#estienne wicken

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was ESTIENNE WICKEN, a GIFTED loyal to the cause of the MORTALS. They are said to be TWENTY-FIVE and use THEY/THEM pronouns. In this New Testament they serve as a MEMBER of the ROUND TABLE. Blessed be their name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

It came as no surprise that Estienne made themself at home within the shadows. In the bouts of their plague-induced fever, they were able to find blissful peace within the darkness, sinking into it, wrapping themselves in it until one could not distinguish itself from the other. When they awoke, they realized that they were able to walk into the shadows, manipulate it, have it pour from the tips of their fingers and snuff out any light. Though they have a startling amount of mastery over their ability to travel within the shadows and coax it into doing their bidding, Estienne is beginning to feel the weight of their skill. They never speak of it, never try to pay it any mind, but they are beginning to find it more and more difficult to step out of the shadows and into the light, to tear themselves from it and become their own person again. When they overextend their abilities, they have to take lengthy periods of rest before testing their shadow mastery again. At first glance, it is difficult to see the marks of the Blood Plague upon them, until one realizes that Estienne’s hair is midnight black and how large the pupils of their eyes are -  swallowing any notion of light.

THE HISTORY.

The sun rose to bring them joy, the moon danced in the sky to appease them. If one were to tell Estienne that the world did not turn on its axis for them and them alone, they would wipe the glittering tears from their eyes. And it would not be tears of disappointment that they would be brushing away, but tears of amusement - pure, unabated laughter spilling from their lips. Before they had opened their bright eyes to the world, it was what their mother and father had told them. The world belongs to you, dear Estienne, she would murmur against their soft, dewy cheek. Never let your grip upon it falter. Why should they relinquish the hold that they had upon it when the world gave its heart so freely? If it were to give, was Estienne not allowed to take? And so they did take, as soon as they learned how to ensnare every single heart that had the misfortune to drift their way. With a bat of their lashes and a soft pout of their mouth, each soul became theirs. They stole the hearts of their mother and father, leaving nothing for the abysmal creature that they were forced to acknowledge as their blood and kin. For Estienne, there were only words of love - life was a bed of roses with a perfume so sweet and thick that it nearly suffocated them. For everyone else? Estienne left nothing but a thicket of thorns to rest upon. The rest of the world could wallow in its despair and suffering, could bemoan its idiocy and shortcomings. But not Estienne, never Estienne. And there was not a single drop of remorse within them to be found.

Why should they be remorseful about sitting atop the throne others had placed them upon? The Wicken name carried such a legacy that it was easy for them to ascend, made easier by the strings that their parents pulled, by their unparalleled banter and enigmatically beautiful features. It was as though their rise in society was dictated by the stars themselves, if Estienne were to believe that any other higher power that could control their destiny. But alas, the highest power to be found was themself and themself alone. Which was why they had no problem playing puppet master, like the Dead God once had - pulling at their lesser’s strings. It began first with their parents and their elder sister, turning them against one another, curious to see how the poison of their mother’s words could make their sweet, simple sister turn to rot. Imagine their mild surprise when she remained sweet as ever, but wilted like a dying rose. It was this single action that caused the ripple of interest to see just how far Estienne could pull at a person before the strings that they worked at snapped. First, they turned their mother against their sister, then their father against their mother, until the Wicken household seemed primed to rent itself apart.

And Estienne watched it all, like a bored god, lounging upon their heavenly throne while their lessers clawed at one another with words that were worse than any poison and far more cutting than any set of knives or claws. But their little game was brought to a stuttering stop when the Wicken household’s newest acquisition, a bawdy, tasteless tutor, was brought in. How they managed to shoulder their way into society’s most illustrious estate, Estienne will never know. What they did know, however, was what it would take to make this irksome little thorn in their side a nonissue. All it took was a well-placed coin in the hand of a beggar child, a bloody handkerchief, and time. Within a handful of days, the plague had invaded their home and left the door open so that Death itself might stride through it, taking souls just as mercilessly as Estienne was want to do. And, arrogant as they were, they were no match for the Blood Plague when it burrowed itself into the very marrow of Estienne’s bones.

They don’t remember much of the fever that overcame them or the bedside vigil that their parents kept, candles placed upon the nightstand as though in homage of the soul that had not yet left their beloved child’s body. Their mother wept and wailed, their father choked and sobbed. Even if their sweet Estienne were to survive this, what would they do with an heir touched by the plague, gifted or not, the flawless legacy that they had produced was destined to be marred. Little did they know that the vestiges of their soul that they deemed the weakest were being burned away, that their beloved Estienne was only growing more and more formidable as hellfire itself seemed to cauterize whatever might have made the Wicken heir less than. In the throes of their pathetic mourning, Estienne’s parents had shown themselves to be shams, they dared to reduce their child to the status of mortal when Estienne was anything but. With every tear their parents had shed, they had sealed their fate - their mourning became their damnation. The Estienne that had gone through the hellfire of the plague held no patience for those who regarded them as anything other than the deity they knew themselves to be. So, when their bloodied eyes opened and stepped out from the room which they had resided in, they left their parents’ corpses behind. It was their world to hold and their world to rule, after all - there was no room for nonbelievers; woe to those who dared to hope otherwise.

