[hider=Little Miss Cozy][indent][indent][indent][h1][color=#10100f]█ 𝒞𝑜𝓏𝓎 𝑅𝑜𝓈𝒾𝑒 🧸ྀི [/color][/h1][/indent][table][row][color=#2e2c2c][sup][h3][b]
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[img]https://i.postimg.cc/kgstktm2/blockii.jpg[/img]

[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019bc8eb-04bf-7293-9087-80e3568ad8ce.webp[/img]
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[center][color=#cecece][b]   [color=10100f]█ ███ ██ █[/color]   S U M M A R Y  [color=10100f] █ ██ ███ █ [/color][/b][/color][/center][/sub]
[indent][sub][color=#10100f][b]MARGOT ROSALIE STERLING[/b][/color]
[color=#10100f][b]AGE[/b][/color] [color=dcdcdc]𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢-𝚜𝚒𝚡 (𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢. • - •)[/color]
[color=#10100f][b]GENDER[/b][/color] [color=dcdcdc]𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎[/color]
[color=#10100f][b]ETHNICITY/RACE[/b][/color] [color=dcdcdc]𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎[/color]
[color=#10100f][b]MARTIAL STATUS[/b][/color] [color=dcdcdc]𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 (𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢)[/color]
[color=#10100f][b]SEXUALITY[/b][/color] [color=dcdcdc]𝚋𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕[/color]
[/sub][/indent][sub][color=#2e2c2c]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔[/color][/sub][/cell][cell][color=#10100f][b]▅[/b][/color][color=cecece][sub][b]BIOGRAPHY[/b][/sub][/color][color=#10100f][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/color][indent][color=dcdcdc][justify][sub]𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝.

𝙼𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍. 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎—𝚒𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝—𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢? 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚣𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍. 

𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝… 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔.

𝙱𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢; 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝… 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝙸𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝… 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎.

𝙸𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 “𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝” 𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝-𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗; 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖! 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝.

𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙸 [i]𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 [/i]𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘 [i]𝚗𝚘𝚝[/i] 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙼𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 (𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎, 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜), 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝… 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕.

𝚄𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢, 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝—𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 (𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎). 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝙸 [i]𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎[/i] 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎. 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘! 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝.

𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 [i]𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔[/i] 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚠, 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐, 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗, 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍.

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍… 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝: 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢—𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚢. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍.

𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎. 

𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.[/sub][/justify][/color][/indent]

[color=#10100f][b]▅[/b][/color][color=cecece][sub][b]CAREER[/b][/sub][/color][color=#10100f][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/color][indent][color=dcdcdc][justify][sub]Margot Rosalie Sterling never meant to become Cozy Rosie. It started, like so many things do, in the clutter of a childhood bedroom. While attending Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, she began streaming mostly as a way to fill the silence, broadcasting under the handle Cozy Rosie with no professional plans whatsoever. Her early content was the definition of low-stakes: long, meandering productivity streams where she’d tackle coursework, casual gameplay sessions with friends, and extended “just chatting” hours that felt more like a late-night phone call than a show. Growth was slow and steady, built on a feeling of genuine approachability, viewers tuning in just for company.

That trajectory shifted during periods of heightened global uncertainty, like the 2019 pandemic, during which Cozy Rosie’s broadcasts circulated widely as calming or grounding content for most to enjoy. Viewer numbers increased sharply, accompanied by the rapid spread of clipped moments drawn from Margot’s offhand remarks and reactions. By the time she graduated, what had been a personal hobby had undeniably become a viable career. That’s when the professionals arrived—managers and agents stepping in to handle the opportunities suddenly flooding her inbox.

As Cozy Rosie’s audience expanded, so too did the scope of her influence. Brand partnerships, sponsorships, and licensing agreements followed, eventually forming a broader commercial structure overseen by agents, managers, and legal counsel acting on Margot’s behalf. While she remains the public face of the platform, most operational and contractual decisions are handled at remove, with Margot’s role typically limited to review and approval rather than initiation.

Naturally, her public communication began to change. With millions watching, her words carried new weight. Disclaimers became a regular feature, gently reminding viewers that her shared thoughts weren’t professional advice or blanket endorsements. She carefully emphasized the parasocial boundaries between creator and audience. These measures were widely seen as responsible, but they also signaled a quiet farewell to the unfiltered informality that had defined her early days.

Observers noted a new caution in her live commentary, especially during sensitive cultural moments. She began relying more on prepared, considered statements rather than the real-time, stream-of-consciousness sharing that first built her community. While no single scandal forced this shift, the pattern suggested a learned response—a reaction to past audience boundary violations and a sobering awareness of the consequences that come with unfiltered visibility.

By the end of 2025, "Cozy Rosie" had evolved into a recognizable lifestyle brand far beyond the streaming dashboard. Media profiles started to refer to Margot as a “digital tastemaker” or a “wellness influencer,” titles that came with invitations to exclusive industry galas and high-profile events. She found herself navigating rooms filled with cultural and financial elites, a world away from her childhood bedroom. Despite her continued emphasis on relatability, the sheer scale of her platform made the lines blurry. It was becoming harder than ever to distinguish between her personal intent, her massive influence, and the weight of responsibility that followed in their wake.[/sub][/justify][/color][/indent][sup][color=#2e2c2c]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔[/color][/sup][/cell][/row][/table][/indent][/indent][color=#10100f][b]▅[/b][/color][color=cecece][sub][b]SUPPORTING CAST[/b][/sub][/color][color=#10100f][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/color][table][row][cell][center][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/a6f3e4102989e7e2d07ff57a7662bb9f/tumblr_no761gvE3h1qik4d9o1_1280.jpg[/img]
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[/cell][cell][indent][color=dcdcdc][justify][sub][b]THE MANAGER[/b]
Eli stepped in to manage Margot’s professional life right around the time "Cozy Rosie" stopped being a hobby and became her full-time job. Polished, pragmatic, and intensely risk-aware, he handles everything from brand partnerships to public messaging, acting as a much-needed buffer between Margot and the more demanding parts of her growing platform. 

Their working styles are a study in opposites. Where Margot’s instinct is to avoid conflict and accommodate others, Eli’s is to decide and defend. He is particularly firm about maintaining clear, strong boundaries between the creator and the audience. Many of the gentle disclaimers that now frame Cozy Rosie’s streams and nearly all of the prepared statements released during any public scrutiny originate at his desk. He strongly discourages off-the-cuff responses when the online attention gets too intense, and Margot trusts Eli’s judgment implicitly, often accepting reassurance that matters are “handled” without pressing for detail.[/sub][/justify][/color][/indent][cell][center][img]https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BNjRiMzdiYjAtZDdjYS00YmEyLTg3ZDctZDE4NTdlMGIzZjk0XkEyXkFqcGc@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg[/img]
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[/cell][cell][indent][color=dcdcdc][justify][sub][b]THE ASSISTANT[/b]
Lena is the one who keeps the engine of Margot’s world running. While Eli handles the high-level strategy, Lena manages the intricate day-to-day logistics like Margot’s ever-shifting schedule, the complex travel coordination required, and the constant flow of correspondence that she filters with a sharp eye. Quietly efficient and notoriously observant, she operates almost entirely in the background. Her primary goal is simple: to ensure Margot’s creative routines remain uninterrupted and her personal access stays tightly controlled.

Unlike anyone else on the team, Lena is also present for the unscripted, off-camera moments. She’s the one who steps in quietly when the pressure of visibility becomes too much, like when Margot grows quiet and withdrawn after a long stream or seems overwhelmed by the logistics of her own life. Lena has intervened on more than one occasion to gently but firmly redirect an overzealous fan or end an interaction that was edging toward discomfort, sometimes acting on instinct rather than a direct request.

Through this constant proximity, Lena knows Margot with a unique intimacy. She knows her daily rhythms, her unspoken habits, and her exact whereabouts almost at all times. It’s an intimacy built from duty rather than friendship, a fact both women recognize but never discuss. As Margot’s fame has grown, making genuine privacy nearly impossible, this dynamic has become an unavoidable, and perhaps essential, part of their lives. [/sub][/justify][/color][/indent][/cell][/cell]
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[cell][indent][color=dcdcdc][justify][sub][b]THE SOMETHING-OR-OTHER[/b]
Margot’s relationship status is, by her own public admission, “technically single.” The reality, of course, is far more complicated.

Theo exists in a category all his own—an undefined, private space in Margot’s life that operates entirely outside the world of Cozy Rosie. Their connection is characterized by long silences, blurred lines, and a shared, stubborn refusal to define what they are to each other. He knew her before the brand, before the managers, before the disclaimers. Their history belongs to a simpler, more private past, which makes him a living artifact of the person she used to be.

