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<div align="center"> Old Characters Created 2017-2018<div align="center">
Appearance:
Maven is, simply, otherworldly. Lissome and ageless, with wild, unruly black hair and deep, luteous eyes. She is beautiful in a way marble statues with empty sockets are beautiful, capturing the fascination of those that chance upon her. She doesn't walk so much as glide, and she doesn't smile so much as grin with all the madness and secrecy of a Sphinx spun to life from myths and tradition.
Hoops and helix piercings ornament her ears. A septum ring hangs from her freckled nose. Her neck is long, her shoulders are broad, and she has the birdlike tendency to cock her head - especially when she is thinking. Her golden brown skin is decorated with henna - thin, silvery marks that swirl in a pattern intoxicating to the eyes. There is a shiny divot on her shoulder blade, an old scar from a bullet's kiss.
Personality:
Maven sees the world as a kaleidoscope of possibilities, her mind constantly churning and chewing ideas like a piece of hard candy in her mouth. She likes animals, especially those of the reptilian variety, and she collects bones and teeth like jewels. By her nature, she is not designed to live surrounded by walls. The fresh air, the soft dirt, the rolling landscape - those are the places she longs to be.Her flamboyant, untamed appearance gives off the impression of a larger than life personality, and that may be true. Maven is as passionate as a sunset catching fire to the earth, as willing to build bridges as she is to burn them. Befriending her is difficult, not just because she doesn't trust easily, but because her motives are rarely one sided. She's wired to survive, to adapt, to shed and wear different versions of herself like skins.
Those who know her well have come to expect her strange way of regarding life. Maven has never been in a relationship for long. The wind always changes, and she feels the need to move on. She's never been good at building her foundation on rock, as opposed to sand, but that could change.
Power: Poisonous touch
Animal: Red Spitting CobraName: HapiAge: 7
Personality:
Maven has a temperamental Red Spitting Cobra companion named Hapi, who does not live up to his name. He is reddish brown, with small scales and black, beady eyes. Being a Spitting Cobra snake, Hapi must be handled with extreme care. His venom is rarely fatal, but can cause permanent blindness if it comes in contact with the eyes. Maven was trained on how sooth him from a young age, which enables her to handle Hapi safely. Normally, he stays curled around her arm, once in a while peaking his head out from beneath her sleeves.
Power: Venom
Roleplay Example:
In the moments after the visions, before Kei spoke, Lyra had to remind herself she was young. Young enough to bend and not break. Young enough that she could close her eyes and pretend that war could be a beginning, when it sure as hell looked like an end. But it was hard - feeling a thousand types of pain and thinking you've seen it all, only to be reminded that there was always more to come, as sure as waves would roll against the shore.
And Kei? Kei was like an oil-black sky, hiding much behind his eyes. Much that was real, and much that was swollen from the realness. He bore burdens, some that weren't even his to bear. She could relate in her own twisted way.
The almost-a-smile stayed on her face as she watched him recover from the haze that was her power, though it wilted slightly at the corners. Someone had described it to her once - what it felt like.Still. Empty. Peaceful.There had been no lie in her eyes when she'd asked them never to mention it again. She didn't want to know.
Kei sighed, his breathing uneven, his hands releasing their grip on his locks of brown hair. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet hers. The vulnerability lingered in their depths, echoes of the vision that haunted him. She stilled as he reached out, not sure what he was intending to do, then cursed herself for the fear the coiled in her stomach. His fingers were cold as he pushed the rest of her errant strands of hair behind her ear. It was almost as if he wasn't sure she was really there. And he needed to be sure. To know she was real. Or perhaps that was just her conception. Whatever it meant, it was a gesture that she was unused to. Her eyes skittered away from his face.
She shook her head slightly as he finally spoke, hair wriggling over her shoulders. She did not want him worry after her. There were better, more worthy people for him to concern himself with. Plus, it felt counterproductive from what she had wanted to do. Help him, not add to the pile of things weighing down his mind. Why was her power so superficial? It had only eased his distress for now, a numbing that could not last. If only she was able to create fire, or crush rocks with her bare hands. If only she had an ability that was more permanent. When you burned something, it turned to ash. When you crumpled something in your fist it was altered forever. But if you healed something, it would just get hurt again. And again. And again. An endless cycle. Her smile tightened.
"I'm fine, so long as you can eat your lunch in peace," she responded, while bending over, hands grasping for her makeshift lunch bag. Eventually, her fingers found the flattened sandwich in its Ziploc shroud and she tossed it on to the table, where it landed with an unhappy thud. She stared at its globby, peanut butter smeared shell. Anything was better than looking at him. Watching him react to her clumsy words. "So don't apologize. The...things you see, that you carry around in your head...the pain..."
Lyra paused to think about her family. Sammy. Rita. Their faces. Crying. Screaming. Blood. Burning. Bruises: Those fractured images that formed a memory, images she could never put to words. She let her eyes drift back to the boy. His face blurred slightly. "You aren't alone. So, you know, if you ever need...you know..." Her words tumbled into each other. A pathetic mess. God, I sound stupid. The girl's smile fell and quirked. The dry chuckle that formed in her throat didn't quite come to fruition. She coughed. "Ah. Just ignore me."
