Noxious

ςнαяαςтєяş × яøℓєρℓαчş

Arsen Melkonian

_{i t i s n ' t t r u e t h a t s o c i o p a t h s n e v e r c h a n g e ; t h e y c h a n g e t h e i r m a s k s & t h e y c h a n g e t h e i r t a r g e t s .}

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^{A R S E N M E L K O N I A N}

^{t h i r t y - o n e y r s. ▲ o n e s e v e n t y - s e v e n l b s. ▲ s i x f o o t o n e}

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[ ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ɴ ɪ ᴄ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

Armenian

[ ɴ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

American

[ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴛ ʜ ᴘ ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴇ ]

Hollywood, CA

[ ғ ᴏ ʀ ᴍ ᴇ ʀ ᴏ ᴄ ᴄ ᴜ ᴘ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ]

Debt Collector; Human Trafficker

[ ᴀ ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ ]

You'll have to forget what you thought a Los Angeles gangster would look like, because if baggy pants, pulled up socks and wallet chains is what you were expecting from Arsen, he was sure to disappoint. Sure, he bore a few of the signs, but nothing people weren't willing to look over when he smiled. At 6'1" he is a coil of lean muscle beneath fair skin weaved with vibrant ink. His body is one that confesses maintenance and pride without pushing himself into any category of "meat head" or "hipster" and he is as unashamed of his own flesh as he is of his actions. Hair a deep brown, darker still in the winter, is shaved at the sides and slicked back with honed skill. His facial features display metal ornamentation upon his upper left cheek and left nostril and littered about his earlobes, caring little for balance. Beneath thick lashes his eyes are a shinning sky blue that seem to offer promise of innocence and angelic intentions, and lower still, his cheeks sink inward beneath high bones and seem to draw attention to a pout male models could be jealous of. His features are reminiscent of something almost feminine, despite the squared (and always clean shaven) jaw. His expression, his carriage, his gait...they are all flickering allusions- transitions between masks that choose to be displayed and flow as naturally from the man as the aura of calm confidence.

His wardrobe, while eclectic, has never been deemed cheap. Real silver dangles from his neck across his bare chest, dipping across more swirling images; ink of past and present. The same silver glitters from his abused knuckles (debatable on who would claim the abuses) and wraps around his wrists. He has collections of cuff-links and ties in his closet beside leather jackets, loafers and biker boots. What you wont find is tennis shoes or t-shirts, not in years.

[ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ s ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

His mind is a sordid place; shallow emotions (including reduced fear, a lack of empathy, and high stress tolerance), coldheartedness, egocentricity, superficial charm, manipulative, moral ambiguity, and a lack of remorse. He doesn’t see people as people; he sees opportunities, he sees targets and occasionally he finds accomplices, but he gauges acceptance and respect for others strictly upon their usefulness to him.

He is terrifyingly focused when he sets his mind upon a goal. He seeks to dominate and win at all costs. His social skills are also quite remarkable; a natural charmer, an expert storyteller who will play the victim, or the hero- whichever it takes. His face can be extremely expressive, but it’s trained, manipulated to a defined normalcy or character. He has never felt guilt or shame, least of all for his crimes. If he feels anything, it is powerful-- and now, now he feels vengeful because he has convinced himself of his own high morals and philosophy.

[ ʜ ᴏ ʙ ʙ ɪ ᴇ s & ɪ ɴ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ ᴇ s ᴛ s ]

▲ Gambler

There is something about horse races in Hollywood that enthralls Arsen, gives him a sort of peace and thrill that very little else can muster. Even as a child he junkied trips to the track with dear old Dad. It didn't stop there though, Arsen will bet on just about anything, especially if the price is right.

▲ Promiscuous

Arsen can't remember the last time he didn't get a girl (or boy) he wanted, and he wants a lot of them. He's got the "fuck me" grin down to an art and lacks any abashment in its constant use. Granted, if that doesn't work he's got other means to get what he wants.