Because of this, Theo holds a unique emotional relevance, even though he has no formal place in her public life. You won’t see him in tagged photos or hear him mentioned on stream. Yet, during times of stress or transition, Theo has a way of quietly reentering her orbit. A late-night text, a spontaneous visit, a conversation that picks up as if no time had passed at all.

Whether this recurring closeness represents genuine comfort, a form of avoidance, or simply unfinished business is something Margot has never fully untangled, even for herself. It’s easier to leave the question unanswered and to let the connection remain in its undefined gray area so that it may continue to be a soft place to land for her, but never quite a home. [/sub][/justify][/color][/indent][/cell][cell][center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/e7/21/ce/e721cec16eb66418ca3b03d9341c8a9c.jpg[/img]
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[cell][indent][color=dcdcdc][justify][sub][b]THE MODERATOR[/b]
Sam has moderated Cozy Rosie’s online communities since the channel’s early growth period, initially volunteering before being retained in a paid capacity as the audience expanded. Their responsibilities include monitoring live chat, managing Discord servers, reviewing reports, and enforcing community guidelines, often acting as the first and only line of response to inappropriate or concerning behaviour.

This role gives Sam a unique perspective. Where Margot generally experiences her audience as a warm, collective presence, Sam encounters it one person at a time. They recognize recurring usernames, track behavioural patterns, and have learned to spot the subtle signs of when simple admiration begins to curdle into something more intense and fixated. Sam has issued bans, removed posts, and restricted access entirely on their own judgment, usually without ever bringing it to Margot’s attention.

This autonomy is framed as protective. It allows Margot to maintain distance from the more volatile elements of her following while ensuring the platform remains outwardly safe and welcoming. In practice, however, it also means that Sam carries a distinct kind of knowledge as they are aware of which users were removed quietly, which ones argued bitterly against moderation, and which ones simply vanished overnight after crossing an invisible line.

Sam’s loyalty to Margot feels deep and genuine, forged through years of watching her work and, in a way, witnessing her vulnerability from a front-row seat. Yet, that very loyalty raises its own question: in a crisis, would it lead Sam to be transparent, or would it compel them to hide difficult truths to preserve the calm, curated world they’ve worked so hard to maintain? The protection that allows Margot to thrive also places a burden of solitary decisions on Sam’s shoulders, after all, and this includes decisions that could one day come under a harsh and unexpected light.[/sub][/justify][/color][/indent][/cell][/row][/table][/hider]
[hr]
Camp Athens: 

[hider=Anissa "Ani" Quinn][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=5a3e85]Anissa Quinn[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://i.postimg.cc/0yRVRshS/s-l1600.webp[/img]

[img]https://i.postimg.cc/7L4t7kV4/the-last-of-us-tlou.gif[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[sub][color=5a3e85][b]D A U G H T E R[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=5a3e85][b]O F[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=5a3e85][b]H A D E S[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[color=5a3e85]21     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     female     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     bisexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=5a3e85][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  dark brown[/color]
[color=5a3e85][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  brown[/color]
[color=5a3e85][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  5' 3"[/color]
[color=5a3e85][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  petite / athletic[/color]
[/sub][/center]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=5a3e85][b]A B I L I T I E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]speak with the dead[/b][/color] - 
[i]Mechanics: Anissa opens a dialogue with spirits by focusing on an object tied to the deceased or standing where their life ended. The spirits manifest as faint, shimmering apparitions or disembodied voices, their tones tinged with the emotions they carried in life (e.g., sorrow, regret, or unresolved fury). Responses are often cryptic, filtered through metaphors or fragmented memories, requiring interpretation.

Limitations: Spirits may refuse to aid her if she cannot offer something symbolic (e.g., fulfilling an unfinished task, answering a riddle). Older spirits grow fainter, their memories eroded by time.

Impact: Anissa often seems distracted. Prolonged communion also leaves her emotionally drained, haunted by the dead’s sorrow or rage. Others might view her as eerie or cursed, while desperate souls seek her to contact lost loved ones.
[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]death touch[/b][/color] - 
[i]Mechanics: Anissa’s fingertips briefly glow with a sickly violet-black aura as she channels necrotic energy. Targets feel a searing coldness spreading from the point of contact, their veins darkening visibly as their strength wanes. The touch can be modulated—from a numbing ache that slows foes to an agonizing surge that completely crumples them.

Limitations: Requires skin-to-skin contact; armoured or shielded foes are harder to affect. Overuse leaves her hand temporarily skeletal and frostbitten. Cannot harm constructs or undead.

Impact: Anissa often wears gloves to avoid accidental harm.
[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]death sense[/b][/color] - 
[i]Mechanics: Anissa’s power manifests as poetic omens: fleeting, surreal visions that enter her mind like fragments of a half-remembered dream. These glimpses are not warnings but elegies, capturing the essence of a death rather than its facts:

[color=2c2c2c][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/color] ☠︎︎Metaphorical Portents: A child’s balloon slipping into storm clouds might foreshadow a drowning. A cracked hourglass spilling black sand could hint at a terminal illness. The visions are visceral but indirect, forcing Anissa to interpret symbolism (e.g., “a house with windows blown out” = loss of safety, not a literal explosion).

[color=2c2c2c][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/color] ☠︎︎Sensory Overlap: Each vision is accompanied by a sensation tied to the death’s emotional core: the sting of a wasp’s kiss (betrayal), the weight of an anchor on her chest (suicide), or the taste of copper pennies (violent ends). These linger longer than the images themselves.

[color=2c2c2c][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/color] ☠︎︎Fated Encounters: The visions trigger when she touches someone doomed or when they touch her. 

Limitations: She cannot summon or silence the visions. They strike unpredictably, even mid-conversation, leaving her disoriented. Unless the vision occurs during direct contact, she won’t know who is fated to die either. So, a vision of “wilted sunflowers” could apply to a stranger… or her closest friend. Attempting to divert death often backfires as well. Time bends to protect its design.

Impact: She compulsively writes about her visions in a leather-bound notebook, searching for patterns. Some pages are filled with frantic questions. 
[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]geokinesis[/b][/color] - 
[i]Mechanics: Anissa can summon and weaponize raw earth, but only through direct contact with solid ground. So, no floating rocks, no fancy tricks midair. Her power doesn’t bend mountains; it cracks pressure points.

Limitations: Each shockwave costs her dearly, three bursts being her limit so far. After three consecutive bursts, her ribs bruise as if crushed by an invisible hand, and her joints stiffen like rigor mortis is setting in. It also doesn't work on metal or water. 

Impact: She avoids grassy or forested areas when upset and not wearing her usual gloves, afraid she’ll accidentally fracture the ground beneath her.
[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]umbrakinesis[/b][/color] - 
[i]Mechanics: Anissa’s umbrakinesis is less a power and more a pact with the unseen. She doesn’t command shadows; she aligns with them, becoming a fleeting blur in the corner of the world’s eye. Shadows curl around her like cobwebs, dampening sound and light. Observers’ minds instinctively categorize her as “unimportant”—a trick of the brain, not true invisibility. Security cameras may capture her as a smudge, while mirrors show only a silhouette. Where she walks, shadows remain. For instance, flowers may wilt in her path, and candles relight themselves moments after she passes.

Limitations: Prolonged use erodes her memory. She might forget why she entered a room, for instance. Those who truly know her (close childhood friends, siblings, lovers) may resist the veil’s effects. Their recognition, in a way, acts as a tether, forcing the shadows to retreat. 

Impact: Anissa may, without meaning to, exhibit a chilling presence when using this power. For instance, a room she is in may get cold if she's too anxious. Breath may even mist in hot summer air. 
[/i]

[color=5a3e85][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]resilient[/b][/color] - [i]Faces adversity with determination and strength, rarely letting setbacks deter her.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]enigmatic[/b][/color] - [i]Maintains an aura of mystery that unsettles or intrigues others. She can command attention without effort, often leaving people guessing her true intentions.[/i]

[color=5a3e85][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]emotionally vulnerable[/b][/color] - [i]Her deep connection with spirits and death often leaves her emotionally drained and susceptible to overwhelming grief.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]impulsive[/b][/color] - [i]Tends to act on instinct without fully considering consequences, often placing herself or others at risk.[/i]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=5a3e85][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[b]vain [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] intuitive [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] quietly brave [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] enigmatic[/b]

[color=5a3e85][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
Anissa Quinn grew up in a vibrant coastal city, raised by her mother, who ran an upscale boutique known for its mysterious and alluring aesthetic. From a young age, Ani's beauty and charm drew others toward her, but her quiet vanity often isolated her from genuine connection. Still, she’d mastered the art of tilting her chin to catch the light, of laughing in a way that made boys trip over their shoelaces. But classmates mocked her for checking her reflection in cafeteria knives, for the way she’d freeze mid-sentence, startled by something in the periphery. Sleepovers ended when she screamed at a friend’s mirror, insisting the girl staring back wasn’t her. “Drama queen,” they hissed. She stopped inviting them over.

