#phantom mangle kin

[freddyfazbears-kinhelp]

stimboard for phantom mangle with creeks, grass slime, cleancore and green

for anon

🌫 🦊 🌫

🦊 🐻 🦊

🌫 🦊 🌫

[fuckingaroundatfreddys]

Phantom Mangle Moodboard

For... Nobody.

MOD NOTE - Phantoms need more love honestly

[plush-cakes]

Oh! funfact, I have memories of the fnaf 3 fire, that I don't believe are tied to my Plushtrap canon..

[featherdawn]

as much as fnaf world is a mid game I can absolutely see why 12 year old me was so obsessed with it it's a little serotonin machine

[chaninfused]

ALWAYS IN THIS TWILIGHT • BC • a fallen goddess and every piece of herself she'd given to her beloved; angst; a somewhat toxic dynamic; fantasy; mentions of war; brief descriptions of gore and blood; 793 words.

If Chan would ask you for the sky and every little star in the infinite cosmos, you would hand them to him in a breath’s spell.

Yet, there he was, earnest and sincere as his eyes fluttered once, twice. Hesitant, perhaps. Regretful, like those of a man who had spent a fortune on the most joyous night of gambling.

You wanted to laugh, or cry, or both.

‘Your eyes, only.’

He was asking so little of you.

“I’m sorry.” Chan slumped to his knees at the foot of your shrine, fingers digging into the dirt as he brought his head low. He was a broken willow tree, and you, his torn moon.

“My love, don’t be,” a voice that was everywhere and nowhere at once, a declaration for the universe and a murmur only he heard. You reached a phantom hand to lift his chin from his dampened palms.

His shoulders trembled like leaves in a cruel wind, his tears a silent river that wreaked destruction in its path toward you, killing the ever-living essence in your ethereal existence.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the words that left his lips were a mangled prayer that seemed to be deaf to your speech. There was nothing for him to be sorry for. Hadn’t you ripped your beating heart out of your chest for him before?

“Dearest…” you traced his features with the ghost of your fingers, watching his darling eyes flutter shut for the first moment of respite in years. His face—beautiful, broken, human—was one you knew from a thousand centuries past, when you first fell to the mortal realm and found yourself imprisoned upon this holy hill.

Chan was the human king who chased your fallen star, then with his many knights and subjects, erected this grand shrine for you to live in. He was kind, and his golden heart made him precious even to one forsaken such as yourself. You loved him, and by some heavenly jest, he loved you in return.

That was his sin—loving you, who had been banished from heaven, a love greater and mightier than the wildest storms. A love of which your kin deemed you undeserving, for your palms were tainted black with the divine blood of another.  

Yet, when the sky hailed with fire and heaven opened its doors to reclaim you, Chan stood in defiance, a sword of earthly steel in his grasp and a cosmic fury in his gaze. In the cage of his mortal flesh, your immortal heart beat, lending him the strength he so brazenly sought.

The war that ensued from his rebellion was one of a thousand centuries. For as long as he lived a human with a god’s heart, you were tethered to this realm. And he fought to keep it that way.

When your brethren stole his sword-wielding hands, you gifted him yours, divine so that he may strike with the force of every sun and every moon. When they severed the legs by which he stood before them, resentful, you offered him yours so that he may rise forever unhindered. And when they pierced his chest and he bled crimson rivers, you poured your blood for him, oceans so that his heart may never again grow athirst.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t—”

The words that refused to leave Chan’s lips were heard by the heart of yours that beat in tandem with his.

‘Forgive me for my selfishness, for I cannot part with you. Forgive me, my love, for I cannot see you anymore.’

You brushed your thumbs over his closed eyes. His lashes were adorned with shimmering tears, strokes of liquid stars across his cheeks. Your most beloved’s vision had been taken from him by those seraphic hands, and there was no doubt in your mind as to what you had to do.

You touched the phantom of your forehead against his and closed your eyes, speaking a song of a thousand angels, “Go.”

“Wait! No—! Please, don’t—”

Chan’s eyes snapped open, and he attempted to push you away. Barely, softly, because he could never think to use any real force against you. But it was too late. The vision that he now gazed upon you with was that of a god, vast, boundless, true.

