greyson

NAME: greyson cole
NICKNAMES: grey
D.O.B: december 10th
AGE: twenty-one
GENDER: cis male ( he/him )
ORIENTATION: painfully bisexual
ROLE: the redeemer
MAJOR: social work; he's studying for a BSW (bachelor of social work)

APPEARANCE: all gangly limbs and pale skin, greyson’s stature stands at a proud 6’ 4. he’s decorated in an array of silver piercings, most of them; eyebrow, tongue, lip, nose, nose bridge, chin and his ears. these features alone dissuade his peers from approaching him until his lips quirk upwards to reveal his big toothy smile followed by his loud booming voice.

his hair is rather short and cut choppy; courtesy of his barber, greyson himself. it’s dyed an almost platinum blonde, but his roots have begun to show through in a brownish color. framed by light brown eyebrows are his crystalline blue eyes that shimmer of excitement with mischief on the horizon.

greyson’s wardrobe consists of a variety of clothing, most derived from his favorite pastime of thrifting. he’s a fan of patterns, particularly plaid, graphic t-shirts and band shirts, clunky jewelry that turn his skin green, anything leather, combat boots, and mostly dark colors.

↳ fc: matthew lillard​

DND CHARACTER: He’s created a magic-user elf named Divolg, because being able to cast spells sounded cool to him. Short and stout, Divolg is 4’11 with rugged white hair and a pair of lilac eyes. His father was an explorer who instilled great courage into Divolg for him to venture out into the world and explore all there is after war ravaged his home community leavening only rubble and the memories that lingered. He’s lawful good and very confident in his own abilities, but has trouble trusting his allies. MAY CHANGE BC IM INDECISIVE BUT YEAH :]

PERSONALITY:

↳ outgoing, dauntless, compassionate, protective​

↳ obnoxious, competitive, defensive, hot-headed, gullible​

more akin to a golden retriever than a living human, greyson is excitable, outgoing and eager-to-please. he thrives on attention from his peers; filling his veins with adrenaline that gives him the confidence to do anything ranging from somewhat dumb to life threatening stupid. consequences rarely cross his mind, not when he has his entire reputation on the line. he refuses to ‘wimp out’ on anything and acts first, think never. this reckless behavior has bitten him in the ass more times than he can count, but it’s never stopped him. as greyson claims, he has fans to please, people to meet, and a world out there waiting for his next big thing—the next big thing being his bowel movements.

constantly brimming with energy, greyson requires constant stimulus. he’s always up on his feet, unable to simply sit still and be quiet. to him, boredom is end all, be all. therefore he has to make everything exciting, which usually involves stupid bets and a little friendly competition. he’s incredibly competitive and always wants to reign victorious against everyone, even if it means being the butt of a joke. he’s extremely determined and the moment he sets his heart on anything, he’s guaranteed to succeed, or at least tries to.

with his heart on his sleeve and a pair of puppy eyes to match, greyson is very compassionate. he strives to be the one person in someone’s life that he wished he had growing up. anyone else’s problem is automatically greyson’s problem due to his obligatory need of helping any and everyone. he has a hard time saying no to anyone, and refuses to let people suffer in silence. however, his empathy for others makes him an easy target for manipulation and with how gullible he is, it won’t take much to get him to eat out of your hands.

HE IS. . . graphic t-shirts, scuffed up shoes, blown out speakers, boisterous laughter that can be picked out anywhere, silver rings on every finger, sunglasses after a rough night, riling up a crowd, summer nights
HABITS: always saying “huh?” when people talk to him; he may be going partially deaf in one ear or just playing stupid who knows, laughs at everything, drums his fingers against every surface, making everything a competition, makes bets with exactly 2 cents in his bank account (go big or go home),


HISTORY: he learns what it is to be loved, to be cherished—there, in the arms of his older sister whose much larger arms wrap around his lithe body, whispering words of comfort. he learns that when the world begins to fall, and crumble from the cracks in the foundation it’ll be her arms that remain firm, and their love that’ll remain fierce.

born in a small town of missouri, the name blank carried no weight, no honor. they strived for the white picket fence dream, surrounding a house of love and only succeeded in birthing a home of negligence and cold. projecting their own failures and lost dreams onto their children, they worked tirelessly to provide scraps of food onto the table, but it would never be enough. nothing was ever enough.

greyson saw little of his parents as a child, his older sister ruby shouldered the burden of raising him, forced to drop out of high school to raise him. for as long as anyone could remember, greyson lived in the shadow of his older sister. he followed happily in her footsteps, one foot after the other. what was one without the other, when all they had was each other?

but childhood is sweetest through a bitter lens. for the world he lives in is a greedy one, and all it’s learned to do is take. his parents become a distant memory that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth at the mention. they’re separated at the cost of their parent’s greed, greed for more, for a better life—a life without children. he doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen his parents, only remembered the way the house seemed to feel akin to a home after their absence. eventually neighbors learn of their parents absences and inform enforcement. from there his sister begins to slip from his fingers until she’s all but a photograph held to his chest tightly at night.

this is greyson’s first awakening of the cruel world; it’s ice cold and seeps through his clothes and down his back. he’s adopted into the cole household, sprawling with 4 other children and a cat of the name ms. sticky bun. here, he learns to make a name for himself and to stand high above the crowd. they teach him to be relentless, and to give the world hell, not literally of course they’ve had enough children starting fires in the laundry room.

coded by reveriee.

 

[idiot]

XXI.
THE TRUSTFUND
scroll.

pretty in pink
the psychedelic furs

VISAGE

NAME: Stacey Huntington

NICKNAMES: Stace, Princess (by her father), Ms Huntington (by the housing staff)

D.O.B: July 27, 1961

AGE: 21 years old

GENDER: Cis-female

ORIENTATION: Bisexual Heterosexual

ROLE: The Trustfund

MAJOR: TBA

APPEARANCE

LOOKS:

FACECLAIM: Heather Langenkamp

PSYCHE

PERSONALITY: a paragraph or more

traits

hello traits here

ailments

hello ailments here

BACKGROUND

HISTORY: They say politics has nothing to do with your years of experience or opinions on legislation but rather how deep your pockets are. The same can be said for power.

Catsborough is not exempt from this dirty game. You want an example?

How about Mr Huntington or should I say— Mayor Huntington.

His white-teethed smile plastered on benches, kissing baby's foreheads in front of Newspaper reporters and snazzy television ads were all the Mayor needed to win over the citizens of Catsborough. A few charitable "donations" to foundations that coincidently were associated with some powerful people sealed the deal.

The Mayor was from a long lineage of men who profited off people's hard work; in this case it was with the ever-growing science and health industries. A sizeable chunk of funding in exchange for a percentage cut of profits was a reasonable sacrifice for advancing the human race—right? Even if that percentage cut would wring them dry before they saw themselves living the American dream.

Not only did the Mayor have power, money and a house with six bathrooms, he had a family that everyone envied; a breathtaking and devoted wife and two beautiful children. It didn't matter that his wife cheated on him with the gardener or that his prodigal son had a habit of drink driving. What mattered is that people saw a picturesque and happy-go-lucky family that had it all.

What about his daughter?

Stacey Huntington was, well...nothing exceptional.

Grades that were less than desirable, no clear ambition or drive and no skills or even some odd quirk that would make her stand out from a crowd.

But Stacey had money — well her father's money — and from a young age she realised that it had the power to make you something exceptional.

Stacey Huntington was the queen of Catsborough's private high school, having teachers and students alike wrapped around her finger.

Or so she thought.

The gaggle of girls that followed her in the halls only wanted a chance to shop at the Mall with her father's credit card. The teachers deciding to change her grade to a B+ only wanted her father's donation to build a new library. Her dates to the drive-in cinema left with a handful of money, courtesy of her father, upon returning her home. Her high school experience is akin to a movie; actors breaking their backs to appease the ever-demanding director in hopes of a pay check.



