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[CHAR] *✧･ﾟ:* ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ *:･ﾟ✧*
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- GM ThisIsFine
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ThisIsFine
Member
Seen
1 day ago
Name: Ismael Alire
Age: 329
Gender: Male
Species: Familiar
Magic specialties:
Shape-shifting, specifically into the forms of a raven, a wolf, a horse, and a cat. All four of his animals forms have the same signature black fur with a reddish gleam in the sunlight.
Ismael is a familiar: a witch's best friend. A familiar's main purpose is to serve their witch, or in Ismael's case, his coven. Whether that means protecting them, fighting for them, or even dying for them, so be it. He was once bound to follow the orders of all original coven members, but seeing as those are hard to come by, he's mostly free. Mostly...
A familiar can live forever, so long as they have a witch to serve. They need the magic of a witch or warlock to survive, and without it, they will die fairly quickly. Ismael has a little magic of his own and can use simple spells to do things such as unlock doors, singe an attacker, or create a light with his finger tips.
Personality:
Ismael is usually quiet, soft spoken, and thoughtful. He has a dry sense of humor and a penchant for being sassy.
Loyalty is one of Ismael's best attributes. Once he's decided that you're a friend, he's with you to the bitter end. At the same time, if he thinks of you as an enemy, he'll likely hold that grudge for the rest of his life. He's a good, hard worker, intelligent, and observant. His soul purpose is to serve the Rosenthal coven, and he does so very well. For centuries, he has given them his loyalty. As long as he's treated kindly and respectfully, he'll give it for centuries more.
Appearance:
Ismael stands at 5'9", with a lean muscle build and dark tan skin. His reddish, dark brown hair is worn in an undercut and wavy. His eyes are a very dark brown, and resemble something of a sad hound dog's. He is a handsome man, and he could surely woo another woman if he so wanted to. Instead, he spends most of his time lurking about the mansion and forcing smiles at any who look his way.
History:
The creation of a familiar varies. Some are totems brought to life, others are enchanted animals, Ismael was once a human man. He was a simple sailor, hailing from Spain. On an exploration trip of the Americas, he came across a mysterious woman by the name of Agatha Rosenthal, the witch who founded the coven. He was immediately taken by her beauty and charm. Ismael left his exploration party to find out more about her.
A love story blossomed from there. Agatha was a very powerful witch, as one would have to be to create a familiar. She was near immortal for her power and magic. Unfortunately, Ismael was not. To fix that, she transformed him into her loyal familiar, who could live as long as he had a witch to serve. For decades, they were inseparable. However, witch hunters eventually caught up to them. By this time, the coven's numbers had grown strong. Before she was put to death, Agatha gave Ismael to the coven to be a general familiar for everyone in it, so that he would survive as long as the coven still existed. However, ever since his true mistress died, Ismael has always had a tone of melancholy to him.
Ismael has since spent his immortal life looking after and protecting the coven. He has helped raise just about every witch in it, and their parents, and their grandparents.
GM
ThisIsFine
Member
Seen
1 day ago
Name: Ceobes Valcun
Age: 401
Gender: Male
Species: Witch
Magic specialties:
Ceobes has long since reached the level of power a witch must exceed to successfully remain ageless. He is and has always been a very gifted witch. He has practiced in potions and salves, but they aren't particularly his forté. His true passions are spells and enchantments, hexes and curses, the arcane and intangible. From shape shifting to levitating to weaving intricate incantations, Ceobes loves magic. Before leaving the coven, he seemed to have been picking up on some particularly dark magic.
Personality:
Ceobes is pleasant and charming. He has an air of elegance and grace to him, as if he could never be caught doing anything less than perfect. Ceobes isn't perfect, of course. A perfectionist, maybe, but far from perfect. Rumors of his lust for power have died with the elders, but there is one remaining patron of the coven who remembers why Ceobes left. He was seeking out dangerous knowledge, both to himself and others. It was said that he was either sent away or left on his own accord to do some soul searching, perhaps to figure out where this need for power was coming from. Since his abrupt return, he seems to have everything more or less sorted out.
Appearance:
He is slender and tall. Ceobes stands at 6'1", and his physical prowess is definitely not his defining feature. He is pale skinned and dark haired. His hair, a dark, almost blue, black, is worn long and braided in the back, short on the sides. His eyes are a dark wine and intelligent. Ceobes prefers black clothing almost exclusively, and wears only long sleeves and dark gloves at all times.
History:
He crossed the seas with his original coven members, and settled in the new world among them. Young Ceobes was eager for knowledge. He had never been particularly strong; his intelligence was where he drew strength. Through the hard winters and the famine that plagued the settlers, he persevered. He had a strong support system back then: Two older sisters, a loving mother, and a hard working father. That changed one particularly brutal winter when food was low and even magic couldn't keep the sickness away.