It made him double over, anguished beyond comprehension.

“No, no! Take it back, please! Y/n—!”

‘I don’t wish to do this to you anymore. You’ve got nothing left. You'll become nothing—’

You pressed your lips against the heap of his soft curls to silence his rampant mind. In truth, you could only smile, for you found no greater joy than in giving yourself away to him.

“Go and end this war, my love.”

[confetti-and-confessions]

✰ KINLIST

IDS / PERMASHIFTS —

Henry Emily (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

Takuto Maruki (Persona 5 Royal)

Jing Yuan (Honkai: Star Rail)

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

HIGH KINS —

Jonathan Sims (The Magnus Archives)

Pixlriffs (Empires SMP + Fantasy SMP) ((Cladokin))

Ozpin (RWBY)

Peter Kennedy (Dayshift at Freddy’s)

Bonnie Bully/Cassie’s dad (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

MEDIUM KINS —

W.D. Gaster (Undertale + Glitchtale + Handplates)

Paul Matthews (Hatchetfield)

Pure Vanilla Cookie (Cookie Run: Kingdom)

Owen (Outsiders SMP + NewLife SMP + Pirates SMP + Rats SMP) ((Cladokin))

John Ward (FAITH: The Unholy Trinity)

Sunday (Honkai: Star Rail)

Stolas Goetia (Helluva Boss)

Mangle (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

Phantom Mangle (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

Edward Pritchard (Silent Screams)

Dallon Weekes (iDKHOW BUT THEY FOUND ME Lore)

Philza (Dream SMP)

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

LOW KINS —

Karl Jacobs (Dream SMP)

Frank Frankly (Welcome Home)

Susan Woodings (The Walten Files)

Shuji Ikutsuki (Persona 3 Reload)

Stanford Pines (Gravity Falls)

Wiggog Y’wrath (Hatchetfield)

Stardust Cookie (Cookie Run: Kingdom)

Lolbit (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

Ballora (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

Ryunosuke Naruhodo (The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles)

Hero!Mysterio (Marvel Cinematic Universe AU)

Sun (Sun and Moon Show)

Henry Creel (Stranger Things)

Nightmare Mangle (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

FICTIONFLICKERS —

Spider-Noir (Spider-verse)

Apollo Justice (Ace Attorney)

Loki Laufeyson (Loki)

Mordecai Heller (Lackadaisy)

Godot (Ace Attorney)

Elder Mark (Craig of the Creek)

Caine (The Amazing Digital Circus)

Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

✰ Boundaries ✰ Canonmates & F/Os ✰

[mafiya]

   THE   MANOR   IS   SILENT,   bereft   of   the   noise   of   his   brothers   &   sisters   playing   durak,   or   his   parents   bickering   about   money   beneath   a   crystal   chandelier.    rain   patters   upon   the   windowpane   of   his   office   far   up   on   the   third   story,   and   he   becomes   adrift   in   thought,   the   sound   of   the   family’s   guarddog   padding   through   corridors   with   claws   clicking   on   marble   flooring   lost   to   mishka’s   mind   ━━━   the   reminiscence   of   watching   his   friends   mangled,   holding   their   guts   in   their   arms   like   dirty   laundry. in   the   midst   of   his   sulking,   his   office   door   abruptly   creaks   open.   mishka   needs   not   look   to   see   who   it   is;   in   the   deep   pit   of   his   concave   stomach   lies   the   feeling   of   the   shadow   being   casted   upon   the   floor   not   belonging   to   kin,   as   conspicuous   as   the   sound   of   a   body   plummeting   to   the   boot   -   trampled   snow   with   a   thud. the   world   has   gone   glassy.   fear   …   perhaps   fury.   his   heart   jolts   in   his   chest.   lighting   a   cream   cigar,   wrapped   leaf   is   cradled   betwixt   the   crooked   bones   of   freakishly   slender   fingers   as   the   pakhan   turns   to   the   stranger,   tobacco   ash   in   his   beard   &   bile   creeping   up   his   throat. 〝    плохой   характер,    〞   mishka   breathes,   raspy   as   a   phantom.   only   a   few   drags   are   taken   from   the   cigar   before   pointedly   snuffed   out   into   the   wood   of   his   desk,   downturned   eyes   dark   &   melancholic.   despite   the   barrel   of   a   gun   pointing   directly   at   the   crook   of   his   aquiline   nose   betwixt   sad   grey   brows,   mishka   fixes   the   neck   of   his   black   woolen   sweater   far   up   to   his   sharp   jaw   and   locks   his   eyes   with   @dandylionsden.