THE CONNECTIONS.

ISOLDE WICKEN: Half-sibling. It seemed as though the universe decided to have a little joke when it dared to make Isolde and Estienne siblings. After all, it could only be seen as laughable when they stood next to one another, forced to do so when posing for portraits, Estienne deliberately placed in front of Isolde; the flawless meant to overshadow the obviously flawed. Though they shared the same aristocratic mannerisms and enigmatic smiles - Estienne’s far more charming than Isolde’s - that was where any notion of similarity between them ended. As Isolde builds her name among the Holy Land’s society, Estienne can’t help but remind her how easy it is for them to pull at her strings; despite how she seeks to distance herself from them, they are tied to one another by blood and by name. Though it may be somewhat of an inconvenience for her, it is most advantageous to them - what sort of fool would deny the portrait that they have painted for themselves, that of the new orphaned Wicken heir, sibling of the great Seer of the Holy Land, more or less fated to rise across the Round Table and lead it with no less than the Hundred-Eyed God to guide them?

DAMIEN WARD: Imitator. The ancient story of the Anti-Christ is well known - abomination of the world, a bastard child born of the devil and a mortal, the herald of the end of the world, so on and so forth. An old tale, and a rather tired one if Estienne is being honest. Damien’s time to capitalize on whatever influence he may have had has long passed, his name is as withered and dead as the God and Devil that it was once associated with. From what Estienne can tell of their friends within the Infernum kingdom, there is a general sense of restlessness that stokes their debates in the conclave, a need for someone, anyone, to satiate their hunger for more than the lull that they seem to have fallen into. Luckily for them, Estienne has heard of the shortcomings - namely, Damien’s - and is more than happy to give them the thrill and excitement that they so crave. 

ORIAS: Muse. There are very few things that Estienne finds genuinely beautiful aside from their own reflection - in fact, they can count the number of times they have used that very word upon one hand. But Orias is the exception that proves the rule. It comes as no surprise that a demon as primordial as they  would incite such unabated fascination from the person who considers themself and only themself worthy of adoration? From the moment they laid eyes upon them, their attention became fixated, like that of a wolf locking its gaze with that of a deer. Perhaps they want to draw the false prophet closer only to sink their teeth into their neck and draw out blood. After all, there is a sort of morbid fascination that accompanies the destruction of something - someone - so beautiful and pure. Crushing a creature as primordial and powerful as Orias within their palm should be enough of a trophy to satisfy them for centuries to come. 

RYUK: Thorn. It’s not because they’re jealous of him. And it’s most certainly not because he was the only entity to ever tell them no. So when directly asked, Estienne chooses to say nothing because they don’t want to be seen as a liar either. When Estienne first asked him to visit their chambers, it was purely for business reasons, of course. They wanted to show Death that they feared nothing, not even him, and were promptly denied without so much as an apology. It was a slight that Estienne was, admittedly, poorly prepared to deal with. Since then, that slight has been as vexing as a hangnail - bearable but annoying nonetheless. But Estienne has nothing but time and resources to waste away, so they might as well spend as much of it as they can reminding Ryuk that those who deny them are meant to suffer. 

Estienne is portrayed by Davidson Obennebo* and was written by ROSEY. They are currently OPEN.

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was ORIAS, a DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. They are said to be IMMORTAL and use THEY/THEM pronouns. In this New Testament they serve as a MEMBER of the VICES. Blessed be their name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

When God dug His hands into the earth’s soil, His first children sprouted up from it: that is how Orias came to be. They were first mortal, a strange creature which seemed to have stolen a shred of God’s divinity in its birth. The people buckled before them and proclaimed them God’s Messenger: in exchange for their divine interference, they surrendered their first children, whom Orias transformed into the first witches of the earth. Seduced by Lucifer, they are not merely a demon but also the Original Witch, a primeval fountain from which all dark sorcery flows. In Hell, they communed with the planets which hung suspended above and earned their visions, all the while breathing life into dark totems; rites and rituals which their children scattered across the earth. Orias’s abilities extend far beyond mere prognostication. Uniquely endowed with the ability to both cast and create incantations, they are also a sacred alchemist, supernally guided by the world’s natural elements. Baptised as the Vice of Greed, they reprise their ancient role on earth; all creatures flock toward them with empty bellies, hoping to sate themselves on their magic. Orias’s witchcraft is not inwrought but rather a teachable medium: though first among them, it has been known to fail. At once luring and repelling, their wings are composed of granite-grey feathers and, when harnessing their divinity, they wear a silver veil over their eyes.

THE HISTORY.