[ s ᴋ ɪ ʟ ʟ s & ᴛ ᴀ ʟ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ s ]

▲ Hood Rat Shit

All that basic hood rat shit you grow up doing with your friends. He could boost a car, though it depended on the model. He could shoot a gun, though his accuracy speaks of a "more bullets, less aiming" technique and obviously had no professional training. He could break into almost anything, but he couldn't disable an alarm, he just wouldn't care. Cardio and jumping fences in the concrete schoolyard were necessary skills for respect by the age of nine.

▲ Ruthless

"Gives no fucks" doesn't even begin to cover it. When they took down Arsen he was taking a metal baseball bat to a woman's leg for trying to escape his penthouse and he didn't stop swinging when the FBI agents busted in with guns, screaming about his imminent arrest. Armenian slurs and threats made the walls shudder, directed at them all, spilling from the well dressed and blood stained pretty boy as he continued to heave the bat. It took two FBI agents to wrestle him away though he never turned the weapon from the woman. When asked about her later he seemed to have completely forgotten and started going on about burning down the entirety of LA just to kill one rat. He would do it too, and he would smile as the smell of burnt lives tickled his nostrils.

▲ Straight Faced Liar

That's the thing about people, monsters, like Arsen...you never really can tell. If you could hear the litany of excuses people make for falling for his shit, well, we would be hear a while. He had masks for all occasions. He was, literally, the guy on the news whose neighbors rambled something about "He was always such a nice boy. Never caused any problems. Watched my cat once and didn't steal a thing." He just wasn't the type to fuck you over, ya know? Too clean cut, too well spoken, too polite, too well connected. And honestly, no one had any idea the madness he was capable of, thankfully, he probably didn't either. Not then...

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^{p e o p l e l i k e t o s a y m o n e y a i n ' t n o t h i n g ;}

_{b u t n e x t t o p o w e r , m o n e y i s e v e r y t h i n g .}

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[ ᴍ ᴏ ᴛ ɪ ᴠ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ & ᴄ ʀ ɪ ᴍ ᴇ ᴄ ᴏ ᴍ ᴍ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ᴅ ]

You could say that the government handed over Arsen because they really didn't want to deal with him. The scramble to tear apart the human trafficking ring had been driving them crazy. They'd worked their way from one source to another, taking years to figure out who was at the top. In the end, after all the birds had sung it seemed that song was about Arsen.

But it wasn't just that the government didn't want to deal with it, the Consortium had been looking for someone just like him to make an example of. It was sickening, those that enslaved people for their magic and sold them like pieces of equipment to be wielded until they eventually burnt out. The case was solid. Hell, even a few of his victims came forward and sobbed their eyes out for the media so no one would feel at all bad when Arsen Melkonian was put in the earth. They'd feel bad for magic users, for the persecution they had to deal with. Persecution? THEY HAVE FUCKING POWERS. Nobody handed him powers as a child, he worked for his, and even without magical inclination he wasn't the one out there being a victim.

In the end, Arsen Melkonian wasn't enraged that he was put to death. He half expected to die every time he woke up. What really pissed him off was that the Consortium used what he'd done, twisted it to make cases for the rights and the terrible abuses that magical users constantly suffered. Fuck them, magic users were no better or worse than everyone else, they just cost a bit more was all. And fuck the Consortium twice because they were the assholes out there wrangling up magic users and forcing them to play on their side. You want to point fingers at black things? I see you kettle, and I raise you.

[ ʜ ɪ s ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ ]

The Armenians already had a substantial foothold when Arsen was brought into the world. They ran much of the underground gambling in Hollywood and dabbled in a variety of other unsavory professions; fraud, drug dealers, gun runners, muscle for hire, prostitution, neighborhood protection and extortion, just to name a few. If there was money to be made, Armenian Power wanted some of it.

Arsen’s childhood was no different from anyone else in his neighborhood so he had no reason to think of it as bleak or spectacular. It was a fine gradient of gray. Sure, his Dad would smack him up if he got caught doing something stupid, but this only taught him not to get caught-- which was likely the lesson intended. He respected his father, specifically because of the power he wielded. This respect extended to his mother, for he saw who held the true power of their home. Subconsciously he has always feared his mother, the sway she held and the pinched smile that wrought destruction on his anxiety.