〝    how   much   are   they   paying   you   ?    〞  

[fazkins]

HEN INTRO

Hello! I’m Henry, but you can call me Hen! I ID as Henry Emily from the FNaF games and also kin Mangle, Phantom Mangle, and Ballora, and Peter Kennedy from DSaF! I use any and all pronouns, so don’t be afraid to go nuts! My sp/in is FNaF, and I enjoy other medias such as The Magnus Archives, Persona 5 Royal, and many many more. I’m an artist and a writer, so I may do some art requests, however I’m pretty busy and will likely stick to moodboards and the like. I follow basic DNI and will do pretty much any request, but I’m pretty iffy with some Willry content so it really depends.

The other mods are very cool people and great friends, I’m very excited to be here! <3 It’s very nice to meet all of you!

- 📼⚙️

[twin-triforce]

" i dreamed a dream, no more. go back to sleep. " // from ganondorf to link! I STARE DIRECTLY AT THE SHEIKAH RESURRECTION SHRINE. GOT SOME CONNOTATIONS

[ I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this, in my defense, so if this is ass, I’m sorry? But I did have fun writing this, so, i hope you somewhat enjoy? ]

Link had already seen what the Yiga did to the home of the Shrine of Resurrection. Unlike all the trial shrines, the Maz Koshia’s had remained. Link did not visit more than once, before the Upheaval, but he knew the old monk had remained.

And Link returned, for advice. To find Maz Koshia gone, along with the Shrine. Replaced by a Yiga base. And there, Link had found a journal. They had been trying to experiment with ways to bring Ganon’s physical form back this way. And Links final teacher had used what remained of their power to disappear, after so many failures of theirs. Likely for good, like the rest of their kin.

And Link had shouted angrily about the ordeal, only for this Phantom to claim, in a voice that, to this day made Link tremble, that it had dreamed. It claimed to have woken up. And then fade away all over. Visions of cheering Yiga beginning to realize all has failed again, like a dream.

Link wouldn't have it, rage and a bit of jealousy coursing through his bones. His voice is hoarse and underused as he shouts, a year of sleep and a renewed stress-induced silence making usage difficult, but certainly not impossible under the terms of anger.

“Says the man that slept for millenia! You had your chance to dream, and you took mine to pay for it.” 101 years twice wasted in a restless sleep of healing. Hopes and dreams of love, ripped out of his mangled, scarred, now-mismatched palms. “I’ve slept long enough, Ganondorf, and your dreams are hollow.”

Link intends to make himself the thing of Ganondorf's nightmares. As vengeance for the subjects of his own.

"Now go back to sleep," he mocks, a snarl in his throat as he swings again.

[motionactivated]

the phantom and the nightmare

[fazbears-horror-attraction]

Hello Hello!!! I'm Phantom Mangle, but you can call me Phantom or Mangle!

☆ I'm Plural + ND psychotic and a young Adult! I'm alterhuman / nonhuman!

☆ I use it/it's pronouns or just use my name(s) <3

☆ I make Moodboards, Icons (aes, reply, pride and regular), Transparents, and Headmate drawings (for free!)

☆ I also do name + pronoun help/suggestions, flag making and gender making.

☆I allow Confessions from kin, headmates, hearted, DAs, and IRLs (I won't reply to these i will just post them).

☆ I also make random positivity posts!!!

I try to make my blog accessibility friendly! So feel free to ask me to ID something!