Even some of the most terrible creatures were only mortal once—and yet, even when they were only flesh and bone, Orias hummed with something ancient. Divinity passed quietly around the light, the sun brushed lazily over their body; to fully embrace it was to glimpse a vestige of God. All around them, there was pestilence and plague, empty bellies and a black-mouthed void, but under the wet forest foliage they waxed with light. As God’s children grew gaunt in famine, his creation curling at the sides from rot, primeval power gathered around Orias. From their hands, divination and magic entered the world: they called them enchanter, spell-caster—neither was right, neither fit, nothing quite captured the strange unaccountability of their gifts. Orias was not a witch, but a fountain, and a world of sorcery spilled forth from them. Such power, however, does not remain hidden for long. It was to the desperately hungry that the leaves carried its whispers—soft-spoken, they sang of a figure with strange power lying fallow in the forest. By their hand, they blessed harvest as effortlessly as they raised the dead. Fatal wounds were salvaged by nothing more than a vial of pomade and their touch. As if a spectre of God, they tilted their neck up to greet the sky and the stars sighed down their secrets to them. There was no explanation for the divinity that hooked itself between Orias’ ribs: they knew not what they were, or where they came from. But the people didn’t care to investigate—after all, they were not searching for answers. They were searching for help.

When your maker forsakes you, you will sign away your soul to anything for a sliver of solace, even a monster. Hands pulled together in supplication, the people heralded them as God’s Messenger, a prophet, whittled in the Heavens and floated down to the earth by their Creator. Whether their gifts had fallen from the clouds or crawled up from beneath the rock debris, however, Orias couldn’t possibly say. All they knew was this: there was something in them, certainly, but it wasn’t God. When the people finally sought them out, half-starved and falling onto their knees in the marsh-mud, one could not ignore the strange sensation their beauty left them with. At once transcendent and terrifying, Orias seemed to them like a providence they could believe in: they could not look away, regardless of the cold sweat that washed over them, like the creeping fingers of a thousand hands. When Orias hummed back to them the price of service, the people cut the payment willingly from their own ribs. That was God’s design, was it not? For all you take, you must also give back. Orias cared little for material possessions, for wealth: what they demanded was far more testing. In exchange for their practice, a pool of sorcery drawn from every element in the earth, Orias demanded heredity, legacy, future. What they coveted was lineage, a pond of offspring onto which they could unload their new rites, their balms and tomes, primordial secrets, scribbled in ink. The people surrendered their children and heirs, cupping that promise of divinity in their hands. In their offerings, Orias passed on a new folklore, and in turn, Orias’s votaries knelt before them, like beggars at an altar, their lips pursed in unbroken litany.

From litany grew belief, and from belief spouted worship—before long, reverence crept up from the very soil around them. Prayer began to bury itself deep beneath the layers of the earth, like a long, golden talon dipped in oil, and it was Lucifer who answered its call. Not one to indulge a rival in idolatry, nor share the supplications of those who bowed and scraped, he threw down a gauntlet. Go on stealing morsels were else there could be gold, or tread with him triumphantly into Hell. Refusing to shrink from what had already been written, Orias fixed Lucifer’s fingers between their own: such was their destiny, or so the stars had told them once. On earth, their children went on bleeding the ground of its magic, transforming themselves into great totems, and in Hell Orias sharpened their power, widening their third eye to the heavenly bodies which hung suspended in the night sky. The galaxy reached out its spangled hands, spiralling obediently above Orias. A crooked star, the night creatures called them, watching crazed as Orias carved out incantations with their tongue. As they felt their magic wrap itself around them, the monsters purred, keeling their heads below a thing more deity than demon; more scripture than servant. As power sank towards them, so did prestige, and thus when Lucifer was uprooted from his throne, Orias did not feel the need to bend like a carapace around him. They took a crowbar to their rib and pried out the old pieces of themselves left in them; exchanging one benefactor for another, they settled themself at the feet of the son, climbing to sit above a throne of their own.

Where their companions, blood-mouthed, tore their way up through the earth, Orias floated diaphanously up to its gates. Like the moon that circles the sun only to eat it, their old world seemed to stretch out its hands to greet them. Their return split the earth in two: some spat blood at the soil they tread, disparagingly branding them False Prophet, Spring of Evil, yet there were others who clung to their steps, devoted, each movement as enthralling as the next. They loved them for it. Orias did not care—it was not love for which they had been spewed out into the world. They desired to chew on worship. Between the interludes of their absence, the world was much changed from the one they had left behind, yet they marvelled at the way that their spell seized every hole and void, every pair of desperate hands, every stomach yawning with unfed longing. Seers sought to commune with the stars; men tunnelled their ravening fingers into the dirt, searching for relics; humankind turned to tracing billows of the waters, pencilling over rings of oak, mapping the placement of the sun, hoping that the world might betray its secrets to them. One might suspect a creature so divorced from themself to shrink at the sight, but Orias did not. Bowing deeply beneath them, all beings of the New Testament beseeched their intervention. They each fell at the base of a defaced altar and offered prayer blind: it hardly mattered whether their supplications grew out of hunger or longing, strung together for an itching palm or a closed fist—they made vagrants of themselves. Between magic sighs and religious whispers, Orias begins to feel themself splintering into something triune: the prophet, the monster, the god. There are some who revile yet another site of worship. Yet, Orias’s body drones with power—such is their design.

THE CONNECTIONS.