Ceobes lost his father and middle sister. After the tragedy in the family, he distracted himself with his studies. Some part of him blamed his family, himself included, for not being able to save them. They were witches, after all! They shouldn't fall to the illness of mere men.
He became more powerful over the years, but not enough to stop the next misfortune to befall his family and coven. The hunts. The witch hunters were relentless. They blamed magic for all their woes; convinced that they had been cursed by the witches. Ceobes was busy helping other coven patrons keep up during a particularly vicious attack when his mother and sister were caught. Just like before, he couldn't save them.
Ceobes's mourning manifested into obsession with power. He had to be strong enough to stop the next attack, to fix the next illness, to save what family he had left. This is what drove him for years, until he finally crossed the wrong line. The elders found out that he'd been studying dark magic from awful books that their coven strictly forbid. This lead to a stern talking to, which lead to Ceobes departing on his personal journey.
That was the last the coven had heard from or seen him. Until just a week ago.
Fading Memory The Final Flame of a Fiery Bird
Member
Seen
4 hrs ago
Name
Lorita Malkin
Age
21
Gender
Female
Species
Witch
Personality
Lorita is defined by a life that began with suspicion and worry. While her parents lived she was doted on but kept on a tight leash due to their worries of her magical nature, the stories of a family curse adding to these concerns and rendering Lorita the suspect of any possible wrongdoing that occurred; following their deaths, this repression of freedoms and trauma of loss coalesced into aggressive personality traits and a penchant for Punk Attitudes. While much of this has calmed itself down with time for healing and proper thought, Lorita as an adult woman is still a firm believer in the path of anarchy, freedom, and personal liberations.
This makes her a wild woman, but one of society and urban modernity rather than nature. She's emotional, quick to anger, and handles stress extremely poorly- but on the other edge of the sword she's extremely empathetic and connects well with others, and is possessed of a sincerity and genuine nature that makes her capable of getting along well with others. Even those she disagrees with. Once she's done being angry at them.
She's possessed of a healthy disrespect for authority and organization, a strong preference for individuality and accountability being the foundation of her philosophy for life. Plays well with others, but doesn't take orders well. Once her loyalty is earned, however, it is unshakable.
When it comes time to celebrate, drinks are on her.
Appearance
Long hair, black, flows down over the woman's shoulders and falls to her waist- though it is most often wore in a braided ponytail. An athletic frame bears accents of femininity atop the muscles of one whose feet have run on concrete for hours into the night and whose hands and arms are bruised from brickwork and asphalt alike. Physicality contained into woman's form and given a life fueled by emotion and wild enthusiasms.
Attire that hugs the body, but outer-wear that conceals. Practical clothing, worn and ripped from use rather than from design, with sturdy hoodies and coats whose somewhat ragged appearance disguises the worth and quality of their make. Many outfits bear frayed elbows, torn up knees and shins, and stains from spraypaint and more traditional paint alike.
If she had to clean up and had a fresh credit card on hand she may be able to fit in at that gala next week, but it's not her preference and her jeans show it. You're more likely to spot her hanging from a rooftop and wearing a mask with a can of spraypaint in hand than you are to find her with manicured nails and a glass of wine.
Oh, alright. The wine bottle is on the rooftop too.
Source: Tpiola on Deviantart
The Short One
Lorita Malkin
Age
21
Gender
Female
Species
Witch
The Knacks and Talents
"A witch practices magic in their own way; there is no right and wrong. Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise has no understanding of the Craft."
-Grandmother Malkin
Lorita's education under Grandmother Malkin has given her a solid foundation on the conceptual understandings of basic Witchcraft, but the Old Witch's methods of teaching were exceedingly abstract and lacked in both a guiding hand or training wheels. More succinctly, Lorita's magical education could be described as having come from 'the school of hard knocks'. Trial and error lead the day, with the old witch supervising to divert catastrophe.
Lorita's chosen method of performing her magic is through Artistic Display; it is a method that has resonates with her, and lets her touch that Magical Spark within her most thoroughly. Where other Witches may read tea leaves, shuffle the Taroka, or read palm lines, Lorita's methods tap into the same magic but create paintings, sketches, or songs in the stead of more 'traditional' witchcraft.
This stylization of magical medium has tailored her education to focus upon things such as Divination and Scrying; her paintings of far off places she can see in her mind's eye, or of events to come in the tapestry of Fate. Whilst these are her most naturally inclined magics, she is a creative girl and has found ways to adapt Grandmother Malkin's other teachings into her preferred style as well.
In short, her highest skill level lies in Divination and Scrying magics. She has competency in Conjuring, generalized Spellcasting, and Transfiguration, but struggles mightily with other forms of witchcraft. She is particularly horrible with potion brewing, and Grandmother Malkin has sworn her to never attempt Summoning or Theurgical arts for fear of what lurks beyond.
The Sins of the Ancestors
"Something Dark lurks within. It is how things have always been, ever since that fateful day in the ancient wood when Mother Malkin struck her deal. She sought power- and she earned it, indeed, for all of us!- but the price was steep, and the clan still pays for it to this day."