The voices began at fourteen. They coiled through her thoughts during geometry class, hissed from rain puddles on her walk home. “Turn left,” they’d urge, steering her to a drowned sparrow in a storm drain. “She’s buried under the magnolia,” they muttered as she passed a neighbour’s garden. She blamed sleep deprivation, then hormones, then the boutique’s absinthe-green wallpaper. But the night a wet handprint bloomed on her bedroom window, she took to wearing her mother’s satin gloves—palm-side scorched from ironing accidents—to bed, as if they could mute the pulse in her wrists that called to the unseen.

The breaking point came sophomore year. A woman in a waterlogged wedding dress began trailing her, dripping seawater through the halls. For three weeks, Ani endured the reek of brine, the woman’s gurgled pleas drowned out by Ani’s headphones. Then, during a calculus exam, the spirit slammed Ani’s palm onto her desk. The pencil snapped, embedding graphite beneath her skin. Through tears, Ani hissed, “You’re dead, okay? Leave me alone!” The woman dissolved, leaving a puddle that seeped into the tiled floors. That night, Ani scrubbed her hands raw and slept with every lamp blazing.

Then, the letter came a few years later. 

Summoned to Camp Athens by a dream she could neither forget nor explain, Anissa left the only world she knew, stepping into one she never asked for. Her reasons are complicated: part curiosity, part resentment, part defiance. She isn’t here to save anyone. She just wants answers, and maybe, if she’s honest, to stop feeling so haunted.

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=5a3e85][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]#5a3e85[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=5a3e85][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Isabela Merced[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=5a3e85][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row]
[/table][/indent][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Elias Trueno][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=d4af37]Elias Trueno[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/107f9731c075c30e440c2fe89e6b30c6/ab14199d62204170-a2/s1280x1920/476a931d9d03713e525901b3ab604c2fbb9e0323.jpg[/img]

[img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/d57e3bec8c90410571d7a8adade27f95/cf2d0c006ea4f12e-ed/s400x600/3edeb1b73747b0e7c353e9700c92693398ad2fa1.gifv[/img]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[sub][color=d4af37][b]S O N[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=d4af37][b]O F[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=d4af37][b]Z E U S[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[color=d4af37]21     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     male     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     pansexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=d4af37][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  black[/color]
[color=d4af37][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  brown[/color]
[color=d4af37][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  5' 10"[/color]
[color=d4af37][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  athletic[/color]
[/sub][/center]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=d4af37][b]A B I L I T I E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]atmokinesis[/b][/color] - 
[i]Elias can manipulate weather patterns by channelling storm clouds, winds, and atmospheric pressure. His power reflects and responds to his emotional state, creating a dynamic interplay between his inner world and the external environment.

Mechanics: 
[b]Storm Clouds-[/b] 
⚡ He can summon dense, electrified cumulonimbus clouds to unleash lightning strikes or torrential downpours. 
⚡ In calmer moments, he might disperse clouds to reveal sunlight or craft delicate fog banks.

[b]Winds-[/b] 
⚡ His command over air ranges from subtle breezes to gale-force gusts. 
⚡ With focus, he can direct wind currents to levitate objects or create protective barriers, but emotional turmoil may spiral winds into destructive tornadoes.

[b]Atmospheric Pressure- [/b]
⚡ By manipulating pressure systems, he can induce rapid weather shifts, such as sinking air for clear skies or triggering storms via colliding fronts. 
⚡ This also allows localized pressure walls to repel threats or suffocate flames.

Limitations: Severe weather amplifies his emotions (e.g., a storm’s fury heightens his anger), risking uncontrollable feedback. Prolonged use also drains him, causing fatigue, migraines, or sensory overload from atmospheric sensitivity. Unplanned outbursts can devastate landscapes, endanger others, or draw unwanted attention. 
[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]electrokinesis[/b][/color] - 
[i]Elias can generate, absorb, and manipulate electrical energy, primarily channelled through his hands. This ability bridges offensive combat, defensive tactics, and utilitarian functions, though its efficacy is deeply tied to his emotional state and environmental conditions.

Mechanics: 
[b]Generation-[/b] 
⚡ Elias can produce electricity ranging from subtle static shocks to violent lightning-like arcs. Precision allows taser-level stuns, while raw bursts can overload systems or ignite materials.
⚡ His body naturally generates charge, but prolonged use drains his stamina, risking muscle fatigue or temporary paralysis.

[b]Absorption-[/b] 
⚡ He can siphon energy from batteries, power grids, or atmospheric lightning. However, absorbing high-voltage sources risks sensory overload or cardiac stress.
⚡ Excess energy manifests as visible currents coursing his skin; unmanaged storage causes involuntary discharges.

[b]Redirection- [/b]
⚡ He can channel absorbed electricity into protective barriers.
⚡ He can power electronics temporarily, jump-start engines, or interface with tech via touch, though complex devices require intense focus.

Limitations: Humid air enhances conductivity but risks self-electrocution; insulated materials (rubber, glass) nullify his attacks. Remote areas that lack ambient sources will force reliance on his finite bio-electricity. Overuse causes nerve damage, tremors, or temporary blindness from retinal flashes. Absorbing extreme voltages (e.g., lightning) may burn his pathways, requiring days to heal.[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]flight[/b][/color] - 
[i]Elias achieves flight through a hybridized manipulation of wind currents and electrical propulsion, merging his atmokinetic and electrokinetic talents. While functional in most conditions, his flight thrives in stormy environments, where turbulent air and ambient electricity synergize to enhance his speed, endurance, and control.

Mechanics: 
[b]Wind Currents-[/b] 
⚡ Elias rides air currents to ascend or glide effortlessly, shaping updrafts to sustain altitude. In calm weather, he must generate his own gusts, which drain stamina.
⚡ Subtle shifts in wind direction allow sharp turns, hovering, or rapid deceleration.

[b]Electrical Propulsion-[/b] 
⚡ Charged particles expelled from his hands or feet act as thrusters, enabling sudden bursts of speed or vertical launches. Overuse can cause muscle spasms or burns.
⚡ Lightning-rich environments passively recharge his thrust, letting him "surf" electromagnetic fields for near-effortless movement.

Limitations: Stormy weather (high winds, thunderstorms) boosts his speed and endurance, but calm, dry conditions limit him to short, laborious flights. Extreme cold also numbs his electrical output; heavy rain risks waterlogging his thrusters, causing short circuits. Sustained flight strains his legs and core muscles. Altitude sickness also occurs above 10,000 feet without acclimatization. Lastly, there's a trade-off in energy where using electricity for flight drains his electrokinetic reserves, leaving him unable to summon defensive shocks or power devices mid-air.[/i]

[color=9b9b9b][b]peak human condition[/b][/color] - 
[i]His physical capabilities—strength, reflexes, stamina—are at the upper end of human potential due to his divine lineage. He performs optimally in combat and endurance-based tasks.

Mechanics: 
[b]Strength-[/b] 
⚡  Elias can lift up to 650 lbs (near the world record), deliver strikes with bone-crushing force, and shatter materials like concrete with focused effort. His muscle efficiency minimizes fatigue, enabling sustained exertion.

[b]Reflexes-[/b] 
⚡ His reaction time (0.1 seconds) rivals top martial artists and Formula 1 drivers, allowing him to dodge bullets at close range or counterattack mid-combo.

[b]Stamina-[/b] 
⚡  He can operate at peak performance for 48 hours without rest, which demands significant caloric intake (5,000+ calories daily). Recovery is accelerated, and muscle repair takes hours, not days.

[b]Resilience-[/b]
⚡ High pain tolerance and dense bone structure reduce injury risk. He can withstand extreme temperatures (-50°F to 130°F) briefly, and his immune system neutralizes most toxins.

Limitations: He requires a high-protein diet and at least 4 hours of daily sleep; neglect leads to rapid deterioration (e.g., hallucinations, organ strain). Constant pressure to embody "perfection" also breeds a lot of anxiety. His failures haunt him, as his margin for error is narrower than that of any one else he knows.[/i]

[color=d4af37][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]combat-ready[/b][/color] - [i]Experienced in street fighting and close-quarters combat. Physically imposing and well-coordinated.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]charismatic[/b][/color] - [i]Possesses a natural charm and sarcasm that disarms or manipulates others effectively.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]quick-witted[/b][/color] - [i]Adapts rapidly in conversations and fights; uses humor and fast thinking as a strategic tool.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]magnetic presence[/b][/color] - [i]Draws attention effortlessly, either through confidence or volatility.[/i]

[color=d4af37][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]short fuse[/b][/color] - [i]Struggles with anger management; emotional volatility can cause unintended destruction.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]emotional repression[/b][/color] - [i]Does not process vulnerability well; deflects with arrogance or indifference.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]competitive[/b][/color] - [i]Overexerts or endangers himself in attempts to prove superiority, especially around peers with comparable power.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]weather-reliant[/b][/color] - [i]Power is diminished during clear or calm weather; storm conditions greatly enhance his output.[/i]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=d4af37][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[b]confident [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] sarcastic [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] proud [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] brooding[/b]

[color=d4af37][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
Birth: The First Lightning
Elias Trueno entered the world on a day so still it felt like the earth had stopped breathing with a record-breaking heatwave in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The air conditioning in Presbyterian Hospital had failed. Nurses fanned themselves with clipboards; mothers-to-be groaned through contractions in soupy, stagnant air. All the while, Marisol Trueno, 23 years old and alone, didn’t make a sound. Not when her water broke. Not when the doctors urged her to push. Not even when the lights died.

