Character(s) Atom's Character Repository

[Atomic Soul]

A back-up for Atom's most beloved characters~​

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Fen

~Fen Adrian Serica~

Trigger the oxytocin, bind me to you chemically, and watch me fling myself into the air for you like a firework—brighter, hotter, more colorful, fizzling, fading,
Darkness.

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Fen Adrian Serica
Species: Avian; Eurasian Magpie
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Birthday: October 29
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil
Career Path: Professional Lowlife (Street Fighter, Assassin, Petty Criminal)

Moodboard
white wing

Muse
Concrete Jungle - Bad Omens
Icarus - Starset
Demons - MISSIO
Amphetamine - MNQN
Everybody Gets High - MISSIO
The Fear of Letting Go - Too Close to Touch
I Feel Fine - Michael Dae
F*ck You - Silent Child
Suic*de - Ren
​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
My biggest fear is that eventually you will see me the way I see myself.

Hair Color/Style: Black, full, and falls to his collarbones, worn wild around his face or tied into a topknot
Eye Color: Dark brown, nearly black; a warm earthy tone can only been seen shimmering
there in certain lighting
Height/Build: 5'11" and decently-muscled

Face-Claim: Ivan Vanya Zakharov​

Fen is asymmetrical, monochromatic, and sharp-edged: slouching shoulders, a prominent Adam's apple, jutting collarbones, a crooked nose broken one too many times, a razor-sharp jawline. But the asymmetry in his form is apparent in more than his facial features. Drooping lazily at his left secondary scapula is a large wing with Magpie morphology, the deep black secondary feathers displaying an iridescent quality; the vanes are frayed and afterfeathers matted, a neglected appendage. And at his right, nothing remains but a jagged, ropy scar, skin pink and thick against a backdrop of pallid white.

Fen's complexion is pale, almost waxy, but far from even: an ever-changing array of color—red, violet, sickly yellow—stipples and streaks his form like death and stagnation blooming under the skin. (At the insides of his elbows, tucked between his toes and in the webbing of his fingers, tender, swollen, aching, itching….) It's stretched over a 5'11" form, lithe, the body of a fighter who attacks with the honed, deadly swiftness of a switch-blade. Fen wears his dark hair in wild waves around his face, occasionally tying it into a funny topknot on his head when he needs full range of vision. His style is nondescript: dark, faded fabric that smells of cigarette smoke and ivory bar soap, ripped tight-fitting pants, old tennis shoes, a battered leather jacket, old tank tops or stained t-shirts, often showing his arms. There, tattooed around toned biceps and forearms, is the unavoidable evidence of his brutal prowess: twenty-seven black concentric rings, one mark each for one life taken. (A brutal but expected ritual of Corvid social culture, foreign and animalistic to those of other Avian families.)

The toll of Fen's life as a fighter, as a killer, bent once on survival and now as an omen of death, has settled there in his eyes: regret, shame, loneliness, anger, confusion. A pair of dark, down-turned, deep-set eyes sit between sharp cheekbones, almost black, often bloodshot, overtly expressive. Fen is easy to read, like an open book, unafraid of others seeing the chaos that roils within him: Annoyance glints like the flash of a blade in his irises, laughter shines like a spark of lightning coupled with his bark-like laugh, and anger…it comes in the form of fire, a pair of heat-seeking missiles glowing with destructive fury. When the flames die, only exhausted emptiness remains, like the remnants of a hollow, burned out house.

What is Fen, after all, if not a phoenix cyclically setting himself aflame, striking the match, lighting it to his hair, disintegrating into ash,
blown away in the wind and losing a little bit more of himself with each
repetitive
ruination?

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
Well, my love is an animal call
Cutting through the darkness, bouncing off the walls
Between teeth on a broken jaw
Following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw
- Sleep Token, Aqua Regia​

Survival. Pleasure.

Fen runs on a primitive binary, mashing ones and zeros until he's dispensed a hit of dopamine from one of a handful of basic necessities: glucose, carbohydrates, diamorphine, nicotine, adrenaline, norepinephrine, oxytocin. Chaotic, detached, lazy, reckless, cynical, unpredictable: many have been unable to translate Fen's operating system, disgusted by his selfish nature or baffled by the erratic, contradictory moral compass he follows. He can't stand liars, despises boasters, detests those who don't follow through on promises; he won't mince words or beat around the bush, and is hardly in denial about his own flaws—in fact, he flaunts them, both self-aware and self-deprecating to the extreme. Hyper-aware of his shortcomings, Fen is prone to idolization of those he cares about, bordering almost on obsessive romanticization; he'll take a bullet for anyone who manages to warm the heart he keeps on ice, and given the shot isn't instantly fatal, continue fighting until his dying breath. It's the only time he isn't terrified of death: when it means something, this pathetic existence he's spent chasing one high after the other while running full-tilt from a past that finds him, jeering, in every reflective surface.

Fen is also a follower in the strictest sense, preferring to skate behind a decent leader instead of take the reins himself; sticking his neck out that way flies in the face of his lazy demeanor, an evolutionary tactic suited to his brand of survival: keep your head down, follow the leader, and in the event someone stronger comes along, jump ship and follow suit. Because of this, he's found himself in some exploitative situations, but his dismal self-esteem tends to convince him he doesn't deserve even the most basic respect afforded to living creatures. As long as it suits his needs, Fen is selfish to the core, hurtling down the path of least resistance and, occasionally, forging a chaotic, destructive path along a route of retribution.

In the meantime, he continues to suck in air—or rather, the warm, toxic smoke of a cigarette, often chain-smoking if not indulging in any number of vices: alcohol, causal sex, a cocktail of party drugs, or the potent morphine-derivative Fen has bloodied his fists for again and again and again. White Wing. Of the demons that nestled themselves in his heart and his mind, this is the one that has taken charge of the others, those little fiends like self-loathing, impulsivity, intermittent rage, an addictive personality. Like sarcomeres strengthening with each repetitive motion, Fen's rampant White Wing addiction has grown strong enough to grab him by the ankles and drag him into the dark, and instead of kicking and screaming, he's simply complied with its demands of more, more, more, MORE, trading what little dignity he still possesses for the heaven contained in so many granules innocuous of white powder.

There's only one remedy for Fen's ruthless faithlessness, a naturally-occurring neurochemical powerful enough to rival the diamorphine Fen rockets into his veins via a glinting, silver needle: oxytocin. Love is a drug, one that induces side-effects contradictory to Fen's selfish, abrasive nature: gentleness, vulnerability, generosity, and rabid protectiveness. The last time he fed that addiction, the comedown nearly killed him and the withdrawals were so traumatizing that he refuses to tolerate anything more than a one-night stand. He holds others at an arm's length, battling back any tingle of affection with aggressive sarcasm and suffocating apathy. It's a thin mask, one easily tested, one easily cracked; the result is an outlashing of rage, of denial, of existential terror and crippling, lung-wracking grief—

What is Fen, after all, if not a shattered mirror, the whole picture of a man fracturing himself under his own fists,
scattering and skittering in every direction, before putting himself back together with trembling, blood-slicked hands and losing little refractive shards of himself with each
self-destructive
cycle?

​

---

Likes
spicy instant ramen noodles ● ridiculously loud music, the kind you can feel in your bones ● the view of a twinkling city skyline at night ● gentle fingers running through his hair ● the cathartic rush of pain mingling with an adrenaline high ● standing at the top of a highrise, the wind ruffling his feathers, and briefly indulging the "call of the void" ● ground-shaking, sky-shattering thunderstorms ● strawberry Slurpees ● the scent of cheap cologne ● walking around naked ● a fast, reckless stint on his speedbike and the wind flowing underneath his feathers: a cheap, bittersweet reminder of flight

Dislikes
naive or oblivious individuals ● people who put too much stock in appearance ● absolute silence ● the consequences of sobriety in any of its forms, particularly withdrawals ● late, sleepless nights spent tossing, turning, and waiting for the sun to rise ● dredging up the past ● being talked down to or underestimated ● liars ● "holier-than-thou" attitudes ● not having something to occupy his mouth (a cigarette, gum, hard candy, etc.) ● the ever-looming threat of abandonment ● feeling out of control—that spinning, centrifugal panic that makes you feel as if you're being ripped apart ● the stifling heat of summer ● grape-flavored-anything ● reflective surfaces—he might catch a glimpse of himself ● the feeling of loneliness that persists even in a room full of people

Personality Traits
adaptable ● bold ● abrasive ● capable ● kinetically intelligent ● clever ● expressive ● aggressive ● amoral ● protective ● apathetic ● defensive ● distant ● self-aware ● protective ● realistic ● erratic ● lazy ● self-sufficient ● mischievous ● moody ● strong ● self-destructive ● resourceful

Mannerisms​

● Tends to snort with a brief smirk rather than outright laugh; when he does, the sound is often harsh, like a bark, or outrageously loud and brimming with hilarity
● Rubs the back of his neck when uncomfortable, drawing his lips into a thin line and avoiding eye contact
● Becomes either aggressively defensive or surprisingly sheepish when embarrassed, depending on the situation
● Anger shows intensely on his features, with a tensed jaw, gritted teeth, snarling lips, heavily creased brow, and fury-fevered eyes—absolutely terrifying, like staring down a rabid dog
● When relaxed, displays an easy, loose posture, wing drooping, muscles relaxed, shoulders slouching, legs open
● Rarely holds back emotion, but there are tells when he's withholding how he feels: a twitching nose, eyes rapidly blinking back tears, a tense jaw, a stiff closed-off posture, skin-picking
● Often makes intense, purposeful eye contact
● Oral fixation: if he isn't smoking, he's sucking on hard candy, biting his nails, or chewing on spearmint gum

---

■Reflections of the Past ■
You got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds.​

REDACTED.

---

■Broken Reflections ■
[Writing Style Sample]

And I'll dance with the ghost of who I used to be.
Demi the Daredevil, American Zombie​

A monster stared at him, black-hole eyes boring into his face.

Its face was broken, an alien, fractured conglomeration of features in all the wrong places: a smashed nose, and three and a half eyes, and crooked mouths twisted into deep frowns, and mismatched cheekbones, missing pieces and duplicated features. It was a disturbingly familiar visage, the colors, the shapes, if they weren't jammed together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. His eyes flicked across the glittering mess, light refracting inconsistently across the asymmetrical collage, until he met its eyes. A shiver raced up his spine.

You shouldn't make eye contact with a predator—it encouraged violence.

He tore his gaze from the thing, the one that found him behind a thin, fragile pane of glass. His eyes found his hands instead, braced against the cold ceramic of a dirty pedestal sink. The knuckles on his right hand were lacerated, weeping red; blood dripped, hot and slick, in thick droplets onto glass-scattered tile. But the sting of sliced skin was inconsequential, numbed as a cascade of warm agonistic chemical reactions bloomed to life inside his head. His hand had become nothing more than a weapon, less a part of his body and more an extension of the rage that twisted inside his chest, fading like a fire slowly being deprived of oxygen. It was the same hand that gripped that thin little tube of plastic, the one with the glinting silver needle and the fully-depressed plunger and the empty cylinder. Trembling fingers, muscle memory, a little prick, a shuddered sigh of relief. He’d been shaken by an earthquake of anxiety and swept away on a sudden tsunami of rage—but help was on the way, rescue in the form of so many milliliters of liquid diamorphine. He took a deep breath, fingers relaxing their death-grip on the sink edge, and found the courage to bring his gaze upward again and find the rapidly-shrinking pupils of the monster in the mirror.

“Why ya looking at me like that?” He hissed the words, malice shining in his night-black irises.

His breath hitched in his throat, brows furrowing, tear-swollen eyes narrowing as he leaned his face closer to the shattered glass. Disbelief colored his expression, morphing from grief to confusion. He…saw them, his lips move independently of his own, night-black eyes staring out and into him from behind the fragmented crystal.

“Yeah, Fen. I’m talking to you.”

“...Me?”

“Who else is there? You know what you did, monster. Monster, Fen. Monster monster monster monster—”

Monster.

He knew why he looked at him with malice shining in his night-black irises: Fen shattered him under his fists, smashed the life out of that little dark-winged boy with pale, tear-stained cheeks and hopeful eyes—there was no place for him, his tender heart and ridiculous, wishful dreams. And when he realized what he’d done, he frantically tried to fix him, sticking pieces together and trying to make up for the shards that were lost. He glued him back together with desperate, ill-fated relationships, chemical dependencies, and violent outbursts masquerading as confidence and pride and strength. The result was a sharp, fragile mass that cut anyone who got too close, reflecting aggressive sarcasm and suffocating apathy; pieces of him fell off routinely, stuck back on with adhesive comprised of any number of vices. It suited him, broken pieces mashed together to make something ugly and serrated and wrong. It was easier to swallow. Tracing the contours of his own face, the sharp cut of his jaw and jutting peaks of his cheekbones, the crooked edge of his nose, and two dark, empty eyes...it could only lead him to one conclusion: the monster he'd made didn't just lurk inside reflective surfaces, easily dodged or shattered when his presence became too overwhelming. He wore him on his face, on his body, in his words and in his bad habits, a blatant self-portrait of the disgust and regret and deep, aching loneliness he carried inside of himself.

“What do you want from me?”

He snickered, all those lips drawing up into a sneer that revealed a million teeth, each eye narrowing, and hands—so many hands—reaching out towards Fen. The mirror surface rippled, sheared, pieces of jagged glass trembling in a refracting mess as they tumbled, glimmering and tinkling, into the sink. The room quaked, or was it his mind, shaking and shuddering with aftershocks of guilt?

“I want what you took from me. I want you.”

A vision of fingers, grasping, grabbing, nails biting and clawing as he wrenched himself out of the mirror. Irises, canines, fingernails, a jaw wrenched wider and wider—

Fen sank to the floor, out of view of the broken boy in the mirror, and shattered.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Adrian

~Adrian Miller~

Trigger the oxytocin, bind me to you chemically, and watch me fling myself into the air for you like a firework—brighter, hotter, more colorful, fizzling, fading,
Darkness.

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Adrian Ethan Miller
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Birthday: October 29
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Moodboard
adrian

Muse
Manic - Layto
Demons - MISSIO
Amphetamine - MNQN
Everybody Gets High - MISSIO
The Fear of Letting Go - Too Close to Touch
I Feel Fine - Michael Dae
F*ck You - Silent Child
Suic*de - Ren

​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
My biggest fear is that eventually you will see me the way I see myself.

Hair Color/Style: Black, full, and falls to his collarbones, worn wild around his face or tied into a topknot
Eye Color: Dark brown, nearly black; a warm earthy tone can only been seen shimmering
there in certain lighting
Height/Build: 5'11" and decently-muscled

Face-Claim: Ivan Vanya Zakharov​

Adrian is asymmetrical, monochromatic, and sharp-edged: slouching shoulders, a prominent Adam's apple, jutting collarbones, a crooked nose broken one too many times, a razor-sharp jawline. His complexion is pale, almost waxy, and stretched over a 5'11" form, lithe, with a flat, toned stomach and muscles swelling lightly over his arms. Neat rows of scars line his wrists and thighs, raised and shiny, against his pallid complexion. Adrian wears his dark hair in wild waves around his face, occasionally tying it into a funny topknot on his head when he needs full range of vision. His style is nondescript: dark, faded fabric that smells of cigarette smoke and ivory bar soap, ripped tight-fitting pants, old tennis shoes, a battered leather jacket, old tank tops or stained t-shirts, often showing his arms.

The toll of Adrian's reckless, vice-filled life has settled there in his eyes: regret, shame, loneliness, anger, confusion. A pair of dark, down-turned, deep-set eyes sit between sharp cheekbones, almost black, often bloodshot, overtly expressive. Adrian is easy to read, like an open book, unafraid of others seeing the chaos that roils within him: Annoyance glints like the flash of a blade in his irises, laughter shines like a spark of lightning coupled with his bark-like laugh, and anger…it comes in the form of fire, a pair of heat-seeking missiles glowing with destructive fury. When the flames die, only exhausted emptiness remains, like the remnants of a hollow, burned out house.

What is Adrian, after all, if not a phoenix cyclically setting himself aflame, striking the match, lighting it to his hair, disintegrating into ash,
blown away in the wind and losing a little bit more of himself with each
repetitive
ruination?

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
Well, my love is an animal call
Cutting through the darkness, bouncing off the walls
Between teeth on a broken jaw
Following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw
- Sleep Token, Aqua Regia​

Survival. Pleasure.

