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    1. SepticGentleman 9 yrs ago

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3 yrs ago
Current I like the night liiiiife, I like to É® օ օ É¢ ÉØ É›
4 yrs ago
š•Š š•¢ š•¦ š•– š•– š•– š•– š•– š•« š•–
4 yrs ago
I feel a tremble in my temple
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4 yrs ago
Heā€™s mastered the art of Simp Mode
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4 yrs ago
Jace haunts me dreams, blesses me nightmares, ye
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Bio

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š•Ž š•š š• š• š•  š•Ø

People all around. Drinks in hand. Chitter-chatter everywhere.

Willow sits with her back to the wall, in the front left corner of Mooncash where the windows end. Itā€™s her first choice of spots when it hasnā€™t been seized by anyone else. And itā€™s busy today - sheā€™s lucky this time.

Without the burden of schoolwork present, Willowā€™s free to draw with no interruptions. She flips through her sketchbook, stopping briefly at an old piece sheā€™d done of Helen. Itā€™s her, in her work apron, holding a cup of coffee with her right hand hovering above it, weaving the steam into a hex. The sketch lines are still somewhat visible in the steam, roughly erased to try and give it the right look. Two floating eyes hover to Helenā€™s left and right sides, and one lies on the surface of the cup. Below the drawing is the title ā€˜Witchā€™s Brewā€™.

Once, years ago, Helen had the idea to manifest an eye upon Willowā€™s sketchbook, which she held out as she flew as a ghost above Leesburgh. Helen could see everything from a birdā€™s eye view. A pleasant experience. A fond memory.

Sometimes, Willow wishes she could take her - and others - with her, into the ether, with a touch of a hand. Just so they could feel the weightlessness.

The freedom.

She has a few hours to kill. She hasnā€™t ordered anything yet. She usually just lets Helen surprise her with something, and then pays for it. Willow isnā€™t really a ā€˜coffee personā€™ - she doesnā€™t like the bitterness. Sweet is better.

She starts drawing little people made out of wire and clockworks.
š•Ž š•š š• š• š•  š•Ø

ā€œItā€™s okay,ā€ Willow replies calmly to Helen. She went unfazed towards the near-collision - like she does towards everything.

She passes a glance at Evelyn Noblezada a ways from the car. The two of them had never formally met. Willow has a drawing of her in her journal, done sometime last year. Itā€™s her, surrounded by little birds and flowers, the tagline ā€˜The world seems brighter with her aroundā€™ at the bottom.

Evelyn has never seen this drawing, and chances are, she never will. Willowā€™s not her people.

She sits in silence as Helen carries on the journey. The thought crosses her mind to check her messages while sheā€™s along for the ride, on her small, years-old keypad phone, the make and model of which completely escapes her. Itā€™s just a phone to her - not really her phone, just one thatā€™s always readily available. Itā€™s a way of thinking no one shares with her.

Two new messages. The first is from her father, Lloyd.

> It finally happened.

She smiles at the words. And then she looks at the second message, from Dexter Quinto.

> Charlesā€™ party on Sunday?

Before Dexterā€™s sister Tara had died, Willow had drawn a picture of her on a whim. Sometime after she had gone, Willow walked up to a lone Dexter and wordlessly handed him the picture, with a smile on her face. Since then, the two have kept up contact - they werenā€™t very close, but Dexter never completely forgot about her. And she liked that.

She smiles, and thumbs five buttons into a response.

> Okay!
š•Ž š•š š• š• š•  š•Ø

The school day ends. Three days of free time begin.

Willow stops drawing, like she always does in her algebra class, her last for the day. Everyone else rushes for the door, like a stampede of ornery bulls. Willow is the last one to stand up. She closes her journal and tucks it into her satchel - an antique pilfered from the Rustic Palace. No bookbags for this girl.

She could phase. Fly away. She doesnā€™t. She likes to walk sometimes. She heads for the door. The teacher, a tall and burly man who would look less out-of-place if he were in a military camp, halfheartedly says three words to her.

ā€œStop drawing, Willow.ā€

She may as well have been deaf.

He says it almost every day. She doesnā€™t listen. If he confiscates her journal, she doesnā€™t object - just waits to get it back later, because he certainly isnā€™t allowed to keep it. At some point, he gave up trying to pressure her - if she wants to fail math, she can go ahead and fail math.

Willow leaves the classroom. She lags behind everyone else in the wing as they vacate the building. She makes it outside the front doors amidst the crowd, casually phasing into her ethereal form to avoid being mashed by a barrage of shoulders. Out into the parking lot she walks, catching sight of her good friend Helenā€™s car. Her old, decorative, impossible-to-miss car, with the mightiest of names - ā€˜Dougā€™.

Fridays are when the two spend time in close proximity. Helen works at Mooncash while Willow sits nearby and sketches, occasionally ordering something from the menu. After that - the late evening to do whateverā€™s to their liking.

Willow nears Helenā€™s car. Helen does not bother to open the passenger door for her. She simply phases into the interior in one swift motion, recorporealizing in the passenger seat.

ā€œHello,ā€ Willow says plainly, with a gentle smile aimed towards Helen. She does it this way every time, without fail, like clockwork.

Everyone has their processes.
W I L L O W


BASIC INFO


Name: Willow Simone Dendry

Age: 18

Year: Senior

Gender: Female

APPEARANCE:



(Image to be added)

Height: 5ā€™7

Weight: 81 lbs

Skin Color: White. Literal white.

Physical Description: A pale ghost of a girl, if only in terms of coloration. Average height, thin build. Skin and hair, all colorless. Big eyes, white like her skin, save the pupils and pitch black sclera. Button nose, thin lips, wavy hair going down to her neck.