By the time Arsen was in elementary school he was already a part of something that resembled a gang. Sure, they only dabbled in stealing neighborhood kids bikes and candy from the shop on Santa Monica, but they became his foundation. They withheld names from teachers who tried to force them to tattle, also a foundation for the life they were being groomed for. He was already showing signs of ruthlessness; bullying children out of their lunch money and intimidating even his own friends to keep them in line. They were loyal out of fear, and Arsen learned to control this and nurture this. Sparingly he offered them compliments and often insults so they came to live for his acceptance.

When he reached high school any psychologist that he allowed in (there was none, his parents would never have sent their child to an outside source) would have labeled him a full blown sociopath. He was the type of guy who made bets about girl’s virginity and peer pressured people into situations often enough that they learned not to ask questions. They smoked cigarettes and drank in the graffitied alleys of their city. And it was their city. Anything they wanted they could have. Cars? They stole them. Women? They coerced them. Grades? They threatened violence that their straight laced teachers had no way of getting around. Not that Arsen couldn’t have received good grades if he applied himself. He was intelligent, he simply chose to bend it away from academia.

One year out of high school he was lifting cars for one of his friend’s fathers and the cops had begun to catch on. They set up a trap and caught one of Arsen’s closest friends (due to length of relationship, not emotional bonds). The guy ratted on Arsen and two of the other guys and while he managed to keep quiet about the elder involved, it wouldn’t save him. For 8 long months Arsen paced in a cell thinking of only one thing. He woke in the morning and thought of it, he made notes at night and on the day he was released he found his rat “friend” shacked up with some soon to be hooker. He was careful. He recruited the others who had done time for the fiend and they bolted large metal plates to the window late in the night. They didn’t even attempt to be quiet, there was no need. He liked the sound of the two of them scurrying around the house. They sounded like the rats they were. When they finally tried the front door they were met with the gaping maw of a shotgun and a smiling Arsen, head shaking with a tsking no and they retreated back inside. He epoxied the door shut and sang Tupac under his breath while he waited for it to dry. Then he lit the place up. He pictured them trying to burrow in their filthy nest. He fucking hated rats, almost as much as he hated victims.

It wasn’t long before he had a full time job for pops working as a “debt collector”. They didn’t simply knock on doors and request payment, no, by the time the orders reached Arsen matters had gone beyond a simple knock. These were people who would repay their debt, one way or another. Sure there was an occasional kneecap that got shattered, but while Arsen was a fan of violence, what he really enjoyed was making them work it off. Kidnapping daughters and wives turning them over to pimps who would pay their father’s debts. Taking their sons, or the debtor if physically able, and handing them a gun for a day. A headshot and payment in full. The higher the debt, the more cruel and immoral the job that was likely handed over. Arsen got a sick pleasure out of watching the righteous fall. Staring down at their bobbing heads while their tears mixed with his own saltiness.

It wasn’t long before some of those who took people in exchange for their debts started making more and more specific requests, and while there was always a sorry SoB who owed Armenian Power money, they weren’t always the caliber requested. He turned to night clubs, to coffee shops, hell, he even dabbled on tinder to locate these special cases. And he learned something else, when they didn’t have previous debts, they were pure profit. Someone replaced him gathering debts for his Father and he began his own venture paying Armenian Power a share of his profits. He acquired help from his loyal elementary school gang, all grown up yet still the simpering simpletons who would cringe and avert their eyes when Arsen was displeased. Business was booming. Soon he had a luxurious condo in Hollywood and a place in New York, Brazil, Russia and Germany. Everywhere he looked all he saw was markets waiting to be tapped, legs that equaled profit, strong wills that begged to be broken.

All up until his arrest. What a media shit show that became.

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[ ʀ ᴇ ʟ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ s ʜ ɪ ᴘ s ]

▲ Family

N a r e k M e l k o n i a n

Dear old Dad, the tree from which the evil apples tumbled. He runs the gambling trade for West Side AP XIII. Pretty good relationship with the Russians, hell, he even sleeps with a few pretty regularly. Arsen originally worked for his father collecting debts, but soon he charmed his way into other positions of power not beneath his father.

A n k i n e M e l k o n i a n

While his mother was a quiet and reserved woman, she was not someone to be trifled with. She had no problem ratting on anyone and everyone, including her sons, to her husband. He would rectify any situation, move heaven and earth for that woman. It was a wonder she didn't have magical abilities of her own keeping the three men in her life in check.