Adrian runs on a primitive binary, mashing ones and zeros until he's dispensed a hit of dopamine from one of a handful of basic necessities: glucose, carbohydrates, nicotine, adrenaline, norepinephrine, oxytocin. Chaotic, detached, lazy, reckless, cynical, unpredictable: many have been unable to translate Adrian's operating system, disgusted by his selfish nature or baffled by the erratic, contradictory moral compass he follows. He can't stand liars, despises boasters, detests those who don't follow through on promises; he won't mince words or beat around the bush, and is hardly in denial about his own flaws—in fact, he flaunts them, both self-aware and self-deprecating to the extreme. Hyper-aware of his shortcomings, Adrian is prone to idolization of those he cares about, bordering almost on obsessive romanticization; he'll take a bullet for anyone who manages to warm the heart he keeps on ice, and given the shot isn't instantly fatal, continue fighting until his dying breath. It's the only time he isn't terrified of death: when it means something, this pathetic existence he's spent chasing one high after the other while running full-tilt from a past that finds him, jeering, in every reflective surface.

In the meantime, he continues to suck in air—or rather, the warm, toxic smoke of a cigarette, often chain-smoking if not indulging in any number of vices: alcohol, causal sex, a cocktail of party drugs, and cutting. There's only one remedy for Adrian's ruthless faithlessness, a naturally-occurring neurochemical powerful enough to rival the norepinephrine that tingles in his hypothalamus every time he puts the blade of a knife to his wrists: oxytocin. Love is a drug, one that induces side-effects contradictory to Adrian's selfish, abrasive nature: gentleness, vulnerability, generosity, and rabid protectiveness. The last time he fed that addiction, the comedown nearly killed him and the withdrawals were so traumatizing that he refuses to tolerate anything more than a one-night stand. He holds others at an arm's length, battling back any tingle of affection with aggressive sarcasm and suffocating apathy. It's a thin mask, one easily tested, one easily cracked; the result is an outlashing of rage, of denial, of existential terror and crippling, lung-wracking grief—

What is Adrian, after all, if not a shattered mirror, the whole picture of a man fracturing himself under his own fists,
scattering and skittering in every direction, before putting himself back together with trembling, blood-slicked hands and losing little refractive shards of himself with each
self-destructive
cycle?

​

---

Likes
spicy instant ramen noodles ● ridiculously loud music, the kind you can feel in your bones ● the view of a twinkling city skyline at night ● nature, found in little pockets around the city ● cats ● gentle fingers running through his hair ● the cathartic rush of pain mingling with an adrenaline high ● standing at the top of a highrise and briefly indulging the "call of the void" ● ground-shaking, sky-shattering thunderstorms ● strawberry Slurpees ● the scent of cheap cologne ● walking around naked ● a fast, reckless stint on his speedbike for a hit of adrenaline

Dislikes
naive or oblivious individuals ● people who put too much stock in appearance ● absolute silence ● the consequences of sobriety in any of its forms ● late, sleepless nights spent tossing, turning, and waiting for the sun to rise ● dredging up the past ● being talked down to or underestimated ● liars ● "holier-than-thou" attitudes ● not having something to occupy his mouth (a cigarette, gum, hard candy, etc.) ● the ever-looming threat of abandonment ● feeling out of control—that spinning, centrifugal panic that makes you feel as if you're being ripped apart ● the stifling heat of summer ● grape-flavored-anything ● the feeling of loneliness that persists even in a room full of people

Personality Traits
adaptable ● bold ● abrasive ● capable ● kinetically intelligent ● clever ● expressive ● aggressive ● amoral ● protective ● apathetic ● defensive ● distant ● self-aware ● protective ● realistic ● erratic ● lazy ● self-sufficient ● mischievous ● moody ● strong ● self-destructive ● resourceful

Mannerisms​

● Tends to snort with a brief smirk rather than outright laugh; when he does, the sound is often harsh, like a bark, or outrageously loud and brimming with hilarity
● Rubs the back of his neck when uncomfortable, drawing his lips into a thin line and avoiding eye contact
● Becomes either aggressively defensive or surprisingly sheepish when embarrassed, depending on the situation
● Anger shows intensely on his features, with a tensed jaw, gritted teeth, snarling lips, heavily creased brow, and fury-fevered eyes—absolutely terrifying, like staring down a rabid dog
● When relaxed, displays an easy, loose posture, muscles relaxed, shoulders slouching, legs open
● Rarely holds back emotion, but there are tells when he's withholding how he feels: a twitching nose, eyes rapidly blinking back tears, a tense jaw, a stiff closed-off posture, skin-picking
● Often makes intense, purposeful eye contact
● Oral fixation: if he isn't smoking, he's sucking on hard candy, biting his nails, or chewing on spearmint gum

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Artem

~Artem Belyaev~

Well, my love is an animal call, cutting through the darkness, bouncing off the walls
Between teeth on a broken jaw, following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw
- Sleep Token, Aqua Regia

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Artem Aleksandr Belyaev
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Zodiac Sign: Aries
Birthday: March 29
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Muse
Used to the Darkness - Des Rocs
Vampir - IC3PEAK
Creep - Sam Tinnesz
Dead Man - David Kushner
Я целую твой труп - IC3PEAK
Hey - IC3PEAK
Червь / Worm - IC3PEAK
Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge
Man or a Monster - Sam Tinnesz

Moodboard
running from the daylight

​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
Drinking blood like cherry coke, I wish I had a soul.
- Vampir, IC3PEAK

Hair Color/Style: Dark brown, full, and falls around his ears
Eye Color: When fed, a luminescent red like a pair of blood moons; when drained, a rust color so
subtle it appears brown
Height/Build: 6'2", thin and lithe, but stronger than he looks
hard slouching shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam's apple, jutting collarbones, a slightly-rounded nose, a razor-sharp jawline, downturned eyes; unusually-pointed canines ● a thin build with a narrow chest, an unusual strength hiding in lithe muscles swelling along his arms and shoulders ● somewhat elegant hands, strong enough to snap one's hyoid bone during manual strangulation ● when out, wears dark brown contacts to detract from the ruby red of his irises ● a messy mane of dark brown hair, the style mussed to suit his feral air ● a blotchy complexion, patches of sick gray or rosy pink flushed with the last pools of blood that remain in his body since his last meal ● often wears tight-fitting, dark clothing in an alt goth style—black skinny jeans, red or charcoal v-neck t-shirts—with a pair of cherry-red Converse shoes

Secondary Form​

Artem has a terrifying secondary form that can erupt from his bones when he is particularly famished for human blood; the frenzied animal that lurks inside pushes itself outwards, lengthening in his arms, forming digitigrade feet, and allowing him to walk on all fours, the undulations of his vertebrae pushing out along his back. Standing on two feet, he rises to a hunched seven feet tall, dark hair wild around his pale bat-like face: his heavy brow presses downward towards a severely-upturned nose, flaring out like a bat's. His pallor is pallid white, blue and purple veins showing vividly against his skin. His fingernails lengthen into terrible pale claws, while his brilliant white canine and premolar teeth form sharpened points perfect for piercing skin. The helix and antihelix of his ears lengthen into long, large batlike structures. His sclerae turn pitch black, while the irises morph into a stunning, luminescent vermilion.

Vampiric Attributes​

● Sensitive to silver (but can see his reflection because mirrors are now backed by aluminum rather than silver, and photographs are on photo paper or cellphones rather than silver-coated tintypes)
● Can drink human or animal blood, but naturally prefers the latter
● Can and needs to eat human food to survive, but prefers raw meat or foods mixed with pigs' blood
● Canine teeth appear sharper than usual, but they grind down from his skull and extend further into fangs when preparing to drink blood
● When he drinks blood, his irises flood bright, luminescent red, and the longer he goes without it, the rustier in color they become
● Can go up to ten days without drinking blood, and the longer he goes, the more frantic and panicked he is; his OCD gets worse, he becomes more aggressive and more bold before the weakness and sedative effects set in
● Can see excellently in low light and is stronger and faster than humans, owing to his predatory nature
● Sunlight causes a deep, deep itch and slow burning sensation that's wildly uncomfortable, like an internal sunburn, until eventually radiation lesions begin to show on his skin
● Saliva has anesthetic, amnesiac, and healing properties: victims will not remember the bite or twenty-four hours prior, and the bite will heal faster than wounds typically do

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■

I'm the dead man in this war
But, baby, I've been here before
There's beauty hidden in the gore
Yeah, I'm the dead man in this war
- David Kushner, Dead Man

Likes
new moon nights and cloudy days where starshine and sunrays can't reach him ● quiet fall nights, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot and a brisk autumn breeze against his skin ● wandering the edge of the highway at night, the too-close rush of cars past him sending waves of dopamine surging through his brain ● cherry Slurpees—cherry anything, really ● the sensation of biting into new flesh and the following taste of fresh, hot blood, slippery along his tongue and teeth ● sex, in all of its various forms ● complete darkness, the kind that feels physically heavy ● the scent of ivory bar soap and bleach

Dislikes
heat and daylight in general; fluorescent lighting ● late, sleepless days spent tossing, turning, and waiting for the moon to rise ● feeling out of control: that spinning, centrifugal panic that makes you feel as if you're being ripped apart ● his OCD tendencies: checking, counting, intrusive and obsessive thoughts ● the hunger that gnaws not only in his stomach, but in his very veins, uneasily satiable ● animal blood, but will make do if attaining human blood is impossible ● things: is a minimalist in the strictest sense, keeping his space as tidy and clutter-free as possible

Personality Traits
adaptable ● anxious ● callous ● contemplative ● emotionally unstable ● introverted ● irritable ● intense ● impulsive ● meticulous ● moody ● neurotic ● reserved ● rigid ● selfish ● clever ● resourceful ● perceptive ● intelligent ● avoidant ● blunt ● calculating ● chaotic ● depressive ● lethargic ● apathetic

Mannerisms​

● Checks and counts obsessively, counting steps and breaths, checking his own pulse, repeating actions a certain number of times
● Refuses to make eye contact, watching other features closely: nose, mouth, hands, brows
● Is overtly blunt, rarely holding back his inner thoughts and intuitions, even if they're taboo or unwarranted in social situations
● Reclusive and avoidant, avoiding social interactions by staying indoors and venturing out at night
● Either becomes cold and distant when angry, closing himself off and desperately attempting to maintain self-control, or excessively violent and confrontational when that self-control fails
● Lacks self-control in all aspects of his life outside of his OCD tendencies; does what he wants when he pleases, in spite of the consequences facing him
● Oral fixation: obsessed with the use of his mouth, particularly when it comes to biting, kissing, and sucking, eating and drinking

---

■I Ate Finn Schraeder ■
~Trigger Warning: Blood~

Tried to earn your love so hard
Had to learn it tastes like blood.
- Червь / Worm, IC3PEAK​

"I ate him."

Artem looked in the mirror. It was aluminum-backed, not silver, and showed his reflection bathed in the shadows that encircled him. The man who looked back was angular, with high cheekbones that flanked a pair of rust-colored eyes, hungry eyes, with the pull of a gravitational anomaly. Wild brown hair hung around his face, brushing his sharp jawline and chin, cut like a razor-blade. In the dim, his skin was gray, waxy, nearly, with flushed splotches in his cheeks and dark circles rimming his under eyes.

"I…ate him."

He tasted the words, rolled them around on his tongue, swallowed them down with a long, contemplative breath. He tapped the sink, one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, three threes make nine, sacred number, stop.

"I ate Finn."

Artem ate Finn. Artem loved Finn. But Artem had been hungry. And there, sitting between Finn's thighs, their bodies pressed as close as close could be, Finn's neck looked so good. The throbbing arteries that pulsed just below the surface of that pale, delicate membrane…saliva had pooled under his tongue, around his molars. He slicked his tongue over his teeth, brushed his nose against the other man's neck, smelling the iron that flowed beneath like a magma seam. Moaning against his neck, he unsheathed his canines and stuck them into Finn's jugular vein.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

Finn had struggled. He had pulled away, screaming, leaving a chunk of his own flesh between Artem's teeth. Blood sprayed everywhere, and he tried to cup his hands over the wound, but Artem bit at his fingers with his canines, nipping at the digits until Finn snatched his hands away. Burying his face in the bloody injury, Artem licked and sucked at the flowing blood, moaning and murmuring Finn's name as he ate his crimson lifeline. Meanwhile, Finn screamed, struggling in Artem's arms, until he weakly bled out against the bed. With blood smeared across his lips and cheeks, Artem nestled himself in Finn's spewing jugular, drinking and drinking and drinking until his cheeks flushed and his hunger was satiated.

"I ate Finn nine days ago."

Artem was getting hungry again. As the sun sank below the horizon, those rays that made Artem's skin crawl and itch like bugs roaming under his skin, he felt himself getting restless. Hunger ached not only in his stomach, but in his veins, that spiderweb of arteries that wound around his bones. One, two, three. He continued tapping at the sink porcelain, one, two, three,

one,

two,​

three,​

stop.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Kai

~Kai~

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Kai
Gender: Male
Species: Siren
Age: 24
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Zodiac Sign: Cancer
Birthday: July 14
Moral Alignment: True Neutral

Moodboard
son of the wave-world

■Reflections of Body ■
Hair Color/Style: Ink black, full, and falls to his mid-chest, worn in wild waves around his face
Eye Color: A bright green-teal, like the sunlight reflecting off of seawater
Height/Build: 6'2", muscular

a white-tan complexion, warm like sun-baked sand ● mid-sized shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam's apple, strong collarbones, a straight-edged nose, a razor-sharp jawline, slightly-upturned eyes ● a muscular build, muscles swelling along his arms, neck, and shoulders ● gentle hands with long fingernails ● sleek black hair that dries, from the salty ocean water, in waves; worn down around his face, sometimes in a knot or a ponytail

Siren Form
Kai's original form is that of a Siren, his fanning tail melding at his strong torso, long and sleek with blue-black scales that glimmer with teal and purple accents. His ears become fanned and webbed, along with his fingers, webbed to the mid-knuckle. Slits open along his ribs—gills that allow him to breathe underwater. Along his elbows, wrists, and hips sprout ribbed fins that ripple in the ocean tides.
​

---

■Reflections of Self ■

Likes
bright moonlit nights when brilliant stars swarm the sky ● the sensation of sand against his toes and the sea air against his skin ● the deep, dark silence at the bottom of the ocean floor, pressing in against his ears and eyes, currents lapping at his fins and hair ● rain pattering against the surface of the waves ● singing: belting his voice to the wind, and the adoration his tunes are met with ● swimming with the ocean currents, riding with the riptide and gliding through the waves with ease ● sex, in all of its various forms—the feeling of closeness between two or more bodies ● sad, powerful songs

Dislikes
the sensation of clothing, socks, and shoes against his skin ● thunderstorms: the crash of thunder overhead and spark of lightning cutting across a dark sky ● dry skin ● confusion or anger met with his blunt responses; it confuses him that to speak truthfully can be taken poorly ● the heaviness of gravity tugging at his bipedal form

Personality Traits
calm ● introverted ● honest (to a fault) ● active ● reserved ● shy ● attentive ● curious ● expressive ● loyal ● intelligent ● blunt ● playful ● clever ● dynamic ● empathetic ● forgiving ● gentle ● lyrical ● passionate ● peaceful ● resourceful ● sensitive ● complex

Mannerisms​

● Has a soft laugh, more of a chuckle; at times, when struck by hilarity, will cackle like a seagull
● Often refuses to make eye contact, watching other features closely instead: nose, mouth, hands, brows
● Is overtly blunt, rarely holding back his inner thoughts and intuitions, even if they're taboo or unwarranted in social situations—does not know how to mask
● Reclusive and avoidant, avoiding social interactions by staying at sea or venturing out at night
● Sensory sensitivity: becomes overwhelmed in loud scenarios, hates the feeling of clothing touching his skin (prefers to walk around naked), is an extremely picky eater
● Ears wiggle when delighted

---

■A Siren at Market ■​

The market was loud.

People bartering, and shouting, and barking, the general din of individuals talking over one another, pointing, waving their arms, touching and knocking on the glass enclosures, and Kai wondered—how could humans be so chaotic?

