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 stares at me, black-hole eyes boring into my face.

Its face is 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's a disturbingly familiar visage, the colors, the shapes, if they weren't jammed together like puzzle pieces that don't quite fit. My eyes flick across the glittering mess, light refracting inconsistently across the asymmetrical collage, until I meet its eyes. A shiver races up my spine.

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

I tear my gaze from the thing, the one that found me behind a thin, fragile pane of glass. My eyes find my hands instead, braced against the cold ceramic of a dirty pedestal sink. The knuckles on my right hand are lacerated, weeping red; blood drips, hot and slick, in thick droplets onto glass-scattered tile. But the sting of sliced skin is inconsequential, numbed as a cascade of warm agonistic chemical reactions bloom to life inside my head. My hand has become nothing more than a weapon, less a part of my body and more an extension of the rage that twists inside my 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. I'd been shaken by an earthquake of anxiety and swept away on a sudden tsunami of rage—but help is on the way, rescue in the form of so many milliliters of liquid diamorphine. I take a deep breath, fingers relaxing their death-grip on the sink edge, and find the courage to bring my gaze upward again and find the rapidly-shrinking pupils of the monster in the mirror.

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

My breath hitches in my throat, brows furrowing, tear-swollen eyes narrowing as I lean my face closer to the shattered glass. Disbelief colors my expression, morphing from grief to confusion. I…saw them, his lips move independently of mine, night-black eyes staring out and into me 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.

I know why he looks at me with malice shining in his night-black irises: I shattered him under my 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 I realized what I'd done, I frantically tried to fix him, sticking pieces together and trying to make up for the shards that were lost. I 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 cuts anyone who gets too close, reflecting aggressive sarcasm and suffocating apathy; pieces of him fall off routinely, stuck back on with adhesive comprised of any number of vices. It suits him, broken pieces mashed together to make something ugly and serrated and wrong. It's easier to swallow. Tracing the contours of my own face, the sharp cut of my jaw and jutting peaks of my cheekbones, the crooked edge of my nose, and two dark, empty eyes...it could only lead me to one conclusion: the monster I'd made doesn't just lurk inside reflective surfaces, easily dodged or shattered when his presence becomes too overwhelming. I wear him on my face, on my body, in my words and in my bad habits, a blatant self-portrait of the disgust and regret and deep, aching loneliness I carry inside of myself.

"What do you want from me?"

He snickers, all those lips drawing up into a sneer that reveals a million teeth, each eye narrowing, and hands—so many hands—reaching out towards me. The mirror surface ripples, shears, pieces of jagged glass trembling in a refracting mess as they tumble, glimmering and tinkling, into the sink. The room quakes, or is it my 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 I wrench myself out of the mirror. Irises, canines, fingernails, a jaw wrenched wider and wider—

I sink to the floor, out of view of the broken boy in the mirror, and shatter.

 

[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, 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. 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, diamorphine, 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.

Adrian 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, Adrian 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 Adrian has recently discovered—heroin. 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, Adrian's rampant heroin 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 Adrian's ruthless faithlessness, a naturally-occurring neurochemical powerful enough to rival the diamorphine Adrian rockets into his veins via a glinting, silver needle: 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 ● 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 ● 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, 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 ■

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

A monster stares at me, black-hole eyes boring into my face.

Its face is 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's a disturbingly familiar visage, the colors, the shapes, if they weren't jammed together like puzzle pieces that don't quite fit. My eyes flick across the glittering mess, light refracting inconsistently across the asymmetrical collage, until I meet its eyes. A shiver races up my spine.

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

I tear my gaze from the thing, the one that found me behind a thin, fragile pane of glass. My eyes find my hands instead, braced against the cold ceramic of a dirty pedestal sink. The knuckles on my right hand are lacerated, weeping red; blood drips, hot and slick, in thick droplets onto glass-scattered tile. But the sting of sliced skin is inconsequential, numbed as a cascade of warm agonistic chemical reactions bloom to life inside my head. My hand has become nothing more than a weapon, less a part of my body and more an extension of the rage that twists inside my 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. I'd been shaken by an earthquake of anxiety and swept away on a sudden tsunami of rage—but help is on the way, rescue in the form of so many milliliters of liquid diamorphine. I take a deep breath, fingers relaxing their death-grip on the sink edge, and find the courage to bring my gaze upward again and find the rapidly-shrinking pupils of the monster in the mirror.

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

My breath hitches in my throat, brows furrowing, tear-swollen eyes narrowing as I lean my face closer to the shattered glass. Disbelief colors my expression, morphing from grief to confusion. I…saw them, his lips move independently of mine, night-black eyes staring out and into me from behind the fragmented crystal.

"Yeah, Adrian. I'm talking to you."

"...Me?"

"Who else is there? You know what you did, monster. Monster, Adrian. Monster monster monster monster—"

Monster.

I know why he looks at me with malice shining in his night-black irises: I shattered him under my fists, smashed the life out of that little boy with pale, tear-stained cheeks and hopeful eyes—there was no place for him, his tender heart and ridiculous, wishful dreams. And when I realized what I'd done, I frantically tried to fix him, sticking pieces together and trying to make up for the shards that were lost. I 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 cuts anyone who gets too close, reflecting aggressive sarcasm and suffocating apathy; pieces of him fall off routinely, stuck back on with adhesive comprised of any number of vices. It suits him, broken pieces mashed together to make something ugly and serrated and wrong. It's easier to swallow. Tracing the contours of my own face, the sharp cut of my jaw and jutting peaks of my cheekbones, the crooked edge of my nose, and two dark, empty eyes...it could only lead me to one conclusion: the monster I'd made doesn't just lurk inside reflective surfaces, easily dodged or shattered when his presence becomes too overwhelming. I wear him on my face, on my body, in my words and in my bad habits, a blatant self-portrait of the disgust and regret and deep, aching loneliness I carry inside of myself.

"What do you want from me?"

He snickers, all those lips drawing up into a sneer that reveals a million teeth, each eye narrowing, and hands—so many hands—reaching out towards me. The mirror surface ripples, shears, pieces of jagged glass trembling in a refracting mess as they tumble, glimmering and tinkling, into the sink. The room quakes, or is it my 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 I wrench myself out of the mirror. Irises, canines, fingernails, a jaw wrenched wider and wider—

I sink to the floor, out of view of the broken boy in the mirror, and shatter.

Spoiler: Adrian II

~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
Career Path: Gas Station Associate, Low-Level Drug Dealer


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 "Icarus" Aestas
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Race: Martian
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Bottom
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 ● one brilliant golden wing attached at his left secondary scapula, spanning with pristine primaries and preened barbules—the other scapula, horrifically scarred, the skin shiny and raised ● 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 single wing 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 ■​

He ran. When the last breath huffed from Ater's lungs, gently, softly, like blowing a feather, 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 wing, 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, even before he lost his wing, 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 side, his wing 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.