D a v i t M e l k o n i a n

The youngest of the Melkonian clan. Somehow this one turned out to be much less of a piece of shit that what his surroundings should have dictated. Not that he went off to college and got a legal job, that would have brought shame to the family. He stuck to Father's side, running much of the illegal gambling as the old man grew older. He did manage to find himself a decent Armenian girl and settled down. The relationship between Arsen and his brother is tense, but he is likely the only one who really understands and accepts how much of a monster his brother is.

▲ West Side AP XIII

The only lover Arsen hasn't kicked out at sunrise was the streets and Armenian Power was the defining key in that relationship. Born in then sworn in; blood and sweat with no room for tears. He's good at what he does and they gave him a chain leash with a lot of slack. Maybe it was because of his Dad? Maybe they fell for his bullshit? Maybe they saw through it and figured better to lie with a monster than have him waiting beneath your bed? Likely it is all of the above in varying degrees.

[ ᴍ ᴀ ɢ ɪ ᴄ ]

▲ Light Eater

A simple snap of those tattooed fingers and darkness takes hold within a confined space. Windows and doorways will saturate themselves with a rotten smelling blackness. Man made light will flicker and fade, be found malfunctioning or completely broken. The rays of light that had previously existed are consumed within himself; devoured and used to fuel his own night vision and boosts healing for as long as he stays within the dark. If more light is added to the room from an outside source he would have to re-consume.

▲ Silver Tongue

Like a cliche mobster Arsen need only lean in and whisper in your ear and the spell takes hold, it races through your own mind, flipping the required switches and what he said is deemed true, is deemed an order. It rings upon your consciousness as if it stemmed from your own mind and changes you. Of course, you will likely begin to wonder why you would have such a compulsion, but that will come after the fact. The further away Arsen is from the target the more magic it requires. The greater change in natural habit or perception, the more magic required.

[ ᴏ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ʀ ]

▲ Drug Use

Other than cigarettes and alcohol Arsen despises drug abuse. He's seen it too much, he's gained too much from the flaws it imparts and finds it to be the crutch of the lowest forms of humanity. It's a weakness, and while he loves to exploit them, he still despises them. This extends to the oddity that he has never so much as touched an aspirin.

▲ Superstitious

Born and raised, but isn't open about it.

「♛ — . ʀ ᴇ ǫ ᴜ ɪ ᴇ ᴍ .

_{∙• never once considering how in the world she was to get out again •∙}

Ʌ M Ǝ N Ŧ I Ʌ Ɵ B C Ʌ Ṣ U Ṡ

^{Twenty-Seven || 11th of April || 170 cm. || Second Class}

A ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ

The poise and title of SOLDIER seems to have rolled off her shoulders and fallen to the wayside, leaving a waifish and excessively girly silhouette that lits about the shadows with a skipping gait in a world here and yet not wholly here; a dance among the fantastical; reminiscent of a pixie intoxicated. To focus on the girl illuminated is to see her clearly, but wandering or shaded eyes are graced with a haze about her form that licks at the air with a maddening lack of cohesion, one of many peculiarities inherited. Wardrobe of opportunity, though rarely afforded, is youthfully feminine: lace, ruffles and hues of cerise, lavender and periwinkle, with a particular affinity for grandiose furs that recall adolescence in her mother’s wardrobe. The overall effect is like a porcelain doll out of place, fragile and fading.

A once chestnut mane now dipped in the ink of aeon is sheared to a bob style that did not seem to falter the image, falling messily in raven strands across fair skin lightly dusted with freckles. A fragmented soul mended with aeon too late gazes out of almost colorless pale gray orbs that twitch imperceptibly between vacant, melancholy, exuberant, and then back again. Features display too easily stolen emotion; pale pink lips that curl towards dimples and a laugh betraying shared secrets in tune with the hearts of lovers.

Her beauty and virility becomes a juxtaposition akin to her mind, both savage and innocent, when surrounded by the destruction of battle. Lips curl in pensive and somber thought, touching her expression with a cause, and an occasional flicker of bemusement that finally entrances her eyes into a gnawing darkness. Those that had tempted emotion would do well to weep for the ferocity it holds on her bearing, the monster it bequeaths upon the girl.

