#takendemigod

[senatushq]

NAME. Harellan AGE & BIRTH DATE. 2,000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Hollowborn ) ABILITIES. Mental Manipulation & Anti-Psychic Presence OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Isaac Cole Powell

biography

Ranaghar had never felt like he belonged in the Underdark. Death had come for him when he least expected it as a fey, but luckily he could not remember it. However, it had always been a dream of his to get out of Lloth’s way of thought and away from the clutches of Ayi’ig. He was nobody of importance and he was sure he wouldn’t be missed if he left. Or rather when he left. Ranaghar had traveled through the harsh wilds of the Underdark and through the dangerous creatures that prowled the Otherworld. It had taken years upon years before he made it out and it hadn’t been without self-doubt. He’d hoped that he would make it, but there had never been a time when he thought that he would actually accomplish it. Thousands of years it took because he was simply not a fighter. But he could sneak. He could get through those creatures that wished him dead until he made it out into the mortal realm.

When Ranaghar made it out, he had been met with nothing but exhaustion. Passing out immediately, he had awoken to the eyes of a fey baring down on him. That was where the story usually ended when Ranaghar told the story to Harellan. It was a fill in the blanks kind of thing and he could figure out the rest. Father meet father. They fall in love. They have Harellan. It was always words that he hung onto every time to story was told and then he was left with emptiness. Mostly, it came with the fact that his other father was no longer around. What had happened to him? Ranaghar would never go any further because it didn’t really matter. And Harellan would never ask any other questions because it truly didn’t. Whoever the fey was that had helped create him was just a person. They were insignificant to both him and his drow father and that was how it would always be.

A warning had been given to Harellan growing up. His true form was not one that he could show outwardly. The form he was to present to those around him was the supposedly “normal” one. What was classified as normal though? A being that looked like everyone else? He’d seen his father’s true drow form. He’d seen the darkness that permeated his own soul because of it. Why was his difference such a problem for people? He hadn’t realized how much it would be until he was a teenager. Or what would be classified as a teenager in his world. Harellan was not normal and he never would be. That was something he had so much difficulty accepting. Especially when he was alone. He thought he could be himself when in the dark, but that had only ended in tragedy.

All he could remember were the screams. The other kids hadn’t known what he was, but it had been dark and Harellan had hoped he would be able to be unseen. But the darkness crept over the form he presented to others. The glowing white eyes and a mass of nothing but shadows exposed themselves to those around him. That was who Harellan was and they had screamed. They had shunned him and they had wished him dead. Why him? He’d run so fast that he hadn’t even noticed the people chasing him until it was for too late. His father had called his name so loudly. Run. As they clambered over his body, made him nothing more than one with the pavement beneath him, Harellan had only seen red. He had only seen the darkness that permeated half of himself and welcomed it in. That was when his powers had truly manifested for him.

It was Ayi'ig that had found Harellan at his lowest point and showed him the strength he could truly have. Mental manipulation was a gift. Anti-psychic presence only amplified that gift. What he had not been taught to hone before, she had given him the opportunity to hone through her. His father had hidden away these abilities from him and made him think he was lesser than what he was supposed to be. He was to be hidden at all times, but the queen of the drow had given him some sort of purpose. She had told him that he needn't hide himself away from anyone. What he was meant for was much greater than staying in some village that didn't want him. And it was Ayi'ig that whispered in his ear and guided him as he tore that village apart and left nobody but himself standing. Harellan would not let himself be a fool any longer. Everyone else would be the fool and he would be laughing at them all. The halfbloods that Ayi'ig directed him towards, the Asphodel.

Harellan would always be holding the cards. And that was a promise.

personality

+ charismatic, confident, extroverted - malicious, deceitful, arrogant

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Prospero AGE & BIRTH DATE. Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Tiefling ) ABILITIES. Dark Arts & Fire Manipulation OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Santiago Cabrera

biography

Prospero had not been the first tiefling to be born from the union of an elf and a demon. He had been the second born in his small family in a small village that really meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. His father was of no importance to anyone other than the fact that he was a demon walking amongst the land they had inhabited. However, it would barely make a difference considering the people they lived around on a daily basis. Everyone was supernatural to an extent, but his parents had wanted a simpler life. Or at least his mother did. His father had different plans for how their life should turn out.

What once was a small village had turned into a kingdom that Prospero would always look at with wonder in his eyes. The grandeur of the architecture, the skies that sparkled above and the dirt that covered his feet always brought a smile to his face. It was a wonder why an abomination like him would always be in such a good mood, but Prospero had tried to look on the bright side. That was all he had when his brother was the complete opposite. His brother had been born several decades before he had and had more time to be bitter towards everything in the world. Meanwhile, Prospero had ended up trying to hone his magic that came to him naturally.

His mother had been a sun elf so it only seemed fitting that his ability would deal with fire manipulation. It had merely started with burning a few things he held dear to him. Sometimes it would be some toy that his mother had crafted for him as they sat in the privacy of his room. Sometimes it would be an insect that he saw crawling across the floor. Every time that had happened, it felt like his mother had given him a look. However, that look that she gave Prospero was never the same as the one she would give to his brother. There had been a change in the man he had called brother a long time ago, but it seemed even more noticeable now. Prospero wouldn't be able to tell that change had happened until things took a turn for the worst. He hadn't expected it to happen and he wanted to say he was surprised by his brother's actions, but he simply wasn't.

Prospero's brother had not been gifted with fire manipulation, but he had been gifted with something much more vile than that. The two brothers had always been so different, but their abilities were still volatile in nature. And that volatile nature flowed through his brother's veins and struck their father down. Prospero could remember the look on his father's face as their eyes met, blood trickling down his chin as a hole punched its way through his chest. He hadn't known at the time that his father had been completely eviscerated from the inside out with no way of inhabiting another body. After his gaze had lifted from that of his father's, they had met his brother's own cold one. A finger had lifted in his direction and it had felt like his feet had turned into cement. He hadn't realized he was running until he felt his hand in his mother's own.

Before he could even realize what he was doing himself, he had closed his eyes and they were in an entirely different place. Prospero had still felt like his feet were cemented to the floor, but he could remember the look in his mother's eyes as she held onto his face and told him of what had become of his brother, of her son. A god had taken a hold of him and they would do the same to Prospero if they got a hold of him, too. It was at that moment that he had felt the first bit of fear in his life for what would become of him. He had always thought himself safe under the watchful eye of his mother, but this was a god. They had killed his father and now they wanted him, too. He wasn't sure what the intention would be, but he could imagine that his hand would be forced to kill his own mother if that god was let in.

Regardless of that fear, he had tried to stay strong. His mother was doing her best to save him from spies that had clearly been sent to bring him in to his brother. She was stronger than he could ever be and he always wanted to make sure he was just as strong and he hoped he would be able to become even stronger. So he worked at making himself someone that could be feared by a god. Prospero wanted that god to suffer for taking his family away from him. His mother was still there, but they had been cut in half so much so that he could only feel resentment towards the gods. Were they not supposed to be people that looked out for them? It had turned out that they could only be vengeful and only looking out for themselves. That thought alone had awoken something dark within Prospero. From a young age, he had thought the bredth of his abilities only extended towards fire manipulation. His mother would be the one to tell him that there was a darkness within him that she tried to bury within him by taking away those memories in the midst of his sleep. The one thing she always knew though was that that darkness would take a hold of him no matter how hard she tried to shield him from it.

The best revenge is to not be like your enemy.

That was what his mother had told him, but Prospero had not listened. The magic that flowed within his veins had been pushed so far down that he had not been able to control it when the day came to face down the god that wore his brother's face. His mother had begged and pleaded for him to not go, but Prospero had willingly let himself get captured by those spies in order to get closer to his brother. What he did not expect when he got there was for his mother to be there, too. She had tried her best to let them take her instead. Prospero knew that wouldn't work though. She had always been saving him and now it felt like it was his time to save her. It seemed that one split second of thought had been her downfall though. Within a mere second, her throat had been cut open, ichor flowing from the wound and to the floor between them. That moment had been all he needed to lose all rational thought completely. The god was laughing at the moment and Prospero only saw red. With every bit of his being, the dark magic that he had never even known was truly there flew out of his body along with the fire manipulation that he had been accustomed to.

There was a brief moment of silence as the laugh that had fallen from his brother's lips abruptly ended and the other demigod's body fell the to the floor. That energy that had come from the god was now gone and replaced with absolutely nothing. Instead of focusing on that though, Prospero focused on the way that magic had felt in his hands when he had used it. The way the other demigod's body contorted and the way the fire burned the body from the inside out along with the rest of the people in the room with them. The only person left standing had been Prospero at that moment surrounding by bodies that had been eviscerated. When he looked down at one of the people that had been holding him, he caught their eye. He only turned his head for a brief moment to see his mother's body on the floor again before he looked back at the person on the floor. The fire burned its way through their throat to their head that melted its way through bone and skin and left a headless corpse in its wake. Prospero looked away and then moved to pick up his mother's limp body from the floor, stepping over the many bodies in his way as he exited.

He hadn't known he would have to bury his entire family, but Prospero had made a choice to use that darkness within him for good reason. Being a bad person was not something he wanted to be and he wouldn't let himself become that. However, there were people in the world that sacrificed everything for power. His brother had let that god in and it had taken family away from him for the rest of his life. That never meant that Prospero would let that rule his life though. With that god back in Uthenera where they belonged, he looked down at the grave he'd made for his mother, a separate one next to it for where he wished he could have put his father. Tears had not fallen that day, but he swore he would have been able to do so if he had not been so torn apart by what had transpired. The trauma had wormed its way through his veins just like the darkness and only fueled the hate he felt towards those that simply wanted power. It only fueled the hate he had towards those gods that took advantage of those people and promised them something that they simply would not give. They would all perish and Prospero would make sure of that.

