#ALL.

[arcandoria]

my toxic trait is imagining all my otps slow dancing with their foreheads touching or with one's head laying on the other's chest even if slow dancing is just swaying softly to the sides

[edengarden]

Drawing session with @lairu got a little unhinged today

[bluedevilsrpg]

UNDEAD BLIGHT

BEAST TAMER. M. ( 35 ) Sen Mitsuji.

HISTORY

YOU HAVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS, HOW DO YOU PLEAD? Everything forward backwards read entirely new to you. In the reflection of a mirror you find yourself staring inquisitively, lost in the silhouette of the human that returns the same curious glance. Who are you? What are you? Where are you? The prodding buzz of your mind only uncovers one memory: something godly and unnatural - is this what divinity tastes like? Was it Genesis who returned you back to life? Why is that the only thing you can recover from the chambers of your mind? The past is blotted out in black. And you find yourself crawling through every crevice of your existence in search of answers. The agony of your own mysterium acts as its own chasm of eternal perdition. Was this design made for mercy or for cruelty?   This flesh mask face of yours is recognizable to the upper echelons of society. Whispers are made in awe as they tell you who you are to be. "Don't you know? You're the son of a world council elite." Glowering eyes and hungry fangs exposed - you smell the scent of insidious beasts circling you like hawks to prey. You accept your identity, convinced your feet are in the shoes of the wrong man. The tales that unfold from their lips are grotesque as they are wicked; but they laugh. Beneath the skin that coated your bones was a tremor of fear. They call you terrible and wonderful and you could only bite down on this tongue of yours. Were the eyes that looked back at you a monstrosity? Were you a beast rattling in a forgotten cage? Was this your damnation or your resurrection? 

CONNECTIONS

ATLAS VOID ⌱ I CAN NOT REMEMBER THE KNIFE THAT WAS PLUNGED NOR THE ANGUISH AND TRAGEDY OF US

Several footsteps made in the dirt trailing a path of war and crime, all so unfamiliar to you. And yet while your mind denies, your body remembers the pedantic routine of a trained killer. You see them and you see what grief does - what it eats. A twisted sense of relief unravels from your finger tips, they know all of you and you rejoice at the thought of puzzling together the fragments of your mind. What was the difference between delusion and illusion? This face of yours survived and it comes with a thousand burdens. You recognize the hollowness in your heart as you swallow the sins that "you" made. Would they see you as a terror to cut through once again?  Would they despise the stranger you are? After all, you’re convinced, you were not the one they slaughtered and fed - you are something entirely different, something deranged and severed. Was this not hell itself?

SAINT GUILLOTINE ⌱ FROM THE ABYSS, I RETURN

Your silence ceases to exist now, through the forests, through the darkness - you are no longer in slumber. He buried you beneath the rot of all other murders - a shame when the pair of you had once shared a conjoined history. Is this how you love your friends? with an empty grave and a shovel for the last of your remnants. You look at him, an eery familiarity drawn up on the features of his face - ah so it's fear. But what horror are you that even the monster trembles? Even you can not answer the question. All you know is that in their company, there's an insatiable hunger to gnaw. Devour, kill, the sound of each death toll electrifies all corners of your body - this is intimacy, this is survival.

MADAME MASSACRE ⌱ DEFINE YOUR HURT FOR I AM BUT A DULLED BLADE

Charity cases were common for someone of your caliber - at least, this is what you were told. And she was no exception to the promise of better; the world government decimated and the aftermath was left to its ruined people. But somewhere in the splotched out points of your past, she exists. You are familiar to her voice, something alarmingly comfortable yet foreign. Between the flickers of light, you wonder who the ghost is. You can see there is loss and tragedy. But nothing stirs from the bottom of your concave heart, no matter how much you claw. Between feigned smiles, you flatline, half empty, half pretend as you bare the weight of your null recollection.

LITTLE MISS RED ⌱ OUR HISTORIES ARE TIED IN A COMPLICATED TANGLE OF WEBS

Her family and yours were connected - the details in which your blood were the same was never made clear. But the mafioso baron family had always been loyal to the interests of your family's in particular. The prestige of being a part of the world council elite had guaranteed a beneficial relationship built on blood, gold and insipid corruption. She is the key to the other half of your identity that you know so little about. But you also wonder what kind of childhood you two shared that spawned two feral anomalies. There's something particular about the way she carries herself - her underhanded lethality admirable. But in the back of your mind, you can sense a desperation for help. Will it be yours to offer this time?

