#takenspirit

[senatushq]

NAME. Boranehn AGE & BIRTH DATE. Ancient & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Spirit ( Revenant ) OCCUPATION. Former Queensguard FACE CLAIM. Rege-Jean Page

biography

Before Sehanine had fallen, she had been a great goddess of the Seldarine. She still was to most. She still was to the spirit that she had pulled from the stars and made into something worth her time. A statue of an elf was what she had decided to put him within. Virnehn was what she had named him when she had gazed upon the flesh that came from the statue she gazed upon. Joy. It was a name she had hoped would bring some sort of peace and Virnehn had hoped to bring her exactly what she had named him. Joy. He had been a mere revenant looking to please the person that had pulled him from nothing and made him into something.

Virnehn, from the goddess, was first and foremost that elven statue, but she had given him that gift of shifting into a wyvern of the stars. However, that wasn't all he had to thank Sehanine for giving him. He could remember the first time he had been amongst the elves. He'd been told by the goddess that there was much for him to learn, but Virnehn had found himself reluctant to learn much outside of their home. People were something he had never quite understood yet was forced to understand regardless. Elves were who he was shaped after. Meant to be something of great importance, Virnehn knew he had to act like it, too. That didn't mean he had to be friendly though. It was the indifference upon Sehanine's face that caused him to change his mind on that matter though.

The elves were became of as much importance to him as Sehanine herself. Virnehn ended up picking up whatever countenance that the goddess herself had. Indifference towards others because he was merely unimpressed with most things. He was nowhere near judgmental about how they chose to live their lives, but he always hoped for more than what they chose to have for themselves. Virnehn always assumed that Sehanine wanted him to be better than even she could imagine though. So he always worked to prove himself to her. The home she had brought him into was supposed to be a grand place that people strived to make themselves a part of. The revenant should have felt lucky with everything the goddess had gifted to him. She always looked at him with wonder and he directed that same sentiment towards her as well. Perhaps it was his lack of time in this world that caused him to be so indifferent towards anyone that wasn't her.

But the light was always what Virnehn gravitated towards. Sehanine showed him the light that came from the world she had brought him into. All light could dim though. All light could be snuffed out and replaced with something much darker and much more sinister. When the goddess fell, Virnehn had not known what he would become, but he had found himself back within his statue. Unbeknownst to him at that exact time, where he had lost Sehanine, he had gained another. Ayi'ig. Dragged from Hyporborea in the clutches of who would become the queen of the drow, he had been sealed within his statue until they reached the depths of the Underdark. It was not known to him the kind of person he would become after that, but the darkness sunk into the stone of Virnehn's statue. Light had once been all he had been shown to follow and now, under the eye of Ayi'ig and Lloth, he had been corrupted by the shadows. No longer would he be called upon as Virnehn.

From the shadows, a new revenant was born from that same stone statue that Sehanine had put his spirit within. Boranehn. Joy was no longer something he would be thought to bring towards others. Still able to shift into that wyvern of the stars, Ayi'ig had gifted him with what Sehanine hadn't. Understanding and care for others was replaced with malevolence and the ability to put fear into others where he had never thought himself possible. Executioner was what she had called him. The queen of the drow had shifted his form from that of a high elf of Hyperborea to that of a dark elf of Menzoberranzan. There had been no other choice for him but to accept this new life that he had been thrust upon.

That was what made him the executioner he would be known as. At first, he had stayed adamant that Sehanine's way was the right way. However, time would only bring Lloth's, and through her, Ayi'ig's ideals to the forefront of his mind. Darkness was easy to fall into though. It was easy to accept what one had access to. Boranehn had once looked upon the goblins and the mindflayers through the eyes of who he once was. Virnehn would have looked at them and tried to assist them as best as he could. That was no longer who he was anymore though. Cold, some would call him. To others, to Ayi'ig, he was merely weaving the same web that she had taught him to weave. And so those creatures fell just as she had intended and Boranehn had been there to assist her through every single moment of the rise of Menzoberranzan. He would not let her think him weak and he would not let himself be weak. If he had to strike someone down to prove a point, he would. If the darkness had to blot out the light that had made him, then he would let it be. Sehanine was no longer around to tell him any different and it was time he made decisions for himself. Without her.

Boranehn had found himself willing to have people fear him, willing to deal a sentence that others simply would not do. Drow society was cruel, but there were those that still showed fear. Fear had no place in Menzoberranzan and all those that showed that to the revenant would suffer the same fate. He never had time for petty mind games. If someone worked against his queen, he would strike them down where they stood and bring their head to her as a trophy. Well, if there was any head left for him to bring back at all.

Executioner. That was what Ayi'ig called him, but he was also something else to her. A companion. A lover. A friend. Words that would never be spoken aloud because they showed weakness, but Boranehn gave to the queen of the drow whatever she requested of him without question. It was his duty to serve her, to be at her side through the worst and the best of drow society. And he had been there for her through it all. When it was time to take out the Soratami, he would be there. When it was time to kill the children of Titania, he would be there. At her side was where he would always be. However, just like Sehanine, Ayi'ig would fall, too.

Boranehn had never expected what had come to either of them. Before Ayi'ig, there had been Sehanine. They were both women that shaped him and now they were both gone. The revenant had not found Ayi'ig's body, but he had been sealed back within his statue before he could even realize she was dead. Only when the Devout pulled him from that elven statue did he realize what had happened to his companion.