REPUTATION:

GALLERY​

stacey 'stace' huntington

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[mother of sorrows]

lev kovitsky

the athlete stuck in a hostage situation

♡coded by uxie♡

NICKNAME: Levchek.
D.O.B: 4th of November, 1965.
AGE: 22 years.
GENDER: Cis male.
ORIENTATION: Bisexual, but not out.
MAJOR: General Studies and French.
ROLE: An athlete with promises in the future and all the attention on the field. Lev has both the physical ability and the drive to have landed the position of quarterback, gaining him both a sparkling scholarship and a comfy settlement of popularity; the days made in middle-school with braces and awkward pretension at coolness are long gone, dissolving in the blinding light of Catborough's campus stadium. He shouldn't have any time for dusty rooms filled with sweaty, over-eager nerds - but he supposed he never was good at saying no to old friends.

APPEARANCE:

DND CHARACTER: Oogbah the Unbreakable. A big, growling, brute of an ogre warrior.
PERSONALITY: Likes throwing things.
PASSIVE SKILLS: 50% chance of summoning eyeroll if you ask Lev about more details. 50% chance of acquiring a Silent Stare of Disbelief when asking Lev to explain Oogbah's actions.
EXTRA: 'I don't know, he has a sword. Ask me about your nerd mirco-lore again and I swear I'm walking out.'

PERSONALITY: In a group of pimply, unwashed, overly-excited students that know what XdY means, Lev holds a rarity of a trait; he is painfully reasonable.

He has his own car. He's moved out of his mom's at twenty. He knows how to cook for himself and looks down on microwave dinners. He's confident and doesn't stutter while making an order. He can shake somebody's hand and make eye contact just as well. He's smart enough to know there's people much brighter than him, and still stare blankly idiocy he's forced to witness on a daily basis. He's popular and has an actual social life outside of alcohol-fueled parties.

And most importantly of all, he doesn't know what DnD stands for, but for the longest time he thought it meant Department of National Defence, Canada.

Snarky, blunt and somehow still amazed at the insane things he hears, Lev is the long suffering voice of reason that never goes heard. Lev's got every right to be grouchy, he thinks - have you seen how these people behave?

HISTORY: When Lev's mother was still a teen, empty-eyed and sea-sick from the ship's turning, her parents told her they were about to reach a land of freedom.

The world war was over and a new era crept in, terror and hope holding hands along the road, a dawn whose color nobody could see yet. For many like her there was nothing left on the continent - other lands sung so sweet, a freedom born from cutting off a limb stuck in a bear trap. Her greatly her parents painted this new country! A country where you could be yourself, where your work is the only thing setting you apart. The young Elida imagined it built from gold and wheat, of rolling hills and mystery of the cowboy stories she snuck out of libraries. A country of new life.

Elida and her family never reached that land. They landed in America instead.

She held up the postcards from New York and San Francisco. Held them up to the WELCOME TO CATSBOROUGH sign. Did it once more in case her eyes fooled her. Lowered her arms, stuck out pinched lips and gave her parents a long side-glance before declaring;

'I think we went the wrong way.'

EXTRA:
- Ashkenazi Jewish on his mothers side. His father's grandparents came from Poland - altrough they consider themselves more American before anything else.
- His half-brother Adrian is a decently infamous drug dealer in town. Lev prefers it goes unmentioned.
- A pretty good singing voice from his time in musical theatre.
- Very expressive, even when he doesn't mean to be. His face can change between fifty shades of disgust, shock and hate.
- Got broken up with two days before his Bar Mitzvah. Pictures from the party are haunted by him looking like

 

[xayah.]

XI.
Mira Song

the journalist.

coded by xayah.ღ

the journalist.

• 01
• 002
• 003
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  requisite

  
  
  

  visage

  
  
  

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  history

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  mira song.
  
  
• requisite.

  
  
  
  

  REQUISITES

  
  
  
  

  FULL NAME mira song
  NICKNAME mimi (by friends), casper the friendly ghost (her notorious campus nickname because she laughs outloud then acts like nothing happened or that it was someone else)
  AGE 21 years
  DOB september 29th, 1966
  GENDER cis female
  ORIENTATION still questioning. experiments often though
  ROLE the journalist
  MAJOR communications major, journalism minor
  DND CHARACTER ceriliya the whisper — a thief that is rarely seen and heard even less. she couldn't come up with anything good during character creation and chose to be a little too on the nose with her campus nickname as inspiration
  — a human from the slums who grew up fending for herself and prefers anything other than confrontation. with quick hands, she's a bit of a kleptomaniac and a bit possessive, if not greedy. it's a dog eat dog world out there, and ceriliya is self-serving and self-persevering by habit. mira made her canonically nosy, too, because if she's going to be forced to play dnd, her character might as well kill two birds with one stone. she's not very good at coming up with things on the spot, and whenever it's her turn, mira will more than likely ask a question or two before deciding on doing something, if anything. mira's not quick on her feet, so sometimes her indeciveness means ceriliya will just be in the shadows when the action is happening like this
  HEADCANONS — has a tendency to let out a laugh or snort or scoff and then act like someone else did it or a ghost did hence the nickname
  — takes pictures of things she likes with her polaroid but never admits whether it's because she likes it or if it's for an assignment
  — has a pair of glasses that she only wears at home
  — she's a runner, she's a trackstar~ good at chasing after things to get the scoop
  — ridiculous steady hands
  — writes primarily in shorthand which means no one can read her writing
  — has a really cute laugh, very childlike
  — so attached to her parents who were strangely supportive of their daughter pursuing a humanities major
  — love language is quality time that she actively participates in
  — only form of humor is randomly throwing out puns in conversations - not everyone catches them
  — doesn't smoke socially but occasionally as a stress reliever
  — has a problem of going to parties to report on them and leaving with somebody the same night
  — has only one business outfit and one party outfit
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  requisite

  
  
  

  visage

  
  
  

  persona

  
  
  

  history

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
• visage.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  VISAGE

  
  
  
  

  Average in every sense of the word.
  
  Average in height, a mere 5'4, and average in weight, Mira is entirely unassuming. She doesn't draw your eye—doesn't try to, not even a little bit—and it shows in the way she dresses. Being bare-faced, save for a little chapstick, is her go-to makeup look. Her jet black hair gets a simple brush in the mornings, if that, making it a bit floofy and revealing the full extent of its thickness. A little past chest length, Mira carries around a single hairband around her wrist to tie her hair up and out of the way when the occasion calls for it—usually when eating or journaling.
  And as you probably expected, this reporter in the making is no fashion icon either. Function over form. Comfort over style. These two phrases describe Mira perfectly. She rocks cargo pants and denim jeans like no other—shorts used to be a part of her wardrobe until she scratched her legs researching a news column for the school paper one day—enjoying the bagginess and ease of movement. Her shirts are no different. Oversized, loose, and utterly basic, if it's soft and breathable, Mira probably has it. Her favorite is a dark green tee with black stripes, one of the few shirts in her wardrobe that wasn't bought from the men's section of whatever store she found it in. Paired with simple black converse, Mira mixes and matches whatever is in her closet with little regard for how attractive of an ensemble it is.
  The two things Mira can never be seen without though are a polaroid camera, hung around her neck, and a generic pen tucked behind her ear. Every good, at the very least competent, journalist carries these two things around. After all, you never know when the next big scoop will appear.
  
  FACECLAIM: Kelly Hu
  

  
  

  scroll.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  gallery.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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• persona.

  
  
  
  

  PERSONA

  
  
  
  

  "Why doesn't anyone take me seriously?" She asks indignantly as her face turns redder than red in an effort to stop herself from laughing during an interview.
  