UNDEAD BLIGHT IS CLOSED & THEIR SPECIAL STAT IS AGILITY.

[switchytransboy]

normal body chub and tickles 🖤

i remember years ago when i was younger in this community (and identifying as a female at the time so that and dysphoria on top of the dysmorphia i had probably played a huge role) i used to be SO hyper conscious of my body here.

i used to position my body in whatever ways made me look skinnier, i used to compare myself to other skinnier bodies that got way more attention, i used to think my body hair and stretch marks were ugly, i used to think i wasn’t as appealing to ler’s if i didn’t have the ideal lee body i saw in videos and so on.

its so refreshing to see how much acceptance of ALL body types are here in the community now. videos featuring not just the typical model status/unattainable body, text posts EVERYWHERE going on and on about how all body types are perfect on lee’s, and even extending to trans bodies now too.

i wish there was this much love and content back in my day when i was younger on here but regardless it’s just so nice to see. that is all.

all lee body types are perfect.

all ler body types are perfect.

all switch body types are perfect.

[glitteringrp]

⧼   barbara palvin, artista viajante, auracinese, ESMERALDA   ⧽     —     Eu, MIHAELA ZOGRAF, 25 anos, vinda de BALANQUA, me comprometo a realizar o requerido junto à Corte de Luz, deixando minha antiga vida para trás, e assumindo, desde já, os encargos deste serviço, nos termos deste contrato.

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑      —

Mihaela Zograf nasceu em uma família de artistas viajantes em uma época em que as crenças religiosas eram tão importantes quanto a habilidade artística. Desde muito jovem, ela foi incentivada pelos pais a realizar pequenos roubos durante as apresentações, como forma de garantir a sobrevivência da família. Aos oito anos, descobriu que tinha o dom de ver a aura das pessoas, o que a tornava uma excelente mentirosa e manipuladora. Seus pais eram alanzanos em segredo e, quando descobertos, foram detidos e Mihaela, enviada para a Corte de Luz, onde seria treinada para ser uma verdadeira dama da sociedade. Não foi uma adaptação fácil, contudo, as tragédias de sua vida a haviam lhe ensinado a ser resiliente e se preocupar consigo mesma; queria o melhor para si mesma, uma vida sem dificuldades. E, determinada a se destacar e garantir sua própria sobrevivência, ela foi além do que era esperado de uma jovem dama da época.

Mihaela se tornou uma estudante exemplar, dominando várias línguas, música e etiqueta, além de se destacar em outras habilidades consideradas apropriadas para uma dama. Além de sua excelência, é conhecida pela elegância, delicadeza e cuidado com os demais  ——  mas não se engane! Esta última não é nada mais do que uma máscara que ela própria criou; Mika não deseja o mal alheio, no entanto, é muito egocêntrica, e tampouco tem pudores de usar seus poderes para manipular aqueles ao seu redor para atender às suas próprias necessidades. Embora Mihaela aparente ser delicada e cuidadosa com os demais, ela sempre colocava a si mesma em primeiro lugar. Ela não hesita em pisar nos outros para alcançar seus objetivos.

Não se preocupa muito com que tipo de homem será pareada, somente que seja o melhor. De preferência, fácil de manipular.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄      —

Mihaela é uma personagem que passou por muitas dificuldades em sua vida e, em vez de enfrentá-las diretamente, aprendeu a ser mais dissimulada e estratégica. Ela prefere se fingir de boa e obediente, acreditando que pode manipular as situações de forma mais eficaz por trás das cortinas. Seu passado difícil a tornou astuta e manipuladora, mas ela não é tão resistente ou corajosa quanto gostaria de ser. Ela ainda mantém traços de sua personalidade anterior como parte da trupe de artistas, como a alegria e a criatividade, mas esses traços muitas vezes são mascarados por sua necessidade de sobreviver. Ela sabe que precisa cuidar de si mesma e que não pode contar com ninguém, o que a torna cautelosa e reservada. Seu dom de ver as auras das pessoas a torna mais sensível e empática, mas ela muitas vezes usa esse dom para obter vantagem sobre os outros. Ela não confia facilmente em ninguém e é cuidadosa em suas relações interpessoais. No geral, Mihaela é uma personagem complexa que aprendeu a se adaptar a situações difíceis, mas que não é tão forte quanto gostaria de ser. Ela pode ser tanto gentil e alegre como amarga e manipuladora, e suas características muitas vezes entram em conflito. Sua necessidade de sobrevivência e adaptação pode ser um ponto fraco, mas também pode torná-la uma personagem interessante e imprevisível. 

