ςнαяαςтєяş × яøℓєρℓαчş

[Noxious]

Rosalux

“When the Imperium talks about decay and disease, they very often focus upon ailments of the body. They are always so base. Far worse is the decay in one’s mind that belittles existence to the point of forcing a candle to flicker, coaxing the wind and licking the wax in an attempt to fade away. A flame is meant to burn strong and ferocious, to ravage landscapes without bias, not to be trapped in a wax house.”

“I was that candle. Groomed and pampered, a pedigree pet put on a pedestal to suffocate in apathy. I’d been disgusting and wasteful; doing no good, bad, doing nothing. Like you. They would tell me how lucky I was to be coveted and protected, but a disease-like stagnation settled upon me. I know now that I was searching for something long before he found me.”

She spoke with resolve and a twisted sort of adoration. The way those words stretched her pale lips hinted at the charm and education groomed into upper class and if fear hadn’t clenched his reactions he would likely have found the girl attractive, in a sickly sort of way. Blonde hair continually curling underneath an oppressive heat that exuded from her and eyes as pale green as death that whispered paradoxical promises to what sanity the fever had not possessed.

“W..why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because how else would I save you?”

“Are...Aren’t you going to kill me?” She looked down at the hog tied man beneath her lithe form. His face was half pressed into the ash and grit of this burial tomb he had led her into and tears, clean and lost, fell from his eyes causing his voice to quiver. Her eyebrows quirked in what could only be shock, and maybe a little hurt. She had spent weeks tracking him down, hunting him specifically and he thought she was just going to kill him? She couldn’t let him ruin this moment.

“You haven’t been listening at all. I’m not some psychopath.” She remembered then that he was still confused. There was a pause before a laugh slipped from between her lips, joyous and, in other circumstances, infectious. Almost as much as her fever damp fingers that petted across his cheek while she spoke. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to send you home, a savior.”

Currently, he was no one but a connection to the Imperium, but she knew he could be so much more. The hunt had proved he was resourceful and strong willed, taking much longer than initially expected. She had become quite adept at tracking down the things she wanted. Originally it had all been about the book, but after such an elaborate chase she had seen the fighter inside of him. Nurgle would be so pleased.

It would be days before the Weeping Widow consumed him, weeks if he was as strong as she hoped. Men rarely survived the disease, hence its colloquial tag. She felt such pride that she could only beam down at him like a coveting mother, like she had with her own son years ago.

The baby had been quarantined as the Weeping Widow’s plague corrupted their country. The poverty stricken were embraced first as the wealthy locked themselves away and dismissed their servants. All of it was in vain, Nurgle does not care about status. The Imperium and their corpse god were not coming to the rescue as promised; and why would they? They had no might to reclaim the conquests of a stronger god. It had been two weeks and the taint had made it into every home. With the servants dismissed it wasn’t difficult to make it to her son’s side. She lay with him, petting the infant’s plagueless forehead and letting him grab and suck upon her fingers, damp with disease. A smile had claimed residence on her lips; such a lucky boy indeed, to never have to look back at wasted life. He would live forever with the knowledge of struggle and the vibrant joy that erupted from such.

“Of course, you may be angry at first. I was. There is an initial desperation and agony. My own was immense, consuming, a burning fire unchecked. I was dying; hateful and aghast at my own misfortune and my old god. Under the guise of fevered dreams they came to me. Nurgle. It was impossible to imagine a time this didn’t make sense. How had my reality been so tainted that I could not see such a blatant truth? The truth of everything. This was my freedom, the Weeping Widow plague that defiled my planet, devouring souls relentlessly for Nurgle. My husband would no longer force me to stay. They would no longer expect dutiful stagnation.” Her captured prize continued eking out pathetic whimpers while the hand extending from her flak jacket continued to caress his cheek. She was careful not to mar his appearance with her clawlike nails, even as she ignored his protests and continued on. “You’ll be free too, after the pain.”

“It is said that after Nurgle’s embrace the torment is no longer there; the ailment exists but the pain is replaced. I believe this. I believe my pain came from my pride and the deceit of the Imperium about the goals of existence. I saw clearly the waste and disgust I had rooted in for years. The pain ceased because I realized the futility of that life.”

“Please, please stop. Just let me go. I can pay you.” Her eyes rolled as another giggle chimed from her throat. The ash of the fallen stuck to the tears upon his face that she stroked away. The infection from her fingertips had long soaked into his pores and now she was simply trying to comfort the man.

“You’ll see.” Long lashes pinched in a wink as she removed her weight from on top of him, jingling the clip/drop harness that hugged her hips. She reached into his pocket and pulled out a communication device she knew contained a tracker. Spidery digits tapped on the controls and connected with his employer before she tossed the tech beside him.

“They’ll come for you and you can tell them about me, but they’ll kill you on the spot. Or you can fight the good fight.” She knew what he would choose. It was her absolute favorite part of humanity; that pesky drive to survive. She slipped the book, one that claimed to be the account of a psyker who had ventured to Nurgle’s plain, into a satchel at her side and turned towards the entrance of the cave. As her feet moved en route to the exit they began a skipping rhythm. In the decay behind her she dragged an open blade chassis chain sword, rusted and corroded. He continued to whimper and sob, hopefully on the path of desperation, as she slipped from his view. His muffled sobs were soon overwhelmed with her own humming; an enchanting diddy she’d picked up a trader’s station.

Ideas on Appearance

.....

[Noxious]

Hesper HEX Gaulis

Hesper "Hex" Gaulis

AGE჻ twenty-four ✖✖✖ GENDER჻ female ✖✖✖ RANK჻ 2nd Lieut

APPEARANCE჻

She maintained an athletic build that stood at an average height; wholly unexceptional save for the pale freckled skin and dark coloring that confessed her home sector. Upon those freckled cheeks perched gluttonous rosé lips that seemed forever pleased; occasionally exaggerating the sweet smile and blossoming dimples proceeding wicked actions. Hair the hue of wispy obsidian was kept short and fell messily around unnatural eyes, once the mirrored stain of locks color, now glittered with the shaved silver of tech. The tattoos of military and her home world laced and blended with tech on the entirety of her body. Her right arm from the elbow down was the only glaring technology that seemed almost devoid of bio-filler but held onto its human shape despite the exaggerated fingers.

✖ ✖ ✖

BACKGROUND჻

Brax’vairn was a rare stopping point on trade routes, an aphotic dwarf planet refurbished into a one-stop-shop salvage yard. Many would have assumed that Brax would have gone rebel, but the populus suffers from an affliction of tight knit tradition. There were seven main ‘metropolitan’ areas on the floating rock; heavily connected by a fossil tram system. This was no feat considering the surface of the planet was a meager 1.56 × 107 km2 [a bit smaller than Pluto] and was mostly covered in scrap.

_{“Mech, tech, interstellar, ATV, hell even certified bio-log-i-cal;}
^{You want it? We’ve got it! Here in Brax’vairn Main.”}

People didn’t move to Brax and people didn’t move away. This allowed for an almost cult like existence and belief systems; old world religion blended with tech and superstition. Morality, while implemented and touted, was a decaying and tainted bastard of previous generations. As if that was not enough to convey an eldritch existence, the lack of sunlight only proved to compound the situation, infecting generations with a bothersome sensitivity to UV and affinity for darkness. This is not to say the people of Brax were exclusively somber; in fact the people had a multitude of religious celebrations that consumed the planet with debaucherous reverie.

_{Home is not where the heart is.}
^{Home is what the heart is.}

Medicine was not some calling that had followed Hesper from childhood. In fact, she stumbled in and fell into the Space Marines before she could blink. Her pro transhumanism upbringing and experimental fancies were raised in a (somewhat shady) bio-tech chop shop that had catered to her understanding the in’s and out’s of bio tech. Space Marine’s had simply been a way out, but they quickly became so much more. She absorbed the exhilaration of new tech alongside violence and excelled in service. They moved her into Special-Ops and her freedom and skills increased. When the 7-5 started looking for a medic, she was an obvious choice and took the job with a fluttering heart. She was honored to be one of the feared--childhood goal fulfilled.

^{Dead is dead; Parts is parts.}

Dead guys is parts.
Dead guys is parts.

^-Ripperjack

✖ ✖ ✖

PERSONALITY჻

● sadistic
● relentless
● empathetic
● idealistic
● meticulous

✖ ✖ ✖

SPECIALTIES჻

● we're going to need a medic

Knowledge and access to combat drugs and field dressings. Surgical knowledge pertaining to bio-true (human), bio-tech (techno-human cross) with built in signal/function sensors and manipulators. For example, if a heart stops, cybernetics built into Hex have the ability to hyper focus on the electrical impulses of that organ and shock the heart to promote reboot.

● we're going to need an answer

Medical background gives a unique perspective into triggers, pain and its receptors. She has invasive knowledge on tissue, bio-mechanics, nerve bundles, organs and bone structure. For example, the same mechanism to restart a heart can be used to cycle a cease and reboot of the heart for hours. Her mind is unrelenting in its inquiry for human pain; for the Empire of course, and science.