Edited at May 16, 2019 04:23 PM by Red Queen
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<div align="center"> Old Characters Cont.<div align="center">
Arae
Gender - FemaleAge - FourSexuality - BisexualRank - TroisièmeWanted Rank- Morte, maybe Demoiselle or Troisième
Description/Personality:I had to combine the two because my style has been a bit fluid today. If you would like me to separate them I can
The shadows bend around Arae's massive paws, and the darkness makes her complete - she melts into it, becomes one with it, treading only where there are pools of shade to find refuge in. Indeed, her stark, black fur makes her seem a fixture of the night itself, a captured piece of a starless sky.
Arae is larger than most females, and as moody as a storm swallowed sea. Her black body stands as tall as any males, and her fangs are just as unforgiving in a fight. She is far from brutish, however. The female's hazel colored eyes glimmer with intelligence and morbid humor. She dislikes displays of bravado and needless killing. She herself fights with a clean, deadly accuracy - her teeth sharpened and form lean, muscled and agile.
She walks with an air of sophistication, tail held neither high nor low, and she prefers it if no one steps in her path. Confrontations with other wolves seem tedious to her, but she does not shy away from them if provoked - one can see the evidence of her past altercations in the form of the various scars that split the fur on her pelt. The mutilated tissue was created by fangs and iron alike. Push her and she will not bend. Walk around her, and you will be unhindered, free to go on your merry way. Her largest scar cuts right down the center of her snout. A souvenir from the species she hates the most: humans.
Arae, surprisingly, does not have trouble mixing with other wolves. She is not a loner. There is a certain something about her, a charisma, perhaps. Her tastes for both fine and macabre things lead her to seem somewhat eccentric, but her dry sense of humor and her sharp wits make her a formidable partner to banter with. She is more than two sided - there are hard, sharp, and dark sides of her, sure. But there are also other curious aspects of her personality that make her a dynamic friend to have. She's never wished for pups, but she enjoys acting as a jungle gym for them to roughhouse on; she's not good at saying comforting words if a friend is upset, but she's more than willing to be leaned on and to listen; she's not one for proclaiming her affections to the world, but she will act fast if someone lashes out at a wolf she cares for. Oh, and she is rather vain when it comes to her large paws. Don't mention them, unless you want to start a fight.
That being said, she rather likes compliments, even if she doesn't know she does. The female gets all embarrassed and bothered at the slightest things. Insult her all you want, your words will bounce off of her iron skin. But compliment her? She'll either lash out at you or become flustered. Depends on who it is. But secretly, she definitely enjoys some attention now and then. As long as it doesn't become overwhelming.
The colder side of her is more complicated. Arae has an ability to shut down - that is to say, she shuts out her mind completely, and does her dirty work well when it is expected of her. Her loyalty is a strange thing to behold. It exists not for a specific wolf or an ideology, but for her job alone. She will always perform her best as a Troisième; she will carry out its duties with deadly efficiency, even when it makes her grimace. Why? Because being a Troisième gives her purpose. Arae's past is a series of events that left her feeling alone, abandoned, and misplaced. Being a Troisième is her rock, the only place she feels like she really belongs,<span style="text-align: left;"> and a good channel to siphon the negative energy that sometimes wells in her chest, like a dark rose in bloom. She would never betray the role that she has found some semblance of peace playing.
Her morals are even stranger things, since her beliefs are tangled in the emotions within her that she just can't decipher. She is lost in many ways, and not willing to be led back to a clear path. This is who she is, this is what she's chosen. If you can't accept her, you'd best get out of her way.
Strengths:
- Her size -- Her skill at quick, ruthless attacks -- Her acute wit and humor -- The softer side she rarely shows -
Weaknesses:
- She has a Machiavellian side -- Emotions are not her strong points -- Don't push her buttons -- Hard outer shell, softer on the inside -- A stubborn hatred for humans -
Kin: -Mate: Not yet, not sure.
Offspring: Not interested Allies: She's on friendly terms with most of the pack
- - --
Titus is strong and elegant, with the look of a creature wrought from stone. He's made up of all sharp edges, twin pointed ears, keen eyes, a nose like the end of a dagger. As a Groenendael dog, his coat is as black as swamp water, dense and lustrous, designed for harsh conditions. He is missing his back paw, having mangled it years before. The way he walks is a bit awkward, he's had to learn how to re balance himself and adjust to his disibility.
Personality:
Titus is a quiet dog, with eyes three miles deep and a mind that's constantly whirling with new ideas. His voice is soft, and deep, and he conveys a sort of wisdom in his voice. As a shaman, he has an innate sense of the spiritual world, and as a dog, he's seen many dark things.