[radio-charlie]

One day when we’ve made it through, lets all go to an all-day breakfast place, sit down, point at the menu and say: all.

[projectorpheus]

SAGAN ⋅𖥔⋅ 28, NB ⋅𖥔⋅ CONFIDENTIAL

trigger warnings: human experimentation, implied violence, gore

Running. You are always running. You run from a story that is faster than you. It nips at your heels, drags you off to sea — or maybe your body is the sea, and you're washed upon the shores of it. Crashing waves, bones bleached death-white, eyelids cut open until the world is nothing but a kaleidoscope of red, of pain — of your open mouth with no throat attached, trying to scream WHY, WHY. And only silence as an answer.

Endless time. White walls, white sheets, white pills. You remember nothing but this endless labyrinth. Some nights you swear that if you press your ear to the ground, you can hear the delicate breathing of the minotaur. SOME NIGHTS YOU SWEAR THAT IF YOU THINK JUST THINK HARD ENOUGH, YOU CAN REMEMBER THE SOUND OF YOUR OWN NAME. They call you by a string of numbers and letters here but you've long lost the combination.

Your ribs are full of rabbits and they've taught you how to hide. Not even in your dreams are you safe — your eyes sunken and set in an expression you don't recognize. Your hands upon cool metal, heart beating to a song on the speakers that plays over and over — there's a language to be learned somewhere in there, but your reflection in the mirror puts a finger over their mouth and grins, jaw opening like a snake about to swallow you whole. You alone the prey, the hunter, and the forest.

[ note: Sagan's history has been hidden for plot purposes. Players interested in this skeleton should contact the main for undisclosed details. ]

DYNAMICS

ATLAS  ⋅𖥔⋅ BLOOD DRIPS FROM YOUR CHIN & I KNOW IT IS MY OWN

Sometimes, you remember them. Peering at you through a glass window muscle memory tells you is thick to shatter with your bare fists. They have many faces, morphing into beasts; into sirens; into gods — but there is only one that has stuck with you. Sometimes, when you sit upon your bed and stare at the walls, their image comes back to you. Downturned mouth, furrowed brows — it's an expression you turn around and around in your mind until their eyes are nothing but the fragments of a tiered chandelier, crashing into your consciousness and cutting your chest open little by little, a thousand tiny paper cuts, raw and bloody until your organs peek through. In this dream, you laugh. Hurry, hurry, you whisper in a voice that you aren't sure belongs to you. Hurry and tell me what you've found inside.

NAIAD  ⋅𖥔⋅ I CLUNG TO YOUR HANDS SO THAT SOMETHING HUMAN MIGHT EXIST IN THE CHAOS

A lifetime ago — or maybe just yesterday — it doesn't matter, anyway; you escaped. For once, you stopped running. If only because the world around you was no longer white, no longer sterile — but rather, warm. Buildings steeped in the sun's blood; air that scratched at your lungs like flies buzzing to mangled flesh. They found you sprawled on the ground, watching the world as dust settled on rusted metal. They took you in — baptizing you with words; with stories — and for once, you felt your mind quiet. You wanted to stay in that haloed glow forever. You wanted to peel their skin away from its membrane, if only to live within them and know how it feels to be full. To have a beginning end. Is this another dream? you almost ask them, but before you can part your lips, you are staring back at the wall and tapping your feet together. Three clicks. JUST THREE CLICKS, AND MAYBE YOU CAN GO BACK.

VOYAGER  ⋅𖥔⋅ I DELVE INTO WORDS AS IF I WERE PAINTING NOT JUST AN OBJECT BUT ITS SHADOW

There are times when his voice escapes the crack between your door and the floor. Cheerful. Laughing. Far away somehow, as if transmitted through another world. You don't connect it to any of the faces that blend together in your memory. Not his voice — his voice can't belong to any of those cold eyes, analytical and disappointed. You've taught yourself to imitate him. To sound happy. To make jokes and laugh; use your fingers to curl the corners of your mouth upwards. It makes those other faces shift uncomfortably; to scurry away and leave you alone. But somehow, you are sure he won't. He's different. HE HAS TO BE.