[Noxious]

Sachevia

Sᴀᴄʜᴇᴠɪᴀ . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . ᴏf ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜsᴇ ᴏf sɪʀᴇɴs

[+]

ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ʙᴏʀɴ ☿ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ-ɴɪɴᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀs ☿ ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ

Pʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟ Dᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ.

.Her stature was unassuming and average in repose, but her shadowless form had a dancer’s gait; one that reached beyond the oculus and stoked longing with measured and curling rhythms. Upon the faultless pale skin fell dark hair, dipping beyond her waist intermingled with woven charms, feathers, neat dreadlocks, thin braids and loose curls. The form was draped in tight leather and loose silk that seemed to flow and nip at her exuded aura with a movement of its own. The most common façade of the demon kin was one of upper class ignorance; a fragile and innocent nature. Thick lashes bat over stark gray eyes, paling in betrayal of her rotting soul and lined in charcoal. Her face was further complemented by a sickly sweet smile curled over plump bloodstained lips that wavered between refinement and primal compulsion. Fate’s favor expounded when the lips parted and melodious tones candied each word and fully muffled the underlying sardonic humor she occasionally failed to repress.

But there was another side, one that came as quickly as the tides ever enslaved by the moon and would drag a man to his gasping death. An ancestral boon on her end, to be sure, the eyes narrowed and pierced into the most weathered, the apathetic pale replaced with an unforgiving ink, and darkening lips curled into something else, something malicious and sadistically tempting. Fingers, once lithe, seemed to extend with aggravated twitching and the tips of her hair seemed to join in the aura caressing dance, licking at static around her.

Sᴋɪʟʟsᴇᴛ.

.Sneak ↠ stealth. pickpocket. lock picking.
.Charisma ↠ situation adaption. silver tongued.
.Enchantment ↠ compulsion. charm.
.Apothecary ↠ general knowledge.

Hɪsᴛᴏʀʏ.

.People prefered many terms but witch seemed to resignate well enough. It wasn’t like they cared to name themselves. Being named meant being seen and there were few species that didn’t hunt the witches. Hell, even witches hunted witches. So there was no question upon her birth that she would be hidden away.

Many witches favored hardier species to conceal their offspring, due to the difficulties inherent in raising. It spoke volumes of respect, if only within an eclipsing species, that Brand was gifted with the burden of Sachevia. Witch offspring are untrained and unfocused, dangerous, but Brand was not an ordinary man. His patience was unrivaled; he taught her control through meditation and hard work.

^{idle hands are the devils playground}

He taught her the importance of self and community, rarer things still: love without question, fairness. Sure, he wasn’t the tea party and tears over teddy type, but he was strong and good. It would forever resignate within her that there existed such a giving and caring man as Brand. It helped to curb the gnawing cynicism of reality that whispered into her soul about the evils of man.

She couldn’t stay though and at sixteen the driving hunger to experience life lifted her from the home and into chaos. She wanted to see the world, change the world, maybe even rule the world. But she was unskilled and untrained outside of the woods, unprepared for the blows and punches. For two years Brand bailed her out of unspeakable situations whenever he could, babying her to an extent that only spoiled her further. The last time she saw Brand he was paying for her freedom after she was caught trying to steal from a high born she had met at a tavern. He had tousled her hair on their way out, as he had done when she was a child. “I would ask you not to get any more trouble, but that seems an unreasonable request.” He had smiled, joking, but she was a petulant thing and she had only sulked and scowled.

It would be years from that moment until her realization of how much Brand had shaped her, how much he meant. The good within her was Brand. By the time he arrived at her last fiasco, she was gone. He received only shrugs and murmurs of the sin trodden beauties that had claimed his charge. A year later she had sent him a secret missive informing that she was alive and well, but she wouldn’t be in touch. She signed in a cat bunny creature she had drawn in her youth. There was nothing left to do but move on without her, and around ten years had passed without mention from the young witch.

There are a multitude of deaths in any life. When she joined the House of the Sirens much of her had to die; one who collects secrets should be careful to bury their own, and bury them deep. Her love for Brand, her loyalty to her family, to their community, all of it was dangerous and so it died, at least to the prying eye. She kept tabs on a few of them, discreetly so as not to draw that attention of the Sirens upon her family.

She trained continuously in the beginning, honing her skillset for years until missions began. The Sirens weren’t a selective group when it came to clientele, and so their fingers traced across the maps; a web of secrets and scandal that catered to the wealthy and the desperate, as long as they had something of value to trade.

When she heard of Brand’s execution it was only a few days before her sisters whispered names, locations, and curious other facts of occult from the mouths of the King’s inner circle. Brand was the good in her, and the loss would be rectified. She knew her siblings would not go silent into the night, but she was selfish in her revenge, foolhardy in brashness, and so alone she sought this whispered Veredict Daigon, this “Butcher of Green River”.

Psʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ Pʀᴏғɪʟᴇ.

.After the death of Brand there was a silent attack within Sachevia; a loss of a piece that she had desperately clung to without knowing it. She is tactful, apathetic, and hell bent on fitness in the survival of the fittest. The overwhelming need to succeed and impress the Siren’s masters has been replaced with a drive for balance, as much as a sociopath can hope for. High emotions weaken her sanity and drive demon instincts within her and should be avoided, so she is well trained at focusing and faking emotions as needed, though Brands loss does have her a bit shaky. Prior to Brand’s loss she was rather pleased with life. She had a purpose and she was exceedingly good at bringing fruition to her jobs. She has been rather lonely and is self conscious in her lack of “life affirming” relationships. The only praise she receives is via chain of command of the House of Serpents, which has warped her sense of self.

Eǫᴜɪᴘᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ.

.Throwing Daggers ↠ made of a deep black metal and hidden upon her persons
.Hand Maidens ↠ quiet little things that trace behind her, skills unknown.
.Messengers ↠ ravens are widely used by all Sirens to spread secrets.
.Apothecary Supplies ↠ herbs, oils, animal skins/skulls, assorted others
.Clawed Gauntlets ↠ lightweight and decorated in runes and puzzling patterns.
.Trunks of Clothing ↠ what courtesan doesn't travel in style? Everything from leather to silk, midnight black to summer peach.
.Carriage & Horses ↠ sleek black metal carriage with well groomed gray dapple horses.

Yᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ.

WIP - Veredict Daigon

Rᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘs

.Varrick ↠ Knew him from his age 9 to 11.
.Masef ↠ Knew him from infancy until he was 9.
.Ashira ↠ Knew her from her age 5 to 7.
.Grey ↠ They have never met.
.Beren ↠ They have never met.
.Loden ↠ Knew him from his age 4 to 14.
.Kiera ↠ Sachevia is 5 years younger, knew Kiera from her arrival at 12 until Sachevia departed (Kiera was 21).

[Noxious]

Amentia Obcasus

_{∙• never once considering how in the world she was to get out again •∙}

Ʌ M Ǝ N Ŧ I Ʌ Ɵ B C Ʌ Ṣ U Ṡ

^{Twenty-Seven || 11th of April || 170 cm. || First Class}

A ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ

The poise and title of SOLDIER seems to have rolled off her shoulders and fallen to the wayside, leaving a waifish and excessively girly silhouette that lits about the shadows with a skipping gait in a world here and yet not wholly here; a dance among the fantastical; reminiscent of a pixie intoxicated. To focus on the girl illuminated is to see her clearly, but wandering or shaded eyes are graced with a haze about her form that licks at the air with a maddening lack of cohesion, one of many peculiarities inherited. Wardrobe of opportunity, though rarely afforded, is youthfully feminine: lace, ruffles and hues of cerise, lavender and periwinkle, with a particular affinity for grandiose furs that recall adolescence in her mother’s wardrobe. The overall effect is like a porcelain doll out of place, fragile and fading.

A once chestnut mane now dipped in the ink of aeon is sheared to a bob style that did not seem to falter the image, falling messily in raven strands across fair skin lightly dusted with freckles. A fragmented soul mended with aeon too late gazes out of almost colorless pale gray orbs that twitch imperceptibly between vacant, melancholy, exuberant, and then back again. Features display too easily stolen emotion; pale pink lips that curl towards dimples and a laugh betraying shared secrets in tune with the hearts of lovers.

Her beauty and virility becomes a juxtaposition akin to her mind, both savage and innocent, when surrounded by the destruction of battle. Lips curl in pensive and somber thought, touching her expression with a cause, and an occasional flicker of bemusement that finally entrances her eyes into a gnawing darkness. Those that had tempted emotion would do well to weep for the ferocity it holds on her bearing, the monster it bequeaths upon the girl.

P s ʏ ᴄ ʜ ᴇ

There is a world that consumes her and it is not our own. While SOLDIER has taught her to remain present there is always a notion about her that belies the struggle to exist and absorb her surroundings. Her facade is one she is well committed too; sweet, innocent, damaged, lost, but there is occasionally a method to her betrayal from the inner yearnings. The veneer was cast to dispel the cruel beast that claws about within. There is meaning in not knowing oneself, but loss in not being truly known.