ISOLDE WICKEN: Antithesis. She is a fascination of theirs, but not of the infatuating kind. The two of them have never interacted, have never sighed a word to each other, have never exchanged anything more but an entranced glance—but then, perhaps they don’t need to. A glance tells Orias all they need to know. They call Orias the False Prophet for good reason: they are the Great Pretender, a drove of impious wanderers at their altar, while Isolde is the holy Priestess to whom the worshipping masses flock to listen. Perhaps she has become an object of envy—but then, perhaps not. If they held Isolde’s position in higher esteem, they might view her as an adversary; a threat to be vanquished underfoot. But the power of the Hundred-Eyed God only pales in comparison to the primordial force of the Original Witch, they who made themself a monstrous god. Isolde is their opposite in every conceivable way. Gentle, faithful, good. Though capable of seeing the end of all things, subjective as her visions may be, she still seems to shift uncomfortably at Orias’s presence—as if she doesn’t know how all this will end. They’d be lying if that wasn’t the source of great amusement to them.

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Scheme. They are an empty void, and still they swallow something. When Orias looks at Estienne, they don’t see something beautiful nor powerful—instead, they seize an advantage. Both of them are far more comfortable lurking in the shadows than standing in the light, tilling at the dark as if it were the fifth and final element, coaxing it into performing their bidding. In them, Orias senses an irrevocable ambition; an unstoppable hunger. When they meet their following gaze, they detect an invincible appetite, as if their ravenous teeth have already been clenched around the shape of the world. There is something palpably terrible in them, something dark and slinking and wicked, and that in itself yields a golden opportunity to Orias—power to harness or corrupt, they haven’t yet decided. After all, a mortal cannot be expected to fell an entire horde of demons or legions of archangels all alone, even one as powerful as Estienne. Should they hope to transform themself into a conqueror, they’d need friends, allies, and Orias is in a unique position to indulge them. What’s more, their connection to the All-Seeing Priestess of the Hundred-Eyed God is all too delicious to resist, but that is all part of their game.

AZAZEL: Companion. Side-by-side, they are a strange sight to behold: one an ancient soul with the earth’s power at their fingers, the other a dark dove, her Hellhounds yawning faithfully at her side. And yet, the two are cut from the same substance. Spells, enchantment, bewitchment—none of these things are strangers to them, and a gossamer veil arranges itself over them both. They are both carved from mystery, shaped by secrets. Azazel is perhaps the only creature that Orias had genuinely, truly loved; whether this is due to her divine ability to lull or the puzzlingly gentleness she has shown them, Orias doesn’t know. But they would do anything from her. In the dark, Orias casts off for their companion anything ugly; anything real. Wielding the earth in their hands, they craft it into a shape that is attractive to Azazel. There is something maternal in their affection—over the centuries they have spent together, the desire to ward off all that would do her harm has grown like a seed in their chest. It is because of this that the Antichrist has entrusted her protection to them: not as a soldier, but as a friend to stand by her side.

RAHMIEL: Storyteller. There is something terribly melancholy about poetry. Always, it is spilling from the heart, a pool of profound tragedy wrested tightly between broken ribs, and Orias feels this tragedy in Rahmiel’s gold-strung words keenly. He’s not a creature they can say they historically gravitated toward, exactly, finding far more friends in monsters than in archangels, but they’ve come to quietly appreciate their exchanges as he imparts his visions of history—of all the things that hid from Orias’s view once they disappeared beneath the soil. It was Rahmiel who helped them realise the weight of their power here on earth, and the degree to which their rituals had burgeoned; through his eyes and words, they are capable of watching the lives of their children unfold, and their children—and so forth. Nevertheless, their interest in him goes far beyond mere education. Simply put, they’re two creatures that shouldn’t get along, that shouldn’t find such lulling comfort in each other’s company, but still they do. Rahmiel has become, in some shape, Orias’s North Star; their holy compass.

Orias is portrayed by Ashley Moore and was written by CAS. They are currently OPEN.

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was ISOLDE WICKEN, a GIFTED loyal to the cause of the HUNDRED-EYED GOD. She is said to be TWENTY-EIGHT and uses SHE/HER pronouns. In this New Testament she serves as a ALL-SEEING PRIESTESS of the HUNDRED-EYED GOD. Blessed be her name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

As the only Seer, Isolde was quickly given the status of All-Seeing Priestess within the religion of the Hundred-Eyed God. Her visions often depict the endings of things and are highly subjective. She is able to bear witness to the outcomes of different decisions, however it is difficult for her to focus on specific people and scenarios without a great deal of mental power and concentration since she can become overwhelmed by her Sight. Due to this, she may have to meditate for hours or even days before being able to give definitive details. It takes quite a physical toll on her and can render her incapacitated due to the fact that when she was a vision it is almost like being swept into a waking dream -- she has difficulty pulling herself from its overwhelming tide. However, many people within positions of power still seek to solicit her and utilize her gifts, hoping that they might obtain some control of their future. It is why her journalings are coveted and carefully guarded by those who are closest to her. As all who have suffered and survived the Blood Plague, Isolde’s scars are obvious and unsettling: her vision was heavily impaired and her eyes, once warm, dark and warm as they were, now look as though they are made of molten gold with similar colored tear stains falling along the curves of her cheeks.