  Journalists, especially those anchors on the nightly news, are so composed and refined—elegance in its finest and purest form. Mira tries to be like that, keyword being 'tries'. She is, and probably will always be, the worst poker player you ever come across. And by that I mean she cannot maintain any semblance of composure and is more readable than the top letter of an eye exam. Be objective, fair they said. Don't judge the speaker. Well, Mira can't help it. Her face contorts in all manner of ways with her every thought. Disgust is as apparent as the lighting up of her eyes during moments of interest. Hate is as clear as love, and laughter the most. In all honesty, she's more lively than composed, and when she's aware that her face is making all her inner thoughts known to the entire world, it's quite a sight to see her suppress her nature. Attempt to, at least.
  Of course, this leads to a bit of a problem, especially as a journalist. Some people have no brain to mouth filter; she has no brain to face filter. In a way, it makes her blunt—if you want to know what someone really thinks of you during your every move—and it deters most people from getting close. She's not much of a people person as a result, and that makes her a bit of a loner. Small talk is no forte of hers either, giving the image of a bad conversationalist, but in reality, Mira might just be the best person to talk to, if not confide in should you trust a reporter with all your secrets.
  Peak her interest, and a conversation with her might run for hours with no lulls or repeats. She's genuinely inquisitive with a natural desire to learn and get real world experience outside of the classroom. Expect a lot of questions. And notes. Lots of notes. Mira prefers being prepared then just rushing into things or decisions. So while she's no genius, Mira is not too shabby when it comes to intellect, and she always has a notepad on hand full of random tidbits that she can reference once in a while. Organized chaos, they call it.
  Speaking of interest, once you have hers, no refunds allowed. Mira is easily attached, and once attached, devoted beyond belief. It's a pain to get her to even consider giving up once she hits this stage. She gives every fiber of her being and time to the causes and things (people included) that she's fond of. That means being more emotional about these things, too, and letting go of that fake (and horrible) composed persona of hers.
  Maybe she'll even get invested in this small rag-tag group of DnD players, but she's really only just there for the scoop. For now, at least.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  requisite

  
  
  

  visage

  
  
  

  persona

  
  
  

  history

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
• history.

  
  
  
  

  HISTORY

  
  
  
  

  Born to a pair of immigrants from urban Hong Kong and their only child, Catsborough is all Mira has, and most likely ever will, know. As a kid, she was stuck in a cycle of bullying. At first, it was for her appearance. The way her hair framed her face as if she was wearing a pot for a hat. Her shabby clothes that were thrifted. The other children would target her. Her face would redden, morph as fast as the various emotions brewing inside her were, and it'd make them laugh. And something about her emotions and thoughts being clear as day on her face made Mira the most interesting to pick on.
  In middle school, she found a way to cope, her therapy in a way. Joining the school newspaper, reluctantly at first because of a mandatory elective class, Mira found herself taken with the ability to be able to express herself without being judged face to face. Her words had just as much of an impact as, if not more than, her facial expressions with none of the embarrassment, and she was good at it. Paired with a cute little polaroid that she would've never been able to afford otherwise, journalism must've been her first true love.
  High school saw her take on more mature projects. She wrote less about the best snacks in the cafeteria and more about school issues and clubs. The occasional community issue made its way to her sometimes, too, and when she was forced to watch the local news for research, something about the way the anchors carried themselves became a core memory in her life. Combine that with spending all her savings and earnings from a summer job into her very own personal polaroid, and Mira blossomed as a journalist.
  So while her grades were well and above what was needed to leave her cozy hometown, Mira saw no other place fit for her than Catsborough College to peak. It was no surprise when she chose to major in communications and minor in journalism (maybe a little—most probably expected it to be the other way around), and even less of one when she chose to join the school newspaper. Fast forward to now, and no one expected her to be completely miserable and even closer to being kicked out of the club. Subpar articles, late deadlines, and simply not fitting in with the rest of the team. It wasn't clear what happened to her or her passion, but the advisor decided to give her one more chance: report on the school's resident loser DnD club. It was an assignment no one wanted, a death sentence for your reputation if you were seen or heard joining, but Mira has nothing to lose.
  She justifies losing what little dignity she has by saying that a band of misfits from all walks of life is just hiding a gold mine of a story somewhere. She really, really hopes she's right.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  requisite

  
  
  

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• ignore me too

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[arthur morgan.]

XI.
the clown
scroll.

whip it
devo

VISAGE
NAME: vittorio hummingbird livengood; his mother had a weird thing for hummingbirds, but she often associated these birds with her father. he had passed away before the young man was born, has been the most excited besides his mother, so she went with hummingbird.
NICKNAMES: birdie, bird, vitamine, rio, hummus.
D.O.B: February 14, 1964
AGE: 23 years old
GENDER: cis-male
ORIENTATION: pansexual
ROLE: the clown
MAJOR: food science

APPEARANCE
FACECLAIM: jensen ackles
DND CHARACTER:

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY:
if hilarious was a person, vittorio would be it. he’s learned to take his charming adittude and quick thinking into the form of jokes and impressions. if there is anything the world has taught him, it’s if you don’t force yourself to adapt— you’ll be eaten alive by someone bigger, better. he’d learn to brush off the hate and turn himself into a comedian, taking what is being thrown at him and throw it back as something hilarious. had been used as everyone’s laughing stock— lunch trays dumped over his head, foul language written on his lockers and enough toilet dunks to call himself a fish. Vittorio would brush it off, stuffing his real feelings deep down inside himself in order to survive the world as a loser.

acting like a sponge, vittorio has been known for being a person you can go to for your problems. taking in all of your issues and sadness and turning it into laughter and smiles, whether he gives you solid advice or simply listens— he will take you in with open arms and shelter you from your own chaos. though after a while, the sponge is engorged, weeping of overabundance and have shifted colors— once a bright yellow, now a dirty brown. only able to take so much, he’ll become less vibrant and be sluggish and tired. not grumpy, just tired. the shift in word can catch peoples attention, his once quick tongue no longer lashing out jokes or side comments— you know somethings wrong then. however, vitto will often hide his own troubles from other people. not wanting others to worry or to be seen as the opposite of what he’s created for himself— someone who can’t take anything and everything and turn it into something good, but the process is slowly taking away his own little light.

sweet as sugar and everything nice, a child at heart only wanting to play without the fear of being hit. vitto finds enjoyment in almost anything, taking any boring situation and making it into a game. he’s taught himself the power of words, vitto can sell you anything. a talent you may say, he uses it to his advantage when his friends are in trouble— using his charm and quick wit to save em from going to jail or academic suspense.

though behind that sweetness and charisma, a lonely little boy hides behind. surrounding himself around people, good or bad, allows him to feel some sort of embrace he never had as a child— whether people laugh with or at him, it’s better then feeling that suffocating feeling of loneliness. often feeling as though he’s dying, vito is a touch starved man who craves true emotional connections. prone to attaching himself to people quickly who give him any sort of positive attention, he can be considering smothering at certain times.
HEADCANONS:
— the type to only eat half a donut bc he says he doesn’t need a whole one but then eat the other half 5-10 minutes later
— constantly changing his hair color
— used to work at several different retail stores in the mall, everyone knows who this man is
— sticks out like a sore thumb,,, especially when one works at a girly clothing store for 8 months
— the outlier to what a ‘normal man’ is suppose to look like, not one to form to societal roles
— lived in a very small, republican southern town deep within Alabama... can imagine how that goes
— looks mean but is very kind
— favorite foods are bean & cheese burritos, peanut butter ice cream, hawaiian pizza from a little mom and pop shop called “Howard & Maria's Pizzeria” & cottage cheese with blackberries & honey.
— annoying older brother vibes
— paints his nails the same color as what his hair happens to be
— suprising knows the difference between
— puts up this front of being fun guy, always cracking jokes when underneath he’s dying inside
— had been a laughing stock as a young child, so he turned it around and proclaimed himself a class clown; in some way reclaiming what had once been a way to make fun of him
— so when he's making jokes he tries not to be mean, but sometimes it comes off that way
— plays guitar,,, a lot
— also likes to play with fire; totally hasn't set an old barn on fire and it was plastered all over the towns news paper.. was not him
— enjoys using weed, but sometimes it makes him trip really bad
— has gotten stood up on dates more times then he can count, acts as though it didn’t bother him but each time made him feel less worthy of affection
— while he's put most of them behind him, there was one that just won't ever go away. after when the popular movie carrie came out; you damn well know what im talking about, but instead of blood it was superglue, feathers & glitter.
— it was suppose to be a bowling date, but the location he was given was just a lotted old bowling rink, bucket of glue and four individuals that didn't care for him that much.
— he's got scars on various parts of his body where he ripped off his own skin; trying to get the dried super glue off. thankfully it didn't get in his eyes, but he had to shave all of his hair.
— sometimes if the light hits him just right, you can see the glitter. a lot of it he couldn't get off.
— always brings pizza to session
— works at Howard & Maria's Pizzeria, they act like surrogate parents. also are the type to believe him in anything he says; more like "that's nice dear" and not trying to make him feel about the things he says or likes
— if your his friend he will sneak you a free slice
— tries to joke to break tension, doesn't always work.
— the type to think later and just do it
— does this thing where he will put his forehead against yours & rubs them together soft as a sign of friendly affection; like a fist bump but with foreheads. does it to people that he knows are okay with it, not with randoms.
— will throw hands for his friends, might not be very good but will do it for them
— throw rocks in your window, put a dead fish in your hubcap, yogurt underneath your seats; he'll mess with you
— drives an old beat up camero, it ain’t flashy or nothing but it does the job and gets him to where he needs to be
— loves to dance? not good but he does
— also really good at roller blading
— doesn’t know how to swim, like at all
— mommy issues? maybe
— easily excitable
— has a habit of just blurting out whatever comes to mind
— needs a hug
— needs glasses, probably because of how often he was hit in the head as a young child.
— does his own hair, gives himself his own piercings
— more to come probs

traits

hilarious, charming, clingy, lonely, quick wit, manipulative, supportive, tiresome, fake happiness, sweet, kind hearted, smothering, takes on more then he can chew, priorities other peoples feelings before his own.

ailments

none, just lonely. though he does need glasses, but refuses to accept that.

