Character(s) Atom's Character Repository

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Anselm

~Anselm, the Grey Prince~
There's beauty hidden in the gore

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Anselm Leofric Cynric
Gender: Male
Race: Dragon
Age: 28
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Secondary Gender: Alpha

Moodboard
the grey prince



■Reflections of Body ■

Hair Color: Midnight-black, long, to fall in waves around his collarbones
Eye Color: Silver-white, quick and brilliant like starshine
Height/Build: 6’0”, muscular

mid-sized shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam’s apple, strong collarbones, a straight-edged nose, a razor-sharp jawline, slightly-upturned black eyes set beneath a heavy brow ● a light, pale complexion ● a muscular build, muscles swelling over his shoulders and arms, with a firm, hard abdomen ● capable hands with clean, short fingernails ● long, pointed canine teeth, moonwhite ● sleek, raven-black hair that falls to his collarbones, worn half-up, tied into a braided knot at the back of his head ● spiraling black horns that erupt from his forehead ● occasionally wears a silver crown bedecked in onyx; wears several cut silver rings set with onyx on his ring and pointer fingers ● pointed ears that flare out slightly ● ordinarily wears tight-fitting black leather armor, gloves, and boots with silver-stitched dragon scales decorating the shoulders ● for casual wear, wears a 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 dragon motifs stitched with silver stitching

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 simple silver flame in the palm of his hand, cold and searing
● Magick Darkness: the ability to wield shadow around himself
● Blood Magick: limited, to make contracts and mildly heal himself and others of wounds—it is mostly for ritualistic purposes; blood-drinking is healing, rejuvenating, and promotes romantic bonding

Dragon Form

■Reflections of Self ■
Demons and angels in my choir,
Singing about what I desire

Likes
the bustling city life of Gethin, his home, and the comforts city living bring ● overlooking the streets from the rooftops, glancing at glimmering stars on moonlit nights ● sweet red wines ● moonflowers ● ravens ● pomegranates ● cool winter evenings, goosebumps aligning along his shoulders and spine ● high places, like a crow perched on a rooftop, where he can see his surroundings ● the meditative concentration involved in mixing poisons ● rainy days spent indoors by a fire ● the grand Gothic architecture of his home city ● flying: stretching his wings, the wind sailing over his scales ● stained glass, all the color coming through on a sunny day ● generally, rich dark colors: deep garnet, black, blue-violet, dark emerald

Dislikes
the quiet life of the countryside ● large bodies of water such as lakes or the ocean—the unknown depths unsettle him ● 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 ● general court activities ● sitting still for portraiture ● his identity as a first-born son and the pressure it puts on him to find a “suitable” mate ● the stifling heat of summer

Personality Traits
moody ● cunning ● calculating ● assertive ● clever ● contemplative ● curious ● intuitive ● intelligent ● mischievous ● mysterious ● sensation-seeking ● disorganized ● unpredictable ● unceremonious ● sarcastic ● lethargic ● lazy ● gifted

History​

The blood-drinking subspecies of dragon known as the Bloddraken worship the blood-singing dark witch goddess Branwen, who practiced blood magic, and her consort, Dade, the Assassin King. The kingdom called Drakenshire has its capital, Gethin, set along the wide Blaec River. Its architecture is Gothic in nature, spiked spires bedecked with dragonic gargoyles, arching windows set with ruby, sapphire, and emerald stained glass, and flying buttresses and ribbed vaults reaching vertically towards the sky. In the center of the city lies a massive Gothic castle, spiraling upwards over the narrow streets. 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 Shadow Dragons, the assassin ruling family of the city, the Cynric Family. Its prince, Anselm the Grey, is an assassin and blood mage in his own right, taking up his family’s tradition in the name of the dark god Dade and Sacred Mother Branwen. As a child, he was mischievous and sensation-seeking, unceremonious and moody, causing mischief wherever he went; he was difficult to rein in, and as he grew, only became more unhinged as time wore on. He would often sneak out of the castle and seek companionship among the lower classes and in the brothels, drinking and partying wildly into the early hours of the morning. When in the castle, he could be found experimenting in poison-making and blood magic, sleeping, or drinking still, avoiding court activities as much as possible. Anselm shirked responsibility wherever he could, though he was naturally talented in magic and agility, and proved to be an intimidating assassin worthy of his lineage.

Currently, Drakenshire has been overwrought by a terrible disease of the blood, invoked by arrogance of the priests and priestesses who seek greater power held in blood magic. Individuals of all ages suffer 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. Anselm almost succumbed to the disease himself, but with the power of great healers and copious amounts of healthy, healing blood, he recovered, though still suffers the nightmares, brief bouts of psychosis, and fever that the disease is known to cause. His fragile health has led the rulers of the kingdom to seek help from outside sources, and have sent their prince away to seal an alliance with a powerful kingdom.

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Writing Sample​

The bath was beautiful: Gothic windows in clear glass overlooking the grand city below, lit by dewy moonlight dancing through the translucent crystal. Ribbed vaulted ceilings and flying buttresses hung with grand fire-lit chandeliers, the flame dancing like starlight across the gently-rippling water below. The bath was inlaid in black obsidian tile, stepping down several tiers into a large pool in the center where the bathers could submerge themselves. On one end of the bath, steam gently surrounding him in a warm haze, sat Prince Anselm: he was a handsome sight, cut like diamond, with sharp, pale features in long lines. His jaw was like a blade, his nose straight-edged and pointed, along with the lines of his canine teeth—sharp fangs that glinted like carved marble. Around his shoulders he wore his raven hair long and clean, no braids bedecking his head, simple, ready to be washed; erupting from his forehead were a pair of horns, curling like a great kudu’s, obsidian and terminating in sharp points. His body, like his teeth, seemed to be carved of ivory, a beautiful frame swollen with muscle across his shoulders and arms, with defined, rosy pecs and a hard abdomen, an Adonis belt framing—

“You know, I could kill you in twenty different ways, if I so chose,” Liora said, sitting across from Anselm on the opposite side of the bath. She was so much different from him in her appearance: her eyes, unlike his ashen-gray hues, were like sunlight. Her skin was warm, unlike the cold marble of Anselm’s, and her hair a bright blonde that swung down from her head in long ringlets. They happened to cover her shapely breasts conveniently, the tresses dipping down into the water and swirling on the ripples.

“I’m aware,” Anselm mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side. His legs were spread as he sat on the stepped tier of the bath, the dark water obscuring him below the belt. “You remind me daily—that you could heal me up and do it all over again.”