THE HISTORY.

TW: VERBAL ABUSE, ABUSE IMPLICATIONS

From the moment she was nothing more than a beating heart, she knew what it was to be cursed. She knew what it was to never work quite right -- each breath seemed to make her lungs ache, every too-loud thump of her heart seemed like an offense against her, her bones seemed to grind against one another; Isolde was  an ever-evolving study of how intimate a person can become with suffering, with pain. Yet still, she learned to bear such things with an enigmatic smile and an endearing bat of her lashes, steps as light as naiad’s, laughter as bewitching as a siren’s. There wasn’t much choice in the matter given to her, the Wicken family being such an auspicious name within the confines of the Holy Land. Their name was a gilded one, murmured among the society’s elite, often with a mix of reverence or envy -- oftentimes there being a mixture between the two. Such a legacy necessitated perfection from every figure bearing the name; her parents were philanthropists and innovators, her cousins were highly regarded socialites, and she had no commendations to speak of. Isolde was bright, but not clever and personable, but not quite charming. In a world where excellence was expected, mediocrity was tantamount to the most abysmal of failures. And, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she could not help but shed a tear at the mundane creature that looked back at her with red-rimmed eyes.

How could she see past the horror of her own reflection when her mother clutched her shoulder, nails digging into flesh, all too eager to highlight the faults that were to be found? Never did the great Lady Wicken dare to pass a chance to compare her daughter against the other socialites and heirs, sneering each time at how Isolde paled in comparison; a weed that marred the garden of carefully cultivated beauty. All the while her father acted as though his mouth had been sewn shut, content to look on, far more interested in what glitter of his next mistresses’ eyes rather than the bleakness that was to be found in his offspring’s. When one is told that their mundanity is a curse, that their excellence is passable and their accomplishments are subpar, it is difficult to believe otherwise. You have nothing to offer this world, little Isolde, her mother hissed into her ear, you have more to offer the worms in the garden, you have more to offer by withering away. It is difficult to imagine that there is a world of color when you are told - time and time again - that there are only muted grays. It took her a great while to realize that a sculpture is simply a block of stone before an artisan liberates the beauty from its marble confines -- a painting is a blank canvas until someone dares to bespeckle it with rich, vibrant colors. The realization dawned on her the moment that her tutor strode into her life with their great, bellowing laughter and ruddy cheeks. 

They liberated her from her stony confines, coaxing from her laughter so arresting that it would leave her with aching cheeks and streams of tears. It was through them that she learned how gentle hands could be more cutting than the blunt edge of a blade, how tender words could cause a more fatal blow than any strike to the heart. Slowly, deliberately, the colors of gray that had painted her world sloughed off like the blood and mud that blinded a warrior’s gaze; suddenly, her vision was clear and she could see the world with its vibrant, impassioned hues. She had been through the hell of her own soul and came through it wielding a sword of empathy and compassion -- how could she not want to aid others in their quest to do the same? But the moment that this red-flamed dream flared to life, it was dashed away. Not only was her newfound dream stolen from her, but the source of its inspiration too. In a fit of fevered, scarlet-colored tears her great mentor was stolen away. Crying out in anguish, she held their pale, limp hands in hers -- she begged and she pleaded, bargaining with the Hundred-Eyed God to return them to her, striking at their hollow chest in despair when her cries fell on ears of stone. 

The pain that befell her when the Blood Plague took hold of her soul was welcome. It was a relief to the numbness of her grief -- just as it was a relief for her parents to turn their backs to her, taking advantage of the opportunity to rid themselves of a daughter that they considered a blight on their name. Throughout the bouts of her fevered agony she clung to the one memory of her mentor that had been left to her; a delicately carved thing, gilded and as pale as bone. She should have died, and there was no denying that something within her did. However, as the fever abated, as those abhorrent parts of her soul were burned to ash, something took root in her. When she stepped forth upon the great green earth, with her eyes of molten gold, there was complete and utter clarity to all that she had endured -- and will continue to endure. The world had been born anew, just as she was; it was like a newborn fawn, attempting to rise upon its shaky legs while starved wolves encircled it. The calamity that could befall it might leave it in irreparable ruins. Her vision had been taken from her, but in its place she was able to bear witness to something far greater than that -- was granted a gift that allowed her to see the truth of the matter: the Wicken woman was tasked with shepherding the New Testament, with creating a world greater than the last. With a heart burning so righteous and pure, it was Isolde, and only Isolde, that could ever achieve it. 

THE CONNECTIONS.

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Half-sibling. They are her opposite in every imaginable way and yet the reality of sharing the same name as them is enough to cause bile to rise in her throat. Whatever lessons that her parents failed to instill in her as a youngling seems to have been easily grasped by Estienne. If they did not share the same aristocratic mannerisms and enigmatic smiles that are practically a Wicken trademark, she might have claimed that they were not related at all. But alas, the blood that runs in her veins runs in theirs as well. As Isolde builds her name among the Holy Land’s society, it seems that Estienne is determined to ensure that it is tied with theirs as well -- what could be more winning than spiritual recognition as well as political? The portrait that they paint of themselves incites within her an anger that is barely recognizable, because she has buried it for so long; it has festered like an open wound and the mere mention of Estienne’s name is like rubbing raw sea salt upon it.