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY:
TRIGGER WARNING; child abuse, mentions of drugs, alcohol.

deep within alabama, a small dirt town with a population of 85 people everyone knew everyone’s business. the news of a new baby being born in a bathroom travels like wild fire, a woman who spread her legs before marriage and was left high and dry— that seemed to be the most shameful part. the young girl was scared, alone, and unsure of how her new life would be with this new child on her hip— but ones things for certain, she knew she had to do right for him.

that is, that’s how it started. the new baby smell, the laugher, cute little clothes and and sleep filled nights— no one talks about the crying, vomit, teething & colic. the romanized parts of parenting cover up the reality, and many people realize how unfit they are at raising a child.

unfortunately for vito, his mother had slowly began to realize how unfit of a mother she truly was. though who was gonna take a little baby from its mother? especially a woman who can make you see what you wanna see? sell you a bag of dirt by telling ya it’ll make your crops never die? she could make anyone think what she wants ya to think, and if making herself look like a better mother then she truly was, then she’d do it.

and she did a damn good job too.

it didn’t take long for people to catch on however, even the best con artists get caught right? though it became more clear when they saw little ribs, soft purple bruises, sunken eyes, and soft wheezing. a one year old who had no energy, who wanted to sleep the day away and could bearing keep his head up. only able to cover up her lies for so long, his mother realized that their stay in this little town was no more— they needed to leave.

why not give up the child if you know your unfit? his mother would rather keep her unwanted child then pawn him off to someone else, perhaps she saw her baby as a trophy for everything she went through. how the baby turned her once perfect body into a big pile of mush, clear skin covered in stretch marks and cellulite. perhaps she didn’t wanna be alone, the man she thought loved her left when she found she was pregnant, how her father who was the only good man in her life died before meeting his grandson and her mother… her poor mother who went insane from both the death of her husband and the pure shame of having a harlot as a daughter.

either way, she wasn’t gonna give up her baby without a fight. at this point she realized they had outgrown their welcome and needed to leave and fast. thankfully, or should they mean unfortunately, his mother had met a man who was willing to take them with him to his journey across the south. how long had they known each other? couldn’t have been more then a month or so and his mother already was ‘in love’ with him. at the age of 5, vito and his mother would soon find themselves in Wyborn, Virginia. a sleepy little town, maybe they could start a new life here.

did his mother change? no, did she and that man stay together? also no. after being together for about 7 months, he had cheated on his mother and left the the pair high and dry for some better and child free pussy. this soon began his mothers turning point, slowly having her own mental break down. the idea of drinking came about, soon weed, cocaine isn’t so bad right? maybe a little acid, no one dies of that.

a whole 8 years of this, how the time flies when your constantly loaded. a thirteen year old was forced to grow up fast, taking care of his loaded mother every night and day. he acting more like a parents to her then she was to him, taking care of her when she was sick, helping her take baths when some days she couldn’t get off the couch. made her breakfast and dinner with little they had, doing laundry and the every day things of life. but what did he get in return? nothing besides watching his mother stick herself with needles, gorging herself with cheap ever clear, bringing home more men then he can count and forced to listen to it.

vito didn’t have many fond memories of his mother, the only thing he could say about her is that at least she didn’t beat him. though the colorful men she choice currently did that for her, leaving him with busted lips and broken ribs if he dared stood up to them. a mother that allowed strange men lay a finger on their child was the worst kind of mother, especially when they forced them to stay hush about it. being mistreated by various boyfriends and lovers wasn’t anything new to him, he just wished they’d all hit the same.

the most noticeable boyfriend she had, a man who stunk of cigars and black licorice. a face only a mother could love, an ex gangster who had a scar that ran down the middle of his face. how his mother found him, he couldn’t tell you. vito thought she was with him simply because he had a constant supply of cocaine (heroin wasn’t her thing… replace one bag drug with another i guess) and made her feel safe some how?? he often tried not to rationalize her decisions, she was off her rocker a long time ago. anyway, this big scary man always seemed to play the same game with vito— see how far he can push him, what really would crack this young man. you’ll see how far he would go, vito’s forearms are covered in cigar burns, using them as an ashtray. or perhaps you’ll see the big X across his back, a hot cattle brand was pressed against his skin on a drug and liquor filed rage— somehow threatened by a now sixteen year old boy, annoyed by him constantly around.

that night was probably the worst day of his life, he had never felt pain such like that… he thought he was dying. had been dragged out of his bed, a pillow case over his head while being knocked out by a glass bottle. by the time he woke up, he was in a run down barn with three strange men and his mothers boyfriend. the times he had been out here was to escape the hell of his home— the brute figured why not ruin him here. after being horribly beaten, vito was left there to mend his own wounds. body aching, a scorching heat laid waste on his back, the feeling of bruises forming, vito was so tired.

and what did his mother do? nothing.

like she always had done.

absolutely nothing.

as soon as vito hit the rip age of 18, he left home. a broken body and heart, vito left his mother drooling on the couch. he didn’t even know if she knew he had left, her eyes glossed over from her sweet high, but he didn’t care. living out of his car for several months, vito would take on odd jobs throughout the small town and on the rode in order to put gas in his car and some food in his belly. all he wanted to do, was get out of that town.

rounded up Catsborough, Virginia. never looking back. wounded up getting a job at the towns only pizzeria, Howard & Maria’s Pizzeria. put himself into community college, simply to make something of himself and soon found himself here.

GALLERY​

vittorio livengood.

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[fin]

"i ain't too sure 'bout splittin' up, y'all..."
scroll.

mix
michael jackson

VISAGE

NAME: Leroy Jamal Brown.

NICKNAMES: Roy.

D.O.B: April 14, 1967.

AGE: 20 years old.

GENDER: Cis-male

ORIENTATION: Heterosexual.

ROLE: The Scaredy-Cat.

MAJOR: Music.


APPEARANCE

FACECLAIM: Algee Smith.

NOTABLE FEATURE(S): smooth chestnut skin - rat tail dread - full, two-toned lips - loose-fitting clothing style - fond of shades of brown.

DND CHARACTER: To be determined.

PSYCHE

PERSONALITY:
Leroy has lived his life under constant scrutiny, whether it be that of his God, mother, grandparents, teachers, tutors, and more. Furthermore, there is an inspection that far surpasses the watchful eyes of those who care about him: the community's stigma of all the horrible things Black men are capable of. Due to these assumptions, he’s grown aware that he must always be on his best behaviour, which he does try his best to maintain. It is a reality that Leroy has come to terms with; the realistic expectations of what little a man of his pigment can achieve, along with how easy it is for said man to lose everything. Leroy is a believer of facts more than anything and he is more than aware of the statistics that plague him and others like him.

It is a train of thought that has made him critical of every action that he takes, lest he risk the future his family has tried so hard to make for him- or his own immediate sense of comfort. A sucker for reassurance, Leroy fears the poor judgement of those around him, particularly those in authority. Around the likes of police officers, teachers, and some of the popular students, streaks of urine are poised to trickle down his chinos trousers. He’s never been good with big moments.