Tagging: @kenochoric @mogai-sunflowers @pierz @xenic-promos (lmk if you want to be removed! /gen ^^)

[ID: the first photo is a screen shot of phantom mangle from fnaf hanging upside down in a dark hall way. The second photo is the fnaf 3 office. End ID]

[acerace]

What magic would each duo have in your au? :o

This concept has spiraled into a full blown au now anon look what you’ve done /j

Cleo is the queen of the undead. Bdubs is human, and scared of the dark. Every day he's asleep by sundown to will the monsters away. After an encounter with a dark and mangled mass of green deep within a jungle years ago, Bdubs wants nothing to do with the supernatural, full stop. One night he stays up building and is chased by monsters into a thick and twisted forest, stumbles across a dead and rotting woman with fiery red hair and a crown of bones and flowers. They talk. Time passes. Cleo, one day, promises Bdubs a way to keep the monsters away, to drive off the dark and the things that lurk within it. It will cost him, and change him, and probably not for the better, but he'll be safe. Bdubs agrees.

Bdubs no longer sleeps. His phantom membrane wings give him flight, his wide and piercing eyes able to see perfectly in the dark. Cleo is the queen of the undead, and they are charmed by her voice, follow her commands, an unending army constantly replenished with every battle. When Bdubs and Cleo bound their souls together, their mutual magic flourished as flowers, as twisting tangling thorny vines erupting from the ground, as wither roses blooming from their fingertips. Water turned turned to wine turned to poison.

The Red King is a creature of the night, grey skinned and red eyed. A howling snarling beast with a crown dripping eternal blood, sword clutched in clawed fingers, a crimson cloak around his shoulders. Martyn is human, with no ties to land or kin or purpose. A wanderer. One night there is a hunt, a chilling howl echoing across the mountains. Martyn is alone. Martyn is chased. Wolf jaws close around his arm, another set snaps for his throat, death a hair's breath away when the Red King calls them off. Later, Martyn will say the Red King is kind, and he'll be scoffed at, dismissed, but he'll be thinking of this moment. The Red King tells Martyn in a gruff voice that he had not realized his dogs had scented human, apologizes for the misunderstanding, leaves with his pack of wolves milling around his legs in search of actual game. Martyn is terrified. Martyn is enamoured.

When they meet the second time, Martyn is walking into the court of the Red King with his head raised high and defiant. It had taken some ingenuity to find this place, but he's done it, and he swears fealty to the Red King, who accepts his loyalty, impressed by his boldness and determination despite himself. To join the Red King’s court, you must leave your humanity behind, and Martyn does, shedding mortal coils like snakeskin, newly pointed ears the most obvious sign of his new allegiance, new abilities. The persuasion in his voice is a coincidence, he swears, and his perfect mimicry of mobs nothing more than a party trick. He is lying. Time passes. Martyn and the Red King talk, and often. When Martyn swears his soul to Ren and when Ren gifts his in return, their mutual magic is cold. Winter bites, as does their magic, snapping and frozen and tinged red. It surprises them both, but the warmth they feel when they look at each other more than makes up for it. 

Jimmy is human, a farmer, in search of his missing cow. He is not very wealthy, and he can’t afford to lose even one of his herd, and besides, Daisy is his favourite and he can’t just abandon her. Jimmy finds Daisy on the other side of one of many magic barriers in the world, the kind that keep humans and beings separate, the kind easily crossed by mobs and monsters alike. A line that cannot be uncrossed, should he choose to go in. He hesitates, and enters the land of the nature spirits. The flower kingdom is isolationist, borders closed year round, even to other beings. The king of the meadow is said to be cold and aloof, distant as the stars, but when Jimmy stumbles across him with Daisy happily following on her lead some days later, he finds Scott is nothing like the rumours. He finds he doesn’t want to leave. Time passes. Jimmy has found a home among the nature spirits, a home hidden in the side of a hill for him and Daisy both. And he’s found a friendship with Scott deeper than anything he’s experienced before. Scott’s magic is elemental, powerful, visible in the way poppies bloom at his touch, in the way water purifies in cupped hands, in the way he makes ice sparkle like chips of stars and in the way the wind tousles Jimmy’s hair like a gentle caress. Scott swears the breeze isn’t him, but Jimmy simply smiles, tells Scott that if he wants to play with his hair all he has to do is ask. When Jimmy and Scott tie their souls together, they do it with a bouquet of poppies and with iron rings. Their mutual magic makes a lightshow- fireworks and constellations and conflagrations. Sparks fly from their fingertips, green and yellow and red, float around them like burning harmless wisps. Their magic is light and energy, rainbows in reflections. 