His intelligence shines through his yellow eyes, but he rarely speaks up to convey his ideas with others. The way he sees the world is drastically different now from when he was a pup. Titus used to be a brutish tyrant of a dog, with gore coating his maw and his eyes alight with bloodlust. That has changed - Titus will be the first to tell you that the way he lived his life before was a path of darkness and unhappiness. He existed only for revenge - and he lost his own foot in his pursuit of the dogs that killed his sister. In the end, his revenge was a success, they're bodies warm and still between his jaws, but no sense of peace settled over him.
It wasn't until he let the past go that he learned to forgive himself. His while demeanor changed, and he became the dog he is now.
Edited at May 16, 2019 03:42 PM by Red Queen
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<div style="text-align: center;"> Old Characters Cont.<div style="text-align: center;"> Maeve
Gender: FemaleAge: 4Sexuality: BisexualAppearance:
Maeve is part dog, part shadow. Her ears are as dark and glossy as obsidian arrow heads - the left one torn on the end, a rip from the ragged tooth of her advisory - and her muzzle comes to a sharp point. She moves in bursts, standing stock still and then darting to her next position, before standing still yet again, like a silky statue. Her azure eyes are always glancing behind her, as if watching for monsters trailing in her wake, and her nose is pink, scarred, and always twitching, sitting above her lips, which curl up to reveal gleaming pinkish-white teeth. Sharp and stained from blood.
The dog is of the Mudi breed, with waves and waves of curly black fur so dark she almost looks like a captured piece of nighttime murk. In size she is medium and slim. Her chest is broad, rising and falling so slowly you might have to look twice to see if she is breathing, but the broadness narrows down to nearly nothing at her hips. Her ribs make her sides look like a landscape of rough edges, and her paws are slightly larger than normal, sporting long, curved claws.
Personality:
Maeve is a fighter. She always has been. Her fangs have torn into the flesh of many a fellow dog and her claws have ripped life away. If you ask her about killing, or about death in general, she'll always turn the conversation to the softness, the fragility of the throat - like a calf's , she'll say, velvety and warm and thrumming. Killing isn't something she particularly enjoys, but she won't deny the thrill of the fight. The blood rushing in her ears, the fur standing up on the ridge of her back. There is always a silent threat in her eyes. A dare that begs you to get on her nerves.
Surprisingly, she has no trouble with loyalty. She is very much a dog that respects power, respects it and compliments it with her own kind of strength. Maeve gravitates towards others like her - the dregs of society, the beaten, the maimed, that have risen up in a chorus of howls to avenge their spirits and dominate. The female had no love for humans. Now that they're gone, she sees this as her time to rise.
Maeve has a soft side for a spare few, and her love of pups is not well masked. She is mothering in a very rough way, always stopping by to tell the little ones tales of bloody, heroic fights, grim pasts, and glorious fantasies. Her own belly has never carried pups before - she's never felt secure enough to find a mate and raise a litter of her own until now.
Pack: Pack of the New EraRank: Guard?Sire: UnknownDam: UnknownSiblings: UnknownOffspring: N/ABackstory:
Maeve was born to a malnourished, diseased dam that passed away mere hours after birthing a litter of five puppies. Three of which were born with such defects that they didn't live much longer than their mother, and one other besides Maeve that grew alongside her for a few months. They were nursed by a brutish mastiff female, annoyed with their presence as well as the presence of her own young. Her name was Cleo, and she was the one that taught Maeve the laws of their world. The world ravished by humans.
Maeve's brother grew large only to be killed by a hacking cough, which Maeve also contracted but pulled through. Her adopted siblings were also ravished, and in the end Maeve was the only one out of Cleo's young to survive the illness. With Cleo's undivided attention, her wisdom and her anger, Maeve matured. The small pack of her home was eaten away by illness, and Maeve and Clio, as well as a few other skeleton thin dogs, splintered off to make it on their own. They fended off against other wild animals, dogs and predators alike, and Maeve made her first kill. Muzzle torn and dripping, belly shredded, she crawled back to camp victorious, the corpse of a German Shepherd left behind her. Protecting the small band awoke something primal in her. The female practiced using her smaller size to her advantage, and she became vicious.
Cleo had been the Alpha of their group until that point, ruling the other dogs with her snapping maw and hard, black stare. Maeve had been her confidant, her defender. But Cleo noticed the change in Maeve before Maeve did, and the mastiff marked the young female as a danger. No longer were they mother and daughter. To Cleo, Maeve had become a threat to her leadership.
Under the cover of nightfall, while Maeve slept, curled in a tight ball, Cleo came for her. The Mudi opened her eyes to see the faint glow of her mother's teeth, and she jumped out of the way just in time. Cleo's fangs snagged Maeve's left ear during the retreat, and blood and bits of flesh went flying.
A strange sort of calm settled over her as she faced off her mentor, her parent, the only dog in the world who had cared for her. This was Cleo's ultimate lesson: Kill or be killed.
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<div style="text-align: center;">Name: Regalia <div style="text-align: center;">Role: She caused this, unintentionally >0<
<div style="text-align: center;">Avelina 'Eve'
Age: 23 Gender: Female Sexuality: Heterosexual
- - -
Appearance:
Before she was pulled from her life of cruelty and slavery to live in the palace, Eve had an almost feral look to her. Now that the Emperor is dead, she has once again harnessed her savage side.