So that was what he did with his life. Prospero had been alive so long that it felt like that was all he had ever done. Justice was something he was fond of making come to fruition, but it was never without a cost. With every spell he used, with every bit of magic that flowed from his fingertips, he felt his mind be slowly lost to him. His mind had never truly been his own. He'd felt that from the moment his mother had told him that a god had taken his brother, her son, from them. And it seemed it would never be his own for as long as he lived. Prospero would try though. Well, that was until he ended up being inhabited by a god from his place on a beach. It was upsetting to a degree he couldn't even quite fathom. Fifteen years, that god had taken control of him and made him do things he would never have dreamed of. And then everything that had happened was gone in an instant and he was back on that beach again.

The best revenge is to not be like your enemy.

That was what his mother had told him. But what if he was the villain? What if he wasn't the hero? Who would he be if not just an empty shell for the gods to take over whenever they wanted? No, Prospero would be much more than that. He wouldn't be someone that could be taken advantage of. He would not let himself just be full of despair. Prospero would make the gods wish that they had killed him when they had the chance. And that would be justice.

personality

+ charming, independent, witty - reckless, resentful, destructive

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Pelorus AGE & BIRTH DATE. 4000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Spartoi ) ABILITIES. Accumulation & Radar OCCUPATION. MarshalFACE CLAIM. Travis Fimmel

biography

Born from a necromantic fey and the blood of Echidna, Pelorus was one of five spartoi. He had been draped in armor from his inception and had never really known anything less than war. The spartoi had been born from blood so he had never expected anything less than being drenched in it. From the conflicts of the vampire Ares, Thebes was built from nothing on the backs of him and his siblings for those false gods. Pelorus had never been interested in their conflicts though. He was impulsive, unpredictable, but he was also uninterested in things that he thought were trivial. What did they ever need to fight for? Thebes had been built up and he had decided to take up the mantle of ruler because he deemed himself worthy of the title.

His time spent in Thebes had been all he could have expected and more. It seemed fitting that he would find someone to spend his time with, a wife that would rule alongside him. However, it either became Pelorus or her problem that things went sour between them. Their marriage was one of convenience, not of something like love. It was lucky for the two of them that they ended up finding out that they were better off as friends. However, their marriage was more important to the people they ruled and that meant that they would stay together until death came for either of them. It was clearly more likely that, out of the two of them, Pelorus would still be standing well after her death. Until then, he would have given her the world. Of course everyone else would also receive a bit of him as well. If there was one thing the two of them loved to do, it was invite people into their home and bed. Battles would always be there, but they always enjoyed the after the most.

Unfortunately, for Pelorus, her death came sooner than he had expected. Grief was not something he had been able to fully process because he was soon being called to war with his siblings for those vampires that deemed themselves gods. Ares had requested them, but Pelorus had never been more uninterested. He would fight, he would collect blood debts, he would do everything that would need to be done, but none of it ever truly appealed to him. The spartoi had preferred his life in Thebes with the people that looked towards him as if he was a god himself. Perhaps that was why he had deemed himself so worthy of being a vessel to the gods. But nothing good ever truly came from fighting for those that would be considered pretenders.

False gods had taken Cthonius from him and his siblings. The war the ensued from it had pulled him in and caused bloodshed that would amount to nothing. His sibling was dead and fighting had given them nothing to avenge them. Once the battle was over, the four of them had crawled into a slumber that would awaken them several millennia later. Upon waking up Pelorus, had expected better from the world he would have to inhabit now. However, he was no ruler. He was no god. He was just a demigod and he still wanted blood for the death of his sibling. Of course, it would be preferred if he didn’t have to do much of the fighting at all. It truly had always been so exhausting.

personality

+ loyal, adventurous, extroverted - lazy, defensive, compulsive

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Epimetheus AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Avariel ) ABILITIES. Animal Manipulation & Zoolingualism OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Darren Barnet

biography

It was always so difficult to be liked and to have eyes on you. That was how Epimetheus felt all the time. Born to Raphael, a blessed seraphim, and a high elf, Isegra, from the fields of Hyperborea, he was one of the first avariel to grace the world. His brother, Prometheus came just a few seconds after. That fact would be something that would often be mentioned as the years went on. However, from the moment the small avariel was born, he was meant to be important. Power flowed through his veins from both parents, power that would come to be a blessing and a curse. He was just a baby, but him and his brother were destined to be great. They were destined to be the bearers of something absolutely magnificent.

It always seemed that Epimetheus was more willing to accept the gods than his brother ever would be. The elves would come to be fey once Hyperborea fell and all he could truly think was how disappointing it was that his animals that he had just started to learn to create would have to suffer as well. People were always…disappointing. Whether they were gods or elves or fey, there was always an ulterior motive for all of them. Nevertheless, he followed his brother in assisting Ulthar, Oztalun and Titania to create a new world. While the fey created seasons and the gods created Eden, he was left to create the animals that would soon inhabit this world that had been created. Oztalun had had chosen Epimetheus as his favorite and it only served to make the demigod work harder at creating everything for these gods. There were some that were good and then there were the others.

Perhaps Prometheus had been onto something when he had looked upon the gods in disdain. It had never been said aloud, but it was clear to Epimetheus just what his brother thought. He had always chalked it up to them being twins. The other avariel was of the utmost importance to him. Of every other person that he could know, Prometheus had always been his truest form of love. Second to his brother would always be his animals. The king of afterthought was what most would come to think of him as. They had never said the words to him directly, but it was always obvious that Epimetheus never truly thought anything through. Every animal created was beautiful to him. However, there was always something that went wrong. Oztalun would bless his creations with life and then they would attack each other. It was always a saddening sight when he would lose another of his children that he had worked so hard to create. And the dinosaurs? That was always, and would always be, the worst thing that had ever happened. That triceratops did not deserve the fate that had come to it and yet it had suffered just like every other animal. It had seemed there would be no end to the sadness that enveloped him every time he lost any of them.

When he had said the best thing that had ever happened to him had been just having Prometheus at his side, he had never expected to lose him, too. It had been years of torture for his brother, but Epimetheus had made a promise that he would always be there for him when he was freed. And he was. There had been many losses and some wins in the time since, but they were together again in Elysia. Oh, Elysia. If there was any place that felt more like home to him than anything else, it was that divine place. Every animal he had ever created that had been lost to him because of his own lack of thought had ended up in Elysia. Every canine, every bird, feline, they were all exactly where he wanted them to be at his side. In all honesty, Epimetheus would have never left if it weren’t for his brother. The gods loved him and so did every other being that inhabited the realm. Druids admired him for knowing every tiny fact about every single animal ever created. Why would he ever want to leave a place like that where he was loved by gods and had all of his animals with him?

But he did. Epimetheus followed his brother to this mortal realm with no real goal in mind other than to simply help those that needed it. The one perk came with seeing all of his creations still flourishing in various ways. There were times where he would cry from seeing the deaths of some animals, but he knew he would see them again once he stepped back into Elysia. They would all be there. He just knew it. Even that little cat that had hissed at him on the street. Maybe they would have liked him more if they had hooves.

personality

+ charming, imaginative, open-minded - gullible, pretentious, oversensitive

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Hermes AGE & BIRTH DATE. Ancient GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Avariel ) ABILITIES. Planeswalking & Power Negation OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Jensen Ackles

BIOGRAPHY

Hermes has had many names over the centuries, but none had ever stuck with him better than the one he was given at birth. His mother was a seraphim, and his father was an elf of Hyperborea. Back when the two worlds were nearly one; when the seraphim would walk amongst the crystalline spirals and share stories of Elysia, of the worlds they had seen together. He would be a messenger in his time, but the stone heap that was built during his birth was the original origin for his name. Hermes was born with wings on his ankles that were enough to let him fly, but they were paired with large wings upon his back that glittered beneath the sun. 

As he grew, Hermes began to explore. His father would show him the beauty of Hyperborea, while his mother was away doing Ulthar’s bidding. They would fly together, spirals that seemed to be endless, until they were among the pink clouds. When Hermes’ ability manifested, he found himself in Alfheimr, face to face with a dark elf. The opposite of those he knew, but just as beautiful. He was young and curious, and while he was fascinated by Thanatos, he knew he would have to return to Hyperborea. 

Time seemed endless for him; for his kind. There were many Avariel it seemed, happy to float between Elysia, Hyperborea — amongst the humans of Eden. Hermes could planewalk to any realm he pleased, occasionally discovering those that he’d never seen before. His travels would take him back to Alfheimr, to Thanatos.

There wasn’t a word for death in his adolescence, but he learned many different ones when Hyperborea fell. The darkness came upon it quickly and violently, Hermes having time to only grab those around him and planewalk them to the crossroads within the Otherworld. The gods did not help them, his father, his closest companion — all lost to the fall. He mourned his father, his life — but within him burned the same flame the Promethean had put inside the humans. Hermes could do nothing but stay in Elysia, continue the job that he was given, yet he spent more and more time in Alfheimr, with the only person that understood him. It was Thanatos who told Hermes what Avariel were made for; what his kind were created to do. They were the vessels for dying gods, for those that needed a body to survive once again. But Hermes? His time would not end. Thanatos knew his ability was enough to keep him useful, something that Hermes would come to terms with eventually. But it was also what helped burn the flame within him a bit brighter. 