ZADKIEL: Heartache. When he looks at her, she feels as though she is drowning. Not within her own despair, no -- this is a very nuanced sort of pain. In the throes of her fevered dreams, his face had appeared to her, lingering over her shoulder, the edges of his wings brushing against her cheek. It did not take long for her to place the pieces together. The look that painted his gaze when his eyes flickered between hers, the slight downward tilt of his lip, the palpable pounding of her heart and the ineffable ache that descended upon her. He had been tasked to be her guardian angel at one point in time -- and he had either forsaken his duty or failed at it. And to be honest, she is not entirely sure which possibility might be more cruel. What she is sure about is this: the fact that he dares to see her at all, to talk to her, and grow close to her and tug at her heart-strings so shamelessly is the most sadistic thing he could do. (Why, then, can’t she bring herself to make him stop?)

GADRIEL: Guardian. It was odd, initially, having a shadow with teeth -- stepping forth and knowing that a creature that once brought forth ruin hounded her steps. The guardian of the High Priestess was initially a means of the angels demonstrating their good will towards a religion that they would rather those within the kingdom of Caelum not ascribe to. It was made an all the more imperative position to hold once word spread of Isolde’s abilities; having an angel so close to a mortal that was so powerful could only be seen as leverage. But she has found that Gadriel’s presence serves as a comfort more than anything -- the angel’s rather stalwart protection of the Seer being the only thing she can depend on when in the throes of a vision. It is odd, she thinks, how much solace one can take in a creature so rigid that she seems to be rendered from marble. It is even more odd, then, how fond Isolde has grown of her.

ORIAS: Catalyst. She cannot help the singularly unnerving feeling of being a sparrow caught within the sights of a hawk whenever she steps into Orias’ line of vision. She feels their gaze upon her, fixated like an arrow, string taught and ready for release. Though they have never given her a reason to think that there was any animosity or maliciousness in their intent, she still remains attuned to the small details of the interactions. The way that their eyes seem to drink her in, the curl of their mouth, the merest twitch of their fingers are all meticulously noted and analyzed in the night, when the moon is high and the shadows pervade every corner of her room. There is something primordial that resonates within Isolde whenever they approach her, something ancient that yawns widely the longer Orias is within her presence. And Isolde refuses to be blindsided when it truly awakes.

Isolde is portrayed by Sydney Harper* and was written by ROSEY. She is currently TAKEN by LISSA.

[theholycovenantrpg]

what is every characters power ? would you mind writing me like a quick bullet point list? I’m so sorry 😢 it just helps me think better!

We hope this makes it easier for you, Anon!

HORSEMEN

Viktoria - ability to manipulate people’s hungers/desires 

Dmitri - ability to heal all wounds, cure all sickness, and overcome ails

Nerissa - ability to incite murderous rage and feed on aggression/hostility 

Ryuk - ability to commune with spirits 

ANGELS

Rahmiel - ability to enchant anyone with his voice (somewhat like sirens)

Michael - ability to predict opponent’s moves before they make them

Zadkiel - ability to know people’s sins/weaknesses/offenses 

Raphael -  ability to heal people or make their ailments/injuries worse

Gabriel - ability to dull people’s senses or render them completely incapable of feeling (both physically and emotionally)

Caphriel - ability to take, hold and bestow memories

Ephemera - ability to completely paralyze people through wielding her blade

Arael - ability to discern people’s greatest hope and blind them with it to the point of delusion 

Cassiel - ability to become opponent’s idea of beauty (somewhat like shapeshifting) 

Gadriel - ability to manipulate gravity 

MORTALS

Evangeline Trame - none

Romilda Altier - ability to make bodily functions accelerate 

Arianne Altier - ability to make bodily functions decelerate 

Revna Volk - ability to cast illusions 

Isolde Wicken - ability to perceive the future

Bastien Avalos - none

Jasper Riche - none

Luca Riche - none 

Cade Bekker - ability to manipulate fire 

Estienne Wicken - ability to generate and manipulate shadows/darkness 

DEMONS

Damien Ward - ability to turn things to rot/dust with his touch

Judas - ability to be a CONSISTENT FAKE FRIEND

Samael - ability to poison people and corrupt them (irreversibly)

Asmodeus - ability to know and personify people’s desires 

Raum - ability to steal whatever her heart desires 

Salome - ability to manipulate corpses 

Azazel - none, though some suspect her allure is divine-given

Abaddon - none 

Mammon - ability to mimic the ability of their opponents 

Orias - ability to cast spells, create incantations, and draw from the power of the earth

[theholycovenantrpg]

The demons as iconic vines?

I’m so sorry this took SO LONG, but here you are! Here’s everyone!