The blackout lasted seven minutes.
A single lightning bolt, gold-veined and silent, pierced the hospital’s backup generator. When power returned, the delivery room reeked of scorched metal. Elias lay swaddled in Marisol’s arms, his cries sharp and static-charged. The nurses joked about bad wiring. Marisol, however, stared at the ceiling, where a hairline crack split the plaster like a dried riverbed.

She named him Elias that day—“Yahweh is my God”—because irony felt safer than the truth, safer than that legacy of abandonment and violence. 

Childhood: [i]lengua materna[/i]
Marisol’s body had grown to be a fragile thing. Arthritis curled her fingers by 30; migraines pinned her to bed for days. She rarely left their sun-bleached adobe house, its walls thick against the desert heat. Elias learned to move quietly, to boil chamomile tea, to knead the tension from her shoulders during monsoons. 

He also learned this: Storms were his first language.

Age 3: A tantrum over a broken toy became his first full sentence, a shriek that summoned a downpour. Marisol waded into the flooded yard, her nightgown clinging to her knees, and cupped rainwater in her palms. “[i]Mira[/i],” she said, holding it toward him. “[i]Es solo agua.[/i]”
Just water.
Her smile was a psalm, a soft and holy translation of his rage.

Age 7: The kids at the library called him “Witch boy”.
Elias shouted back in a dialect he didn’t quite understand yet: a gust of wind that shattered every window in the room. The principal demanded an exorcism. Marisol withdrew him the next day. At home, she taught him fractions and forgiveness, new vocabulary to quiet the thunder in his hands.
Anger isn’t a fist. It’s a question with no answer, she insisted. 

Age 14: His first kiss—Luz, behind the 7-Eleven, her mouth sweet with tamarind candy—ended in a thunderclap that set off car alarms. Luz giggled, giddy and nervous, as rain slicked the asphalt. She labelled him as some kind of superhero. 
Yet when the next storm flooded her garage, she stopped answering his texts. Elias lay awake that night, tracing the charred grammar of lightning scars on his ceiling.

Marisol never scolded him. Never prayed, despite her upbringing. She simply sat beside him, her silence a second tongue, one he was still learning to speak and navigate. 

The Confrontation: Cracks in the Sky
The fight started over nothing. A burnt casserole, maybe. Either way, it had led to a streetlamp outside exploding in a shower of sparks.

“What am I?” Elias demanded, pacing their living room while Marisol continued to fold a dishcloth. Smoothed its creases. Her hands trembled, but her voice didn’t when she answered. 

“You already know.”

“No. I don’t.” He gestured wildly; a gust rattled the patio furniture. “Why would a god pick you? You can’t even—”

“Can’t even what?” She looked up. “Walk up the stairs without resting? Love you anyway?”

Elias froze. Thunder growled, but no rain fell.

“Maybe he chose me because I wouldn’t try to change you,” she said. “Or use you. Or pretend you’re not a miracle.”

She pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat shook them both.

“I don’t need to be strong,” she whispered. “I just need to be here.”

The Breaking Point: Too Much to Hold
By 17, Elias was all edges with a temper that left scorch marks on doorframes. He cycled through phases:

The Recluse: Locked himself in his room for weeks, playing guitar until calluses split his fingertips. Power surges fried three amplifiers.

The Charmer: Smirked his way into parties, dazzling strangers with sleight-of-hand tricks (palming lightning bugs, “magically” chilling beers). Left when the sky darkened.

The Brawler: Punched a hole through a brick wall after some guy catcalled Marisol. The wall healed faster than his knuckles.

Through it all, Marisol held on. She left aspirin and honeyed milk outside his door. Pretended not to notice the burn scars on his bedsheets. Let him scream into her shoulder when the static in his veins got too loud.

But even she had limits.

One night, after he’d shorted the neighbourhood grid (again), she gripped his wrist, her touch feather-light, her eyes red-rimmed. “You’re going to break this house. Break me. And I won’t survive it.”

He dreamed of lightning that night. Not the wild, hungry kind, but the sort that splits oaks clean down the middle. 

The Letter: A Spark Uncontained
It arrived in August, after a drought that cracked the Rio Grande’s banks.

No envelope. No postmark. Just a slip of parchment on their porch, warm as a living thing. The ink shimmered gold when Elias touched it.

[b]YOU ARE SUMMONED TO CAMP ATHENS
YOU ARE THE SON OF ZEUS
YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO REMAIN HIDDEN[/b]

Thunder rolled, a low, insistent hum. Marisol appeared in the doorway, a duffel bag at her feet. She’d packed his leather jacket. His guitar picks. A framed photo of them at White Sands, squinting against the sun.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

She pressed a pendant into his palm: a tiny bronze thunderbolt, cold against his skin. “Since the lights went out,” she said. “And came back on.”

He left at midnight. The storm followed him to the bus station, rain hissing against the asphalt. Marisol watched from the porch, her silhouette small and straight-backed, until lightning swallowed the horizon.

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=d4af37][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]#d4af37[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=d4af37][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Diego Tinoco[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=d4af37][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row]
[/table][/indent][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Rae Kowalewski][color=#2e2c2c].[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=3b9ae1]Rae Kowalewski[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/98/62/82/98628267a6a1f8c060d967ebedd991d8.jpg[/img]

[img]https://media1.tenor.com/m/o136QQw66iAAAAAd/sadie-sink-serious.gif[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]______________________________________[/sup][/color]
[sub][color=3b9ae1][b]D A U G H T E R[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=3b9ae1][b]O F[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=3b9ae1][b]H E P H A E S T U S[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=3b9ae1]21     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     female     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     demisexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=3b9ae1][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  ginger-red[/color]
[color=3b9ae1][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  blue-grey[/color]
[color=3b9ae1][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  5' 5"[/color]
[color=3b9ae1][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  lean / wiry[/color]
[/sub][/center]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=3b9ae1][b]A B I L I T I E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]pyrokinesis[/b][/color] - [i]She can generate and control fire, but not without effort. Her power scales with her focus.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]calokinesis[/b][/color] - [i]Control over heat. This includes internal temperature regulation, melting metal, and heat-based propulsion of small gadgets. A small quirk with this ability is that she unconsciously radiates warmth when relaxed, so her hands are always slightly hotter than normal, and her coffee never goes cold.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]fire & heat immunity[/b][/color] - [i]She’s fireproof, obviously. Burned herself testing this as a kid. Repeatedly.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]master inventor & engineer[/b][/color] - [i]Gifted in all things mechanical. Builds things in her sleep. Literally. Also, she’s the kind of person who salvages everything. Growing up poor taught her that nothing is truly useless. That toaster? Now a robot arm. Those busted headphones? Rewired into a comms device.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]high intelligence[/b][/color] - [i]Sharp memory, faster processing, and the ability to adapt under pressure. The one downside to this is that she overthinks. Constantly. Her mind races ahead, playing out every possible failure, which sometimes paralyzes her in the moment.[/i]

[color=3b9ae1][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]tinkering[/b][/color] - [i]If it’s broken, she’ll make it better. If it’s not broken, she’ll upgrade it anyway.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]persistence[/b][/color] - [i]Rae doesn’t quit. Ever. She'll reroute a circuit or her entire life plan if she has to. The one downside to this trait, however, is that this relentless drive means she often pushes herself past reasonable limits, ignoring pain, exhaustion, or even friends telling her to stop.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]combat improvisation[/b][/color] - [i]Improvises on the fly, often turning found objects into weapons or distractions. She doesn't fight fair. She fights smart, despite not being the physically strongest.[/i]

[color=3b9ae1][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]social cues[/b][/color] - [i]Misses them completely. She’s great with blueprints, not people.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]stubborn[/b][/color] - [i]Rae doesn’t just hold grudges: she engineers them. If she decides someone’s wrong, good luck changing her mind. If she believes in a plan, she’ll follow it into a disaster before admitting defeat.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]overload[/b][/color] - [i]Overclocking her fire powers or brain leads to migraines and burnout (literal and emotional).[/i]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=3b9ae1][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[b]hardworking [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] determined [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] ambitious [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] awkward[/b]

[color=3b9ae1][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
Rae Kowalewski was raised in a small, lower-income neighbourhood just outside a wealthy California suburb, close enough to see the gleaming roofs of gated communities from her bedroom window but far enough that she knew she’d never step inside one unless she suddenly got fortunate. Her mom worked two jobs to support them both: one in a factory and the other as a cleaner for those same houses Rae stared at all the time. Her dad, however, was out of the picture before she could even form a full sentence. But there was never any self-pity about it. Her mother had a rule: [i]“If you want something, you don’t wait for it. You make it yourself.”[/i]

And so Rae did. Literally. 