His aquarium was the focal point of the room, a huge plain tank featuring none of the exotic flora and fauna that characterized the ocean, scattered with some colorless sand at the bottom. And Kai floated in the center, sea-glass-toned eyes closed against the raucous sounds of the market, fanned tail swaying back and forth gently. In the artificial currents of the tank, his long, dark hair floated around his head, and the blue-to-flesh-colored gradient fins at his elbows rippled. He was a stunning creature: blue-black scales trailed down from his temples and down to his cheeks, glimmering with teal and purple hues. His ears were ribbed and finned, while gills rippled gently at his ribs, slits that opened and closed with each meditative breath. The dark, alexandrite-like scales flowed down his shoulders, along his spine, connecting to the base where his tail met his torso, a strong appendage featuring a wide, flared fin that aided him in swimming against raging ocean tides. He was an image of the oceanic depths, glimmering in hues of dark blue, black, violet, and teal, his pale skin in sharp contrast to the dark color of his scales and hair. And his eyes: a bright green-teal like the sunlight glittering off of warm undulating waves, which fluttered open against the briny water, darting glances around himself.

From his throat hummed a song, dark and moody, breath pulsing with magic as he sang in an ancient language only the waves, and other Sirens, understood. It was a song about lost love, dragged down by the depths of the currents to languish coldly at the ocean floor. It was depressive and avoidant, somewhat unpleasant, creating a heavy feeling in the chest of listeners. But Kai felt heavy, even as he drifted effortlessly in the water that suspended his rippling form: he had traded the freedom of the wide wave-world for a tank of plexiglass, swapped nights laid out on the beach with nothing but sand and saline on his skin for the stale, tepid currents of the tank, and switched exchanges with his finned, mystical kin for the gawking eyes of humans, who rapped on the glass with their knuckles and pressed their palms and faces to the translucent surface. He had been at the market for two weeks now, swimming between the plexiglass walls aimlessly like a trapped animal, back and forth, before settling on the hard sandy bottom like an ill fish. His own soul languished, like a stone in his chest; sadness showed on his features, brow heavy, lips drawn down, sighs escaping his full lips between the syllables of his song. It was an ancient tune, passed down from the Sieren, drifting on the moonlit fogs and brackish waves towards ships of old. It was mournful. But it suited Kai's dark mood.

There was a sudden tapping at the glass, knuckles rapping on the clear surface and sending loud shockwaves through the water towards Kai. He opened his eyes to see a tall, gaunt man with dark eyes staring him down; he shrunk, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head, averting his eyes from the pair of dark stars watching him.

"A merman?" the man mouthed, voice nearly lost amongst the din. As he spoke, others came to gawk, drawn to the Siren in droves like forage fish surrounding prey. Kai brought his oceanic eyes up, glancing at the man's shaded cheeks, at his light-colored slicked back hair, at his heavy brow, anywhere but those cold eyes. His gaze darted between faces, hands pressed on the glass, endless eyes and gaping mouths, begging him to sing. His chest felt heavy; he drowned in their gazes, irises like black holes swallowing him everywhere he looked.

"Sing me something aesthetic," the man demanded, insinuating that Kai's current song was unpleasant, to the vicious agreement of the other humans, who clapped their hands and nodded their heads and banged on the glass. For a moment, Kai was paralyzed; he didn't want to share his songs with the masses writhing around him like tentacles, squeezing the breath out of him. The most beautiful songs of the Sieren were sacred, for loving: two or more voices harmonized together, like the bodies that intertwined with one another, a sensual and tantric melody only for the ears of lovers. There was no way he was staring down the dark-eyed man and sharing that sort of emotion with him.

So Kai opened his mouth and wailed one of the most common Sieren songs, a screech that was deep and terrible and multi-toned, like metal scraping on metal, with aggressive undertones that sent his listeners reeling in confusion: a song to battle and scare away rivals, or unwanted advances from females. As his voice pulsed through the water, shocked expressions colored the humans' faces; they covered their ears, shook their heads back and forth, squeezed their eyes shut—banging on the glass and crying out for him to stop, stop, stop it. A little smile curled onto his lips, barely visible, as Kai closed his mouth; he was an intelligent, clever creature, and knew very well what he was doing: ensuring that he wouldn't be demanded to sing on others' whims.

At least for today.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Eirik the Red

⊢GENERAL⊣

Name: Eirik of Dyfed
Nickname(s)/Title(s): the Red, the Blood Eagle, the Slaughterer of Silverton
Age: 92 (although appears mid-30s)
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Dyfed, a village in Northwest Kaedwen along the Toina River.
Height: 6'1"
Witcher School: the Griffin
Current Residence: Eirik spends the springs, summers, and autumns traversing the Continent in search of work -- his home is everywhere, yet nowhere. Come winter, he returns to the Griffin fortress, Kaer Seren, to rest, relax, and partake in training a new generation of young Witchers.

"The life of a Witcher is one of a wanderer: sleeping in inns,
camping in the dirt, often unsure of a next meal—in short,
general poverty. The least I demand is payment for my work."

⊢PHYSICAL⊣​

Appearance
Eirik is a tall man, well-built, with broad shoulders and large capable hands, his sharp jawline often stubbled and a cascade of dark hair tied into a hasty topknot at the back of his head. His form is bound in a mix of linen, leather, and metal, shoulders capped in dark hide, chest clad in leather torso striped with gold scale plates, and hips encircled in a knotted leather belt. His armor is fitted over a badly-stained white linen shirt, while a buckled leather strap crisscrosses over his chest to secure the scabbards of his dual swords. Around his neck hangs the hallmark of the Witcher profession: a medallion in the shape of a griffin's head, citrine eyes glinting in even the lowest light. With dark leather gloves, tight leather trousers and worn leather boots, Eirik's form is at least somewhat protected from the flames, claws, and fangs directed towards him on a daily basis -- the singes, tears and scratches, and bloodstains that pepper his worn armor are evidence enough of that. As are the myriad scars that lie beneath the metal and hide, lapses in skill, mistakes, brushes with death: they crisscross over his muscled arms, are hacked into his back and his legs, claw marks, burn scars, knife wounds, nearly one-hundred years of battle against beasts, monsters, and men alike.
Yet while his figure is a woman's dream, muscled and leather-bound, his face is rarely met with expressions of pleasure. His once-straight-edged nose, broken too many times to count, is crooked -- much like his teeth, canines sharp like a wolf's, others chipped, and rarely exposed in a tight, unpracticed smile. His eyes, set beneath a pair of strong, brooding brows, gold like the coin he seeks in exchange for his deadly services, and slitted like a cat's. Most horrible of all, the scars: a trio of three, gaping across his face like ravines, the result of the corrosive venom held in a wyvern's barbed claws. They reach from his chin, up his cheek, over his left eye; one slashes upward over his mouth, pulling up the right side of his upper lip in a perpetual sneer-–a cynical expression for a cynical man.

Physical Health
Eirik's physical health is, as is expected for middle-aged Witchers of his age, in peak form, a balance between practical knowledge and endurance unhindered by old age. The various bruises, scratches, scrapes, and bumps are par for the course in his profession -- nothing a bit of meditation and medicinal herbs can't fix. Despite the terrible wounds inflicted to his face many years ago, the physical pain has since faded as the wounds healed, easily the worst pain Eirik had ever had the misfortune of experiencing his life, second only, of course, to the terrible Trial of Grasses.

⊢MENTAL⊣​

While Eirik's physical health is exceptional, his mental health is in a less stable state. He is strong of mind, but aggression was instilled in him as a child, and rage as an adult. While the Griffin School is known to teach its wards chivalry, decorum, and discipline -- ideals man has projected onto the eagle-lion -- the reality is starker: Griffins are known to torture their prey, eating it alive over several days until they devour it entirely. This violence, the survivalistic and sometimes cruel tendencies of a man who is outcasted from humanity for the mutations that have enabled him to defeat the beasts and monsters of the Continent, have altered him in dark ways. To trust, to allow himself a moment of vulnerability, perhaps even to love, Eirik has rarely indulged in such feelings. Hurt and loneliness are the only outcome he knows; instead of sweetness, he tastes only bitterness upon his tongue. Eirik is haunted by the limbo that separates him from humanity like a chasm: If I am not human, then I must be...
A monster.

"Apart from the mutations and the genetic alterations,
I am as much a man as any, as much a human as any…
well. Perhaps I can't call myself a human. I've no business
using that word as a descriptor. I'm simply sentient,
as sentient as any thinking monster, neither human
nor beast but somewhere in between."​

Disposition Towards Others
Eirik is a cynical man, distrustful of humans and regarding them with as much caution and aggression as monsters -- both varieties of beast have, after all, tried to rob him of his life. To Eirik, the distinction is clear enough: monsters and animals kill for sustenance, for territory, occasionally for pleasure, and often out of fear. The same can be said of humans. Spat on, cursed at, cheated of pay, a bounty or two placed on his head, Eirik knows they have the same motivations as the monsters they pay him to kill. He keeps humans at an arm's length, pricing his work fairly but never laboring for free. While he appears cold and distant, the temper Eirik attempts to keep on ice can flare at a moment's notice, bestowing upon him quite the reputation. But bitter as he often is, there are moments when the manners drilled into his head as a ward at Kaer Seren return. He rarely allows a woman in distress to struggle, and treats children and animals with a tenderness that seems to defy his nature. The prostitutes at the Passiflora in Novigrad also receive the best of Eirik's somewhat charming severity.

Relationship With Others
Eirik has encountered many beings in his travels, sentient monsters and humans alike, who have made a memorable impact on him. In his formative years at Kaer Seren, Eirik built a strong bond with the two other boys in his cohort, Alaric and Darragh, and maintains this brotherhood--if somewhat strained--to this day. He and Alaric, a knightly Witcher hailing from Toussaint's capital of Beauclair, tend to clash on matters of ideology. While they bonded as children and adolescents over ideals of honor and glory, as such qualities are venerated at the Griffin School, the two have grown apart in their experiences. While Alaric finds fulfillment in helping the poor and needy of the Continent, having built a solid reputation for himself as one of the "noble" Witchers, Eirik's lived experiences have made him cynical. He maintains a more relaxed banter with the bearish Darragh, a fisherman's son from Skellige, who finds amusement in Alaric's stiff, rule-abiding nature.
Outside of the keep, Eirik has found friendships and companionships in other beings, sentient monsters to whom he feels closer than humans. Of these, Fithyn is his most cherished, a Succubus with whom he spent a steamy week several years prior. The two connected in a unique way, both seeking gratification and refuge from persecution -- Succubi are generally harmless monsters, and the only deaths they are responsible for are those humans who die of exhaustion from excessive lovemaking. She cared not for the scars on his face, simply that he keep his attention glued to her and, more importantly, his silver sword sheathed (indeed, Eirik took a lock of her hair to his employer as proof that he slew whatever monster was enticing the contract poster's soldiers and returning them dazed and exhausted—he would not kill her, sentient as she was). Even after they parted, the two met again several times over the years, stumbling across one another in towns and cities. They are friends, occasionally lovers when convenient, and bicker as lovingly as husband and wife. Rarely does such a rich friendship exist between individuals, and even rarer between Witcher and monster.

⊢LIFE⊣​

Early Life
Eirik's childhood was as typical as many boys whose destinies are bound to the Witcher's Guild: poverty, hardship, and the invocation of the Law of Surprise. Born into a family of four malnourished siblings headed by a haggard mother and a down-trodden father, Eirik's days were filled with laborious farm work and his nights with the pain of an empty stomach. But the little hut on the banks of the Toina River, with its pastures filled with bleating sheep, its garden overflowing with swaying foxgloves, and its aproned matriarch always happy to sweep her children into warm, tight hugs -- it was home. Strict as his father was, hard as the work was, weary as his days were, the memories that Eirik held onto as he drfited to sleep on the barely-tufted cots of Kaer Seren's blustery tower barracks were of Dyfed. The smell of freshly-baked bread and gooseberry jam, the softness and warmth of a sheep's wool under his fingers, the brisk coolness of a dip into the glittering river after a hard day's work. It was in that river that Eirik's fate was sealed, the threads of destiny tightening themselves into a knot that could never come untangled: a drowner, a terrible fish-like humanoid monster, leapt from the reeds and attempted to drag Eirik's father under the river's torrent. But its neck met with the deadly touch of a silver sword, drawn and wielded by a passing Witcher on his way to Ard Carraigh. Sopping wet, half-drowned, and grateful for his life, EIrik's father had nothing to give -- nothing but his young son of eight winters, racing towards his father to ask where the shears had been misplaced. The first thing that comes to greet you: the Law of Surprise had been invoked. The little world Eirik knew--the river, the thatched hut, the pastures--was replaced with a stone fortress perched on a windy cliff overlooking the sea, his siblings traded for a dozen or so boys similarly snatched from their homes, and his humanity exchanged to battle the world's most fearsome beasts for a population who would sneer at him for the color of his eyes.

Adolescence
As a ward at the Griffin School of Kaer Seren, Eirik was the most stubborn of pupils, refusing to quit until a technique was mastered, a book was memorized, a task was brought to utter completion. He would practice, wooden sword against stoic humanoid dummy, until his hands bled. He would run the rocky trails around the Eagle Fortress until his legs gave out, and would pass out night after night surrounded by tomes about bruxae and wyverns and wraiths. Even when most boys succumbed to the Trial of Grasses, a brutal transformation induced by the transfusion of decoctions and essences into the veins, Eirik wouldn't allow himself to die -- he had always been a fighter, if not to prove to others his fortitude, then to prove it to himself. Even after the Trial, his days of training were far from over. Then, the true work began, pitting himself against the other young Witchers in tasks of physical, mental, and academic endurance. But it wasn't all work: Eirik formed close bonds with the other boys, those who survived the brutal Trial -- a mere three of the original cohort of fifteen. Alaric, a tall fair-haired boy of noble blood from the duchy of Toussaint, was strong in morality and clung to the chivalric values the Griffin School imparted; it reminded him of home, of the noble knightly class he was supposed to join before being snatched away by a lowly mercenary Witcher. There was also Darragh, a Skelligan boy with a similar impoverished background to Eirik's, whose father was a fisherman on the isle of Faroe. Alaric and Eirik often butted heads, the former still bitter of the injustice he felt he suffered -- promised to become a knight, but fated to become a monster-killer-for-hire. Eirik, himself, was grateful for the chance to build a reputation for himself: he would be a hero, a savior, a noble Witcher who would change the public opinion of the Guild from one generally distrusted and disrespected to one of high regard. And, for many years after his release into the wide world, he was met with relative success. That is, until one fateful day in a village called Silverton.

"They will never know the ways I torture myself for
the mistakes I've made. But what can I say? Griffins torture
their prey before devouring it, picking it apart, stripping
flesh from bone until there is nothing but a quivering,
exhausted mound of agony remains. Death only comes at
the end, the very end, and it is received gratefully.
It's in my blood to torture myself and those around me.
Pox on the noble, chivalric griffin.
Hunger, violence, vengeance…."​

Adulthood/Present
At nineteen, Eirik was deemed competent and skillful enough to leave Kaer Seren in search of work: contracts and bounties for the destruction of various monsters plaguing the land, for curses that needed breaking, for people who needed finding, and to collect new wards to continue the legacy of the Witcher Guild. Fresh-faced and ready to make a difference, Eirik traveled the Continent, relishing the glory of fighting fantastic beasts and, even moreso, the weight of his gold pouch at his side. Never in his life had Eirik held so much coin, and spent as much time hunting monsters as he did in local taverns and brothels. But as time passed, the ambition that once filled him began to fade. The jobs and contracts became more menial, and the pleasure of drinking and women dulled. As satisfying as the tearful gratefulness and gratitude for his deeds were, a new force began to grate at his nerves, wearing away the desire for glory and honor: irritation, bitterness, resentment. For more often than gratitude, Eirik was met with disgust and distrust from the populace, who tried to swindle him from the payment he was owed and showed nothing but thankless disappointment when it came time to pay up. Eirik knew as well as any that life on the Continent was hard, petty barons raiding their people of grain and gold for nominal protection from invading armies, the rulers more concerned with the affairs of the Circle of Mages and the aggressive Nilfgaardian Empire than the contentedness and safety of their subjects. But the hostility and distrust that Witchers were regarded with, despite his best efforts to treat his employers fairly, irked Eirik deeply. And this bitterness, which slowly ate at his conscience and soul, finally surpassed the boyish dream of chivalrous renown Eirik sought in his younger years:

In a village called Silverton, in the Temerian countryside, a wyvern was harassing and devouring flocks of sheep. When Eirik rode up to the inn on his steed, looking for a bit of reprieve from the Path, a group of village men approached the Witcher with a large pouch of coin pooled from each family and begged the hunter to help them. Although Eirik was weary, he knew the importance of livestock -- sheep especially -- to the livelihood of the villagers, and took the contract. But the fight was not easily won, and Eirik was wounded in the face by the wyvern's venomous claws. Face shredded, the slashes weeping and burning, Eirik staggered back to the village with the head of the beast held in his fist, silver sword dripping red. "Drop the trophy here, in the barn -- we'll hold it for you until you depart," the alderman said, beckoning Eirik into a large barn on the outskirts of the village. Half-blinded, Eirik followed, dropping the wyvern head in the hay and expecting his payment; he wanted to tend to his wounds as quickly as possible, as the corrosive venom burned his skin and would cause even more damage left untreated.