P s ʏ ᴄ ʜ ᴇ

There is a world that consumes her and it is not our own. While SOLDIER has taught her to remain present there is always a notion about her that belies the struggle to exist and absorb her surroundings. Her facade is one she is well committed too; sweet, innocent, damaged, lost, but there is occasionally a method to her betrayal from the inner yearnings. The veneer was cast to dispel the cruel beast that claws about within. There is meaning in not knowing oneself, but loss in not being truly known.

She is far from opposed to making friends, or even small talk, but most find her to be lackadaisical, quirky or to be blunt, fucking weird. She has a tendency to latch onto specific individuals and dismiss others entirely. At first there seemed to very little rhyme or reason as to how these judgments were made. In time, it was observed that her aeon helps shield her from her apathetic cruelty by teaching her to feed from the emotions of those around her. The observant believe the girl is drawn towards those with intense and lucid emotions; be they poignant or jubilant. The SOLDIER program, as of yet, has seen no negative effects of this emotion siphoning, though her companions are usually chosen with this in mind and personnel with weak constitutions are advised against prolonged contact.

It would not be a stretch to say that her aeon is her best friend, the only one she has truly allowed past her barriers. He dwells in her head and likely knows the girl better than herself. She views the transformation as a boon, unsurprisingly. When one has grown accustomed to madness then madness is the only norm to be known.

B ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ɢ ʀ ᴏ ᴜ ɴ ᴅ

Amentia was born into a line of excessive wealth and influence. Her mother, an enchanting woman, doted heavily on her only child and was a superb storyteller. They would create castles of silk and her mother’s empyreal voice would weave fantasies about princesses battling demons in a land where magic was paramount. She was six when her mother died. Heartbroken, Amy slipped more and more into their fantasy world. Her father favored to spoil the girl through objects rather than affection and allowed the harmless delusions to continue, viewing her as a child, or not seeing her at all.

Years later the Father brought a new wife and son into their home. Amy seemed pleased to have the company and Father was content to leave them alone while he traveled. But all good things come to an end, and her Father’s realization of this was sudden. He came home to find Amy standing in the foyer, barefoot in a white gown stained with crimson bleeding into soft pinks. He removed a kitchen knife from her hand and scooped her into his arms, battling a mounting hysteria. In a shaky, almost reluctant, voice he asked what had happened. “They were bored and so I helped them get to a better place,” was the beaming cherubs only response. He set her down then, never to touch the girl again. Amentia would never feel remorse for her actions, though she did over the loss of contact.

The whole incident was covered up; any evidence disappeared, along with Amy. Her Uncle was currently pulling for a Regent position in Nuxvar and this scandal, Amentia, could not be allowed to tarnish the family name. The media relayed the fabricated story calling it a burglary and even the people at the Mental Health Institute deigned it improper to discuss, instead choosing to drown the girl in lôtos, a drug that induces sleep with the side of effect of vivid dreams and hallucinations. Had they cared, they would realize this only compounded her previous insanity. Soon she acquired a dependence on the drug, and any attempt to remove it from her system brought on a frightful fit of anhedonia and withdrawal. She was ten.

She lived there for years, there and not there, crawling into her head so that the world within her became more vibrant and encapsulating than anything reality had to offer. It wasn’t until she was 16 that SOLDIER came collecting at the request of her almost forgotten family. SOLDIER proved to be a blessing. They gave her a semblance of sanity and normality, at least a means to grasp at it. They gave her routine and they treated her like everyone else. She was far from the worst case to pass through these halls. Her Father has even written her to tell her how proud he is of her progress, though she wasn’t asked to return home and he never bothered to come visit. She convinced herself these were impossibilities and not the fault of her Father’s affections.

She continues to struggle with -facilitated- drug abuse. SOLDIER even chose to expand her arsenal of abuses when they realized that there was a need to quickly remove the effects of her crutches in lieu of battle and training. The doctors assured an easy fix and introduced her to Exsomnis IX; a high grade amphetamine. The average human would surely deteriorate in health with this juxtaposed concoction, but thanks to her aeon infusion her body seems no worse for wear. It is difficult to tell if it has furthered her mental capacities. She still proves to be an effective weapon and so concern has yet to be shown over medicating.

