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2019 Characters _______________________________________ Hakan Ambrose Sariel Sahar Ines Isi _______________________________________ Names in Cold Storage Names in cold storage:
Bellamy Indriel Naomi Niara Fahari Ines Sol Raksha Kyros Sela (Say-la) Killian Amara Isi or Iri Baha Kioni Nageena Nimue RiekaImrie Alaric Lars Atlas Hans Zipporah Xeryn Orson Abaddon Snippets I abandoned: Sariel had never really pondered death before. Angels, they don't think much about their own mortality, probably because up until a few months ago, death was pretty foreign concept to them all. He used to think that it was an inching, musty thing. Something far away and under the earth. Something that you have to go digging for, like worms in a human graveyard. Humans deal with it sure, but not Angels. Angels are above death. Or, at least, they were. The one feature worth mentioning, of course, is the eyes he has and the lies he manages to tell with them. There's a darkness that lurks behind the twin amber pools, one that his victims never notice until it's too late. The depths of them seem endless, spinning fractals, promising answers, teasing a bottom to a black-hole that stretches into eternity. Then, in a second, there's the shift. The noon shadow. That thing that shouldn't be there, shouldn't exist in such a warm, expressive expanse. Too late. Sahar's rippling, flash of anger often comes a split second before the flash of a long, metal wire that catches the glint of the light. His eyes are dangerous because they're the distraction, a classic misdirection that leads so many astray. Not that he'd done the poisoning - but a scrappy captain he'd, uh, worked with a few years back had taken out her husband that way, and his mistress too. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly at the thought of her. She was smiling all the while she regaled the crew with her story, standing on the bow of the tug boat as her blue eyes flicked past her awestruck audience and dramatically gazed into the beyond. It had been a relief when she'd decided to end things between them, because quite frankly, Ambrose had not wanted to be the person to break things off with a woman who possessed both a patient and expansive temper. Ambrose realized he'd zoned out, and his head was still tilted up rather stupidly, so it appeared he'd been gawking at the hanging crystal contraption for the past few minutes as if it impressed him. It did not. He had several bones to pick with chandeliers - they were useless, horrible, elitist contraptions - but that was an issue for another day. Chandeliers - well, his strong opinions on them sometimes came out now and then, when he'd had one drink too many. The best thing they ever did was fall on pompous assholes, and the worst was hang there like a bloody expensive animal carcass. What would Ambrose do if he had his hands on even a few of those sharp, clear-cut rocks? Sell them all, that's what. And buy himself a nice new hat. It was uncanny, how expensive hats could be. If a looks could kill, the Academy would be a school filled with corpses. There is not a singular person or creature there who has not fallen beneath the stone hard gaze of Samael'a's at one time or another, pressing into them for reasons not quite known to anyone but herself. She has murk behind her eyes, grey irises always shifting like layers of fog against the morning sun. In some lighting, she appears strangely angelic, like a white robed angel with small, pink lips and an innocent expression. Just a slight tilt, however, so the shadows cut across her face, and suddenly she's become ghastly. A creature of heaven fallen out of grace. It wouldn't be wrong to say that she looks slightly ghoulish, though not in an unattractive kind of way. Her eyebrows are wiry and dark. Her eyes are large and frequently rimmed with dark kohl, the hollows beneath them holding the shadows of sleepless nights upon sleepless nights. Her noise is slightly bent out, though not large or obtrusive in any other way. She has small, pink lips and a subtle cleft to her chin. Her skin is covered with scars that twist and knot like they were put there by design. and her hair is a long, straight curtain of black, razed evenly at the edges. - - - Donny smelled of horse, apparently. To be fair, he'd never really thought about it before, just as he never really thought of smelling 'human' either. He was a human. He was also a horse. It was natural he would smell a bit like both at times, or one more than the other, depending on how long he'd spent in his alternate form. But after the third person complained, Donny wondered if it was offensive to smell like the thing one actually was in the Sandalio House. The noblewomen, milling around aimlessly like confused geese, had soaked themselves in aggressively fragrant rose perfumes that should've been classified as some sort of chemical weaponry - they certainly didn't smell human - but was he complaining? No, because that would be rude. Like them. They were rude, and he was itching to get away from them. Unfortunately, a combination of ill-fated events had led him to being cornered by a throng of ladies and gentlemen, all of them completely shrouded in a scent that was reminiscent of both cinnamon powder and the fiery pits of eternal suffering. His nostrils burned. It was hard to imagine anyone complaining about the pleasant must of horses when a monstrous perfume like that was in existence. He pressed his hair against the back of the canvas tent and tried, tried his very best to squeeze between the one lady (who had taken it upon herself to interrogate him) and her gentlemen. The lady, with her low-cut frock and frizzy mass of brown curls tied up with jewels, caught on rather quickly to his plan and stepped in his way, preventing his third attempt at escape. I should just leap over her. It was a tempting thought. He could, no doubt. The tent ceilings were high enough. And while the woman before him was much more terrifying than a bull, at least she was short. It would be nothing to clear the air, up, up, over her head. He could probably clear the whole crowd of people too, if he tried, without grazing a single hair with the soles of his feet. But no, that was apparently impolite too. All these stupid, savage rules made his life unnecessarily difficult. He longed to do something stupid, something glorious, something to mess up the whole corset and doublet affair. But...Donny had to remind himself he was here to complete a mission (though he loathed to be) and so, sadly, he couldn't get banned from the premises just yet. ""So you were saying, Donny?"" The Lady asked, even if she knew that Donny had been avoiding saying things. He'd been straight up ignoring her questions thus far, and commenting on the lovely beige and green color scheme instead. The mushy grass that tasted sour. The sound of metal clashing and people gasping around the jousting arena. But she was relentless, staring up at him with large, dull grey eyes, pinning him back with questions - all while keeping her nose curled in slight disgust. Her beau, his arm neatly tucked into hers, continued to glare at Donny all the while. ""About your wife?"" She prodded. ""My wife?"" Donny gave her an incredulous look. ""I don't have a wife."" ""Now, we both know that's not true. I happen to know..."" ""I have several."" ""Excuse me?"" Donny started counting off on his fingers, ticking one after the other. ""Seven? Or maybe it was eight. Honestly, I've forgotten. It's bad, I know. I should remember that sort of thing. My own wives. But you know us Farasi men. We only think about..."" His mind went blank. ""Muscles and stuff."" She'd already stopped listening, twisting the corners of her mouth down in that customary, scandalized fashion. ""Eight wives? Really?"" Her beau's knuckles whitened around her arm. Donny let his smile drop. Of course he didn't have eight wives - who could stand to live with that many people, all of them being reliant on you? Expecting things from you? Donny could barely keep himself alive and contented. The noblewoman, however, didn't need to know that. ""Dead serious,"" he snapped. ""Now, if you'll excuse me."" As the shock temporarily |
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Hakan
Salduntrin name: Tip Toe
Gender : Male
Age : 20ish Acts like he's 17 and 70 simultaneously, somehow Sexual Orientaion : Bisexual
⊱ ━━━━.✢.━━━━ ⊰
Appearance :
There's something about Hakan that's off. It's as if everything is too familiar, too put together, too prepared to be seen and scrutinized. He is on the shorter side, standing at 5'7 - lithe and toned, from years of training. The thin lipped smile he wears is practiced and wide, and the words that come out of them are skillful at redirecting conversations away from himself in a natural and guileless way.