Grian and Scar are lying to each other. They’re still lying when Scar puts his soul in Grian’s hands, when Grian drops it, when Grian gives his to Scar in exchange. Grian is a being, brightly coloured wings at his back, but nothing- no one- special, he swears, poker face far better than Scar’s. Scar is human, all charisma and business deals, and that’s all, he says, with fingers crossed behind his back. They do not talk about the purple in Grian’s eyes or in his feathers, about the shattered halo half visible around his head. They do not talk about how Scar’s eyes glint blue or the jagged wings half visible at his back, and neither brings up their masks, one white and eyeless and the other grey and smirking. They’re lying and they both know it. Beings are not supposed to be able to make soul bonds, so Grian and Scar are very surprised to find their mutual magic exists at all, let alone how it scorches them. It’s fire and flame, controlled explosions and smoke in their lungs. It’s molten rock and sand blasted into glass and obsidian, cut into daggers. Their mutual magic is combustion, air and fire partners in crime, and there is nothing more fitting. 

Or, there is a distant land blessed by a myriad of magic, and there is a curse settling into its soil, and very soon it will make itself known, and when it does blood will reign. What happens when you rip a soul in two? 

[citizenoftmrrwlnd]

sorry for the wait, everyone! in the meantime, here's an inbox check :)

✨playlist for an arctic selkie ✨parrot grian icons ✨fashion for a phantom (griangender) ✨kin care for mae borowski (Myers) ✨fashion for glamrock freddy ✨playlist for camilo madrigal (💜anon) ✨fashion for mike afton ✨fashion for cecil palmer (🌙☎️anon) ✨fashion for rainbow dash ✨icons for elodie (🪐anon) ✨names and pronouns for a glamrock mangle fictive (🌠anon) ✨names for an alienkin (quirrrell) ✨names and pronouns for vanny ✨names for charlotte emily/marionette

[withered-toys]

What your favorite animatronic says about you

A very cool and accurate account from me

FNAF 1

Freddy: You’re a gay man and you like bears

Bonnie: You really like characters with “sidekick cartoon character” vibes

Chica: You’re a lesbian and you can probably cook

Foxy: You were called an “energetic child” but in reality you just had adhd

Golden Freddy: You were an edgy kid when the game first came out and grew attached to Golden Freddy and never let go

FNAF 2

Toy Freddy: You’re the goofy friend

Toy Bonnie: You’re nonbinary but definitely had a complicated relationship with it at first

Toy Chica: You’re either a lesbian who likes the 80s aesthetic or you thirst for the animatronics. No matter which you are you hate the other

Mangle: You have trauma that was brushed off as a child and is only getting addressed now that you’re an adult and people listen to you

Balloon Boy: You liked him ironically at first because everyone else seemed to hate him but now you’ve grown to actually genuinely like him

JJ: She is a littel baby and she cannot change that and you know this

Puppet: Same as Golden Freddy but your favorite Undertale character is Gaster

Withered Freddy: Same as regular Freddy but you probably like steampunk

Withered Bonnie: You’re nonbinary and you hate being perceived

Withered Chica: You’re a butch lesbian and you own at least three leather jackets

Withered Foxy: You’re a trans guy who laughs at “trans guys have the names of dying victorian children” jokes bc they apply to you

RWQFSFASXC: Same as Withered Bonnie but you really like Halloween

Shadow Freddy: Same as regular Freddy but you’re also goth

FNAF 3

Springtrap/Spring Bonnie: You’re trans and you hate William Afton with a passion

Any of the Phantoms: Same as their regular counterparts but you like arson

FNAF 4

Fredbear: You didn’t have a good father figure in your life as a child and are now drawn to characters with fatherly energy