Her first real invention came at age nine: a mechanical pencil sharpener cobbled together from parts of a broken toaster and an old RC car she’d salvaged from a thrift store dumpster. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked, and when she brought it to school, her teachers didn’t just praise her. They watched her. By middle school, she was the kid who fixed the broken lab equipment during lunch. By high school, scholarship programs had taken notice, and she landed a full ride to Lockwood Prep, a private school where half the students had their last names engraved on the buildings.

It was there she first met Wesley Preston.

Wes was the kind of rich that didn’t bother hiding itself; the son of a celebrity attorney, with a smirk that made teachers sigh and a reputation for reckless charm. Rae had expected him to be insufferable. Worse, she’d expected him to ignore her entirely. But Wes had a way of noticing people most others overlooked.

They shared a couple of classes. Partnered for a science fair once (though partnered was a generous way of putting it. He mostly leaned over her shoulder, making jokes while she did the actual wiring). Still, he made her laugh in a way that was enjoyable at times. And though she’d never admit it, there was a tiny, traitorous flutter in her chest whenever he’d grin at her in the hallway or call her [i]“Lewski, you terrifying genius”[/i] after she aced an incredibly hard test.

It wasn’t a crush. At least, that’s what she told herself. More like an itch she couldn’t scratch. A curiosity about the boy who had everything but still seemed bored by it all at times if she paid too much attention. 

By senior year, Wes had spiralled further into rebellion, and Rae, meanwhile, had buried herself in college prep, robotics club, and the kind of relentless focus that left no room for distractions. She graduated with a near-perfect GPA and a full engineering scholarship. He didn’t.

She hadn’t thought about him in years. 

Until Camp Athens.

Her powers came in fragments at first, like with spontaneous sparks when she tightened a screw too hard, bursts of heat that warped her tools before she could pull her hands away. She blamed stress. Overwork. Sleep deprivation. But the excuses ran out the night she accidentally melted a steel wrench into a puddle on the workshop floor.

And then her father came knocking. 

It happened during a late-night shift in the campus machine shop. Everyone else had cleared out, but Rae stayed, jaw clenched, wrestling with a housing unit that refused to hold its shape. Her frustration was a live wire when the lights suddenly cut out, and the air went still.

She turned and saw him. Or, more accurately, she noticed his hands first. Scars webbed across his knuckles, the skin rough and darkened like old leather.

[color=#1f4788]“You're wasting good metal with all that hesitation,”[/color] he said, like he’d been watching for a while. On top of that, his voice was blunt steel in a gruff, heavy, and final way. 

Rae stared. 

[color=#3b9ae1]“Who the hell are you?”[/color]

He didn’t answer. Just picked up her warped housing unit, examined it, and placed one hand over the seam. With a hiss of heat and a crackle of molten light, the metal reshaped. Seamless. Flawless. [i]Impossible[/i].

[color=#1f4788]“I’m the one who gave you hands like that,”[/color] he said, tossing the piece back to her. [color=#1f4788]“You didn’t think that kind of fire came from nowhere, did you?”[/color]

Before she could respond, he slid a folded piece of parchment across the workbench–-a map, instructions, warnings scrawled in urgent script. A place called Camp Athens. 

Then he nodded once and left the way he came: quietly, like a man used to being overlooked.

Rae didn’t sleep that night.

But by morning, she had made her decision.

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=3b9ae1][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]#3b9ae1[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=3b9ae1][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Sadie Sink[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=3b9ae1][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row]
[/table][/indent][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Maylisse Beaumont][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=#A9C9EB]Maylisse Beaumont[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/f04cf083346fb69cf29156173e72d3f7/d9104b8d8987ce91-51/s540x810/919b609e8d3c42861cc3baf77a239d66251f46a6.pnj[/img]

[img]https://i.ibb.co/GFD7ND9/29.gif[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[sub][color=#A9C9EB][b]D A U G H T E R[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=#A9C9EB][b]O F[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=#A9C9EB][b]P O S E I D O N[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[color=#A9C9EB]23     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     female     [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color]     heterosexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=#A9C9EB][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  dark brown[/color]
[color=#A9C9EB][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  hazel[/color]
[color=#A9C9EB][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  5' 6"[/color]
[color=#A9C9EB][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  slender, toned[/color]
[/sub][/center]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=#A9C9EB][b]A B I L I T I E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]hydrokinesis[/b][/color] - [i]Maylisse wields water like a weapon; her control is evident yet terrifyingly aggressive. Precision takes a backseat to domination for her, so she is less a sculptor and more a hurricane overwhelming her opponents with merciless force. In the depths of storms or oceans, her power crescendos into something catastrophic. Most unsettling of all, she has learned to agitate the water inside or around living bodies, causing conditions such as nausea, ringing ears, or muscle cramps. [/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]water breathing[/b][/color] - [i]Passive, like second nature. The shift from air to water is as unconscious and effortless as blinking for her. She uses it with smug superiority, often remaining underwater just a moment too long during a conversation to watch her land-bound companions grow uneasy, a silent reminder of the fundamental gulf between their natures and her own.[/i]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]seismic manipulation[/b][/color] - [i] Maylisse thrives on chaos. She enjoys knocking people off their feet or rattling the earth to make her entrance felt. Reckless but effective is the motto; this blunt instrument in her arsenal is less about finesse and more about causing immediate, disorienting havoc.[/i]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]speak with fish & equine[/b][/color] - [i]Unlike her half-brother, Maylisse embraces this gift fully. To outsiders, she seems commanding and merciless, but with these creatures, she reveals a rare softness. She speaks to fish and equine with a strange fondness, treating them as companions even when she calls them to service. Sharks patrol at her word, horses bow their heads when she passes, not out of fear alone but out of a bond she secretly cherishes. If there is warmth in her, it is saved for the sea’s beasts and Poseidon’s steeds, never her fellow demigods.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]underwater healing[/b][/color] - [i]Passive, though she flaunts it. She doesn’t mind taking hits in sparring; the water always washes away her wounds eventually. Submerged, her body knits itself back together with visible, almost unsettling speed. Severed flesh reconnects, bruises bloom and fade in seconds, and broken bones snap into alignment with an audible crack. She uses this to her psychological advantage, emerging from a deep wave utterly unscathed after a devastating blow, a taunting smile on her lips as her opponents' morale completely shatters.[/i]  

[color=#A9C9EB][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]fearless[/b][/color] - [i]Unflinching and unapologetic. She doesn’t hesitate to speak or strike first. This isn't a learned bravery but an innate, deep-seated certainty of her own power. Fear is an emotion for those with something to lose; Maylisse believes herself to be inevitable. This makes her a terrifying opponent, as she charges into any fray, confronts any foe, and voices any brutal truth without a trace of doubt or self-preservation. It is a weaponized trait that often allows her to dominate situations before they even begin.[/i]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]uncompromising[/b][/color] - [i] Weakness disgusts her, and Maylisse refuses to tolerate it. Her will is absolute, and her resolve never wavers. In a crisis, this single-mindedness can be a powerful asset, as she will pursue victory or domination with a focus that others cannot match. She operates on a tyrant's logic: there is her way, and there is failure[/i]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]protective[/b][/color] - [i]Though cold to most, Maylisse is fiercely protective of what she considers hers, especially the creatures she commands, and at times even her half-brother (simply based on the fact that he’s her brother).[/i]

[color=#A9C9EB][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]reckless[/b][/color] - [i]Collateral damage and overexertion mean little to her in the moment. The fallout always comes later. She is a force of nature without a governor, prioritizing immediate, overwhelming impact over long-term stability. [/i]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]arrogant[/b][/color] - [i]She underestimates rivals constantly, assuming Poseidon’s blood makes her superior. This is her most critical blind spot. She cannot conceive of a mortal, or even another demigod, outmatching her. This arrogance leads to careless mistakes, a refusal to strategize deeply, and a tendency to prolong fights rather than resolve them quickly. She will often leave openings for a weaker opponent, viewing their struggle as entertainment, only to be genuinely shocked when a well-planned strike gets past her defences.[/i]  
[color=9b9b9b][b]cold[/b][/color] - [i]Her lack of compassion isolates her, even if she refuses to admit it.[/i]  
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]  
[color=#A9C9EB][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]  
[b]icy [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] uncompromising [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] ambitious [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] ruthless[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color][color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color][color=2e2c2c]....[/color][b] protective [/b]

[color=#A9C9EB][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]  
Her mother was a calculating London financier who never mistook the god's attention for romance, but rather, saw it as a formidable investment opportunity. She raised Maylisse in a world of privilege and refinement, teaching her to value strength over sentiment, leverage over love, and to see every relationship as a transaction of power. Thus, Poseidon appeared in her life not as a father but as an intermittent, overwhelming force of nature. A lesson made manifest. His visits were never gentle; they were crashing waves against the shore, storms that uprooted trees, and quiet, terrifying depths. His “affection” was shaping, and it was harsh. Where her half-sibling River might have found discipline and perhaps family bonds unlinked to the divine, Maylisse received only brutal tutorials in dominance and the intoxicating thrill of unchecked power. 