A shock of black curls frames the focal point of his face, which are his pale, pale blue eyes. It's normal for him to have a sprinkling of bruises decorating his cheek bones, and shadows pooling beneath his eyes. A few permanent blemishes accentuate his devil-may-care attitude, from his slightly crooked nose, to the scar that slices through his lips (and regularly is the subject of dubious origin stories). His body has many more marks of this nature, but Hakan keeps his clothes on, generally, so they're rarely a topic of interest or conversation.
He's light on his feet, and hard to detect when walking around on the creakiest of surfaces. He uses this talent of his for the forces of evil, scaring acquaintances good naturally by sneaking up behind them - or, you know, assassining people.
Personality :
Hakan is the kind of person who smiles with a mouthful of bloody teeth and turns his face into the wind at every opportunity. There's very little desire within him to live a life of security - he thrives on chaos, because chaos has been a constant and familiar companion. When meeting Hakan, it's easy to get caught up in a superficial layer of confidence that envelops his words like candy coating on a pill. He's playful and willing to engage in witty banter, but anyone with a heightened awareness of people's energy will immediately pick up on an edge that punctuates his words. That edge is dangerous. It marks Hakan as someone who has learned, through the hard and shaping gales of life, how to cover up pain and insecurities with an easy grin, and how to re-direct peoples attention from those shadowy parts of himself he isn't willing to illuminate.
If Hakan gets tired or, heaven forbid, angry, the thin mirage shatters with very little warning or fanfare. His face will become dark, the bags under his eyes will suddenly seem pronounced. He'll laugh, but it'll be different than before. Humorless and hollow. For Hakan, he keeps up appearances only for the sake of making his life easier. People don't question someone who is funny and beaming, and they're less inclined to try to search for a deeper facet of personality. As soon as someone perceptive does try to swerve past his defenses, to find some semblance of substance within him, he has no trouble pushing them away with a cold, abrupt shove. This is frustrating, of course, for anyone who tries to get through to Hakan. If you're wondering why someone who exudes so much confidence and charisma has exactly zero friends, that would be the reason. He's not really interested. His single-minded goal is one that is morally grey and divisive. Other people would get in the way of that, trying to stop him, or trying to assert themselves as more important.
His past is something that he's secretive about. Not that he has much to hide, but its painful, and mentioning it is like poking an open wound. It leaves him seething and curling inward, as if he needs to protect himself from something. Anything. Hakan's only interaction he has with his own past and his own memories is when he thinks about revenge. Hakan's entire image of the world was built around the idea of that end - of finding those who hurt the ones he loved and snuffing them out. He realizes his personality suffers to the point of being non-existent as he chips further and further away at his goal. At this point, even if the faces of those he loved are now blurry in his minds eye, and he can't even remember what its like to hear them laugh or poke fun at his horrible cooking skills, he'll still hold onto his need for revenge. It's all he has left. And even if the ones he loves are slowly fading from memory, the one he hates is still as stark and clear as his own mirror image.
As a soldier, Hakan can only be described as someone who completes his work with disturbing efficiency. It's clean cut and quick, but he still manages to glean enjoyment from it, to relish in the way that power feels, in the rush and the whirl and the colors of war. The red line drawn by his sword, that's what matters to him. The wall and the politics of the divide between Kravien and Diaedim have little to do with his reasons for training to become a warrior, and he's an equal opportunist when it comes to targets. Hakan has no desire to take a moral stance or lead. In essence, he's a perfect soldier. He does what he's told without question or complaint. As long as his commander doesn't require any strong moral convictions, Hakan has everything needed: strong physique, fast blade, undying loyalty - so long as he always has work to do.
Idleness doesn't sit well with Hakan. He's fidgety. He shakes his leg when he sits down and rubs the pommel of his sword when he stands up. On his off time, he's climbing trees or challenging peers to tavern brawls - or he's walking alone by the riverside wondering at past decisions and regrets. Would things have gone differently for him if he could change one tiny decision? Is it even worth contemplating? He gets manic at times, and at others he gets low and distant.
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Kravien or Diaedim : Kravien
Rank (Class) : Salduntrins | Ryeloquers
Family Crest: Hakan scratched out his family crest with a glowing blade years ago. They're gone. What's left of it is the jagged wounds etched into it ever since that day. You can make out the faint outline of leaves from between the dark lines of his crude handiwork Magical Symbol: Sword
Crush/Significant Other : Hm.
Magic : . He's got some, probably. People, including his higher ups, see his swordplay as a magically enhanced ability (so his magic symbol he wears on his uniform has a sword on it) but it's not. His real magical ability isn't all that relevant to his prodigious skill in combat and charisma, and he didn't use it to gain his rank as an elite soldier. It's actually quite small, and he's embarrassed of it, so he doesn't mention it. Ever. His secret is that he is (magically) really good at growing plants - and birds and squirrels just really like him. His windowsill is full of succulents and he's always chasing pigeons and fuzzy rats (what he calls the aforementioned squirrels) off his doorstep. Once in a while a crow will follow him to work and drop shiny stuff in his lap, and he's tries to play it off as weird stuff that happens to everyone. There are some rumors flying around because of the bird incidents, though.