She is far from opposed to making friends, or even small talk, but most find her to be lackadaisical, quirky or to be blunt, fucking weird. She has a tendency to latch onto specific individuals and dismiss others entirely. At first there seemed to very little rhyme or reason as to how these judgments were made. In time, it was observed that her aeon helps shield her from her apathetic cruelty by teaching her to feed from the emotions of those around her. The observant believe the girl is drawn towards those with intense and lucid emotions; be they poignant or jubilant. The SOLDIER program, as of yet, has seen no negative effects of this emotion siphoning, though her companions are usually chosen with this in mind and personnel with weak constitutions are advised against prolonged contact.

It would not be a stretch to say that her aeon is her best friend, the only one she has truly allowed past her barriers. He dwells in her head and likely knows the girl better than herself. She views the transformation as a boon, unsurprisingly. When one has grown accustomed to madness then madness is the only norm to be known.

B ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ɢ ʀ ᴏ ᴜ ɴ ᴅ

Amentia was born into a line of excessive wealth and influence. Her mother, an enchanting woman, doted heavily on her only child and was a superb storyteller. They would create castles of silk and her mother’s empyreal voice would weave fantasies about princesses battling demons in a land where magic was paramount. She was six when her mother died. Heartbroken, Amy slipped more and more into their fantasy world. Her father favored to spoil the girl through objects rather than affection and allowed the harmless delusions to continue, viewing her as a child, or not seeing her at all.

Years later the Father brought a new wife and son into their home. Amy seemed pleased to have the company and Father was content to leave them alone while he traveled. But all good things come to an end, and her Father’s realization of this was sudden. He came home to find Amy standing in the foyer, barefoot in a white gown stained with crimson bleeding into soft pinks. He removed a kitchen knife from her hand and scooped her into his arms, battling a mounting hysteria. In a shaky, almost reluctant, voice he asked what had happened. “They were bored and so I helped them get to a better place,” was the beaming cherubs only response. He set her down then, never to touch the girl again. Amentia would never feel remorse for her actions, though she did over the loss of contact.

The whole incident was covered up; any evidence disappeared, along with Amy. Her Uncle was currently pulling for a Regent position in Nuxvar and this scandal, Amentia, could not be allowed to tarnish the family name. The media relayed the fabricated story calling it a burglary and even the people at the Mental Health Institute deigned it improper to discuss, instead choosing to drown the girl in lôtos, a drug that induces sleep with the side of effect of vivid dreams and hallucinations. Had they cared, they would realize this only compounded her previous insanity. Soon she acquired a dependence on the drug, and any attempt to remove it from her system brought on a frightful fit of anhedonia and withdrawal. She was ten.

She lived there for years, there and not there, crawling into her head so that the world within her became more vibrant and encapsulating than anything reality had to offer. It wasn’t until she was 16 that SOLDIER came collecting at the request of her almost forgotten family. SOLDIER proved to be a blessing. They gave her a semblance of sanity and normality, at least a means to grasp at it. They gave her routine and they treated her like everyone else. She was far from the worst case to pass through these halls. Her Father has even written her to tell her how proud he is of her progress, though she wasn’t asked to return home and he never bothered to come visit. She convinced herself these were impossibilities and not the fault of her Father’s affections.

She continues to struggle with -facilitated- drug abuse. SOLDIER even chose to expand her arsenal of abuses when they realized that there was a need to quickly remove the effects of her crutches in lieu of battle and training. The doctors assured an easy fix and introduced her to Exsomnis IX; a high grade amphetamine. The average human would surely deteriorate in health with this juxtaposed concoction, but thanks to her aeon infusion her body seems no worse for wear. It is difficult to tell if it has furthered her mental capacities. She still proves to be an effective weapon and so concern has yet to be shown over medicating.

R ᴇ ɢ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴀ

Her inherited empathetic nature gives her an almost prophetic sense in battle, an instinct that thrives with or without a centered calm. Due to this she adapts quickly to her opponents. She favors a style that is ultimately rooted in surprise and is not beyond running and drawing the opponent into a situation beneficial to herself or faking an injury to lull the already over-estimated opponent into complacency.

She favors lightweight armor in muted camouflaging tones and has been provided with a thin durable suit that bends reflective light and allows for near perfect concealment in an array of environments. Her weapon of choice and skill is of limited variation; relying heavily upon bo-shuriken that are placed in excess on her thighs, arms, boots and occasionally even used to hold her hair up. After the realization that her blood can have damaging effects when making contact with others she has taken to cutting them across her own flesh and coating their tips. She is currently trying to master the lightweight and ferocious Kpinga and has taken to strapping two of them across her back.

She doesn't hesitate. Ever. True mercy is a thought claimed by sanity, of which she has very little kinship, and instead her own mind sees death as its own mercy. To remove people from the dull and damning reality and allow them to venture somewhere better. SOLDIER is inclined to favor this reasoning, if only they could remove its application to the home team.

For as long as she can remember there has been another inside her. A monster dwelling within, vying for control and whispering immoral absurdities so she took the introduction of her aeon quite well. He even proved to win out against the other and provide comfort while her body trembled and writhed in sweat through a melodic caress of complex ethereal symphonies. They bonded; both trapped in this reality, misunderstood and sharing a rather loose view on pesky definitions like morality and damnation.

She feels indebted which she attempts to repay by granting freedoms over her physical being that most SOLDIERs dare not afford their own aeons. Her lack of conviction for control over the aeon and his genetic influence has hindered any further advancement as the SOLDIER program seems weary of her compulsions, and whom truly conceives her actions and thoughts.

T A N T I B U S : ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ғᴀʙʀɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Often our worst enemy is our fear, the creeping miasma that crawls and burrows destructively between heart and mind, finding true potential and presence as you drift between worlds- nightmares. She beckons these demons from within their keepers imagination, whispering animation and confirmations to new found pets in tones that edge upon the void of sanity and ravishment. They creep forth, cimmerian phantoms tinged in malice. While they lack in capacity to deal sizable damage, they are impervious to receiving and often deter the assaults of enemies.

V E S A N I A : ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴜʀɪɴɢ, ᴀᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss

Focusing on a chosen enemy mind can send their consciousness into a downward spiral in which madness begins to devour through emotion, memories and sanity. The experience is far from painless. It has been cured with time in some, while others show only minimal improvement after lengthy exposure. The negative effect of this is a sort of absorption on her end, for pieces of soul never truly dissipate.

P R A E D O M O : ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, sᴜʙᴊᴜɢᴀᴛᴇ

A fog of shadows wells about the girl, consuming only an inch or so of space from the ground but affecting an odd sensation of slithering solidifications just below; a miasma of guardian hood that embraces almost imperceptible tentacles. Should anyone deign to approach the maniacal minx the tentacles are quick to lacerate their flesh with spiked tips that skirt upon the edge of reality and link them to her purpose; temporarily removing their own thoughts/motivations and replacing them with her own. Depending on her mood this can induce an urge to protect or an overwhelming need to curl into a ball and whimper for release. Effects are nullified once contact is broken.

A ᴇ ᴏ ɴ

+ X C A V A I R N || C ᴏ ʟ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ʟ ᴇ s s & B ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ

ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅᴇᴄᴀʏ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴇɴsʟᴀᴠɪɴɢ.

Initially it’s true visage was an incomprehensible jumble of debate, an evasive camouflage of nothingness and familiarity, as viewers each recalled entirely deviating entities. A repair to cohesion was found through implementing an array of blinding illumination upon the persecuted creature. Exposed was a coherent yet defective amalgamation of nix and psyche; a penumbra of macabre allure. Sharp points and twisted claws weep corrupting toxin and precede degeneration with a myriad of oculus’ that seem to perceive through aura as well as sight. To be unguarded in the presence of such an embodiment is to feel, utterly and inescapably, tinged with dread and some suffering crippling depressive ruminations. The emotions are so woven in proximity that to claim them as your own or the aeons is futile.

...and with creation there would be death and decay, and as beginnings are messy, so shall be the end, for all creation is subject to time and fate, especially the mind…

It’s own intentions are muddled in an impractical translation of other to human; maddening and virulent. It isn’t evil in so far as it’s incomprehensible and noxious; transcending our own ideals of morality and aligning with natural progressions. It speaks in a symphonic lament that recalls something both sinister and intimate in most. Personnel in contact with the aeon are consistently rotated as it seems a reverse Stockholm syndrome often comes into play.

C ᴏ ʀ ᴇ

A S S A S S I N

O ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ᴅ ʀ ɪ ᴠ ᴇ

D A E M O N I U M V I S

Limit break induces an appearance of coma on the girl. The essence of Amentia and Xcavairn splinter outward in an all out empathetic assault; entering, enslaving and adapting the bodies of the recently deceased [human or other] within an unknown proximity. If there is no readily available dead then the critically wounded will do. It harkens a process of decay and atrophy, delayed enough to make the husks useful either in an assault or protective capacity.

