Aurkanthis

Misfits: Rise of the Delinquents (Closed)

You got this.

You can always wait until your muse strikes or until someone else gives you something to riff off of.

Misfits: Rise of the Delinquents (Closed)

ᚠᚢᚦ Aksel ᚱᚴᚾ

---

Aksel arrived late; not dramatically, not apologetically. Just quietly. The person at the front desk barely looked up—some staffer, clipboard in hand, already halfway through his shift.

“Jeezus… another one? You’re late. Locker room’s down the hall. Suit up and head out back.”

Aksel nodded once, and said nothing.

He quietly made his way down the hall and slipped into the empty locker room, the door clicking shut behind him like a soft punctuation mark. The air smelled like disinfectant and dust. It appeared some of the lockers were already claimed—names taped on in blocky handwriting, or some other discerning marks.

He scanned the room, weighing his options as he walked up and down the rows. He was in no hurry to join the line outside that was presently enduring a loud talking-to. Though, he was always listening and observing. He then came across one locker (three, really) that was garishly marked “Prince” and he chose the farthest possible spot from it. Not out of spite. Just instinct. He always gravitated toward the quiet corners.

Aksel set down the orange jumpsuit—folded with bureaucratic precision—on the bench below before opening his chosen locker. He sighed, a little louder than usual, as he stared into the rectangular void. Then, he got to work. He pulled his black hoody over his head and hung it with care. Then he slid off his winter camouflage cargo pants, folding them neatly and placing them at the base of the locker.

Next would come the vibrantly orange jumpsuit. Aksel turned around, picked it up, and unfurled it slowly as he held it up to the light from the small window. Most people would flinch at the color, the implication, the uniformity. Aksel didn’t. It reminded him of that one American metal band—the one with the prison aesthetic with the jumpsuits and the kick-ass masks. Maybe tomorrow he’d bring a mask of his own to wear. He smirked a little at the thought.

Aksel stepped into and zipped up the jumpsuit without ceremony. It was unfortunately a tad too short, as were its limbs. In girth, it was far too wide. It was simultaneously too small and too big for him.

Dammit all, he thought as he sighed, visibly deflating. I wanted to like this thing.

Then, he stepped outside and made his way to join his fellow Unguided, ready to paint benches with strangers. He bore a subtle wry smile as he walked out, proud of his clever use of the name of a favorite band of his—even if he was the only one who knew about it.

As he approached the lineup, it was already dispersing to acquire their tools: paint and brushes. From the locker room, Aksel had caught the gist of the man’s speech, a fragment of the speech had stood out and was about the only thing he bothered to remember from it—the loud voice, piercing through the windows and bouncing off concrete walls like bad reverb. “You’re not here to express yourselves. You’re here to paint benches.” That had been plenty.

Aksel wordlessly took in each person as he approached and settled in among them and grabbed a brush and paint can to join them all, hoping quiet cooperation would spare him the wrath of the one giving orders spoken like he’d already given up on the lot of them.

One of his fellow painters had stood with her arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on the speaker like she was daring him to say something worth staying for. Aksel caught the burn—not loud, but steady. Like someone already halfway gone.

Another stood with her weight tilted, gaze cutting sideways through the lineup. Not loud, not lost—just holding something tight beneath the surface. Aksel caught the edge in her stance, like someone who’d rather be moving than standing still.

Another had also arrived late—though not as late as Aksel, since he heard the guy after Aksel had already entered the locker room—and strutted like it was a runway, collar popped, tank blazing. His voice hit the group like a spotlight—bright, chaotic, impossible to ignore. Aksel blinked once, then looked away before the glare stuck.

Still another moved like he was born for said spotlight—voice smooth, gestures practiced, already calling them family. Aksel noted the charm, but also the sigh beneath it.

A fifth, held back until the man barking the orders had left—then he had stepped in with quiet ease. Aksel caught the rhythm: someone who didn’t need volume to hold space.

A sixth cracked open a can with a flourish, muttered at a stubborn lighter, and tossed out jokes like static. Bravado in motion—maybe to keep the silence from catching up.

Still another had lined up toward the back, tugging at her sleeves, voice barely above a whisper. Aksel caught the tremble—not in sound, but in presence. Like she wanted to vanish before the first drop of paint met a bench.

And the last one had already moved—quiet, deliberate, eyes scanning the lineup like she was sorting pieces. She handed off a brush without fanfare, like she’d already decided who needed it most.

Aksel didn’t know their names. But he picked up on their rhythms. And for now, he’d paint.

Adventure with a side of cozy! (Fandom / doubling friendly)

I think you and I could do great work together.

Misfits: Rise of the Delinquents (Closed)

“He smiled... maybe... or it was just the echo of someone else.”