⊱ ━━━━.⋅ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰
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<div style="text-align: center;"> Hakan Cont.<div style="text-align: center;"> ⊱ ━━━━.⋅ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰
Strengths :
ｔｈｅ ｐｏｉｎｔｙ ｅｎｄ - While it's probably not the best idea to leave Hakan in charge of anyone's emotional health, he's quite good at protecting his own kind's physical well-being. As a soldier, he's technically dedicated his life to serving the people (even if in his heart, it's only for himself) and he does so with glorious finesse. His skill with a blade is undeniable. He cuts the air itself when he fights, his jabs and parries faster and harsher than the snow swept up in a blizzard. There's not a fight to the death he's ever lost, the fact that he's still alive being a pretty obvious testament to that fact. Fighting's an art, a sword is a paintbrush, and he is a jaded, grumpy old artist.
ｏｎｌｙ ｏｎｅ ｗａｙ ｔｏ ｇｏ - As many have said, in the cliched fashion, "when you hit rock bottom..." Hakan has hit rock bottom, a couple of times - and if anyone ever utters the aforementioned phrase to him, he'd probably give them the finger. He's frustrated with the fact that unfortunately, even though once you hit rock bottom, you can only go up, the amount of times you can fall back down to rock bottom once you try to climb your way out is unlimited. However, because Hakan has been there...a couple...times, he's quite good at persevering, smacking a bandage on that laceration and sticking gauze in that puncture wound. Not much can knock him down for long. He's bloody determined and bloody knuckled, and he'll always start climbing back up, no matter what.
ｄｅｖｉｌ＇ｓ ｇｒｉｎ - Hakan has charm. Albeit, its fake charm, but who cares so long as nobody finds out it's fake? Life's a game, and he's playing along because that's what everyone wants him to do. No one wants to work with a guy that is bloodthirsty 90% of the time (he's only bloodthirsty like, 10% of the time, so it's okay). No one wants to be around a brooding, angry, life-weary twenty something. So, he fakes it until he makes it. He's really good at being playful and evasive, charismatic and even flirty. However, he means nothing by it, most of the time. Even if he did develop an emotional attachment to someone, he probably wouldn't realize it. Or if he'd did realize it, in a rare moment of self-awareness, he'd start to have a panic attack.
Weaknesses :
ｃｈａｏｓ ｉｓ ａｌｌ ｔｈｅｙ ｋｎｏｗ - Hakan finds himself seeking danger and sabotaging his own life in order to avoid the stillness and the quiet that comes with being at peace. If you can hear yourself think, than you have time to reflect on the past. Your mind drifts back to all of those memories, scattered around you like drops of rain. Hakan is afraid of that rain. Afraid of the still and the quiet. Afraid of the past and all it means and where the blame may fall. So he surrounds himself with chaos, he wears it as both his armor and his cloak, a weapon and a disguise.
ａｒｍｏｒ ａｎｄ ｓａｎｄ - Hakan knows that he's wasted his life chasing a victory that will turn to ash in his mouth once he digs his teeth into it. He knows the vengeance comes at the price of his humanity, his morals, and his very soul. He understands that there are two paths here, one that gives life - forgiveness - and one that poisons the mind - revenge. Hakan has chosen the latter. He isn't blind. He doesn't think that dragging a blade across the throat of his enemy will make him happy or the least bit absolved for his crimes. But he's doing it anyways. He lost who he was a long time ago. Now, he's just a suit of armor in a body filled with sand. Nothing left inside. Nothing to hurt. Nothing to bleed.
ｔｏｒｎ ｕｐ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｒｏｏｔｓ - Hakan lost a lot when he was young. He didn't lose everything, and his plight certainly isn't isn't unlike thousands of others who lose their families. But Hakan was unable to regrow his roots after they were so abruptly torn from the ground. Home, for him, was built of skin and bone and soul, not stone and wood. And when he lost that home, he could never bring himself to replace it. Some move on, replant and regrow. Hakan refused. He still refuses. Every person is temporary, every love and relationship. Every place he stays, its all going to be left behind one day. Is it fear that prevents him from rebuilding a life, from replanting a seed to grow and flourish? Maybe. But he doesn't care what it is, because it looks like acceptance. And Hakan will never allow himself to accept the past that haunts him so.
ｕｎｍｏｖａｂｌｅ ｏｂｊｅｃｔ- Hakan is as stubborn as rock, and when he focuses his mind on something, it never leaves his cross-hairs. The crowning example of this is also the only notable example, because Hakan has spent his life chasing one thing: revenge. Nothing else has ever mattered to him before, other than avenging the deaths of those he used to love. And nothing else will matter to him. Not while Hakan can help it.
ｃａｎ＇ｔ ｆｉｘ ｗｈａｔ ｗａｎｔｓ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｂｒｏｋｅｎ - Hakan knows that he probably needs help. Does he want it? No. You can try to help a drowning person, but if they don't grab onto the rope, what do you do then? This is what many of Hakan's companions have grappled with, and eventually, one by one, they give up. Some people don't want to change, and they certainly don't appreciate people trying to "fix" them. Maybe they like their cracks, their blemishes, and their bruises. Maybe they know that, if someone glues their pieces back together, covers them with gold and a spiffy new finish, they'll just shatter again. Maybe breaking once, and staying broken, is better than being fixed and shattered in an endless cycle.