Anselm and Liora were not on friendly terms in the slightest. Their marriage was arranged by their families, to bolster the relationship between dragons and elves, which had, in the past, been quite a cranky one. Even worse—they were to try for, nay, provide, a male heir for Drakenshire and the Vaerith family to further cement their bond. This was great torture for Anselm, for his affinity towards women was always…lacking. Not simply lacking—wholly, entirely devoid. This unfortunate trait was known to his father, after word returned to the castle of his wild, secret forays in the brothels, wearing a glamour that slipped off one night, revealing his draconic horns and pale silver eyes. It was to the king’s utmost shame, and it was then that he demanded his son finally take a wife and produce an heir, slamming shut that homosexual door in one fell swoop—there would be no more sneaking out of the castle to indulge in sinful, lust-driven nights. Yet, soon after Anselm fell ill with a new sickness sweeping the kingdom: an illness of the blood invoked by arrogance of the priests and priestesses who sought greater power held in blood magic, a natural affinity known to the Bloddrakken of Drakenshire. 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. Anselm almost succumbed to the disease himself, but with the power of great healers and copious amounts of healthy, healing blood, he recovered, though he still suffered the nightmares, brief bouts of psychosis, and fever that the disease was known to cause. His fragile health led the rulers of the kingdom to secure him a wife immediately, and when he recovered to near enough health, was commanded to produce for them an heir worthy of the throne.


“You can’t kill me though, Liora—we have a job to do.”

“Yes. A job I insist we conceive tonight—”

“No.”

A harsh silence settled over the pair. The tension in the air was palpable: a deep frown showed on Liora’s face, and on Anselm’s, nothing—he was stoney-faced and cold, his voice resounding with an authority that could not be challenged. There was a splash: Liora smacked her hands down upon the water, sending shards of glittering liquid refracting up into the air. And that was all. In the echoes, she stood, naked and gleaming, and turned her body away from Anselm. Snatching a nearby robe, she covered herself in silken black and stormed off, waving away her personal guard who had been standing—and, evidently, watching the entire exchange—from a corner in the bathroom. Wordless, she conveyed her meaning: Leave me.

For a moment, all was quiet. Anselm lounged back, arms still crossed tensely over his chest, his heart beating quickly in his marble chest. He…could not conceive of laying with a woman. He had never done so before, so sure of his sexual inversion was he. The female form terrified him; he was greatly intimidated by the curves, the lines, the arches, the soft expanse. It was nothing like the harsh lines of a man, so sure and sharp that he might cut himself on them. That he wished to cut himself on, and bleed so lovingly, rent open and violent. That is what he wanted. But he was destined for this, instead—and so he put it off, for another month, earning the ire of his aging father and bitter wife.

“Come, guard,” Anselm said, waving the other elf over. The one who stood in the corner, unsure whether to follow his charge or stay where she left him. “No use in simply standing there. She doesn’t want you.”

The words may have stung deeper than Anselm realized.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Bran

~Bran Morris~
I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin'
Let me wrap my teeth around the world
- Arankai, Eat Your Young

Full Name: Bran Cain Morris
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch

Moodboard
running from the daylight



​

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Hair Color/Style: Dark brown, full, and falls around his shoulders
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: 5’10”, thin and lithe, but stronger than he looks
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 heavily bruised around the ribs, cheekbones, eyes, and arms ● hard slouching shoulders and apparent scapulae, a prominent Adam’s apple, jutting collarbones, a straight-edged nose, a razor-sharp jawline, (pointed features), slightly upturned eyes ● 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 ● often wears tight-fitting, dark clothing in a nondescript style: faded long-sleeved shirts or sweaters, dark skinny jeans, combat boots​

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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 thirteen 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

​

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Likes
new moon nights and cloudy days where starshine and sunrays can’t reach him ● quiet winter nights, the neon lights frosty, powdery snow underfoot, and a brisk breeze against his flushed skin ● the sensation of biting into new flesh and the following taste of fresh, hot blood, slippery along his tongue and teeth ● complete darkness, the kind that feels physically heavy ● the scent of ivory bar soap and bleach ● painting and drawing: spilling his feelings, no matter how dark and scary, onto paper or canvas and letting them come to life outside of himself ● peppermint ● sweet red wines

Dislikes
heat and daylight in general; fire ● 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 ● the hunger that gnaws not only in his stomach, but in his very veins ● animal blood, though he'll make do with pigs’ blood if absolutely necessary ● his sire: an abusive ex-boyfriend who turned him one violent night, and sticks around to torment him whenever the whim strikes ● heavy cologne

Personality Traits
anxious ● introverted ● intense ● impulsive ● moody ● reserved ● perceptive ● intelligent ● avoidant ● depressive ● active ● nervous ● disorganized ● reckless ● sensation-seeking ● self-destructive ● aggressive ● chaotic ● desperate ● needy ● insecure ● erratic​

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Though Blaine had spilled Bran’s blood before, this night was particularly violent: thumbs pressed into his airway until his lips and cheeks turned deathly blue, kicking and choking on his own blood and saliva, Bran passed away at twenty-four and woke up again with a new hunger twisting in his veins. Blaine had fed on his tepid corpse, making a promise out of Bran—you’ll be tied to me forever. No matter how far you run, I made you a monster. No matter how far you twist and bend, I’ll always break you. And so he stalks Bran on new moon nights and finds him in the shadows, returning to make his promise a reality. Blaine has a death-grip on Bran that he can’t escape, like a serpent coiled around his throat—like two black holes trapped in a binary orbit around each other, shredding reality and exerting their harsh gravitational pulls on the other. The two are often seen together, the smaller, narrower fledgling and the tall, bulky sire, at the hip, Blaine openly abusing Bran physically and emotionally, getting a sick kick out of tormenting his former lover. They hunt and feed together, continuing their death-dive into chaos, making a bloody crime scene of the city that cops can’t seem to solve. Bran has succumbed to this lifestyle, convinced that he’ll never escape the grip that Blaine has on him—that together, they’ll torment the world until it burns, and that Blaine will torment Bran until time immemorial. It’s a hopeless existence, one that’s driven Bran to near-madness. In the end, there is only this:

Blood.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Ildris

~Ildris Divine-Light~
God save us everyone
Will we burn inside the fires of a thousand suns?