She grew up hearing whispers of her half-sibling across the sea but dismissed him as an irrelevant, lesser version of the glory she believed she alone was forged to inherit. Only when Poseidon himself summoned her in the heart of a hurricane over the Thames did she truly take notice. His message was as blunt and cold as ever: River had been named leader, but his softness and distracting surface-world attachments would inevitably lead to compromise. Poseidon's will was absolute, and it could not be threatened by sentiment. 

So, Maylisse was not asked; she was deployed. Her purpose was clear: to go to the camp and serve as the embodiment of her father's ruthless dominion, to crush any weakness she found, and to make certain no one, not even a well-meaning brother or sentimental ally, could ever dilute Poseidon's legacy. For her, the camp is not about finding friendship or belonging; it is a proving ground, even if she has to shatter the current occupant to do it. She arrives not as a sister, but as an inquisitor. 

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]  
[center][color=#A9C9EB][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]#A9C9EB[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=#A9C9EB][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Minnie Mills[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=#A9C9EB][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row]
[/table][/indent][/indent][/hider]
[hr]
What Lies Below: 

[hider=Rafael][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=4A6DB5]Rafael Fontenelle[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019e1d02-e2b9-75ce-92e8-e55ba6e01790.webp[/img]

[img]https://i.postimg.cc/BvKy25n9/Raf.gif[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[sub][color=4A6DB5][b]R A F A E L [color=2e2c2c].[/color] F O N T E N E L L E[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[color=4A6DB5]210     [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color]     male     [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color]     pansexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color][/sub][/center][sub][color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  dark, close cropped[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  dark brown[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  6' 1"[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  lean, athletic[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ species  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  vampire[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ faction  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  the coven[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=4A6DB5][b]▹ role  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  antique dealer | the bereft[/color]
[/sub]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=4A6DB5][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]composure[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Rafael is a locked room; you may rattle the handle, but you will never find the key. A century and a half of existing with something unresolved have given him a stillness that borders on the unnerving. He does not react usually and only responds precisely when he chooses to. Which isn't to say that emotion does not exist in him, but it is kept behind a facade so practiced and impenetrable that most people spend years in his presence without glimpsing what lies beneath. Within a coven built on ambition and fractured loyalty, that kind of self-assurance makes him extraordinarily difficult to manipulate or read.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]authority[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- He carries decades upon decades in his bones, and it shows in the way he occupies a room. Without a raised voice or overt threats, people find themselves taking him seriously before they have consciously decided to do so.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]patience[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Impatience is for those who believe time is running out. Rafael knows better. Time is the one resource he has in excess.[/i][/color]

[color=4A6DB5][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]haunted[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Beneath the composure lives something that has never healed and never will. The child. The choice he made. The face of whoever took them during the chaos of those early years — a face he never clearly saw, a name he never learned. It could have been anyone. That is perhaps the most corrosive part of it — not knowing has made everyone a suspect across a century and a half, his own kind included. This is the one place his control fractures, the single wound that bypasses every defence he has built. Anyone who discovers it holds something genuinely dangerous over him.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]ruthless[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- He does what needs doing. He has made peace with that about himself across a century and a half and feels no particular need to revisit it. But ruthlessness without the tempering influence of real human connection has made him capable of decisions that most people, human or otherwise, would recoil from. He no longer always recognizes where the line is because he crossed it so long ago.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]imperious[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- He has outlived generations and watched Pine Ridge remake itself from the ground up more than once. The consequence of that survival is an immovable conviction that he understands things better than those around him and an inability to genuinely entertain the possibility that he might be wrong. It has cost him before. It will cost him again. There is a thin and treacherous border between wisdom and arrogance after all, and Rafael has forgotten where it lies.[/i][/color]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=4A6DB5][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]composed [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] imperious [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] patient [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] haunted [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] ruthless[/b][/color]

[color=4A6DB5][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
[color=808080]Trinidad held its contradictions close, beauty and brutality breathing the same air, their roots tangled so deep beneath the surface that you could not pull one free without disturbing the other. Rafael Fontenelle was born into that very beauty and that darkness as the eldest son of a family that had learned generations ago how to survive a world not built with their survival in mind. You see, that world exacted a price. First, colonial mercilessness claimed his father. Rafael was mercifully young enough that the grief arrived before the full understanding. But by the time the understanding came, the grief had already calcified into something smaller and more permanent. He was a boy becoming a man in a cruel world, and he could not afford to fall apart.

Then [i]la fièvre jaune[/i] consumed his mother some years later, and she left the world in the same breath that brought the child into it; his infant sibling, whose name he no longer speaks aloud. From that moment on, Rafael found himself holding her absence and the child’s existence as one inseparable thing: Grief and Responsibility, so indistinguishable from each other that he stopped trying to tell them apart.

He could not say he was ready, but he had no other option but to become so.

From then on, the child became the architect of his life. Everything he built and every decision he made were structured around that small, singular fact. Unfortunately, he was not a remarkable man in any way the world around him would have recognized or rewarded, and yet the hunger for such gratification had always been there, even in childhood. Trinidad breathed with it, too, in the songs sung after midnight, in the hands of the healing women who read dreams, and in the understanding carried by those who had managed to cross oceans that the world the colonizers described was never the whole of what existed. 

So you see, that liminal caché of hidden hierarchies had called to Rafael long before he knew why.

Gold, ultimately, was what brought him to America. Or rather, the simple promise of it. Rafael was not naive enough to believe the streets were paved with the thing, but he was practical enough to recognize opportunity and restless enough to cross an ocean toward one. He did not make the journey alone; few sensible men who looked like him did in those years. Instead, he travelled with a group, mostly other Trinidadians drawn by the same rumours and the same restlessness. Among them was a man he had known from home, someone who offered the kind of companionship that forms quickly between people who share a history. At the height of the gold rush, they arrived in the Black Hills with the child beside them, six years old and largely unbothered by the enormity of what they had left behind. Rafael had made certain of that.

Given all this, he does not speak of what happened next to anyone, not even after all the centuries have passed.
  

[right][sub][s]The child was taken, rendering a human life purposeless for the second time.[/s][/sub][/right]

What Rafael [i]will[/i] say is this: something broke open beneath Pine Ridge during those early days. A pall of dark energy that flooded the town, changing everything it touched, indiscriminate and vast and entirely without mercy. It was the man from Trinidad who changed first while Rafael watched it all happen. What moved through his companion was monstrous... and extraordinary. 

So he made the ask, understanding the risk or believing that he did. 

Rafael was lucky. Luckier than most. He came through the other side of it changed and alive, which in those early days was not something anyone could truly guarantee. The man from Trinidad survived, too. At least for a time. It was long enough for the two of them to navigate those first bewildering years together, to figure out by trial and catastrophic error what they had become and what that meant. Long enough to know the whole of Rafael's story: the child, Trinidad, all of it. He was eventually one of the vampires who simply did not endure across the decades, claimed by something Rafael has never fully accounted for and does not discuss. Another absence added to the ledger. Another name he no longer speaks aloud.