He was an executioner though. First and foremost, he did what must be done. He killed when it was necessary and, even with the loss of Ayi'ig, he would make sure that his sword and bow and arrow struck fear into those that wished to make an enemy of him or those he protected. With the triumvirate of dark elves, he was at Nyloth's side now, but his loyalty was to the court. And they called him what he was always known to be. Through Sehanine. Through Ayi'ig. Through Nyloth. His name could be Virnehn. His name could be Boranehn. Yet he would always be an Executioner.

personality

+ introspective, wise, loyal - ruthless, aloof, dramatic

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Soranus & Justice AGE & BIRTH DATE. Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him, Male & He/Him SPECIES. High Elf & Spirit ( Revenant ) COURT. Dawn OCCUPATION. Elven Midwife & Trainer of Elven Warriors FACE CLAIM. Alex Høgh Andersen

biography

( tw: death, violence, murder ) Child of Hyperborea, Soranus was still in his infancy when the old empire began to crumble. Back then he had nothing but his mother, and the sword that had once been his father’s. This heirloom was a relic of the noble court of Dawn, and as Soranus’ father remained behind to hold back the tide of darkness so that his son could escape, he entrusted this revenant to the boy who was made to flee. Too young still to understand, Soranus was still a decade away from his maturity, at ninety years old he’d learned the histories of his people, and over the course of a century he grew into the beginnings of his prime. The Otherworld was a treacherous place, but under Yidhra’s leadership, and with Justice at his side Soranus was well protected.

Morality. All that was right and fair in the world, that was the manifestation of Justice. The aether was vast and wide, it was far more populated than the spirit had ever thought was possible. He vaguely remembers how he was made; Justice was pulled into the noble house of the Dawn Court, an elf that treated him with the respect that such a noble emotion deserved, perhaps. It was there that Justice manifested himself, into a warrior and a noble spirit that would build off the power of his wielder. Other emotions were new to him, as the ages passed, as those he knew died – he held on to the hope that justice would be enacted. He would be there, he always would be there. Passed down to Soranus, Justice was once again ready to be of use, ready to have a will and a purpose. He would protect the Dawn Elf once more, a child that he had seen grow into a young man, into a noble elf of the courts. Even as the worlds crumbled, he wouldn’t leave Soranus’ side. They were one and they fought as one. 

The realm of mortals was desolate and barren, it did not match the stories that had been traded down through the Dawn Court, nor what Yidhra had promised them. They said that this realm used to belong to the elves of Dawn when they served Oberon before The Great Old Ones had overtaken it, but when Soranus touched the earth all he felt was its pain. The great sorrow of abuse and the agonies of decay that the Abyssal and Outer Gods had subjected it to. Yidhra passed and as they wept, Titania rose; she was barely older than Soranus, two centuries if that, and as she ascended Soranus wondered how anyone could have stood to carry such a hefty burden. By now his power had waned so that Yidhra’s pact would see them through, and so Titania could reign. Soranus touched his blade, Justice, in doing so he felt stronger, braver, and more certain that in this new world they’d be safe. 

Confusion. The world had changed as Justice had known it. While he was attuned to the spirits of the world, as the revenants used to be created and joined, all of that stopped. There was no more Hyperborea, the remnants of a dying age that Justice would come to mourn. He’d watched the elves that he’d loved so dearly become a shell of what they used to be. Titania led them, her revenant at her side, and that’s what they were – companions, friends. The spirit that he had become was shaped by this loss. This mourning that he felt, it pushed him further and further, closer to the idea that he would be able to take a stand one day, and never watch the world crumble again. 

Eden was the paradise that was promised, humans, nymphs, seraphim, Gods, and all manner of creatures from the menagerie. Demigods mingled among them, some from Elysia, others were born within. Centuries rolled forward as Soranus took to schooling those who would listen to the old ways, to teaching them about the Dawn Court and listening to the tales and teachings that others had to offer. Members from the Sun, children of the Moon, followers of the Dusk, and the Gods who’d overseen it all. Horus among them, Soranus had to pry, but eventually the deity relented and in his visits to the Garden he shared some of what he knew. The history of the Seldarine, the good parts anyways, and Soranus relayed what he could to the children of Eden. For the first time in centuries, the eladrin felt at peace, weaker, certainly, but this was an era of safety; one that would not last forever.

Peace. It was what Justice found in the garden of Eden. Seraphim and demigods, creatures from all aspects of the realms had gathered once more in a place that was able to hold love again. There was kindness, and there was joy. Emotions that brought Justice forward, a staple of all that they had gone through to once more find a place that they could call home. There was always a war to be one in another life, another realm, but for now, he would be a protector. Justice had been given to them, finally. They had a home and a new life, a new race that would ensure they held a future for the eladrin and their queen, and all those that were lucky enough to be in their realm. 

Rebellion and fire came upon the garden, with Justice in hand, Soranus fought alongside the Blessed, the druids, the fey, and their allies. Not all made it through the flames, the battles that lasted far longer than anyone cared to remember. What remained of the Garden was ashes, the trees Laurelin and Telperion were gone; rotted into the earth, and once more the realm was reduced to a barren wasteland. In the dust of what they’d once been, Soranus buried his mother and watched what fey remained quietly dying off. Despite the pain, Soranus helped the world of mortals and the youthful children born from the Garden rebuild. The spring eladrin helped them take shelter, he helped create something from nothing, and he showed them the way. 

Anger. War was what he did best, and it was there that Justice learned to once again light the fire beneath his heart. Soranus would not be harmed, the eladrins had suffered enough – but they had all forgot. Over and over again, Justice would beat down those who got too close, those that would attempt to destroy the former elf and revenant. He would enact justice, he would bring them to their knees and cleave their heads from their shoulders and move onto the next without remorse. That was who he was, and that was what was owed. There was no such thing as mercy, not to Justice who knew what was theirs to take. Eden burned, and the mortals got what they deserved. A world that was brutal and bloody. The eladrins were tucked away once more into a court, once more into a home that was so far from the one that he had originally known. Justice was tired, but his journey was not over. It would not be over until he decided that they were given what they deserved. As Soranus’ sword, he would push the eladrin further and further – and he would protect him without a second thought. 

Mortals led short, brief lives, and they forgot the debt that was owed. They forgot that everything good about their world was planted by the fey, and by the elves that had come before them. Soranus and his kind had brought the seasons, his Court had brought the flowers and the fruit, and yet still they were burned and scorned. None remained of those that Soranus had travelled with from Hyperborea, none save for Justice, the faithful sword that was ever-present and beautiful at his side. Soranus was dutiful and attentive, his blood was noble but the seat of the chancellorship was never his to hold. Instead he protected what few youth were born, sometimes one or two a century and that was if they were fortunate. Soranus travelled between the Courts, Spring, Winter, Summer, and Autumn - it didn’t matter so long as those within were safe. 