The woman appears like an old painting left to fade in the sun - once great, once vibrant, but now a somewhat dulled and damaged version of its previous self. Eve's loam brown eyes carry little warmth, the youthful glimmer in their depths replaced with a cold edge, the fire in them turned to ash. Her lips are sliced with a new scar she received from bandits whilst hot on the killer's trail, and her old scars still shine silver across her olive skin. Long, black satin curls wriggle over her shoulders like hungry snakes when she lets them free of their plaits. She uses her short height and unassuming stature to her advantage, disguised so she can travel without revealing her true mission. The woman has a slim, supple build, with toned arms and legs from years of training, and she moves with the all of the elegance and deliberation expected of a bewitcher.
Personality:
Eve is the quintessence of a loyal servant. Or at least, she was the quintessence of a loyal servant. To her, the Emperor was her savior, having plucked her from her suffering under her old master. Now that the Emperor is dead, she is officially emancipated - free.
And with her new found freedom, she is tracking his killer down. Leaving the politics of Rome behind, and supported by her allies and the successor to the throne, the woman is yearning for vengeance.
- - -
Eve is a quiet person, trained from birth to bottle up her emotions. She is observant and poised, but not quite as eloquent with words. With that in mind, she has trouble understanding and expressing her emotions. She is better with actions than dialogue. The woman grew up as a con artist, distracting tipsy party goers at the social events with her performances while someone else picked their pockets clean. Bewitching continues to be a love of hers, but attending parties and mingling with crowds brings a bitter taste to her mouth.
History:
A hungry dog has no master
Eve was sold into slavery, and trained as a bewitcher and a fighter from a young age. As she grew older, she was officially indoctrinated into the underworld of crime in Rome. Festivals, parties, and games - she'd perform and distract at them while another slave would pick the unsuspecting people's pockets, or, once in a while, the roles would be reversed. All of their spoils went to their master.
Eve was not treated well. She gained many memories she'd rather forget and learned to trust no one. Once in a while, her master would cross another prominent crime lord, and Eve would suffer.
text
Strengths:
- Intuitive - Passionate - Charismatic - Loyal, to some.
Weaknesses:
- Strong Willed - Bitter - Slow to trust, quick to anger and judgment - Paranoid - Unwilling to see the bigger picture
Other:
Text
Edited at May 16, 2019 04:13 PM by Red Queen
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<div style="text-align: center;"> Old Characters Cont.<div style="text-align: center;"> Red Queen123509
ValekGender - MaleAge - SixSexual Orientation - Eh, he's not sure.Rank - Leader's Mate
Pelt Type:Silver Cross
Markings:A silvery grey pelt in general, with black paws and legs, reddish streaks along his back, and red ears.
Appearance:
Valek is nimble and lithe, not smaller than average but certainly more wiry than your typical fox, made of hard muscles taught to the bone and rough edges. His silver cross coat is course and streaked with red undertones, most of them visible on his back - except for his legs, which appear to be dipped in ink up to the elbows; even the claws and the pads of his feet the same midnight black. He has a small, angular face, a twitching grey nose, and over large ears that shine a rich red color in certain lights. His muzzle and his underbelly are both crisscrossed with thin pink scars, and hind leg has a lumpy burn mark. When the weather turns bad you might see him favoring it.
Personality:
Valek likes to tempt fate. On a good day, he pushes the boundaries a little bit. On a bad day, Valek has one paw in this world and one paw in the next, testing the limits of his own abilities. He is witty and flirtatious in conversations, with a 'devil-may-care' attitude that may unnerve some and allure others. His charisma is odd - it doesn't appeal to everyone, but those it does attract are either naive, or they have an understanding of the kind of life Valek has led.
Valek's personality, odd as it may be, has been twisted by the traumas of his life. Smart and intelligent has turned to erratic and pedantic. Kind and romantic has turned to reckless and coquettish. He is the perfect example of something good that couldn't withstand the heartache and withered away into a skeletal imitation. He's always jumping into situations that may or may not get him killed, always the first to volunteer to do the risky work or put himself in harm's way. His attitude is playful, never taking himself or the severity of the situations too seriously.
Unless he snaps.
Bad days, everyone has bad days. Valek's days are just exceptionally bad. He gets a hollow look in his eyes, like he's seeing you, but not quite registering everything that's going on around him. He stops talking, limps around, curls up and naps in weird places. Those are the better versions of his bad days. The worse version of his bad days are the days Valek is just, too happy. Bouncing around, throwing himself into situations without a second thought. These are the most dangerous kind of bad days for Valek, the kind of bad days that have nearly killed them.
So far, Valek's always pulled through, balanced himself out to his version of normal again, one way or another. He'd rather you not mention his inconsistent moods.
Defects/Disorders:
DepressionAnxietyA burn on his back leg that can bother him from time to time.
^^^
Kin: Two sisters and one brother, deceased.