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Ildris Divine-Light
Aliases: The Englightened
Gender: Male
Race: Hvyt, Light Elf
Age: 24
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch

Muse
A Final Walk Amongst the Fractals

Moodboard
Divine Light



Hair Color: Pearlescent white
Eye Color: Nuclear-green, glowing like luminescent radium
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 acidic green eyes set beneath a light brow ● pale white skin, soft, like moonlight glancing off a swan's feathers ● rough burn scars on his palms and wrists that glow luminescent green when he uses his magic ● a lithe build, light muscles swelling over his shoulders and arms, with a firm, hard abdomen ● choppy white hair hand-hacked around his face ● long, pointed ears that flare out slightly ● wears very worn tight-fitting black leather armor with a tattered triangular linen cape and hood at the back, with scuffed knee-high boots that lace up his calves; the hood is often up, his green eyes glowing in the dim



Species Traits​

● Light Elf: Can wield light magic, though this takes on an irradiated green hue
● The In-Between Place: Can conjure wormholes that take him to a place between here and there, where fractal geometry reigns, glimpses of the past, future, and the decision in between glancing through the sickly-green thunderous skies; at the center of this place is a glowing blue tree, whose roots dip to infinity and whose branches reach into the hereafter
● Radiation Beam Emission: can blast a beam of pure radiation from his palms, destroying anything in its path
● Outcome Manipulation: can manipulate the potential outcomes of a situation within several seconds of the action taking place

Likes
exploring the In-Between Place, its beautiful geometry and glimpsing what was, is, and could be; sitting beneath the boughs of the World Tree, glowing a plutonium blue beneath thunderous green skies ● sour candies ● moonlight: the gentle glow of lunar light against his pale skin and sensitive eyes, silvery, dewy, cool ● experiments: testing the limits of his magic, ever the curious mind

Dislikes
large bodies of water, like lakes or the ocean—the unknown depths make him nervous, queasy ● meat ● the sight and smell of blood, its slippery, irony tang ● the inconveniences of post-apocalyptic life ● the burn scars slowly growing across his palms and wrists, winding up his arms—they ache, tender and ugly ● his identity among the Hvyt as “The Chosen One,” having stepped out of the magical crater unharmed while the rest of his city was blown to smithereens—he doesn't believe in “destiny,” just outcomes ● the dark, so heavy it presses on your chest, without the moon or stars to show the way ● the roiling nausea that follows use of his magic

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

Mannerisms
● Often makes full, intense, purposeful eye contact
● Anger rolls from him like an electric sizzle, 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

Background​

The Hvyt, or “Shining White,” were a tall, light-skinned, white-haired race of elves who worshiped the sun and the stars. They were astrologers who studied the movements of the Heavens and wielded light magic, intensely in opposition to their dark-skinned cousins, the Dark Elves, who worshiped flame and ember. Cleanliness was paramount in their society: they did not eat meat, as they saw blood as a tainting agent, and instead consumed only plant matter that was nourished by the sun and the moon. In regards to their subterranean brothers and sisters, the Hvyt said that the Dark Elves’ skin is black because they were burned by the dark fire they worshipped, and crawled underground to hide their wicked ways from the light.

Only recently did they learn of a special kind of magic, naturally occurring in neutron star mergers: nuclear fission. On the mountains of Hvyntna were also a special type of rock, ones that radiated the same power as the stars, discovered by the Dark Elves (the Mryk), and given to the Light Elves as a peace offering. Together, Light and Dark Elf mined this rock and utilized it to generate steam production. With it, the Elves created electricity, a new type of light they worshiped as it illuminated their homes and gardens; the Dark Elves shed their worship of fire and replaced it with electricity, lighting their caverns and pits. With it, they advanced as a society, finding new ways to use this power—including in weaponry to crush their foes, and time-travel through nuclear-generated wormholes opened via this energy. Wielders of this magic were considered divine, touched by the god Baldr the Beautiful.

But one day, experiments with this special magic went terribly wrong: a huge explosion rocked Hvytna's capital, destroying the shining city in its entirety. Ildris, a practitioner of nuclear magic, was in the In-Between Place when the denotation took place—a world of fractals and memories, of glimpses of things to come and the crossroads between decisions, where at the center sat a massive glowing tree whose roots dipped to infinity and branches reached to the hereafter. When he returned from the In-Between via a portal, Ildris stepped back into a crater: the center of the explosion, vestiges of his brilliant, towering city in fragments around him. The Hvyt say this catastrophe was unleashed by their gods, Sol and Mani, in their defiance against the Sun and the Moon: utilizing artificial light to nurture their food sources and to study by, rather than the natural light of the sun and moon. Since that day, nuclear magic has escaped into the world unchecked, infecting creatures with radiation. Ildris, one of only a handful of surviving Hvyt (for the Myrk survived in their underground bunkers), has moved underground with his kind, persecuted by other species for their misuse of the once-divine and now great and terrible magic.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Cain

~Cain Dunmore~
In the dead of the night
Angels saying goodbye;
Got me locked out of heaven,
I'm gonna wear my
Broken halo

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Cain Aydin Dunmore
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Position: Switch
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Birthday: November 4
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Moodboard
the sacrifice

Muse
Darkerside - David Kushner


​

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■Reflections of Body ■
Cross my heart, I hope you light it on fire



Human Appearance
Hair Color/Style: Black, full, and falls to his collarbones, worn wild around his face or tied into a topknot
Eye Color: Dark gray, nearly black
Height: 6’1”

a pale complexion, paper-white ● scars, pale cicatrices, in neat rows across his forearms and thighs; has a tattoo of a black cross on his left forearm, slashed through with scar tissue; his face is slashed with a long scar that runs from his chin across to his left eye ● full raven hair that falls in waves around his face and shoulders; will occasionally tie it up into a topknot or ponytail when he needs full range of vision ● slightly discolored teeth with sharp canines; his right incisor is chipped jaggedly; has snake bite piercings and a septum ring ● a toned body with a flat, firm abdomen, lithe muscles swelling across his arms and shoulders; vascular arms and hands ● jutting collarbones and hipbones, with a prominent Adam’s apple ● dark eyes, like black holes set in his face ● an alt-goth style, all black: loose-fitting black t-shirts, mesh undershirts, tight-fitting black pants with holes over the knees, combat boots, everything gleaming in silver—chains, rivets, necklaces, spikes ● wears an onyx and silver rosary around his neck religiously ● has a ridiculous amount of ear piercings: helix, lobe, tragus, conch

Demon Appearance​

​

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■Reflections of Self ■
I've got a darkened sight, aiming for the light
But I'm falling back to Hell