ANGELS

ARAEL: “kevin, kevin watch the light dude”

CAPHRIEL: “they ask you how you are and you just have to say you’re fine”

CASSIEL: “hey, i want to be famous”

EPHEMERA: “she is a bitch, BICTH”

GABRIEL: “someday i’m gonna own this goddamn town” “ewww i don’t like whiskey it burns my mouth”

GADRIEL: “you’re all going to hell, bye”

MICHAEL: “you’re not my dad”

RAHMIEL: “i’m john cena” *plays recorder through nostrils*

RAPHAEL: “suh dude”

ZADKIEL: “when will you learn that your actions have consequences”

DEMONS

ABADDON: “all around me are familiar faces”

ASMODEUS: “i love you, bitch”

AZAZEL: “it’s me jessie and ari”

DAMIEN WARD: “hail satan”

JUDAS: “daddy?” “do i look-”

MAMMON: “look at the buns on that guy” “this is the comedy police”

ORIAS: “the prophecy is true”

RAUM: *flutterbye fairy flies into the fire*

SALOME: “smack cam” *grabs a knife*

SAMAEL: “pepsi bottle, a coca cola glass, i don’t give a damn”

MORTALS

ARIANNE ALTIER: “my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”

BASTIEN AVALOS: *runs away from ghost screaming* *hits ghost with a chair*

CADE BEKKER: “aa, aaa, AAAAAA”

ESTIENNE WICKEN: “the power of christ compels you”

EVANGELINE TRAME: “i’m a bad bitch you can’t kill me”

ISOLDE WICKEN: “have you ever had a dream that um you had-”

JASPER RICHE: “stop saying i look like chicken little”

LUCA RICHE: “an avocado, thanks”

REVNA VOLK: “get the phone out of my face”

ROMILDA ALTIER: “that was legitness”

HORSEMEN

DMITRI: *throws paper* *theatre hall erupts in applause*

NERISSA: “what the fuck is up kyle?”

RYUK: ghost caught on tape

VIKTORIA: “no, no, no, no, stop it”

[theholycovenantrpg]

thc chakras as the 18 Pokémon types?

This was... hard... but I gave it a go!

NORMAL: Orias, Arael

GRASS: Abaddon

FIRE: Nerissa, Cade Bekker

WATER: Isolde Wicken, Caphriel, Rahmiel, Luca Riche

FIGHTING: Bastien Avalos

FLYING: Gabriel, Asmodeus, Dmitri

POISON: Samael

GROUND: Zadkiel, Romilda Altier

ROCK: Michael, Gadriel

BUG: Jasper Riche

GHOST: Ryuk

ELECTRIC: Mammon

PSYCHIC: Evangeline Trame, Raum

ICE: Arianne Altier, Cassiel

DRAGON: Salome, Raphael, Ephemera, Judas

DARK: Damien Ward, Estienne Wicken

STEEL: Viktoria, Revna Volk

FAIRY: Azazel

[theholycovenantrpg]

not sure if this has been asked yet, but the characters as greek gods/goddesses?

if you’re into greek mythology, which gods remind you of which characters!

Ask and you shall receive!

ANGELS

ARAEL: Nemesis, Goddess of Retribution and Vengeance

CAPHRIEL: Iris, Goddess of Rainbows and Messenger of the Gods

CASSIEL: Aphrodite, Goddess of Lust and Beauty

EPHEMERA: Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Battle Strategy

GABRIEL: Helios, God of the Sun

GADRIEL: Nike, Goddess of Victory

MICHAEL: Ouranos, Primal God of the Heavens

RAHMIEL: Orpheus, Greek musician and poet

RAPHAEL: Asclepius, God of Healing and Medicine

ZADKIEL: Atlas, Titan who carried the weight of the world

DEMONS

ABADDON: Styx, Goddess of the River Styx

ASMODEUS: Adonis, God of Beauty and Desire

AZAZEL: Persephone, Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Underworld

DAMIEN WARD: Phobos, God of Fear

JUDAS: Hermes, God of Schemes and Guide to the Underworld

MAMMON: Dionysus, God of Revelry and Madness

ORIAS: Gaia, Primal Goddess of the Earth

RAUM: Asteria, Titaness of the Stars

SALOME: Circe, Goddess of Magic and Enchantment

SAMAEL: Phobetor, Oneiroi of Nightmares

MORTALS

ARIANNE ALTIER: Selene, Goddess of the Moon and Mother of Vampires

BASTIEN AVALOS: Achilles, divine Greek hero

CADE BEKKER: Heracles, divine Greek hero

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Hades, God of the Dead and King of the Underworld

EVANGELINE TRAME: Peitho, Goddess of Persuasion and Beauty

ISOLDE WICKEN: Tyche, Goddess of Providence and Fate

JASPER RICHE: Poseidon, God of Earthquakes and Oceans

LUCA RICHE: Morpheus, God of Dreams

REVNA VOLK: Adrestia, Goddess of Revolt and Equilibrium

ROMILDA ALTIER: Hemera, Goddess of Sunlight and Day

HORSEMEN

DMITRI: Apollo, God of Poetry and Healing

NERISSA: Ares, God of War and Destruction

RYUK: Thanatos, God of Death

VIKTORIA: Lachesis, Measurer of the Thread of Life

[theholycovenantrpg]

the skeletons as the grisha trilogy / six of crows characters ?