TAKEN BY TARYN ⋅𖥔⋅ TAMIKA FAWCETT

[amethystsoda]

Time to play “do I Iike boys who are sad and tsun and pretty or do I just like a specific type of haircut” 🤣

[marlborohq]

INTRODUCING  ...  SUN BLEACHED FLY.

UTP PREAKER  AS PORTRAYED BY  UTP,  MUST RESEMBLE RAMI MALEK   /   30+,  MUST BE FEMME PRESENTING.

NARRATIVE

(  cw:  mentions of grief,  teeth,  substance abuse,  mental illness,  childhood illness.  )

you had always been a spindly little rose,  luscious from first glance but when people were close enough to touch you they could feel that dry,  hollowness you exude even now.  the withering bud your ma had managed to overwater in the dry season.  even with a pink teddy perpetually tucked beneath an arm you were still all teeth.

of all the preaker children,  you were thought to be just about the finest.  your mother had mulled through you with a fine tooth comb,  ensuring that you and you alone would be the one she would pour all her efforts into.  there is little care for your elder brother and the smaller one who would soon proceed you.  rather,  you would be doted:  the one better loved from the top shelf of ma’s china cabinet  ---  she thought life was too abbrasive for you so you were kept tucked away.   you are the startling difference between your sibling’s extremes:  the soft one and the wild one.  always too sickly to grant any true promise,  you happen as the median between their obtuseness  ---  the pageant-queen-to-be strung up with all of your gilded trinkets.  little had your folks known that you had taken your brother’s peach fuzz softness and casted it over the vile bits you would go on to pass down to your little sister.  too many teeth where they shouldn’t be,  and too sharp to be just that.  even in a childhood turned crime scene,  you were the rabid thing that had been tied up in the powder blue bow.

CONNECTIONS

PRAIRIE DOG   /   OLDER BROTHER.

the one to tend your mother wounds and hold your hand at the dinner table when you spilled your milk at breakfast.  PRAIRIE DOG is your brother,  and once he had dug graves for the both of you.  because even when covered in dirt,  and especially with something still bleeding and mangled in your teeth PRAIRIE DOG is the one who loved you enough to clean up your messes.  the only thing he asks of you in turn is not quite forgiveness,  but that you erase the mar of this grief from yourself and allow him to shoulder it.  you bid his wishes and become the untrustworthy narrator,  the unsightly source detached from a reality you can hardly call your own.

MOURNING DOVE   /   EX-CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND.

the one who knew you before you went all sour.  it’s hard to think of the niceties of such a short-lived childhood when all you’ve harbored is grief.  this loss was merely another skeleton to bury behind ma’s tomato patch in the backyard.  you convince yourself that this is how you will flourish:  by nourishing yourself with all the ugly things.  but all you did was rot, inside and out.  it didn’t take much for MOURNING DOVE to notice, even now.  she’s always noticed.  especially now,  in this town that seems to have only become two sizes too small the longer you stayed.  at one time or another, you were one of the same.  knowing that whatever had been wrong with you, had also been wrong with MOURNING DOVE. you’d like to think that is what had attracted to you to MOURNING DOVE, swiftly you had become the wild thing she’d thrown steaks to from the comfort of her porch.  it was only a matter a time before all you allowed her to do to you had been flipped on it’s back.

SWEET NOTHING   /   UNLIKELY ACQUAINTANCE.

you are not only a prisoner of self,  but one of nostalgia.  as it happens,  SWEET NOTHING is the one who has unknowingly freed you.  or at the very least,  you have allowed them to see you for what you really are.  nothing more than a slate begging to be scrubbed clean.  you ignore each other’s bad parts because you both have the same taste in pills,  and the forest is awfully quiet when you’re not wading through it alone.  your brother warns you that they’re no good,  but you both know you’re no better and isn’t that nice somehow?

THIS SKELETON IS OPEN.