Other : I'm sorry Hakan is such an edge lord. I was just having too much fun cx
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WIP Ambrose ""Rosy"" Moore Age : 23 Gender : Male Sexuality : ? Race : As human as human gets - Occupation : Ha. (Underworld Smuggler) Appearance: Ambrose is a lanky fellow. He's built like a dancer, all sinewy muscle and grace. There's a cat like agility to him, which he matches with his cat-like grin - toothy and gleaming. His hair is the kind of red that's closer to the color of blood than it is to carrots, and he's got constellations of matching freckles all over his body. His mother told him that his grandmother had hair like that, as if that would make him feel better about it. Irish blood isn't something that wins you many favors in London, and when he was younger, the other street kids started calling him Rosy. The nickname spread like wildfire, and in the present, most people don't even know his real name. Ambrose grew out of being cross about it, and has fully embraced the moniker. His favorite handkerchief has a nice rose embroidered on it, along with a Rosy sewn on it in swirly green script. It was made just for him by an old paramour of his. The lover is long gone, of course, but the handkerchief was too nice to throw into the river with the rest of their things. It wouldn't have made a nice splash anyways, is how Ambrose justifies his decision to keep it. There's no use in throwing it into the river if it doesn't make a splash. Ambrose walks with a cane at the age of twenty three, and he uses it for all sorts of things that don't involve walking. It's pretty nifty to crack across a fellow ruffian's back, if necessary, and he does quite a lot of pointing and shaking with it, channeling his old step-father. The limp's been a curious feature of Ambrose since he was a lad of fifteen, with the injury finding its origin from an unfortunate encounter he had while running smuggling routes, though Ambrose doesn't mind it much. He still has a fair amount of stability (or so he claims), even if he looks like a three legged goat when he breaks into a sprint. After a few drinks, he might even regale you of the time he won a foot race with it, in the back alleys behind an old shoe factory, where they sometimes bet on old cart horses by moonlight. As he tells it, his opponent was a ruffian coworker who liked to pick on Ambrose any chance he got, to which Ambrose finally responded one day, ""If you're so confident I'm a cripple, race me, good sir."" At the drop of the handkerchief, Ambrose's cane ended up in front of the other man's feet. Oops. Everyone refused to pay Ambrose the money they'd bet against him (quite a heavy purse, it was), and it probably would have been unsportsmanlike to accept it anyways, with his opponent out cold, splayed out in the muddy street like he was, but Ambrose still walked away feeling victorious. Personality: Ambrose is nothing if not an opportunist. To him, the war is just another bale of straw he's spinning into gold. With Britain's fine young men off in the trenches, the figures who skulk around London after dark are rarely the kind you'd liked to bump into in a back alley. If you should rub shoulders with Ambrose, he'll give you a kind word and take your pocket watch when you have your back turned. The police force is as thin as jam spread over a poor man's scones, and anyone with an agenda would rightly guess that the men in uniform are more worried about the planes that drop hell from above than anything at eye level. They spit at the gutter rats who trade beneath the streets, sure, but they lack the man power and motivation to stop them. In other words, the black market is a low hanging fruit, ripe for the picking, and anyone with sense would be smart enough to pluck it while the groundskeepers are away. That's Ambrose philosophy, anyways. Fools never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity, and Ambrose is no fool. From the time he could talk, which was earlier than most, Ambrose has always been whip smart, wily, and quick to turn a phrase. His sense of humor is a little condescending, and he's not the humblest of geniuses, but he doesn't insult anyone who doesn't (mostly) deserve it. Still, the man's tendency to quip at people when the situation is fraught hasn't come without consequences - and rewards. If Ambrose hadn't been beaten near death when he was fifteen for snarking a Crime Boss, he'd never have gotten the twisted up leg. And if it weren't for the leg? Well, Ambrose figures he'd be one of those fine, brave boys in the trenches about now, losing life and limb by the second. Ambrose doesn't have much of a temper. He's as easy as a cool, salty breeze coming in from the harbor. There's no part of him that minds taking orders or stepping out of the way for someone with ambition to go tearing past. This has served him well in his line of work. Everyone likes him enough to keep him around, no one's threatened by him, and he doesn't get snappy unless his life or his smuggled goods are at stake. It's just not worth it to always be blowing steam, and the men with tempers either rise to the top or end up six feet under. Neither of those options seem appealing to Ambrose. Talk to him, and you'll see he says a lot about a little. A conversation with him is bound to start and end at the same place. The weathers rainy, yes. Look at how the gutters are flooding! Again - so surprising, eh? I never see it coming until my kitchen chair is floating past the bedroom, ahah. Oh, I saw that place was bombed out. Right shame! My opinion? Well, I wish I was educated enough to give one, but that's why I hang out with you, eh? You've got all that smart stuff in your head, just constantly spilling right out. Like the rain! Well, tell your wife I said I love her. That sort of thing. He plays it safe and easy, and while he's got opinions and thoughts, if the leg incident taught him anything, it's that sometimes, you should just keep your damn trap shut. Sometimes. If you're looking for honor, you should look elsewhere. Ambrose was a good boy in front of his mother and his step-father, going to church and trying his best not to pick the Sunday best pockets of the rich folk in the pews ahead. Then, they passed away from fever and factory smoke. Ambrose didn't need to keep up appearances anymore. He frequents bars and flirts too much, he works for whoever is paying him the most, and he's always on the winning side, even if that means he has to switch allegiances half-way through. He picked up his card-playing habits from his father, and his poker face from his mother. He's too cheap to become a frequent gambler though, and he only plays when he's certain he's got a good chance at winning. Reputation: People like Ambrose. It's hard not to, he's funny with just a touch of edge, and clean enough. Most law abiding folks keep their distance, of course, because his occupation isn't the world's best kept secret - but they never let him slip too far away, because if you want access to the luxuries of life that war's stripped away, like sugar or a good drink, Ambrose is your guy. The supernatural world is aware of Ambrose as well, and he knows them too. He doesn't discriminate against paying customers. If they want goods, he delivers, pointy teeth or not. |
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<div align="center"> Ambrose Cont.<div align="center">
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<div align="center">Likes/Strengths:<div align="center">
<div align="center">He who would pun would pick a pocket<div align="center">
<div align="center">The old saying seems to think that people who enjoy making puns are bad of character and likely to relieve you of your pocket change. Ambrose thinks he has a perfectly good character, though he will pun all day and pick your pocket besides, so maybe it's not all that wrong.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Charming Snakes<div align="center">
<div align="center">In a business largely dominated by cutthroats and con artists, surviving can be difficult. The obvious solution to dying is to become feared," by adopting the brutal mannerisms of your colleagues. Ambrose has always been a fan of the road less travelled, and thus he took a different route to staying alive. He uses his easy going persona and blithe way of speaking to charm those around him, winning acceptance with a wink and a smile. However, he knows full well that it's a dangerous line you walk when you're charming snakes. One step in the wrong place, one lilt in your song, and suddenly two long, needle fangs have sunken into your heel.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Honor and Dust<div align="center">