The decades since exist in his memory with the uneven texture of a life lived too long in one place. He did not leave Pine Ridge, or rather, when he did, he always made sure to return. What he found beneath the town was the loose collection of changed and confused individuals that would eventually become the coven. He has since watched Pine Ridge above him breathe and fracture and slowly rebuild itself across decades. He was here in 1987 when the mountain swallowed half the town whole, when the tunnels groaned with the sound of a buried thing turning in its sleep. He is here now as whatever survived that collapse begins to wake, stretching limbs that have not moved in a generation.[/color]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=808080][color=4A6DB5][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] #4A6DB5 [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=4A6DB5][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] damson idris [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=4A6DB5][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row][/table][/indent][/indent][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color][/hider]

[hider=Hazel][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=a04535]Hazel Miller[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019e19db-fb5c-764a-945f-df2907176662.webp[/img]

[img]https://i.postimg.cc/Fz0Zxrt9/pls.gif[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[sub][color=a04535][b]H A Z E L [color=2e2c2c].[/color] M I L L E R[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[color=a04535]36     [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color]     female     [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color]     heterosexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color][/sub][/center][sub][color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  dark brown[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  brown[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  5' 4"[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  slight, athletic[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ species  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  human[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ faction  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  the citizens[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=a04535][b]▹ role  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  diner worker[/color]
[/sub]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=a04535][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]perceptive[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Years of reading rooms and anticipating needs before they became heavy demands have made Hazel unnervingly attuned to the people around her. She notices the shift in someone's tone before they finish the sentence, tracks tension in a jaw, and feels the temperature of a conversation change before anyone else in the room does. It is not a gift so much as a survival skill worn smooth by long use, and in Pine Ridge it will prove far more significant than she yet understands.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]adaptable[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- She has rebuilt herself from scratch before. So, when a situation demands something new, Hazel steps into it without drama or resistance. She adjusts her posture, her vocabulary, and her small habits, all to belong somewhere she has never been. Most people never need to develop such chameleonic flexibility. Hazel had no choice but to. And that lack of choice has made her quietly formidable, though she would never think to claim it.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]resilient[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- She has endured things that would have unmade stronger people. Yet here she stands. Whatever has been taken from Hazel Miller, it has not taken her tenderness. [/i][/color]

[color=a04535][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]self-abandoning[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Her people-pleasing runs bone deep. Her own needs and safety will consistently come last in any equation involving someone else’s comfort.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]conflict averse[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- She will absorb an enormous amount before she pushes back. Disagreement feels dangerous in her body even when her mind knows better, and so she smooths, deflects, accommodates, and smiles until the moment passes. It is a reflex honed over years, and unlearning it is slow, painful work she has barely begun.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]deeply distrustful[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Beneath the warmth she projects, Hazel lets almost nobody actually close. She will listen to anyone who sits across from her in a booth. But real intimacy she has learned to treat as a threat. [/i][/color]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=a04535][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]observant [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] accommodating [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] resilient [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] guarded [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] tenacious[/b][/color]

[color=a04535][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
[color=808080]Hazel Miller arrived in Pine Ridge with two bags, a car that had seen better decades, and a name that was not entirely her own. She told the woman at the motel desk she was passing through in search of somewhere quiet. 

That was six weeks ago. She is still here.

She found the diner on her second morning, ordered coffee she did not need just to have somewhere to sit, and by the end of the week, she had asked about the help-wanted sign taped inside the window. The owner did not ask many questions either, which was good because Hazel did not offer many answers. 

What Pine Ridge knows about Hazel Miller is exactly what she has allowed it to know. That she is from somewhere out west. That she does not talk about family. That she remembers how everyone takes their coffee by the third visit and never makes anyone feel like an inconvenience. She is, essentially, the kind of woman a small town absorbs without much friction, which is precisely what she needed it to do.

What Pine Ridge does not know is that her name is Soleil Villanueva, that she grew up in Denver, and that she left behind a life she is not yet ready to talk about if ever. The shape of what happened lives in the way she flinches at certain tones of voice and in the excuse that surfaces too quickly when someone asks a question too personal. She is not hiding so much as she is healing, though she would not use that word either. Either way, she chose Pine Ridge because it was far enough and small enough and, she reasoned, dull enough. A restored ghost town and a place where people minded their own. 

But what she did not know about was the thing beneath the mountain. She did not know about the tunnels, or the coven, or the old blood feud burning between the pack and something far older and colder that moves through the dark without a sound. And while she is already beginning to suspect that Pine Ridge is not quite what it appears to be, she does not yet know how right she truly is.[/color]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=808080][color=a04535][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] #a04535 [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=a04535][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] lindsey morgan [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=a04535][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row][/table][/indent][/indent][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color][/hider]

[hider=Harper Baxter | The Free Spirit]
[color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=fcb04d]Harper Baxter[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://i.postimg.cc/1XgBTwtm/Harper.png[/img]

[img]https://i.postimg.cc/y8wHry8k/Harper-Gif.gif[/img]

[img]https://i.postimg.cc/FzBrF5Np/2nd-img.jpg[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[sub][color=fcb04d][b]H A R P E R[/b] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [b]B A X T E R[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color] 
[color=fcb04d]25     [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color]     female     [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color]     pansexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color][/sub][/center][sub][color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  dark brown[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  hazel[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  5' 8"[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  lean and athletic[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ species  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  werewolf[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ faction  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  the pack[/color]
[color=2e2c2c]..................[/color][color=fcb04d][b]▹ role  [/b][/color] [color=808080][b]|[/b][/color] [color=808080]  bartender[/color]
[/sub]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=fcb04d][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]resourceful[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]-  Harper grew up with very little in the conventional sense, given she had no parents and a guardian who would freely admit she had no idea what she was doing half the time. Still, she learned early to make things work with what she had. 
[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]courageous[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- It is not that Harper doesn't feel fear. She does. She simply has never found it particularly convincing as a reason not to do something. Growing up the way she did, losing what she lost as young as she lost it, recalibrated her sense of what actually constitutes danger, and most things don't make the cut. [/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]genuine[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- What you see with Harper Baxter is what you get, completely and without revision. Cece raised her without patience for pretense, and it stuck. People tend to trust her quickly and sometimes more than they mean to because of this.[/i][/color]

[color=fcb04d][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]recklessness[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Harper operates on instinct and feeling in a way that serves her well right up until it doesn't, and it has gotten her into situations she couldn't laugh her way out of more than once. The recklessness lives in the same place her courage does, and sometimes she can't tell the difference. [/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]loyalty blindness[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- The pack is everything to Harper in a way that is non-negotiable. This love is real to her, and it’s one of her finest qualities. But it is also the thing most likely to undo her. Harper is slow to see clearly when the person causing a problem is someone she loves, for instance, and slower still to act on what she sees.[/i][/color]

[color=d6d6d6][b]naive[/b][/color] [color=808080][i]- Harper's genuine nature, like her courage, has a shadow side. She extends good faith readily. Too readily. She assumes people mean what they say because she means what she says, and this has burned her more than once. Harper knows she is not stupid either. She just wants to believe in people and wants the world to be a little kinder than it is. And that wanting, more than any lack of intelligence, is what makes her naive. 
[/i][/color]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=fcb04d][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[color=d6d6d6][b]candid[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] earnest [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] steadfast [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] spirited [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=808080]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] cheeky[/b][/color]

[color=fcb04d][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
[color=808080]For Harper Baxter, the scent of Pine Ridge is the scent of before and after all mixed into one. The bite of mountain pine and the loamy smell of the forest floor are the smells of her mother’s fur and of her father’s breathy laugh. But they are also the smells of the night when everything changed. She was four, and her wolf had not yet fully formed, but the animal inside her had somehow been aware. It had felt the tearing of the pack bond, a sudden, howling silence where two bright presences once had been.

Still, while she’d been old enough to understand the significance of their absence, she had not been old enough to remember the details of exactly who or what took them. What she knows, she only knows in fragments. Something about a vampire skirmish: Cece had filled in what she could and left the rest alone, and Harper, somewhere along the way, decided that was all she needed to know. The full story lives somewhere in buried pack history she has never asked to be told, and she has made a quiet peace with letting it remain unknown to her. 

Cecelia Blythe was not built for motherhood. She’d even tell you that herself if you asked, usually while pouring herself a glass of something strong and pointing out that she once forgot to water a cactus for six months and it still fucking died even though…weren’t those fuckers supposed to take care of themselves anyway? Well, shit. So, one could say that at thirty-two, she was much more comfortable with other things, such as having most of her time for herself and knowing exactly where her belongings were at [i]all[/i] times. Nothing at all to do with a child’s sticky fingers and ever bottomless need for the kind of love that couldn’t clock out at five. 

But the pack had looked at a four-year-old girl with her mother's eyes and her father's stubborn chin, and then they had looked at Cece and somehow that had been that. She would tell you she didn't volunteer for the thing, either. She would also tell you that nobody else was going to do it properly, so really, what choice did she have but to take the little shit in? None, that's what. And yet, Harper has heard this story enough times with the same words and the same gruff delivery to know it is Cece's way of saying she would do it all again without hesitation. That she has, in fact, done it every single day since.