[Noxious]

Buor'Kut

B ᴜ ᴏ ʀ ' K ᴜ ᴛ "ᘜᖇᗴᗴȠᔕ" O ' D ᴏ ɴ ɴ ᴇ ʟ ʟ

^{A tree is known by its fruit;
a man by his d e e d s.
An acted deed is never lost;
and he who sows shall reap.}

A ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ

________________________________________________________________________
<sup>He’s unsure of his age, but appears somewhere near 50 and tends to respond to the
question of such in kind. The first thing people usually notice about him is his size and
the immense degree to which it fills a room. At 7 feet it’s hardly a surprise. To continue
the exaggeration of a man his arms stem from his torso like trunks of a weathered yew
tree and reach a length a bit awkward for average, flaring out into fists reminiscent of a
sledge hammer head. What’s more, there is a certain grace about the giant, a slow
and gentle step that’s intentions are mirrored in considerate and concerned eyes the
shade of maple bark. His hair was once a darker shade, but has grown peppered in the
recent years; though his facial hair and incessant stubble betrays a color kin to his
eyes. Another oddity in the behemoth's possession would be the judgemental monkey
that makes Buor’Kut its perpetual perch, tail about his neck. .

There is, of course, another Buor’Kut. The mask isn’t a complete denial of his traits, but
his true visage is a well guarded one of bark and leaves, crisping with the calling of time.
The bark tends to be more prominent in the points where his joints meet and the leaves,
shades of saddle brown to eucalyptus, scatter wherever one might expect to find hair.
His nails are dense, made for churning into the earth. His eyes, while retaining their
color, are tinged with an inconsolable sadness that almost breeches on a loss: be it of
self, sanity or solace… it would be hard to say. His nose and lips become slightly lost in
his true appearance, there, yet diminished in importance and projection. .</sup>

O ᴄ ᴄ ᴜ ᴘ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ

________________________________________________________________________
^{The Owl In The Tree : Tea Shop & Apothecary}

P ᴇ ʀ s ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ

________________________________________________________________________
<sup>While at first he may appear and act as a simple extension of his petite companion [he
lets her do most of the talking], he is not without his own shaded and mortally flawed
past and endeavors. His is a calm and steady personality, one not from nature but
rather intense nurturing. A life of many wrong turns grasping at a chance to finish clear
of blistering debts that slash across his soul and surely mark him for damned. This lends
itself to his almost inability to refuse a request for help. He is a sucker for a good story,
especially if it is coupled with a beer and a pleasant ending. .

But then, no one finds redemption easily. There are times, deep into a bottle, when he
begins to wonder if all this pinning for absolution is even worth a damn and it is Joselyn
who usually steers him back to the path. Sometimes on her part this is a simple touch,
other times it is a week of hiking around in the badlands to find the oddly possessed
brute. There lies within great potential, though for what it will be Jobs burden to unearth.

He had always found happiness within the earth. There was something about digging
your fingers into something as old as time, touched by galaxies and stroked by Gods of
long forgotten civilizations. And this had become a piece of his niche in Arcadia. His
keeper had formed him with the strength of elementals, a passive gardener with a
heart capable of destructive natural chaos. A mountain containing a dormant volcano. .</sup>

H ɪ s ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ

________________________________________________________________________
<sup>His life before Arcadia was inconsequential and recalling life within is pretty heavily
laced with ramblings and roads better not traveled. Best to just say he wasn’t heavily
burdened by issues of morality or familial ties. His past actions sit on his bulky shoulders
like a burden of cement blocks, but it is upon his shoulders alone and rarely discussed,
even with his closest companion. He returned to this plane, already a capable adult by
any culture’s view. Of course, he hadn’t been sent here to remain. Rather he was sent
to collect something for his keeper, a death, and not for the first time. Arguably, a death
is a death, and one was offered, though it was not the youthful budding power but
rather her mother that was sacrificed by his crushing palms. There had been
something, a spark there, a recognition that rippled like flames over his fae dulled mind
and recalled something, home. This was his home and as mother wept for daughter as
no one had ever wept for him he did something he had dared not for decades, he made
a pledge to the woman in exchange for a spark of hope in those tear laden pools. This
was not a petty mortals promise, this was a binding vow with fate that wove into the core
of his being and offered him enough sustenance to withdraw from the Hedge, a hope of
permanent release, a hope of something better. When Joselyn found him, sap pouring
from deep regret that he felt stronger than any emotion had ever touched him as a
human, it sealed his path. She had become his: his burden, his family, his purpose,
when only days ago he had had none. .

To stay with the young girl was a double edged sword. His keeper would surely search
for him, even if it was just to rip apart his soul to amuse herself after his treachery. But
if he were to leave her there were many evils in the world that would tear apart such a
young girl. He decided to stay, partly due to the calming and healing effect the girl had
on his forever altered mind. He had fervently explained to Joselyn the troubles with
Fae and detailed reasons for her to stay detached from them. They were unpredictable
and cruel, and he hoped that would be enough to keep her from them. He knew better.
But he trusted her, even if he was usually quite over protective. There were times when
he would venture out on errands, searching for something that Joselyn seemed either
oblivious of, or knew better than to ask and it was on one such journey that a thought
struck him-jutting into his chest with such a ferocious swiftness that it was moments
before he could breath. He immediately returned to Joselyn’s side and prepared her to
leave. .

He had been sharing a drink with a companion from the Court of Summer, having
found kinship amongst their ranks when he worried he may not be enough to keep
himself and Joselyn safe. They were discussing their old Keepers and their dislike and
then it dawned on him: his Fae keeper had never allowed escape, had never faltered
in her cunning and intelligence. She had seemed like a God, ever present to catch a
misdeed- eating before being allowed, speaking in hushed whispers with other captives.
Did his keeper know exactly what would happen? Did she purposefully allow him to
"escape" with Joselyn? Is she watching them now? And it was for that reason he knew
they must leave. And it was, with a healthy paranoia, they came to America. They
traveled about for a bit before it was finally Buor’Kut who stated, in no uncertain terms,
he had found a place for them to call home, a place to set up roots: Job, Nevada. .</sup>

T ʜ ᴇ H ᴀ ɴ ᴅ D ᴇ ᴀ ʟ ᴛ

________________________________________________________________________
Personal cards: 1 [tentative]
Hand: currently none
Mysteries: The Case of the Bovine Butcher; Main Mystery [current]

[Noxious]

Lolly Mae

L o l l y M a e J o n e s

^{Well we only got the two melons
I say we fill one with s h i n e
and the other with tannerite}

Eighteen || Female || 5' 5" || 130 lbs

S p e c i a l i t y

Jack of all trades, master of none. Unless you count roping and riding 'cause she can wrestle anything with legs. She learned to shoot at the age of five; never too young to protect the chattel from rustlers and varmints. She's handy with explosives, just ask the John Deere at the bottom of the pond, but hey, she did "catch" some fish. And there was never a lack of weaponry choices around her house to fiddle around with.

A p p e a r a n c e

Plaid, leather, lace and fringe. She wears a beat up black stetson over sun bleached mahogany curls that usually find their way in and out of a messy assortment of braids. She's got a glimmer in her mischievous hazel eyes that says the girl can take a punch and a smile that begs you to try it. She's got an extremely expressive face; eyebrows, eyes and lips that dare her to try and loose at some hold 'em. She has dimples that betray an innocence she'd rather hide and usually does, pulling up the black paisley bandana that's tied around her neck for dust storms.

[ & ] O t h e r

She's got her family brand, "J" with horns, on her left butt cheek
"Come And Take It" tattooed between her shoulders on her upper back
Star for Texanis tattooed behind her right ear
Scar on her left arm where her brother Boone shot her with an arrow

and then mangled trying to pull it out before Pa noticed

P e r s o n a l i t y

If Davie Crockett fucked a bottle of whiskey and then John Wayne drank it, she'd likely be the resulting tipsy two step. She talks too much, too loud and lady like meant she was fixin' to cook a pie when a neighbor took ill. She ain't the brightest lightning bug in the jar but Pa always says she made up for it with her gumption. Then again, she was the first girl after four boys so Pa always thought she hung the moon. The baby-can-do-no-wrong attitude cranked her wild child nature to an absurd level. She pulled on the reins once a blue moon, usually after Mama came home crying because the ladies at church were whispering about her heathen daughter. But it wasn't really her fault she had an unyielding need to keep up with the boys and often jump at their dares to impress them. She's the product of a sheltered life; easily impressed to the degree that little things amaze and fascinate her.

H i s t o r y

You hear Meemaw tell it and they've been on Texanis since right of way went to the tumble weeds. Their roots have grown roots and the folks she calls kin numbers a little less than half of their head on the ranch. Cattle ranchers, the lot of them. Mama says she was born trouble, popped out right in the back barn while the devil was beating his wife and Pa was chasing down a troublesome mustang in the western fields.