<div align="center">Ambrose knew an honorable bloke once. He was called Billy Packard, with a gap between his teeth and a thin-lipped frown. As far as personality goes, there wasn't much there, save that Billy never budged an inch on this thing he called honor, which was just rigid inflexibility in Ambrose's mind. Billy made it very clear from the start that he was only in the "Black Business," as he called it, because the army had turned him away, the factory he'd worked at was now a pile of chalky bricks, and he had a wife and three children. The tale might've been pitiful if it wasn't nearly every man's problem, and if Billy hadn't been such a bastard about the way he treated his fellow smugglers. He was too high and mighty for them - walking around like a a church going man without mud on his pants legs, claiming their ends were coming in fire and eternal damnation when he was getting raw hands carrying the same crates of illegal goods they were. If there was one thing Billy refrained from that the other boy's didn't, it was killing. An unfortunate, but necessary part of the job. One day, Billy beat down a man who had tried to steal his shipment, but left him lying there bloody in the mud, still breathing. As soon as he'd turned his back, the man had pulled out a gun and shot Billy clean through the head. Now Billy's dust in a graveyard. That wife and those three children are out in the streets. Ambrose knows as every man whose survived long in the trade does - honor is a quick way to an early meeting with God.<div align="center">
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<div align="center">In For A Penny...<div align="center">
<div align="center">You smuggle to earn a living. You earn a living to smuggle. Once you dip a toe in the dark waters of the Black Market, you're tainted by the foul smelling water forever. There's no going back.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Everyone's Friend<div align="center">
<div align="center">Ambrose is a man who knows how easily the tides of fate and human emotion can turn over on you. How one day, you're wading in calm water and the next you're being dashed against rocks. After all of Ambrose's loved ones passed on, he never made new ones. Instead, he decided to live with the mentality that everyone is your friend, and everyone is your enemy. Everyone can love and betray you equally, and with every kind word there's a chance you're going to be burned. Because of this, his loyalties only belong to one person: himself. He'll be your friend, sure, while it's in his best interest. He, however, has no problems switching sides if he thinks it'll be in his benefit.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Sea legs<div align="center">
<div align="center">Ambrose is a might bit squeamish around water. He's been around it his whole life, of course, and he's ridden plenty a boat to get goods into the city. However, the tilt of the boat always gets his stomach into a queasy knot, and he spends most of a lovely day at sea bent over the railing. Plus, even though he was a bad swimmer before he busted the leg, he's much, much worse at it now.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Place of Origin:<div align="center">
<div align="center">London<div align="center">
<div align="center">Background:<div align="center">
<div align="center"><div align="center">From a young age, Ambrose has come face to face with poverty and hardship. Born to an unmarried woman who found herself on the street after becoming pregnant, shunned by her family and the man she thought she loved, Ambrose grew up in the dregs of society. He learned quick that the lower you start out on society's rung, the less you deserve it. His mother was a saint, and the man she eventually married was a drunk, sure, but a good-natured one who gambled away earnings and sung Ambrose to sleep at night with loud sea shantys. Once upon a time, he'd been a Navy man, but when his service was done, he'd found himself back in London's gutters. He told Ambrose, "If you give them your life, you won't get nothing back."<div align="center">
<div align="center">Ambrose never forgot those words.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Instead of wallowing in his unfortunate situation, allowing himself to spend a lifetime lost in a labyrinth mud splattered streets, begging for scraps, or working in a factory that would get to his lungs, Ambrose learned to turn the tides and flip the tables. He followed his step father to a gambling house one day, despite his mother's protests, and met Black Tip, who got him his first job as a go-between in London's world of street gangs and smuggled goods. From there, Ambrose worked his way into the ranks - worked his charm, and worked himself to the bone. He was non-stop, all through his teenage years, rising above and beyond the place that any bastard boy like him thought they'd get in life.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Now he's fairly well off, so that his starving days are behind him, and he dresses smart enough that the bartenders call him "sir" when he orders a drink. It might not be the life of heroics he imagined as a child, when he played with toy soldiers and challenged other boys to duels, but it's a life worth living.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Until the world ends, at least.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Relations:<div align="center">
<div align="center">Hannibal - Ambrose named the mouse that lives behind his cupboard after the famous Carthaginian, because he thought it be funny. Elephants? Mice? Ah well, hardly anyone gets the joke.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Doris - Doris is Ambrose's cane, but Ambrose decided she's been with him long enough, and saved his ass so many times, that she deserves a proper name.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Other:
Edited at May 30, 2019 04:22 PM by Red Queen
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(i may add some things, I don't know I'm not entirely satisfied cx) ◞┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈◟ Sariel ◝┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈◜
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓ Gender↠ Male Sexuality↠ Pansexual Species↠ AngelRank↠ Hearer ┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛ ┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓ The ashes of paradise melt on his tongue - A song all his life ubruptly unsung, unraveled like spools of golden thread at his feet.
Appearance
Once, upon the endless ribbons of time, there were two angels born of the same blood. Unmistakably brothers, woven of the same light and bound by the same ethereal bones, yet entirely different by design. Abaddon and Sariel, they were called, one name seared into Heaven's annals like a brand, the other whispered like the soft-plucked strings of a harp.
Abaddon was the greater of the two. He had unfurled wings like sunlight, expansive and grand, each feather as if it had been laid in a shining gilt burnish. His presence had once been commanding and dark. Despite the radiance of his figure, the strands of flaxen hair that flowed like molten gold, Abaddon was a creature of wrath. One of the High Guard angels, he was designed for enacting the most brutal of God's commands. An angel of death. A king of locusts. A sword yielding divine justice and devastation.
Sariel was but a child, always a child, in his brother's eyes. The agelessness of angels was seemingly stripped away whenever he would stand in Abaddon's presence, and he could feel his own inferiority. He was clearly the lesser of the two. Quiet and serene, with a voice as crisp and cool as powdered snow upon the human realms - quite unlike Abaddon's sound of cracking thunder.
Sariel's wings were as pitch black and glistening as Abaddon's own abysmal eyes - so much so, that the individual feathers appeared melded together from a distance, blurring into one whole dark shape, like a captured piece of the void. This darkness, however, never seeped into Sariel's being, just like the glorious and smoldering gold of Abaddon's wings never warmed his glacial smile.
Sariel did not have the blinding aura of Abaddon. The structure of their appearance, the bird-like tilt of their head when confused, the slight tremble of emotion when they became angry - these things were the same, but where Abaddon was like a burning star, Sariel was the muted energy of the moon.
Now, the tale of the two brother has turned into a tale of one.
Abaddon is dead.
Since Abaddon's passing, Sariel's been spending more time in human form. Wearing it, turning over his hands, wondering at humanity and blood - what an ugly shade blood really is. He makes himself a cool-toned brown, and his hair curly and black, coiled behind his head in a tether. The skin is smooth, the eyes are a deep silver, and the cheekbones are high and defined. His look isn't beautiful so much that it is striking - and it changes slightly with his mood. Sometimes he prefers a toned look, sometimes he picks a willowy figure. But no matter how he's feeling, he always gives the form a slightly chipped front tooth. Ask him about it, maybe.
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^^^
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Personality
For a being whose job is to listen, Sariel hardly ever looks like he's paying attention. He's got a wanderous glaze over his eyes. If they're the windows to the soul, then his blinds have been pulled shut. He's developed a bad habit of walking away in the middle of conversations that have lost his interest, or walking away before the first word has escaped your mouth, even. If you've been alive as long as he has, mundane topics of conversation can drive you to the point of insanity, so it's best to avoid them.