Many of his kind had perished in different ways as wars became the new norm, during the fall of the seraphim alongside his mother. Hermes didn’t wish to see them disappear. Tieflings, Hollowborn — he tried to save as many as he could. Hermes would wander the realms with the souls of gods, “unable” to find out where they were supposed to go. He would ensure that he wouldn’t come across any Demi-gods, force them back into Uthenara without getting his hands dirty. He was able to do this for a while, safe amongst Alfheimr, until one day — he wasn’t. Ulthar had seen him, and for all that Titania had done to save the demi-gods, the furies were sent after him instead. With his power, he could evade them easily — for a time. At least, that’s how it seemed. It was Megaera who found him at last, deep within the realms of the Otherworld. Running was easy, until he felt the blade against the back of his neck. An example, much like Prometheus; yet he would have his freedom. Her blade sawed his wing off, slowly — so he would feel every tendon and ligament break. He didn’t need them to fly, but it would remain a trophy of the Furies. 

Successfully subduing Hermes, Megaera disappeared and in her place was Thanatos. The only companion that Hermes could rely on; the only one he had left. Retreating to Alfheimr, Hermes stayed at the god of peaceful death’s side. It became his new home, and occasionally he would venture into the mortal realm. He hid his true nature to all but those that recognized him. Titania had done what she could to hide the Avariel, all those who had elven blood within them, and so in Alfheimr he stayed. 

The centuries passed, the humans of the mortal realm eventually leaving behind the ancient world that had remembered him. At times he was venerated as a god, a mythical being that transported himself and shepherded souls to the Underworld. That much had been true once, but as times changed, as more and more supernatural creatures were born, Hermes, or Mercury as he had been called at times, retreated back to the Otherworld. The faerie court wasn’t his home, and he didn’t wish to return to Elysia, but he’d realized that home had never been a place. It’d been the only man that had stayed with him; that had comforted the marred Avariel that he’d become. 

As the chaos within Rome continued, it was the resurgence of the Necronomicon that caught his attention. With Titania’s departure from the Court and the mortal realm, his essence would no longer be hidden from the gods — and perhaps he would be a target if one that he’d misled ever wished to get their last laugh with his body. Either way, Hermes knew that with Persephone’s presence, Rome and the Eladrin would need his help. With Thanatos involved, there was no way Hermes would leave him to face the disruption alone. So to Rome he went, at the side of the only home he’d ever known.

PERSONALITY

+ adventurous, charming, witty – resentful, angry, apathetic

PLAYED BY LAUREN. PST . She/Her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Vivianne Dahlia AGE & BIRTH DATE. 38 & April 13th, 1984 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Demigod ( Spartoi ) OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Ana de Armas

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: manipulation, sacrifice, suicide, pregnancy ) Screaming, alone, far too young and seconds before the chime of midnight, a new mother lay on the floor of her bathroom, tears and perspiration leaving wet trails down her face. She delivered her own daughter, arms trembling as they cradled the wailing infant. When Allegra looked into her daughter’s eyes, she felt only resentment and despair. The screaming child was an unwelcome, unexpected stranger. She was a little thing that only demanded of her and gave nothing back in return. A month since her daughter’s birth and already Allegra’s exhausted eyes were wild, her hair unkempt and a cold smile plastered on her face that chilled a concerned neighbor. A chant had begun the night of May 13. The child stirred uncomfortably in her sleep, her eyelids pressing tight in a bad dream and her little feet kicking at the blanket wrapped around her. Her mother came close, a shining knife nestled inside both of her trembling hands before the knock came. The child was stolen by her visitors that night, leaving Allegra to eventually wake up on the floor of her home and never to look for her daughter again, nor speak of her existence. The child was a normal little witch, at least in appearances. But she grew weaker by the day, paler and more sickly. Her saviors feared the worst - they feared her mother had taken all her magic, corrupted her and fed on her youth. The witches that had saved her now left her before the door of another, another who would burden themselves with the sickly little witch orphan, one they firmly believed was not too long for this world.

She called him Father, but he was not her father. She called them dreams, but they were not dreams. Father treasured them. He had brought her from the brink of death and named her after life. She was his prized possession, the one who would ask her about her dreams every morning. Despite difficult beginnings, Vivianne believed she was blessed. The kids at school would speak of their mothers and fathers, looking at her with sympathy that she only had one parent to speak of. But she was private in her pride and smugness, for they didn’t know that she had a family larger and more powerful than any of them. Her coven. The children that had grown within it were her brothers and sisters, the adults her aunts and uncles. When you see the world through the rose-colored glasses of a child, the red flags look like vibrant dahlias. It took her time to understand that the older children could not stand to be around her, for they feared her when she spoke of predictions and dreams. She spoke about them less, only allowing Father to hear. The dreams grew fewer, but more significant in content. She dreamed of a man outside their coven doing something bad and she told Father about it. She was 9 the first time Father told her that playtime was over. She frowned and thought to return to her dolls later, but she’d never touch the dolls again. She returned home that night, covered in blood and sent to a newer, bigger room of Father’s estate, one without dolls and covered with books and tools. Blood magic, Father called it all. They killed an enemy of their coven. Powerful. Necessary. Protecting our family. 

She was 12 when she realized that each of those significant dreams in her childhood had let Father to commit atrocities. They were once just stories and dreams for her, but they had been prophecies for him. Without knowing, she was the one who had killed the man in her dream and countless others that she had seen do wrong or speak ill. Father’s ambition grew, as did his paranoia, for he began to see more enemies within the coven than outside. Powerful. Necessary. Protecting our family, she repeated to herself. She was 13 the first time she killed another human being at Father’s behest. She traveled for him, shed blood for him, lied and stole for him. She did it all, if only to keep him away from her younger brothers and sisters. By 16 years old, very month she would dream of a different witch in her coven who planned to disobey, disappoint or destroy Father. Every month she forced herself to choose between family members, every month she did what she could to restore order and faith if only to stop the treason and stop Father’s descent into madness. Powerful. Necessary. Protecting our family. She cried, she screamed, she begged Father to come out of the fog of paranoia and his hunger for power if only to listen to her. He wouldn’t. The coven started to see her as his tool, as an untrustworthy and tainted as him. One night, Vivianne traveled to her favorite part of Italy and decided to watch her last sunset, for she decided she would not wake in the morning to suffer more of this torment.

Life seemed determined to keep Vivianne alive, for she lived to return home and see Father destroy nearly her entire family over the next few years. It all boiled down to one night, only 6 months into Vivianne’s 18th year of life. One family of a mother, father and 3 children had planned to escape the coven and take with them 3 artifacts that Father had collected. They were powerful things, capable of giving the Dahlia Sovereign untold ability with enough practice and experimentation. Vivianne kept this all to herself, doing only what she could to mask the family’s escape without anyone being the wiser. Unfortunately, Father found out about the family and sought them out. The man and woman were killed, as were two of their children. Vivianne was too late to save the other, but she ran in front of the last child and begged, begged Father to spare them the way he had spared her from death all those years ago. He only spoke of being able to take her life as easily as he had saved it. She fought until she could fight no longer. Then Vivianne sobbed, kneeling over the body of the man she had once called Father, the man who now lay in a puddle of his own blood. Blood magic, she remembered him saying to her. Powerful. Necessary. Protecting our family.

Vivianne never touched blood magic again. She rose from the ashes, abandoning the past’s pain but vowing never to forget it because she would forge a new future based on everything that they could have done differently. She dyed her hair blonde, because the brown made her think of the mother and real father she had never known. She wanted to be new, to belong to no family but the one that she created herself. She donned the title of Dahlia Coven’s sovereign because she rebuilt her coven from the ground up and preached everything Father had failed to: peace, inclusion, community, trust. They would be a true family this time, believing in one another so strongly that there would be no room for doubt and fear. And if there was doubt and fear, they would solve it as they did everything else - together. She would never be alone again, and neither would a single other witch that was welcomed into their home. Her night time dreams became far and fewer, but she could not have been more relieved or more happy. She had a real home now.

PERSONALITY

+ empathetic, tenacious, open-minded – suspicious, self-righteous, obsessive

PLAYED BY DANY. EST. She/Her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Hyacinth AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod VARIANT. Avariel OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Michiel Huisman

biography

( tw: death, blood, child soldier ) Greek authors would someday write of the beauty of the young prince of Sparta, Hyakinthos and the Gods Apollo, Boreas, and Zephyrus who competed for his affection. They would come to write of his skill with the lyre, of how the west wind betrayed him, but they forgot that Hyakinthos was born of Sparta, that he was more than Apollo’s doomed lover. The prince was descended from Zeus himself, grandson of the legendary hero Perseus, son of Queen Gorgophone of Sparta, and a demigod whose fondness for a flower later earned his namesake. Born with unsurpassed strength, the celebration that followed Hyacinth birth was repeated for generations to come. 

Being born male, and a son of one of Proto-Sparta’s two kings, the winter noble Oedapalus, meant only one thing, Hyakinthos was destined for the military. At age seven he was sent to train in the agoge and lived apart from his family so the young man could be fully immersed in the Spartan way of training. His homeland had no walls, thousands of years before his birth King Lycurgus had decreed that they be taken down, and that the young men of Sparta would train to be the walls of their state. Starved, beaten, trained to survive the most intolerable conditions, and desensitised to the trials of war, Hyacinth was released into the streets and told to steal. To fight. To do whatever was necessary to survive. Blades came to him with natural affinity, conjured from air, those that came his wave swerved and always missed their mark. A dancer of doru. 

Under his paidonómos, Hyacinth was intentionally starved and when he was caught stealing, the young man was whipped until he was unconscious. The Spartans valued brevity in speech, and tactfully the thoughtful young man learned to use his sharp tongue to his advantage. After he became accustomed to hunger, he learned next to coordinate with other boys from the agoge, to use the inherent magic that existed within the demigod’s veins to his advantage. The prince was naturally blessed, both in power and beauty, and as his body grew, his muscles hardened, his strength focused, and the young man survived. 