-Grandmother Malkin
The arts of the Malkin Clan are steeped in Dark Magic and a history of shrouded regret. The arts taught to Lorita by Grandmother Malkin are cautionary in nature- the elder witch sought to warn and caution the girl, not educate her in fell witchcraft for dark purpose. As such, Lorita possesses an understanding of Blood Sacrifice, Demonomancy, and Curse Casting that is unique in perspective.
Her dreams and nightmares are plagued by the whispers of foul creatures of Demonic nature; they whisper to her of power and knowledge that is dark and forbidden. Her blood itself seems to boil and yearn for the dark twist of forbidden arcana. The Chaos of her emotions brings to surface thoughts of hexes and curses.
The manifestation of these warring magical energies within her bloodline takes the form of mishap and catastrophe. Calling Lorita unlucky would be putting it mildly. The Demons haunting her seek to twist and bind her to their dark purposes through this inexplicable tie they have to her, though their direct influence is limited outside her dreams and influencing her magic.
While magically suppressing the curse is possible, it also severely weakens Lorita's own magic and is not a guaranteed countermeasure. Lorita's variant on her Grandmother's traditional sigils and wards is self-applied henna tattoos.
"A witch practices magic in their own way; there is no right and wrong. Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise has no understanding of the Craft."
-Grandmother Malkin
Lorita's education under Grandmother Malkin has given her a solid foundation on the conceptual understandings of basic Witchcraft, but the Old Witch's methods of teaching were exceedingly abstract and lacked in both a guiding hand or training wheels. More succinctly, Lorita's magical education could be described as having come from 'the school of hard knocks'. Trial and error lead the day, with the old witch supervising to divert catastrophe.
Lorita's chosen method of performing her magic is through Artistic Display; it is a method that has resonates with her, and lets her touch that Magical Spark within her most thoroughly. Where other Witches may read tea leaves, shuffle the Taroka, or read palm lines, Lorita's methods tap into the same magic but create paintings, sketches, or songs in the stead of more 'traditional' witchcraft.
This stylization of magical medium has tailored her education to focus upon things such as Divination and Scrying; her paintings of far off places she can see in her mind's eye, or of events to come in the tapestry of Fate. Whilst these are her most naturally inclined magics, she is a creative girl and has found ways to adapt Grandmother Malkin's other teachings into her preferred style as well.
In short, her highest skill level lies in Divination and Scrying magics. She has competency in Conjuring, generalized Spellcasting, and Transfiguration, but struggles mightily with other forms of witchcraft. She is particularly horrible with potion brewing, and Grandmother Malkin has sworn her to never attempt Summoning or Theurgical arts for fear of what lurks beyond.
The Sins of the Ancestors
"Something Dark lurks within. It is how things have always been, ever since that fateful day in the ancient wood when Mother Malkin struck her deal. She sought power- and she earned it, indeed, for all of us!- but the price was steep, and the clan still pays for it to this day."
-Grandmother Malkin
The arts of the Malkin Clan are steeped in Dark Magic and a history of shrouded regret. The arts taught to Lorita by Grandmother Malkin are cautionary in nature- the elder witch sought to warn and caution the girl, not educate her in fell witchcraft for dark purpose. As such, Lorita possesses an understanding of Blood Sacrifice, Demonomancy, and Curse Casting that is unique in perspective.
Her dreams and nightmares are plagued by the whispers of foul creatures of Demonic nature; they whisper to her of power and knowledge that is dark and forbidden. Her blood itself seems to boil and yearn for the dark twist of forbidden arcana. The Chaos of her emotions brings to surface thoughts of hexes and curses.
The manifestation of these warring magical energies within her bloodline takes the form of mishap and catastrophe. Calling Lorita unlucky would be putting it mildly. The Demons haunting her seek to twist and bind her to their dark purposes through this inexplicable tie they have to her, though their direct influence is limited outside her dreams and influencing her magic.
While magically suppressing the curse is possible, it also severely weakens Lorita's own magic and is not a guaranteed countermeasure. Lorita's variant on her Grandmother's traditional sigils and wards is self-applied henna tattoos.
Personality
Lorita is defined by a life that began with suspicion and worry. While her parents lived she was doted on but kept on a tight leash due to their worries of her magical nature, the stories of a family curse adding to these concerns and rendering Lorita the suspect of any possible wrongdoing that occurred; following their deaths, this repression of freedoms and trauma of loss coalesced into aggressive personality traits and a penchant for Punk Attitudes. While much of this has calmed itself down with time for healing and proper thought, Lorita as an adult woman is still a firm believer in the path of anarchy, freedom, and personal liberations.
This makes her a wild woman, but one of society and urban modernity rather than nature. She's emotional, quick to anger, and handles stress extremely poorly- but on the other edge of the sword she's extremely empathetic and connects well with others, and is possessed of a sincerity and genuine nature that makes her capable of getting along well with others. Even those she disagrees with. Once she's done being angry at them.