Any of the Nightmares: Same as their regular counterparts but you’re goth

Any of the halloween/jack-o animatronics: Same as their regular counterparts but you’re goth and you like arson

SISTER LOCATION

Baby: You either kin Elizabeth Afton or you kin Michael Afton

Ballora: You’re a femme bi woman and you’re the mom friend

Funtime Foxy: You like a lot of Tumblr sexymen but you hate William Afton

Funtime Freddy: You’re excitable and/or you have a mental illness that’s portrayed as “scary” and “dangerous” by popular media

Funtime Chica: You’re very epic and are well aware of this

Lolbit: This is not your first time kinning an evil robot

Bidybab: You like characters everyone forgets about

Minireena: You collect those little clown doll things

Bon-Bon/Bonnet: You’re short

Ennard: You DEFINITELY kin Michael Afton

PIZZERIA SIM

Rockstar Freddy: You’ve been to an actual Chuck-E-Cheese’s and probably smoke weed

Rockstar Bonnie: You like characters who are almost Tumblr sexymen but aren’t twink enough to be considered one

Rockstar Chica: You’re a lesbian and are absolutely unhinged

Rockstar Foxy: You genuinely like the pirate aesthetic

Happy Frog: You’re babey

Mr. Hippo: You didn’t have good grandfathers and so you seek out a replacement for that in the media you consume

Orville Elephant: Same as Mr. Hippo, they’re a set

Nedd Bear: You have disability that manifests in how you move and you relate to him

Pigpatch: You’re actually from a rural area

Lefty: You’re trans and on a mission. What mission? We may never know

El Chip: I have no idea you could be literally anything

Music Man: You did band in middle school

Dee Dee: You’re a little stinker

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was VIKTORIA, a HORSEMAN loyal to the cause of the HORSEMEN. She said to be IMMORTAL and uses SHE/THEY pronouns. In this New Testament they serve as the HORSEMAN OF FAMINE. Blessed be their name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

Woven from the cloying threads of God’s pangs and pains of hunger, they walk the same starved path that was once paved for them as the Horseman of Famine, latching onto needs and hungers, looping them around piteous souls, and tugging until all are left choking on the excess. With a keen, instinctive insight into the base needs and wants of others, Viktoria is able to stir them at will, plucking and pulling at them with skirting pinches of influence that can end with nothing more than an itch of restlessness, or with their target succumbing to their own insatiability in extreme, hazardous ways. She evokes her gift in calculation or on instinct, with purpose rather than relish, as her strength ultimately lies beyond it and in the strategic role that they occupy among the Horsemen. Sharp in their cunning and compelling in their diplomacy, Viktoria serves as a tactician among her brethren, orchestrating their operations and delegating in their name when it comes to the political standing of the Horsemen and their recruitment across the realms. Hailed as the Black Horseman, Viktoria can be instantly recognized by the gaunt, skeletal steed upon which they perch; coal-black and bone-carved, a creature spat from the hollow of Purgatory’s caving stomach, right alongside its ancient rider.

THE HISTORY.

Could there be any doom greater than the dread of the appetite? Could there be any curse harsher than the recurring clench of hunger? Such questions speckled the gentle snows that drifted over God, clustering along His lashes and melting against His lips in a phantom echo of the scene swallowed up within His all-seeing gaze. Perched atop His throne, peering through a whirling hollow left gaping at the foot of the dais, God looked down upon His infantile, newly-molded world, drawn towards the stark, snow-splayed visage of the distant North. He had designed the mortal plane to be infinitely patient as it bloomed and breathed; as such, the birth of some creations had preceded that of others. A grand testament to that was a simple pack of wolves, made ravenous by the dastardly seed of starvation that had planted itself among them as they awaited prey and promise from the rule of nature. As God licked His lips around the taste of His creations’ blood, as He shuddered against the tremor of their howls and clenched His eyes shut at the rending of their teeth, passive while they tore into one another, He laid His hand upon His mouth and pondered the notion of sustenance -- the pain of that need, the perility of its loss. He glanced at the fruits ripening every corner of Heaven, so delectable and fulfilling, before drawing His gaze back to the ravenous vision of His creations, so treacherous and brutal; and in that moment, He realized that both the curse and its cost were shared by Him and His creations alike. Then He set off to make His decree.