The prince had a natural affinity for leadership, his fellows would look to him for guidance, for council, for advice, and Hyakinthos took to this role in stride. The ephors took notice of this and made him a member of Sparta’s Krypteia, a form of police used to suppress the Helot population within both Sparta and the Spartan-controlled territories. At this point the prince had already pledged himself to a member of the Spartan military, a man that would be his shield, as he would be his. One he had already known for years, someone that the young prince could engage in with stories of war and conflict, garner advice from on strategy and how to best stay alive. It was a practice of friendship and love and respect, and it was how best to protect Mother Sparta.

With discretion, Hyakinthos wandered Sparta’s countryside, familial attachments were distant, unfamiliar now, as he had not seen his mother or sisters in over a decade. Still a young man, fresh-faced and keen, the avariel was said to be possessed of a monstrous level of strength that he hammered forward with his spear in an intricate dance. Transmute lungs into roses and leave fauna where rebels once stood. Sharp, beautiful, dangerous, the Spartan prince had been equally blessed with both beauty and rage. Focused by his years of training, the Krypteia was told to find the strongest of the Helots and murder them, to kill any who spoke of rebellion. Such was the practice of Sparta, Autumn came and annually the ephors declared war upon them, so the blood that ran over Hyakinthos was not seen as a sin, but instead was celebrated as a great service to Sparta.

Talented, ambitious, and proud, Hyakinthos joined the Spartan military at the age of twenty-one, officially, and under King Oedapalus the great state was on the move. A campaign that would never end, the Spartan way of life was superior, this was known across the Greek world. So much so, that notable houses from all over would pay tribute to send their sons through the training at the agoge, for a time, anyways. Hyakinthos met such boys in his youth, weak-minded Athenians, and barbaric Thracians, even those deemed worthy of similar training could not hold a blade to any true-blooded Spartan man.

It was the young man’s fate to prove himself on the field of battle, on behalf of his homeland Hyakinthos participated in one successful campaign after another; the prince fought with a grace that had not been seen since his grandfather Perseus had tactfully severed the head of the gorgon, Medusa. When he flew off on the winged-Pegasus that emerged from the blood that kissed the earth with the remnants of Athena’s magic. When drought led to shortages, his power tended to the fields, the prince became more than just another brick in Sparta’s high walls but was instead revered. Vegetation bent to his will, the Spartan’s laconic tongue served him well and inevitably Hyakinthos rose higher and higher as he was deified. Blessed with a mind well-suited for ambition, and beauty enough to catch the eye of even Apollo himself.

Hyakinthos toiled alone in the forests outside of Sparta, hidden somewhere in the wildernesses of Lakonia. The Pythia of the time had decreed that the campaign would not resume until the Spring, that the winter be spent in observance, and preparations for a great and terrible loss were to be made. It was here, bent over a yet unnamed flower of his own creation that Apollo first appeared before him, the God was as beautiful as any story had ever perpetuated, as expertly carved as any statue had ever been chiselled. More so, even, because to look upon him was to stare at the sun itself: bright and disarming, uncomfortably so. Apollo spoke most often in riddles, a challenger to the Spartan’s direct manner of thinking.

Hyakinthos, dejected, warned that he had not asked anything of the God, that he would be no more bound to the curse of a Sphinx than Apollo was to Spartan soil. Brave, unyielding, outspoken, Hyakinthos did not back down when challenged, and apparently this only further endeared the divine towards him, but he was not the only one.

Boreas first took notice of the Spartan prince when he saw that Apollo had managed to convince Hyakinthos to leave Sparta while his homeland was no longer at war, just for the winter, the God had promised, and despite his better judgement, he agreed. The God of the north-wind spotted the prince in the swan-drawn carriage of Apollo as the god escorted Hyakinthos from Sparta to Elysia. As they passed over Thrace and flew beyond the North Wind, Boreas was immediately enamoured. The God made claims of Hyakinthos’ beauty to Zephyrus loud enough that whispers of a competition for the Spartan’s heart were found among the Thracians.

The Elysians were a race of Gods, creatures unlike anything the Spartan had ever seen. They valued music, dance, craftsmanship, and it was here that Apollo trained the man to shoot his bow with all the lethal accuracy of a God. How to dance among the divine, how to make love under a sun that would never set. It was there that Hyakinthos honed his craftsmanship under Vulcan’s tutelage and at last, Hyakinthos claimed that he never wished to leave, but with a kiss, Apollo gave him a simple gift instead: the swan-drawn carriage he’d used to transport the prince to Elysia, a land nestled high above ruined Hyperborea. The promise was this: you may return whenever you wish.

It was Thamyris who awaited Hyakinthos back in Sparta, it would be to war once more, but not before the Thracian singer aimed to throw his name into the ring for Hyakinthos’ hand. The prince would need to be married in a few years, produce an heir, hopefully another Spartan man to add to the military, where, like him, he would serve until he was sixty years old. The Thracian singer, with his flowery words and ego were of no use to the Spartan, he had met greater men as a child and poets were better suited for Athens. Thamyris boasted he was a better singer even than the muses, and when they were called to prove such a claim, Hyakinthos named himself Thamyris’ prize should he win. When the muses were victorious, they slashed out the Thracian’s eyes and the singer returned home, blinded and disgraced.

Amused, Apollo boasted of his place at the prince’s side, even among the gods Hyakinthos was widely regarded. The envy of both God, and Goddess, Titan, and Titaness, Hyakinthos revelled in it, while outwardly the Spartan did not seem phased by the attention, privately he craved it. Grandson of Perseus, great grandson of Zeus, son of the Blessed Gorgophone, Hyakinthos had lightning in his veins and had always aimed to be regarded for more than simply his looks. He was a veteran of several conflicts, seasoned, hardened, and bright in the ways of military strategy. Already Hyakinthos’ feet had touched lands that not even the great Perseus had seen. And he was still just a young man, one who had barely kissed his prime.

Boreas came to him next; the north wind blew his carriage off-course one night and forced the prince to land so that he might get his bearings once more. The God presented Himself and Hyakinthos argued that had he wished to impress the Spartan then perhaps he should have done more than derail his voyage. Rejected, Boreas retreated, too proud to continue, but Zephyrus did not take rejection as kindly. He wanted Hyakinthos’ attention, plying the spartan prince with gifts, blessings for the Spartan people, favourable breezes under blistering hot days, relief from exhaustion on their ceaseless campaigns. Yet, in the end Hyakinthos did not choose the west wind, he chose Apollo, and permitted the God of prophecy boasting.

In Elysia, Elysium, and across Sparta, Apollo and Hyakinthos would hunt, and laugh, and sing, they fell quickly and madly in love with one another. Apollo taught the young demigod the art of prophecy after he spit in his mouth, he taught him storytelling, and the Spartan would reply in short, terse responses that were indicative of his laconic upbringing.  Hyakinthos had no skill for singing, or poetry, or prophecy, but he had the capable hands of a musician, and learned to play the lyre under Apollo’s expert tutelage. While the pair of them revelled in one another, the Gods of the West and North wind plotted their undoing. It was while the two-oiled frames of Apollo and Hyakinthos threw discus one morning that a stray-wind dictated a tragic end. A fatal fate for Sparta’s promising young prince.

Apollo, wracked with grief, cradled Hyakinthos’ lifeless body in his arms and wept as the tears of the God mottled with the blood of the earthen-witch, flowers of Apollo’s make sprouted from the ground where these two regents met. It would later be said that this was the power of transformation, that Hyakinthos’ soul was denied Elysium in favour of eternity under the baking sun as the purple and blue Hyacinth. But that was not the end of the Spartan’s story.

The God refused to be parted from Hyakinthos, refused to lose him to the other side, Apollo wove his power of his riddled tongue and bound the Spartan’s life and blood to the flower of his namesake. To ensure that nobody would attempt to steal the Spartan’s shade to the Underworld again, Apollo made a home for the two to share in Elysia so that they might be together for eternity.

But Apollo was not the first man to teach Hyakinthos the pleasures of the flesh, and while they reveled in each other most of all, the prince became quite used to the sight of the God sharing such mysteries with whomever he pleased. In Elysia and Elysium, the Spartan remained, content in paradise as years stretched towards centuries, before the passing millennia reached the twenty-first century. It was not just Apollo’s power that had waned, but all the Gods, and with the passing of years came an innate desire to see them all fall.

personality

+ dedicated, loyal, patient – dogmatic, aggressive, aloof

played by shane. est. he/him.

[senatushq]

NAME. Nimet Mataraci AGE & BIRTH DATE. 4666 & Fall of 2642 BCE GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her SPECIES. Demigod ( Hollowborn ) ABILITIES. Amalgamation & Soul Reading OCCUPATION. Owner of the Opera House, Professional Singer FACE CLAIM. Cagla Demir

biography

( tw cannibalism allusions, body horror ) First memories are never concise, glimpses of the world that cannot be processed but—

Nimet remembers the singing. 

She will never forget the singing. 

There is an ever present melody in her life, the soft humming that permeates her world from the moment she can remember. Careful hands join the melody, gentle and tender as they brush against her and her first true memory is reaching to grasp for those fingers, the instinctive fear of the touch disappearing bubbling like a beast in her chest. 

It’s the first time she is ever afraid, but it isn’t the last. 