[texaschainsawmascara]

links to the donations mentioned

https://unrwa.org/

https://www.instagram.com/gazamutualaid

https://campusbailfunds.com

[bluedevilsrpg]

LITTLE MISS RED

SCHOLAR. W. ( 30 ) Stav Strashko. TW: implied abuse, violence

HISTORY

WHAT BECOMES OF KNOWLEDGE WHEN IT IS ALL-CONSUMING, THE FATE OF INEVITABILITY CREATING A CHASM OF ENDLESS DESPAIR. You were born into an extravagantly wealthy family with a legacy of horror - one that only permitted your existence through cruel tests of worthiness. It was a family that prided itself on its many children, and you were nothing more than another extension. You will never forget the tragedies that you were subjected to, the rigorous trials and the desperation to survive. And it was in that very hell that something new was born in you, the flicker of a fractured soul cracked into mirrored pieces. It was you but divided into halves. One where your temperament was sweet and childish, as if you had never accepted the loss of your youth, fluttering brightly like the wings of a butterfly. This was the you that was protected from harm and adored by your porcelain doll-like mother, the you that believed in fairytales and dreams where books were your companions and intellectual thought your sparring partner. 

But look again when it becomes dark, when the candles fade and there is nothing left but the reflection of yourself, your hair stained with droplets of bright, crimson blood. Everything heightened when you were required to fight for your life - for the permission of existence. Here you were a more terrifying version of yourself, where ruthless calculation and precision played out in perfect, melodic harmony. Gone was the visage of a loving daughter, you had to prove yourself and your purpose to your deranged father. He made his empire in the artistry of murder and you have every desire to inherit. Without it, you will be mere ashes in an urn. So you learned the craft of death, the knowledge of everything your ears could reach. You do not hesitate to exhibit ruthlessness as you act with sadistic joy - a vicious, merciless mistress dressed in blood, dressed in red. 

CONNECTIONS

BELLS OF HELL ⌱ MY HEART SPLINTERED IN THE DECAYING FLOWERS OF MY RIBCAGE

You never had the chance to live a good life - not since the moment you were spawned in a household that signed its name in carnage. You had little to no hope of becoming something more until she stretched out her hand for you to hold. BELLS OF HELL was a rare face that was permitted within the proximity of your family sheerly out of her own stellar reputation. She became your friend, your confidante and eventually, your dearest lover. You promised to take her through the galaxies to witness every star. You adored her. Your painstaking love was shattered one day when she left you in the cold when you awoke. You remember little of the events that followed, only the terror driving through your bones while you walked every trial and tribulation for the chance to see her again. But when you survived through Hell to catch the attention of your angel, she had forgotten you completely. It dawned on you that perhaps the love you treasured had been nothing more than a machination of a game your family dictated. You dislodged your chest of love, sparing nothing but the desire to kill her for the agony she has caused. 

CHILD OF FLAMES  ⌱  STITCHING TOGETHER THE WORDS BETWEEN THE TRUTHS AND LIES

Their lethality was one that was sharpened over the years. When you first approached them, they were hardly the horror they’ve now become. You know the part you have played in indulging the lunacy of their wicked ways. You provided them with wealth and an accommodating life while they in turn showed you how to slaughter like a butcher, like a killer. Each new trick was enough to sate the loyalties of your family but just when you had believed you had crossed the safety line, they challenged you to push further. So you had no other choice but to do the same to them. It wasn’t long before you watched them succumb to a madness that reminded you of your own father. And like your father, they turned their back towards you and you were once again reminded of your unworthiness. They pledged their loyalties to another stronger sibling, while you were left to fend for yourself like a cockroach amongst the dirt.

MOON BLADE ⌱  I RETURN WHAT IS GIVEN TO ME, WITH THE FURY AND PRECISION OF A THOUSAND SUNS

It all went to hell when you discovered the death of your favorite brother. He was the one who had always protected you from the grasp of your other family members. He was the knife that you stood behind, the only time when you were given peace and safety to breathe and simply be. And yet, all that shattered when he had left you. There were so many questions left unanswered until you began to probe through the unknown and you found the culprit at her side. MOON BLADE, who worshipped her sister like you did your brother, would do anything to keep her sister safe and sound. It was your brother who was deemed wrong in his ways and for that, it cost him his life. The pain you felt was incomparable and thus, to return the feeling, you too showed her what it was like to lose a part of her life.