But instead of the leather pouch of coin, Eirik was met with a contingent of the village men, old and young alike, each holding a sharp farm implement -- they desperately needed the gold they had offered, and with the wyvern dealt with, the only monster left to kill was the one who meant to take their money. Already terribly wounded, Eirik was slow to act. Before he could draw his sword, the alderman lunged forward, goring him in the abdomen with a rusty pitchfork, the other villagers moving to raise their own ersatz weapons. The slow drip of anger that had worn away at him for so long now erupted in a flood, and the cruel rage of the griffin burst forth from within Eirik: if they wanted a monster, Eirik would give them a monster. With one hand gripping the prongs of the pitchfork, stepping back and pulling the metal from his stomach in a gush of blood, the other reached back and grabbed the leather-wrapped hilt of his steel sword. In a whirlwind of pain and fury, Eirik slew each of the villagers who conspired against him, adolescent boys, old men, the alderman -- every man in Silverton. Save one, a thirteen year old who had stood with his father, barely a man himself, who slipped past Eirik and ran screaming from scene to disseminate the horrible story to a nearby town. Drenched in blood, the gashes in his face and in his abdomen seeping red, Eirik stumbled from the gore-soaked barn with the bloody pouch of Orens held in his fist; amidst the screams and curses of the village women and the wails of the terrified children, Eirik found his horse, dragged himself into the saddle, and fled.

Eirik would recover, albeit with a horrible reminder of the incident etched into both his face and his psyche. His reputation, however, was entirely sullied. The local baron thought it best to leave the Witcher be, after the sum of coin Eirik had won from the villagers was paid to resolve the matter -- he, at least, saw no sense in sentencing to death a tool that had proven itself useful in keeping his countryside clean of vermin. As for his ideals of "honor" and "glory," Eirik disposed of them completely. For all the good he had done before and all the good he has done since, the glances of fear and distaste thrown in his direction and the venomous insults spit in his face have proven that changing the minds of men is a futile effort.

⊢COMBAT/GEAR⊣​

Weapons
Eirik carries the standard gear of a Witcher: a sword of steel and another of silver. Both are deadly-sharp and meticulously cared for, gleaming like sheered moonbeams, and occasionally glistening in the various alchemical oils used in combating monsters. Both terminate in figural pommels of a pair of intertwined griffin's heads, with a perpendicular crossguard on the steel sword for catching other bladed weapons and a slanting crossguard on the silver sword for catching claws, fangs, and spines. While other Witchers may carry a crossbow or a set of saltpeter and phosphorus bombs, Eirik prefers to use of Signs to stun, aggravate, or blind his enemies.

Favorite/Most Used Sign(s)
The Griffin School emphasizes the use of Signs above the other Schools, drilling their wards in the use of magical, mental pulses that, while simple in theory, have myriad practical and creative uses. Of the five, Eirik has always preferred the versatility of Aard, a blast of cold telekinetic energy used to stun, repel, knock down, or disarm opponents -- much like the mighty beat of a griffin's powerful wings.

Fighting Style
Eirik fights with the aggressive cunning of a griffin: he is powerful and fearsome and uses these qualities to his advantage, exploiting the weaknesses of his opponents with deadly efficiency. While many Witchers of the Griffin School adhere to a more chivalrous manner of engaging in battle, Eirik is not afraid to strike first, manners be damned -- often it is the difference between a quick victory and a drawn-out fight. With a generous use of Signs, his environment, and his opponents' own deficiencies, Eirik is a skillful and ruthless foe.

⊢PETS⊣​

Eirik is fond of his steed Sinir, a seal-brown gelding he acquired several years prior as payment from a Redanian horse breeder for slaying a griffin that had been preying on his herd. The animal seems to understand Eirik in a way only a true, loyal friend could, but then, long days and lonely nights spent together on the Path have a way of forging such bonds.

"A glint of affection comes into my eyes at the
sight of my horse, a companion of many years,
who I received as payment in lieu of money for a
completed contract. I give him a hardy pat on his
neck as I tuck the provisions away into his leather
saddlebag, my bedroll and few possessions already
packed and secured; briefly, I take a moment to
check my potions and oils and secure my swords.
Then, I mount up, click my tongue, and steer
Sinir back onto the Path."​

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Quicksilver

~Faelivrin "Quicksilver" Ultharion~

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Faelivrin Ultharion
Aliases: Quicksilver
Gender: Male
Race: Uthindili Dark Elf
Faction: Morweni Ravens
Age: 24
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Moodboard
Quicksilver

■Reflections of Body ■
~walk with the shadows~

Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: White-silver, quick and brilliant like starshine
Height/Build: 5'9", lithe

mid-sized shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam's apple, strong collarbones, a straight-edged nose, a razor-sharp jawline, slightly-upturned silver eyes set beneath a heavy brow ● light gray skin, soft, like ashes ● a lithe build, light muscles swelling over his shoulders and arms, with a firm, hard abdomen ● capable hands with clean, short fingernails ● sleek, wavy ink black hair that falls to his collarbones, worn half-up, tied into a braided knot at the back of his head ● occasionally wears a silver circlet crown bedecked in obsidian, tanzanite, and amethyst; wears several cut silver rings set with various gemstones on his ring and pointer fingers ● has dark shimmering blue-black tattoos of a crows' wings across his forehead and down his cheeks, feathers spread wide ● long, pointed ears that flare of slightly ● ordinarily wears tight-fitting black leather armor, gloves, and boots with blue-black crow feathers decorating the shoulders and a triangular cape at the back ● for casual wear, wears a blue-black v-neck doublet and tight-fitting pants with knee-high black leather boots, soft, lacing all the way up with silver laces; the doublet has crow and feather motifs stitched with silver stitching ● a pair of elven-style silverite knives at his hips, the pommels figural crows' heads with tanzanite eyes

Species Traits​

● Darkvision: the ability to see extremely well in dimly-lit spaces; alternatively, is sensitive to bright light
● Magick Fire: the ability to wield a silver flame in the palm of his hand, cold and searing
● Magick Darkness: the ability to wield shadow around himself
● Blood Magic: limited, to make contracts and mildly heal himself of wounds—it is mostly for ritualistic purposes

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■

Likes
the bustling city life of Morwen, his home, and the comforts city living bring ● overlooking the streets from the rooftops, glancing at glimmering stars on moonlit nights ● strong, robust coffee ● cool winter evenings, goosebumps aligning along his shoulders and spine, with a cup of coffee in hand to quell the cold ● high places, like a crow perched on a rooftop, where he can see his surroundings ● the draw of a knife across a targets throat, slipping between the skin and the spray of blood thereafter—the completion of a contract ● justice, in whatever form it may come ● the meditative concentration involved in mixing poisons and sharpening his blades ● stretching, exercising, bolstering his strength and agility

Dislikes
life in the countryside, or on the road during contracts ● people questioning him about his heritage as a Dark Elf, specifically a Uthindili one ● poorly-made coffee ● the tightness in his muscles that comes with missing out on his exercise routine ● people who take too much stock in status—anyone's life can be cut short with the flick of a silverite blade or dose of poison ● sleeping—he is often haunted by frightening nightmares of starless darkness and a red-eyed monster hunting him down

Personality Traits
nimble, flexible ● adaptable ● adventurous ● aloof ● calm ● clever ● confident ● moody ● perfectionist ● resilient ● risk-taking ● creative ● decisive ● expressive ● focused ● honorable ● intelligent ● logical ● methodical ● resourceful ● abrasive ● aggressive ● blunt ● calculating ● cold ● cynical ● dominant ● protective

Mannerisms​

● Often makes full, intense, purposeful eye contact
● Rubs the back of his neck when uncomfortable, drawing his lips into a thin line and avoiding eye contact
● Anger rolls from him like a cold tide, eyes intense, jaw tensed and teeth bared, brow heavy
● Is overtly blunt, rarely holding back his inner thoughts and intuitions, even if he knows those opinions are divisive
● Ears wiggle slightly when overtly happy—he absolutely hates this reflex
● Is always checking his surroundings, glancing about himself, over his shoulders; positions himself with his back to walls or corners

History​

The blood-drinking subspecies of Dark Elf known as the Uthindil worship the blood-singing dark witch goddess Ulaire, who practiced blood magic, and her consort, Uthorin, the Assassin King. The kingdom called Uthindilendor, "Land of the Dark-Eared People," has its capital, Morwen, the City of Eternal Darkness, set down in a massive crater or open-roofed cave along the edge of the dark Sylvaethor Forest, its buildings hewn from the gemstone-rich stone and obsidian. Its primary export is silver, mined deep from within the cave system, as well as semi-precious gemstones. In the center of the city lies a massive castle bedecked in silver and amethyst, spiraling upwards over the narrow streets and into the night sky. The streets below are lit by lamps of silver flame, filled with bustling markets, churches of varying sects, and political offices. Intrigue runs deep in the city, which is overseen by the Morweni Ravens, the assassin ruling family of the city, the Ultharion Family. Its prince, Faelivrin, "of the Starlight," is an assassin and blood mage of his own right, taking up his family's tradition in the name of the dark god Uthorin and Sacred Mother Ulaire.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Ran

~Ran~
“Summon the sailors in town;
Strangle the fear of deciding
Which one's deserving to drown—
Don’t feel bad when these fuckers all drown.”
Milk of the Siren - Melanie Martinez

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Ran
Gender: Male
Species: Siren
Age: 25
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Bottom
Zodiac Sign: Capricorn
Birthday: December 23
Moral Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Moodboard
Ran

■Reflections of Body ■
Hair Color/Style: White blond, full, and falls to his collarbones, worn in waves around his face
Eye Color: Pale white-silver, like pearls or abalone, shining in pastel pinks and blues at different angles
Height/Build: 5’6”, lithe

a porcelain complexion, the blues and purples of his veins pulsing through his skin ● small shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam’s apple, delicate collarbones, an upturned nose, a razor-sharp jawline, slightly-upturned eyes with thick pale lashes ● a thin build, lithe, slight muscles swelling along his arms, neck, and shoulders ● elegant hands with long pale fingernails ● ash blond hair, like pristine beach sand, that dries, from the salty ocean water, in soft waves; worn down around his face, sometimes in a knot or a ponytail ● a soft voice like raindrops falling on the rippling ocean’s surface; when singing, low-toned and sensual ● prefers to walk around naked and barefoot; when dressed, wears light-colored oversized t-shirts and shorts

Siren Form
Ran’s original form is that of a Siren, his frilling, fanning tail melding at his elegant torso, long and sleek with white-silver scales that glimmer with pink, purple, and blue opalescent accents like an abalone shell. His ears become fanned and webbed, along with his fingers, webbed to the mid-knuckle. Slits open along his apparent ribs—gills that allow him to breathe underwater. Along his elbows sprout ribbed fins that ripple in the ocean tides.

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
“Tired of silence and being polite
Your legs turn to shimmering scales in the night.”
Milk of the Siren - Melanie Martinez

Likes
bright moonlit nights when brilliant stars swarm the sky ● the sensation of sand between his toes and the sea air against his skin ● the deep, dark silence at the bottom of the ocean floor, pressing in against his ears and eyes, currents lapping at his fins and hair ● rain pattering against the surface of the waves ● singing: belting his voice to others’ envy or adoration ● swimming with the ocean currents, riding with the riptide and gliding through the waves with ease ● angry, moody, powerful songs, both in his native language and in English ● putting others in their place, whether verbally or physically—in bed or in death

Dislikes
the sensation of clothing, socks, and shoes against his skin ● thunderstorms: the crash of thunder overhead and spark of lightning cutting across a dark sky ● dry skin ● rough “alpha males” that treat others as though they're lesser ● being perceived as fragile or delicate ● grief: like water filling his aching lungs, spewing from his eyes in rivulets and gaping mouth screeching horrible songs of loss ● the heaviness of gravity tugging at his bipedal form, in spite of his natural elegance on land

Personality Traits
aloof ● blunt ● angry, bitter ● aggressive ● elegant ● attractive ● captivating ● clever ● confident ● deceitful ● intelligent ● passionate ● realistic ● proud ● sensual ● amoral ● arrogant ● cold ● cynical ● egocentric ● violent ● vain

Mannerisms​

● Has a soft laugh, more of a titter or a giggle; at times, when struck by hilarity, will cackle like a seagull—a sound that defies his entire nature
● Makes deliberate, purposeful eye contact, almost to the point of discomfort
● Is overtly blunt, rarely holding back his inner thoughts and intuitions, even if they’re taboo or unwarranted in social situations—doesn't care about others’ opinions of him
● Obsessively grooms himself: always combing his fingers through his hair, picking at his fingernails, checking his appearance in reflective surfaces
● Ears wiggle when delighted
● Irises change color depending on mood: bright white when happy or pleased, to stormy silver when angry or grieving

---

■ Blood in the Water ■
~ Trigger Warning: Death ~​

“Sing me another—now.”

The man's face was long, wrinkles around his narrow eyes, nose hooked and eyes underlined in purple bags that gave away his age. His baritone voice was shaded in desperation, almost, at the request. Ran had been singing to the man for two hours now, his voice drifting upward along the cove roof, and outward, on the rippling tides that lapped towards them. His voice was low in tone, and sensual, the words in an ancient language that only the waves, and others of his kind, understood—songs about ravenous hunger, about blood melting in the seawater, about carnal devouring. But to the man, they felt like love songs, melodies about sex, the rhythm tantric and mystical.

They sat on the beach together, the water lapping up around their hips and legs in foamy tides. It was a private cove that Ran had brought them to, secret to everyone but him: stone arched high over their heads, shading them from prying eyes, as they sat, naked, in the sand. Their clothes were strewn behind them, disturbed sand in the shape of bodies in movement painting a story of the hours prior, a primal part of Ran's ritual—he worked methodically, as if fishing, buttering up his hook with the perfect bait for any prey. He lured men in with his body, a lithe, thin frame, light muscles swelling down his arms, his stomach soft and flat. The dying sun shone off his white-blonde hair, silvery eyes glimmering in hues of light blue and pastel pink, like two pearls set in his fair face. The man was so mystified by his stunning visage and elegant body that he didn't even notice the sea- and sun-bleached bones that littered the sand, half-buried in pulverized grit.

“Swim with me?” he lulled, pushing himself into a standing position, sand clinging to his toned legs and thighs. Implicitly, the man nodded, and together, they stepped into the waves, washing around their ankles, first, and then their knees, up to their waists, bobbing in the tides as they swelled around the pair. Ran smiled at the man, his lips drawing into a grin tinged in hunger; a grinding noise filled his head as he felt his teeth shifting, sharpened canines dropping down several millimeters in a spurt of blood that painted his teeth and tongue. Red seeped from between his moon white teeth, and the man's eyes caught the color, a bewildered expression crossing his aging features. Meanwhile, Ran's fingernails eased forward from their nailbeds, forming long, pale claws webbed mid-knuckle; at his back, his skin shifted, a long sail-like fin emerging and rippling down his spine. His ears elongated, finned and webbed, and his pupils dilated into slits. He giggled, a deceptively happy sound as he drew his fingernails down the man’s chest, scraping the skin lightly. In the water below, a whirlpool of water whirled around his legs, which merged together to form a strong, wide-finned tail, pale scales as iridescent as pearls erupting along the skin and circling the appendage up to his hip bones. With that, he dove down, seizing the man by his ankle and dragging him down and forward through the raging brine, deeper. His fingernails bit into the man's bare ankle, drawing stinging droplets of blood that mixed with the seawater; his grip was vice-like as he dragged his prey down to the sandy bottom, feet kicking, calling out in strangled screams that sent torrents of bubbles burbling from his lips.