Nimet is raised amidst song and dance on the Fall Court, toddling after father’s footsteps and tripping over her own feet as childish glee bursts from her lips. The court is her world, comprising an eternal autumn, cat sidhe and pixies that flutter around her as she tries to reach for them, her father and his warder ever present, ever watchful. The evenings are spent on her dad’s lap, clumsy child fingers reaching up to try and touch the peppery kisses on his hair as she laughs and follows along his singing with vocals that are considered clumsy by fey standards but angelic by mortal ones. 

Her life is an eternal wonderland, one she wakes up in the most unexpected of ways. 

There is no hiding that she is a hollowborn, not with her faster growth than any fey children, not with her dad’s honesty. Nimet knows what she is since she can remember, not realizing that it makes her different, that it makes her dangerous. 

Until she is. 

There is an ever present desire sitting at the mouth of her stomach, a hunger she cannot explain, cannot get rid of. Once glance, a world of melodies blooms from a being's soul, a more measured look and she can grasp their nature, their personality, their weakness and beyond. It’s a beautiful symphony, calling for her, urging her to reach out and bring it into herself, to cradle the beauty and the music and make it hers without a care of what it would mean for another. 

She has always known that she can do it, too, that she can reach and swallow the world and become all she is not. 

Her father calls her a blessing, and she wants to believe that she is, but she sees the other fey children and doubts. 

Nimet sees their supernatural beauty, and finds herself lacking, she hears their melodious voices and finds her vocals clumsy and childlike in comparison, she dances with them and watches as they float through the steps while it takes blood, sweat and tears to be passable. 

She knows no grief, no cruelty, but she has always known the heady desire sitting at the mouth of her stomach. 

She wants and wants and wants and wants. 

She wants to be the blessing her father believes her to be, she wants to be as beautiful as her friends, sing as beautifully as them. 

Nimet wants to be good so very desperately, and the desire is all consuming. 

It’s ever present, waiting at the edge of her teeth, sitting on the back of her throat. Awaiting for the right time to manifest fully, this ever present hunger for more that will not stop until the world is swallowed whole, until she is everything she has ever dreamed, the flaws that prick like thorns smoothed out into the perfection she sees on those around her. 

The desire waits for an awfully long time, simmering and waiting for the right moment to be unleashed. 

It all comes to head on a funeral, like many things do. 

Grief had been a foreign entity for Nimet until then, mentioned and understood at it’s basic levels, but never truly comprehended.

Not until now.

Before her lies an empty body, one devoid of the melody that had surrounded her since she was born. Before her lies her grandmother, the woman that led her first steps, that cradled her limbs as she taught her how to dance, that told her stories of Eden and the world she had left behind. 

She doesn’t understand why she is lying so still, can’t. The first time death touches her life, the first time she feels Thanatos standing behind her, and it is one of the people dearest to her heart. It is a wave of grief she is not capable of understanding, an overwhelming tsunami that falls upon her like a lion on a gazelle. 

There is a body before her, ready to be lowered into a patch of carnivorous fungi. There is a body before her, about to be destroyed and returned to the Earth. There is a body before her, devoid of a soul but with potential that only she seems to see. There is the elegant curve of the neck that she has always envied, the few inches of height she had wished she had grown into  and the vocal cords that produces the most beautiful of songs.

The Fall Fey singing their mourning ditty around her only see what has been lost, but Nimet? 

She can see what can be gained.

The ever present hunger, the overwhelming desire, her desperate need, it strikes. 

Nimet moves. 

Desire unleashed, she moves as if in a dream, step purposeful despite acting entirely in instinct. No one stops her, not her father, not his warder, not the countless of mourners, thinking her a child unable to control her actions in her grief. 

They are half right, not knowing she is not about to throw herself at her grandma’s body and weep. None of them are prepared for what is to come, not even Nimet who had held the instinct to consume at bay when she had realized no one felt it as she did. Her Soul Reading is known, seen as a marvel and a gift, a blessing.

This?

This will be seen as nothing but a curse.

Nimet stands next to her grandmother’s body, looking down at her, face wiped from all tears and hunger manifesting as she reaches forward to place a delicate hand at her cheek and pulls, tugs at the thread of desire on her gut that had driven her forward and whispered at her to reach out and sink her teeth on the flesh before her, to consume and make it her own. 

Biting would destroy the delicate arches she wants to possess, though, so she keeps her teeth sheathed, despite the way her mouth salivates in need. Instead, the deliberate effort she puts into keeping her human form falls away and changes. Bones break, flesh shifts as she is connected to the corpse and envelops it into her own in a methodical, bloody pulse of flesh and tendons that swells and diminishes in a quick pulse, leaving Nimet behind. 

Leaving the new Nimet behind. Taller, more delicate, ears pointed and teeth sharpened just as her grandmother’s were. 

She opens her mouth and sings, reaching the melodic tones she had been unable to reach before and wants to laugh in glee, finally feeling like she can be the blessing she had been told she was. 

Her back is turned to the mourners, she cannot see the horror on their face, the disgust and fear that fills the features of those who she calls friends.

She cannot see the anger in Fen’harel’s face at her desecration.

But she will feel it.

Her world is taken from her after that, imprisoned and judged by the Fall Chancellor, exiled without remorse as she is told that her father had been wrong, that she is not the blessing he thought, but rather a curse that had befallen the courts.

Nimet doesn’t see her dad before she is sent out of the Otherworld, he does not meet her at the edges of the Court, too loyal to leave it all behind.

Someone else is there waiting, though, a reminder that she is loved despite the malevolent hunger sitting at her chest. 

Grieving, scared, desperate and afraid, Nimet takes her father’s warder hand and steps away from the Courts, knowing she will never see them again.

It’s the beginning.

It’s the end. 

She doesn’t see her father for a long time after that.

personality

+ Perceptive, Charming, Adaptable. - Anxious, Self-Indulgent, Envious.

played by ori. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Hyperenor AGE & BIRTH DATE. 4000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Çağlar Ertuğrul

biography

The sapphire comes forth from the earth more lustrous and hard than most other minerals. Hyperenor’s rise was no different, born from tooth and blood with an absolute purpose brandished as well as the weapon in his hand. Together with his siblings, he forged the way to create a city fit for the gods. However, his purpose went beyond that. What was his was to be protected and honored above all else. He would not lose, he would not waver, and his talents would shine more brilliantly than any of his other siblings. The first eye he wished to behold was Echidna’s, for he understood the monster she hoped him to be. Hyperenor would remember this with his every breath, each chance he got to prove his superior might a dedication to her. He wanted the mention of his name to invoke imagery of his vicious power, a legacy of his own on par with Thebes.

  The next eye Hyperenor wished to gleam in was that of a war god. Ares’ cause mattered significantly less than the promises of bloodied glory he gave to incite the spartoi. They all lent their strength, but Hyperenor alone came to call Ares brother. He was protective, steadfast, and more solid in his convictions than all his siblings so such devotion was no small treasure to obtain. Alone their violence reached divine heights, but together untold carnage was released on every field of battle they met. Those days were Hyperenor’s happiest, for there was nothing more natural to him than bathing in the blood of his enemies. They were monsters together, brothers with a bond thicker than the water of the womb, and so the eventual betrayal was that much more soul-crushing.

Hyperenor never forgot who he was or where he came from. His family expanded, but that didn’t make him forget the siblings who leaped from the earth with him. Cthonius was dead and the ones he trusted were to blame. Hurt twisted into rage, and alongside his true blood he waged war but to what end? They couldn’t carry on, or wouldn’t due to their injury and suffering. It was not the same for Hyperenor, he was incapable of letting go. War was his lifeblood and violence was his soul even if it tore his body apart. Rage had twisted into something else in his heart until not even he understood the depths of his hatred. But he didn’t need to, because monsters don’t require reasons to commit atrocities.

  Wounded but not defeated, he retreated behind stony cliffs to slumber but never found peace. His dreams were marred with revenge fantasies, fueling his righteous fury. The world turned, Hyerpernor rested, and the desire to harm increased as his strength came back to him. When the earth shook signaling his wake, he understood that there were Old Ones waiting for him. But he was neither pawn nor tool and rejected all notions of being used. Hyperenor had his own goals and would proceed as he saw fit. Cthonius was wiped from the realm while the legacy of the false gods he followed continued to thrive in the current era? That was unforgivable to Hyperenor and he owed to eradicate all trace of their influence from existence before he even took a step from the dark cavern where he rested. With or without his siblings, vengeance would be his. Hyperenor’s only hope was that someone along his path to retribution would attempt to resist his ruthlessness, so he could really enjoy himself like in the days of old. 

personality

+ Tactical, resolute, independent – Guarded, cold, vicious

played by zen. est. he/him.

[senatushq]

NAME. Maddox AGE & BIRTH DATE. 2500+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Tiefling ) ABILITIES. Possession & Syphon OCCUPATION. Black Market Trader FACE CLAIM. Jai Courtney

biography

( tw death ) A bane, a monstrosity, a traitor; the names had been plentiful within the days of his youth, that had followed him through the years that would lead him to his adulthood. Born the son of an abomination that had possessed a king, it had been title and land given to him solely based upon the blood that ran through his veins. A blood that had been unlike many others that had ruled within those lands, and it was a blood that not many found themselves trusting. Father and son had garnered a particular sense of aversion, a quiet fear that seemed to be felt throughout the land. It mattered little, however, when the knowledge of who he was, and more importantly, what he could become nestled itself upon every thought within his head.

Uncle is what he had spoken so often, placed upon the tip of his tongue when he traveled to a land that was so much more vast than the one his father ruled over. A land that would someday be his own, when he had stripped it from his uncle’s hands after his blade had pierced his heart. Yet completing such a task required knowledge, and so, with a bitter taste in his mouth, he swore fidelity to his uncle. And allowed himself to be placed among his knights, even if it were at a ranking so beneath him. For his objective was not to become the knight at the top of the ranking. No, his ambition went beyond that, to the place that his uncle had claimed for his own.