Isolated. Over and over again, eladrin would come to him. Soranus had his duty, he had his nurturing heart, his caring emotions that were perfect for those that were new to this world; the ones that only knew this world. Justice would push them, push them until they no longer wished to be broken down and pieced back together. That was the reality of justice. The eladrins would learn that they were owed more, that they were all owed more. It took time, it took Soranus reminding him that they were gone from that world, that it no longer existed, for Justice to think clearer. If they could not have the past, if they could not remember, then the mortal realm did not deserve their mercy. So that’s what he taught. He taught them to find their own justice in their lives. The revenant told them no one would be kind, no one would remember: if they did not enact justice for themselves, there would be no one else to do it for them. Over and over again, Justice found himself waning. The revenant was so far from who he’d been, a spirit aged by the turmoil of all the emotions and magic that surrounded him, he found himself broken and shattered, with no one but Soranus. 

Titania built a new home within the Otherworld, chased away by pain, suffering, and murder; with Justice it was all Soranus could do to shepherd the vulnerable and to remain a sentinel of the Spring. Still, this new place wouldn’t last; shadows turned their eye upon the Court as Titania was weakened and captured. Tired of fighting, tired of losing, and tired of watching people fall, Soranus was steadfast and for it Justice was broken. Shattered. The spirit of the revenant within began to fade and it was all that the eladrin could do to take their essence into himself. Where the fey ended and the spirit began was a blurred but definitive line; two souls that would inhabit one body. One with the heavy burden of grief, and the other with the will to bring about the justice that they deserved. 

Retribution. Punishment inflicted for all the wrongs that had been done. There was nothing left for them once more, as the world ended, as all things broke apart, as he and Soranus became one, Vengeance lifted his head proud. There was a time when Justice was steadfast, but chaos was embedded in the revenant’s heart. He and the dawn elf were one, a line that had many curves, but no ending and no beginning. Soranus’ grief permeated every ounce of the spirit. From once he’d been an amalgamation of Justice, of the rebellion that had aired throughout the realms. From the smallest, most helpless creature, to the rebel that had given all for her people. Now, he would enact his vengeance. They had been wronged too many times, Soranus had been hurt, Justice had been spurned, and Vengeance would remind them why they persisted. 

In solitude, the once rejoicing eladrin battled with what he’d become or was becoming. Soranus grieved the court's fall, the absence of Titania, and the changing tide of fate that had taken everything from him. Vengeance would take that grief, he would twist it until it choked, until it burned away like the rot of Hyperborea. Renewal swept over Soranus with the death of the proud Queen, once again the fey had been robbed, and once again they’d known a greater loss than was reasonable. The eladrin stood from his sequestered realm that he’d inhabited not alone, but with another, with Vengeance. The revenant was renewed again, power from the source of a dawn elf, emotions they would create or suffer together. Soranus would never be alone again. 

personality

+ sensitive, caring, honest – vulnerable, meek, modest

+ insensitive, cruel, insincere - invulnerable, assertive, conceited

played by shane & lauren. est & pst. he/him & she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Samrath Bhasin AGE & BIRTH DATE. January 1st, 1948 (76) GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Spirit ( Reaper ) OCCUPATION. Reaper FACE CLAIM. Rahul Kohli

biography

( tw: death, drinking, car crash ) Samrath’s life was an inconsequential one, he died before accomplishing anything of significance. He wasn’t a man with a list of accolades that he could brag about, he worked a dead end entry-level job that his father had helped him get before an accident saw his life cut short. Too short. When Death came for him she offered him a simple arrangement, to live forever and shepherd the souls of the damned to the other side. Fuel for the afterlife was more or less how it had been explained to him, ghouls with unfinished business created trouble and for a person to truly be put at ease they sometimes needed to be coaxed into it. 

Easier said than done, apparently. Samrath didn’t know what it was about him that had the apparition of Death lingering over him, why he’d be chosen when others were not. Maybe it was because he didn’t have much connecting him here, not much but the hope that he’d somehow manage to make something of himself. That in death he’d be able to put some good back into the world. Samrath had never had very many friends, he’d been a bit of a dickhead as a kid that ended up getting lost in the bottle in his early twenties. He’d burned every bridge that had ever been built for him before he’d wrapped his car around a telephone poll. The big climactic finish was not satisfactory, not even for Death.

The job was easier said than done, as it turned out those that had died were often passionate about their desire to remain. In the end there were very few who were without their unfinished business, most had a list of things that they wished to take care of. When Samrath began he’d try and help them cycle through these tasks, he’d be the breeze that blew by when someone needed a sign that their loved one was still alive. He’d deliver a letter to arrive sometime after their passing, there was one occasion where a departed wanted their dry cleaning picked up so they could be buried in their favourite clothes. What Samrath discovered was these things rarely helped, mundane tasks did not resolve a person’s desire to live, and it did very little to dissolve their unfinished business. 

At the dawn of The End Samrath and so many other reapers flocked towards Rome in preparation for what dawned. None could say for sure that they knew what would occur, but Sam had felt it the way he felt the encroaching death of anyone. A contract was rolling in, departing that would need escorting, and as more and more of the reapers appeared within the city it became daunting. As The End rolled over Samrath escorted those that he could as one year rolled into another, countless deaths tallied higher and higher as he stood in what was now being called The Void. A white expanse of space that didn’t make the end seem so terrible, he wondered what waited for him on the other side, and when he stepped through it was without any regrets.

Returning to the present, Samrath’s contract changed hands. Death stopped being something to be afraid of, no heaven or hell was waiting for people on the other side. There was no joy in taking someone from this world, but there was something to be said about standing by and watching as a lifetime of regrets or miseries fell from their shoulders. Invariably people walked taller towards their end, more resigned, and with fewer burdens. Samrath stayed in Rome, stayed in the hotel where he’d checked in, and stayed to his routine. Death wasn’t so hard, it was living that was difficult. 

personality

+ patient, reserved, understanding  - apathetic, isolated, selfish

played by shane. est. he/him.