Any beginning must be laced with the omen of an end, and the divine onset of the world was no different. The surviving wolves drudged off into the forest with the anemic corpses of their kin left behind in a mangled cluster, and God walked away from the scene and the throne alike, tugged by the lull of creation, inspired and intent on etching a foretold close into the fresh mold of the world. He starved Himself for eons, deprived of Heaven’s inviting provisions and huddled away from the beckoning vision of His beloved creations; until He withered into a broken-boned husk, a decayed, dilapidated, perfectly ripe vessel for the first of His hallowed Horsemen. He cut out a thin strip of flesh from His own shriveled, caving stomach, laid it before Him, and in the fleeting moment it took for His wound to sew itself back together, Famine had built themself around the last remaining trace of it. They stood before him, hawk-eyed and hollow-cheeked, and God spared her no more than a fleeting look of pride before He eagerly set out to conjure her brethren. In the end, as she stood alongside them and felt God’s appraising gaze trickle over her, Famine felt compelled to do nothing more than tilt their head and look upon their surroundings. A frail, subtle fissure burrowed into their brow as they absorbed the bland, overly bright planes of Heaven, as she latched onto the horizon and noted that the starkness of it all stretched with no limit or end -- then a primitive sentiment began to worm its way in, settling inside them with a sense of familiar finality as though it was reclaiming its place of birth within their vacant core. Dissatisfaction. 

Famine could feel nothing else, despite having been crafted solely for God’s purpose; almost as though the discontent had filled her up until there was no room for anything else. They turned back towards God, dim eyes locking upon His; set alight by a single, unspoken demand. There must be more than this. I want more than this. With a knowing smile, God tipped His head in an obliging nod, then slashed His hand through the misty air. He needn’t utter a single word; the Horsemen bore intrinsic knowledge of their goal, and so they let it guide them, mindlessly marching ahead and through the entryway. They landed in Purgatory as one, then broke off into a scatter; the unfelt rush of time tugging each one of them towards a different pursuit while they awaited the promised call and the preordained collapse. The middling realm was as bleak and barren as Heaven had appeared to be, and the realization nearly left Famine curdling with fury -- if it weren’t for their conviction that they could sculpt their surroundings around the visage of greatness that burned behind her eyes. She was appalled to think that God had stitched her together with holy threads of hunger only to cast her where no sustenance could be reaped, yet quickly realized that He could have only done so to stir their buried vision the same way they roused one’s stifled appetite. Driven almost by an echo of the same inventive impulse that had ushered her existence, Famine set out to rebuild Purgatory in her own image. Countless centuries were dedicated to the art of construction and the pursuit of glory, with Famine coasting along the tide of their fulfillment until she nearly forgot her fated purpose. But then came their bitter reminder.

The Horsemen were called to the mortal plane, not by God, but by an abrupt, jagged fracture through Purgatory, not too different from the one that had once granted them entry. Nonetheless, Famine hesitated before it, not only skeptical of their sudden, unexpected release, but also reluctant to abandon the glorious kingdom that they had built atop the souls of the doomed and the forgotten. Yet where their brethren walked, they could only follow, and so she did; only to find herself caught in the thralls of that archaic, cloying sense of displeasure that she had come to forget. With all the greatness of the world hoarded by its new divine rulers, the Horsemen were left with no choice but to pocket the scraps and make something of them. And so Famine, once a glorious omen and a grand architect, was now reduced to a simple killer for hire, with a mortal name and a murky ambition that could not possibly be pursued with a tucked blade and a pouch of crystals. Yet she was not known to surrender to her own displeasure, no matter how vast or empty of vision, and so as time passed, she laid the stepping stones of her great ascent, establishing themself in their most fitting position among the Horsemen and planting a belligerent foot onto the narrow doorway of political reach within the New World. She would shape it in her own design, or leave it starved and hollow-bellied -- and the world could do nothing but surrender, and lay itself pliant before their vision.

THE CONNECTIONS.