It was within his court that the Tiefling learned of his strengths, in the halls of his kingdom and on the battlefield. He learned of his follies, of the weaknesses of his heart, and precisely how those disadvantages could be used against him. All it would take was a bit of careful planning, a tip of the scales and the result would be gratifying. His uncle would be destroyed, and the Weary would stand in his place, with the full command of his lands and his armies. If only he had been wise enough to caution against the cruelty that was harbored deep within his uncle. 

The scenario had played upon itself over and over again in his head, how Mordred’s blade would pierce his uncle’s heart. How he would ascend upon the throne, wear the crown upon his head and be unlike any king that had come before him. Another’s death had not been a part of this plan. For the Tiefling had not intended for his father to have burned through his host, to be sent into the depths of a place the son had never gone to. The Inferno had been known since his birth, for his mother had once noted it time and time again, before she had left without sparing another glance to her son. He had mourned her loss, but more so what she had perhaps taken with her. The knowledge and power that could have been at his fingertips, that he could have used to prevent his brother from being butchered while he governed over the land that had been left to him.

That would be the price of victory, however, and the motivation that would send him to war. To a battle on the fields of a kingdom that would soon be his. Yet cruelty would need to be met with cruelty, and blood would need to be shed before nephew and uncle met at last. It was with his blade that he struck down those that had sworn fidelity to his uncle, who had promised the King their sword and shield. For many of them, the Tiefling was no match, with a strength that rivaled each of theirs and sent them to their early graves. Friends and allies were massacred, and left upon the lands that would be stripped from its King.

It had been his singular want for the path that nestled before him, that is… until something unlike anything the Tiefling had known before was placed within his way. A man that screamed power so vastly different than what he had dealt with before, yet echoed with an unmatched vexation for him. Though their time together had been short, it had been fueled by an unforeseen hate. An anger that seemed to push them closer together, rather than tear them apart. For any moment that the pair were not together, seemed to cause him to grieve what memory they could have created. Until separation was all they were given. For the other’s duties took him far away, while a battle on a hill required all of the Tiefling’s focus.

For at long last, after countless amounts of bloodshed and betrayal, nephew and uncle once more met. Sword against sword, they battled for greed and power. Strengths and weaknesses were tested, neither man willing to give the other so much as an inch, no matter the cost that would be collected. Until finally, it was a sword pierced into the space between armor, tender flesh penetrated. Blood soaked the battlefield from a mortal wound, but it would not stop the Tiefling from dealing out his own. He had pushed forward, impaled himself further upon the sword, until he had been able to deal his own mortal blow to his uncle.

It was on that hill that the Tiefling died, but it was not into the Inferno that his soul traveled. Awakened power kept his soul from straying into the levels of the Inferno, as it wandered the lands in search of another, of a host that would allow him to live on. Uncertain of the power at his hands, he spent too long wandering, until finally he understood what could be his. A host, a new body that he could claim as his own. Unbridled power at his fingertips, he continued to take and take to fill the hole of the greed that had been left within him. For if he could not have the kingdom that should have rightfully been his, then he would take what was equal to that.

The years continued to pass by in a blur, a new body acquired every few centuries when the last became unfit. Power, wealth, status had been easy enough to acquire once he understood precisely what his abilities could mean for him. For why did he need to worry about pressing the wrong button, or stepping on the wrong toes when he did not need to fear a mortal death. When another body was easily acquired, plucked from the crowds as if he only needed to shop around. Which is precisely why he had been able to make a name for himself within the shadows of a world many faint of heart did not step into. Items could be acquired with ease, for the simple notion of knowing who had the right information to get him into where he needed to. Even supernatural beings had been no match for him, for energy could be drained with the gentlest of touches. Tooth and claw parted with, blood given to the right bidder, and even live beasts when the request had intrigued him enough. Nothing had been off limits for Maddox, even when the request had taken him to the streets of Rome, which seemed to crawl with unbridled potential for money earned. 

personality

+ Charismatic, resourceful, adaptable – Deceitful, insatiable, treacherous

played by c. cst. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Luna Nightshade AGE & BIRTH DATE. 30 & November 14th, 1992 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her SPECIES. Demigod ( Hollowborn ) ABILITIES. Nature Manipulation OCCUPATION. Employee at Compro Oro, Marshal FACE CLAIM. Priscilla Quintana

biography

( tw blood, murder, violence ) Luna was borne in the Underdark, kept hidden between shadow and secret as she was brought into creation by an affair that couldn’t be. Her mother weened her on poison as that was the way and it was for the Matriarchs to remain strong and stoic -- never revealing things such as love or care for their descendants to showcase any parental rearing was a sign of weakness. It was the women who led the society of the Underdark and so Luna never gave voice to her questions about her father and her autumn Eladrin father stayed far away. The teachings of Lloth were passed down to her and so she grew more vigilant in years, she became sharpened as a weapon and use to cutting others who dared to come near.

It wasn’t for those that belonged to the Drow society to sing -- it wasn’t how it was done but one evening when Luna had slipped far away from those she knew and stood on the outskirts of the Underdark, a strange song began to take shape within her chest and with its release, a odd shape began to grow underneath the grey ground that composed the Underdark, it withered underneath the ground and it seemed as if it was a serpent going to break though -- it broke the ground but what grew was life, a vine of greenery with ivy leaves on it began to take root underneath the surface of the Underdark. It wasn’t possible but it was the beginning of Luna’s hollowborn journey as she learnt that evening that she was more then that they said she was. If she wasn’t caught, she could keep this secret for a little longer as the society dictate that all was to be kept hidden in shadow.

Luna began to crave the light of the sun and some answers to her parentage but she knew she’d get none from her drow mother and so she went into the mortal realm on her own, she found an abandoned cottage where the forest had consumed it and with her abilities began to untangle the roots and the forest gave way to her. She was not alone in her time there, creatures that seemed scary but had always listened to her command began to appear -- Ogres, mind flayers, Demogorgon's and as she grew in the companionship so did Eldritch creatures from the Otherworld, changelings, Ursa’s and Dire wolves all began to fill the forest that she inhibited.

It seemed life was at peace even as the mystery still surrounded where she came from and then one night they came for her. Masked men with intention to harm arrived at her sanctuary, they raised blades to slice her skin for the blood within but she had grown in power, the Eldritch creations that she had roared in anger as they fought for her and the vines under her command strangled the men. It gave her answers but didn’t satisfy the sense that she wanted more then this hidden existence, she was tired of living in shadow and it was time for the world to know what she could do.

personality

+ Independent, compassionate, caring – Willful, bitter, reserved

played by amy. pst. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Narcissus AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3,000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Tiefling) ABILITIES. Narcissism & Water Manipulation OCCUPATION. Fashion Designer FACE CLAIM. Taron Egerton

biography

Narcissus wasn’t always obsessed with himself. 

His mother was a beautiful fey, one who had an affinity for Winter and water, named Liriope, and his father was one of the many Cubi that had crawled from the depths of hell  – Cephissus. Liriope had always been worried about having children in the mortal realm, away from the fey court. After all, any of her children would be part nature, and one day, she would have to part with them if they were not immortal, like herself. Liriope wanted little to do with Cephissus, despite how much she cared for the demon. There was no future for them, not while she had a demigod to hide. Narcissus was forever a sheltered child, even as he grew older – Liriope had a fondness for tricks, and their river and forest home was more than enough to keep her treasure safe.

As Narcissus grew, his abilities did as well. Though to him and his mother, his gift from the gods seemed to be the ability to enrapture an audience. Water came next, how it bent to his will, and how he enjoyed what beauty he could create simply by speaking and having people watch. It was all too obvious, that he was perfect in every way, but he was also a tiefling – hellfire ran through his blood, and even with an absent father, Narcissus grew into his naturally capricious nature. He would bend the water and blood within people that traveled too far into his and Liriope’s forest, much to the dismay of his mother. It would attract attention, she’d say, bring them danger – but it never did. No one ever got farther than meeting Narcissus, who would talk until the person gave up and left, unable to cast a spell or do anything in retaliation.

It was then that he started getting unwanted attention. Another fey, one that belonged to the mountains, tried to say she was in love with him. But she was cursed – only echoing everything she’d heard. To Narcissus, he didn’t understand why she simply repeated his words. Annoyed at being followed, and rejecting her attempt to hold him, Narcissus thought nothing of it when he left Echo behind.

It was after he left her in the dust that he met another, this time a young mortal named Ameinias. The other was a hunter, and while Narcissus obliged by going hunting with him, the other also wouldn’t leave him alone. Ameinias admitted to having loved Narcissus from afar, and Narcissus couldn’t understand why – he was a demigod, they were just a human. They had hardly known one another, and that wasn’t good enough for the man to reciprocate. Instead, he gifted Ameinias a sword, telling him to find his place with someone else. It seemed like a good idea, though in hindsight, Narcissus should’ve known that the other would be as dramatic as the autumn fey, Echo, had been. Ameinias fell on the sword in despair, and that was when Narcissus caught the attention of Nemesis.

The goddess had returned, possessing another demigod – she had seen the way he’d treated Echo and Ameinias, and while Narcissus was simply looking for something that was not skin deep, the goddess didn’t see it that way. Instead, he found himself ridiculously thirsty when he was out hunting one day – and Nemesis led him to the river. It was there that he finally understood why he’d been so pursued – he was gorgeous. But what had been a punishment – was simply a grace. He found himself rejuvenated, the mirror image simply giving him a bit more power. A double edged sword for the goddess who had to leave him alone, now. 