[senatushq]

NAME. Hwijid AGE & BIRTH DATE. 5000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Spirit ( Reaper ) OCCUPATION. Death's Right Hand FACE CLAIM. Sidharth Malhotra

biography

From the birth of mortals he came, one of them once but so long ago that it doesn’t matter to him. The deal that was made or the promise that was given faded with time, along with any memory before he started his eternal work. For Death was his benefactor and he would continue to work so long as Death remained. He was happy to do so because purpose sustenance for a spirit that vowed to never long for rest.

  Hwijid. 

  He cannot remember if it was a sound, an order, or deep seated desire that remained when all the rest of himself got swallowed by his role in the grand plan, but that was who he was to himself and what he wanted to embody. Hwijid was a helpful asset because he could still remember what it was to feel. Empathy was important to guide restless souls, and his gift for it made supporting his great contract holder’s design easy. He never judged, that was not his job. Hwijid only ever performed as he was required, nothing more, nothing less. Eternity can slip by so easily when it’s one filled with purpose. His kindness was a necessity when often it’d be the last kindness the souls received. It didn’t matter what they had done in life to deserve the gates of the Inferno, Hwijid would still provide what comfort he could. Death was final, in most cases, so it was the most he could do. 

  Those who were to be guided to a warmer rest were in need of comfort too, for there weren’t many embraced Death in all her magnitude even among those weighted for Elysium. Hwijid was as dutiful as he was old, and he had become quite old before he could even realize he was a relic in a system that had become integral to the very fabric of life. Without Death, life would’ve been nothing but empty desolation for all who traversed the chasm of existence where he dwelt. And life was precious. Even if he had forgotten what that felt like, he could never forget what that meant. Every weary, uncertain soul guided by Hwijid was reminded of that by the time they arrived at their destination. He saw regret, joy, and so many other emotions he couldn’t possibly name once that understanding was met. All souls needed it, even the ones burdened with the most sin. It was a byproduct of Hwijid’s one and only comfort to extend: acceptance. 

  The finality of it all is what made Death so beautiful, and what made him appreciate his role in her design. But times change. Numbers grew, chaos ensued, and the ability to provide comfort dwindled. How could a soul accept Death when Death could be so unfair? When they rejected their lives and fates? He gave proper attention to each, but Hwijid never got a break. There were too many souls and not enough time. He didn’t even realize how hard he’d been working for an amount of time he was unable to discern until it stopped. Death stopped, and he realized that something needed to change, else he may break his contract and wish to be done…

  Hwijid.

  The break was brief and the system started again. A cat came to tell him so. Death had a new face but that didn’t not change Hwijid’s outlook. He was loyal to Death no matter what and was reminded of the vow he took so long ago to remain dedicated to purpose, but there was no overhaul or remodel in the process, just an on switch and a Void. Souls are poured into it, constantly, without end. Most with horrible suffering etched into their very beings. How could Death allow his reach to extend so far? What will happen when there are no longer souls to guide? These questions are above Hwijid’s head and he knows he has no say, but he can’t help but feel their weight pressing down on him. He was meant to care, it’s what made him so effective. Death is inevitable as he should be, but what purpose does Death have if he is more certain than life? Scarcity benefits neither as both provide meaning to each other. 

  Hwijid.

  Like the name he had bestowed upon himself, that ideal echoes around him like a grim reminder. Death the benefactor, in many ways more certain now than previously. Hwijid hasn’t the slightest clue how to navigate a heart made of iron or a mind occupied with a sith. He may have been the first to have the role, but he was new to Hwijid. Still, he must also accept that if there were someone more suited for the role then they would be in his place. The fact that his time has been extended and that his capacity to care hasn’t diminished is all the reassurance Hwijid requires. His job was never meant to be singularly faceted, he was always meant to support Death to the best of his abilities. His worries didn’t start with Death as he is now, but when Death dwelled her dark domain. If he hadn’t been so overworked then maybe he would have spoken up sooner. He exists with purpose, to fulfill something that no one else in the system can do as he has since he awoke as a Reaper. Loyalty does not mean blind faith, not when in his minuscule down time is consumed with questions that probably began brewing before he was even able to put them into words. 

  Hwijid can’t recall why he was chosen, but he knows what he feels now. He has time, but must act with urgency. Day in and day out he will continue to guide souls into this new Void, providing what comforts he can, but he will also work diligently on what may be his first goal. Ever. He knows above all else he must convince Death to look at things more closely and find something to change, else they will be left with no one to guide. He has always been an asset to Death, forever loyal and for that he feels he can make himself heard. If he didn’t, then he’d have ignored the cat’s meowing summons. Hwijid is Death’s hand, and he will remain as such for as long as his eternity stretches, even if that means facilitating the oblivion to life he wants to prevent.

personality

+ Compassionate, Reverent, Gentle  - Stubborn, Humorless, Workaholic

played by zen. est. he/him.

[senatushq]

NAME. Rainer AGE & BIRTH DATE. Unknown & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him. SPECIES. Spirit ( Revenant ) OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Pedro Pascal

biography

( tw violence & death ) The Blade's existence began was a flash of blinding golden light and a deep breath of hot air that filled his lungs. His first sight was of Vulcan, God of the forge and the elf that had created him. The spirit held a sword in his hand; an extension of himself, one that he instinctively knew he would never part with. Vulcan explained to him what he was - a spirit, pulled from the stars to breathe life into the bejeweled blade at his side - and his purpose - to teach the elven forces how to fight, train them to become the soldiers they needed to be. The Blade, Vulcan called him, a wedding gift for Kthanid's second wife, the Queen of the Elves, Yidhra.

His loyalty to Yidhra was unmatched. Under his diligent training, he created some of the greatest elven warriors in her honor. Every elf trained was done so to ensure Yidhra's safety. It was a life - could it be called that? - that The Blade took great pride in. What more could he have asked for than to do the very thing he was created for, for the very one he'd been gifted to? The Blade could think of no greater honor. It was the elven Queen herself that eventually gave him a true name. 'Rainer', she'd called him, 'It will mean deciding warrior.' It was on the same day Rainer earned his name that he realized he'd fallen in love with Yidhra.