She's possessed of a healthy disrespect for authority and organization, a strong preference for individuality and accountability being the foundation of her philosophy for life. Plays well with others, but doesn't take orders well. Once her loyalty is earned, however, it is unshakable.
When it comes time to celebrate, drinks are on her.
Appearance
Long hair, black, flows down over the woman's shoulders and falls to her waist- though it is most often wore in a braided ponytail. An athletic frame bears accents of femininity atop the muscles of one whose feet have run on concrete for hours into the night and whose hands and arms are bruised from brickwork and asphalt alike. Physicality contained into woman's form and given a life fueled by emotion and wild enthusiasms.
Attire that hugs the body, but outer-wear that conceals. Practical clothing, worn and ripped from use rather than from design, with sturdy hoodies and coats whose somewhat ragged appearance disguises the worth and quality of their make. Many outfits bear frayed elbows, torn up knees and shins, and stains from spraypaint and more traditional paint alike.
If she had to clean up and had a fresh credit card on hand she may be able to fit in at that gala next week, but it's not her preference and her jeans show it. You're more likely to spot her hanging from a rooftop and wearing a mask with a can of spraypaint in hand than you are to find her with manicured nails and a glass of wine.
Oh, alright. The wine bottle is on the rooftop too.
Source: Tpiola on Deviantart
“Mother Malkin is our progenitor, our originator, our most loved and hated of kin. As the stories go, she was one of the most powerful Witches of her time! And believe you me, we don’t make them how we used to these days.”
-Grandmother Malkin.
The shadows ran deep in this place. Twas an old place, deep within the wood and shrouded from mortal ken by grip of ancient decree. It was Walpurgisnacht, and one woman planned to make the most of it.
All across Germany on this night, pyres were being constructed and trials being held. The year is 1456, and things in Europe had become tense. Witches were to blame, so says the Church and so says the People. Witches must be hunted. Well if anyone had bothered to ask the Witches about it, they thought it was a right poor idea to begin with and many of the covens and clans reacted differently.
Some went into hiding. Some went on the aggressive. Others still sought to evade or obfuscate the hostility of the times in their own mystical ways. Clan Malkin, however, slid into the places of old and became the bogeyman of many a tall tale. None more striking than that of Mother Malkin herself, and the events that unfolded on Walpurgisnacht that year.
“On that fateful day, the lines between worlds were thin and the wrath of Mother Malkin boiled white-hot. She was witnessing the end of an era; the era where Witches walked openly and people respected the old ways. That respect had soured, and Mother’s fury sliced the worlds asunder. What came through the rift she tore is a mystery, but Mother Malkin had settled the score.”
-Grandmother Malkin
The woman stood at the apex of a low hill. The sky was clear on this night. The full moon rose high. The light it cast was clear and bright, but on this hill the light fell heavy like syrup and coasted through the branches of the trees as if every branch was slicing it into strands that fell and tangled together only to rewind themselves into solid light once more. A dancing light, filled with the laughter of thirsting souls.
All around her, her kin moved in shadowed robes and performed lesser rituals in preparation of Her own spell. The time was near. She raised her hand. Silence fell. Her eyes shut. Her mind opened.
Outward. She cast it outward, her presence exponentially amplified by the rituals and magics of this place and the sanctity of this night. Her consciousness spread far and wide. Touched the minds of every animal and the spirit of every tree- but they were not what she was seeking.
As the moon rose to its full height, the woman’s hands flew as if orchestrating a grand opera unseen and unheard. She had found what she sought; the minds of those at the stake, or bound at lakes, or soon to lose their heads. She touched the minds of the Witches that Walpurgisnacht.
The final thing many a Witch saw was the spectral hand of Mother Malkin reaching through the Inbetween and grasping at them at the moment of their deaths. The anguished, agonized, and distraught found themselves pulled along ethereal winds to the swirling darkness of that far off hill, orchestrated into a symphony of souls and blood that ran uphill to the Witch's feet. For that singular minute, Mother Malkin spoke with the voice of one thousand witches. She used their magic to fuel her own; she used their deaths to bridge the gap to the far off realm of darkness and chaos.
The sky ripped asunder. The weight of worlds colliding for an instant that lasted an eternity. Mother Malkin's inky black eyes, filled with the swimming souls of the Witches she'd liberated from their deaths, stared into the fiery rift between her world and the world of the demon-kin. She spoke with the voice of a thousand Witches, chained to her will and desire, and tasked to bringing forth a primordial being from beyond.
The Malkin Clan gained a great power that day, but lost much in the trade.
-Grandmother Malkin.
The shadows ran deep in this place. Twas an old place, deep within the wood and shrouded from mortal ken by grip of ancient decree. It was Walpurgisnacht, and one woman planned to make the most of it.