Likes
praying—whether it’s to God or the universe, Cain is always sending his questions and fears to a higher entity beyond himself, and feels comforted in considering that something more powerful than his fears is in control ● menthol cigarettes; peppermint ● painting and drawing: spilling his feelings, no matter how dark and scary, onto paper or canvas and letting them come to life outside of himself ● star- and candlelight ● tattoos and piercings

Dislikes
demonic or satanic symbology; Satanic worship ● complete darkness, the kind that feels physically heavy ● not having something to occupy his mouth (a cigarette, gum, hard candy, etc.) ● feeling out of control—that spinning, centrifugal panic that makes him feel as if he’s being ripped apart ● the stifling heat of summer ● grape-flavored-anything ● the feeling of loneliness that persists even in a room full of people ● his hallucinations: terrifying visions of demons that torment him, bringing Hell terrifyingly close to his reality

Headcanons​

● Has Schizoaffective Disorder: experiences auditory, visual, and tactile hallucinations of demons, ghosts, and other frightful entities speaking to, touching him, or otherwise menacing in his vicinity

● Chain-smoker. Always has something to occupy his mouth if it isn’t a cigarette: chewing gum, a toothpick, peppermint candy, his fingernails (he knows—gross).

● Prays obsessively about everything—his habit verges on hysterical OCD

● Rubs his cross tattoo on his wrist when anxious

● Dislikes the dark. Will always have a nightlight on and multiple lights on in his apartment. Absolutely panics during power-outages, and has multiple flashlights/candles on hand to keep the dark at bay.

● Visits the local Catholic church frequently—just not for service. Sits in the back pew, and likes to bask in the light filtering through the stained glass windows and the flickering candlelight surrounding him.

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■Reflections of the Past ■
Deep down, way down, Lord, I try
Try to follow your light, but it's nighttime
Please don't leave me in the end​

Richard and Kimblery prayed for a baby boy after years of miscarriages—not to God, but to

Satan.

And they received their gift—just not the way they had imagined him. Born with budding horns and goat’s ears, cloven hooves, a long tail, and little claws, Cain was brought into the world a monster. It would be years until he learned to control his appearance and craft a human disguise for himself. Until then, he was locked in the basement of the Dunmore home, chained to a radiator by the ankle. Oh, he had everything he needed down there: a television and toys and books, food that his mother home-cooked especially for him, a bed and a bathroom, and most importantly, lessons in dark magic. That was, first and foremost, a mask for the abuse. Everyone assumes the scars on Cain’s wrists are from years of self-harm. No. They were for the purpose of harvesting his blood, sacred to his parents and their cult, for ritual. His father’s beatings occurred only after attempts at escape, and later, for transgressions against the cult: fighting back when they came for his blood, kicking and screaming and refusing access to their beautiful elixir.

Silently, Cain began his relationship with God. It was as the demons came for him in the darkness, visions—hallucinations driven by Schizoaffective Disorder—of monstrous entities speaking to and touching him, urging him to harm himself and others, insisting he was nothing and no one, that there was not a soul in the world that cared for him and that he might as well die. But that wasn’t true. Perhaps there wasn’t a soul that cared for him, but there was an entity, greater than him, shining and good and beautiful—God. He had heard of God as a force in opposition to the freedom and liberation of Satan. But if shredding Cain’s body for his blood, for performing horrific rituals and opening portals for the demons who tormented him to come into the world was freedom and liberation, he wanted whatever was opposite of it. So he prayed. Spoke daily to the Lord and begged for a way out. When the demons came, he prayed. When the cult members descended on him, he prayed. When sleep came to him, heavy and silent, he prayed. He became numb to everything but prayer. And in that unfeeling behavior, his mother undid his shackles, let him see the light of day for the first time as he wore his human disguise. And in that moment, as he squinted into the sun—eyes seeing the solar body for the first time, and believing it was his salvation—he ran. Bolted across the yard and into the woods behind the house, stumbling over rock and root to the sounds of his mother screaming after him.

That was seven years ago. Since then, Cain has found himself in the City, doing what he must to survive. It isn’t pretty. He has no formal education, and performs what most would consider sinful acts to make ends meet: selling drugs, selling his body. But through it, he sees a way out—just as he did when he was locked in that basement, cold and alone in a darkness that ate him alive. He saw the light.

And he can do it again.

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Writing Sample​

Cain Dunmore was born in the upstairs bedroom of an old Victorian to a howling mother who screeched as he emerged into the world. Thunder pealed overhead, masking her screams and cries as flashes of lightning sizzled through broken window blinds, candlelight flickering erratically through the dank space; water dripped down onto her forehead from a leak in the ceiling, cooling her burning, sweat-slicked skin and mimicking her saline tears. She clutched her swollen stomach, nails clawing into stretch-marked flesh and leaving scratches raked across her body as she shook and trembled, mouth agape in a wretched grin, eyes squinted in bitter pain. For she had prayed for this child, not to the Lord, but to

Satan.

And in Satan's image was he born, with two budding horns and twitching goat's ears, cloven hooves, a long tail, and little claws that grasped his father's finger, a horrendous monster with wide black eyes like gravitational anomalies set in his tiny face, blinking as the world around him came into view, silent, observing.

He was silent and observing now, dark eyes staring forward at the center dais from the back pew, hands clasped in his lap reverently, wearing his human disguise. He didn't belong in the pale space, arched ceiling bearing candles overhead, and tall, slender stained glass windows pouring light in through the beveled glass. He was dressed in blackest black from head to toe, shoulder-length raven hair pulled up into a messy top-knot at the back of his head, showing off gleaming piercings that bedecked his ears: helix, lobe, tragus, conch. He wore a slouching black shirt, the sleeves rolled up around his scarred forearms, slashed through with neat lines of pale cicatrices against already-wan skin, a black tattoo of a cross etched into his left wrist. His legs were bound in tight skinny jeans with holes ripped savagely over the knees, with heavy combat boots on his feet, everything shining in silver chains and rivets. Including his neck, which was covered in sterling, vintage repousse pieces with roses, delicate chains, and crosses. The most precious piece was a mother-of-pearl rosary that hung there, shining white against the black, with an elaborate centerpiece and a crucifix hanging at the bottom. His face was like any other: pale, with sharp features, a straight-edged jaw and nose, high cheekbones, long and noble lines. It was somber as he reached up to rub his wrist, the cross tattoo with scars raked through it, old scars.

"You shouldn't be here."