Shimmering, opalescent tail pumping, Ran swam deeper into the shadowy depths, pulling his prey with him, who wriggled and fought, clawing at the water in a vain attempt to reach the surface—until finally falling still, waves pouring into his lungs until they popped. Settling at the ocean floor, his sand-blond hair wild around his head and ears wiggling in delight, Ran laid the dead man down on the soft waves of sand and ground his teeth, grinning wildly. It was time for

dinner.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Alaric

~Alaric Cassian DeVere~

Full Name: Alaric Cassian DeVere
Gender: Male
Race: Vampire
Age: 102; turned at 28
Moral Alignment: True Neutral

Moodboard
Vampire Knight

Hair Color: Silvery ash blond, falling in waves to his collarbones
Eye Color: Blood red, quick and brilliant like rubies
Height/Build: 6’1”, muscled

mid-sized shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam’s apple, strong collarbones, a straight-edged nose, a razor-sharp jawline, slightly-upturned vermillion eyes set beneath a heavy brow ● pallid skin, almost translucent, showing every blue and purple vein beneath the surface; covered in dozens of scars, from blades and fire alike, raised, pink and shiny across his complexion ● a muscled build, light muscles swelling over his shoulders and arms, with a firm, hard abdomen ● sharp, knife-like, moon-white canine teeth ● capable hands with clean, short fingernails ● sleek, wavy light blond hair that falls to his collarbones, worn half-up, tied into a braided knot at the back of his head ● wears several cut silver rings set with rubies and garnet on his ring and pointer fingers ● ordinarily wears tight-fitting black leather armor stitched with motifs of medieval dragons, with a brilliant red cape draped over his shoulders and back ● for casual wear, wears a red v-neck doublet and tight-fitting black breeches with knee-high gray leather boots, soft, lacing all the way up with silver laces; the doublet has dragon motifs stitched with silver stitching ● wields a decorative long spear, the staff carved of ebony, with rubies set in the wings and the dragon motifs carrying onto the leaf of the blade

Personality Traits
gallant ● heroic ● noble ● self-abhorring ● compassionate ● earnest ● humble ● intuitive ● unleaderly ● intuitive ● nonauthoritarian ● principled ● protective ● rational ● respectful ● self-critical ● stoic ● trusting ● decisive ● resourceful ● brave

Likes
the irony taste of blood, slippery and thick as it glosses across his tongue—for this he is deeply ashamed ● once, in a time before he was a monster capable of drinking only blood, pomegranates ● dragons ● exercise: moving and stretching his muscles, maintaining his strength and dexterity ● rainy days, cool water droplets glancing off his bare skin, and the sun hidden behind thick ashen clouds ● the color red ● bravery: playing a hero in a world where he has been reduced to nothing but a simple monster

Dislikes
bright days, though his amulet protects him disintegrating into ash; he remains photosensitive, and radiation lesions raise themselves along exposed skin ● large bodies of water: their unknown depths cause him unease ● his nature as a vampire, and the fact he survived Cainhurst’s epidemic to be reduced to a monster; he harbors a great deal of survivor’s guilt ● sleeping: he is often haunted by nightmares of his torture and abuse at the hands of Cainhurt’s sadistic heir ● the scars that slash across his body, pink, raised, and shiny—reminders of his tortured past

History​

The kingdom of Cainhurst had been overwrought by a terrible disease of the blood. Individuals of all ages suffered under the yoke of horrendous illness: delirium and psychosis punctuated by sobbing fits of bloody tears, coughing and choking in the irony vermillion fluid, high fever, tremors, nightmares, and finally, death. Naturally, the vampires of Cainhurst Castle acted quickly to gain the advantage over the sickness that was draining their thrall population by the thousands: they gathered those who had not fallen ill at the castle, enslaving them for use as thralls against the tide of disease that swept over the town. Among them was Alaric, eighteen at the time, who became the personal blood thrall of the heir of the kingdom for ten long years, suffering traumatic torture and abuse at the elder vampire's hands. Later, at twenty-eight years old, he would be turned into a vampire himself, his sire the same heir who abused him, and recycled into his personal knight. Eventually, abhorring his new nature and the continued abuse at his sire's hands, he fled the castle entirely after coming into the possession of an amulet that would allow him to daywalk.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Aurum

~Aurum~

Every step I fear/To keep my mind
From slipping
So I start/ Dancing, dancing
However much I spin
I know my mind will hurt/More than my skin
More Than My Skin - Gracchus



■First Glance ■
Full Name: Aurum Aestas
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Race: Martian
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil
Career Path: Exotic Dancer

Muse
More Than My Skin - Gracchus

Moodboard
the martian

■Reflections of Body ■
Go on then Icarus
Take your turn
You always fly right up until it burns
Icarus - Starset



Hair Color/Style: Golden blond and shimmering, short cut and mussed
Eye Color: Golden
Height/Build: 5'9"

complexion is a dark tan, like warm Martian sand; flecked in gold, like shimmering dust embedded in his skin—striking when rays from a distant sun hit, sending light scattering in all directions ● a thin build, with a narrow chest, prominent collarbones, a hard Adam's apple, sharp shoulders, with light muscles swelling along his arms—lithe, flexible, and stronger than he looks ● brilliant golden wings attached at his secondary scapulae, spanning with pristine primaries and preened barbules ● upturned bright yellow eyes, like coins set in his face beneath thick golden lashes, slightly sunken; in the dim, they glow like a pair of setting suns; often paints gold paint in a wing along the lid ● elegant hands with short, bitten fingernails ● short-cut golden blond hair, naturally mussed ● wears thin gold rings on his fingers, with helix and rook piercings of golden studs ● black, almost necrotic-looking track-mark bruises at the insides of his elbows and the webbing of his fingers

■Reflections of Self ■
Fell out of the air and you broke your wings
Like you're doing every other time
Made a new pair
Out of broken things to give it all another try
Icarus - Starset

Likes
Stardust: the energetic burst that emanates from his core, like atoms firing in every direction, bright, vital, chaotic, alive ● Black Hole: the calming waves that lap at his consciousness, pulling the heat from his center and distributing it throughout his entire body, drifting on a dark ocean, swelling, sinking, drowning ● baggy clothing: covering up his body from the prying view of others—unfortunately, hiding his wings isn't so easy ● the cover of night, whether hiding his visage or indulging in sins—hiding from the daylight ● sweet tastes, even sickly saccharine ● loud music, the kind you feel in your bones

Dislikes
dancing: the attention his gyrating, undulating body receives, the stares of lust, the glares of envy, the glances of pity ● bitter tastes ● bright solar days, the sunlight glancing off of his reflective skin and drawing more attention to him ● mundane conversations, small talk ● late, sleepless nights spent tossing, turning, and waiting for the sun to rise ● heights ● dredging up the past ● being talked down to or underestimated ● liars ● "holier-than-thou" attitudes ● not having something to occupy his mouth (a cigarette, gum, hard candy, etc.) ● the ever-looming threat of abandonment ● feeling out of control—that spinning, centrifugal panic that makes you feel as if you're being ripped apart ● the feeling of loneliness that persists even in a room full of people

Personality Traits
adaptable ● bold ● abrasive ● capable ● kinetically intelligent ● clever ● expressive ● aggressive ● amoral ● protective ● apathetic ● defensive ● distant ● self-aware ● protective ● realistic ● erratic ● lazy ● self-sufficient ● mischievous ● moody ● strong ● self-destructive ● resourceful

Mannerisms​

● Tends to snort with a brief smirk rather than outright laugh; when he does, the sound is often harsh, like a bark, or outrageously loud and brimming with hilarity
● Rubs the back of his neck when uncomfortable, drawing his lips into a thin line and avoiding eye contact
● Becomes aggressively defensive when embarrassed
● Rarely holds back emotion, but there are tells when he's withholding how he feels: a twitching nose, eyes rapidly blinking back tears, a tense jaw, a stiff closed-off posture, skin-picking
● Often makes intense, purposeful eye contact
● Oral fixation: if he isn't smoking, he's sucking on hard candy or chewing his nails

■Icarus ■
Because I know you're lost when you run away
Into the same black holes and black mistakes
Die for You - Starset​

Aurum ran.

He ran in circles, spinning around the gleaming silver pole like a planet orbiting a black hole, faster, faster, dropping his hips, flashing his wings, extending the primaries to their fullest extent and fanning the flames of his descent. The thrum of the bass was overwhelming, like an external, communal heartbeat, beating with the frantic pace of his heart, pounding in his head, reverberating up his spine. He felt eyes on him, every single pair, glowing, slitted, narrowed, wide, watching every movement as he danced—envious, lustful, pitying. They were always pitying, back on Mars, where he danced—never good enough.

The boy with sunrays set in his face wobbled on a single leg, the other outstretched with his wings, hovering in position—and stumbling, before the audience, which was silent and condolatory. He had never been good enough, no matter how hard he practiced, no matter how hard he wanted it. Now, he danced with every fiber in his being, giving the slobbering audience his all: bound in skimpy strips of gold, body barely concealed behind the fabric, he spun, ducked, stretched, and gyrated, mouth turned up in a gleeful smile, eyes galaxies away. The pupils were heavily dilated, irises like the light of distant galaxies warping around a pair of black holes; his body was hot, hummed with energy and vitality. The Stardust launched him into space, and he flew there, so close to the sun he could feel its warmth on his flushed cheeks.

The fall would come later.

With a final twirl, he exited the platform, wobbling slightly on his heeled feet, to the rain of paper credits falling around him like a cloudburst. Weaving and ducking through the club to the feeling of outstretched hands catching in his feathers, he found the backrooms, and a door bedecked in a plate with his name. He entered the quiet space, shutting the door tightly behind him, and collapsed onto a stool which stood before a mirror. Aurum glared intently at his own face: tan skin, a slightly upturned nose, a pair of golden upturned eyes, a mouth drawn into a thin line. His dilated eyes darted over the features, the triangle of his nose, the circles of his eyes, the line of his jaw, unable to attain a whole, like a man struck by facial blindness. He shook his head, blinking his sunbeam eyes, and reached down to a drawer in the vanity: there, a glinting silver syringe, a vial of pitch black liquid, and a rubber string. Grabbing for all in his nail-bitten fingers, Aurum tied off his arm and loaded the syringe, pulling up on the plunger and drawing the ominous liquid into the barrel. Lining up with a black-bruised vein at the inside of his elbow, he slipped the needle under the skin with a tight pinch, depressing the plunger with a blank expression on his face. Suddenly, almost instantaneously, his pupils restricted to pinpoints as the Black Hole raced through his bloodstream, to his heart, and through his veins. His shoulders relaxed; at his sides, his wings drooped down, extending, the primaries brushing the floor. His descent had begun, fire-flaming from the sky into the ocean, the waves consuming him in lapping tides. Silently, a tear chasing its way down his cheek, Icarus fell into the sea and drowned. Even still, he felt

Golden.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Xi

~Xi~

"Isolated
Some foreigner in my skin
Some broken barbarian
I never meant to feel so dark and cold"
What Have You Become? - MNQN

■First Glance ■
Full Name: [REDACTED]
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Birthday: November 12

Muse: What Have You Become by MNQN
Moodboard: the mutant

■Reflections of Body ■

​

6'1", strong and lithe ● complexion is pale white, the result of being housed in a scientific facility for years, blue and purple veins seen winding against his skin; scars scatter his form, raised, pink and shiny, with yellow-green and purple bruises at the insides of his elbows and the tops of his hands from IV needles; a light trail of cobalt feathers trail down his spine, flaring out across his shoulders ● a lithe build, with a muscled chest, a hard stomach and abdomen, sharp collarbones, a prominent Adam's apple, medium-sized shoulders, with wiry muscles swelling along his arms and shoulders ● upturned brilliant cobalt eyes set beneath thick, dark lashes; in the dim, they glow bright, emitting a bluish light of their own, like radioactive plutonium ● strong, vascular hands with short, bitten fingernails ● short, black hair, shaved into a buzz cut

Mutations: Avian Variant
● Heightened senses: visual, olfactory, auditory
● Honeycomb-matrix bones: strong yet lightweight, for quicker movement and agility, yet retaining their strength
● A higher metabolic rate to support inhuman endurance

■Reflections of Self ■
"I sense a change
Something is happening to me
Only a few species ever undergo change
The others become extinct
Man will almost certainly be replaced by a new order of intelligence
Stop looking for monsters under your bed
You are the monster"
What Have You Become? - MNQN

Likes
the dead silence, so thick it weighs heavy on your ears; complete darkness, so thick it weighs heavy on your chest ● exercise: stretching and flexing his muscles to fast-paced music ● a memory, long ago, of sweet flavors on his tongue ● the sting, throb, or smart of pain: he finds it clarifying, awakening a part of him that yearns for survival ● weapons training, particularly hand-to-hand combat and knife techniques ● loud EDM music, the kind you feel in your bones ● the feeling of an adrenaline high—that spinning, centrifugal panic that makes you feel as if you're being ripped apart

Dislikes
feeding time—the bland diet isn't meant to be palatable, just nutritious ● sitting still for too long; his muscles seize up and stiffen uncomfortably after a period of time ● the ever-rotating carousel of human experiments that come through the facility, some friends, who inevitably pass away from the strenuous procedures that bend and break their bodies to the limit ● sleeping: every so often, dreams of a past life will drift upon his consciousness, a life of destitution, pain, and addiction that makes his skin crawl upon waking ● having his hair cut ●

Personality Traits
quiet ● depressive ● moody ● pensive ● stubborn ● addictive ● athletic ● cold ● compulsive ● combative ● cynical desperate ● escapist ● hostile ● negativistic/pessimistic ● paranoid ● protective


■Reflections of the Past ■​

[REDACTED]

■Memories, And a Haircut ■​

"Don't touch me!"

Xi was alive, kicking, and showing for it.

With brute strength, he shoved off his first lab-coat-cloaked assailant, catching another in the jaw with the raised peaks of his knuckles. He dashed down the facility corridor, past rows of windowless rooms, bare feet plodding on the sterile tile as he moved with the lithe speed of a panther, until he came up on the end of the road: a locked security door with reinforced glass looking out into yet another gloomy, fluorescent-lit hallway. Desperate, he began punching the glass, which cracked beneath his hard fist—only before he felt a sting at his neck, the familiar sensation of a needle piercing flesh. He reached up as though to swat a mosquito, finding a blowdart embedded in his skin; yanking it out, he felt the sedative effects already beginning to set in, and sunk to the floor, captured, defeated, and swarmed with lab-coats. They closed in on him as he shouted, hoarsely:

"Get off of me! Get—get off, don't touch, stop it, please…." Blackout.

All of this over a haircut.

***

Xi knew things were important when it meant having his head shaved. His hairstyle was one of the few commodities given to him at the facility, but just as easily as they gave it, it could be taken away. Cobalt-eyed, he watched himself in the mirror as the sweep of his dark hair was clipped short, a buzz-cut so that leads could easily be attached to his skull for the next procedure. He glanced over the contours of his face, somewhat gaunt, with high cheekbones, upturned eyes with irises like radioactive plutonium, a straight-edged nose, a jaw like a razor-blade. At his sides, his arms and feet were cuffed to the chair, and he'd been force-fed a sedative antipsychotic to keep him calm. Because somewhere, deep inside, he felt deeply disturbed at what was happening to him—it was more than just an in-the-moment feeling, but something connected to other emotions, like a spider's web, each thread attached to another and sending vibrations through the entire system. It ran deep, like tree roots, branching through his brain and tapping into memories he didn't know he had.

Xi simply didn't have memories. Everything from before was a black hole, a clean slate, as though his brain was protecting him from some terrible trauma. Any time he tried to go back, he was met with a wall, one that was too tall to crawl over and too deep to burrow under, just a massive expanse of nothing. But recently, something new had been happening to him: he had been dreaming. They were broken, fragmented, and disjointed dreams, disorienting and confusing, but upon waking, Xi was sure to catalog the experiences before they slipped away into the black hole looming at the center of his neocortex. Several things stuck out at him: the sting of a needle in his inner arm, having his head shaved, a sense of having nowhere to go, the warm, toxic scent of cigarette smoke, a nameless, faceless authority figure that frightened him. And that was it. It all whirled in an unknown cityscape, a hard sidewalk, an overcast sky, the inside of a dank apartment or motel room, but he didn't have words for these things. They were just backdrops for the strange things that happened to him in his dreams. Sometimes he was small, like a child, looking up and out from big, wide eyes; other times, he was larger, a young adult, running from something he couldn't see. There were very few times when he felt comfort in these memories; the majority of the time was abject discomfort, pain, fear, anticipation that something terrible was going to happen to him, resulting in bodily harm. And unlike now, where strength and vitality flowed through his muscles, he was decidedly weak in his dreams.