In the odd moments Leroy finds himself at peace, it is only ever where his saxophone is nested between his lips, or he's scored an epic move in the game of D&D. Moments like these are ones, with those closest to Leroy, are what he cherishes most. As much as he promises himself to protect what's most important to him, his habit of freezing up is equally applicable to threats or losses of the things he holds dear. To rationalize the idea of the things he adores most being ripped from him is to surely fry the brains of Leroy and incapacitate any motor function that he has. It is only in hindsight that he might regain function and proceed berate himself- more than usual, that is.

Luckily for him, blending into the background of things often allows him to manage the same small circle of people. It allows him to build a consistent schedule with those closest him, putting all of his worries at ease but sometimes stifling the freedoms of his loved ones; a selfish act by a man who's own norms have been defined by rules and regulation.

traits

vices; dorky, inflexible, socially awkward, possessive, passive, overthinker, controlling.

virtues; organised, responsible, intelligent, practical, cautious.

ailments

leroy has not been diagnosed with any mental illnesses.

TIME MACHINE

HISTORY:
The mother of Leroy Brown always said he was born to his own tune. Having faced some battles with respiratory disease as a child, this baby’s cries were hoarse and worrisome, and his mother always praised his babyhood resilience as he combatted the illness. Nowadays, Leroy questions where that same resilience has disappeared, surely it had evaporated into the air along with his father and elder brother.

Deshawn Sr. and Deshawn Brown Jr. were men cut from the same cloth. Sporting boomboxes and durags, low-riding jeans and designer sneakers, the father and son duo were Leroy’s seniors. Hardly, really, due to the fact that Deshawn Sr. would die in a shootout with police officers before his youngest son was born and Leroy had only ever seen his elder brother through the reinforced glass windows of Baton Rouge Penitentiary in Louisiana.

With the “gentle” shove of his grandparents, a baby Leroy, his mother, and the parents of his mother abandoned his hometown of New Orleans to settle down in Seattle. His grandparents played a very significant part in his upbringing, often to the dismay of his mother. Leroy was taught by the belt and had discipline ingrained within him in his grandparents’ efforts to avoid another Deshawn Jr. Leroy was to follow strict curfews, complete his assignments and more, as well as be ordered to play a dignified instrument: the saxophone. Leroy did not get out all too often, not that it mattered much anyways; He was always too Black to mix in with the white kids, and too sheltered to understand the other negroes. Leroy found himself mixed in with the geeks and freaks throughout highschool.

For university, Leroy was given a partial scholarship to Catsborough as a saxophonist for their orchestra. With the freedom of adulthood, he managed to dip his feet into several new things. Leroy began to visit his incarcerated brother who told him tales of a New Orleans he had never known. A place where Black excellence thrived, gumbo was served hot, and blues echoed through the streets. A place where Black cliques like that of Deshawn and his father were considered “gangs,” and not the pigs in blue who discharged their firearms like trigger happy rugrats. A place that adored his father for his efforts to protect the community and grieved the loss of their beloved “gangster.” Deshawn Jr. became something of a mentor to Leroy, urging his brother to try new things. He found employment at a local speakeasy, only this time he abandoned the stiffness of band music for the rich, jazz that saxophones were meant to produce. Sometimes Leroy would even sing. It was a rebellious act by the timid, young man, although he’s yet to come face to face with anyone from his immediate life at this club. This remains a secret of his that he kept dear to himself and Deshawn Jr. In a misguided effort to fit in, Leroy even joined the D&D club, to the dismay of his elder brother. But he fancied it, and his ability to escape into lives less pre-destined as his own.

An escape wherein there was finally no risk to his future or of potential disappointment.

GALLERY​

leroy brown.

designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[VomitIcicle]

NAME: Smith Graham
NICKNAMES: Easy-S, Pot-snatcher. The second one he earned for his tendency to shakedown known dealers for his own 'recreational use'
D.O.B: April 8, 1940
AGE: 47
GENDER: Male
ORIENTATION: Cis
ROLE: The Lawman, the sheriff of a sleepy town and working on his retirement, he has seen more than fit to let the reigns slip a bit, after all, what could possibly go wrong in a sleepy little place like this?
MAJOR: N/A

APPEARANCE: Weathered and sun cracked face, framed by a rapidly graying and rather stringy mullet he keeps tied into a loose ponytail

Personality: A classic good 'ole boy, heavy southern drawl with the morals to match. A God-fearing American, yesiree. Through and through. Church every Sunday, and he sure as hell doesn't endorse those weird witchcraft games that all these young folk seem so infatuated with.

Backstory: Born at the start of the second world war, Graham was raised in the classic nuclear family deep in southern Texas. An unremarkable childhood, followed by an unremarkable high school career and an ever increasing pressure from his father lead to him enlisting in the United States army, just as the country began its deepening involvement overseas.


Leaving after two tours, his military experience netted him a cushy job as a small town sheriff, bumming off weed from repeat offenders and spending the majority of his days boozing up in his office.


Unfortunately, things are starting to look like he might have to start taking his job seriously

 

[Stardust Galaxy]

heather holmes

the redeemer

twenty-one

female

bisexual

october 11

fashion design

character name

kasehe

race

human

class

magic user (warlock)

strength

13

intelligence

12

wisdom

12

constitution

14

dexterity

10

charisma

14

Emotions come, I don't know why

personality

If there is any way to describe Heather, it is that she is a natural-born leader; the pure embodiment of charisma and confidence gifted to her with true belonging. With an authoritative projection, it is often that she is capable of rallying those in pursuit of a common goal.

If there’s anything Heather loves, it’s a good challenge, big or small, and she firmly believes that given enough time and resources, she can achieve any goal.

Her emotional expression is not that of any maturing; the type to distance herself from the pressures of having to deal with ruminations pertaining to her own, personal, sentiments.

backstory

Heather was the only child of two extremely busy parents; that growing up, she saw herself returning home thanks to the ride of one of her friends’ mom rather than her own parents. But it was fine because they were busy with work, trying to give her the best life she could have. Even if sometimes the only thing she wanted was for her parents to show up on time for dinner.

Maybe it was the fact that both her parents knew they didn’t spend time with their daughter; that signing her up for activities during the afternoon would make her feel less lonely and they could continue working without having to worry about how Heather felt. It helped as she wasn’t as lonely as before; but it just turned out into disappointment when she didn’t see her parents made it on time to her recital or her tournament. Just as she saw the other kids leave with their big smiles with their parents.

A child that didn’t have anyone to rely on decided that maybe if she was outstanding, her parents would notice her as she remembered knowing how her parents loved to brag to their friends about their new purchases. A plan that worked for a moment but that created the competitive monster that Heather is until this day. And as time passed, that need of being noticed became her need to fit perfectly with the social status, to be admired and flattered just for her being present. But when the dungeons and dragons’ club came shockingly into her life; ruining everything she perfectly crafted through all the years. It was just a matter of time until Heather took the matter of this club because who else could bring a failed club and turn it into greatness?

love language

here

MBTI

here

fun facts

here

blondie - call me

coded by Stardust Galaxy

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

XI.
the co-founder
scroll.

Dancing with myself
Billy Idol

DOSSIER
NAME: Wesley Beningno Perez
NICKNAMES: Wes, Beni
D.O.B: October 14th, 1965
AGE: 22
GENDER: Male
ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
ROLE: The Co-founder
MAJOR: English literature

APPEARANCE
APPEARANCE: To many, Wesley is far from a physical threat. A short and stout little man, Wes stands at about 5”5 and dresses in a way that brings little attention to him. Perfectly quaint, perfectly him.
FACECLAIM: Jacob Batalon
DND CHARACTER: DRAEGON THE AVENGER. A human fighter that quite frankly, is made up of Wesley’s most unattainable fantasies. A tank with a mind, Draegon tells the story of a knight who bows to no king, serves Justice and Justice alone and most important of all, gets hella bitches.

PSYCHE
PERSONALITY:
Childhood was a bruise against his skin, a puncture to the heart. A boy who with his smile, was only met with laughter, turned away by those he often tried to befriend. And in some ways, he is still that boy. A dreamer. A romantic. A loser. Outcast in the shadows of youth, for a long time Wes had only his imagination and his imagination alone to keep him company. Taking him to places he would never see, with people who would never dare look at him twice, he spent much of his childhood up in his head and less in the real world, so to speak. Finding solace in comic books, daydreams and fantasies, Wes—like the visions he once created— is a museum of things waiting to be discovered.