RYUK, NERISSA & DMITRI: Fellowship. There was not a moment in her existence where she hadn’t been bound to them, hooked upon the agony-imbued trace of God that ran cleanly through them all, ensnared and fated to belong nowhere else. Such was the only limitation that Viktoria accepted for themself, contentedly anchored to their brethren even as they soared and soared in boundless aspiration. She never envisioned it without their familiar visages lingering in the background, never sought after it without leaning into their grounding presence on either side of her. Where a Horseman walks, three more follow. Such was their oath, and with the utmost devotion, they all kept it, despite the fleeting yet heavy-weighing moments when they would look upon each other in times of conflict and share the implicit inquiry of whether their devotion to one another was true, or merely a mirage conjured up by the decayed essence of God that that they still carried. Viktoria trusted them, willingly walked alongside them, and although they shared a firmer bond with Dmitri; one forged from the rare tranquility he evoked in them and the kindred, bloodless hunger they recognized in one another, Viktoria viewed her fellow Horsemen with equal regard. To be one another’s beginning, middle, and end. Such was their oath.

MICHAEL: Stepping stone. Theirs was a transactional bond, built from nothing but the mutual benefit they gained from one another. For Michael, it was protection and resources, and for Viktoria, it was reach and influence. Over time, however, the great King of Caelum seemed to have faltered in his ever-assured steps; gaining a strange glimmer in his eyes and a humming stillness to his gait when in their presence. Viktoria had repelled it at first, bearing no need to be an object of one’s foolish desire, be it an innocuous fascination or anything else; yet despite her cutting remarks and chilled disregard, Michael continued to throw crystals at her feet, hiring her time and time again. It was then that Viktoria had decided -- if they couldn’t sever the cord, then they would climb with it. She didn’t treat Michael with any more warmth or amiability, but sometimes, when it suited her their purposes, they would feed into his fascination just enough to gain what they sought after. She could easily imagine the power she could seize with the famed Archangel curled at her heel, and she had no doubt that it was hers for the taking.

ASMODEUS: Pursuit. However base and primordial, their divine insight flowed through the same veins and ran through the same channels as that of Asmodeus. Hunger called for kindred hunger, after all, and she could almost taste his along her withered tongue. Judging by how deeply he seemed to lose himself in the desires of others, and the vivid metamorphosis that took place as he embodied them, Viktoria would go as far as to say that his powers stretched to further limits than hers. As such, it was an utter waste that Asmodeus chose to expend them on aimless conquest and fleeting fulfillment. He was bleeding with might, brimming with potential, and Viktoria was adamant on making him see it. He refused and revolted, denying their pursuit and shunning their promises as though the very notion of it all was damning to him. Yet Viktoria was not known for her surrender, especially when they had such firm faith in the demon’s potential. She would see to it that Asmodeus ascended to the heights of his power, no matter the plummets that he must first endure.

CASSIEL: Slice of kingdom. She had been their first protégé. Cassiel, the angel with the beckoning eyes and the rot-struck core to match. She had called to Viktoria the same way that any cloying, hungering soul did, yet she had soon proven herself to be like no other; growing into her greed and clawing her way to the peak Viktoria had set within her sights as though nothing in the Old World or the New could stand in her way. She had roused their pride in a way that had grown faded and unfelt since the days of their Purgatory-bound kingdom, and even though Viktoria did not openly express it, firm as she was in her belief that Cassiel must be held back and kept steady lest she set in place her own ruin, Viktoria could sense that the angel was keenly aware of her value to them. Not only did Cassiel harness that knowledge, but she also offered the truth of her aspirations in return, certain that the Horseman would propel her towards them. Viktoria didn’t think Cassiel was ready; still far too eager and insatiable in her eyes. Yet in spite of that, they found themself awaiting the crucial moment when the angel would prove them wrong.

Viktoria is portrayed by Angela Sarafyan and was written by JEN. They are currently TAKEN by HINA.

[lord-of-cactus]

Day one on the smpblr server:

Its utter chaos, there's a mangled carson at spawn, the kins are rising, human dog fights are taking place in war pits, the phantoms oh my god, and my skin keeps chaging into Jschlatt