He felt weak now, too—or helpless, rather, as he watched his hair flutter to the floor. Xi heaved a heavy sigh, twitching his fingers, his ankles, wondering what he was in for now. Fear tingled in his hypothalamus, and he glanced away from his reflection, elsewhere. Just like every other time, he knew he'd wake up different.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Nico

~Nico Cifarelli~

Dance with the devil
Get what you asked for
This is your life now
Death on the dance floor
We own your body
You sold your soul for this dance with the devil
Dance 'til you can't no more
Dance with the Devil - Call Me Karizma


■First Glance ■
Full Name: Nicodemus "Nico" Cifarelli
Gender: Male
Species: Minor Devil of Gluttony
Age: Unknown; Appears 24
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Muse
Eat Your Young - Aranki

Moodboard
little devil

​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
I LOVE EVERYTHING

Hair Color/Style: Black, full, and falls around his face in waves; highlighted pink
Eye Color: Black, like the pits of Hell; alternatively, bubblegum pink with slitted pupils
Height/Build: 6'2", thin and lithe, but stronger than he looks

pallid skin, almost translucent, showing every blue and purple vein beneath the surface ● hard slouching shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam's apple, jutting collarbones, a slightly-upturned nose, a razor-sharp jawline, downturned eyes swept in a wing of dark eyeliner and glitter dusted along his cheekbones ● unusually-pointed canines ● a thin build with a narrow chest, an unusual strength hiding in lithe muscles swelling along his arms and shoulders ● somewhat elegant hands with short, bitten nails ● ears are pierced in the left ear, in the lobes and helix, in metallic pink and black metal ● often wears tight-fitting, dark clothing with a splash of neon pink—black skinny jeans, pink or charcoal v-neck t-shirts, oversized hoodies, fishnets, crop tops—with a pair of hot pink Converse shoes

Devil Form
Nico's true form is that of a devil: he retains his lithe frame, but at the base of his spine, the undulations growing to form hard, fleshy spikes, is a tail that terminates in a heart-shaped arrow-head. He sprouts a pair of sharp, smooth black horns that curve slightly outward and upward, above sharply-pointed ears. His teeth grow pointed, as do his fingernails, elongating into black talons. Finally, Nico's eyes shift, the sclerae flooding black and the irises bubblegum pink, glowing like neon in the dim, with slitted pupils.
​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin'
Let me wrap my teeth around the world
Eat Your Young - Aranki

Likes
junk food: salty ramen packets, saccharine snack cakes, crunchy potato chips, greasy pizza ● a party atmosphere: dancing in the heat of too-close bodies, music so loud you can feel it in your bones, the flare of oscillating lights ● strip clubs and pool halls ● indulging his oral fixation: sucking on hard candy, puffing on cigarettes, chewing his fingernails ● walking around naked, free of clothing touching his body ● moody, violent rock music ● causing chaos and ruckus ● eating: the warm, comforting feeling of being full

Dislikes
the dead silence, so thick it weighs heavy on your ears; complete darkness, so thick it weighs heavy on your chest ● being hungry: the gnaw in your stomach, behind your ribs, that reverberates through your whole body ● being alone ● neat-freaks ● "holier-than-thou" attitudes ● naive or oblivious individuals ● the consequences of sobriety in any of its forms ● late, sleepless nights spent tossing, turning, and waiting for the sun to rise ● dredging up the past ● being talked down to or underestimated ● the ever-looming threat of abandonment

Personality Traits
adaptable ● anxious ● sad ● emotionally unstable ● extroverted ● intense ● impulsive ● sloppy ● moody ● selfish ● clever ● resourceful ● perceptive ● intelligent ● blunt ● calculating ● chaotic ● depressive ● apathetic ● self-destructive

Mannerisms​

● Overtly anxious, always seeking his next meal or partnership, almost to the point of franticness
● Often makes intense, purposeful eye contact
● Is overtly blunt, rarely holding back his inner thoughts and intuitions, even if they're taboo or unwarranted in social situations
● Becomes excessively violent and confrontational when angry, losing all sense of self-control
● Lacks self-control in all aspects of his life; does what he wants when he pleases, in spite of the consequences facing him
● Oral fixation: obsessed with the use of his mouth, particularly when it comes to biting, kissing, and sucking, eating and drinking

---

■When the Party's Over ■​

Nico watched, a stone falling somewhere deep in his gut, as his partner sidled to the front door of the motel room. Without even a look over his broad shoulder, he reached for the door; time moved in slow motion, was swallowed into the black hole at the center of Nico's chest, gravity warping around the anomaly that settled there at the conception of his existence.

He had done this a million times. The routine was always the same. The sensation was always the same: a gnawing in his navel, behind his ribs, like an animal wanting to claw its way out of him. It itched, nibbled at his viscera, demanded sustenance. He would snatch up any fellow who would pay him mind, the 6'2" devil with black holes for eyes and a wicked, slick grin, black hair mussed in a sort of lazy, stylish fashion, dressed in black and neon-pink like bubblegum splashed against the fabric that clung to his lithe frame. It was as easy as a cat snagging a mouse, really, nothing to it. The hard part was making them stay. By the time they realized Nico was a chaotic, self-destructive, sad little devil, it was too late—they were long gone. Ghosted, number blocked, tossed to the wind. One-night stands to satiate the monster were easier. The pain ebbed quicker, like a smack to the face—stinging, but fast. Over and done with.

The door opened. His partner, nameless, faceless, now, passed through. And was gone.

Nico laid splayed across the bed, the sheets wrapped around his bare legs and hips, keeping him decent; against the off-white of the used bed linens, he was luminescent, his veins glowing blue and purple at the insides of his elbows. Tears welled in his eyes, black like the pits of the Hell he crawled up from, breaking the levies of his long, dark lashes and spilling onto passion-flushed cheeks. He was still covered in cum and sweat, but the only thing he could think of, to detract from the loneliness that ached in his chest, was

Food.

He sat up, slowly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He idly wiped himself with the sheet before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, reaching down for a plastic bag he'd brought with him, filled with snacks—junk, all of it, empty calories and carbohydrates. As he reached for a bag of potato chips, he sniffled, biting his lip so hard he drew blood. The taste was sharp, grounding. Not as grounding as the taste of grease as he crammed his mouth full of crisps, one handful, two, until the bag was gone. As he ate, he shifted, flickered, like his body was unsure of itself. A pair of horns appeared on his head, black and curving up and outward; his ears elongated into points, with his teeth, which became fangs. A fleshy tail formed at the base of his naked spine, the undulations growing outward into flesh-covered spikes. Taloned fingers grabbed for a box of chocolate snack cakes, and he drew his legs up, sobbing and eating, cramming cake into his maw like a ravenous psychopath. He always ended up alone, when the men had left, when the food was eaten, when the drinks stopped flowing,

When the party was over.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Him

~him~

I am the reason,
the reason for you.
You can only breathe because I let you.
Come to your senses,
wake from your dream.
I am the wolf in your darkest room.

Moodboard
the shadow

And I just want to taste you on my teeth.
I'm clawing at your neck to feed my needs.
You thought you found my limit
but you don't seem to know,
no you don't seem to know,
how far I'd go.

The Shadow
He has no shape. He twists and bends and writhes like darkness incarnate, shadow with a physical form, with mass, bending into whatever shape pleases him: a flock of ravens, a black rabbit, the form of a dark-haired, black-eyed boy…

Hair Color/Style: Black and full, hanging to his collarbones in waves
Eye Color: Dark, like a pair of black holes or starless night skies
Height/Build: 5'11", lithe

pale, pallid skin, almost translucent, showing every blue and purple vein beneath the surface ● a narrow chest and firm abdomen, light muscles swelling over his neck and hard, slouching shoulders, apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam's apple, jutting collarbones ● a slightly upturned nose, a razor-sharp jawline, upturned eyes, high cheekbones ● somewhat elegant hands with short nails ● dresses innocuously, in dark jeans, a black long-sleeved v-neck shirt, dark tennis shoes

Likes
bright sunny days or moonlit nights where shadows abound ● active shapes, stretching wing or muscle into a variety of positions ● dark colors ● coming off as "normal"—acceptance ● male human forms, particularly, and the mental stretch it takes to conform to human society ● conformity, order, shape, solidness, surety

Dislikes
rainy, cloud-covered skies ● the feeling of a loss of control—that spinning, centrifugal panic that feels like you're being flung apart in all directions ● static shapes ● the feeling of disintegration that comes with losing his form, melting back into a mass of shadow with no shape ● nonconformity, disorder, a lack of shape, opaqueness, uncertainty

Mannerisms​

● Anxious: bounces his foot, picks at his nails, fidgets with his clothing
● His smile is uncertain, as though he isn't quite sure how, drawing back his lips over perfect teeth in an assurance of harmlessness—that doesn't feel quite harmless
● Loses his temper easily, shaking, balling his fists, grinding his teeth, as panic drives him to uncertain and violent lengths
● Often avoids eye contact: the eyes are the window to the soul, and he…doesn't have one?

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Raiden

~Raiden Yamanaka~



Full Name: Raiden "the Mountain" Yamanaka
Gender: Male
Species: Green Oni
Age: 32
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil
Profession: Bodyguard

Muse
Oni - Cursed Crown, IruGuitar

Moodboard
The Mountain

​

---

Hair Color/Style: Waist-length, full raven locks often braided into a thick rope
Eye Color: In his human form, bright green like bamboo leaves; in his Oni form, lightning-yellow and slitted like a tiger's
Height/Build: 6'4", muscular, broad

a pale complexion, ghostly-white, a stark contrast to the black tiger-stripe patterns across his spine, arms, and legs; images of tigers are inked into his skin, across his chest and thighs ● scars, raised and shiny, cutting across his torso, arms, back, and face ● broad and muscular, muscles swelling over his arms, shoulders, and neck with a hard, firm abdomen and thick, muscular thighs ● a noble face with high cheekbones, a straight-edged nose, a sharp jawline, and slightly-tilted upturned eyes ● large, capable hands ● wears all black: silk button downs with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, dark slacks, polished shoes, and a silver mala around his neck

Oni Form
large fangs for canine teeth, moon-white and sharp like a tiger's ● large pointed ears ● a pair of sharp brown horns that curve up from his forehead, the left broken off halfway down ● yellow eyes slitted like a tiger's ● long black talons on each finger

Powers
Like other Oni, Yamanaka has the ability to wield lightning, wind, and thunder: a crackle of electricity and the boom of thunder accompany his punches, he can fortify his weapons with lightning, he can push back foes with a blast of air from his palms, and he can whirl a stream of wind around his form.
​

---

Likes
cats in general, particularly tigers ● rainy days with a cup of green tea between his hands; the sound of rainfall on the roof, accompanied by a rumble of thunder ● the meditative practice of cleaning and sharpening his katana blade ● fighting with his bare hands ● warm bathhouses ● sex and exercising his stamina, despite being horribly abused as a young man ● tattoos ● smoking, particularly opium, but a cigarette will do ● the sensation of fingers running through his thick hair

Dislikes
large bodies of water—the ominous, unseen depths cause him discomfort ● the cold, goosebumps aligning along his arms and spine ● vivid nightmares of his tragic past that haunt him in his often-uneasy sleep ● Blue Oni ● reading, or intellectual pursuits in general ● the nickname "Yama" ● being restrained in any form or fashion ● abusers of power

Personality Traits
protective ● aggressive ● active ● adventurous ● clever ● confident ● decisive ● emotionally stable ● proud ● resilient ● strong-willed ● athletic ● captivating ● dignified ● disciplined ● dutiful ● focused ● strong ● observant ● determined ● violent

History​

Raiden Yamanaka was born into an enslaved Oni community owned by the Tiger's Blood yakuza mob, where his kind were subjected to horrendous physical and sexual abuse at the hands of the yakuza boss, Akuma. He controlled them via magic-infused red shibari harnesses that staunched their powers, and erected a Red Gate around his villa, passing through which while wearing the harness meaning immediate death. The Oni there were forced to spar in underground fighting rings for the entertainment of the yakuza, while Akuma chose the most beautiful and virile Oni for himself to abuse. Raiden, affectionately called "Yama" or "mountain" by the devil boss, was one of these unfortunate Oni, chosen from a young age to entertain the boss in the rings and in bed. His moon-white skin and lengthy dark hair, as well as his rare nature as a Green Oni, brought attention from Akuma, who took the young Oni under his devilish wing and brought him up in the ways of sex, opium-smoking, fighting, torture, and murder. For years, he remained the favorite of the boss, who eventually removed his harness in a move of trust and care for the Oni. Big mistake: this was the moment Raiden had been working towards, building trust and companionship between himself and Akuma in order to break his fetters once and for all. In the middle of the night, Raiden took a katana and slit his master's throat, stabbing and mutilating his body until there was nothing but a quivering mound of flesh. He then escaped the grounds and into the city, disguising himself as a human and passing himself off as a bodyguard for prominent yakuza members before viciously murdering them. Eventually, he left his homeland altogether, and found himself in a new city, looking to quench his bloodthirsty ways again.

---

The Mountain and the Kingpin​

The music was like a communal heartbeat, the thrum of the bass, the clash of the drum, beating in his ears and behind his eyes in a pounding headache. And the wild, oscillating lights shining down in every color of the rainbow—they flew over his stoic, noble face, attempting to draw a glimmer of expression, appreciation or joy, from the full lips, the upturned bamboo-green eyes. But there was nothing but boredom bordering on anxiety, agitation twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Raiden sat with a stiff back and shoulders on the leather booth seat, ramrod straight with perfect posture. Binding his chest was a tight-fitting black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, the sleeves rolled up around his vascular forearms, which showed off tattoos of ink-brush tiger stripes—the black stark against his moon-white complexion. Around his legs, he wore a pair of black slacks, and on his feet, polished black shoes. His hair, tied into a long braid at the back of his head, several strands of midnight hair falling into his stoic-featured face. And a heavy silver mala hung down around his neck, probably the priciest piece the man owned. His green eyes darted here and there, looking with general distaste at the gyrating, undulating bodies dancing across the way—tsk. Their flamboyancy reminded him of the yakuza parties Akuma used to drag him to, wild clubs hosted in the Red Light District where humans showed off their exotic pets in sexually-suggestive parades, Raiden among them as a young Oni. He shivered to remember those days, touched by men and women alike for pleasure that didn't belong to him, but outside of his body, elsewhere, owned by someone else. Now, he was owned by no one but himself, and yet he still found himself in places like this.

"I don't get what you find so appealing about these places, Vincenzo," he muttered, bringing his clove cigarette to his lips for yet another drag. He held the toxic fume in his lungs for a beat before releasing it through his nose like a pensive dragon, shaking his head and looking…tired. Even more so when a pair of scantily-clad women came sashaying towards the men, holding aloft colorful cocktails and tittering about wanting company. They must have seen the young kingpin's flashy gold jewelry, appreciated Raiden's mala, or simply caught sight of the dashing duo the two made lounging in the booth across from the dancefloor. Raiden, himself, was a handsome man: with his array of tattoos, exotic green eyes, and a superior, muscular height of 6'4", he promised to make a good show of himself in bed—and did. Often, when he could get away with it. His primary duty, of course, was to keep an eye on Vincenzo, who found himself at these sorts of wild parties more nights than not, and tested Raiden's patience night after night of drug-laced partying.