Mate: Zola - While being naturally flirtatious, Valek is actually not the domineering or outgoing one when he's in a real relationship. He gets anxious of screwing up or offending his significant other, so he tends to just go with the flow.
Kits: Fuya, Moonlight
Other: Being of Italian blood, I love all pastas without distinction. I am eating pasta right now. I will eat pasta again tomorrow. Pasta is my favorite food.
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NOT A CHARACTER JUST OLD RP STUFF
𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖞 𝖌𝖔𝖉𝖘They were a species with unimaginablepowers, lording over humans of Ceiriswith an iron fist. They were ageless, and neither diseaseor time could touch them. However, a god named Atherialdiscovered his species own weakness: themselvesOnly a god could kill another god.For reasons that Atherial kept close to his heart,he had grown bitter and tired of the his kinsmen.He believed that he could do better.With brutal determination, Atherialstarted to kill them off, one by onebecoming more powerful withevery golden drop of blood he spilled. Finally, he managed to take control of the coveted throne,of Ceiris, with the humans under his control.He ruled like this for hundreds of years,until the other gods became but a memory.He was a tyrant, growing more and moreirrational and angry. Murdering humansfor as little as looking at him the wrong way. With his armies he'd amassed of human mages and witches,he was nearly unstoppable. But there was one thing he didn't account for. - Sadira - The lone goddess, the only other divine beinghe hadn't managed to kill, and hadn't wanted to kill,returned. She had been Atherial's student,once upon a time, before he had slipped into madness. The most passive of all gods,she had gone away for many years,preferring nature and solitude to thecut throat politics of the civilized world. Seeing the devastation that had fallenupon the kingdom of Ceiris, Sadira couldn'tdo nothing. She secretly joined forces with a younghuman revolutionary named Octavian to takeAtherial down. The civilians rose upagainst Atherial's regime. It wasa short and gory affair,but by some stroke of luck, the revolutionaries won.However, in her battle with Atherial, Sadirabecame mortality wounded and died overthe corpse of her once-mentor. Thus ended the age of the gods. - - - Plot: Ever since Octavian became king, five years ago, humans once again have control over their own lives. Well, most of them. The members of Atherial's military have all been put to death and thrown into mass graves. Magic, as a whole, has been banned. You are one of the lucky ones. While your fellow witches and mages have met death at a stake, or against the razor's edge of a an axe, you managed to escape into the thick forests on the edge of the kingdom. However, at least one person dear to you did not make it out alive. You live together small band with similar witches and mages who have escaped execution. Your numbers are growing. Octavian started a revolution for humans, but by doing so, he began to commit the genocide of your kind - the magic users. Those born with a spark in their veins. He needs to be stopped, before he becomes tyrant to the same scale that Atherial was. The leader of your band claims he has a way to end Octavian. Dabbling in forbidden magic - necromancy - he manages to awaken a young woman with a hollow gaze, who calls herself Sadira. Octavian's hero. The goddess who saved human kind. And yet, she too has a thirst for vengeance. Together, you start to plan a new revolution. |
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<div style="text-align: center;"> Old Characters Cont.<div style="text-align: center;">
Name: Mari Hudson
Age: Twenty-two
Gender: Female
Role: Human - Mother of Unborn Angel/Human Child ~
Personality/History:
In order to understand Mari, you have to understand her past.
Mari is the daughter of an immigrant and a mechanic. Growing up, she had a quiet childhood. She didn't make many friends - she didn't really want any either. She was content helping out her father and older brother out in the garage and working with the machines.
As her teenage years rolled around the corner, she became absolutely obsessed with motorcycles. Their speed, their smell, the way the engine sounded as if it was splitting the earth itself. As soon as she hit sixteen, she got her license and started racing in junior leagues. Her parents worried about her. They started clashing with her, trying to get her to leave the dangerous sport behind. She fought with them about it tooth and nail. When her older brother was killed in a hit and run accident, her love of machines didn't recede, it swelled. She buried her grief in her bikes. She spent days, grease covered and sweaty, in the garage, working, repairing, and polishing.
Mari doesn't own any motorcycles anymore. She doesn't have a family, either. The only remnant of her past that she still holds onto is her name and her love of all things mechanical.
She's blunt, outspoken and stubborn. She's a whiz when you need a mechanic, always eager to fix and fiddle with machinery. She embodies everything wrong and right with the human race: the brash determination, the unyielding need to survive, the thirst to be loved... Or perhaps, at one time, the thirst to be loved. Because now, she wishes that she had never loved at all.
Her heart is broken. Smashed and scattered like dead leaves in the wind. Ever since her relationship with Dean, she's fallen into a pit that she can't seem to escape. She's angry and hurt. She lashes out easily at those who wish to grow close to her for fear that her emotions be trampled again. She feels betrayed - and rightfully so. She carries the child of a man who, in her eyes, has abandoned her.
Love is a funny thing, after all, and it can easily turn to hate.
Speaking of love, Mari is scared to be a mother. She's scared of repeating past mistakes and she's scared of bringing another human into a dangerous and damaged world. But she knows there is no turning back now. If Mari is determined to do one thing, it is keep her child alive.