MADAME MASSACRE ⌱ DECAY IS WHAT YOU ARE AND WHAT YOU WILL RETURN TO

You weren’t blind to the way she looked at you - the way her nostrils flared in indignation and the clenched fingers that shaped themselves into a fist. You see a girl who has been left to be consumed by soil and rot. She underestimates you like all the others in your family. Your harsh upbringing has always served as an incompetence and MADAME MASSACRE further reminds you of all your faults with her nails and tongue sharpened to remind you of your idiocy. But looks are deceptive and you find envy lodged in your throat - what would life be like if you burned with bellicose umbrage at every turn? You imagine if you had been like her - would your father have approved? You hate her for being so naturally inclined in strengths that you so desperately yearned for. Perhaps to understand your enemy you must become her. You’ve clawed your way out of the history that has written you into existence and you can’t bear facing the demons in your memories.

LITTLE MISS RED IS CLOSED & THEIR SPECIAL STAT IS MAGIC.

[robyn-i-guess]

liking someone platonically is so embarrassing like. yeah i admire you. yeah i think about you all the time. yeah i look forward to every time i see you even if it's only for a minute. yeah it's all platonic and yeah i couldn't explain this because it'd sound romantic. fucking hell

[glitteringrp]

⧼   henry cavill, mercenário, manipulação das sombras, COMPRADOR   ⧽     —     Eu, DANTE MORTIS BLOODMOURNE, 35 anos, vindo de SALTIK, tenho interesse na aquisição de uma esposa da Corte de Luz, deixando minhas ocupações habituais pelo período mínimo de seis meses para me hospedar em Wisteria Hollow, nos termos deste contrato.

Influência junto a nobreza: Muito se especula sobre os poderes do legado Bloodmourne, isso fez com que a família de Dante fosse completamente rejeitada pela nobreza. É fato que muitos contrataram os seus serviços como mercenário e assassino de aluguel, mas ninguém ousava questionar seus métodos altamente eficazes. Os Bloodmourne vivem nas sombras, possuem influência sobre alguns nobres por estes deverem favores, mas aos olhos da sociedade não passam de um sangue sujo.

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑      —

A esposa do lorde Hathen ficou completamente desnorteada ao vislumbrar um espírito brincando com seu filho mais velho, por mais que acreditasse nos Gloriosos, lady Arielle sempre se questionou sobre a real existência de almas. Não conseguia compreender se o que via era real e a confirmação veio quando o garotinho de 9 anos olhou para sua mãe e sorriu. "Mamãe, eu chamei um amigo para brincar." Era difícil de aceitar, mas seu filho havia sido abençoado por Hadriel com poderes de necromante. A família então seguiu por longos anos tentando suprimir os poderes do filho, escondê-lo da sociedade a todo custo. Quando questionado sobre quem havia abençoado o jovem, seus pais davam uma resposta evasiva mudando completamente o assunto. Quando o garotinho Marcus completou seus 16 anos, ele foi pego por seu pai praticando as artes ocultas da necromancia. Isto despertou a ira do devoto homem, que acreditou que seu filho havia sido possuído pelo mal. O jovem foi deserdado e expulso, perdendo qualquer título ou influência que o nome Hathen pudesse trazer. Logo a história se espalhou e os boatos sobre um jovem lorde com poderes das trevas começou a circular. Marcus virou andarilho e nunca era bem recebido nos lugares quando se apresentava como um Hathen, pois assim descobriam que era ele quem havia sido deserdado. Foi assim que o legado Bloodmourne nasceu.

Desde o ritual que havia performado as 16 anos, o cabelo de Marcus se tornou branco por completo, o que o fazia ser reconhecido facilmente em Osfro. O jovem precisou sair do país para evitar uma retaliação, passando por diversos povos diferentes até se instalar em Saltik. Foi em meio a uma nova cultura que o primeiro Bloodmourne enxergou uma chance de reconstruir o respeito e poder que havia perdido. Estudando as artes ocultas de Hadriel, seus poderes de necromante foram muito requisitados para trabalhos nada ortodoxos. Desde o contato com os mortos com entes queridos ainda vivos até assassinato, Marcos era capaz de utilizar a morte ao seu favor. O homem não confiava em ninguém e este traço foi passado para suas gerações futuras. Muitas mulheres com quem se deitava apareciam meses mais tarde com bebês alegando ser o pai, mas foi apenas quando um menino, após o ter negado por anos, que o convenceu de que era legítimo. O garotinho tinha cabelos tão brancos quanto o do pai e, aos 7 anos, demonstrou ser abençoado por Hadriel também. O filho de Marcus, Osman, foi agraciado com o poder da absorção de almas. Sugava a energia vital das pessoas ao seu redor se curando e, caso tocasse na pessoa, absorvia por completo sua alma, matando-o.