Raiden looked at the women, not even bothering to cock his head to the side—they were positively plain. He never swung that way, anyway. Perhaps it was a side-effect of his conditioning as a boy at the filthy hands of the demon yakuza, Akuma, but he found the female form alien, foreign, disgusting almost. He couldn't hide the distaste on his face as his eyes trailed across their bouncing, inflated breasts, and watched as the women flared a flaming red as he waved them away with his cigarette perched elegantly between his middle and pointer fingers—whether in embarrassment or anger, he didn't care: "Try harder," he muttered, unable to help from rolling his eyes, which found their gaze perched on his young kingpin boss instead. Raiden couldn't help it: the young man was just his type—at least, in appearance. His wild personality left more to be desired, at least for now…. Though, none of that mattered, really, seeing as how Vincenzo was going to

Die.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Cole

~Cole Feldmann~

Because I know you're lost when you run away
Into the same black holes and black mistakes
Die for You - Starset

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Cole Nicholas Feldmann
Gender: Male
Age: 21
Birthday: February 23
Zodiac Sign: Pisces
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Bottom
Moral Alignment: Neutral Good
Career Path: Psychology Major

Muse
Starlight - Starset

Moodboard
the stargazer

​

---

■Reflections of Body ■

Hair Color: Bright red, barely natural
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5'6"

complexion is a pale, bespeckled in dark red and brown freckles across his nose and cheeks, shoulders, and scapulae; pale, neat rows of self-harm scars along his wrists and thighs, always covered up, even in the sweltering summer heat ● a thin build, with a narrow chest, prominent collarbones, a hard Adam's apple, sharp shoulders, with light muscles swelling along his arms—lithe, flexible ● a slightly-upturned nose, high cheekbones, full lips, a light brow ● a shy smile, usually closed-mouthed; straight, pearly-white teeth ● elegant pianist's hands with short, bitten fingernails ● shoulder-length red hair, flaming; often wears in a half-up/half-down style, tied into a ponytail at the back of his head​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
I don't know what to say
But I'm gonna want you 'til the stars evaporate
We're only here for just a moment in the light
One day it shines for us, the next we're in the night
Starlight - Starset

Likes
more than anything in the world, stargazing: looking up to see galaxies long-since extinguished, wondering what life they might have held, and if, in any of them, there could be love and acceptance for who he is ● wishing on falling stars, and keeping the secret locked behind his lips ● psychology; the study of the human brain, hoping maybe it will unlock some secret to his trauma-bound psyche ● long naps ● fruity energy drinks—he can't function without them ● oversized clothing, particularly sweaters; anything that covers his arms ● cold environments and winter months, when the sky begins to darken early ● cats ● cheesy romance novels where the lovers have a happy ending ● doodling, though he wouldn't call himself talented

Dislikes
loud environments ● the swelter of summer heat ● large dogs ● aggressively confident individuals ● bitter tastes ● eating; he tends to skip meals, living off of caffeine and snacks ● panic attacks: the distinctly spinning, centrifugal fear that pulls you apart in all directions ● public speaking ● violent, gory, horror films ● the dark: the heaviness of it pressing in on your ears, your chest, like a coffin lid ● cloud-covered nights where the moons and stars are hidden from view

Personality Traits
timid ● shy ● unconfident ● intelligent ● skittish ● alert ● agreeable ● neurotic ● organized ● panicked ● clever ● perfectionist ● peace-loving ● romantic ● self-critical ● intuitive ● absentminded ● passionate ● daydreamer ● creative ● bipolar ● emotionally dysregulated

Mannerisms​

● Is painfully shy, and blushes at just about everything, cheeks, ears, and nose flaming red like stovetop coils
● Prone to dissociation/derealization: eyes will become glazed and far away, will begin mumble instead of speak clearly, will drop everything and run for the exit of wherever he is
● Chews his nails down to the quick
● Obsessively pulls his shirt sleeves down, fidgeting with his wrists and hands
● Snaps a rubber band against his wrist when anxious or deep in thought
● Bipolar I: wildly swings between frantic mania and deep depression frequently; tends to forget or disregard medication, leading to emotional dysregulation, crying jags, dissociation, and manic behaviors

---

■Stardust and Black Holes ■
[Trigger Warning: Self-Harm, Suicide]

Farewell,
The void is calling.
Don't fear for futures and dreams;
They're fleeting, retreating,
It's ok, I promise.
Starlight - Starset​

The stain was still there, embedded in the carpet, long-dead erythrocytes stuck to the beige fibers, never quite coming out in spite of all his mother scrubbed. They put a rug over it, one in the shape of a star, tacky yellow with a tail trailing behind it in shades of blue, Cole's favorite colors.

He used to want to be an astronaut, before he spilled his lifeline on the floor of his bedroom with a borrowed kitchen knife from the butcher block downstairs. All those plastic stars stuck to the ceiling, they were so bright—neon, glowing starker than he ever remembered them gleaming as a child. They pulsed as he laid there in the middle of the floor, split-open arm raised towards the ceiling, crimson running down in rivulets, counting stars, one, two, three…all the way to the hundreds before the glow started fading, slowly, but steadily, darkness creeping in at the edges of his verdant vision. He was so sleepy. But he held his eyes open as long as he could manage, finally there, drifting among the stars in outer space…gravity pulled at him, tidal forces yanking his body apart, as he fell towards the center of the black hole he orbited. It spanned his vision, darkness, starless, no more did the colors of nebulae and galaxies paint his vision—it was blackness, the endless night of a forever-sleep, and he welcomed it as his breaths shallowed out and his body became as cold as the gravitational anomaly eating him….

That was two years ago. Now, Cole Feldmann shivered on the rooftop, Christmas break between semesters, looking up at the winter night sky. He traced his own constellations in the stars, absently rubbing his wrists, the undulations of years of self-harm scars formed in alabaster stripes against the already-wan color of his skin. He blinked, and then saw it: a shooting star bolting across the velvet expanse, a glittering tail following it close behind. He immediately closed his eyes, lacing his fingers together and making a wish: a secret wish, forever locked behind his full lips, never breathed on the syllable of a word where other ears might hear it uttered. (Because, you know, a wish only comes true if it's kept undisclosed.) He folded it up, tucked it away into the gyri of his brain, safe from the prying world.

"Cole Nicholas!"

He heard his mother's voice drift from downstairs, through the cracked door and open window of his bedroom (in this house, there was an open door policy since Cole had, you know). He sighed, turning his star-speckled eyes from the sky, shaking off the shivers that aligned along his spine and shoulders beneath the fleecey fabric of his pale green sweater. He dreaded interactions with his mother, the one who had found him in the wake of his attempt at escape to the stars; she checked in on him too often, calling his name time after time, to make sure he was still there—that he hadn't jettisoned off into space again, that he was still tethered to the world, no matter how painful it may have been for him. It was selfish, he thought, for them to hold on so tight when he yearned for void. So tight it hurt. Still, he called back, turning his head over his shoulder: "I'm here!" There. That should soothe the panic that rose in her chest, centrifugal and spinning, like a long-exposure star trail image. I'm here….

Here. There. Everywhere. Outside his body, dissociation washing over him like wavelets on the lake, his psyche rippling outward into infinity. He looked upward, at the stars, swore he saw them winking at him like a million jeering eyes. The eyes of some great, cosmic beast, looking into his soul, tracing the edges of his darkness and drawing it outwards into the starshine, sending shadows shooting outward from inside. He felt that coldness at the edges of his extremities, just like back then, when his pulse beat into the carpet. And his breaths were shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Instinctively, he traced the long, thick scar that bisected the other cicatrices striped into his skin, as if he were carving himself open again. But the pad of his finger was soft, not sharp, and the steady beat of his pulse remained trapped beneath the skin. His breaths slowed. He felt himself come back into his body, not fifteen seconds after the ordeal began, and took a long, steadying breath.

Here?

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Ylvi

Ylvi

Race: Lupine Shapeshifter
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Homosexual
Position: Bottom

Moodboard
skinwalker

​

---

Hair Color: Raven black
Eye Color: Yellow, gilded
Height: 5'6"

complexion is a pale, moon-white; pink scars scatter his form, particularly around his wrists and ankles, but also across his shoulders, back, and thighs ● 5'6", a thin build, with a narrow chest, prominent collarbones, a hard Adam's apple, sharp shoulders, with light muscles swelling along his arms—lithe, flexible ● a slightly-upturned nose, high cheekbones, full lips, a light brow ● a shy smile, usually closed-mouthed; straight, pearly-white teeth, with particularly-sharp incisors ● elegant hands with long, claw-like fingernails ● shoulder-length black hair, raven-soft; often wears around his shoulders in a wild mess ● brilliant golden eyes, like yellow harvest moons, with thick, dark lashes ● short, pointed ears, the left notched like a pig's​

LUPINE FORM: a somewhat small wolf, his coat shaggy and dark. Like his human hair color, his coat is raven-black. Although his long, sharp claws and fanged moonstone teeth may seem intimidating enough that any hunter would be proud to have him as a trophy, looking closely, one can catch the human-like intelligence in his gilded eyes. He rarely takes this form—some say Ylvi has lost his wolf entirely.

---

Likes
full moon nights, bright and starry, hoping to catch a glimpse of a shooting star to make a wish and lock it behind his lips forever ● spring, the budding of new trees and flowers, tepid warmth on his skin as the chill of winter finally dissipates ● the sound of flowing water, whether a stream, river or the rain ● singing ● self-care: brushing or braiding his hair, filing his long nails, bathing (whether in a hot bath or a brisk stream) ● running, stretching, exercising: using his muscles, building his strength and stamina ● a nice juicy, raw steak ● ritual, routine

Dislikes
thunder, and loud sounds in general (including loud individuals) ● large, aggressive dogs ● large bodies of waters (lakes, oceans)—the unknown depths make him nervous ● sitting still for too long; inactivity, stagnation ● eating greens ● heights ● those who balk at superstition ● the unpredictable

Personality Traits
quiet ● cunning ● wily ● stubborn ● thick-skinned ● proud ● resourceful ● possessive ● quick-witted ● alert ● athletic ● curious ● dynamic ● intuitive ● spiritual ● passionate ● blunt ● assertive ● strong-willed ● superstitious​

---

The Flight of the Wolf​

Run, swift, like a wolf.

Ylvi ran, heart thudding in his throat like a bird attempting to escape the calcium-coated cage of his ribs, scarred arms pumping at his sides, breath evading him as he chased it ever deeper into the woods. His hair, collarbone-length raven, caught in low-hanging pines, leaving strands of his tresses caught in the underbrush for the baying hounds to catch his scent. His feet, pale-taloned, left footprints in the mud, gouging nails into the soft loam and disturbing leaves underfoot as he darted deeper into the forest. Here, there, his white nightshirt caught in the branches, tearing: a sliver of white fabric for the horseback-riding hunters to track him by. He stumbled over rock and stone and root, slipping on slick leaves, falling down several times and scraping his clawed hands and knees. Dirt smeared his palms, his feet; blood his cheeks and lips. His sensitive ears pricked at the sound of the hounds barking and the hunters shouting to one another, and still Ylvi ran for his life.

He was deeply in trouble. A dagger-like letter-opener, the throat of his master spilled open as he rode atop the other man, jamming the thing into his exposed neck and sawing across with all his might. It was his only hope of escape. While his attendants knew not to disturb him whilst he was sleeping with a member of his exotic harem, Ylvi nearly beheaded his master, blood spraying into his face, his hair, like droplets of liquid ruby spewing from the artery he'd severed with the gleaming instrument. He very calmly dismounted, gathered his sleeping shirt, dressed, and slipped from the room as his master's heaves, wheezes, and gurgles finally came to an abrupt halt, creeping down the stonework halls, out the balcony, down the trellis sporting blooming, fragrant clematis flowers, and into the night. But it was not long before an attendant found the decapitated master, and the hounds were on their way, baying out into the night with the hunters on their heels, shouting after Ylvi and closing in around him.

Oh, how he wished he could take his first form. He might have a chance, then. But the wolf inside of Ylvi had long since vanished, melted into his bones and blood, and the chance for transformation was long past. He knew it would be abused, somehow: for fighting, or worse. The lupine shapeshifter suppressed his wolf for too long, and was left only with his yellow-moon eyes, fanged incisors, pale talons, and short, pointed ears. His kind had long since been scattered far and wide, with the destruction of the forest at the king's behest—stomp out the werewolves, build grand cities and quaint villages, spread my influence throughout the land. That is what his people did, and as a consequence, Ylvi's own had to integrate with humans or become scattered to the wind—to lose their wolf or become one entirely. His mother had chosen the former, and bid Ylvi do so, as well, for a chance at a life beyond the forest they had known. But the two were separated, Ylvi sold off as a slave and his mother—gone, in an instant. Chains and bondage was all he knew, first as the attendant of lowly, petty barons' children, until he grew into a beautiful, exotic creature fit for harems and noblemen's bedrooms. At first, he was wily, stubborn, like a wolf—it earned him scars and torture. Over the years, he grew into a quiet, trembling thing, nothing like a wolf at all, but like a hare in the presence of a snake, cornered and trapped, watching its jaws stretch wide and knowing he would be swallowed whole. He was truly lost, then. Abided by the whims of his masters.

Until tonight.

He tripped, then, foot catching on a gnarled root, and came crashing to the ground. His knees wept, his palms slick with mud and blood, his breath knocked out of his lungs. The dogs were on his scent—the hunters, too. They encircled him, hoofbeats and bays, moving in closer to his location. And he was so tired. Exhausted, his breath leaving him in heavy wheezes, eyes frantically darting around himself as the echoes of his pursuers pierced the night, forward, forward, you must move forward! But he was paralyzed. What would become of him, now? What horrible tortures awaited him as a murderer? The wolf in him would scoff—murder is not a term used for such a lowly creature as his master. Wolves do not have masters. They make masters of themselves, rulers of the forest. Ylvi hunched his shoulders, gritted his teeth. He could almost feel a tingle along his spine as the moonlight touched him between the trees, an ache in his chest growing more and more painful, shivers racing through his extremities like lightning bolting along his veins. But it was gone in an instant, and he heaved a breath, a sigh like a song, and waited for the dogs to fall upon him.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Delta

~Delta~

Because I know you're lost when you run away
Into the same black holes and black mistakes
Die for You - Starset

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Unknown
Alias: Delta
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Moral Alignment: Neutral Good
Career Path: Prostitute

Muse
Is My Vision Scarred? - Unlike Pluto

Moodboard
delta

​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
Oh, is my vision scarred?
Or is the world just a little too hard?
A little too dark.
Is My Vision Scarred? - Unlike Pluto

Hair Color: Bright red, unnatural
Eye Color: Cosmetic ultramarine blue
Height: 5'6"

complexion is a pale, moon-white porcelain, scattered in scars from his cybernetic implants that glow different colors, like rainbow veins ● a thin build, with a narrow chest, prominent collarbones, a hard Adam's apple, sharp shoulders, with light muscles swelling along his arms—lithe, flexible ● seams along his knees, elbows, wrists, feet, and waist, like a porcelain doll ● a slightly-upturned nose, high cheekbones, full lips, a light brow ● a shy smile, usually closed-mouthed; straight, pearly-white teeth ● elegant pianist's hands with metallic fingernails that change color on a whim ● shoulder-length red hair, artificially flaming; often wears in a half-up/half-down style, tied into a ponytail at the back of his head ● has the tattoo of a barcode against the nape of his neck—making him easily recognizable to his pimp

Modifications/Enhancements​

● Cosmetic Modifications
- Bionic ultramarine blue eyes, enhanced for superhuman vision, particularly in low or flashing light
- Subdermal pixel implants that display an ever-changing array of colored "tattoos," notably on his biceps, collarbones, and thighs—usually falling stars, spinning planets, or blinking eyes; these change color with his mood
- Metallic fingernails that change color on a whim (he made the decision for an implant to quit his nail-chewing habit)
● Trauma-Inhibitor: allows Delta to numb negative feelings by blocking the fight or flight response in his brain, and suppressing adrenaline and increasing cortisol production in the body.
● Enhanced Parotid Glands: produce a chemical that acts as an aphrodisiac in his saliva, aiding both Delta and his partners during their "sessions"
● Neural link interface to allow for temporarily "syncing" with a client's nervous system for mirrored sensations
● Designer pheromones tailored to a client's preferences
● Has subdermal neon scars from his multitude of implants and cosmetic procedures, vein-like structures that pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat
● Enhanced Stamina and Flexibility: cybernetic implants in his bones and muscle allow for superhuman stamina and flexibility
● Tongue implant: can change length and texture

---

■Reflections of Self ■
I walk with my memories that
Cut like glass and keep me trapped
Love is a wound that opens when I look back
Is My Vision Scarred? - Unlike Pluto

Likes
loud music: the kind you feel in your bones, thrumming like a communal heartbeat ● club settings, numbing himself out in the music and making himself anonymous in the sea of bodies ● looking out over the neon city skyline from high places ● counting the rare glimmer of stars in the night sky, usually dulled by light pollution ● long naps ● fruity caffeine drinks—he can't function without them ● cold environments and winter months, when the sky begins to darken early ● cats ● cheesy romance serials where the lovers have a happy ending

Dislikes
the swelter of summer heat ● large dogs ● aggressively confident individuals ● bitter tastes ● eating; he tends to skip meals, living off of caffeine and snacks ● panic attacks: the distinctly spinning, centrifugal fear that pulls you apart in all directions ● violent, gory, horror films ● the dark: the heaviness of it pressing in on your ears, your chest, like a coffin lid (his tattoos keep the "lights on" for him in the dark)

Personality Traits
timid ● shy ● unconfident ● intelligent ● skittish ● alert ● agreeable ● neurotic ● organized ● panicked ● clever ● perfectionist ● peace-loving ● romantic ● self-critical ● intuitive ● absentminded ● passionate ● daydreamer ● creative ● bipolar ● emotionally dysregulated

Mannerisms​

● A walking glowstick: tattoos and scars change color with his mood, which swings wildly from shy, to panicked, to manic, and back again
● Is painfully shy, and blushes at just about everything, cheeks, ears, and nose flaming red
● Prone to dissociation/derealization: eyes will become glazed and far away, will begin mumble instead of speak clearly, will drop everything and run for the exit of wherever he is
● Bipolar I: wildly swings between frantic mania and deep depression frequently; unmedicated, leading to emotional dysregulation, crying jags, dissociation, and manic behaviors

---

■Neon and Blood ■​

"Delta" meant change.