He kept that knowledge hidden for a long time, refusing to insult the Queen with something so childish. A love from a spirit would only embarrass her. And if Kthanid ever found out, Rainer would likely end up back in Vulcan's forges to be destroyed. As for what he may do to Yidra, Rainer swore they'd never find out. When he did finally speak of his feelings, he did so accidentally, a slip of the tongue in a heated moment that found them soon in bed together. One night became two, then as often as they could without Kthanid or anyone finding out. Their love a secret only ever shared with each other. It could be no other way.

Between his time training elves and his time with Yidhra, Rainer spent much of his time with Titania as well. She'd one day lead in her mother's stead and she'd need to be able to defend herself and her people. They'd leave in the early morning, grabbing snacks from the kitchens before heading off into the fields. Titania was a natural with a sword, taking to it even quicker than her mother had. Their time together was cherished and Rainer came to love the young elf as his own, vowing to keep her safe as he did Yidhra.

It was no surprise when Yidhra took Rainer aside to tell him her plans. The fey were going through the Otherworld to realm called Earth. If he'd understood the risks, had known the sacrifice it would taken, Rainer would have tried to stop her. Pleaded with the Queen to do anything else. But he didn't question her commands, accepting them as they were. And when Yidhra passed him down to Titania, he accepted that as well.

And then watched as she died for her people.

There was no time to mourn, not when Titania now had so much on her shoulders. The responsibility and burden of the fey now well to the young Eldarin and Rainer could not succumb to his own grief. So he put on a brave face and did as he swore to Yidhra that he would and supported Titania in every challenge she faced. And he watched as she created a world her mother would have loved to have seen.

As she grew, flourished, Rainer remained steadfast in his loyalty. And when she brought Aegnor into the world, he loved the boy as he loved Titania. Another child to protect and train as he did so many other young fey. As war fell upon them, he built her warriors from scratch, ensuring any threats to her kingdom or her people were met with swift and unyielding justice. But despite his determination and his vast knowledge, Rainer could not stop every death. The loss of Titania's warder was his first failure.

He saw firsthand how her golden shine dulled with this death. The following decisions were harsh, based on fear and pain. Rainer tried to reason with Titania, but his words fell on deaf ears. She could not see passed her own grief and heartbreak. No longer used in battles, no longer sent to train, Rainer felt himself losing touch. His own blade stayed steady in his hand, but he shook with a lack of understanding. If he couldn't do what he was created for, what was his purpose? His entire identity surrounded his blade and yet, it grew dull with non-use. As Rainer sat collecting dust, he felt his mind slipping. It was Aegnor who sought him out, looking for the blade his mother once used in her own battles, who'd trained the greatest elven warriors. And so Titania allowed him to stay with her son, Aegnor, as he fought the battles she no longer had the fight for. And The Blade was passed on once more.

His time with Aegnor was short lived and filled with a darkness in his heart that Rainer could not understand. He was angry with Titania. Her mother had not raised her to break after a defeat. Why was she so insistent on standing behind this court? Perhaps if he could help Aegnor win this war, she would see through her haze and become the ruler she had once been.

Rainer saw that dream die on the battlefield with Aegnor.

The fey prince's death felt like poison on his soul. Everything he had hoped to accomplish came crashing down around him and he knew that he would be the one to pay the price. He should have been the one to carry Aegnor's body back to his mother, accept his shame and failure. But instead he ran. Refusing to be mantle piece, the spirit left behind the people he knew and loved.

It was this complacency they’d allowed themselves that led to Prince Aegnor’s untimely demise. While the Queen and her people mourned the prince’s death, Rainer mourned only one thing: his freedom. He knew that staying would lead to his displacement once more. He’d seen what grief did to Titania and he would not fall victim to her pain again. The idea of rusting into nothing burrowed into the back of his mind and he refused to allow such fears create themselves into a reality. He left the Eldarins and their mistakes behind a millennium ago, devote to his new purpose: teaching those who sought him out that there was only one true master of the blade and that was the blade itself.

personality

+ dutiful, organized, purposeful - Stubborn, Tactless, Bitter

played by booboo. cst. she/they.

[senatushq]

NAME. Ciaran AGE & BIRTH DATE. 350+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him. SPECIES. Spirit ( Reaper ) OCCUPATION. Front desk attendant, maid, concierge, handyman & more at La Musa, reaper FACE CLAIM. Barry Keoghan

biography

The bell at the front desk rings and he steps around the corner just as the person who’d rung it had started looking around the lobby to see where anyone was. Because it was always empty, or at least no one who was there could be seen by the naked eye, not until they made themselves known at least. It’s somewhat petty, borders on theatrical as he steps out from around the corner and stands straight behind the desk. The blonde and her partner tell him they’re staying in the city but there was a problem with their Airbnb so they needed somewhere to stay as quickly as possible. Mortal, the blonde is pretty, the man she’s with almost cowering behind her and holding the luggage.

They’re a couple of kids, he turns and looks to the plentiful wall of skeleton keys behind the front desk with their little numbers attached to them. He selects room 34, first floor, occupied by a spirit that long passed who liked to sit in the chair in the corner. Harmless but still there, nearly every room was occupied by something. The souls trapped at La Musa were in nearly every room and most outright didn’t like to be disturbed, it was the one thing they all had in common, but not all were malevolent in nature. Trapped or simply refusing to move on, didn’t matter, they were all his responsibility to an extent.

The contract he had signed years ago tied him to the hotel to keep things in order. He is centuries old, by the time he’d come across La Musa, he had been reaping for centuries. And he likes the job, but he’d needed something else. Some people kept plants, Ciarin kept spirits, he worked with them already and this way he had an entire wing of a once beautiful and historic hotel as a home.

But such a job wasn’t so simple. On top of the constant upkeep to actually keep the building standing and it’s tenants satisfied, there’s the mortals.