She'd never really aspired to much, let alone any thoughts of greatness. Hell, if she could win the buckle from that gap toothed Kessler boy she'd be tickled pink and probably call it a life worth living. She did always love the stars though. When everyone else was watching the mudders she'd lean back in the bed of the pickup and wonder what all was going on out there. She'd name them silly things, like the baying hound and the beaten bandit and make up stories about all the things they meant and try not to think about the taint of xenos and city folks.

Boone and Flint got into moonshinin' with the Curry boys and Bronc married a girl from money whose family set him up with some city boy job. Remington, always the responsible one, was fixin' to take over the homestead and so her family started grumbling about her finding her own path. Likely they meant settle down, take a job as a teacher, but she went right on and enlisted. See those stars she'd been dreamin' about, meet some xenos from exotic lands, and kill 'em all.

G e a r

She's got the regular standard issue weaponry plus a cattle prod that can be extended to about an arms length strapped to her right thigh, opposite from her peacebreaker autopistol. Plainstrider autogun rests on her back, combat knife stuck in her boot. Plus she carries a saddle bag with all the fixin's for homemade explosive rounds; good for a bit of a boom and can take down the thick skinned space hogs of Texanis, likely would have the same result for a xenos.

[ & ] P e r s o n a l i z a t i o n

Both the peacebreaker and plainstrider have adapted grips of pink camo engineered polymer

[Noxious]

Livia Pantoja

_{L í v i a B U T C H Pantoja}

Twenty- nine ✦ Female ✦ B r a z i l i a n

F o r m e r U n i t

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BOPE [Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais]

R o l e

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Designated Marksman

P h y s i c a l D e s c r i p t i o n

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She seemed to prefer function over beauty without completely loosing her feminine charms. Her hair is long deep brown that could easily be mistaken for black if it wasn't for the sun kissed lightness that always sat at the ends. It was usually pressed into french braids that showed years of practice. Her eyes had a steady focus and betrayed no brown tones, appearing as a complete pool of black, surrounded by lashes the same pitch. Her lips, supple when smiling, were often covered by a bandanna that bore the bottom half of a skull. She, like most in her profession, favors camo or muted tones on her five foot seven form. Her build is one accustomed to steady training, but also cursed by Brazilian breeding weighing approximately 135 lbs. A multitude of tattoos litter her tanned skin, flickers of black and red and skulls peeking from beneath clothing, and some blatantly challenging her other features for attention.

[+]

S k i l l s e t

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✦ Cooking
✦ Fluent in Portuguese, Spanish, French and English
✦ Kombato Martial Arts
✦ Counter Sniper training
✦ CQB [Close Quarters Battle]; progression and combat
✦ Breaching; explosives, battering ram
✦ Urban Operations; land navigation, vehicle handling
✦ Special Weapons and Tactics
✦ Special Missions; reconnaissance, planning and infiltration
✦ Counter terrorism; Counter Insurgency
✦ Hostage Extraction
✦ Response to Civil Unrest
✦ Protection of VIPS
✦ Suppression of Prison Riots

H i s t o r y

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Born in São Paulo where her family managed a luxury hotel just outside of Ibirapuera Park. She grew up with more luxury than most around her, but even as a child she seemed extremely aware of the poverty nestled just beyond their doors. She received an extensive education afforded by her parents upper/middle class status along with her four sisters, and while appreciative, never acclimated to the idea of school and preferred to read and accumulate her own knowledge. Her other sisters all went on to gain doctorates, but Lívia continued to struggle and left college after her first year to take on Military Police training. While her family largely disapproved of her choice for safety reasons, they supported her making her own decisions. They were a tight knit group and their eventually resignation to her new role and then offered support meant more than she could properly express.

Trouble arose once again among her family when she was asked to join BOPE and move to the heightened conflict area of Rio. The Favelas were made of nightmares that gave monsters the chills and her family had been constantly inundated with horror stories they couldn’t imagine their daughter experiencing. They couldn’t stop picturing as their little girl, but truth be told she was not a lamb being lead to slaughter. Her skills were admirable and by the time she was officially a part of the Death Squad her nerves had been brushed aside to make way for split second decision making; Victory Over Death.

After working for years without any scalding incident Lívia was involved in a raid that resulted in the shooting of three unarmed teenagers and the death of four of her team. Media clung to the story, claiming the BOPE was out of control and needed to be reigned in. While she personally had not been to blame, as cleared by superiors, her entire team had been placed on administrative leave until the press died down. So it was convenient to get an offer for work; sitting at home with a bottle of Cachaca was doing little to occupy her mind. When Centurion offered her a contract she resigned out right, packed her bags and gave her dog to her little sister, without near as much fuss as could be expected.

P s y c h o l o g i c a l P r o f i l e

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If there is one thing that rings true for a Brazilian it is the importance of family. Upon joining BOPE family became a blanket term that spread to cover her squad as well. There has to be trust, there has to be loyalty, and hopefully with time they come to think as a unit. She adapts quickly to others she battles with, learning them so that she can better assist in any situation. If Brazil taught her family, the Favelas taught her loss, and the ability to accept and come to terms with it in a way that almost seems pathological. There is little time to gauge someone else’s death when they are intent upon your own. Shoot first, ask questions later. She can be sarcastic, but she is also caring. She likes to unwind after any exchanged fire and sometimes this manifests itself behind a closed door with a book and other times there is drunken songs and pounding on tables. She embraces life, and finds beauty in the simplest things- often feeling like she should have died already and each day lived is a gift undeserved.

E q u i p m e n t

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✦ SCAR Mk. 20
✦ Sig Sauer P226
✦ Wotan Knife
✦ Tactical Vest
✦ Kindle Fire; plethora of books & Plants vs. Zombies

Krieg

K r i e g a k a C r a i g

4 years old ✦ Male ✦ Welsh/German

Former Unit

Top of his class in Shutzhund dog training, tracking training, bomb detection, and K9 tactics; Recruited by Centurion

Role

Bomb Dog

Skillset

✦ Can smell bombs & drugs
✦ Can keep laps warm
✦ Tracking
✦ Alert System

History

Krieg was born to a German Sheppard mother over burdened by a litter of 7 puppies, of which he was born solidly in the middle. His father, sadly, was not a part of his life but his siblings all looked out for each other. People often told Krieg his mom was a bitch, but he knew she was more than that, she was a prized bitch and he wanted to follow in her footsteps. He got put into training and all the other dogs teased him for his short little legs, but they underestimated his ambition and he became Top of the Class and was quickly recruited by Centurion.

Psychological Profile

Krieg has always worked hard to prove himself and will do anything for even the smallest "good boy". He's an excellent team player but he gets really tired of the "fake throw" game and it makes him less trusting the more you do it. He is a real prick if cats become involved-- racism is hard to train out of some people. As a puppy he had a lot of ADD moments [SQUIRREL] but he's grown out of that stage and seems extremely focused. Likely the most underpaid: he literally signed up for treats and pets.

Equipment

✦ Bomb Jacket w/ carry handle
✦ Water dish
✦ Food dish
✦ Comfy Blanket
✦ Squishy Squirrel toy

[Noxious]

Talulah

_{T A L U L A H B L U M E}

^{H U M A N R E S O U R C E S ⇷⇸ # 2 7 1 - 6 8 6 - 4 2 1}

<sub>In a society obsessed with original aesthetic
we replicate symbols buried with ideas and dig
up clumps of the old gods and mix them with
E D M in a garbage can and chase them down
with home brewed whiskey and fair trade
lattes in our cramped apartments in renovated
ghettos built over d e a d civilizations that had
more originality than all of our blogs combined.
And surprisingly, it is this that creates our new
age witches. Power cramped into skinny jeans
wrapped in bullshit capitalism that pretends it
isn’t while it rallies against the man with spells
typed out on the n e w e s t macbook.

Then one day you wake up and you are the man.
-Talulah Blume "Blog of a Blood Witch"</sub>

^{"Either spend l e s s than $10 or m o r e than $75,
for in between is where the consumer soul goes to die"}

A g e & A p p e a r a n c e

On the verge of 28 and she doesn't like talking about it. She was raised on the pulse of fashion in NY and her wardrobe can attest to this, as well as her (usually empty) wallet. She prefers classic romantic styles and boho fashion. Skinny jeans, pencil skirts, flowing crop tops, button up blouses or ratty band shirts with obscure bands no one has heard of. She has a slim figure thanks to a mostly raw and organic diet and appears rather healthy, if not a little blood drained from time to time. She favors heels to add to her 5'6" height but owns plenty of sandals and custom keds. Her hair is bleached blonde with just enough dark roots to be fashionable and she often wears it down, sometimes with a braided pintrest style. Other times she puts it up in a well calculated "messy" bun. Her eyes are a pale blue and always wrapped in make-up. Seeing the future means she's never caught without it. She has a myriad of tattoos and piercings and the collection continues to grow.