Era inegável que os Bloodmourne tinham poderes extraordinários para aquilo em que se especializaram. Osman era o assassino de aluguel perfeito, enquanto Marcus mantinha suas atividades como necromante. Possuíam uma extensa coleção de artefatos raros que conseguiram de modo duvidoso, bom, tudo o que conquistaram foi por meios duvidosos. A fama da família não era tão boa assim em Saltik, muitos os viam como demônios, mas ninguém era capaz de afirmar nada sobre seus poderes. Os Bloodmourne se tornaram cada vez mais ricos e influentes em Saltik, tendo muitas posses e dinheiro, mas acima de tudo, eram respeitados e temidos. Qualquer um que pagasse bem o suficiente poderia ter um serviço realizado por eles, e isto incluía a nobreza. Logo tinham nobres devendo favores e entregando posses para os abençoados por Hadriel. Um desses acordos rendeu a união da família Bloodmourne com a abastada família Demir, onde Osman se casou com a filha do nobre. Estranhamete, o homem faleceu poucos anos depois quando seu único neto nasceu, Dante. Isto gerou uma intriga grande entre os pais de Dante, pois sua mãe acreditava que havia sido seu marido o responsável pela morte do pai. Mesmo que este fosse o caso, não havia muito mais a ser feito toda sua herança havia sido incorporada a enorme fortuna dos Bloodmourne.

Dante nasceu, assim como seu pai, com cabelos brancos herdados do avô. Não demorou muito apara apresentar os primeiros sinais da benção de Hadriel. Sua mãe, Ayla, se assustava muito com a obscuridade dos homens da família, mas sempre foi muito respeitada e protegida. Seus poderes se iniciam na manipulação de sombras, onde propaga a ausência da luz absorvendo a vitalidade de qualquer ser vivo, causando pânico e desespero em quem se encontra em meio as trevas. Conforme foi crescendo e se aprimorando, Dante se tornou capaz de usar as sombras para identificar qualquer sinal de energia vital que tocasse as escuridão que propagava. Era um poder formidável, mas foi quando suas sombras absorveram a vida de um homem que a extensão de seu poder se mostrou realmente obscura. Diferente de seu pai, que conseguia sugar as almas com mais facilidade, Dante se sentia drenado quando matava alguém com suas sombras, mas isto não o impedia de usar o poder. Fora ensinado desde jovem a ser um lutador e sobrevivente, conseguia ser furtivo e completar os serviços de maneira excepcional, sendo muito temido em Saltik.

Foi em sua sede por mais poder que Dante decidiu adquirir uma dama da corte de luz. Não se importava com amor ou conexão emocional, mas queria alguém que fosse leal a sua família. Diferente de seu pai e avô, que se relacionaram com mulheres comuns e sem poderes, o Bloodmourne mais novo queria ao seu lado alguém que fosse tão poderoso como ele. Procurava por uma jovem que tivesse um poder útil para a família e uma personalidade que correspondesse à sua. Sabia que não seria fácil, pois os boatos que cercavam sua família não eram dos melhores, mas em algum momento a dama escolhida ficaria frente a frente à Morte. Levava consigo 1.200 peças de ouro, mas não que quisesse a garota mais cara do local. Dante queria conhecer todas para saber quem realmente encaixaria melhor no papel de uma senhora Bloodmourne, uma verdadeira dama da noite e da morte.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄      —

Dante é um indivíduo ambicioso e muitas vezes manipulador, que não tem medo de usar sua inteligência para manipular as pessoas em seu próprio benefício. Apesar de seu comportamento muitas vezes frio e calculista, o Bloodmourne é leal e dedicado àqueles que ama e está disposto a fazer sacrifícios pessoais para protegê-los. Sua confiança em seus poderes das sombras às vezes pode levar ao esgotamento de energia, mas sua determinação e lealdade à família nunca vacilam. Ele é uma mistura intrigante de lealdade e crueldade, e suas ações podem ser imprevisíveis.