Sitting next to Cain was what could only be described as an "entity." It was all black, like a shadow, with curling horns and cloven hooves, a long tufted tail, and goat's ears—like him, if it weren't for the glamour he'd cast around himself. Its eyes glowed white; when it spoke, pearlescent fangs glowed in its mouth.

Another appeared on Cain's left side, standing somewhat behind him in the next pew over. It folded its clawed hands in front of it, and cocked its head.

"You don't belong here."

"I know," Cain said, quietly, eyes still focused on the dais. On the incredible cross that sat just behind, where a carving of Jesus sacrificed on the crucifix hung, dying for humanity's sins. For his sins? But he was just one giant transgression, his body an affront to God, this false image that he projected before everyone a colossal lie. Tears pricked at his eyes. He began rubbing the cross at his wrist more forcefully, closing his night sky eyes and praying for the hallucinations to go away. He beseeched his Lord and Savior to take the demons away, to cast them back into the pits from whence they came, and save him from the darkness that saddled his mind. As he did, he heard laughter, dark and sinister, burbling from the throats of the menacing entities.

"You can't pray us away, Cain," the one at his right said almost gleefully, reaching over to place a heavy, cold hand on his knee. He felt it, real as anything, a frigid touch of reassurance, of liberation. Cain shivered, a sizzle of fear bolting up his spine and ringing in his hypothalamus like a bell. Lightning, and then the thunder.

"He's right. You know it's true," said the other, inching closer to where Cain sat in the pew, hemming him in on both sides. Slowly, more and more entities began appearing from the shadows, sliding closer with half-moon grins and full-moon eyes. "Show yourself to your God and see how He would reject you—there is only one who would take you as you are: your true Father—"

"STOP." Cain said it loud, assertively, dark eyes flashing open, chest heaving as he rubbed a hole in his wrist over his tattoo. It was beginning to burn, to sting at the friction of his thumb against his skin; he grit his teeth as he looked wildly from side to side, the entities now vanished. His heart thrummed against the calcium-coated cage of his ribs, a wild animal attempting to escape out his throat, and he clamped his lips shut to keep it down, like bile rising up his esophagus, nauseous, sickened. The way his voice echoed through the church—he only assumed someone had heard him, and he stirred, preparing to stand and flee.

"What ails you? How may I help?"

Cain hadn't been paying attention to the father, who had come up behind him, circling around to the side to cock his head in concern. Cain’s consciousness had only a razor-sharp focus on the demons that surrounded him, sliding closer in the shadow, chanting and laughing as he spiraled into incoming darkness, like night pressing the day out around him. He could lose himself in this, in their verbalizations, whether words or laughter, and had many nights prior, unable to stop the sounds, the touches, fingers grazing his thighs, his spine, his knees and his chest, pressing closer and threatening to merge with him entirely—what would he be then but a conglomeration of bitter darkness, all eyes and teeth and fingers, grasping for something beyond himself? For all the sin in the world, cramming it into his mouth like a ravenous beast, the kind that lived behind his ribcage, slumbering, now, that he sat in this holy place. But when he would leave, when it was time to work, to run drugs and ruin his purity by sharing his body with others for petty cash, it would awaken in his gut, stirring in his viscera, more, more, more. Give me more.

And he would oblige it.

But he had cast it away, for the time being, in his shout. A shout evidently heard by the father, who put his hands up in a placating gesture, and reached out to him with words.

Cain quickly rolled the sleeves of his shirt down, covering the scars that scattered his wrists and forearms in swarms, as with the cross tattoo he had been rubbing so vigorously. He did not want the father to see—did not want anyone to see that remnant of his past. He remembered: ankle chained to the radiator in that dank basement, quivering in the corner while he waited for them to come to him with a sacrificial blade and a crystal bowl, to take what was his—his blood, to use in rites and rituals to their dark God, somehow more potent than the animals' that they used to use. For he was truly a child of Satan, a potent and pure thing directly chosen from the pits of Hell to be born into the world, the anti-Messiah, conceived of two sinful, non-virgin beings doing salacious things in the dark.

"I have these…visions," he murmured, sitting, once more, in the pew. His dark eyes met those of the father, furrowed, disturbed. He had never had a diagnosis, had never been medicated. All his research had been done online, and he could only assume that what ailed him, as the priest had asked, was Schizoaffective Disorder. But even that was a mere guess. It would be more apt to assume that these were real, living demons that haunted him, both day and night, in waking dreams and midnight nightmares, for he knew the reality of what a demon was. Who was to say there were not more stalking the world, if he was a living reality?

"They haunt me. Mock me. Touch me. I…hear them, even now, laughing. They're laughing at you, Father. They urge me not to listen to lies."

Lies. Who was to say what was true in this world? Cain couldn't say. But he wanted to believe the father, who looked at him with such concern, such…pity. Was that pity? The demons said it was, indeed, so. Pity for a lost soul who sought refuge in this place, but would immediately burn away the blessings the moment he stepped from the premises, running, hellbent, back into sin. He had work to do tonight. A rendezvous, scheduled vulgar things on an online hookup ad site for money, which he needed in order to survive in the City. He had no formal education; he spent his life chained in the basement of that Victorian, a sacrificial lamb taught to read by his devoted mother, but other than that, neglected in the ways of education. For they never intended to let him go. It was a slip of judgment, misplaced trust, that led her to let him see the sunlight for the first time in eighteen years. And the moment he saw that solar body, the one that looked like God and blinded him as he looked into the light, he bolted into the forest, stumbling over rock and root to her screams echoing through the pines.

Now, he sinned day in and day out in order to survive, coming to this place for a little peace, a little mercy, a little grace. He looked at the father, seeking it now.

"So what lies have you to tell me now, they ask?"