Her life in the past few months has taken a drastic turn. She's changed from a reckless woman to someone who has a purpose and a reason to live.
Before she knew she was pregnant, she would often purposely put herself in harm's way - to let herself fall into danger for the sake of excitement.
But now, she knows she needs to keep herself alive and, by doing so, her baby. So she's become withdrawn, fading into the background. Her confidence, especially in light of recent events, often wilts around other people. She has found solace in being forgotten and for this reason, she has tried to conceal her pregnancy for as long as possible.
Despite the outside appearance of settling down, inside she's going stir crazy - hormonal and very agitated, wanting to do something completely stupid but stopping herself for the sake of her unborn child. She's a wild horse caught in a rope and she's yearning to break free.
Appearance:
Mari has straight, dark brown hair, tan, freckled skin, and hazel eyes.Her skin is littered with scars of all sizes. Small burn marks on her hands, scratches up and down her limbs, nicks on her face - all attributed to her mechanic work. She has larger scars. A cluster of blotches across her lower back from a bike accident. A scar above her left eyebrow from a bad fall down a flight of concrete steps. She has a similar birthmark to Tetsuya on her right shoulder.
Attire: Brown tank top for the summer, an old sweatshirt for the colder months, cargo pants. Mari likes her clothes loose and practical. She keeps her hair up in a ponytail or bandana most days and she almost always has some sort of soot on her face.
Crush?: She has lingering affections, but they're currently tainted by fear, betrayal, and heartbreak.
Dating/significant other?: Single
Kids?: Tetsuya - Unborn/Toddler
Family: Besides Tetsuya? Deceased
Other: Mari is aware of the apocalypse. She's been spared the details but she knows two things:
1. Angels are trying to kill humans.2. She has to stay alive.
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<div style="text-align: center;"> Old Characters Cont.
Ｍｅｒｃｙ Ｒｏｃｈｅｓｔｅｒ name ➸ Mercy Rochesternickname(s) ➸ I dare you ~gender ➸ Femaleage ➸ Nineteenappearance ➸ ａ ｇｈｏｓｔ Mercy is a pale wisp of a girl with wavy hair that's black as coal.She has eyes like a forest on fire - deep green with flecks of gold akin to errant sparks. On moonless nights she could pass as an inverted shadow, a skulking, pale thing that follows one around like a puppy. Moonlight gives her an eerie pallor, blue leaking into her milky skin and turning her almost translucent. She looks like a pixie escaped from a book of fables, having a protruding chin, defined cheek bones, slightly curved ears, a small but pointy nose, and large, doey eyes.Her lips are thin, like the silver lining on a storm cloud and her body is thinner. She is not healthy. Her ribs jut out and her stomach caves in. Her fingers are spindly and she looks wooden, like a puppet dangling on threads. The girl's feet are tiny and she walks with slow deliberation - as if the floor is creaky and there is a monster she is deathly afraid of waking up from its slumber. personality ➸ Ｉ ａｍ ａ ｍｏｎｓｔｅｒ Mercy has no desire to kill. From the time she was small, she was always a quaint, reserved sort of child. She didn't like to socialize with children her age - but she did enjoy adults. She liked sitting on their laps and listening to their words, even if she couldn't understand a word they were saying. As she grew older, she became an eloquent conversationalist. The girl liked to talk but she also liked to listen, a rare balance that seemed to draw people towards her when they needed to vent. She liked to hear about them and their struggles. Sometimes, she'd try to offer advice, though she admitted that she was - and still is - quite bad at giving good suggestions to remedy problems. As her power began to manifest, Mercy drew back into herself. She stopped going out unless she absolutely had to and she deleted all the contacts on her phone except for her home and work. Her friends failed to recognize it as Mercy's way of protecting the ones she loved and took it as a snub. They stopped coming over to call or to invite Mercy to go places. Mercy believes that by isolating herself she can save other people from herself. From her viewpoint, she is a monster. She deserves her lot in life. Everything that has happened to her is karma. She tries to focus all her anger and her emotions on her self or on things that don't live and breathe and she comes off as a bitter, quiet girl who chooses to leave if things get confrontational. Often times, she flinches if touched by another person. People mistakenly believe that Mercy is afraid of what they will do to her - but it is the opposite. Mercy is afraid of what she will do to them. attire ➸ Mercy likes dressing comfortably and casually. Sweatpants, long sleeved shirts, and soft gloves. Always gloves, if she can help it. She won't take the chance of accidentally touching someone. At bedtime, she wears an old fashioned nightgown that makes her look like she's walked straight out of a faded black and white photograph and for formal events - well, Mercy doesn't go to formal events. insane or vigilante ➸ I am not insane. I am a monsterabilities ➸ Ａ ｔｏｕｃｈ ｏｆ ｐｏｉｓｏｎ If Mercy wished to, she could spread disease like fleas spread the bubonic plague. All she has to do is think ill of someone and touch them. Where her fingers trace, the skin rots. It turns black and it bubbles with painful boils and sores. When she was younger, she invoked her power unconsciously. She didn't know her skin held such deadly power. If someone touched her, grabbed her wrist or caressed her cheek, and she didn't like it, the sickness would pour out of her skin and onto theirs. The next day, they'd be screaming in pain and fear. No one knew how to cure the disease, but most of the time, it would go away as quickly as it came. The illness cures itself - if Mercy forgives the person for whatever ill will she felt against them. The guilt of seeing someone in so much grief and pain would eat away at her and she would absolve them of whatever crime