Once more Narcissus begged Liriope to take him to Elysia, where he thought he belonged with his kind. But that simply would never come to be – he was a tiefling, hell in his heart and abilities – a demonic attitude that would come out when he was at his worst. So he resented her, and left the forest that he’d spent so many years in. He’d traveled the Otherworld at times, been places that he’d only been told about, but never Elysia. His mother had warned him that the gods wanted to use him – Titania protected them, and its why Liriope was in self exile. To protect a son who no longer wanted her protection. If his life was getting him nowhere, then how bad could it be to become possessed and live with the gods, where he belonged? 

So for now, he lives in a house filled with mirrors, a garden filled with his own flowers, and endless visitors. In fact, Narcissus had decided that there were only a few that deserved his love and attention. A cambion was a stray – half hellfire like he was – but they got along. It was a kinship that Narcissus hadn’t expected, a love that he didn’t think he could feel. Yet still – his real reasoning for Rome was his own prerogative, he didn’t tell his partner why – there were still secrets to be kept, and secrets were always sexy.

personality

+ narcissistic, dramatic, demanding – loyal, pensive, easy-going

played by lauren. pst. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Udaeus AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Spartoi ) ABILITIES. Precognition & Dispel Magic OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Zane Phillips

biography

To be born from violence was to be violent. Udaeus embodied what his name had meant: of the earth. An exiled fey had drawn him and his siblings forward, draconic and elven ancestry running through their veins. There was no childhood, no mother that held them, or a father that raised them – they simply were. Udaeus was perhaps one of the first to leap forward, unable to be contained within. Ares saw this within them, and Udaeus was ready. His eyes glinted in the dark, his skin shone with the light of the moon, and he felt like fighting was dancing beneath it. One long horn curved back from his head, together forming a shape reminiscent of a crescent moon. Light blue and opalescent scales that changed color beneath the stars danced along his spine – there was nothing he couldn’t do beside his siblings.

When Ares told Udaeus to fight, that is exactly what he did. War was in his blood, and it came easiest to him. His personality edged on the curious side, and Udaeus always found a reason to make the war he was part of worthwhile. It was why after a time, Udaeus found himself caring less and less for the reasons that the gods wished for them to fight. The affairs of others didn’t bother him, but in his mind, he’d create something else. There was his own reason to fight. Some ridiculous sense of love, some loyalty, it varied from war to war. There was always something else for Udaeus, as he was a creature that was satisfied by very little. 

There were others he met along the way, decades of fighting as he watched his siblings forge their own paths. A tiefling, one that looked upon his own kingdoms, had grabbed Udaeus’ attention for too long. Hate burned between them, borderline on agony at being separated. But that life was never for them. Their lives were for the gods, Udaeus could feel it at the edge of his psyche. A promise; that he’d be okay in the hands of a god. There would be no deal, there never was, but Udaeus would spurn them on to create his own stories. He was a demigod, and he would not bend the knee to anyone. The ancient world was enough to give him reason. Wars that were futile; he cared little for human affairs. What he wished to see were the stories. He’d weave his own, twist them into words that benefited him and angered the tiefling that wished to prove to him so much more. 

All of his fun, however, had to end eventually. Cthonius was dead, struck down by those they used to fight for and beside. Udaeus let hate fill his heart once more, another purpose given to the Spartoi that thought he would have none left. But this was his purpose, revenge in the form of another battle against original siblings that would hardly match his own. Yet they were pushed back, deep within the feywilds that used to call you home. Moonbeams sprung forth from the ground you found yourself asleep in. The earthquake that rattled the Otherworld woke Udaeus once more, opalescent wings stretched high above, crescent shaped horn upon his head, and a rage that would not be stopped yet again.

personality

+ playful, adventurous, daring – selfish, bossy, malevolant

played by lauren. pst. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Assan AGE & BIRTH DATE. April 1st, 1092 & 931 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Tiefling ) ABILITIES. Voice Casting & Telepathy OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Josh Heuston

biography

“Bodur.” Came the familiar call of the child’s father, about the fishing hut the man wandered as the lazy boy laid atop the thatched roof with his gaze cast towards the sky.

“Bodur!” This time, more forceful. Of Bodur’s many chores, there was nothing he hated quite like the hours he’d spend on the water with his father. Heaving nets, picking fish, gutting them and cleaning them at the day’s end. It pricked his fingers, and wore on his nerves when his father would try to prompt him to speak - ultimately getting frustrated with his son when no words would come from him. 

The mortal man would drink through the day and he’d regale Bodur with stories about the woman he’d fallen in love with. 

“Bodur!” From the edge of the roof, the boy peered over the side of the hut with gray, narrowed eyes. He was different from the other children, he’d been born with markings around his mouth and across his tongue. His father used to tell him that his words were probably cursed, that like his mother everything that fell from his tongue would be an inevitable lie. 

He blamed her, and he blamed the man who’d blown through the town and left her with the lazy scourge of a child. 

Night wore on and when his father returned alone, his temper was familiar as he came upon Bodur asleep among the livestock. Hiding there as he often did before scrawny limbs were dragged from the place where Bodur had just been trying to have a rest. The stench of the other was unbearable, but compared to the man’s temper it was middling. With a word, Bodue put an end to the chores, to the violence, and to the weeping tales of his adulterous mother.

“Stop!” Came the cry, and with a word one life was changed while another was ended. It tore through Bodur’s throat, ripped apart his mouth and echoed in his father’s chest, where his heart stopped completely. 

The orphanage had expectations of its own, the markings around Bodur’s mouth were peculiar, and it made him an easy target for those who heard about the mysterious circumstances that surrounded his arrival. The scars around his mouth and the distant look in the child’s gray eyes. Once more chores were expected of him, Bodur had to contribute just as everyone else did, they wanted him to assist in meal preparation, to sweep stairs and launder clothes. An assortment of hard, arduous tasks that Bodur largely managed to avoid altogether. They’d find him buried in the larder, his mouth full of bread, or asleep in the attic curled up near the window. Discipline would follow but he found it preferable to labour, and still, Bodur remained silent. Afraid of what might happen if he spoke again. 

When Grandmaster Hasan-i Sabbah arrived, escorted by figures bathed in shadows, the orphanage fell silent. Bodur watched with interest as the adults who’d lorded power over the children were brought to their knees without so much as a word. They looked at the Grandmaster and his agents with an absolute reverence that Bodur inherently envied. There was a presence that came with each of them, one in particular called to him, with every step they took a chill filtered through the air. Frost etched around his feet, and though his features were obscured by a hood, Bodur found himself inching closer from his hiding place to try and get a better look.

“Him?” Came the surprise, “The yakka child is of nothing significant, he’s a lazy creature with no motivation whatsoever. Surely you-” Silence followed before an unheard understanding was met, stealthy, but not stealthy enough to evade the grandmaster, Bodur was seized and dragged forward. A cold hand curled around his chin as Bodur’s face was tilted to meet the gaze of the creature that seemed to breathe the heart of winter into the room. It was then that Bodur saw him, he seemed to be inspecting the curious markings around 

“His name?” Came the ask,

“The yakka boy came to us without one.”

“Your name?” The grandmaster interceded as he stood behind the cold, cloaked man. 

“He does not speak.”

As the pair of men studied him, Bodur studied them. He saw now the point to the cold man’s ears, and felt this inherent symmetry between them. 

“Not a demon,” the cold creature corrected, “a tiefling.” 

Through an unseen door the group tugged Bodur along, the grandmaster at the epicentre as the cold creature led them through a shadowed wood that the boy was unaccustomed to. There he felt a sort of presence that was entirely unfamiliar, every path looked the same, there existed a fog so dense that Bodur thought it might consume him. However the cold creature never waivered, and when they emerged, it was at the site that would be his home for many years to come. 

Hasan-i Sabbah, the irreverent Old Man in the Mountain who controlled much of the Eastern world from his mountain citadel of Alamaut. He was kinder than later writings would make him out to be, fanatical in his desires, he imbued these same practices into those who served him. The cold creature was his right hand, Echor, was what Bodur would come to call him. Mentor to the lazy child that had only ever been drawn along by the whims of others.

“What is your name?” Echor would ask but Bodur would only remain silent, “Speak.” He’d say. “Say something. Anything.” Still, Bodur refused. “Assan.” Echor said, “That’s what I’ll call you, because that’s what I’ll make you.”

“Where other men blindly follow the truth, Remember, nothing is true. Where other men are limited by morality or law, Remember, everything is permitted. We work in the dark to serve the light.”

In time, Assan learned how to remain undetected, how to stalk and observe and gather intelligence without ever revealing himself. He grew from boy to man and under Echor’s tutelage the markings around his mouth faded, but the scars remained. The cold creature that preceded death, the mute hashashin that faded into the ranks of Hasan-i Sabbah’s fabled militant arm. In one instant he was the faithful mute who served a king for years, in the next he was the grandmaster’s will - a knife through the spine. A smiling merchant peddling wares, there in one moment then gone in the next, his only signature a fatal injury to a vital organ. 

In time Echor told him of his own past, an aimless exile whose crime had been falling in love with the wrong person. He’d been lost and directionless, hunted by an organisation that had plagued their kind since time immemorial. The Eye, Echor called them, and in the hollow of the fey’s mind, Assan repeated the name. Years spent together and only then did the eladrin learn that the tiefling had been telepathic all along. Assan told him the story of his father and how he came to the orphanage, confided that he could speak, but he was afraid. 