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Andriy

~Andriy Kravchenko~
I shoot words into you instead of bullets
Going through a stage as dangerous as a knife's edge
They tell me I’m crazy—and it's true
I don't care about that—I care about smashing the genre
Нож - Amatory

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Andriy Konstiantyn Wilson Kravchenko
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Sexual Orientation: Homoromantic Bisexual
Position: Dom-Leaning Switch
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Birthday: November 4
Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil
Career Path: Lead singer of Death No More

Muse/Voice Claim
Self Riot - Wildways

​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
I go around the city in my black hoodie
It's cold as usual and people are not happy
Nothing awaits me ahead
But I'm waiting for you, one day you'll find me
Death No More - IC3PEAK



Hair Color/Style: Black, short, mussed around his cheekbones
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 5’11”

a mid-sized chest with prominent collarbones, a hard Adam's apple, sharp, slouching shoulders, with light muscles swelling along his arms and a hard, firm abdomen ● a pointed, long face with high cheekbones and little buccal fat, a straight-edged nose, a long jawline, and a pointed chin ● has deep, dark chocolate irises and thick eyebrows; eyes are downturned ● wears a single piercing in his left ear ● wears his hair in short waves around his head, a little wild ● wears dark, nondescript clothing: hoodies, tanktops, tight-fitting t-shirts, track suits with his band’s logo on them (is always wearing band merch), tight jeans with holes over the knees, combat boots ● religiously wears a small silver cross around his neck, a gift from his mother

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
After all, this world is managed
by gunpowder and lead
What will happen to us next?
Is it the end for everyone?
1% - Amatory

Likes
ridiculously loud music, the kind you can feel in your bones and chest like a second heartbeat ● cats ● songwriting: spilling his feelings onto paper in the scribble of an ink pen, no matter how dark, no matter how scary, no matter how divisive ● music with political themes ● playing the piano ● working out: the pull and stretch of muscle, building his body into a shape that pleases him ● the club scene: numbing himself out in the music and drugs among a sea of bodies ● good vodka ● menthol cigarettes ● sex: the sensation of closeness between two or more bodies, releasing his inhibitions through physical movement and pleasure ● being recognized in public as his band’s frontman

Dislikes
large dogs—he was attacked by one as a child ● the Russian and American governments, particularly the current war in Ukraine ● cheap liquor ● the dead silence, so thick it weighs heavy on your ears; complete darkness, so thick it weighs heavy on your chest ● being talked down to or underestimated ● liars; those who don’t uphold their end of an agreement ● the feeling of loneliness that persists even in a room full of people ● small talk ● being vulnerable

Personality Traits
severe ● stern ● hard-working ● obsessive ● perfectionist ● aloof ● aggressive ● assertive ● protective ● talented ● creative ● clever ● sarcastic ● cynical ● introverted ● irritable ● meticulous ● private ● moody ● opinionated ● reserved ● sensation-seeking ● vindictive ● competitive ● envelope-pushing

Mannerisms​

● Often comes off as an asshole: is curt and to the point, rarely smiling, laughing, or joking around. He’s sarcastic and aggressive, chasing what he wants regardless of who or what stands in the way.
● Becomes aggressively defensive when embarrassed
● Is a blank slate of emotion, rarely showing how he feels unless it’s obsession or aggression. It’ll take an army to knock down the walls he’s built around himself—he hates vulnerability.
● 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
● Isn’t in the business of denying himself pleasure, wherever he may find it: sex, drugs, rock and roll

Headcanons
I would ask others for help
But sadly: men don't have words like that
Don’t Burn Out - Stervell​

● Is an American citizen: was born Andriy Wilson to an American father and Ukrainian mother, who arrived in the U.S. via K-1 visa. After long, arduous years of marriage, his mother eventually moved back to Ukraine with his older sister, leaving behind two brothers and his father when Andriy was eighteen. He legally changed his last name to his mother’s maiden name at eighteen, preferring to embrace his Ukrainian heritage.

● Was picked up by his record label, Dead Voltage, after years of successful social media fame writing music in both Russian and English, including covering popular rock songs; he skyrocketed on YouTube in his early years at sixteen, continuing to create music and starting a band called Death No More at nineteen, playing local venues and uploading his music to streaming services until fame found him.

● Speaks English and Russian fluently; has the lilt of a Russian accent, sometimes uses it thickly to mess with people, or pretends he can’t speak English to get out of talking

● Chain-smoker. Always has something to occupy his mouth if it isn’t a cigarette: chewing gum, a toothpick, peppermint candy.

● Mother and sister were killed last year in Russian bombings in Kyiv, and he almost died alongside them; their home in the city was entirely destroyed. While Andriy used to visit regularly, he no longer has a reason to go back there. He is deeply in mourning.

● Due to the above, he deeply dislikes the dark and any claustrophobic situations.

● His father was always hard on him as a young child, wanting him to play American football or sports in general, while his mother pushed him into music. His father was a violent man who often beat his wife and children, while his mother was a gentle soul who nourished Andriy’s gift of music. He has a certain distaste for American men who resemble his father, and likes to pretend he’s not American himself.

● Is classically trained in piano. Has a grand piano in his apartment; he’ll often sit down to stretch his fingers late into the night when he can’t sleep, playing classical songs to an audience of no one.

● Sings in the shower

● Has a lax feeling about his sexuality: he likes both men and women sexually, but is only romantically attracted to men. He had a brief fling with another boy in his teenage years, and has buried that experience in its entirety. He does not and will not write music about his sexuality as bisexual in any capacity—any romantic songs he writes are strictly about sex or relationships with women. “Coming out” is not an option for him; he feels it would taint his image. If he indulges in romantic relations with men, it is strictly secret.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Mikhail

~Mikhail Medvedev~
Whoever I fall asleep with
I dream of the same one, can't catch my breath
In [his] name, I'll take the risk again
Knowing that the wounds won't heal
Whoever I Fall Asleep With - playingtheangel

■First Glance ■
Full Name: Mikhail “Misha” Dmitry Medvedev
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Sexual Orientation: Homoromantic Bisexual
Position: Dom-Leaning Switch
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Birthday: November 18
Career Path: MMA Middleweight Fighter

Muse/Voice Claim
Whoever I Fall Asleep With - playingtheangel
​

---

■Reflections of Body ■
I would ask others for help
But sadly: men don't have words like that
Don’t Burn Out - Stervell


Face-Claim: Alexander Augusta

Hair Color/Style: Short, blonde
Eye Color: Blue
Weight: 178lbs
Height: 6’0”

a pale complexion, often covered in colorful bruises and hard welts ● a mid-sized chest with prominent collarbones, a hard Adam's apple, broad shoulders and hard scapulae, with thick muscles swelling along his arms and a hard, firm abdomen ● has light blue irises and a thick brow, with a straight-edged nose, and a prominent square jawline ● wears his light-colored blonde hair short against his head ● wears dark, nondescript clothing: hoodies, tanktops, tight-fitting t-shirts, track suits, tight loose-fitting pants, tennis shoes; when out at clubs, he'll wear dark silk shirts, partially unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up around his vascular forearms, with sleek shoes and dark pants ● religiously wears a small silver cross around his neck, a gift from his mother—he only takes it off to fight