With that in mind, it is pretty hard to corner him long enough to even initiate an interaction, but most don't even try. Who'd want to? Out of all the prayers whispered in God's direction - hopes, dreams, secrets; words drizzled with love and dripping with hate - Sariel is the only being to which God ever whispers back. The Hearer delivers messages that hold a terrible weight, the words on his lips whispered with monotone finality. One can only wonder what the toll of that ability really is. He certainly looks a tad bit off, and when he does speak words of his own make...well, let's just say that if he is trying to scare people away, than the solitude he enjoys has been earned, on his part.
Abaddon was the only angel that really allowed Sariel to come out of his shell, to let him talk about all the dark thoughts in his head and wonder at human philosophy. Now that Abaddon is dead, Sariel has strangely taken to his absence. Poked and prodded at it, like a child discovering a dead bird with the end of a stick. Grief isn't something angels deal with, generally. Certainly not angels like Sariel, who have watched the world unroll like a great, endless tapestry for the whole of their existence.
His brother's death? It was a metallic affair, one of sparks and ringing steel, hellfire licking the pearly gates. That sort of thing. Sariel's started to imagine his own death, now that everything is coming crashing down. He doubts it will be a glorious affair, considering the fact that he's spent his whole life uttering the word's of someone else and standing in the shadow of Abaddon's wings. He barely even knows who he is, and that fact never scared him until he realized that he had limited time to figure it out.
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛ ┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
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<div style="text-align: center;">◇__________________________________________◇ <div style="text-align: center;"> 𝕀𝕤𝕚<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">oh quiet jealousy,<div style="text-align: center;">tangling red chords together<div style="text-align: center;">in an ill-fated knot-<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">23 | Male | Bisexual | Angel Harpy<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Species:<div style="text-align: center;">Lammergeier<div style="text-align: center;">Color Scheme:<div style="text-align: center;">White, Cream, and Black<div style="text-align: center;">Attire:<div style="text-align: center;">Isi prefers a loose cotton tunic with rolled up sleeves and a dusty pair of trousers. A sash is tied around his waist, acting as a place to hold his weapons and easily converted into something else if necessary. He likes to tie feathers in his hair, and has a gold septum piercing.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Medical Conditions:<div style="text-align: center;">Deaf in (left) ear<div style="text-align: center;">Panic Disorder<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Social Status:<div style="text-align: center;">Guard and Occasional Sellsword<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Appearance:<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">The Lammergeier is a solitary creature, known for its abundance of feathers uncommon on other vulture species, and for it's impressive size.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Isi lives up to his bird aspect. He's tall and athletic, his muscles toned from years of working and training - and his body built to respond quickly and survive. He has a generous shock of deep brown hair, lustrous and curly, that hangs past his ears in an untamed fashion. Dark brows slope sternly downward above his hooded, green eyes, and a birthmark blooms pale grey against the skin of his right cheek. Like Lammergeiers, there is a part of him that enjoys playing around with his appearance, tapping into a more playful side of his personality that was never able to develop when he was a child, when he was wading through mud on the streets. Sometimes Isi dyes his hair and skin red and gold, weaving feathers into his locks and threading small braids with string. He switches out different septum pierces, and likes to paint henna on his palms.<div style="text-align: center;">For a mercenary, he cares a significant amount about he presents himself to the world, not really wanting his appearance to aid or hinder himself. As a child raised in rags, he certainly has a desire to take advantage of the fact that he can now wash and groom himself daily. He's practically militant about cleanliness, preferring simple clothes and a clean cut appearance. The weapons he carries also reflect this, never going a day without a good cloth and oiling.<div style="text-align: center;">Due to the nature of his work, Isi has gained a few notable scars, slicing across his brown skin in silver flicks. Recently, he's even gained a shiny divot on his chest, from his first and only severe arrow puncture - but most notable are the several jagged claws that are engraved down from his left ear, twisting under his chin. That is an injury from long before his days as a mercenary, and it is the the one that marked him the most painfully and rendering him deaf on that side.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Personality<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Isi is a bird. You can joke about it, laugh at the irony - but it's a true assessment. When he was a boy, the instincts of the wild soaked into his soul easier than the nature of humanity. He was born to a single mother, outcast from her home and family. The woman was strong and determined to keep them both alive, and she taught him how to survive alone in the world and without the comfort of human civilization. They never had a home to roost in or a shelter to protect them from the elements of nature. Isi grew up learning the brutality of mother earth and embracing it. When his own mother was killed while he was still a child, he gave himself over to the untamed parts of himself.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">With that bit of backstory in mind, it's easy to understand why Isi is the way he is. There's not much that leaves his mouth, besides the occasional grunt, a snap of profanity, or the word "no" spoken harshly to shut down a dumb idea. He's extremely territorial over his food, his bedroll, and the crude wooden carving of a duck that his best friend gave to him. He doesn't build emotional attachments easily, and he finds them burdensome - especially since he already has people to worry about at night, and he doesn't need anymore. Living your life by the sword is a hard way in life, and many who choose to bear weapons for a livelihood die well before their time. Knowing that, it's best to spare yourself the heartache and treat everyone as a temporary part of your existence. That's Isi's philosophy, at least.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">Rama, Isi's best friend, was one of the unlucky ones, who found themselves shaking death's hand long before age would have taken them. Rama left behind a widow and a young daughter. Isi has taken it upon himself to support them, sending money back and working extra contracts to keep them both safe and fed. He's expanded his mercenary repertoire to less savory tasks, following whoever can pay him the most.<div style="text-align: center;">Rama and his family are about the only people who ever managed to drill their way into Isi's heart. Rama's father was the one who managed to pull a feral, gangly teenage Isi off the street and put him to use, training him in the art of weaponry and battle.The man perished in war, and Rama decided he would never follow in his father's footsteps, starting a mercenary company with Isi. Put next to each other, you would never guess Rama and Isi could be friends. Tall, dark, and quiet Isi contrasted the short, bright, and talkative Rama so severely that their closeness was inconceivable to many. However, Rama somehow managed to draw Isi out in a way that no one else could, and while he never rubbed off on Isi, he managed to show the stoic man that there were such things as comfort, family, and love in the world.<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">◇__________________________________________◇<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">oh quiet jealousy,<div style="text-align: center;">]refusing to form in my throat<div style="text-align: center;">until the one I loved<div style="text-align: center;">was gone.