All across Germany on this night, pyres were being constructed and trials being held. The year is 1456, and things in Europe had become tense. Witches were to blame, so says the Church and so says the People. Witches must be hunted. Well if anyone had bothered to ask the Witches about it, they thought it was a right poor idea to begin with and many of the covens and clans reacted differently.
Some went into hiding. Some went on the aggressive. Others still sought to evade or obfuscate the hostility of the times in their own mystical ways. Clan Malkin, however, slid into the places of old and became the bogeyman of many a tall tale. None more striking than that of Mother Malkin herself, and the events that unfolded on Walpurgisnacht that year.
“On that fateful day, the lines between worlds were thin and the wrath of Mother Malkin boiled white-hot. She was witnessing the end of an era; the era where Witches walked openly and people respected the old ways. That respect had soured, and Mother’s fury sliced the worlds asunder. What came through the rift she tore is a mystery, but Mother Malkin had settled the score.”
-Grandmother Malkin
The woman stood at the apex of a low hill. The sky was clear on this night. The full moon rose high. The light it cast was clear and bright, but on this hill the light fell heavy like syrup and coasted through the branches of the trees as if every branch was slicing it into strands that fell and tangled together only to rewind themselves into solid light once more. A dancing light, filled with the laughter of thirsting souls.
All around her, her kin moved in shadowed robes and performed lesser rituals in preparation of Her own spell. The time was near. She raised her hand. Silence fell. Her eyes shut. Her mind opened.
Outward. She cast it outward, her presence exponentially amplified by the rituals and magics of this place and the sanctity of this night. Her consciousness spread far and wide. Touched the minds of every animal and the spirit of every tree- but they were not what she was seeking.
As the moon rose to its full height, the woman’s hands flew as if orchestrating a grand opera unseen and unheard. She had found what she sought; the minds of those at the stake, or bound at lakes, or soon to lose their heads. She touched the minds of the Witches that Walpurgisnacht.
The final thing many a Witch saw was the spectral hand of Mother Malkin reaching through the Inbetween and grasping at them at the moment of their deaths. The anguished, agonized, and distraught found themselves pulled along ethereal winds to the swirling darkness of that far off hill, orchestrated into a symphony of souls and blood that ran uphill to the Witch's feet. For that singular minute, Mother Malkin spoke with the voice of one thousand witches. She used their magic to fuel her own; she used their deaths to bridge the gap to the far off realm of darkness and chaos.
The sky ripped asunder. The weight of worlds colliding for an instant that lasted an eternity. Mother Malkin's inky black eyes, filled with the swimming souls of the Witches she'd liberated from their deaths, stared into the fiery rift between her world and the world of the demon-kin. She spoke with the voice of a thousand Witches, chained to her will and desire, and tasked to bringing forth a primordial being from beyond.
The Malkin Clan gained a great power that day, but lost much in the trade.
Lorita. Born with the Knack. Another cursed child of the remnants of the Malkin Clan. The family had survived Mother Malkin's infernal deal; they'd survived an exodus to the Americas; they'd survived civil war, world war, civil unrest! What they almost hadn't survived was time itself.
The family had swelled. Spread out. Set down roots. The Malkinsons, the Kinsingtons, the Welkinsons- the once monolithic clan of Witches had become an intricate tree of families that had eventually forgotten each other. None had forgotten their lineage back to Mother Malkin, but their relation to each other was often a surprise brought about by lengthy discussions of family trees.
The true branch 'Malkin', stretching directly back from Mother Malkin herself in a straight line, flows throughout history and ebbs to a finite point; Lorita. The last of the Malkin name. Born to parents who'd hoped against hope that their daughter would be mundane, ordinary, like themselves.
Parents who didn't get what they wanted. Parents who had to make do with the knowledge that their daughter was cursed, and that they'd have to suffer for it.
"Did you do it? Lorita, look at me. Did you break your mother's camera? Don't lie to me now. God damn it, Lorita, go to your room."
-Lorita's Father
Lorita's life was idyllic in a sense; two parents, middle class wealth, popular at school, quick to make friends, and the vast wealth of modern technological innovations to make life easier and social life harder. On the other hand, it was fraught with eggshells and minefields. She had to be perfect, otherwise her parents lashed out at her suddenly and aggressively. She never understood why until much later; at the time it just made her a skittish and docile girl, who took her bottled up emotions out on others while her parents backs were turned.
Every little thing that had ever gone wrong was somehow her fault. Flat tire on the car? Lorita. Goldfish died? Lorita. Cavity? Lorita. Phone bill higher than last month? That one probably was actually her, but you get the picture. Her parents' knowledge of her cursed existence had warped their view of coincidence and tragedy into a finely tuned razor of blame for their daughter.
It was a nightmare waiting to happen. Naturally it didn't have to wait long.
Lorita had always had nightmares; she was practically plagued by them, rendering her a habitual insomniac and someone who developed the talent of functioning on little sleep. Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, her latent magical power was blossoming in full in her tween years and soon it would overcome the wards and sigils that her Grandmother had placed on her regularly. Her nightmares worsened. The whispers in her mind grew darker.