With a heart twice his size, (or so his grandma likes to say) there’s not a day that goes by that Wes isn’t in love with something. With the sun, the morning dew, that girl that made eye contact with him one time, he is perfectly enraptured by life, in delusions fuelled by a too-strong and too-feeling heart. With these motivations he pours himself into fiction, into idealistic thoughts, dedicating his livelihood to incomplete hopes. Call him pathetic, call him a nut, Wes doesn’t mind because let’s face it— there’s nothing he hasn’t been called before. He’s grown used to it by now and wears the “nerd” badge unapologetically, ruled by his feelings and strict code of conducts while idolizing the greats before him: Clark Kent, Pablo Neruda and his lola. A happy little do-gooder with a happy little life who doesn’t bother anyone and hopes to god that no one bothers him.

TRAITS

Eccentric, creative, hopeless romantic, delusional, outgoing, oversensitive, impulsive, law-abiding, fiercely loyal, anxious, shy, nerdy, deeply sentimental, talks to his Superman poster when he needs to get something off his chest.

AILMENT

Short. Moderate to severe asthma and requires an inhaler at all times.

TIME MACHINE
HISTORY: Growing up, Wesley had the love of his parents sometimes, when they weren’t away on some sort of study, that is. A vastitude of birthday cards and guilty apologies was all he’d ever known, and still is, awkward phone calls echoing with empty voices and an encouraging grandmother by his side. The very bridge to keeping their relationship (or there lack of) afloat. And fortunately, the caretaker he’s always needed. A short and incredibly fierce woman, lola Diwa first entered his life when he was just two years old, gushing over chubby cheeks as if they were made of melted gold. His parents— both acclaimed environmental researchers, always spent long hours hunched over in laboratories or stationed across the world from where he most needed them. In San Fransciso, his very first home. So when they couldn’t be there, she could. Just happy to have a baby again, Wesley was coddled all his life by his lola, though some would argue too much as he entered the early days of Catsborough elementary glued to his bright red cape, with not care in the world. Because Wesley met reality that day, he met it and decided that he didn’t like it. And ever since, he’s been living in his own little world, his best friend and Lola in tow.

GALLERY

wesley 'wes' perez.

 

[frecckkles]

Fallon Taylor

the journalist

• .
• .
• .
• .

• i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  full name

  Fallon Taylor

  nicknames

  🖋 Goldie
  🖋 Bugs

  age

  21

  date of birth

  June 12th

  gender

  Cis female

  sexuality

  Experimenting Bisexuality

  Major

  🖋 Journalism
  🖋 Sociology
• i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  height & weight

  🖋 5'4"
  🖋 123 lbs.

  hair

  🖋 Dirty blonde
  🖋 Always in braids
  🖋 Wisp-like bangs
  🖋 Past her shoulders

  eyes

  🖋 Blue
  🖋 Looks like they can peer into your soul

  physique

  🖋 Unshapely
  🖋 No boobs, no butt, no curves
  🖋 Hands and feet are considered small
  🖋 Legs longer than stairs

  style

  🖋 Beanies? Check. Flannels? Check. The ability to wear abnormally tall stillettos? ....check?
  🖋 Has a plethora of business casual clothing
  🖋 Always have to wear something with color

  face claim

  Sabrina Carpenter

  Contractual

  Chase Petra
• i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  likes

  🖋 Writing
  🖋 The smell of old books
  🖋 Puzzles
  🖋 The scent of lemons
  🖋 Creamer with coffee
  🖋 Cool pen tricks
  🖋 Drinking ice cold water with ice scream
  🖋 The sound of laughter
  🖋 Proving someone wrong
  
  

  dislikes

  🖋 Being wrong
  🖋 Black on black clothing
  🖋 The smell of gas
  🖋 Anything too salty
  🖋 Due dates
  🖋 Ignorant people
  🖋 Black coffee
  🖋 Bagels
  🖋 Her ex
  
  

  D&D Character

  🖋 Harengon
  🖋 Named Trezni
  🖋 Cleric
  🖋 Neutral Good
  🖋 Follower of Tymora
  🖋 Trezni is a bunny-folk (Harengon) that looks like your average white rabbit! White fur, red eyes, and cute long whiskers to really seal the deal! She has a mechanical foot, replacing her real one that got stolen from her. (Play on a rabbit's lucky foot). She wears a green tunic, a dark brown belt - that carries all her medicinal herbs - and a dark brown bag filled to the brim with papers. She stands about 3'2" and favors her real foot to her mechanical one.
  🖋 Tymora gifts her loyal followers with things that can bring good luck, in Trezni's situation, Tymora blessed her foot. This foot let Trezni do impossible things, allowing luck to always guide her. During one of her many travels, a 'friend' of hers snuck into her tent while she was sleeping and cut her foot off. Tymora cursed Trezni for allowing such a thing with bad luck until she is able to track down this thief and take her foot back.
  

  personality

  Fallon is a lover of all things good and fun. Some people would think that because she's an inspiring journalist that she's snobby and always trying to butt into people's lives. That couldn't be any further from the truth, she gets her information for pieces normally like:
  🖋 eavesdropping
  🖋 breaking and entering
  🖋 bribing
  🖋 donning disguises
  🖋 and can't forget good ole phone snooping
  
  Okay, so maybe she does a little crime here and there to help articles in the school paper. No Biggie! That is.. until most people know what she's done and in turn hate her guts for it. And she's fine with that! Maybe that was a fib. Honestly though, she does what she can. Do you think Nancy Drew would have figured out all those cases by just abiding the law and minding her business? No! So why should Fallon?
  
  Other than her criminal history, she is a studious being. She takes maximum credits every semester, keeps her grades at a good level, and manages to do her homework. All she had to do was totally destroy her social life, the ability to have friends, and disappoint her everyone that knows her. And though she's burning out faster than water to fire, she would do it all over again if it meant making a name for herself.
  
  She loves a good dare. Growing up, she never had the chance to anything risky. She did all that she could to set herself apart from those who say, "alright, dare." Only then to chicken out whenever it was deemed too gross or hard. She once licked someone's dirty feet clean for $20 dollars. She's not something to write home about, but boy is she something.
  
  She's known to drink here and there, but never too much. Being drunk is just not something she ever wishes to be. She is also highly against in sort of drug use. She's not one to judge, but she will judge you to the moon and back for that. She might think she's morally higher than those who do use drugs.
  
  So maybe she is a bit snobby and butting into people's lives.
  
  
  
• i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  childhood

  Fallon's childhood was a happy one. She's the middle child of five siblings, though her parent's did a good job in not forgetting about her existence. Her father - which she was one of his pride and joys - was a writer. He taught her everything she knew and she dreamed to be just like him when she grew up. He always put a smile on her face, with no doubt that she will shake up the world. Her mother was a lawyer, often the one to bring money home to pay the bills. She was strict, but never too harsh on Fallon and her siblings. But man, was she funny whenever she wanted to be.
  
  With all the love her family had to give her, Fallon grew up fine. Well... up until she was about ten. Her father died suddenly from kidney failure, Fallon being the one to find him dead in their living room. She was just coming home from school, often the first one in the door. She let out a blood-curdling scream and never will be able to be the same again.
  
  

  teenage years

  Her teenage years are some of her darkest. With her father gone, her mother spiraled. First it started with intense drinking, but then her mom started getting into something darker. Her eldest brother is something of a pot head, but never went overboard with it. He gave their mother her first edible. After that, her mother began to experiment more and more with other things. Anything to chill out her mind for awhile.
  
  By sixteen, Fallon's whole home life had fallen apart. Most of her siblings moved out at the first opportunity, leaving her to take care of their mother. She just couldn't leave her. She juggled school, a job, and taking care of her. Her younger siblings ended up being the last to move out, going with the older ones for a safer place to stay. She couldn't fault them for that. She just hoped that she wouldn't be forgotten by them as she dealt with their mom.
  