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<div align="center"> 𝕀𝕤𝕚 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕥.
<div align="center">◇__________________________________________◇<div align="center">
<div align="center">Isi was devastated when Rama died. He, of course, feels some responsibility for the untimely death of his friend. It was Rama's contract, they'd been working it together, and the job had been going smoothly. But Rama was impulsive. He'd wanted to charge into the house before they received an all-clear. Despite Isi's better inclinations, he hadn't stopped the smaller, more eager warrior. It was extremely quick and brutal, the way Rama was attacked. Isi dispatched the killer as savagely as he possibly could, but no amount of pain his spear could afflict would undo the damage that had been done and breath life back into his best friend. Rama died choking on his own blood.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Now, Isi works solo. He prefers the solitude, and working with people make him nervous. He doesn't need any other comrades to die on his watch.<div align="center">
<div align="center">There is a very anxious side to him. Loud noises make him uncomfortable, especially since it's hard to pinpoint the direction of noise, and easy to miss the source, since he's deaf on one side. His feather's ruffle at the slightest disturbance, and he's plagued by panic attacks. Inconvenient as they are, they're especially inconvenient when working a job that requires stabbing. Isi's learned that the trigger to his attacks tend to be when he's in a social situation that makes him uncomfortable, and so he's eliminated the amount of people he lets near him.<div align="center">
<div align="center">He's extremely shy when it comes to relationships. Painfully shy. The worst kind of red-faced, blubbery shy there is. You wouldn't expect it. He's merciless to his enemies, distant to his peers, practically friendless - you'd expect him to keep a cold, austere attitude through this part of his personality as well. But nope, he's a mess. He stutters. He blushes. He gets flustered. Needless to say, he avoids anyone he might be attracted to, because it's beyond embarrassing. Relationships are unwanted emotional attachments anyways - and he certainly doesn't need his own spouse and progeny to feed - to worry about to the extent he does Rama's family.<div align="center">
<div align="center">▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼<div align="center">
<div align="center">Fighting Technique<div align="center">
<div align="center">Isi is a warrior, born and bred, trained from a tender young age into the hardened force he is today. Since warfare is his life's study, he is proficient in a diverse range of styles and adaptable in the heat of the moment, keeping weapons hidden all over his body for accessibility. He uses knives, swords, spears for direct combat, and some more subtle weapons for other sorts of confrontation, including poison needles and small projectiles.If Isi is given a choice, and it makes sense strategically, he prefers a spear above all other weapons. It requires a great deal of skill to wield, needing both impeccable technique, brute strength, and razor sharp vision in order to be effective. The range it provides its handler is what Isi loves the most - because it forces the enemy to stay a little farther back and gives him room to breath, especially since his enemies have hooked talons attached to their body as well as glinting blades. You only have to be slashed a few times by the clawed appendages of your foes to understand its best to keep them farther than an arms length away.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Preferred weapons:<div align="center">
<div align="center">Spear<div align="center">Talwar<div align="center">Poison-tipped needles.<div align="center">
<div align="center">▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼<div align="center">
<div align="center">Significant Other: N/A<div align="center">Crush: PM me please!<div align="center">
<div align="center">▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼<div align="center">
<div align="center">Theme Song:<div align="center">"Iron" by Woodkid<div align="center">Other:
Birb<div align="center">◇__________________________________________◇<div align="center">
<div align="center">oh quiet jealousy<div align="center">cutting our lives<div align="center">like a length of string,<div align="center">and letting half cascade back down<div align="center">to the earth -<div align="center">severing me from him
Edited at June 24, 2019 09:31 PM by Red Queen
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<div align="center">When she was younger and still the dress-wearing type, she shot up quicker than the other girls, standing as tall as a weed in a flower bed. She got offended when people struggled to compliment her. Not because she ever desired to be called pretty, but because she thought there were other things to be complimented about her than the fact that her looks would make her a "reliable sort of wife". She had a talent for horseback, a good grip of language. She couldn't sing better than the horrible wailing of the town priest, but she quickly advanced to a higher level than all the other children in her dance classes. <div align="center">
<div align="center">Reaching her teenage years, Fiadh felt the urge to put a more mature spin on her stories, and fairy tales quickly evolved into the sort of twisted ghost stories that could ahve almost have really happened. It all went down hill day, however, when Fiadh's school-mate Kenneth Hillock was being especially annoying. She put a bit of a scare in him by telling him about the murdered girl-ghost, Marianne, and her oozing dress of blood.<div align="center">Marianne's story caught on, and shortly thereafter, the other children claimed to see the bloody girl walking around in the wood at night. Then her friend's older sister Nima went missing, and Fiadh's story accidentally caused a minor economic crisis. Merchants, catching wind of the whole ordeal from some gullible shopkeeper in town, started to divert around the little village.<div align="center">
<div align="center">Fiadh was promptly shipped to off to a school for "civilized ladies", even though Nima eventually reappeared nine months later with a husband and a baby in tow. Too little too late. Fiadh wasn't all that keen on attending. She went through a short phase of rebellion during her second year, which turned into a scandal so horrid that the Head Mother expelled her and put her onto a coach back home.<div align="center">Fiadh never made it there.<div align="center">
<div align="center">She popped open the hatch door somewhere during the fifty mile stretch, and she rolled off into a ditch on the side of the road. There, on that day, slathered in mud and picking grass off of her skinned knees, she abandoned her surname and started off into the great unknown as a woman without any attachments, any money to her name, but certainly a great deal of teenage vinegar.<div align="center">
<div align="center"><div align="center">very bad plan can become a decent one if you can just make it unexpected, and the worst kind of enemy is one that's prepared to meet you.
Edited at September 14, 2019 01:37 AM by Red Queen
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wordss
A Jumbled Account of Personality and History ⤜
When you first meet Sam'a, it's best to know a few things off the bat. Mainly, that she likes to collect things. Not in a quaint sort of way, like one might collect pretty rocks to stack neatly on a bookshelf, or old copies of encyclopedias to admire but never sift through. No, no, Sam'a likes things. Junk. The kind of items that an avid antiques collector would turn their nose up at, and that anyone but her would call useless.
Crumpled lace snagged by a tree branch. A pile of buttons amassed over the years, not one alike. An old box of nails, bent and broken and bleeding black smudges onto any hands that dare touch them. A candle-stick with a very clear human bite mark in the side. A pouch of deer toe bones. Twelve identical butterflies pinned in a glass case.