Clothing: Dark tops. Equally dark pants. Lots of grays and navy blues. Known affinity for big coats with fur on them. The kind old ladies would wear.

Voice: Soft. Quiet. When sheā€™s a ghost, it has an echo to it.

PERSONALITY:


Character Traits: Silent and observant. Strange in the eyes of the strange. Always has a smile on her face. Aware of but disrespectful towards danger. Perfectly content with being alone, but doesnā€™t scorn companionship. Curious at times, loves to explore, but seldom the one who speaks to someone else first. Talks sparingly, but with kind words - if at times, odd choices of vocabulary. Flowery language comes out when she likes someone.

Not all pleasant. Thinks she canā€™t be touched. Ghosts everything. Doesnā€™t take things seriously.

Bonds: Live. See what comes next. Witness something new and bewildering, if fate be generous.

Activities: Writing. Drawing. She has a little journal full of short poems and sketches. Loves to craft with the antiques at home. Goes shopping for new coats sometimes. Explores the world around her.

Skills: Artsy things. The written word. Drawings. Good at cleaning and sorting the antiques.

BACKSTORY


Backstory: A man and a woman - Lloyd and Esther Dendry - had a child eighteen years ago, after the great light shone over Leesburgh. Abnormalities in the pregnancy. Couldnā€™t have guessed the baby girl would float freely out of the womb, see-through. Solidified, dropped - the doctor caught her.

Father always loved the strange. Mother didnā€™t care for it. Quickly began to hate it with the new wave of strange births around town. Couldnā€™t show any love to her daughter. Got mad at her. Threatened to hurt her, and other children too. Lashed out at her husband.

She was taken away. Spent some time locked up. Bit her tongue off and bled to death.

Willow was only two.

Life went on. Willow got older. Learned to shift back and forth freely. Helped her father around the Rustic Palace. Developed a love of antiques and creativity. Moved into the shop when the house got sold. Went to school. Feared the bullies, kids and grown adults, throwing stones at her. Learned to ghost the stones and stopped being afraid. Let all the dangers of the world pass right through her. Let nasty words go ignored.

Stopped thinking about her mother.

Started to smile again.

POWERS:


Description: Incorporeality. The power to become intangible, weightless, translucent. Can fly freely through the air. Pass through solid matter. Takes her possessions with her into the ether. Gives people shivers when she passes through them, like a cold specter.

When physical, sheā€™s floaty. Jumps higher than others. Falls slower. Gravity is kinder to her.

Limitations: Ghosting takes energy. Canā€™t stay intangible forever. One hour, no breaks, before passing out. Canā€™t be asleep and intangible at the same time. Canā€™t shift back to tangible if sheā€™s still caught in something, even by a toe.

Weaknesses: Heat. Fire. High temperatures. Disrupts the shifting process. Forces her back to corporeality.


Other Information: Nothing for now.
Scrapbeak

Scrapbeak looked over the map. He wasnā€™t used to all this - group meetings, extensive planning, taking orders. He wasnā€™t averse to any of it, he was just more accustomed to being on his own, doing smaller things in simpler manners. But he wasnā€™t a merc on his own anymore, heā€™d signed up for the Prideā€™s ranks, and he had to do what was required of him.

It had been two weeks since his acceptance into the company, and he still didnā€™t feel confident in offering his word during these planning phases. A negative feeling he was unfamiliar with, and still mulling over in his head. He had, for now, resigned himself to just being available to put wherever was seen plausible.

ā€œIā€™mā€¦ not very good with groups. Planning things. Talking. Iā€™ll just do whatever you need me to.ā€

Heā€™d said this to Bradshaw some few days ago, away from everyone else. He wanted to be open about his shortcomings, at the very least, to his new superior. It was still somewhat baffling that the Captain had let Scrapbeak into the Prideā€™s ranks - but he wasnā€™t about to argue any. Just do his best, like always, however much that best paled in comparison to some of the others present at the table.

He could shoot. He could climb, though his peg leg might make that hard to believe for folks - he knew how to make it work, thanks to a little tool. He told the Captain all this and hoped it would be sufficient. Whatever he had didnā€™t matter as long as he could get the job done, he liked to believe. Hopefully the rest would agree.

So he stayed quiet. Waited for the plan to get worked out. Ready to do whatever he was ordered to.
š•€ š•—š•–š•–š• š•’ š•„š•£š•–š•žš•“š•š•– š•šš•Ÿ š•„š•™š•– š•„š•–š•žš•”š•š•–
CHARLIE KAYDEN



ā€œMoonā€™s not as exciting as I thought itā€™d be. What do you think?ā€

ā€œEh. I still think itā€™s kinda cool.ā€ Charlie said to the new arrival, ā€œEveryone gets a little bored of anything after a couple months of it though - except for all the nerds still studying everything here. Theyā€™re having a blast.ā€

Charlie tapped the surface of her helmet as she scanned over the womanā€™s appearance for a moment. Her armor was much sleeker than the old, scratched-to-hell pieces Charlie was wearing. But all she had for weapons was a pistol strapped to her side, so she had the stranger beat there. And her accompanying equipment - three spherical drones that floated on over to the available gear-charging stations. Like little versions of the Custodians, just nowhere near as deadly. Most likely. Charlie didnā€™t know for sure.

ā€œThose are neat.ā€ She said, pointing to the drones before turning her attention back to the woman. ā€œYou buy ā€˜em or make ā€˜em?ā€

@Spoopy Scary
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