^{"Man, we don't do a company wide blood drive...."
"Well then why the fuck did she ask fo- ooh, fuck"}

P e r s o n a l i t y

Smoker, drinker, elitist. She initially comes off as caring, sensitive and self conscious, but like many things under the Illuminati’s wing, appearances can be quite deceiving. She would have turned on her best friend for an invitation to an underground party before her current employment, and now, well now just hope you don’t stand in the way of something she wants. She doesn’t play fair, and she doesn’t have to, not with Hekate’s blessing. While she does care what people think, she has no problem attempting to invalidate their opinions if they upset her. Surprisingly, she is still very good at making friends and has plenty, though it is doubtful any one person knows all her true feelings and thoughts. She likes, and promotes, the idea that she is just a spoiled one dimensional hipster, but it is likely all of this is part of a wall she’s built up so as not to expose her true self. For someone who appears well put together she is an extremely disorganized person and still extremely messy with sacrifices.

^{"It was that little dicked asshole Elliot in R&D that started that rumor.
No one in my family was f u c k i n g some underworld nymph."}

B r i e f H i s t o r y

She was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY with her exceedingly dull mother and father. An only child, they spoiled the girl and so she has always felt that she was special. But really, she was just your average hipster in art school until she stumbled across this random book on one of her many thrift store visits. At first she thought it was a journal until she decided to get the totally unique symbol on the spine of the book tattooed on her own spine. Then the book started showing her all sorts of things. She began using her own blood to paint and found a way to use her prophetic works of art to pay back some of her student loans. When one of the paintings including some of the sacrificial symbols went for sale in an underground coffee shop the Illuminati started to give Talulah a bit of notice. After glancing over her blog it was decided to bring the girl in.

They attempted to confiscate the book, but no one could read it. They attempted to remove the tattoo, but it remained. What could they do? They offered the girl a job as an asset and made her take down anything to incriminating from her blog. [Her supervisor still regularly asks her to remove images, especially things like the well plated heart on the crossroads- Jesus Talulah, that shit will get you arrested.] They’ve offered her some help in honing her skills, as deemed useful to the higher ups. She dropped out of school and now pretty much just works for the company, smokes weed and lounges around fair trade coffee shops and bars that sell locally brewed beer.

After working for the company for six years she seems rather comfortable with her slip towards power, even if it is minimal in comparison to some of her coworkers. She adapted surprisingly well to back handed politics (likely adopting the same skills she used as a mean girl in high school), occasional blood sacrifices (though she still refuses to kill dogs or cats and prefers transients), and abusing her innocent and harmless looks to get what she wants (again, mean girl, high school).

^{"Puh-lease, I donated to Haiti before the disaster."}

S k i l l s e t

Blood Seer, Blood Witch, Bond with Hekate

^{"I don't *own* him, that's cruel, we just have an understanding."}

E q u i p m e n t & S p e l l s

⇸ PRINCE OSWALD OF TARTARUS

^{She didn't find Oz, he found her shortly after the tattoo incident and has been following her around ever since. They appear to have conversations, but maybe she’s just one of those weirdos that thinks dogs are people- it's hard to tell as he seems very much like a plain (and slightly mangy) mutt to anyone else who meets him.}

⇸ AÍMA ÓRKOS TOU HEKATÊ

^{The blood oaths of Hekate is a book of spells and ceremonies that cater to gaining favor with Hekate and other underworld beings of Greek origin. The pages tend to disappear when not properly fed and it can be rather fickle (as most magical objects tend to be).}

⇸ SEE THE PAST IN KALE

^{Can see the details of someone's past within ground up kale chips}

⇸ DRINK THE PRESENT

^{Can see through someone's eyes if she mixes their blood with home brewed liquor and gets a good buzz}

⇸ PAINT THE FUTURE

^{Painting with someone's blood allows a glimpse their future, the paintings rarely turn out very good}

⇸ DIGITIZE TRACKING

^{A bit of someone's blood in the USB port of her Iphone adds a tracker to her Imaps}

⇸ EATING ORGANIC EMOTION

^{Ingestion of body matter dipped in organic olive oil allows her access to their emotions}

[Noxious]

Arsen Melkonian

_{i t i s n ' t t r u e t h a t s o c i o p a t h s n e v e r c h a n g e ; t h e y c h a n g e t h e i r m a s k s & t h e y c h a n g e t h e i r t a r g e t s .}

---

---

^{A R S E N M E L K O N I A N}

^{t h i r t y - o n e y r s. ▲ o n e s e v e n t y - s e v e n l b s. ▲ s i x f o o t o n e}

---

---

[ ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ɴ ɪ ᴄ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

Armenian

[ ɴ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

American

[ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴛ ʜ ᴘ ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴇ ]

Hollywood, CA

[ ғ ᴏ ʀ ᴍ ᴇ ʀ ᴏ ᴄ ᴄ ᴜ ᴘ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ]

Debt Collector; Human Trafficker

[ ᴀ ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ ]

You'll have to forget what you thought a Los Angeles gangster would look like, because if baggy pants, pulled up socks and wallet chains is what you were expecting from Arsen, he was sure to disappoint. Sure, he bore a few of the signs, but nothing people weren't willing to look over when he smiled. At 6'1" he is a coil of lean muscle beneath fair skin weaved with vibrant ink. His body is one that confesses maintenance and pride without pushing himself into any category of "meat head" or "hipster" and he is as unashamed of his own flesh as he is of his actions. Hair a deep brown, darker still in the winter, is shaved at the sides and slicked back with honed skill. His facial features display metal ornamentation upon his upper left cheek and left nostril and littered about his earlobes, caring little for balance. Beneath thick lashes his eyes are a shinning sky blue that seem to offer promise of innocence and angelic intentions, and lower still, his cheeks sink inward beneath high bones and seem to draw attention to a pout male models could be jealous of. His features are reminiscent of something almost feminine, despite the squared (and always clean shaven) jaw. His expression, his carriage, his gait...they are all flickering allusions- transitions between masks that choose to be displayed and flow as naturally from the man as the aura of calm confidence.

His wardrobe, while eclectic, has never been deemed cheap. Real silver dangles from his neck across his bare chest, dipping across more swirling images; ink of past and present. The same silver glitters from his abused knuckles (debatable on who would claim the abuses) and wraps around his wrists. He has collections of cuff-links and ties in his closet beside leather jackets, loafers and biker boots. What you wont find is tennis shoes or t-shirts, not in years.

[ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ s ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

His mind is a sordid place; shallow emotions (including reduced fear, a lack of empathy, and high stress tolerance), coldheartedness, egocentricity, superficial charm, manipulative, moral ambiguity, and a lack of remorse. He doesn’t see people as people; he sees opportunities, he sees targets and occasionally he finds accomplices, but he gauges acceptance and respect for others strictly upon their usefulness to him.

He is terrifyingly focused when he sets his mind upon a goal. He seeks to dominate and win at all costs. His social skills are also quite remarkable; a natural charmer, an expert storyteller who will play the victim, or the hero- whichever it takes. His face can be extremely expressive, but it’s trained, manipulated to a defined normalcy or character. He has never felt guilt or shame, least of all for his crimes. If he feels anything, it is powerful-- and now, now he feels vengeful because he has convinced himself of his own high morals and philosophy.

[ ʜ ᴏ ʙ ʙ ɪ ᴇ s & ɪ ɴ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ ᴇ s ᴛ s ]

▲ Gambler

There is something about horse races in Hollywood that enthralls Arsen, gives him a sort of peace and thrill that very little else can muster. Even as a child he junkied trips to the track with dear old Dad. It didn't stop there though, Arsen will bet on just about anything, especially if the price is right.

▲ Promiscuous

Arsen can't remember the last time he didn't get a girl (or boy) he wanted, and he wants a lot of them. He's got the "fuck me" grin down to an art and lacks any abashment in its constant use. Granted, if that doesn't work he's got other means to get what he wants.

[ s ᴋ ɪ ʟ ʟ s & ᴛ ᴀ ʟ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ s ]

▲ Hood Rat Shit

All that basic hood rat shit you grow up doing with your friends. He could boost a car, though it depended on the model. He could shoot a gun, though his accuracy speaks of a "more bullets, less aiming" technique and obviously had no professional training. He could break into almost anything, but he couldn't disable an alarm, he just wouldn't care. Cardio and jumping fences in the concrete schoolyard were necessary skills for respect by the age of nine.

▲ Ruthless

"Gives no fucks" doesn't even begin to cover it. When they took down Arsen he was taking a metal baseball bat to a woman's leg for trying to escape his penthouse and he didn't stop swinging when the FBI agents busted in with guns, screaming about his imminent arrest. Armenian slurs and threats made the walls shudder, directed at them all, spilling from the well dressed and blood stained pretty boy as he continued to heave the bat. It took two FBI agents to wrestle him away though he never turned the weapon from the woman. When asked about her later he seemed to have completely forgotten and started going on about burning down the entirety of LA just to kill one rat. He would do it too, and he would smile as the smell of burnt lives tickled his nostrils.