Peering into her room, you might best describe her collection as hoard, though Sam'a doesn't like that word, and she has a propensity for making the people who say things she doesn't like miserable in a very cruel and unusual sort of way. Still, her "wide array of various objects of dubious origin", to avoid the word "hoard", travels far beyond the bounds of normal human clutter-related behavior.
It's in piles. It's in mountains. Its towers in a city of junk. Stacked on shelves along the walls, in boxes beneath her bed, in trunks shoved in the corners. She collects anything, really, that someone might've once attached meaning to beyond the superficiality of simply owning. Something that's worth wasn't defined by the jangling of coins, but by it's own purpose.
Sam'a doesn't have a purpose.
Another thing to know about her, is that she'd do anything to have just that: A purpose. If you managed to give her one, she'd pull the universe down from the sky as payment. She'd knock the stars from their perches one by one, with a pebble and slingshot, in order to bottle them up for you in a jar. All she wants, more than anything, more than strange objects and fun pieces of junk to hide beneath her bed, is a purpose.
And that is the one thing that she cannot seem to obtain.
For her entire existence, Sam'a has been waiting for anything to give herself meaning. There's been no life for her beyond the Academy. As far as she's concerned, the very stone walls of the twisting corridors are the ones that birthed her, and the mountain streams run through her veins - yes, yes, she knows this isn't true. The way the Headmaster tells it, she was left on the side of the winding road leading to the Academy when she was no larger than a melon - a fruit sized creature wrapped in a woolen coat and crying like she'd seen the very devil. There was no note or any indication that her parents had wanted her to survive. No name stitched into her blanket, no heartfelt explanation or keepsake for her to hold onto in her an adult years as a link to her past. Just tossed away, like a bucket of dirty water or a broken wheel.
When she was younger, Sam'a liked to imagine the Headmaster was lying. That she was a lost princess, hidden away for her own protection after her kingdom had fallen into the hands of traitors. Or that she was child of an valiant knight, who was forced to leave her behind because her mother was dead and he had to go off to war in some distant land. The Headmaster shot down both of those theories the day Sam'a mentioned them, and banned her from reading anything but educational manual's on dragon anatomy (yuck) for an entire month.
Growing up was difficult, especially when you're only parental figure is a dragon-obsessed, near-hermit sort of person hell bent on scouring any bit of adventure from your life. In her younger days, she's was confined to their office, spending the days playing with translucent dragon scales sliced so thinly, they were like colored wrapping paper she could crumple in her hands. The Headmaster had a whole jar of them, and it was the one thing in the entire dusty, book infested room that Sam'a was allowed to touch. As she got older, her education was passed on to the other teachers at the Academy, and the Headmaster only talked to her when she needed to be reprimanded, which led to Sam'a purposely throwing herself into trouble quite a bit, gaining the girl her now infamous reputation.
In light of all that, it's easier to understand Sam'a and her strange ways. Her attachment to items is quick and permanent. Her attachment to people is much less so. She was raised away from her peers, not mingling with people often enough to call it socialization and without a single friend to call her own. The Headmaster never treated her quite like a daughter, mostly because, Sam'a assumes, the Headmaster never planned on having one. Instead, she feels as if she was always held at an arms length, treated like a prized animal with sharp teeth - one to admire in its cage, but to never reach in and touch.
In that way, she sees within herself a kindred spirit to the dragons, since they too are treated with a sub-human sort of carelessness. The dragons, however, have rejected her extended hand of friendship time and time again. The great beasts shun her with such unanimity, it's as if on the day she was born, all of their kind had a council and decided she was the one human they'd singularly despise. Sam'a has been told it might be because she has a certain scent - though she's changed up all of her soaps and beauty supplies several times for this very reason, with no results. She's been told it might be the way she looks, so she's done things as wild as adding platforms to her shoes and cutting her hair jagged. Still no success. She's been told it might be her personality, so she's tried talking both loudly and softly, being studious and playing with matches in the great library. The dragons will not be persuaded.
The decision made by the great winged creatures to reject her so completely has left Sam'a essentially useless. A girl who the world didn't want, so it threw her to the dragons, and then the dragons saw her and shook their great, scale and feathered heads. So now, she has no where else to go.
Due to that fact she, in her current age and state, has very little to do with herself. To pass the time, she's picked up an assortment of hobbies. Cartography, for one, slowly mapping out each and every passage that stretches out into the mountain-side like a tangled web of veins and arteries. Lip reading, because once she'd expressed an interest in it, and the Headmaster had said that it'd be a horrid waste of time. Since Samael'a likes everything the Headmaster does not, their disapproval was recommendation enough. And lastly, fortune telling, though she's awful at it, having predicted the end of the world at least twice and her marriage to a fair haired gentlemen whose name starts with "Ph" another three times on top of that.
The Headmaster mostly leaves her alone these days, satisfied that she's causing very little trouble and staying out of the real students way. When they do talk, it's hard for them to speak civilly. If Sam'a couldn't have had a real parent, she could have at least had some semblance of an adult figure in her life, though the Headmaster seemed keen on denying her even the basic affections a child needs to feel loved. Not even loved, but just not hated. Was that too much to ask? Sam'a doesn't think so. Whenever she mentions the possibility of leaving the Academy, she's very quickly shut down. The dragons don't want her, sure, but the world doesn't want her doubly so. So all there's left to do is be a burden, and the teachers and the students and even the dragons remind her of how heavy a burden she truly is on a daily basis, just by existing.
As of late, Sam'a has become more irritable. She's quicker to anger and enjoys her time alone. The slightest bit of noise can set her off, and she avoids the dragons that live within the Academy walls at all costs. She's added a human skull to her collection, which she found in pieces in one of the abandoned, spider-ridden corridors, and it's been the only member of her own species she can bear to be around for more than five minutes.
The woman has also taken to the idea of flying quite keenly. It wasn't a gradual interest, but a very sudden urge to hurl herself into the endless blue expanse of the sky. To sink into it and let it swallow her. Her survival instincts are thankfully more dominant, but she's been filling endless pages upon pages of sketches with flying contraptions and humans with wings. If only a dragon would choose her, then maybe, just maybe she could taste the wind 3,000 feet into the sky. Once would be enough, even. But alas, the dragon's still won't be persuaded to her side, and now, at the age of 23, she doesn't think they ever will.
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Strengths ⤜
Weaknesses ⤜
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Roleplay Example:
Other: pink ^u^
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Summer 
Day Weather: 
Fog