The accidents grew more dangerous.
There was a fire.
"You're not to blame, little one. In fact, if you ask me, they brought it on themselves; refused to let you see what you really were, who you could really be. Blindness and ignorance might make for happy minds, but minds too small for doubt are minds too small for the world in my book. I won't be letting you mope or get all weepy eyed on me- that's malarky, it won't help you or anyone else. What I'll do, little one, is teach you the truth of things. It's up to you to sort it all out from there."
-Grandmother Malkin
That had been the first time someone with authority over Lorita had said something wasn't her fault. Naturally she couldn't believe it; it took the rest of her teenage years to come to terms with the fact that she couldn't control everything, didn't have to be perfect, and could make all the mistakes she needed to get something right.
And when she did learn that, she made them all. Made the wrong friends; learned to see the signs. Drank the wrong drinks; tried to remember which ones they were and moved on. Learned how to love, how to sing, how to dance, how to paint- learned to be herself unreservedly under the encouraging-yet-hands-off Grandmother she'd come to love.
Perhaps, most importantly, she learned what it meant to be a Witch. At least, her Grandmother's version of a Witch; Independent, strong willed, but unabashedly and unreservedly free.
Lorita had finally allowed herself to move on from the death of her parents, carried forth to adulthood by a chaos of highschool and post-education memory-making. Eventually even this existence had to come crashing to a halt, however; another lesson had to be learned. The lesson of leaving the nest, and facing the world fully on her own feet; Grandmother Malkin was done supporting the young Witch.
To Grandmother, the natural denomination of Witch was one. It was safest that way, and even though Lorita was family, she was now fully grown. It was time to let her learn on her own. It was time to send her out and give her choices, and watch from a distance.
One of those choices was Rosenthal. It was the one Lorita chose.
The family had swelled. Spread out. Set down roots. The Malkinsons, the Kinsingtons, the Welkinsons- the once monolithic clan of Witches had become an intricate tree of families that had eventually forgotten each other. None had forgotten their lineage back to Mother Malkin, but their relation to each other was often a surprise brought about by lengthy discussions of family trees.
The true branch 'Malkin', stretching directly back from Mother Malkin herself in a straight line, flows throughout history and ebbs to a finite point; Lorita. The last of the Malkin name. Born to parents who'd hoped against hope that their daughter would be mundane, ordinary, like themselves.
Parents who didn't get what they wanted. Parents who had to make do with the knowledge that their daughter was cursed, and that they'd have to suffer for it.
"Did you do it? Lorita, look at me. Did you break your mother's camera? Don't lie to me now. God damn it, Lorita, go to your room."
-Lorita's Father
Lorita's life was idyllic in a sense; two parents, middle class wealth, popular at school, quick to make friends, and the vast wealth of modern technological innovations to make life easier and social life harder. On the other hand, it was fraught with eggshells and minefields. She had to be perfect, otherwise her parents lashed out at her suddenly and aggressively. She never understood why until much later; at the time it just made her a skittish and docile girl, who took her bottled up emotions out on others while her parents backs were turned.
Every little thing that had ever gone wrong was somehow her fault. Flat tire on the car? Lorita. Goldfish died? Lorita. Cavity? Lorita. Phone bill higher than last month? That one probably was actually her, but you get the picture. Her parents' knowledge of her cursed existence had warped their view of coincidence and tragedy into a finely tuned razor of blame for their daughter.
It was a nightmare waiting to happen. Naturally it didn't have to wait long.
Lorita had always had nightmares; she was practically plagued by them, rendering her a habitual insomniac and someone who developed the talent of functioning on little sleep. Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, her latent magical power was blossoming in full in her tween years and soon it would overcome the wards and sigils that her Grandmother had placed on her regularly. Her nightmares worsened. The whispers in her mind grew darker.
The accidents grew more dangerous.
There was a fire.
"You're not to blame, little one. In fact, if you ask me, they brought it on themselves; refused to let you see what you really were, who you could really be. Blindness and ignorance might make for happy minds, but minds too small for doubt are minds too small for the world in my book. I won't be letting you mope or get all weepy eyed on me- that's malarky, it won't help you or anyone else. What I'll do, little one, is teach you the truth of things. It's up to you to sort it all out from there."
-Grandmother Malkin
That had been the first time someone with authority over Lorita had said something wasn't her fault. Naturally she couldn't believe it; it took the rest of her teenage years to come to terms with the fact that she couldn't control everything, didn't have to be perfect, and could make all the mistakes she needed to get something right.
And when she did learn that, she made them all. Made the wrong friends; learned to see the signs. Drank the wrong drinks; tried to remember which ones they were and moved on. Learned how to love, how to sing, how to dance, how to paint- learned to be herself unreservedly under the encouraging-yet-hands-off Grandmother she'd come to love.