they did to her, apologizing in her mind for wishing them ill the day before - then, like magic, it would slowly recede from the person's skin. Once Mercy figured out that it was on her whims that these people were becoming ill, she became angry at herself. The disease plagued her own body and she let it. Her parents rushed her from doctor to doctor, but no one could cure Mercy except herself. Finally, she did.The doctors thought it was a miracle. They wanted to study Mercy and this strange, new sickness that seemed to evolve around one little child. Mercy became afraid. When her parents agreed to let the doctors run tests on her, Mercy knew that they would find out she gave people the disease and she took it away, like some kind of god. So she ran away. Now, years later, Mercy still gets patches of the illness. She can't help it. When she feels guilty or angry at herself, it spreads up her legs and fingers. She avoids contact with other people - not wanting to harm anyone. She's afraid of her own skin, she's afraid of the anger that seems to be just out of her control, she's afraid that one day, she'll harm someone and she won't be able to forgive them. sexuality ➸ Bisexualcrush ➸ No longer open ;) She is afraid of being close to anyone for fear she might hurt them.relationship ➸Non-existantkids? ➸ She likes to dreamother ➸ 2 is company, #3 is a crowd. |
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<div align="center"> Old Characters Cont<div align="center"> <div align="center">
<div align="center">Appearance/Personality:<div align="center">
<div align="center">Morna is a gentle soul, a young woman possessed with a quiet, yet strong sort of courage. She has a respect for all living things, and a capacity for love.<div align="center">
<div align="center">She does not talk much, but she thinks enough to make up for that folly. Her mind is constantly a whirl with thoughts and ideas and prayers. She's devout to her goddess, Brig, and to her studies in medicine. She wakes up early to see the sun rise and stays up well beyond the sun set, sitting next to a candle and concocting salves and medicines. Her brothers, when they lived, would often tease her for her strange nature, and she would tease them back with a grin on her face, calling them large and brutish. Now that they're gone, there is a void in her heart. It's difficult to force herself to smile through the pain and remember there were good times, once. She believes in a cycle. Good and bad, life and dead, spring and winter. Surely, there must be something to come after this time of war and madness. Morna clings to hope, but her grip is slowly loosening as the days go by.<div align="center">
<div align="center">She lives alone now. Any others who called the forest home fled or were killed, their dwellings overtaken by vines and moss. In the village, very few remain, huddled in houses and cursing both the gods and the Athari. Morna no longer goes there, when she can help it. She is no longer welcome, now. Her black hair has made her - not an enemy, not a friend - but a bad omen.<div align="center">
<div align="center">She tries to conduct her life normal, between battles and nights spent hiding in the underbrush and caves, when soldiers come by with torches and she flees her home, less they find her. She spends her time upkeeping her house, feeding the stray dogs that have started to roam, and continuing her rituals. The threat of being burned alive by the Athari has not managed to scare her out of her faith, and she's determined to stay in her family home as long as she's physically able.<div align="center">- - -<div align="center">Morna is of average height. Her skin is not as pale as the Jin islanders, nor is her hair light and eyes crystal blue. She has raven black mane instead, and eyes that are the cool color of wet earth - a rich brown. Her hands and legs are stained with complex designs that will not wash away for many years - remnants of the ceremony in which she became Brig's own. Her body has always been more fragile than most Jin women, but she's never been hungry or lacking in health. Since the rebellion, however, she's become thin and gaunt. Withering away.<div align="center">She wears the traditional dress of a healer still, a brown tunic, off one shoulder. A small cloak and hood stitched of rabbit skins. A skirt dyed green. Bracelets and anklets made of leather, bells, and bones.<div align="center">
<div align="center">History<div align="center">
<div align="center">Weylyn Rue was a broken man; or at least, that's what Morna's been told her entire life. Once a great hero, he lost his leg whilst defending his wife from a group of Athari soldiers - who had demanded lodging in her family's home for the night. The wound had been but a minor slash above his knee at first, but infection soon set it. They say the fever went to his head as well as his leg, but the leg was the only thing that could be remedied. Morna knew the spot in her living room where the healer had put the saw through the man's skin. A red stain on the otherwise pristine wooden floor that refused to wash out.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Weylyn was a broken man, yes. Crippled and out of his mind.<div align="center">It was a nine months after he lost his leg that Morna was born. There were already three children in the house, Morna was the fourth. Her brothers, aged nine, six, and two at the time, told her that it was one of the worst nights of their lives. Weylyn Rue had lost himself in a fit, spitting and cursing the Athari. His wife, Rowena, was the only one who could calm him during those times, but she was in the back room with the herb witch then, preoccupied with giving birth.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Weylyn barged out of their home and into the weather - a storm that had been pushed ashore from the eastern seas, ravaging the land, pulling trees right up from the roots. There was no one to stop him. Her brother's said they sat by the fire, listening to their mother's screams and waiting for their father to return.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Except he didn't.<div align="center">