He swooned through the room, darting here and there, like a hummingbird, caressing the nape of a neck, or a shoulder, his gold metallic fingernails grazing a knee or a lower back, lingering and desireful. Designer pheromones that he changed to suit the whims of his clients—perfume on the molecular level—chased him as he sashayed through the crowd, turning heads and activating salivary glands in tandem.

His cybernetic scars luminesced like glowsticks beneath the skin, ever-changing neon color—pink, red, blue, purple—that pulsed with his frantic heartbeat, hypnotic, mesmeric: across the tops of his hands in a spiderweb that followed his veins, his knees and the insides of his elbows, his hips, his abdomen, his neck, his spine. He was a lightshow, subdermal pixel implants displaying an ever-changing array of "tattoos" across his collarbones, his calves, his upper arms, his thighs: blinking eyes, spinning planets, shooting stars, gold, all, a happy yellow to match his uplifted mood. Ultramarine blue eyes, enhanced with bionics to see best in low and flashing light, blinking languidly, sensually, behind the fringes of wild red hair he wore around his short shoulders, too bright to be natural, a box dye he'd chosen and manically smeared in the strands one night at three a.m. He was dressed in a risque manner suited for his job, tight faux-leather shorts with rips all the way up the thighs, kinetic tattoos shining through the frayed fabric. A neon blue mesh crop-top showed off his flat stomach and rosy nipples, pierced with glinting golden barbells, while knee-high metallic golden boots, platformed, melded to his feet.

Delta felt a hand around his waist and was pulled down into a hard lap, blush crawling into his cheeks and heating the porcelain flesh there as red as a stoplight. "Want you, honey," he heard crooned in his ear, teeth coming to nip at the gold- pierced helix, and Delta shivered, a nervous smile coming to play on his full, pink lips. Body pressed close to his new partner's, he activated his sensory "sync" function, suddenly overwhelmed with overt arousal, and nestled himself deeper into his companion's heated lap. The man would be able to feel the nervous shiver that arched up his spine in return, concerned, always, with money. "Can you afford me, honey?" he bit back on a sugared tongue, turning his head to look at the man who had snagged him off the floor. Handsome, older, with thin-ringed silver irises and vampiric silver canines. A glint in his eyes, and he retrieved a metallic credit card from his suit lapel, waving it in front of Delta's cobalt gaze: a platinum card. Delta's tattoos transmuted to a bubblegum pink, hearts literally flashing in his eyes, and he slung his arm over the man's shoulder, settling in.

He cranked his pheromones, a perfume of sexual arousal that smelled faintly of amber settling around them in the air like a swarm of excited bees. His partner shifted under his lap, sighing heavily and rubbing Delta's thigh. They felt each others' emotions in tandem, Delta's dual relief and excitement, the unnamed man's stimulation, and simmered in the emotion as they engaged in low, flirty conversation about the terms of their evening—adding "this" and "that" to his tab. What Delta was tempting the man with—the pheromones, the sync function—was only a drop of what he had to offer. Access to other functions, upgrades, and amenities would cost more—yet the man seemed completely unconcerned with price—

"550-720-219, disengage client."
He heard his "name," and both he and his companion felt an ice-cold shiver scuttle up their spines before Delta had the opportunity to release the sync mechanism. As though a flip had switched at the sound of the string of numbers, Delta pushed himself from his potential-client's lap, standing steady on his gold-platformed feet and turning to face the man who had addressed him, eyes dilating in panic and tattoos turning matte black: Akuma. "With me," he spoke, and Delta did as he was told, terrified to be pulled off the floor by his boss—his pimp. They didn't need to weave through the crowd: it parted for them, alarm pheromones simmering through the throng as they traced their way to the backrooms of the brothel. Together, they entered a suite, toned in low red backlighting. Delta stopped at the large, sleek leather-topped partner's desk while Akuma circled around to the other side. He was dressed in all black: black slacks; a black button-down unbuttoned down his bare, pale chest, where a heavy silver mala hung down, the shirt rolled up to his vascular forearms, channeled in black and silver with cybernetic implants; a heavy belt with a silver and mother-of-pearl belt buckle; and sleek, clean shoes, never worn on city concrete. He wore his black hair in a slicked-back ponytail, his short beard and mustache neat.

"He had a platinum card—" Delta started, but Akuma silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"We have company tonight. You will entertain them."

Delta shivered. The kinetic eye tattoos on his eyes squeezed themselves shut, and his shooting stars halted in their tracks. He had entertained Akuma's company before—his Trauma-Inhibitor had kicked in, and his memories of that time were blurred, faint. Pain. He recalled pain, and humiliation, his body stretched to the limits of its capacity. "Yes, sir," he murmured, eyes cast down, until he heard the crisp "snap" of a finger. His gaze darted up, and he met his boss' eyes. Akuma clicked his tongue. "Eyes on me." "Yes, sir." "Brighten up. You have a long night ahead of you." Delta shifted, turning up the black of his tattoos to an artificial pink, stars dancing across his skin, veins glowing bright. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath.

"Yes, sir."

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Siggi

~Siegfried “Siggi” Dragon’s-Bane~

Full Name: Siegfried Dragon’s-Bane
Nicknames: Siggi
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual

Muse
Tivar - Danheim

Moodboard
Bane of Dragons



Appearance

Hair Color: Flaming orange-red
Eye Color: Smokey gray
Height: 6’2”

a white complexion, healthy, with a scatter of red freckles across his cheeks, nose, and shoulders; scars streak his form, pink and shiny across his arms, shoulders, and back, as well as across his left cheek reaching towards his eye ● broad and muscular, muscles swelling over his arms, shoulders, and neck with a hard, firm abdomen ● a noble face with high cheekbones, a straight-edged nose, a sharp, angular and shaven jawline, and slightly downturned eyes smeared in kohl ● large, capable hands ● shoulder-length hair worn wild around his face, knotted into thin braids here and there, with iron and antler-horn hair beads adorning the strands ● wears an ashen-gray tunic and black linen viking breeches, belted with a thick leather belt, with flaming fox pelts hanging around his shoulders, and black leather boots lined with fox fur ● carries a well-loved bearded axe at his side, engraved with etchings of the dragons he hopes to one day slay

Personality & History

Siggi has lived his life under the heavy, burdensome mantle “Bane of Dragons,” as his father's first-born son. And not any—but the King of Nordland, uniting Vikingr tribes under his rule. Since he was old enough to stand, Siggi held an axe in his hand; and before that, even in his mother's womb, did he hear stories of the bane of the North: Dragons. Giant winged wyrms, writhing through the sky on scaled wings and spitting fire at hapless villages, plundering the riches of chieftains' longhouses—gold and garnet—and hoarding it away along the cliffsides. They left havoc and death in their wake, and thus needed to be eradicated, massive scaled pests with hide as thick as iron—it took only the most fearless and skilled of warriors to fell one. It was this name, Bane-of-Dragons, that Siggi was bestowed.

Outwardly, Siggi acts and moves with the fearless ruggedness of a warrior. He is a man of few words, preferring to listen before he speaks (as one who is quick to talk is often a fool, has so warned Odin). Nor is he quick to raise his axe—he has the restraint of a king, unlike his fiery brothers, who clash and bicker like sword on sword. Inwardly, however, Siggi harbors great anxiety—for his title, for his legacy, for his sexuality. As a young man he spent too much time attached to his mother's side, according to his father, who had to wrest him away from her bosom in order to make a man of him. (Still, he cherished the nights she would sing him to sleep, the most beautiful Skald singing magic into the world as she wove stories into poems while he drifted into unconsciousness.) As a young man, he learned two things: to wield his bearded axe with the precision and ferocity of a Berserkr, which brings him great pride; and that he preferred the company of men to women, which brings him the utmost shame.

Similarly, he has two vices: drink (he often consumes mead until drunk, on the verge of passing out, to quell the nightmares that come to him in sleep), and a deep, burning hatred for dragons. At the age of eight, his village was razed by a ruby-scale-studded dragon, raining fire upon the grass-thatched huts and destroying the longhouse, trapping Siggi's mother inside. When the fires had burned out, the dragon roosted in the burnt-out remains of the longhouse, having sequestered hoards of gold and garnet inside—along with the blanched remains of Siggi's mother. Now, he schemes to kill dragons, in order to avenge his mother and live up to his great name. The first order of business?

To capture one.

Likes
cats (blessings to Freyja) ● elderberry mead ● honey; anything and everything sweet ● the meditative practice of sharpening his axe ● thunderstorms: the wild wind blowing in from blackened clouds, whipping his hair, as mighty Thor cracks his hammer and sends lightning sizzling through the sky ● visiting the seer: hearing tales of his would-be destiny, though he’s somewhat dismayed to have heard the mantle of his name is in grave danger ● taking care of his hair, utilizing oils and a deer-antler comb to freshen the strands, before braiding them carefully into beautiful knots beaded in iron and antler

Dislikes
dragons (anything scaled—even snakes) ● large bodies of water (in spite of his peoples’ nature as dragon-ship-riding Vinkingr) ● sleep unaided by the mellowing effect of alcohol: he suffers terrible nightmares of the day he lost his mother and his home to dragon-fire ● his sexuality: it is the scourge of his existence, and something he keeps carefully and scornfully hidden ● dogs: he was mauled by one as a child, owing to the scars on his face, and keeps the elkhounds at an arm’s length in spite of their generally-friendly natures​

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Arseny

~Arseny Chernov~
I said, "It's enough"—
I begged and I ran in circles
Concrete Jungle - Bad Omens

Full Name: Arseny Lev Chernov
Gender: Male
Species: Kyuso - Rat Yokai
Age: 27
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil
Profession: Drug Runner

Muse
Concrete Jungle - Bad Omens

Moodboard
the rat


​

---

Can you see yourself
Through the bruises when the makeup melts?
Concrete Jungle - Bad Omens



Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: the right is dark brown, nearly black; the left is pearlescent white, covered in a glowing cataract, blind
Height/Build: 6’2”, toned

a pale complexion, pasty and wan, for a creature that prefers the shadows to daylight ● scars, raised and shiny, cutting across his torso, arms, back, and face ● track marks at the insides of his elbows and between his fingers, bilirubin and biliverdin smeared across the skin in violet-reds and sickly greens and yellows ● hand-hacked black, shaggy hair that falls in uneven waves around his face and shoulders ● slightly discolored teeth, the canines sharp and monstrous; his right incisor is chipped jaggedly ● strong, capable hands with long, pointed, pale claw-like fingernails ● hairless rat ears set where a human’s ears would be, the pink skin thin and notched; pierced in silver studs and rings unevenly along the surface of his wide ears ● snaking down from his tailbone is a long, nude tail, long enough to drag on the ground behind him ● a dark, nondescript style: faded t-shirts and tank tops, ripped jeans, old tennis shoes, a battered leather jacket
​

---

Wouldn't it be nice
To play the game without a crooked die
In a world where you don't have to hide?
You don't have to live in a disguise
Concrete Jungle - Bad Omens

Likes
his hoard: a dark, dank space he's nested into like a rat, filled with possessions and collections ● hot, steamy showers ● menthol cigarettes ● complete darkness ● junk food: salty ramen packets, saccharine snack cakes, crunchy potato chips, greasy pizza ● sleazy strip clubs ● indulging his oral fixation: sucking on hard candy, puffing on cigarettes, fiddling with a toothpick ● walking around naked, free of clothing touching his body ● moody, violent rock music ● eating: the warm, comforting feeling of being full ● diet soda ● working out: the pull and stretch of muscle, the sensation of sweat sliding over his scarred, bulging skin

Dislikes
bright lights that sting his sensitive eyes ● the stigma surrounding rats ● the dead silence, so thick it weighs heavy on your ears ● being hungry: the gnaw in your stomach, behind your ribs, that reverberates through your whole body ● the stifling heat of summer ● his deteriorating vision—he’s afraid he’ll be permanently left in the dark one day ● the consequences of sobriety ● healthy food, greens in particular ● himself in every way, shape, and form

Personality Traits
aggressive ● clever ● self-destructive ● emotionally unstable ● angry ● reckless ● mischievous ● athletic ● erratic ● moody ● protective ● kinetically intelligent ● hoarder ● cynical ● observant ● violent ● disorganized ● risk-taking ● assertive ● self-deprecating

​

---

I want things that money can't buy
The price is pain to make this right
Concrete Jungle - Bad Omens

History​

It’s only to be expected that a rat like Arseny and his family would come from a long line of drunkards, drug users, and poverty-stricken deadbeats. Call it generational fatality, but the Chernov family as Arseny knew it was as dysfunctional as it could possibly get—a pattern that’s continued for generations: Being a Kyuso, Arseny’s mother Alina had a narrow window of husbands to choose from, and ended up shackled to Arseny’s father, Lev. Abusive, prone to alcohol like his own father, and a lazy chauvinist, Lev often lashed out in drunken rages at his son and wife, towards both of whom Arseny has built up massive amounts of animosity and resentment for over the years. Though his mother tried her best to care for Arseny within the home, she was often too busy working various jobs in order to bring money in to buy food, alcohol, and cigarettes to keep Lev, at the bare minimum, somewhat satisfied. And when she did happen to be around, Alina was never strong enough to attempt to protect her son from her raging husband—taking Arseny and leaving, distracting his anger away from Arseny, at least giving him some encouraging, strengthening words every now and again, none of these proactive things ever happened. Instead, the wispy little Alina, who allowed herself to be permanently scarred into submission by her husband, merely watched on or encouraged Arseny to mind his father and try not to be too much of a bother towards him. Surely, she figured, there was a reason why Lev felt it necessary to beat the half-blind Arseny senseless, shout demeaning things at him, lock him in the closet for hours, or deprive him of basic necessities like food, or even shelter by tossing him out of the house for the day. To make matters worse, Arseny was born with poor vision that only became exacerbated due to a genetic cataract condition common to rats. Without the money (or the desire on Lev’s part) to care for a handicapped child, Arseny was generally left to his own devices as though he was perfectly functional on his own, which he clearly was not—his vision only worsened over the years, so that he was entirely blind in one eye by the age of twelve and helpless to his father’s violent whims. Those years were some of Arseny’s worst, darkest, lowest years of his life; without any freedom or ability to help himself, he had to struggle along on his own. Since disappearing from his family’s life, Arseny currently lives in a basement apartment in the middle of the city. It’s a pretty dingy place, the rent cheap and location lowkey, but aside from not caring what the place looks like, Arseny’s lived in a dump his entire life and could honestly care less as long as he has a couch to sleep on and a roof over his head. He spends the majority of his time laid out across that couch, listening to the television, sleeping, or in a drug- or alcohol-induced stupor—unless he’s running drugs or working out at the nearby gym, his only productive activities. Though Arseny has since moved on from life with his parents, he’s snapped—he doesn’t seem to have a care in the world for maintaining control, and has rather allowed himself to spiral out of it, sitting on the precipice of life and waiting for the ground to drop out from under him.