  By eighteen, Fallong had completely given up on her mom. Lie, after lie, after lie finally just made her give into her anger and resentment. As soon as she was able to go to college, she moved out and left her whole life behind. Her siblings barely kept in contact, her mother barely coherent on good days, and no friends to keep in touch with whatsoever. She wanted to start anew somewhere else. Anywhere else.
  
  

  entering adulthood

  She threw herself into school. She had to make her late father proud somehow. She gave up writing years ago, but finally being free, she picked it back up. All over, she fell in love with the freedom that words gave her. She took as many classes as she could, craving more and more.
  
  Due to her teen years being a mess, Fallon developed some habits. She keeps people at arm's length and often just uses them for her next article. She didn't need anyone in her life messing it up anymore than it had been already. No dating, no friends, not even a single inside joke.
  
  That is, until a certain group catches her eye, perhaps turning her life around - either for better or worse.
  

coded by natasha.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

a small reminder that apps are due this saturday!! if anyone has a question or needs an extension don’t be afraid to head over to the ooc!!​

 

[Athens]

The Scaredy

scroll

Sami Munir

hello

ㅎㅎ

01.

full name

Samuel Munir

02.

nicknames

sami, sam the man, murphy

03.

DOB

May 27 1965

04.

Age

22

05.

gender

cis-male

06.

orientation

bisexual

• .
• .
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• .
• .

• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Cat.

  
  
  
  

  l’d rather we didn’t.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  visage

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  role

  
  

  the scaredy cat

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  major

  
  

  anthropology

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  dnd character

  
  

  tiefling ranger

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  face claim

  
  

  reiky de valk

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  appearance

  
  

  
  Pretty as the devil and twice as clever.
  
  Samuel is a handsome young man, and after his awkward teen years, he’s earned the right to boast, surely? The beanpole days of his youth are long behind him now that he’s filled out.
  
  With full yet lean muscle tone from the university track team, luscious curly hair that’s become more cooperative in current years, and a pretty yet mischievous smile, he’s just as confident in his looks as he is in his (lame) jokes.
  
  At 5’10, Sami can come off as taller than he is because of his over-confident personality. He walks with a relaxed ease that can’t be faked. In contrast to his easy-going and wisecracking nature, his eyes are rather somber and pensive which makes him seem approachable in more serious situations. More often than not, eyes are drawn to Sami because the guy never stops moving. At times, he's akin to a hummingbird in how he flits around with uncontained restlessness.
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  persona

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Sami might as well be the face of youngest child syndrome. More than anything, he is constantly trying to prove that he can. As the youngest of 5 brothers, Samuel felt overlooked and not taken seriously by those in his life so he overcompensates by making himself important. Everyone loves entertainment, right? Sure, most of the time folks are laughing at him, but you take what you can get.
  
  He's not sure when it began but a lack of responsibilities and a need for purpose translated into this peculiar persona. But when people take things too seriously, Sami is there to lighten the mood; you shouldn't allow things to ruin your day. He thrives in group environments but struggles to open up past the surface-level things. When Sam's uncomfortable, he redirects. It works for him and Sami sees no reason to change it. But at times, his humor can transition into snarkiness when he's pushed to the point of irritation or high stress. Sami hates making others feel bad and it can take a lot to really upset him... But once he's there... It's not a fun time.
  
  It irritates him to no end when people criticize him for his "Scary" personality. Sami doesn't think he's scary. He's cautious and mildly paranoid, but you would be too with brothers like his. The thing is, that his desire to please people has made him very observant; he strongly desires to connect with people however he can and not be left alone. He watches people more than they think and when the vibes are off, Sami is ready to abort before things get bad.
  
  If Same checks out before shit can hit the fan, he can go about life as if nothing has changed; Sam does n o t do drastic changes and he doesn't do risky. Risks for Sam are calculated because he fears the worse. Even his more showy and impulsive moments are either to keep the atmosphere how he likes or are immediately tethered back to reality by his anxiety.
  
  And overall, what his actions always come down to is his desire to remain comfortable and intact — if he doesn't want to do something, he won't. If he is miraculously persuaded, he'll express exactly how he's feeling about it and make it everyone's problem. Sometimes it's joke, mostly it's rambling, in rare times, it's bitching. What can he say, personality-wise, he's a rather dynamic guy. Truthfully, he'd like to step out of this cage he's slowly built up around himself, but Samuel has spent so much time trying to figure himself out and make a space for him in life that he's scared to let it go. Who is he once the persona is stripped and he has to start all over at things he can't guarantee he'll be good at?
  
  When Sami's bubble isn't being threatened, there are few things that he takes seriously enough to not make a joke out of the situation, so unless he's in immediate danger or his bubble is being pushed, best to assume he won't shut up. And even then, he treats both friends and enemies like buddies? Why? Because, If they're okay with it? Great! If it makes them angry? Hopefully, it's disarming or irritating enough to distract them!
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  virtues

  
  
  

  
  
  

  lighthearted

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  affectionate

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  curious

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  athletic

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  loyal

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  witty

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  vices

  
  
  

  
  
  

  careless

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  anixous

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  guarded

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  impatient

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  false bravado

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  restless

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  headcanons

  
  
  

  
  
  

  treats everyone like his best friend

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  time travel is totally real

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  will derail a conversation if you let him

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  sami had a short lived theatre phase in middle school. He decided it wasn’t for him when he accidentally punched his crush in the nose

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  old ladies love him and he’s not complaining

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  His ex-gf didn’t remember his name and referred to him as only babe for months before he noticed

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  will try anything once, but one bad experience is all it takes to ruin it for good

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  family

  
  

  
  
  
  

  As the youngest of 5, Samuel's parents didn't expect much out of him. Instead of him living his best life, Sami felt like he had no purpose. With 4 older brothers doing all the legwork in the house and excluding him from most things due to their age gap (5-year minimum) and senior-aged parents, Sami did most things on his own and came to hate the loneliness that followed alongside it. When Sami did try and interact with his brothers it usually ended with getting picked on aggressively or bossed around so he typically left them to their devices. With his parents well into retirement, it was hard for Sami to navigate how to interact with them as a child, so typically he figured things out on his own while his parents supervised. This is not to say that Samuel doesn't love his family, but it's always felt like there is a disconnect between them so when Sami was seeking emotional connection or socialization, he sought it out elsewhere. He frequently found himself worrying over whether or not his siblings like him or how he could be a better son so that his parents would spend more time with him. Over time, the second guessing and watching his family for cues on if they wanted to be around him or not turned into a deep rooted social anxiety, and in turn, Sami doubled down on his people pleasing to try and alleviate that anxiety and insecurity.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  youth

  
  

  
  
  
  

  To compensate for the loneliness of his home life, Sami made a lot of friends in school; some more real than others. He got into a lot of hijinks in school and a lot of trouble, but he didn't mind since he finally had something to strive for. Being fun. When he was a kid, he was less class clown and more class friend -the latter didn't start until highschool. In some ways, young Sami could be a bit of a pushover in how desperate he was to be liked and accepted. The meaner kids in school didn't hesitate to take advantage of his people-pleasing nature or tease him, but with siblings like his, it didn't really phase Samuel (or so he says) wven if it did make him double down in his needed to likeable; which just made him more guarded with showing the traits he considered "unsavory". He quickly learned to put up a barrier between his feelings and the role he learned to play.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  highschool

  
  

  
  
  
  

  Highschool. By high school, Sami had officially carved out a place for himself. instead of being a stepping stool for his classmates, he became their dorky everyman. Rather than letting others get close enough to know him and eventually hurt him, Sam can keep them at a distance while still making friends by being whatever they want him to be. Sometimes it was enterainment, other times it was an accomplice in their antics, and a lot of the time it was a sarcastic but sensitive voice to listen to them. Sometimes Sammy's dedication to being a social chameleon got him into trouble. Luckily, by this time Sami had started to look less like a sad puppy and had begun to master his charms and swindle his way out of trouble. It was surprisingly fun, the trouble-making and getting out of it, and Sami officially had a purpose to strive and maintain.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  current

  
  

  
  
  
  

  In present day, Sami has mellowed out a bit, he's carved out a space for himself and he's confident in who he is. He's also pretty attractive now so that's one way to lessen one's insecurities... But now, he's restless. It's the same itchy, creeping feeling he had when he was younger and he doubted his value in the eyes of others. He feels as if his persona has grown stale, people don't want to be around him as much anymore, and as much as he hates the idea of switching up now, part of him wants to do something different. Even the university track team (something that has been exclusively for him) is starting to feel like he's running towards nothing... So, reluctantly, Sam has decided to mix it up a bit. Why not get in with a new crowd? Do something... exciting?
  