<div align="center">The town's people helped search, down by the beaches, up in the craggy rock formations that the Druid priests inhabited. No one had seen him that night, or had an inkling of where he was going, and no one would ever see him again. Perhaps he fell into the sea, or tumbled into some crevice in the earth, never to be found. Rowena buried his axe in place of a body, out in the burial hills. It was against customs, but Darek, the highest ranking of the Druid Priests, had allowed an exception just this once.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Morna's eldest brother Brann, nearly ten years her senior, assumed the role of father in the family after that. He apprenticed himself to a hunter by the name of Cullen and learned to fight and provide for his mother, brothers, and sister over the years.<div align="center">
<div align="center">As Morna grew, her hair darkened in such stark contrast from her brother's nordish features. Rowena told Morna that her grandmother had also had dark hair, as black as the old weathered rune stones they kept in the fireplace. But Morna always looked at her mother and brothers and their wild red hair and blue eyes, looked at her father's portrait on the mantle, with his beard a sunset gold - she would stare at that old, weathered painting for hours, let her black locks pour between her fingers, and clench her tiny fist.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Morna grew from child into young woman. As her mother aged, she became a caretaker, learning from the local herb witch how to ease pains and stem fevers. Her brothers, all three of them, had taken up violent work. Brann, a hunter. Known for his drunken stories of bear hunts, he'd sit with a group of friends in the tavern until the sun was up, drawing a crowd with his outrageous lies. Nels, a fighter. In secret, the middle brother did things that he never spoke of to Morna or Rowena. He'd return late at night with gashes on his knuckles and cuts on his face. Rowena warned him not to join the freedom fighters, not to cause trouble with the Athari, but he never listened. Gavin, the youngest, followed Nels eagerly, getting into more open conflict with not only the Athari soldiers camped in their town, but with the villagers themselves. He had a split lip as a permanent fixture on his face, and more scars than Brann had stories.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Between the lot of them, Morna became a proficient healer, stitching, mending, and cleaning wounds. At the edge of fifteen, she pledged herself to become a follower of Brig, the goddess of healing and the soul. She apprenticed under an old witch by the name of Runa, and helped perform death rituals for the deceased, so they would have an easy trip to the after life. She also learned to heal the living, so they could stay on earth longer.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Life went on as normal for sometime. Morna was loved by all of her family, even if there were some stares from the villagers at her dark hair, and questions about the omen of her birth - how her father had vanished just as she was coming into the world - but the stare's weren't in malice. She was accepted over time, and became a trusted and revered healer, the most esteemed of her family members. She birthed her brother's first child, a daughter, and was later named the babe's godmother. She brought the town Bard back from the brink of death when he'd been beaten in the street for disrespecting the Athari soldiers. When her mother di <textarea id="my-textarea" name="message" style="display:none" class="iclass"></textarea>
Edited at May 16, 2019 04:01 PM by Red Queen
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<div style="text-align: center;">Cont. <div style="text-align: center;"> When her mother died, she performed the funeral service alongside the druid priest, and wished Rowena off into the afterlife. Times were good and they were bad. They were were full sorrow and joy, cold and warmth. But that was the way things were supposed to be. The way things functioned in the cycle of life. <div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Until the rebellion.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Morna knew her brother's had joined some sort of resistance, but she'd never been privy to the details. She had no idea they'd been planning something so horrible, so destructive, it would threaten Jin survival as a whole.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">One night, it happened. Morning dawned with Athari soldiers dead in their sleep. Throats slit. Heads on spikes. Corpses desecrated. The resistance started a war, and the remaining Athari on the island called in reinforcements and answered in kind. Bloodshed began in full force. The Athari began slaughtering whole families thought to have ties with the killers, burning witches, healers, and druids in the public squares, imposing curfews. The resistance continued to attack, their numbers beginning to swell. Full out battles began to take place, with the Athari camping out in the villages, and the resistance living in the woods. Morna opened her house to the fighters at her brothers, Nels and Gavins, request, and she watched as fewer and fewer men came back each night. Brann was trapped in the village with his wife and daughter, and months went by without word from him.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Then, one day, the resistant stormed the village, forced the Athari back against the shore. Nels and Gavin did not return. With the village free of the Athari, Morna was able to receive word about Brann - he and his family had vanished early into the occupation, attempting to escape.<div style="text-align: center;">Morna is now alone, her entire family gone.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Since that fateful day, when the Athari were driven back, steel continues to clatter - the Athari are nearly gone, but so are the Jin fighters - and unlike the Jin, the Athari's numbers are easily replenished.
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Spring 
Day Weather: 
Flood