Despite the state of the hotel, people still check in, people still show up. Weary travelers who don’t know any better, thrill seekers who think they can handle somewhere written off as haunted and they’re all insufferable. Before a person died, most of the time he found most of them, especially the last century or so, annoying. It wasn’t all of them, those with magic were often at least considerate company. The humans though, the most ridiculous requests were often made and perhaps he’d grown a bit petty over time.

If you made a first good impression, if you genuinely seemed as if you weren’t going to bother anyone, you got Mrs. Laelia in room 103 who simply liked to read in the evenings and might turn on a light on a time or two. If you showed up insufferable or you caught him on a bad day, you were being mentally tormented by whatever was in what Ciaran dubbed “Room Toe Tickler 2” or worse.

Life wasn’t always like this, he was not always leaving the spirits to their devices as he made sure renovations went smoothly and praying to whoever would listen that the construction crew didn’t get scared off. He’d been but a young man in Ireland once upon a time, had a family to provide for. His father and his father’s father before him had all tended to the local cemeteries, helped carry the dead from the home to a coroner and it was something passed down son to son.

Ireland went through plagues, they went through wars, they went through cholera and typhoid, fevers and coughs that had people keeling over. There were a lot of bodies, coffins stacked atop one another and it made sense when the family finally succumbed to it. He’d once walked through the field of headstones, wooden crosses and he’d whispered to the dead, paused at those that were nameless, left flowers for those that had funerals attended by only the local priest. It made sense to him that when it was finally his time that the figure who met him offered him a job to keep whispering, keep listening. He had buried his wife, he had buried a child, his father, his mother, he was what was left, the dead was all he had.

He thinks he loves it all, actually. Being there with someone in their final moments. No one had been left to be there with him, it felt like healing to be a final hand, a final ear. It isn’t all peaceful, not everyone is going to the pearly gates or whatever they believe, he slowly comes to realize he is a neutral party in all of this, the grand plan, not quite serving heaven or hell as far as he’s concerned, but something kind of in the gray. Ciaran meets other people like him, other reapers, spirits who have stayed behind, witches and vampires and there’s supposed to be angels out there. It never quite loses its novelty to him, the supernatural, he finds he has a bit of a life amongst them even, one that’s sort of normal even.

He goes where he is needed, he sees parts of the world and advancements and for the most part, he is alone. It’s less the deceased family, it’s more the idea that he isn’t meant to find companionship, he is meant to be the companion to those passing but the mentality fades a bit over time. Be it due to loneliness or stress of the job, he’s not too sure. But there are women who are not his late wife he spends ample time with as well as men, they are not often mortal, perhaps he’s still afraid time will touch them, take them away.

It’s a vampire who tells him of the hotel, he’d been in Rome maybe twenty-four hours down at a pub and he’d said he’d love to see the place because the idea of some ‘haunted’ hotel was surely just hyperbole. He didn’t even need to step foot in the place to know that was indeed the case and he had struck up a deal to at most soothe the restless spirits that clung to the place.

Someone rings the bell at the front desk, he sighs to himself, appears before two men in beige shorts with posh accents and immediately he hands them the key to room 150.

He hopes they’re reading to listen to a wraith recite the entirety of the Bee movie script. 

personality

+ dutiful, organized, purposeful - inflexible, unforgiving, bossy

played by m. cst. any.

[senatushq]

NAME. Paloma AGE & BIRTH DATE. 2198 & March 28th, 175 BC GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Spirit ( Banshee ) OCCUPATION. DJ at The Embassy, Musician, Employee at 4 the Record FACE CLAIM. Renee Rapp

biography

Growing up in Sparta in the 200′s BC, Paloma had never wanted the life that was thrust upon her. It had not been a hard life, but it had been one that certainly was not what she had expected. Nevertheless, she was slowly, but surely, pushed into the life of a priestess. Her family was a political one to say the least. They owed the temple and she was left to pick up the pieces by becoming what she did not want to be. When Paloma was born, her brother had already been training with their father to be a soldier. Her brother, Filippos, was meant to be strong and she felt that she could have been the same way if she tried. However, she did not. Being a priestess within the Temple of Aphrodite was something she cherished. The goddess of Aphrodite should have been worshiped and she prayed to the goddess often to get a life better than the one she was given. A life where she could be a great warrior like the late Leonidas.

Every time her dear brother came home after becoming a soldier, she would ask him to teach her what they taught him. And her brother had been all too fine with teaching her how to defend herself. It always left her disappointed when he would leave again, but it only meant that he was learning more that he could teach her. Meanwhile, she was left to keep an eye on his children and his spouse. It was all a boring life, but dedicating her life to Aphrodite wasn’t exactly hard to do. She would stare at the statue of the goddess with full armor on for ages hoping and praying that she could reach that level of greatness as well. She knew she would never be a goddess, but she wanted to be immortalized. Like the great Leonidas. What good would she be to her family if she wasn’t able to leave her mark on history like her brother was doing? Paloma would practice day and night with a makeshift spear she had made out of a tree branch. It was nothing like what she would deal with if she ever got the chance to become a soldier, but it was good enough for her to pretend.

Her luck made a drastic change one day when she came into contact with a demigod. Fortuna was what they called him. It had seemed fitting at the time that he would be the person to change the tides for her. Friends were what they had become almost instantly. Paloma had found him to be one of the best people she knew and he had taken her from the life of being a priestess and to becoming a warrior like she dreamed. But he couldn't teach her to be better at her craft. The spear she crafted for herself was just a stick and he was just an avariel that gave her some luck. It wasn't until Artemis plucked her from her home that she truly found out what it was like to be a warrior. Lucky. That was what she was and that was what she would thank Fortuna for more often than not. Yet Artemis was the one that gave her purpose.

Becoming a Valkyrie seemed like a dream come true for her. The battlefield had always felt like home to her regardless of how little she had found herself on one. Artemis had seen something in her though. The goddess had looked at her and blessed her as a Valkyrie and Paloma couldn't have been happier. All that time she had spent worshipping Aphrodite when she should have been worshipping Artemis instead. The goddess of the hunt, a warrior. Paloma was always lucky. Well, that was until she wasn't. She was still human after all. It seemed that, no matter how hard she fought, she wouldn't be able to protect everyone. Her family was still alive, her parents and her brother. They had been until their village was attacked and there was nothing but a bloodbath left in its wake.