​

---

■Reflections of Self ■
Do you even look in the mirror, trashy playboy?
What, forever drunk, forever young?
Trouble in Paradise - playingtheangel

Likes
ridiculously loud music, the kind you can feel in your bones and chest like a second heartbeat ● cats ● working out: the pull and stretch of muscle, building his body into a shape that pleases him ● is often solitary, but ironically enjoys the club scene: numbing himself out in the music and drink among a sea of anonymous bodies ● good vodka ● menthol cigarettes ● sex: the sensation of closeness between two or more bodies, releasing his inhibitions through physical movement and pleasure ● energy drinks > coffee; is addicted to caffeine ● his eating/nutrition routine; he finds comfort in eating the same things every day, and finds comfort in routine in general

Dislikes
large dogs—he was attacked by one as a child ● cheap liquor ● being talked down to or underestimated ● liars; those who don’t uphold their end of an agreement ● the feeling of loneliness that persists even in a room full of people ● small talk ● being vulnerable ● wearing “dressy” clothing, like suits and bowties—he feels like he's being choked out and can't move well enough to defend himself ● being recognized in public ● being idle—he’s always on the move, whether exercising, training, or entertaining himself at a club

Personality Traits
severe ● stern ● hard-working ● obsessive ● perfectionist ● aloof ● aggressive ● assertive ● protective ● talented ● creative ● clever ● sarcastic ● cynical ● introverted ● irritable ● meticulous ● private ● moody ● opinionated ● reserved ● sensation-seeking ● vindictive ● competitive ● envelope-pushing

Mannerisms​

● Often comes off as an asshole: is curt and to the point, rarely smiling, laughing, or joking around. He’s sarcastic and aggressive, chasing what he wants regardless of who or what stands in the way.
● Becomes aggressively defensive when embarrassed
● Is a blank slate of emotion, rarely showing how he feels unless it’s obsession or aggression. It’ll take an army to knock down the walls he’s built around himself—he hates vulnerability.
● Often makes intense, purposeful eye contact
● Isn’t in the business of denying himself pleasure

Headcanons​

● Was born in an idyllic small town in Russia, Zvenigorod, about an hour from Moscow. While he generally has a fond view of his childhood (regarding friendships and school), it was also harsh, his ex-military father a strict disciplinarian who pushed him into fighting at a young age; he started with krav maga and jiu-jitsu until he finally melded into MMA as a young man, moving to Moscow at 18 to pursue his career before being scouted. He currently supports his family on his salary, sending money back home to Russia to his mother and ailing, dementia-ridden father. He visits at least twice a year.

● Was scouted from Russia for his high performance in regional promotions and championships with high winning streaks in amateur and pro settings. His large social media following helped him secure a deal in the United States, where he now lives, in the UFC capital of Las Vegas. (When asked why he left Russia for the US, he replies simply, “American dream?”)

● Recently became the UFC Middleweight champion, with a 16-1 record.

● Speaks Russian and English fluently; has a thick Russian accent, and likes to pretend he can’t speak English to get out of talking. He loathes small talk.

● Smokes regularly, even though he knows it isn't good for him; it was a habit he picked up as a teenager, stealing cigarettes from his father and smoking in the woods with his friends.

● His fans gave him the nickname “Mad Dog Medvedev.” He absolutely hates it—he’s neither a dog (women might disagree) nor is he insane.

● Only his mother is allowed to call him “Misha”; any man who calls him that would get a fist to the face, and any woman a bare, cold shoulder.

● Adores cats. Had six farm cats as a child and will always stop to pet one if he sees one on the street. Cats like Mikhail, too.

● Has a deep urge to be romantic, but doesn't know how. If anything, he is simply sexual, and only knows how to show affection through sexual touch.

● Dabbles with the piano; his mother played when he was a child and taught him a few songs here and there.

● Dislikes being recognized in public, in spite of being very proud of his accomplishments. He feels ill-equipped for fame, and is typically a shy, solitary individual.

● Likes both men and women sexually, but is only romantically attracted to men. He had a brief fling with another boy in his teenage years one summer, and has buried that experience in its entirety. “Coming out” is not an option for him, especially in his masculine-oriented career. If he indulges in romantic relations with men, it is strictly secret and extremely rare. He prefers one-night stands with women to “get off,” finding it easier than engaging with men he has the potential to fall for.

 

[Atomic Soul]

Spoiler: Event Horizon

~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 ■
Name: Adrian Miller
Alias: Event Horizon
Gender: Male
Age: 25
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
Event Horizon

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 ■
When I look in the mirror, I do not see myself—but all of you who made me.

Hair Color/Style: Black, full, and falls to his collarbones, worn wild around his face or tied into a topknot
Eye Color: Dark grey, nearly black
Height/Build: 5'11" and decently-muscled​

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 toned stomach and muscles swelling over his arms. A smattering of scars cover his arms, back, chest and shoulders, 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, combat boots, a battered leather jacket, old tank tops. He has a menagerie of piercings in his ears, collarbones, nipples, lips, and bridge, glimmering silver against his wan skin.

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 bloodied his fists for again and again and again: Black Hole. 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 Black Hole 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 black 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, the wind ruffling his hair, and briefly indulging the “call of the void” ● ground-shaking, sky-shattering thunderstorms ● Stardust (functionally Ectasy; it makes him feel connected to others when he struggles with loneliness and isolation on a regular basis) ● the scent of cheap cologne ● 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 ● dredging up the past ● being talked down to or underestimated ● his gang boss, Kuro (they have a love-hate relationship) ● 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 ● 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.

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■Miscellaneous ■
Powers & Gang Affiliation
Wouldn’t it be nice to play the game without a crooked die
In a world where you don’t have to hide—you don’t have to live in a disguise
Bad Omens, Concrete Jungle​

Powers:

• Can give shadow mass, weaving it into objects
• Can "suck" the luminescence out of light, turning it to darkness; can utilize shadow as a cloak to disguise himself in the darkness
• Can step into one shadow and out a nearby silhouette, using shadow as close-range portals

Weaknesses:

• When he overexerts himself, he experiences headaches, paresthesia, and tremors
• When the overexertion is extreme, he has the potential to fade to shadow entirely, essentially blinking out of existence

Gang: TON 618

• TON 618, named after the largest known black hole in the universe, operates on appetite: drug dependency, blood sport, spectacle, coercion, humiliation, and symbolic violence. It is responsible for the manufacture and distribution of a potent morphine-derivative called Black Hole (functionally heroin) and Solar Burst (functionally methamphetamine). It is also known for their brutal fighting rings, where drugged-up individuals duke it out to the death for entertainment, debt relief, or gang initiation. Their gang leader is known as The Singularity, and goes by the alias Kuro; he has created a father-king image in the syndicate and reigns through terror, humiliation, selective affection, and access to supply. Adrian is his second-in-command, owing to his powerful and symbolic abilities; he fights in the rings for a deposit of his drug of choice, and operates as an assassin otherwise. He is paid almost solely in Black Hole. In spite of being Kuro's confidant and having a father-son-like relationship, he brutally abuses Adrian, dangling his drug addiction over his head and operating him like a puppet.