▲ Straight Faced Liar

That's the thing about people, monsters, like Arsen...you never really can tell. If you could hear the litany of excuses people make for falling for his shit, well, we would be hear a while. He had masks for all occasions. He was, literally, the guy on the news whose neighbors rambled something about "He was always such a nice boy. Never caused any problems. Watched my cat once and didn't steal a thing." He just wasn't the type to fuck you over, ya know? Too clean cut, too well spoken, too polite, too well connected. And honestly, no one had any idea the madness he was capable of, thankfully, he probably didn't either. Not then...

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^{p e o p l e l i k e t o s a y m o n e y a i n ' t n o t h i n g ;}

_{b u t n e x t t o p o w e r , m o n e y i s e v e r y t h i n g .}

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[ ᴍ ᴏ ᴛ ɪ ᴠ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ & ᴄ ʀ ɪ ᴍ ᴇ ᴄ ᴏ ᴍ ᴍ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ᴅ ]

You could say that the government handed over Arsen because they really didn't want to deal with him. The scramble to tear apart the human trafficking ring had been driving them crazy. They'd worked their way from one source to another, taking years to figure out who was at the top. In the end, after all the birds had sung it seemed that song was about Arsen.

But it wasn't just that the government didn't want to deal with it, the Consortium had been looking for someone just like him to make an example of. It was sickening, those that enslaved people for their magic and sold them like pieces of equipment to be wielded until they eventually burnt out. The case was solid. Hell, even a few of his victims came forward and sobbed their eyes out for the media so no one would feel at all bad when Arsen Melkonian was put in the earth. They'd feel bad for magic users, for the persecution they had to deal with. Persecution? THEY HAVE FUCKING POWERS. Nobody handed him powers as a child, he worked for his, and even without magical inclination he wasn't the one out there being a victim.

In the end, Arsen Melkonian wasn't enraged that he was put to death. He half expected to die every time he woke up. What really pissed him off was that the Consortium used what he'd done, twisted it to make cases for the rights and the terrible abuses that magical users constantly suffered. Fuck them, magic users were no better or worse than everyone else, they just cost a bit more was all. And fuck the Consortium twice because they were the assholes out there wrangling up magic users and forcing them to play on their side. You want to point fingers at black things? I see you kettle, and I raise you.

[ ʜ ɪ s ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ ]

The Armenians already had a substantial foothold when Arsen was brought into the world. They ran much of the underground gambling in Hollywood and dabbled in a variety of other unsavory professions; fraud, drug dealers, gun runners, muscle for hire, prostitution, neighborhood protection and extortion, just to name a few. If there was money to be made, Armenian Power wanted some of it.

Arsen’s childhood was no different from anyone else in his neighborhood so he had no reason to think of it as bleak or spectacular. It was a fine gradient of gray. Sure, his Dad would smack him up if he got caught doing something stupid, but this only taught him not to get caught-- which was likely the lesson intended. He respected his father, specifically because of the power he wielded. This respect extended to his mother, for he saw who held the true power of their home. Subconsciously he has always feared his mother, the sway she held and the pinched smile that wrought destruction on his anxiety.

By the time Arsen was in elementary school he was already a part of something that resembled a gang. Sure, they only dabbled in stealing neighborhood kids bikes and candy from the shop on Santa Monica, but they became his foundation. They withheld names from teachers who tried to force them to tattle, also a foundation for the life they were being groomed for. He was already showing signs of ruthlessness; bullying children out of their lunch money and intimidating even his own friends to keep them in line. They were loyal out of fear, and Arsen learned to control this and nurture this. Sparingly he offered them compliments and often insults so they came to live for his acceptance.

When he reached high school any psychologist that he allowed in (there was none, his parents would never have sent their child to an outside source) would have labeled him a full blown sociopath. He was the type of guy who made bets about girl’s virginity and peer pressured people into situations often enough that they learned not to ask questions. They smoked cigarettes and drank in the graffitied alleys of their city. And it was their city. Anything they wanted they could have. Cars? They stole them. Women? They coerced them. Grades? They threatened violence that their straight laced teachers had no way of getting around. Not that Arsen couldn’t have received good grades if he applied himself. He was intelligent, he simply chose to bend it away from academia.

One year out of high school he was lifting cars for one of his friend’s fathers and the cops had begun to catch on. They set up a trap and caught one of Arsen’s closest friends (due to length of relationship, not emotional bonds). The guy ratted on Arsen and two of the other guys and while he managed to keep quiet about the elder involved, it wouldn’t save him. For 8 long months Arsen paced in a cell thinking of only one thing. He woke in the morning and thought of it, he made notes at night and on the day he was released he found his rat “friend” shacked up with some soon to be hooker. He was careful. He recruited the others who had done time for the fiend and they bolted large metal plates to the window late in the night. They didn’t even attempt to be quiet, there was no need. He liked the sound of the two of them scurrying around the house. They sounded like the rats they were. When they finally tried the front door they were met with the gaping maw of a shotgun and a smiling Arsen, head shaking with a tsking no and they retreated back inside. He epoxied the door shut and sang Tupac under his breath while he waited for it to dry. Then he lit the place up. He pictured them trying to burrow in their filthy nest. He fucking hated rats, almost as much as he hated victims.

It wasn’t long before he had a full time job for pops working as a “debt collector”. They didn’t simply knock on doors and request payment, no, by the time the orders reached Arsen matters had gone beyond a simple knock. These were people who would repay their debt, one way or another. Sure there was an occasional kneecap that got shattered, but while Arsen was a fan of violence, what he really enjoyed was making them work it off. Kidnapping daughters and wives turning them over to pimps who would pay their father’s debts. Taking their sons, or the debtor if physically able, and handing them a gun for a day. A headshot and payment in full. The higher the debt, the more cruel and immoral the job that was likely handed over. Arsen got a sick pleasure out of watching the righteous fall. Staring down at their bobbing heads while their tears mixed with his own saltiness.

It wasn’t long before some of those who took people in exchange for their debts started making more and more specific requests, and while there was always a sorry SoB who owed Armenian Power money, they weren’t always the caliber requested. He turned to night clubs, to coffee shops, hell, he even dabbled on tinder to locate these special cases. And he learned something else, when they didn’t have previous debts, they were pure profit. Someone replaced him gathering debts for his Father and he began his own venture paying Armenian Power a share of his profits. He acquired help from his loyal elementary school gang, all grown up yet still the simpering simpletons who would cringe and avert their eyes when Arsen was displeased. Business was booming. Soon he had a luxurious condo in Hollywood and a place in New York, Brazil, Russia and Germany. Everywhere he looked all he saw was markets waiting to be tapped, legs that equaled profit, strong wills that begged to be broken.

All up until his arrest. What a media shit show that became.

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[ ʀ ᴇ ʟ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ s ʜ ɪ ᴘ s ]

▲ Family

N a r e k M e l k o n i a n

Dear old Dad, the tree from which the evil apples tumbled. He runs the gambling trade for West Side AP XIII. Pretty good relationship with the Russians, hell, he even sleeps with a few pretty regularly. Arsen originally worked for his father collecting debts, but soon he charmed his way into other positions of power not beneath his father.

A n k i n e M e l k o n i a n

While his mother was a quiet and reserved woman, she was not someone to be trifled with. She had no problem ratting on anyone and everyone, including her sons, to her husband. He would rectify any situation, move heaven and earth for that woman. It was a wonder she didn't have magical abilities of her own keeping the three men in her life in check.

D a v i t M e l k o n i a n

The youngest of the Melkonian clan. Somehow this one turned out to be much less of a piece of shit that what his surroundings should have dictated. Not that he went off to college and got a legal job, that would have brought shame to the family. He stuck to Father's side, running much of the illegal gambling as the old man grew older. He did manage to find himself a decent Armenian girl and settled down. The relationship between Arsen and his brother is tense, but he is likely the only one who really understands and accepts how much of a monster his brother is.

▲ West Side AP XIII

The only lover Arsen hasn't kicked out at sunrise was the streets and Armenian Power was the defining key in that relationship. Born in then sworn in; blood and sweat with no room for tears. He's good at what he does and they gave him a chain leash with a lot of slack. Maybe it was because of his Dad? Maybe they fell for his bullshit? Maybe they saw through it and figured better to lie with a monster than have him waiting beneath your bed? Likely it is all of the above in varying degrees.

[ ᴍ ᴀ ɢ ɪ ᴄ ]

▲ Light Eater

A simple snap of those tattooed fingers and darkness takes hold within a confined space. Windows and doorways will saturate themselves with a rotten smelling blackness. Man made light will flicker and fade, be found malfunctioning or completely broken. The rays of light that had previously existed are consumed within himself; devoured and used to fuel his own night vision and boosts healing for as long as he stays within the dark. If more light is added to the room from an outside source he would have to re-consume.