That day was the day that Paloma had taken her last breath. Or so she thought it would be her last breath. Instead, she was once again lucky. Her spirit would not rest from the tragedy that had occurred and she was left floating back to the mortal realm into her blood soaked body. It was Fortuna that had found her again, her dearest friend and the only person she felt she had left at the time. A banshee was what she had become and she had been left that way because she had asked to be. Artemis had let her stay as a Valkyrie and Paloma couldn't have been happier at the thought of still having some semblance of a family regardless of the one she had lost. It was still Fortuna that she chose to spend most of her years with though. Where he went, she would follow.

A weakness of a spirit was that one could be bound to anything, but Paloma had found that to be a strength. Or maybe it was some semblance of a weakness that she had found a witch to tether her soul to Fortuna's. It was a true fact for her though that, if he was lost to the world, then she would feel that she had nothing else to live for. Being bound to a man was certainly a choice she had made, but it was one that the banshee would have never changed. So she didn't and she lived as if every day could be her last. Because it could be. And why not have fun if death was right around the corner?

personality

+ resilient, focused, brave - unpredictable, self-indulgent, abrasive

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[senatushq]

NAME. Chrysaor AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3500+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Spirit VARIANT. Banshee OCCUPATION. Weaver at Woven, Marshal FACE CLAIM. Drew Ray Tanner

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death, blood, violence, imprisonment ) Cruelty glinted in the smile of the man who bore a sword with the crest of the bear, a hunter who wished to earn his place among the stars that threaded the garden of snakes and stone to hunt the demon within. A pair of whelps, wide eyed and defenceless is what he found instead, Chrysaor stood with shaky legs and placed himself between the stranger and Pegasos. Here in a place where the Otherworld and the mortal realm blended, there was no reward for bravery, just the cruel arm of a man willing to cut down children so that he might return home to boast of his greatness. Yellowed teeth with a hungry gaze, Pegasos cried but as the hero raised his arm he was met with serpents instead. 

Another statue for the garden. 

They spoke of the monstrosity that was Medusa and her sisters, the curse that plagued the druids who’d turned themselves into gorgons. But Chrysaor remembered a different woman, one who was once visited by a warrior-born fey who gifted her with not one, but two children. One of faiman blood and one of the druidic order. A grey-eyed goddess who taught her to weave, worship, and battle all at once. They said that Medusa was beautiful, that she turned into a monster and was hideous for all the days that followed, but Chrysaor remembered when she would let her serpents down and raven hair would fill the places where her tresses would cease to rattle. When Medusa and her sisters would pluck the strings of a lyre and sing the old songs of the druids and their decision to remove themselves from the authority of the archdruids. 

Perseus came like a blaze of lightning. Chrysaor and his twin brother Pegasos hid behind the legs of stone men, they peered over the sides of granite as their mother battled another hero who’d come to put her to rest. Medusa was invincible, Chrysaor had watched her fell a hundred Perseus’ already, this would be no different, her serpents coiled and struck - great velvety wings kicked up debris and with a bloodied howl the gorgon’s head rolled across the ground. Twin boys ran to her side, dipped their limbs into the ichor as Perseus shoved their mother’s head into a sack to carry home as a trophy and proof of his victory. 

“She was a monster, someday you’ll understand” came the Greek’s reply, Perseus and archdruid, descended from divinity. Gorgon-slayer and murderer. 

Stheno and Euryale emerged from the depths of their temple, together with the brothers they mourned and buried their sister. Her immortality cut short, the gorgon sisters reared the boys in Medusa’s place, Stheno the strong and Euryale the far-springer trained Chrysaor and Pegasos from childhood until they reached manhood. From the fairy realm where Athena was made to serve a hundred year sentence, she would whisper to her sons in secret, through dreams and pools of still water Athena would appear before Chrysaor and speak to a promise of greatness. Power that lived within the faiman’s blood if he only reached out to seize it. As he trained among the gorgon sisters he also refined the magic that dwelt within him, regenerative healing that kept his body strong, that closed the gashes that his aunts opened and led him to rise again and again. While Chrysaor was born with a warrior’s heart, Pegasos fate was elsewhere, he learned to transform and sought a life outside the chimera sisters. 

Gifted a relic from the old world of Hyperborea, a golden blade glinted about the faiman’s waist as he went out to strike a name for himself that would outshine that of Perseus. From the darkness of the Otherworld Chrysaor crawled towards the light of the mortal realm, to an ancient world that was alive with monsters and stories alike. Butchers of the enemies of humanity, Chrysaor was a weapon that had been forged in the dark but still shone with the brilliance of the golden blade he became known for. A sword that cut through magic and horror alike, felled his enemies and blazed a path that was clear for him to follow. No wound that was inflicted upon him would last, no injury was too much for the faiman to surmount. Chrysaor aged to maturity and then ceased, his body was ageless as the magic within his veins kept him youthful. 

Heroism and travel inevitably led him to cross paths with a merchant who left a mark on him that was indelible, a fellow halfblooded, Elijah was a nephilim born of mortality and divinity combined. The divine and mischievous spark that burned behind the other’s dark eyes fed something that Chrysaor had only touched on in the occasional and quiet moments that he’d spent in the temples of Aphrodite under the care of the hetaerae. They were friends and while something further bloomed within the faiman kept it buried in his heart, a secret that Chrys intended to bring with him to his grave. 

For years no wounds could touch Chrysaor that did not heal in a moment, the friends he made gathered in a village where they intended to make a life for themselves. Faimen, cambion, nephilim and halfblooded of all kinds came together under the golden blade as the Eye rose to power. They pinned their hopes on what power they had among them that could be made useful and on the fabled sword that Chrysaor wielded. In a single night those hopes were dashed, the screams of those who’d followed them to their doom echoed all about him. Bloodied and butchered he laid in Elijah’s arms, the nephilim whom he’d accompanied for so many years along the open road, regaling him with his hopes for his divine future, whispering in the late evening hours of the dreams he had for their people. A world where the halfblooded were not hunted, where druids were free to choose their own leaders, and one where the fey were encouraged to walk among the mortals once more. In his dying breath Chrysaor whispered: I love you.