Perhaps, most importantly, she learned what it meant to be a Witch. At least, her Grandmother's version of a Witch; Independent, strong willed, but unabashedly and unreservedly free.
Lorita had finally allowed herself to move on from the death of her parents, carried forth to adulthood by a chaos of highschool and post-education memory-making. Eventually even this existence had to come crashing to a halt, however; another lesson had to be learned. The lesson of leaving the nest, and facing the world fully on her own feet; Grandmother Malkin was done supporting the young Witch.
To Grandmother, the natural denomination of Witch was one. It was safest that way, and even though Lorita was family, she was now fully grown. It was time to let her learn on her own. It was time to send her out and give her choices, and watch from a distance.
One of those choices was Rosenthal. It was the one Lorita chose.
The Short One
- The modern family 'Malkin' has nearly forgotten its roots in ancient witchcraft, due to generations of hiding and spreading out to avoid the repercussions of their curse; people born 'With The Knack' are few and far between, and while granted a great power by the deal orchestrated by their ancestors they bear a great burden because of it.
- Lorita was one such person, born 'with the knack' according to Grandmother Malkin. This fact was obscured and hidden by the girl's parents as she grew up, allowing her a normal life for some time; the estranged Grandmother Malkin focusing her efforts on warding off the effects of the curse to satisfy the wishes of the parents.
- Eventually there was a series of 'incidents'; subtle influences of the Curse eventually overcoming Grandmother Malkin's capabilities. Small but unfortunate events grew into a chaos of despair and tragedy, resulting in the death of Lorita's parents and her guardianship under Grandmother Malkin.
- Suddenly thrown into a world of magic, the teenaged Lorita learned under the elder witch the secrets of the Malkin Clan and the ancient arts the witches of old passed down. Lorita's power grew with her age, and soon Grandmother Malkin declared that she shouldn't learn all her magic from one hermit witch. Lorita was sent to Rosenthal at the behest of her Grandmother; "I don't truck with Covens- too many Witches in one place for my tastes- but it would do you good to socialize a bit with other practitioners of the Craft, see more magic than just our own. Maybe it will help."
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Name: Red Zeruel Chorister
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Species: Human (Witch)
Magic specialties:
Theurgy - Red’s quest for the divine, which would be heretical to many sects, allows him to work what he believes to be ‘miracles’, miracles from The One Deity. These miracles allow him to call forth magical energy/mana from the Universe itself to power his and others’ spells, as well as inscribe ‘Angelic Names’ into his weapons and armor to grant them the power to withstand physical force (including bullets) and Magic.
Not merely that, but he can also call on the ‘holy fires’ of the Divine to create flames that do not burn living flesh, but merely inflict pain on them while damaging their weapons and armor and (depending on their strength) magical items. Note that these ‘holy fires’ can and do inflict physical damage on the undead, demons, and those with Dark Magic flowing through their veins.
Angelology - Red ‘Invites’ Angels into this world, to temporarily ‘sojourn’ in it, or failing that, to lend the coven their blessings and powers through minor ‘miracles’. Note that while said miracles are more powerful than their Demonic equivalents, the difference is that Angels cannot be compelled to give information and blessings to a cause they themselves do not believe in, even if the caller themselves is pious.
Healing - Red can heal people through his touch, calling on the power of the divine to heal wounds and replenish blood, knit injuries together, and even regrow limbs, although the latter requires immense reserves of magical energy/mana.
Personality: Red tries to fit his own views of what a ‘paragon of virtue’ should be, to be kind and compassionate and pure-hearted; the last part is made more complicated by his strong attraction to both men and women, as well as his liking for the finer things in life, which conflict with his contradicting desire for asceticism. Nevertheless, he is diligent in his duties towards the coven and other people and also generous with both time and money. And of course, he is no coward in the face of combat even when faced with stiff opposition.
Appearance:
History: Red was born into the Brethren of the Free Spirits, an ancient heretical group dating from the Medieval Era which believed that The Church was corrupt and that “nothing is a sin except that which is thought to be a sin”, putting themselves morally above the Church hierarchy and thus free to consort with any supernatural they pleased, including ‘Witches’. Obviously, these resulted in fierce persecutions, but the Brethren managed to survive due to luck, fierce fighting, and finally, a measure of actual supernatural power they believed to be from God. In time, the Brethren merged with other occultists who wished to retain faith in an omnipotent, omnipresent, and omnibenevolent deity, such as those who followed the Christian Kabbalah.
Red was thus born in an unconventional, but still loving home, somewhere in the United States, close to New York City. His parents were members of the Brethren who dedicated their lives to protecting those neglected and marginalized by society from mundane and supernatural threats and also providing for them with charitable work. He himself was taught the various beliefs of the Brethren, as well as the art of combat, theurgy, and angiology. As for his natural power to heal, it should have been an occasion of joy when it manifested, but instead, it led to the destruction of his family and all he once knew.
