#tyreen calypos

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Leech Lord AU: Background cast examples/ Holy City HC’s

( Amazing art linked in source)

Troy:

Troy maintains relatively common appearances at some of the "higher" end bars and clubs dotted around the Holy City.

If he's gracing one with his presence, you can tell easily from the crowds clambering outside. There will be a swarm of rabid fans pleading and bribing the bouncers for access, anything for the opportunity to SEE a God in the flesh. He'll be lounging in the plush decadence of the raised and guarded VIP lounge as he takes lazy drags from a hookah. Head back, eyes closed, exhaling pluming clouds of blue tinged smoke in a drug fueled haze of pleasure as the club's lights flash to the bass beat of the pulsing rave music.

He's never alone, the hands of followers blessed with being selected for his evening's entertainment are always caressing the lithe planes of Troy Calypso's torso while their owner's beg for attention at his ear in these dives, but if you look closely, you'll note he's rarely listening. His eyes are often trained on the same corner of the heaving den.

Ol' Desmond by the e-etch dart boards, up a whole 8 fingers and down one dodgy eye, but an AMAZING shot, to the point of being a shark when it comes to bets in these dens of sin. Troy himself has very poor thrown accuracy. Physical issues, really. Between the lack of balance in his shoulders and his reliance on close knife combat as he grew up, he struggles to aim a strong throw now. He often likes to sit, absorb the attention of desperate, pathetic acolytes, and soak in the pleasurable smog of the night's choice of chemical high pumping through his system as he listens to this oily little shit swindle money out of people who assume he's going to flunk the shot.

Des knows the gold flake laden cocktails that arrive in the manicured grip of scantily clad barstaff a little too eager to caress your fingers as they pass the glass are slightly out of the price range of most of the cartel scum hanging around him in these gambling corners, and sends the looming presence of Calypso's VIP platform the odd wink, talking just a bit louder next time about how to flex your elbow and tense in your lats just right, how to bullseye from sight, how to control your breathing on the release..

If he catches the glint of the God King's golden fanged smirk out of the corner out of his eye, he's sayin' nothing.

Seifa:

There's a woman in one of the food markets along the outskirts of the lower city, just where the cracked pavement makes way to the hard dirt of the grimy slums, who has a tiny noodle stall built into the base wall of one of the towering, junked together living complexes.

Seifa found it years ago on a bender with Ven who'd insisted he knew just the right spot to slake their lust for oily filth. To trust him. He was never wrong... right? It had hit the mark, even if he'd passed out face down on the counter and needed to be thrown across her back and carried back to the Cathedral. Or.. she thinks he did? That night is honestly a bit of a blur.

She's been visiting religiously ever since. Sei tried to learn her name a few times, but embarrassingly kept mispronouncing it much to her disappointment. The older woman would laugh, cheeky eyes twinkling behind a lifetime of laughter lines, and tell Sei just to call her "Auntie”.

If she knows Sei is a Saint, it's not something she’s ever mentioned, regardless of what entourage is with her when she makes her pilgrimage to auntie's stall once a month. The food is a greasy mess of noodles, whatever veg she's found available that week, and meat Sei tends to steer clear of, though she'd never be obvious about it, of course. She's not sure what it is exactly, and isn’t keen on ingesting it even if she'd rather not hurt the other woman's feelings.

If the food is half of the draw to make the trip, the other is auntie's ear. She always has time, always nods and hmm's and gasps along to whatever you're telling her as she stirs and flips the giant woks of ingredients in the steaming night air of the city. Is she actually listening? Doesn't really matter to Sei, she's there. She can spill her guts as she fills them with junkfood. Aunty doesn't judge, doesn't particularly care, but every now and then?

Every now and then she gives advice.. and if you don't pay attention to what a woman like this tells you?

You’re a fucking fool.

Tyreen:

She doesn't know the man's name but she can sense him a mile off. There's a strange awkwardness in the air when he's around, it clearly turns others away, considering how often she's found him alone, but there is a draw in it for her. He's a kindred spirit, maybe. Or someone who genuinely doesn't care about what she is, who she is, she's not too sure, but it's unique. He's special, that's for sure.

The first time they'd met had been 5 years ago, the Grand Cathedral's last bricks had been laid and she had taken to wandering the massive halls late at night when there was nothing to hear bar the click of her boots echoing through the great stone and hallowed glass wall-faces, and her thoughts.

She'd been lost in them, no longer fully paying attention to her direction. Subconscious focused on placing one foot in front of the other as she thought of Nektrotafeyo, how the cool of the Cathedral's night air was so close to the soft breeze that whispered between the arcing, twisted trees that surrounded the entrance to their home, when she was interrupted by his gravelly:

"You. Moofv"

and the irritated thwack of his broom against her foot.

She'd snapped out her reverie and straight into a rage, turning to grab at who so INSOLENTLY spoke to God Queen Calypso, and stopped short as she came face to face with him. His lopsided, angry face meeting her eye to eye, messy mop of aging grey hair curling around his ears and over his janitor overall's collar.

She'd paused, and his broom had slammed into her foot again.

"I SED, MOOFV."

And she did. Jumped back like a scolded child, apologised, and shrunk under his irritated glare as he shuffled past and began to sweep again, humming a guttural broken tune to himself as he cleaned.

She watched for a while longer as he polished, dusted, straightened the pews and scraped blood off the tiles.

Every few weeks she wanders down to the chambers of worship and waits till she feels that strangeness in the air, says hello as he shuffles by. His grunted greeting is more genuine than any of the conversations she's meant to enjoy in her day to day life, and he either doesn't know who she is, or does not *give a shit* that he's being dismissive of a God.

Sometimes she tries to help, hands him things from the floor, takes a cloth and wipes surfaces down to his disapprovement, he hits her hands with a dusting brush and tells her:

"Do it 'gain, terrible. Uggh. Like child lerning to swim in shark water. Stupīd"

She does it again. Sometimes he smiles after. It's nice.

Asks are Open!