Aksel “Echo” Halvorsen

Aksel “Echo” Halvorsen

Appearance

Tall and wiry, standing at 6'2" with a frame that suggests more endurance than strength. His dark blond hair—long and slightly wavy—falls past his shoulders in soft, elemental strands. It catches light like storm-touched bronze, framing his face with quiet intensity. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a perpetual furrow between his brows give him a haunted look. Dresses in layered neutrals—hoodies, long coats, and fingerless gloves—like he’s trying to muffle his presence. He moves like a shadow that’s learned to listen.

Full Name

Aksel Halvorsen

Age

21

Sex

Male

Sexuality

Straight

Birthplace

Oslo, Norway

Characteristics

Aksel is introspective, emotionally porous, and quietly intense. He speaks sparingly, but when he does, it’s with poetic precision. He’s the kind of person who absorbs the room before entering it. Prone to emotional overload, he masks vulnerability with dry wit and a tendency to disappear when things get too loud—literally and figuratively.

Goals and aspirations

He once dreamed of becoming a sound designer, capturing emotional resonance through ambient noise. Now, he just wants to learn how to feel without drowning. Secretly hopes to find someone who understands him without needing words.

CV

Dropped out of university after one year studying audio engineering. Worked odd jobs—record store clerk, AV tech for small venues, and briefly as a night-shift cleaner. Nothing stuck, but he always left behind a playlist.

Crime

Charged with criminal damage after breaking into a local council building and setting up a guerrilla sound installation that exposed private conversations. Claimed it was “art.” The judge disagreed.

Background

Aksel grew up in a quiet Oslo suburb, the only child of a single mother who worked as a grief counselor. Their home was filled with silence and stories—he learned early how to listen between words. After moving to East London at 18, he struggled to connect. The city was loud, fast, and indifferent. He found solace in ambient soundscapes and field recordings, often wandering the streets at night with a mic and headphones. The storm hit during his first day of community service, while he was cleaning graffiti off the Wertham Centre’s back wall. He collapsed mid-sentence, overwhelmed by a surge of emotion that wasn’t his own. When he woke up, he could feel everything—and everyone. Someone called him “Echo” in passing, and the name stuck like a frequency he couldn’t shake.

Power

Emotional Echo:
Aksel involuntarily absorbs the strongest emotion in his vicinity, becoming a conduit for collective feeling. He does not project or influence others—he simply feels what’s already present. This emotional saturation sharpens his perception, allowing him to read microexpressions, body language, and emotional intent with uncanny precision. In moments of high tension, he may become overwhelmed, but the energy is internalized, not broadcast. He can also “tune in” to individuals, hearing their emotional frequency like a song. But he can’t turn it off.

Skills & Abilities

Exceptional listener. Skilled in sound design and audio tech. Good at reading body language and emotional cues. Can move silently and blend into crowds. Surprisingly persuasive when emotionally attuned.

Eye Color Resonance

Aksel’s eyes have always shifted—hazel-green in calm light, slate grey in shadow, deep moss when something stirs beneath. Before the storm, it was just a quirk. No one could explain it, not even him. Some blamed lighting, others mood, but it never followed a pattern. It was like his body was tuned to something elemental—barometric pressure, emotional charge, or the pull of memory.
After the storm, the shifts became sharper. Now they flicker with emotional resonance, each hue a signal of what’s stirring inside or around him.

Eye Color Reference:

• Hazel-Green – Baseline calm: Soft, forest-toned neutrality—his natural resting state.
• Slate Grey – Emotional saturation: Heavy and storm-charged; appears when overwhelmed by collective emotion.
• Deep Moss Green – Focused empathy: Grounding and intimate; surfaces when attuned to one person’s emotional frequency.
• Ash Blue – Emotional detachment: Cold and distant; shows when suppressing or numbing himself.
• Pale Green – Emotional dissonance: Soft but unsettling; emerges during confusion or unstable resonance.
• Blue Hazel – Controlled amplification: Soft, stormy blue with a hazel burst around the pupil; appears when Echo is actively managing emotional resonance—calm on the surface, heat flickering underneath.

Misfits: Rise of the Delinquents (Closed)

@Aurkanthis

That works for me.

@King Kindred

Hell yeah.

Misfits: Rise of the Delinquents (Closed)

@King Kindred (Great name, by the way.)

Hey, thanks for explaining more—I totally get where you’re coming from now. I just want to clarify that Aksel’s power isn’t designed to amplify emotions the way Skylar’s is. He doesn’t trigger mass emotional shifts himself—he’s more like a sponge than a speaker. He absorbs the strongest emotion in the room, but he doesn’t project it unless something pushes him past his threshold. So if Skylar’s already radiating, Echo’s not doubling it—he’s drowning in it.

I built Echo to be reactive and quiet, not chaotic. He’s not going to hijack scenes or override other characters’ agency. If anything, he’s the one most likely to get overwhelmed and pull back. I’m happy to play him with that in mind, especially early on when powers are unstable.

Totally fine to keep the current version in my back pocket if needed, but I do think Echo can work as-is without causing disruption. I’ll make sure he stays grounded and doesn’t add to the chaos unless it’s narratively earned.