Coaxed into trying with lesser intention, Assan’s power could only influence creatures, not things. The smaller or weaker the less impactful. As a child voice casting on a grown man that was easily four times his size had been effective, but disastrous. A muscle that could groan and ache when overworked, Echor had Assan practice on small beasts, then larger ones, and eventually people. The title of grandmaster traded hands from one to another, but still the pair served.

“Sleep.” Assan would breathe against the ears of guards, and when The Eye caught up with Echor once more, Assan screamed. “Die.”

Centuries passed in this fashion, Assan took on mentees of his own, though the tiefling could not deny his nature. While they trained, he found creative ways to instil lessons within them… All while finding a place to rest his eyes for a while. They’d be tasked with sneaking into larders while remaining completely undetected, no small feat considering Alamaut was a fortress of security built on the foundations of subterfuge and spycraft. He’d hide somewhere and sleep while they were told to try and steal a pair of bells that the man had fastened to his belt. A lesson Echor had taught him first. 

Countless lives taken, the grandmaster’s will, the motivation behind his blade, regimes changed as the years turned, and it was then that Assan learned that nothing was permanent - not even for immortals like himself. Mongolians conquered the citadel and Echor along with countless others died defending it. 

A blade for hire, a tiefling without any real purpose. He’d lived long enough to know the failings of his former life, death for a fanatical cause but that was all that he had ever really known. Assan filtered from one place to the next, doing what jobs he needed to do in order to live the sort of lazy but comfortable life he’d always aspired towards. Contracted to slay an outlaw and his accompaniment, it was with a blade to the man named Robin’s throat that he was convinced to put it aside. 

Assan once believed that living in the darkness was a means of serving a higher good, of working towards the light but from one grandmaster to the next they served their own self interests and if there was goodness in this world he felt it had died with Echor. Robin gave him a new creed to live by: steal from the rich, give to the poor. 

It suited his own interests, because there were few expectations from day to day, he could sleep in trees while the merrymen toiled below, eat more than his fair share and use his voice casting to turn hunters the other direction. Institutions and monarchies controlled everything, Robin taught him this, the only real servitude in this world was imposed on the people without them even realising. 

Anarchy suited the assassin well, built upon the juxtaposition of great ambition but little motivation, Assan always found himself following others. He’d set the fire or cut down the general or hunter or noble or emissary or dignitary - but he never sought these things out himself. Instead Assan would end up being recruited behind one cause or another, there was one society that he remained fixed against: The Eye. Their hand was in the spines of the crusaders that he’d once fought against, within the Mongols that had breached Alamaut, and remained spread throughout the known world. 

In Rome Assan found himself at the turn of Titania’s rule, the fabled queen of the fairy court, who’d once exiled Echor and started the series of events that had changed the name of Bodur to Assan. There was a cause here that interested him, but more than that there were thoughts and whispers that were quietly pervading his mind. They came upon him while he slept and while he woke, tapping at the window, knocking at the door. Whatever had changed with the queen’s departure had left him exposed to powers that Assan did not understand: and vulnerable in ways he had yet to realise.

personality

+ observant, conscientious, curious – gluttonous, greedy, lazy

played by shane. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Soren AGE & BIRTH DATE. July 21st, 621 & 1381 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod ( Tiefling ) ABILITIES. Invulnerability & Induced Paralysis OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. César Domboy

biography

There is nothing more powerful than the love shared between a parent and a child.  Sionia wanted everything to love her son as much as her, so she made every object in existence swear to never harm him. In a way her love was selfish, robbing the tiefling the autonomy that would permit him to die when he was ready. She also unknowingly painted a target on the boy’s back by molding him into the perfect vessel. The Summer noble was naive to think that Titania’s protection would hide the boy from the covetous eyes of the gods for eternity. 

  He made a name for himself on the battlefield, the conflicts of man intrigued the immortal. It was Soren who inspired the Norse myth of Baldur.  While many men were slaughtered around him in battle, the tiefling always walked away unscathed.  His men watched as Soren survived killing blows hundreds of times over, the only evidence left behind was his tattered armor. He may have never been the best in combat or the biggest man on the field, but he always survived whatever the enemy threw at him. 

  His days as a warrior ended with the death of his best friend and lover, Rorik. His human companion had been struck in the abdomen with a sword in battle, the infection from the wound soon spreading throughout the warrior's entire body. Soren begged a local witch to heal Rorik, but not even her magic could save the man. The dying man had one final request for Soren: a duel, so that Rorik may die fighting and be permitted to enter Valhalla. Up until this point, Soren had taken many lives as a necessity, but this was the first time he was required to send someone so dear to him to the afterlife.  Begrudgingly, Soren carried Rorik to the hilltop overlooking the small village, hoisting the man to his feet and placing the sword in the human’s hand.  All he wanted was to end Rorik’s suffering, so when the human struck at him Soren sunk his own blade into the man’s heart. The loss completely broke the tiefling, he no longer wanted to be a part of the battles raging through northern Europe. So he threw his sword into the ocean, forever turning his back on war.  

  Being raised around humans caused an attachment towards the species as a whole to form inside him. Said attachment is often looked down upon by other supernatural beings, many see it as weakness to be so invested in fragile, lesser creatures. But this compassion is what gives him strength.  It seems that no matter how many times mortals have forsaken and betrayed him, Soren still looks upon them fondly. Perhaps it's his own foolish naivety to assume that good exists in all and that humanity is worth preserving. While he often chooses to ignore the negative aspects of others, that analytic judgment is turned inwards towards himself. As much as he hides it, Soren truly hates himself.  He hates this body, knowing one day these unfeeling walls will one day cave in on him and become a tomb. He's never seen his own blood. Never felt soreness, fatigue in his body. Substances never work on him, there is no way for him to numb himself with drugs or alcohol as a temporary escape from the emotional pain he is burdened with.  Physical pain has always been an alien concept to him. The invulnerability he was blessed with at birth is something beyond his conscious control. 

  Since the events of Halloween 2022, Soren has been laying low.  Constantly moving from one city to the next, never staying put for more than a week.  He was eventually drawn to Rome at the start of 2023, appalled by the high concentration of supernatural beings.  It seemed that every ancient and esteemed deity was gathering in the city, tension from warring factions steadily building. He knows he should leave Rome behind before a god has the chance of taking his body as their next vessel, but there are people here that need his help and protection.  Soren has grown tired of running, it is now time to stand and fight. 

personality

+ altruistic, curious, optimistic – detached, foolish, destructive

played by cloe. cst. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Caio AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demigod VARIANT. Avariel OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Andre Lamoglia

biography

Heads or tails, red or black, life had always been about luck. About the probability whether this would happen or that. Did one take the chance and sail out on a Thursday? Or set off on their season without first shedding some blood? All choices in life had boiled down to whether something good or something bad would come about after it. Yet probability and fortune had not only relied upon the choices that any such person made, for misfortune came in the shape of treacherous storms on the open sea, in a drought that dried up the crops that would have sustained a family, a town for nearly a year. And when those misfortunes slipped in unannounced to the little humans that had escaped a pleasant life within the garden, only one name was cursed from their tongues.

Born of the great union between archangel Gabriel and a high elf, a creature that embodied both of his parents’ gifts was brought into the world. Though viewed as the divine vessel for the Gods, it would be this union that established a particular view within the young Avariel’s mind. A Seraphim, of the highest order, and a high elf with seasonal magic at the tips of her fingers, he would grow up with the mentality that he would simply be better than the rest. Though with no throne to one day call his own, with no need to fight any such war waged within the mortal realm, the Avariel took to his own devices.

Into the mortal realm he traveled, basking in the stories of heroes that seemed to give hope and inspiration for so many to follow in their footsteps. Over and over again, he would hear how luck had been on their sides, how fortune favored the brave and the capable. Oh, how he marveled at these stories, and oh, how he wondered how long those heroes’ luck would last for them. For if they were not praising his name, if they did not thank him for the luck that had been on their side, the young Avariel set his mind to ensuring that fortune did not favor them any longer.

A once great hero who had withstood many battles drowned in merely a few feet of water. Another found themselves the misfortuned victim of Scylla after his ship had been expected to outrun a storm. Over and over again, great heroes of stories seemed to fall left and right, as if their luck had seemingly run out. Storms, droughts, battles that surely should have been won, his fingers worked the threads of probability to ensure that only those he wished to succeed would. Oceanid, Graeae, name after name was bestowed upon him, but so often, they were spoken on a whisper or in disdain. Few spoke in praise of his name, few chanced themselves with drawing his attention to them, but it was to those few that he granted fortune. While the rest merely had to chance their luck.

It was years, decades, centuries that the Avariel flitted around the mortal realm, bestowing fortune and misfortune as if he were not playing with the lives of mortals. Eventually, however, the times shifted and the number of great heroes started to dwindle down. Ships favored alternative routes to avoid Scylla, modern medicine had become advanced enough to ensure survival of all those measly illnesses that mortals used to suffer, and the fun he had once had seemed to be scarce. While he could tip the scales, it seemed that a witch or a druid or a human doctor was there to right the wrong that had been caused. Storms, floods, droughts started to become more predictable, and with that knowledge, the mortals seemed capable of taking better action.

While his name became less and less spoken, whether in a curse or a praise, he became less and less fond of the mortal realm. There was no fun to be had with the silly lives of mortals, so he took to Elysia, where he could float among the stars, and take enjoyment in watching those below him struggle with the changing of times. That is, until the misfortune that had befallen those of his own kind reached him within the stars. And though he seemed to be outside the reach, safe within Elysia, it would be the prospect of more fun that drew him back into the mortal realm. To play the odds of those foolish enough to think they had been lucky.

personality

+ exuberant, inquisitive, challenging – mercurial, mischievous, narcissistic

played by cheryl. cst. she/her.