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■Broken Reflections ■
[Writing Sample]

I want things that money can't buy
The price is pain to make this right
And I could buy a thousand lives
So you can try to kill me, but I can't fucking die
Bad Omens, Concrete Jungle​

“You will be called my little black one,” his mother had said, holding her cooing, dark-eyed baby in love-bound arms, the wife of a violent Magpie who would pass the brutality of brokenness down to Adrian Miller, known now only as the Event Horizon. Born shattered in a fragmented world, he was like a broken mirror, glimmering pieces falling off routinely and skittering onto cracked, blood-slicked bathroom tile. He once bothered bending to pick up the pieces, stooping to slice his fingers on the fragments as he shoved them back into place, creating the image of a splintered individual held together in a fragile, razor-sharp balance. He had since stopped attempting to fix the image of who he was meant to be—now, a hole existed over his face, like a supermassive gravitational anomaly, blacked-out and visageless.

Anyone who looked into those black-hole eyes found themselves lost in boundless space, drifting in the tidal forces, and trapped at the point-of-no-return forever.

Event Horizon was not tall, but he was bulky, swaths of pale-scarred and contusion-colored muscle swelling over his shoulders, his arms, his chest. It was bound in a white tank-top, stained brown with old blood and black with motor grease, the outline of two nipple piercings straining against the dirty, thin fabric. Silver glimmered at the bridge of his nose, in his ears, minor modifications that glinted in the low light. His face was sharp, razor-edged: high cheekbones and a defined jaw, a crooked nose shattered one too many times, and a smile that looked like broken glass. His discolored teeth pulled back into a snarled grin, the right incisor chipped jaggedly, his canines long and beastly. He wore his hair tied into a half knot at the back of his head, wild raven locks bound up in a hair tie, errant strands hanging down in his pallid-white face. A bruise was branded over his left eye, blue-black and violet, the edges stippled in sickly green and yellow bilirubin. And in the center of his face, staring out like dark stars, gray-black irises—as hungry as a black hole.

"Scorpius! Square up," Event Horizon called out. He stepped forward into the cracked pavement before him, the remnants of a narrow street covered in rubble and flanked by crumbling high-rises, and set his broad shoulders. He bent his knees in a fighting stance, low and steady, calling nearby shadows to his side. They warped and whorled, forming into the silhouette of a dagger, solidifying, gripped in Event Horizon's welt-knuckled fist. At his side, two lackeys stepped up to the plate, one welding a flare of flame in his palm, the other stirring up a burst of wind around his form, rustling Event Horizon's greasy dark hair.

"TON 618," the gang-banger barked back, approaching with a swaggering gait, jittery in his hands, one of which held a scrapped-together laser-pistol—he was probably hyped up on Solar Burst, a powerful amphetamine that increased blood flow, strength, cognitive activity, and sensory input, as well as risky behavior and restless ego. He had a crew alongside him as well, carrying technological weapons of destruction in contrast to the otherworldly magical abilities Event Horizon and his companions wielded. They clashed, then, the high-pitched whistle of laser-fire matched by the whoosh of wind and fire. Event Horizon advanced and feinted with his shadow-blade, ducking and whirling around his opponent in a frenzy as he slashed the night-dark knife-edge outward; he willed his shadow around him a shield, absorbing laser-fire pointed in his direction, and lashing out with a fist. He caught one of the other gang-bangers in the jaw, sending him stumbling backwards over his heels, and tripping over a block of rebar-twisted rubble where he fell to the pavement, his head cracking against the concrete. Event Horizon advanced, bending forward to jab his blade into the man's jugular vein, a hot spurt of crimson spewing with each rapid heartbeat as he sawed the serrated edge deeper.

An itch tingled at the back of Event Horizon's neck, then, hackles raising—he ducked just in time for a red-hot laser to shoot past him, catching him in the bicep and searing his flesh as it passed. He cursed, glancing around himself and catching the image of a Scorpius member aiming his laser gun at Event Horizon's face. Bristling, he side-stepped into the shadow of a hovering high-rise and portaled nearby, into the would-be assassin's own shadow to draw his blade across the assailant's throat in a neat, brutal line. He collapsed to the ground in a bleeding heap, his head hanging on by a taught thread of skin, crooked off to one horrific angle. One to go, and Event Horizon was down a companion, his flame-frenzied friend caught between the eyes by a laser-sniper. Event Horizon turned his attention to the man crouched behind a large chunk of rubble, hiding with his laser-rifle as he looked for an opportunity to shoot. He was outnumbered and outmatched, surrounded on one side by the wind-wielder and the other by the shadow-stalker. Event Horizon stood straight-backed and confident, blood sprayed in a vermilion arc across his pale-featured face, holding his blade in his fist.

In the aftermath of the skirmish, civilians began creeping from their hiding places to look at the carnage, stepping out from behind barred doors and narrow alleyways with morbid curiosity reigning in their bleak eyes. TON 618 had advanced their territory a few hundred yards, for the time being, until Scorpius would inevitably send another crew out to recapture what they had lost. Kuro the Singularity, TON 618's notoriously-brutal gang boss, had advised his lead-assassin to keep an eye on the turbulent situation on the south end of the ruined City. For now, Event Horizon sheathed his weapon, sending the shadow whirling back into the ether, and putting his hands on his hips. He would have good news to bring to his boss—this was excellent. He would be paid accordingly, in his deposit of choice: Black Hole, so many granules of innocuous black powder, a potent morphine-derivative that dulled the senses, blunted pain, instated euphoria, and encouraged the deepest, darkest sleep. Event Horizon was a slave to the substance, as were many denizens of the City; it was an escape from a bleak, agonizing existence, spent chasing one high after the next, and simply surviving intermittently. Though he had managed to drag himself upwards to a relatively lofty position, Event Horizon racked up potential energy like a step-function all the way to the top—and as they say, the higher you go, the harder you

Fall.