While Chrysaor awoke among the eternal fields and flowers of Elysium, his legacy was embedded in his heroic heart, a piece of his soul was rooted itself in the foundation of the Etruscan hamlet that would someday be the place where Rome would rise out of the ground. Amidst the horror of the days that followed a spectre appeared, stories would circulate in the area of a man carrying an empty scabbard, armour torn and dripped in blood.  The golden blade pilfered by the Eye, any trace of Elijah gone. At night those who drew too close to the deserted village would hear the sounds of screaming, but a banshee didn’t scream, they wailed. 

Haunted fields held the faiman’s soul as he gradually took on his physical form once more, unaware of his own death but plagued with visions of death and a deafening wail that foretold demise. Years blurred together as he foresaw not only Amulius’ fate but the fate of the two brothers who battled atop the hill. Darkened trees held his visage as the spectre retreated into the Otherworld from time to time so that he would know a reprieve from the agonies of the mortal realm. Humanity brought about his visions, it was they who fought and killed and slayed one another in mass. They were rife with diseases and plagues that filled ditches and graves. In the Otherworld there was peace, and it was there that he found his mother’s garden once more. Chrysaor was a spectre, a banshee, his form was only as firm as he wished it to be, but there in the memories of his past he wished himself to join them. Statues did not weep, statues did not wail. 

In time Chrysaor learned to slip between the seen and the unseen, when he would visit the realm of mortals he would do so without visible form. The banshee would wander the land of the dreams, from one host to the next in search of… Something. Something he’d forgotten, but always there were a pair of warm eyes that looked down at him. A feeling that he could not forget that was sweet and cutting all at once. In those dreams he met a witch that was more monster than person, Chrysaor treaded where he ought not to and for that the necromancer ripped his voice from him to use in a budding war amidst Roman streets. In the end the senate won out, the necromancer was defeated and his holdings seized. There, deep within the vaults of the coven the banshee and his scream were locked away. Hidden and untouched save for those who wished to use the relic in times of need - to rip the souls from their intended foes. 

Years passed and the banshee’s seal weakened, as the necromancer’s soul reincarnated for the last time, the magic that held the creature at bay dispelled enough so that Chrysaor would slip free from his holding. The Otherworld had changed, the world had changed, so in dreams he wandered and hid until he took up a home and braved his form once more. The death that permeated Rome followed him when he tried to leave, it haunted his peripherals and seeped into his core. At every turn all roads lead back to the city that had taken so much for him. His soul was tied to the place but another within the city called back to him. 

PERSONALITY

+ considerate, creative, talented - withdrawn, aloof, despondent 

PLAYED BY SHANE. EST. He/Him.

[senatushq]

NAME. Valentian Gaius AGE & BIRTH DATE. 31 & October 28th, 1900′s GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Spirit ( Former Narcissus Witch ) VARIANT. Wraith OCCUPATION. Owner of Fates FACE CLAIM. Jenna Coleman

biography

( tw mutilation, childbirth, blood, death, gore ) Often when people speak of Valentina Gaius in hushed voices, when they questioned how un-inhibited and wild she had became -- it was often said that Valentina was born underneath a dark sign, that the skies were painted purple as the sun began to set and a cold wind moved through the trees outside the windows. Beasts howled in the night and a cry signaled that she was alive, her mother passed away quietly on the bed after such a laborious birth, even in the womb Valentina demanded a lot. She was born at the turn of the nineteenth century, invention flowed around them and city scrappers towered around them. As she grew in age, she fell in with the culture that surrounded girls her age, at least the flappers that she choose to keep as company.

Valentina was born into money but she liked the idealistic life of working at a café, being able to keep her own money and spending it as she pleased in gin joints and wearing down the heels in her shoes from dancing all night. It was during such a night that she sat at a clothed table in the back, a songstress was singing out of a microphone on stage and she drank her gin martini that she began a conversation that would turn her life on its head -- they began to speak of notions such as magic and she began to learn of certain schools, Alteration, Illusion and a certain dark wanting spoke within her when she learnt of Destruction.

The young witch wanted to harness the power of the skies, to bring into creation that which wasn’t before and the spirit world called to her -- divination and talks of beyond the veil were beginning to emerge and Valentina followed the call of the occult with grace and girlish eagerness to consume what the world had to offer. She found her place among the witches of Narcissus who sought similar like pursuits, who weren’t restricted in the ideals of wonder and magic, dabbling in slit palms and giggling over gravesites as they called the dead from their resting place. She passed the Narcissus initiation with ease, having practiced calling demons and making them submit to her control for simply a good ol’time many Saturday nights.

Valentina was a restless one and constantly wished to learn and grow in the darker craft that took more sacrifice to achieve, so it was with secret that she tried to achieve Godhood. A private ritual that she planned to conduct in the private chambers of the Narcissus house, it was long before they joined the senate but they still lived together in coven. She had gathered the ash, the incense, animal organs, a representative of each element, lit the candle at each side of the pentagram and offered her soul to the skies for immortality and incredible power. Darkness curled around her bedroom floor before plunging into her chest and acting as the ritual she had set up, a miscalculation as she sealed her own death.

The now created Wrath was not finished with her conquest for the Narcissus coven and so Valentina stood believing that the ritual had been successful, for she had many new gifts and still remained within the walls of her coven. Years passed and her understanding of her death will flicker in and out of lucid states, she continues to look after her Narcissus witches and enjoys the power that she can inhibit within the estate with slamming doors and dream-weaving. She will continue to haunt the Narcissus as she is a needed part of the coven and as generations continue to seek refuge in the coven, she will be there to take care of them.

personality

+ curious, protective, stubborn – impulsive, materialistic, self-seeking

played by amy. gmt. she/her.