[thenameisgul]

[projectorpheus]

ATLAS ⋅𖥔⋅ UTP, UTP ⋅𖥔⋅ BIOTECH

trigger warnings: human experimentation, death, grief, car accident mention

They say lineage is a thread that connects generations from the beginning of the world. If so, then you think that yours must be one threaded in gold — the whispers in which they speak your name; half awe, half fear. If lineage is a thread, then you think yours can easily be made a halo upon your head — OR THE NOOSE AROUND YOUR NECK. A coin flips whenever a child enters the world bearing the bloodline of your family. Is it brilliance that runs through their veins — or madness?

Your family has become synonymous with innovation. If Ishikawa Industries bears the crown, then you are the knight at their side, sword constructed of tiny nanoparticles that collect energy from the stars — shining; blinding; everlasting. It was your family that invented Scales; that made the tech affordable and accessible to the lower classes. BUT IT WAS ALSO YOUR FAMILY THAT SENT THE SUN INTO SUPERNOVA, GREEDY FOR THE ENERGY OF A GOD YOU WILLED TO OBEY YOUR MORTAL HAND. That cursed the universe to bear the curse of your failings; of your avarice; of your pursuit of greater things that could be just an excuse for the development of a greater ego.

Perhaps it was guilt that started the unravelling your ancestors' threads of brilliance. Or perhaps it truly was a curse — the shortening to lifelines as the generations go on; as if the universe is asking for repayment of the lives it has lost. You witnessed it yourself as the years have gone on — your grandparents, then your own parents, minds clear and sharp becoming fragmented as they grew older. Until simple physics equations could no longer be recited and your name a string of scrambled syllables upon their lips. So you work, ignoring sleep; ignoring rest. Time is a beast that grows closer and closer. Time has caught the scent of blood in the water. Time will unhinge its jaw and gnaw upon the best part of you — will chew up your mind until it is no longer recognizable.

DYNAMICS

SAGAN  ⋅𖥔⋅ THE SILENCE THROUGH WHICH YOU MOVE IS MY VOICE PURSUING YOU

You were a contract engineer for Project Orpheus, coveted solely for the recognition of your family. You thought you would find answers for the curse you can feel settle within the marrow of your bones with every passing day, but instead, you found them. Delirious, afraid. Unable to answer your questions with anything more than a jumble of words that made no sense. You weren't directly involved the experiment that concerned them — and frankly you doubt you would be able to get the clearance to even look into their file, but you can't absolve your blame, either. Didn't you walk by their door, day by day, peering in but never truly allowing yourself to see? Your chest aches whenever you think of your last day there — of the way you walked out without a look back. It's nothing new, but your vision blurs, nonetheless.

HALIMEDE  ⋅𖥔⋅ YOU COULD DESCEND LIKE RAIN, DESTROY LIKE FIRE IF YOU CHOSE TO. IF YOU CHOSE TO

Your families have worked together for generations, and in your mind, he is the only rightful heir to S Corp. Though you are not privy to the inner machinations of the heirs, when FENRIR left, you had hoped HALIMEDE would take the crown. But what came next was disappointment. You could only watch as he changed; as intelligence became indulgence, and the one you had sworn loyalty to painted himself as nothing more than a farce. You know better than anyone the wolf that hides beneath; of the new world he could usher in — a better world — if he would simply choose to. Your time is running short, and you'll be damned if you don't get the chance to watch him rise. He's a wolf, hiding in his self-defined cave — and you don't mind creating a little provocation. If only to remind him how it feels to snarl.

SYCORAX  ⋅𖥔⋅ OH MY LOVE, CALL ME BY A NAME LINKED TO A VERY OLD, FORGOTTEN TENDERNESS. I WILL REBUILD THE PLOT OF A PURELY INNER TRAGEDY.

For a time, you had been afraid that the one you loved would be forced to watch as your mind withered. You had even considered leaving them — but before you could, they left you. Or rather — THEY WERE TAKEN FROM YOU, last breaths ragged, blood filling their lungs in a crashed hovercar. You know the story behind the accident. You tell yourself over and over that no one regrets it more than SYCORAX; that the loss of a sibling hurts no less than the loss of a lover. Still, when more liquor than blood runs through your veins; when time finally slows and you stand in front of their door, the grief is unable to be held back. For your lover, for your family. For yourself.

OPEN ⋅𖥔⋅ DEVYN GARCIA