R ᴇ ɢ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴀ

Her inherited empathetic nature gives her an almost prophetic sense in battle, an instinct that thrives with or without a centered calm. Due to this she adapts quickly to her opponents. She favors a style that is ultimately rooted in surprise and is not beyond running and drawing the opponent into a situation beneficial to herself or faking an injury to lull the already over-estimated opponent into complacency.

She favors lightweight armor in muted camouflaging tones and has been provided with a thin durable suit that bends reflective light and allows for near perfect concealment in an array of environments. Her weapon of choice and skill is of limited variation; relying heavily upon bo-shuriken that are placed in excess on her thighs, arms, boots and occasionally even used to hold her hair up. After the realization that her blood can have damaging effects when making contact with others she has taken to cutting them across her own flesh and coating their tips. She is currently trying to master the lightweight and ferocious Kpinga and has taken to strapping two of them across her back.

She doesn't hesitate. Ever. True mercy is a thought claimed by sanity, of which she has very little kinship, and instead her own mind sees death as its own mercy. To remove people from the dull and damning reality and allow them to venture somewhere better. SOLDIER is inclined to favor this reasoning, if only they could remove its application to the home team.

For as long as she can remember there has been another inside her. A monster dwelling within, vying for control and whispering immoral absurdities so she took the introduction of her aeon quite well. He even proved to win out against the other and provide comfort while her body trembled and writhed in sweat through a melodic caress of complex ethereal symphonies. They bonded; both trapped in this reality, misunderstood and sharing a rather loose view on pesky definitions like morality and damnation.

She feels indebted which she attempts to repay by granting freedoms over her physical being that most SOLDIERs dare not afford their own aeons. Her lack of conviction for control over the aeon and his genetic influence has hindered any further advancement as the SOLDIER program seems weary of her compulsions, and whom truly conceives her actions and thoughts.

T A N T I B U S : ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ғᴀʙʀɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Often our worst enemy is our fear, the creeping miasma that crawls and burrows destructively between heart and mind, finding true potential and presence as you drift between worlds- nightmares. She beckons these demons from within their keepers imagination, whispering animation and confirmations to new found pets in tones that edge upon the void of sanity and ravishment. They creep forth, cimmerian phantoms tinged in malice. While they lack in capacity to deal sizable damage, they are impervious to receiving and often deter the assaults of enemies.

V E S A N I A : ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴜʀɪɴɢ, ᴀᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss

Focusing on a chosen enemy mind can send their consciousness into a downward spiral in which madness begins to devour through emotion, memories and sanity. The experience is far from painless. It has been cured with time in some, while others show only minimal improvement after lengthy exposure. The negative effect of this is a sort of absorption on her end, for pieces of soul never truly dissipate.

P R A E D O M O : ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, sᴜʙᴊᴜɢᴀᴛᴇ

A fog of shadows wells about the girl, consuming only an inch or so of space from the ground but affecting an odd sensation of slithering solidifications just below; a miasma of guardian hood that embraces almost imperceptible tentacles. Should anyone deign to approach the maniacal minx the tentacles are quick to lacerate their flesh with spiked tips that skirt upon the edge of reality and link them to her purpose; temporarily removing their own thoughts/motivations and replacing them with her own. Depending on her mood this can induce an urge to protect or an overwhelming need to curl into a ball and whimper for release. Effects are nullified once contact is broken.

A ᴇ ᴏ ɴ

+ X C A V A I R N || C ᴏ ʟ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ʟ ᴇ s s & B ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ

ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅᴇᴄᴀʏ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴇɴsʟᴀᴠɪɴɢ.

Initially it’s true visage was an incomprehensible jumble of debate, an evasive camouflage of nothingness and familiarity, as viewers each recalled entirely deviating entities. A repair to cohesion was found through implementing an array of blinding illumination upon the persecuted creature. Exposed was a coherent yet defective amalgamation of nix and psyche; a penumbra of macabre allure. Sharp points and twisted claws weep corrupting toxin and precede degeneration with a myriad of oculus’ that seem to perceive through aura as well as sight. To be unguarded in the presence of such an embodiment is to feel, utterly and inescapably, tinged with dread and some suffering crippling depressive ruminations. The emotions are so woven in proximity that to claim them as your own or the aeons is futile.