Let me know what you think!

---

Actually, how is this:

Updated power

Power

Emotional Echo:
Aksel involuntarily absorbs the strongest emotion in his vicinity, becoming a conduit for collective feeling. He does not project or influence others—he simply feels what’s already present. This emotional saturation sharpens his perception, allowing him to read microexpressions, body language, and emotional intent with uncanny precision. In moments of high tension, he may become overwhelmed, but the energy is internalized, not broadcast. He can also “tune in” to individuals, hearing their emotional frequency like a song. But he can’t turn it off.

The Hollow: a Pixie Hollow inspired roleplay

Sorry I missed all of this. I was busy working/writing my post.

I figured Rainier would just hear the the violin and come down to the Lagoon. Or other things, too. If you want to interact, do so.

Where did all the ducks go?! Let me go scare the sleeping... duck shepherd? Whatever that would be.

You just gotta..

@Aurkanthis

I edited this post, BTW, now that I am home and not driving.

---

@Adeline

I am glad you feel that way. If you feel blessed, then

be blessed.

The Hollow: a Pixie Hollow inspired roleplay

@Aurkanthis

@Adeline

I'm glad you like it XD

The Hollow: a Pixie Hollow inspired roleplay

Sorry I missed all of this. I was busy working/writing my post.

I figured Rainier would just hear the the violin and come down to the Lagoon. Or other things, too. If you want to interact, do so.

Where did all the ducks go?! Let me go scare the sleeping... duck shepherd? Whatever that would be.

You just gotta..

The Hollow: a Pixie Hollow inspired roleplay

@Adeline @Eviledd1984

---

“She’s quite an amazing muse,” Loke began. “I would know from personal experience. You have a very keen eye.”

I couldn’t agree more, Caelum thought.

Loke had lived several centuries longer. The older Caelum got, the more he found he understood his elder. He did his best to gradually be more and more carefree.

Caelum continued his sketch, his head lowered—hiding a soft smile—over his charcoal sketches, his eyes occasionally glancing up across the lagoon.

A moment later, Loke sprung up, swapped his pipe for his violin in an instant, and began to play and dance. Jarring, perhaps, but not when one was familiar with this particular sparrowman.

Caelum raised his head and lowered his paper, his smile widening at the Lagoon’s sudden bloom of jovial levity. As he watched, he noted Loke’s face beckoning across the way. Caelum’s own darted in that direction as well. Suddenly… something was pulling him across the Lagoon.

The Lagoon Fairy had faltered briefly as Loke began his jig; and with her so did that new feeling. It shuttered within his chest, like the flame of a lantern desperately clinging to life in a strong gust.

The feeling grew once more as the little frog burst forth from her arms and happily hopped its way over with its unusual, determined gait. He watched her sigh with resigned exasperation, and felt the moment settle. Caelum’s flame recovered, that unknown feeling growing anew.

Thanks, little one, Caelum thought, his gaze softening toward the frogling who had carried the moment across.

Caelum became aware of the sketches in his hand once again. He glanced down at the paper, suddenly aware of how visible it was. The sketch—half-formed, honest—caught in the open air like a secret whispered too loud.

His hand twitched, the instinct to shield it rising like a blush. But he didn’t. Not fully. The paper tilted. His fingers lingered. The image remained half-shown.

Because… why? He dared to be more like Loke, even if only a little. After all, he sketched what the Hollow gave him; and today, it had given him her.

Caelum’s face didn’t betray his gently fluttering heart. That was until she had arrived in all her shimmering, soaking glory and barely uttered the word:

“Hello.”

It was as if his sketches had finally spokem back. His typical mask only faltered slightly, and only for the tiniest moment. Her voice—so close now—and the scent of the Lagoon clung to her, carried on the subtle breeze stirred by her vibrant wings. Caelum’s face betrayed the joy they brought, if only for a flicker.

Almost inaudible over the joyous din of Loke’s fiddle, Caelum had instinctively leaned in, unwilling to miss the hushed sound of her voice—one he’d only ever heard in fragments, carried across the water to his home like drifting notes of a half-remembered song. Had he not seen her mouth move, he might have missed it entirely.

“Welcome,” Caelum replied, mirroring her simple greeting in a low tone. His natural timbre—deeper than hers—and a deliberate, slight over-enunciation helped carry his word a little better over the song.

“It’s,” he began slowly, “nice to finally meet you.”

He had been searching for the right words—hoping not to scorch the moment with too hot a flame now that it had finally arrived. His usual demeanor had remained intact, though his words were flecked with just a touch more warmth than he had anticipated. Unintentional... but not regrettable. His sincerity had flickered through, steady and warm.

He now simply watched and listened, with the slightest smile peacefully resting on his face.

Hope.

That was the nameless thing he was feeling. Not new. Just forgotten. Like an abandoned campfire rekindled after a long, quiet dusk.