  He'll try anything once.
  
  College is supposed to be that place when you find yourself, but Sami already has. He's pretty confident of that fact, but at the same time, he wouldn't feel like this if that were really true... So! Now he's entering the reinventing stage of his life (trying out the college experimenting) and he's decided the DND club is his new workshop. Sami has absolutely zero knowledge about Dungeons and Dragons but isn't it basically make-believe but for nerdy adults? He can handle it.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  extra

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Burning Pile

  
  
  
  

  Mother Mother

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  connections

  
  
  
  

  misc.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  • aaaaaaa
  • aaaa

  • 
    
    
    

    connections

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    name here

    
    
    
    

    Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Cras ullamcorper erat purus, quis mollis metus auctor vel. Duis eget luctus justo. Donec aliquet fermentum porttitor. Morbi quis dapibus odio, at viverra leo. Integer ut dictum lacus, nec congue odio. Nullam sapien ante, interdum ut mattis eget, varius ac justo. Pellentesque eu ante nec nibh vulputate ullamcorper.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    name here

    
    
    
    

    Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Cras ullamcorper erat purus, quis mollis metus auctor vel. Duis eget luctus justo. Donec aliquet fermentum porttitor. Morbi quis dapibus odio, at viverra leo. Integer ut dictum lacus, nec congue odio. Nullam sapien ante, interdum ut mattis eget, varius ac justo. Pellentesque eu ante nec nibh vulputate ullamcorper.
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    
    

    misc.

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    

    title

    
    

    Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. In bibendum tincidunt purus ac facilisis. Aliquam commodo dapibus auctor. Ut eget arcu ut enim euismod bibendum a quis risus. Nam sed egestas lectus.
    

    
    

    
    
    
    

    
    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[L3n]

XI.
the trustfund
scroll.

Hard out Here
Lily Allen

VISAGE

NAME: Angelina Miller

NICKNAMES: Barbie, Angela, Angie (if you call her by ANY nickname she'll degrade you)

D.O.B: August 21st, 1965

AGE: 22 years old

GENDER: Cis-Female

ORIENTATION: Closeted bisexual

ROLE: The Trustfund

MAJOR: Communications

FACECLAIM: Claudia Schiffer

LOOKS

APPEARANCE: Angelina is 5’7 without her signature heels. Her limbs are long, and her build leans toward the athletic side of thin from her years of cheerleading. Unless at practice her long blonde hair is worn bouncing down her back. It’s shiny and healthy from all the expensive shampoos and conditioners she can buy. Her hair is her favorite thing about her appearance. Her look screams “I just woke up like this” despite spending an hour a day getting ready before classes. At school Angelina likes to wear tighter trendy clothing; she’s never had a shortage of cute new outfits to wear. The rich woman would never call herself a “fashionista” but it’s not far from the truth. She’d rather be found dead than wear an ugly outfit.

D&D

NAME: Ordella

BASICS: Chaotic-good Elven magic-user

LOOKS: Ordella has shimmery tinted pink skin with pointy elven ears. Her hair is a long and flowy pearl white, reaching past her knees. Her eyes are hidden behind a crimson veil, but rumor has it they are the same color as her bright hair. Her appearance almost looks royal, especially with the grace she holds herself with. Her long red sleeves are said to look like butterfly wings as she fights, earning herself the title of "butterfly mage." Angelina doodled her appearance once.

PERSONALITY: Ordella speaks well-mannered and is always polite with her words. Though nothing but kindness slips her lips, there have been rumors circling about how true it all is. Some say she learned a single healing spell in case of emergencies, for times when clerics are out of commission, and she'll only heal her party members if they really truly beg.

PSYCHE

PERSONALITY:
Angelina is the opposite of her D&D character. Nothing that comes out of her mouth is sugary or sweet. What else would you expect from the rich popular girl?

She always has a rude remark hidden up her sleeve or some quick comeback escaping her lips. Being bluntly rude is first nature to her. "Kindness" has always been a foreign concept. No one is genuinely "nice." Those who believe differently must be idiots. People only get close to you for your money, your father, your body. They hide their greedy natures with shiny teeth and polished smiles. They claim to have good intentions, their tongues rotting out their skulls from how candied their words are.

The world tells you that you're the greedy one. You're spoiled and snotty because you're rich. People don't see the constant grabbing hands, those who feel entitled to what your parents own because they were "nice" to you. If you let them in, they'll take everything until you have nothing left. Angelina is spoiled. She's mean and spiteful. Untrusting and jealous. She bites before being bitten. However, Angelina's heart isn't jaded over by a block of ice. She's never been cold-hearted, never excessively needlessly cruel. While Angelina became the mean girl they wanted she never became dishonest. She's always been direct with what she thinks; curious about things she doesn't know, and ambitious enough to find them out.

TRAITS

untrusting, mean, spoiled, judgemental, impatient blunt, emotionally AND humorously awkward, teasing, direct, honest, brave, loyal, "realistic not pessimistic," sensitive

TIME MACHINE

HISTORY:
Mr Miller owns more than half of the town. Not just the buildings and local businesses, but also politics. With the sway of a hand, and a few bills, he can change the town as he pleases. A man like that can have everything he wants, and he does. He wifed up the prettiest and most agreeable woman he could find; Angelina's mother. She was raised in a poor neighborhood and worked as a waitress at a local diner, one that Mr Miller often visited. They talked daily for weeks till he made up his mind. She would make for a great wife and story for the public.

Having a workaholic father and a mother busy enjoying her new riches led Angelina to get very acquainted with the maids. They hardly ate meals together, but her father bought Angelina a car as soon as she could drive. Mr Miller missed all her birthdays, but her father got her most of her modeling gigs. A pattern was formed early on. Her mother wasn't like her father, though. Mrs Miller loved hearing about Angelina's popular life. Who she was friends with, what she did at school, who she was dating. A little too interested. When Angelina hit high school she could really feel the weight of her mother living through her. Her mother made her quit taking art classes and had her sign up for cheerleading. While Angelina was at school one day her mother broke into her room and took all her comics and art supplies to goodwill. The popular mean girl could have everything but what she actually wanted.

Rumors have always circulated around Angelina. Some say she's incredibly dumb and had to pay off teachers to get a passing grade. Some say she's such a slut she's slept with the entire football team. More recently people say she's been cut off by her father for crashing their mercades into a lake. None of them are true, of course, but Angelina's relationship with her father has been strained lately. Mr Miller never encouraged Angelina to go to college. He thinks it's a waste of time. Someone from their esteemed family could get a position at any of the companies Mr Miller owned. His daughter shouldn't be seen going to local college lectures. He's been pressuring her to transfer for some time now, or better yet drop out entirely. After a snide remark about how he could talk to her principle for her Angelina decided to do something. If getting an education was embarrassing the family name how would her dear father like her being in the D&D club?

HEADCANONS

➛ Angelina isn't a comfort person. The most she can offer is a "that's rough buddy"
➛ She loves chewing gum
➛ She loves WATERMELON. The food, the flavor, the design. If it's anything watermelon she'll love it. It's a weakness, trust
➛ Angelina loves flirty banter but not flirts. She's more into shy/intelligent/funny people
➛ When she can't be mean she feels awkward. Especially when people around her are being nice. She's like ?? what now
➛ Never studies but she's averagely a B student. School isn't her thing and she's never put effort into it
➛ Angelina doesn't smile or laugh much which doesn't pair well with her resting bitch face
➛ Dad jokes. Her sense of humor is as horrendous as the jokes she tells when she's comfortable enough
➛ Cats seem to collectively hate her. If she enters a room with a cat she's leaving with her face scratched
➛ She always has two weapons on her. Her heels. She won't hesitate to throw a shoe or two
➛ Cheerleading has made her fit and flexible
➛ Speaking of cheer she hasn't quit (yet?). She's just been missing days due to d&d

GALLERY

angelina 'barbie' miller.

coded by xayah.ღ