...and with creation there would be death and decay, and as beginnings are messy, so shall be the end, for all creation is subject to time and fate, especially the mind…

It’s own intentions are muddled in an impractical translation of other to human; maddening and virulent. It isn’t evil in so far as it’s incomprehensible and noxious; transcending our own ideals of morality and aligning with natural progressions. It speaks in a symphonic lament that recalls something both sinister and intimate in most. Personnel in contact with the aeon are consistently rotated as it seems a reverse Stockholm syndrome often comes into play.

C ᴏ ʀ ᴇ

A S S A S S I N

O ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ᴅ ʀ ɪ ᴠ ᴇ

D A E M O N I U M V I S

Limit break induces an appearance of coma on the girl. The essence of Amentia and Xcavairn splinter outward in an all out empathetic assault; entering, enslaving and adapting the bodies of the recently deceased [human or other] within an unknown proximity. If there is no readily available dead then the critically wounded will do. It harkens a process of decay and atrophy, delayed enough to make the husks useful either in an assault or protective capacity.

「♛ — . ʀ ᴇ ǫ ᴜ ɪ ᴇ ᴍ .

@Noxious - I'm glad to see you around again. But I will put into question here if you do have the time to spare for sure? I can't really say anything about vanishing and leaving suddenly, I've done so here recently, and I know it's never by choice because, shit, life comes way ahead of this. But, my goal here is to uphold everyone to a sense of loyalty and commitment because damn if I'm going to see this Requiem finished, so while Icc proposed that you can alter or submit something a new, I just want to ensure that you are going to stick around because this is going to be a long haul.

---

@Everyone - Again, shit happens, and I get that, but I have an image for this role play, and one of my rules has always been to consider your own limitations and availability.

@Rockette

I've made it through the first two rounds and now I feel invested. I'll be able to make time. I'm inclined to see this through, if you don't mind having me. :)

-depending on the cast I might also throw in another character. Again, up to you.

「♛ — . ʀ ᴇ ǫ ᴜ ɪ ᴇ ᴍ .

Well, consider me interested. I'll give this a better look tomorrow. I've got a date with a beer and a bestie. Glad y'all are back.

「♛ — . ʀ ᴇ ǫ ᴜ ɪ ᴇ ᴍ .

I may tweak Amentia. I don't know. Should I?

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

I've let myself get swamped by other things but I would like to see this through as well. Keep me posted. :D

Collusion

I'm honestly hesitant on a Discord server. Before I knew Discord was a thing, I would chat in numerous OOC threads and it was pretty great. Discord, in my experiences, can draw attention away from the threads and sometimes lead to slow RP deaths. Considering the narrative in this is already written out, I have no problems with using the OOC thread for both chatter and RP related discussions. Hell, the two almost go hand in hand lol.

As for how the IC will start... Well, without going into detail, we are starting from the natural beginning. You all will be able to write your own death scenes before transitioning into the resurrection. It'll be clear when I post the first post.

@icmasticc

Sadly I am going to go ahead and agree with IC about the discord server. The lack of activity in the OOC makes me sad and it hasn't been very beneficial to the roleplays I have been involved in. That being said, if you want to discuss something out of the OOC such as a collaborative post or a sub plot that can be done via discord. [nox#6963]

Collusion

I posted my character in the tab.

I like the idea of a Mage right also.

Illuminati: Becouse the world won't run itself. [Light Hearted, Conspiracy, Urban Magic, Dark Humour]

@JamesMuddy im thankful that im not totally alone with utter lunatics btw. I am expecting we shall become comedic foils for the other character's silliness.

@Sophrus

Ugh, she's like, totally not a lunatic. ;)

Collusion

I'm liking the characters so far. I do apologize about my absence as a co-GM, work has been a wee bit hectic, but thankful our fearless leader is handling this pretty well on his own. :) I'm shooting for having my character posted in the next day or so.