Whew! Okay, after some thinkin’ and a lot of grumbling, I think this is it. Mind you, I also kept to the central characters of TGT/SOC and limited myself to the characters that I think represent them best.

The Grisha Trilogy

Alina Starkov - Revna Volk

The Darkling - Estienne Wicken

Nikolai Lantsov - Gabriel

Malyen Orestev - Bastien Avalos (ish)

Zoya Nazyalensky - Arianne Altier

Genya Safin - Isolde Wicken

Six of Crows

Kaz Brekker - Cade Bekker

Inej Ghafa - Raum 

Nina Zenik - Cassiel

Jesper Fahey - Rahmiel

Matthias Helvar - Zadkiel

Wylan Van Eck - Luca Riche

[theholycovenantrpg]

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃.

Good day/afternoon/evening, everyone! As requested, we are releasing the schedule of biographies, so you guys are able to see who’s coming up next. If there are some biographies that you would like to see posted sooner rather than later, please let us know and we’ll see how we can shift things around. We’re planning to update this as we go along, so feel free to save this to your likes in order to reference back to it!

Day 1 

Revna Volk 

Michael 

Judas

 Day 2 

Gabriel 

Evangeline 

Salome 

 Day 3 

Raphael 

Arianne Altier 

Mammon

 Day 4

Caphriel

Luca Riche

Raum

 Day 5

Gadriel

Jasper Riche 

Viktoria

 Day 6 

Ryuk 

Isolde Wicken 

Cassiel

Abaddon

 Day 7

Zadkiel

Cade Bekker 

Orias 

 Day 8

Ephemera

Estienne Wicken

Damien Ward 

 Day 9

Arael 

Bastien Avalos 

Nerissa 

Day 10

Rahmiel

Azazel

Asmodeus

 Day 11 

Samael

Romilda Altier

Dmitri

[theholycovenantrpg]

the thc characters as tarot cards?

ANGELS

ARAEL: Six of Swords

CAPHRIEL: The World

CASSIEL: Page of Pentacles

EPHEMERA: The Chariot

GABRIEL: The Hanged Man

GADRIEL: Seven of Wands

MICHAEL: Ten of Pentacles

RAHMIEL: The Hermit

RAPHAEL: Queen of Swords

ZADKIEL: Judgement

DEMONS

ABADDON: Temperance

ASMODEUS: Wheel of Fortune

AZAZEL: The Devil

DAMIEN WARD: Ten of Pentacles

JUDAS: The Emperor

MAMMON: King of Pentacles

ORIAS: The Empress

RAUM: Seven of Cups

SALOME: Ace of Swords

SAMAEL: Death

MORTALS

ARIANNE ALTIER: Seven of Swords

BASTIEN AVALOS: Knight of Wands

CADE BEKKER: The Moon

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Nine of Cups

EVANGELINE TRAME: Five of Swords

ISOLDE WICKEN: The Star

JASPER RICHE: The Hierophant

LUCA RICHE: Knight of Cups

REVNA VOLK: The Magician

ROMILDA ALTIER: Strength

HORSEMEN

DMITRI: Three of Swords

NERISSA: Knight of Swords

RYUK: The Tower

VIKTORIA: Ace of Wands

[theholycovenantrpg]

if the horsemen were to create their own kingdoms, who would be under which horsemen?

Oooh, this question was really fun! 

CONQUEST (ruled by Dmitri) -- Rahmiel, Zadkiel, Gabriel, Gadriel, Romilda Altier, Isolde Wicken, Luca Riche, Azazel

FAMINE (ruled by Viktoria) -- Raphael, Cassiel, Caphriel, Estienne Wicken, Judas, Samael, Asmodeus, Raum, Salome, Abaddon, Orias

DEATH (ruled by Ryuk) -- Michael, Arael, Evangeline Trame, Revna Volk, Damien Ward, Mammon, Jasper Riche

WAR (ruled by Nerissa) -- Ephemera, Arianne Altier, Bastien Avalos, Cade Bekker

[theholycovenantrpg]

can you categorize the characters by what zodiac signs you think they are? :)

This is very much something that the applicants have FULL say on, but from my understanding, here is where they stand:

Aries - Ephemera, Nerissa Taurus - Samael, Abaddon Gemini - Cassiel, Estienne Wicken, Evangeline Trame Cancer - Gadriel, Isolde Wicken, Damien Ward Leo - Arianne Altier, Gabriel, Cade Bekker, Salome, Dmitri Virgo - Jasper Riche, Orias, Judas, Mammon Libra - Rahmiel, Luca Riche, Asmodeus Scorpio - Arael, Raphael, Ryuk, Azazel Sagittarius - Zadkiel, Bastien Avalos, Raum Capricorn - Michael, Revna Volk Aquarius - Romilda Altier, Viktoria Pisces - Caphriel