▲ Silver Tongue

Like a cliche mobster Arsen need only lean in and whisper in your ear and the spell takes hold, it races through your own mind, flipping the required switches and what he said is deemed true, is deemed an order. It rings upon your consciousness as if it stemmed from your own mind and changes you. Of course, you will likely begin to wonder why you would have such a compulsion, but that will come after the fact. The further away Arsen is from the target the more magic it requires. The greater change in natural habit or perception, the more magic required.

[ ᴏ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ʀ ]

▲ Drug Use

Other than cigarettes and alcohol Arsen despises drug abuse. He's seen it too much, he's gained too much from the flaws it imparts and finds it to be the crutch of the lowest forms of humanity. It's a weakness, and while he loves to exploit them, he still despises them. This extends to the oddity that he has never so much as touched an aspirin.

▲ Superstitious

Born and raised, but isn't open about it.

[Noxious]

Anesin

A N E S I N B J E L K E

^{s ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ ᴇ ᴇ ɴ ʏ ʀ s ▲ ғ ᴇ ᴍ ᴀ ʟ ᴇ ▲ ᴇ s ᴋ ᴀ ɴ ᴅ ɪ s ʜ ▲ ʜ ɪ ɢ ʜ ɴ ᴏ ʙ ʟ ᴇ ▲ 8 . 2}

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B ɪ ɴ ᴅ ɪ ɴ ɢ ᴍ ᴀ ɢ ɪ ᴄ ɪ s ɴ ᴏ ᴛ ᴜ s ᴇ ᴅ ғ ᴏ ʀ ᴏ ғ ғ ᴇ ɴ s ᴇ

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[ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ s ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

▲ Private
▲ Charismatic
▲ Arrogant
▲ Disciplined
▲ Lost

Who Am I? The question haunts her thoughts more than any other. She doesn't know. No one knows. But she does know the role handed to her with birth. She has played it almost to perfection, ironing out the cracks in the façade behind a steady smile. She is both worldly and sheltered. Displayed at her mother's side to dignitaries and royals, but she can't remember the last time her mother let her speak, truly speak. And while she may falter for her mother's whims this is not a dominant trait expressed around others. It has definitely not disrupted her confidence, of which she has an abundance. It has honed her eloquence and observation skills, her ability to stand seamlessly amongst the rulers of this world. She is hopeful now too; hopeful that for the first time she will be able to answer that burning question away from her mother's ever judgmental gaze.

[ ᴀ ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ ]

When your first kiss in life comes from death himself it leaves a sort of taint upon your vessel, and from this affliction she was not immune. While her skin showed that the grip of life had not completely lost its grasp, her other features were a startling reminder. Her eyes were the mirror of glacial ice, intensely piercing. Her hair too claimed the pallor of emptiness; a startling white so devoid of hue that it seemed to leech it's tint from the colors around her. A pale white strip was tattooed from her lower lip down to her chin. A flagrant display of acceptance for her condition, for she surely was not self conscious about it. To touch death and walk with the living was nothing to be ashamed of.

Her attire speaks of unrepentant wealth. Her clothes were, of course, custom made to be either utilitarian or heavily flattering. She was accustomed to the chilly coastal weather of home, and so often adorned furs and sweaters, but silk dresses and lace tops would do in the heat. It wasn’t just the clothes that reflected her high born status, her stature as well seemed to follow suit. She was a lean 5’10”, already towering over her mother and many of her tutors and staff.

[ ʟ ᴀ ɴ ɢ ᴜ ᴀ ɢ ᴇ s ]

She is fluent in verbal and written Eskandish and Avincian. She has a notable grasp of conversational Perrench and Revidian. She can read Belzaggic, but has rarely had an opportunity to speak it.

[ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ɢ ɪ ғ ᴛ ]

Binding magic is not used for offense. As a blood child she naturally inclined towards binding. She began passionate and favorable towards the idea of being a healer. She spent lengthy amounts of time scouring over anatomy text books, dissecting animals, and occasionally bodies donated for science. She practiced the removal of the vile things that destroyed us from within, but really had not yet had the opportunity to dig too deep. Given the chance she was ready to learn. It was her sacred duty to heal. She practiced the destruction of pebbles thrown at her. She practiced harder when they became stones. Barriers and burrowing were still difficult and exceedingly taxing, but she practiced. It was her sacred duty to protect. Magic was a high she would never grow tired of. There was never enough magic. Binding magic is not used for offense. But she also knew death. The first time she practiced a blood mark it came from a single hair and a sweet caress. And really, destruction was easy, if not tiring. What she really enjoyed was when she was allowed to attempt the Mark of the Basilisk. She was diligent, and tireless, her palor grew, and the rat population decreased.

[ ʙ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ɢ ʀ ᴏ ᴜ ɴ ᴅ ]

Born a Bjelke of Eskand. That one chance of fate has defined her entire life. Of course, it was her mother's title she would inherit. As far as she knew her father did not have one, though she had never met him. He had been assassinated prior to her birth and her mother refused to talk about it. Her father's absence had not left a noticeable gap in her life. Her mother was overbearing enough to account for two parents. Though as a child she would wonder about him. Perhaps he had been kind. Perhaps he would have cuddled her, given her pet names and carried her about on his shoulders. Perhaps her mother would not be as cold as the Country they call home if he had not died.

The large estate that she grew up in was dug into the side of an impressive mountain range. The most impressive in Eskand if her childhood memories were to be believed. Spires carved upwards until they blended into the mountain that continued higher, trying to devour the sky. Hot springs curled at the base of her estate. Within she had a dark room, a stone encased cage that displayed a rug that had once been the fur of a large pale bear. A fireplace was the central focus, decorated with gold and whale bones. It was here that she sat, everyday they were not traveling, at her desk. Across from her the faces changed; different mages, tutors, diplomats. In the end their faces would blend together as their lessons did. Taking root and entwining to be the representations and base of her myriad of knowledge. And then there were the books. Oh, the books. She must have read thousands. They too bled together. Time bled together, here in this cavernous cage. But really wasn't it all a cage?

Even when her mother took her traveling she was an owl with clipped wings. When she graced the halls of nobles from distant lands and toured their varied gardens and heard their varied plights and politics, even when surrounded by laughter at decadent parties, everywhere the question followed her. Who is she? But, there was no answer louder than the everlasting drone of who she was born to be. Her name. Her title. Her responsibilities. Her cage. But, there was always magic. It lived with her, grew with her, and that was a steady and constant comfort.

There were moments when she forgot about her cage. While disconnected from her people due to her station she was afforded a few of their past times. She learned to fish in the warmer months, when the whales would drive the schools into inlets and make for easier catching. She hunted in the winter, a rifle resting almost frozen against her cheek while only her breath and the timid creatures moved. From these things she learned patience. She learned death.

Magic had always been very opposed to death for her as a binding practitioner. She knew magic. She knew death. She knew a stone cage. And then, for her twelfth birthday she received a key to the crypt. The cold bowels of the earth beneath her hearth. The place where she really began her training. But that room doesn't exist. Binding magic is not used for offense. She thought she knew magic. She thought she knew death. She spent years learning everything they could teach her until her mother allowed her to pursue school; a choice mainly dictated not because she wanted to allow her daughter freedom, but because she could no longer afford to lose the connections school would provide for their family.

[ ᴍ ᴏ ᴛ ɪ ᴠ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ]

She has been prepped for this her entire life. This was never a choice, it was the choice. There was not a time she did not awaken and work for this moment. And now that she is here? Well, an even greater motivation beyond being what she must has arisen. Now, away from her ever watching mother and advisors she can figure out who it is she is meant to be. What her place in this world means to her. But with no watching will she falter? Will she rise to be the one she is expected to be?

[ ɪ ɴ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ ]

▲ Money
▲ Talisman made of fishbone, gravestone and silver
▲ Hunting Knife carved with runes
▲ Assorted jewelry
▲ Pendant with the Crest of the Bjelke
▲ Small Notebook
▲ Sack filled with trinkets that she had been gifted (Promise of Ahn-Shune)

[ s ᴛ ʀ ᴇ ɴ ɢ ᴛ ʜ s & s ᴋ ɪ ʟ ʟ s ]

▲ Perfectionist
▲ Superb Hostess
▲ Hunting
▲ Relentless
▲ Knowledge of Ancient Lore

[ ᴡ ᴇ ᴀ ᴋ ɴ ᴇ s s ᴇ s & ғ ʟ ᴀ ᴡ s ]

▲ Perfectionist
▲ Vindictive
▲ Low Impulse Control
▲ Bias/Misestimation of others
▲ Lacks Perspective

[ ᴍ ɪ s ᴄ ᴇ ʟ ʟ ᴀ ɴ ᴇ ᴏ ᴜ s ]

▲ Unaware of her mother's actions prior to her birth.
▲ Superstitious
▲ Half Yasoi, but that is very guarded knowledge and while she has her suspicions, even she has not received confirmation of this.