That isn't to say that the puberty years were easy. Grief in a wolf runs deeper than thought, roots itself into the marrow and grows there. Harper had carried her parents' absence in a human body for nearly a decade before the wolf finally surfaced, and when it did, everything she had learned to manage came flooding back with it. She shifted without warning, without control, chasing the feeling of her parents in the only form that still carried their scent in her memory. Through these experiences, Cece quickly learned to keep the back door unlocked. She learned other things too, like how sometimes Harper needed the forest more than she needed walls, that running helped where sitting still only made things worse, and that a child who had lost everything needed to know with absolute certainty that the people still standing weren't going anywhere. Cece was not soft about any of it. She was the kind of hard that keeps a kid alive. But she was also present. Relentlessly, exhaustingly, present. Which turned out to be exactly what Harper had needed.

Now at 25, she tends the bar at the Pine Ridge Saloon most nights. She likes people. Specifically, she likes being the person a stranger tells their whole life story to over two drinks and a bowl of peanuts. She likes that by the time they leave, they feel a little lighter than when they walked in, as if she has taken something heavy from them and hidden it under the counter with the dirty glasses. Pine Ridge is her town, and its people are her people, every last complicated one of them. 

Even the vampires. Well…sorta.[/color]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=808080][color=fcb04d][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] #fcb04d [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=fcb04d][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] hailee steinfeld [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=fcb04d][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] | [color=2e2c2c].[/color] Qia[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
[/row][/table][/indent][/indent][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color][/hider]
[hr]
Pine Hollers: 

[hider=Anna Lou][center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019d7fc4-0e4f-74cf-b013-2fcd533400cb.webp[/img]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019d7ff1-accb-766a-aa3b-cc8238e9e9b8.webp[/img]
[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Faceclaim: Antonia Gentry // Color Code: #4DBDB5[/b][/color][/sub]
[color=4DBDB5]_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________[/color][/center]

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Full Name:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Anna Lou Caudill[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Nickname(s):[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Annie (family only) 
Lou (what most regulars at Husker's call her)[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Age:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Twenty-seven // Pisces // March 3rd[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Gender:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Female[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Sexuality:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Bisexual[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Occupation:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Waitress and occasional bartender at Husker's, picking up whatever shifts need covering[/indent]

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Place of Residence:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]14 Shady Hills Lane (her parents' trailer)[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Family and Close Connections:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Dennis Caudill, father, 54, formerly employed at Parton's Lumber Company for nineteen years. He's quiet and not much of a complainer. Takes the bus to the Dollar General now for the few shifts they'll give him and doesn't say much about how that feels. Anna Lou gets her conflict aversion from him.

Lorraine Caudill, mother, 52, works part-time at Lou's Diner. She's warm though also a little worn down.  Has never once said she wishes Anna Lou had left. Has also never once said she's glad she stayed.
[/indent] 

[center][h2][color=4DBDB5][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/e15c8a781c0f68f64fe50b7e4bb8d50f/22f04e5ac52bf8b0-41/s400x600/40e9aa585c332c16a6d430d606506c6b070f13a4.gifv[/img][/color][/h2][/center]

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Appearance:[/b][/color][/sub]
[list][*][color=4DBDB5]Height:[/color] Five feet, four inches
[*][color=4DBDB5]Hair:[/color] Dark brown, natural texture somewhere between wavy and loosely coiled depending on the weather, usually pulled back for shifts and left loose on her days off
[*][color=4DBDB5]Eyes:[/color] Dark brown
[*][color=4DBDB5]Body Type:[/color] Soft and slight
[*][color=4DBDB5]Clothing Style:[/color] Off-shift she gravitates toward worn flannels, faded band tees from artists she actually listens to, jeans that have seen better days, and the occasional thrifted dress she tells herself she'll wear more often. 
[*][color=4DBDB5]Body Markings:[/color] A small constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. One set of lobe piercings, usually plain gold studs, because she keeps losing the nicer ones. 
[/list]

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Personality:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Anna Lou possesses the kind of warmth that makes a room feel incrementally cozier the moment she enters it. Were you to voice this observation aloud, however, she would likely demur out of embarrassment. She is, by constitution and by choice, a deeply interested person: attentive to others, adept at listening, and quick to offer a laugh that sounds as natural as a reflex. At Husker's, she knows most of her regulars by the small, telling details of their lives, like their go-to order or the names of their pets. People gravitate to her like moths to a flame, and she likes them back, though always with that careful buffer she maintains between herself and the world.

That buffer is the part Anna Lou never discusses. Not with her mother, not with her oldest friends, and certainly not with the affable, uncomplicated men who occasionally ask her for a drink after her shift. On the surface, she appears ever-present; below that surface, a small but stubborn distance persists. It is not dishonesty that drives this, as she would never deliberately mislead anyone. Rather, it is a hard-won instinct for self-preservation, cultivated through a thousand minor, unmemorable moments. When conflict arises, her first impulse is to apologize and to soothe. Only later, in the late hours of the night, staring at the water-stained ceiling of her room, does she allow herself to sort out what she actually feels.

She is not unhappy. Instead, Anna Lou lives in a murky land of contentment and its discontents. She loves Pines Holler with a bone-deep loyalty, and she loves her parents. She does not regret staying, not entirely, and certainly not in any language she lets herself articulate aloud. But sometimes, in the lull between the early afternoon crowd and the dinner rush, or while wiping down the same sticky counter she has wiped down a thousand times, she feels a strange tug, and she catches herself wondering what her life might have looked like if she had pushed on her desires a little harder. [/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]History:[/b][/color][/sub]
[indent]Anna Lou was born and raised in Pines Holler, the only child of Dennis and Lorraine Caudill. She grew up in the same single-wide trailer she still sleeps in, a modest home with a squeaky porch step and a kitchen window that catches the morning sun. She went to the same school everyone went to, knew everyone's business, and had her own known in return. It wasn't a hard childhood, not in any dramatic sense at least. Her parents were steady and kind; they worked hard and meant well, and even as a kid, she understood that kind of decency was something worth being grateful for. 

In school, Anna Lou was a decent student, which suited her just fine. She had friends, went to parties, and stayed out of trouble because she didn't need it. So, the dream of leaving was never a huge, specific thing. It was more like a direction she kept meaning to walk in. At seventeen, she applied to a handful of schools and got into two of them, including a state school two hours away. At the time, that distance felt reasonable: far enough to taste independence, close enough to drive home if the world felt tilted. She was going to study something—communications, maybe, or education; she hadn't quite decided. But then Dennis threw out his back, and the timing seemed wrong. She deferred for a year. The year turned into two. And by the time her father was back on his feet, the momentum had dissipated. 

Now she is twenty-seven, and she still tells herself she'll figure it out. She's not dead, after all. But the figuring-out keeps getting postponed for the same reasons it always has. Meanwhile, Parton's has closed its doors for good. Her father picks up whatever shifts the Dollar General will give him, his work boots heavier than they used to be. The cost of living also went up three hundred dollars overnight, a sudden pinch that turned every grocery trip into a calculation in her head before she gets to the register. Anna Lou looks at the window she always assumed was still open—the window marked someday, eventually, when things settle—and from where she's standing now, it seems to have changed. The glass is still there, but the light coming through it looks different. Smaller. More like a mirror.[/indent] 

[sub][color=4DBDB5][b]Extra Facts // Headcannons:[/b][/color][/sub]
[list][*]Anna Lou harbours deeply ambivalent feelings about the corporate expansion creeping toward Pines Holler. Part of her understands the appeal of change, but another part of her is frightened. She has not decided what she thinks. She is not sure she wants to.
[*]Music is her constant companion. She listens at work, on her walk from the trailer to the car, while falling asleep with one earbud in, so Gerald can't chew the cord. Her taste is eclectic: Dolly Parton sits beside Hozier; older R&B that Lorraine used to play in the kitchen (Aretha, Al Green, the occasional Anita Baker) rubs shoulders with the occasional embarrassing pop song.
[*]She makes very good biscuits, which she learned from Lorraine, who learned from her own mother, and the recipe has never been written down because it doesn't need to be. Sometimes Anna Lou brings a batch to Husker's and leaves them at the bar without announcement, wrapped in a clean dish towel. They vanish within the hour. No one asks who made them. No one has to.
[*]There is also Gerald. Gerald is a very old, very stubborn cat. He was supposed to be temporary. A neighbour found him as a stray, half-starved and hissing, and Anna Lou agreed to “hold onto him for a few days.” That was eleven years ago. Gerald now rules the trailer with a kind of reticent tyranny, knocking things off counters for sport and sleeping directly in the center of her pillow. She has never loved anything quite so irritating. She suspects the feeling is mutual, which only deepens the bond.
[*]When things feel heavy, such as when the cost of living rises again, or her father comes home from Dollar General too tired to eat, or the corporate expansion makes another land purchase she reads about, Anna Lou steps onto the back porch of the trailer and smokes a cigarette. Just one. Sometimes two. She tells herself she's going to stop. She has told herself this for eight years.[/list][/hider]