For when he was sixteen, he saw a wounded bird, a pigeon which had survived being shot with an air gun long enough for him to arrive. Picking it up, the boy was going to rush to try and take it to the nearest veterinarian, but knew it was too late… Until a voice whispered to him, asking, “Would you ask The One for his benevolence, despite the price you might pay?”
Yes, was his thought, and a surge of warmth flowed through him and all of a sudden, the bird flew off from his arms, fully healed. Red rejoiced in that, and hurried to tell his parents of what had happened - He didn’t know that there were watchers in the woods.
For a month or so, life continued to be normal, until one day, his mother received a warning in her dreams, which caused her to go with Red to New York City in order to put him under the protection of the ‘coven’ there. They then heard the news that Red’s father had been hunted down and their house set on fire, presumably by Witch Hunters.
Grief came and went, and Red’s mother continued to raise her son until he was 20. Then, she went off to attempt to retrieve her husband’s body, and vanished too, leaving Red alone for the first time, adrift from both his ‘coven-mates’ and ‘The Church’ and self-tasked with protecting the people of New York City from dark threats…
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Species: Human (Witch)
Magic specialties:
Theurgy - Red’s quest for the divine, which would be heretical to many sects, allows him to work what he believes to be ‘miracles’, miracles from The One Deity. These miracles allow him to call forth magical energy/mana from the Universe itself to power his and others’ spells, as well as inscribe ‘Angelic Names’ into his weapons and armor to grant them the power to withstand physical force (including bullets) and Magic.
Not merely that, but he can also call on the ‘holy fires’ of the Divine to create flames that do not burn living flesh, but merely inflict pain on them while damaging their weapons and armor and (depending on their strength) magical items. Note that these ‘holy fires’ can and do inflict physical damage on the undead, demons, and those with Dark Magic flowing through their veins.
Angelology - Red ‘Invites’ Angels into this world, to temporarily ‘sojourn’ in it, or failing that, to lend the coven their blessings and powers through minor ‘miracles’. Note that while said miracles are more powerful than their Demonic equivalents, the difference is that Angels cannot be compelled to give information and blessings to a cause they themselves do not believe in, even if the caller themselves is pious.
Healing - Red can heal people through his touch, calling on the power of the divine to heal wounds and replenish blood, knit injuries together, and even regrow limbs, although the latter requires immense reserves of magical energy/mana.
Personality: Red tries to fit his own views of what a ‘paragon of virtue’ should be, to be kind and compassionate and pure-hearted; the last part is made more complicated by his strong attraction to both men and women, as well as his liking for the finer things in life, which conflict with his contradicting desire for asceticism. Nevertheless, he is diligent in his duties towards the coven and other people and also generous with both time and money. And of course, he is no coward in the face of combat even when faced with stiff opposition.
Appearance:
History: Red was born into the Brethren of the Free Spirits, an ancient heretical group dating from the Medieval Era which believed that The Church was corrupt and that “nothing is a sin except that which is thought to be a sin”, putting themselves morally above the Church hierarchy and thus free to consort with any supernatural they pleased, including ‘Witches’. Obviously, these resulted in fierce persecutions, but the Brethren managed to survive due to luck, fierce fighting, and finally, a measure of actual supernatural power they believed to be from God. In time, the Brethren merged with other occultists who wished to retain faith in an omnipotent, omnipresent, and omnibenevolent deity, such as those who followed the Christian Kabbalah.
Red was thus born in an unconventional, but still loving home, somewhere in the United States, close to New York City. His parents were members of the Brethren who dedicated their lives to protecting those neglected and marginalized by society from mundane and supernatural threats and also providing for them with charitable work. He himself was taught the various beliefs of the Brethren, as well as the art of combat, theurgy, and angiology. As for his natural power to heal, it should have been an occasion of joy when it manifested, but instead, it led to the destruction of his family and all he once knew.
For when he was sixteen, he saw a wounded bird, a pigeon which had survived being shot with an air gun long enough for him to arrive. Picking it up, the boy was going to rush to try and take it to the nearest veterinarian, but knew it was too late… Until a voice whispered to him, asking, “Would you ask The One for his benevolence, despite the price you might pay?”
Yes, was his thought, and a surge of warmth flowed through him and all of a sudden, the bird flew off from his arms, fully healed. Red rejoiced in that, and hurried to tell his parents of what had happened - He didn’t know that there were watchers in the woods.
For a month or so, life continued to be normal, until one day, his mother received a warning in her dreams, which caused her to go with Red to New York City in order to put him under the protection of the ‘coven’ there. They then heard the news that Red’s father had been hunted down and their house set on fire, presumably by Witch Hunters.
Grief came and went, and Red’s mother continued to raise her son until he was 20. Then, she went off to attempt to retrieve her husband’s body, and vanished too, leaving Red alone for the first time, adrift from both his ‘coven-mates’ and ‘The Church’ and self-tasked with protecting the people of New York City from dark threats…
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