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Lightbringer
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At a night party thrown by an old money family, an old-money young man attends like usual. He is a regular attendee and a fixture in these parties. But something is different this time...
There's someone new. He seems to be drinking up the attention of the party, flashing smiles and the likes. But this young man notices that he has golden eyes--that's not normal. He goes out of his way to figure out what this new guy is... only to be brought into a tumbling world of danger, new possibilities and a whole different side to social classes. |
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Lightbringer
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Name: Azrael
Age: ??
Gender: Male
Orientation: unknown (he's not sure) Appearance: He stands... well, he's about 6' even. This particular young man has dark hair, very dark brown. It's constantly messy, cut loosely and has the faintest tinge of a curl on the ends. His skin is warm colored, very warm undertones with a sort of smooth tan to it. It's genetics. His shoulders are broad and well set. This sturdy young man has a rather firm build. He isn't quiet and he has a tendency to flare for the dramatics with his movements. A sashay this way, a flicked gaze that way and that daringly cold smile. Oh how he loves that smile. But his eyes. The golden eyes jump out from his face, from behind dark ashen feathers that crowd around his face and his entire being like a semi-permanent shadow. While his clothing tends to be fairly monochromatic... it's the fact that he has not two, not four, not even six but eight wings. Six that adorn his back and two that occasionally cover his face when he desires. Oh he knows he has them. He can hide them and have just two, just four or however many he wants at that current moment. That comes from his blood as well. Personality: Azrael is cunning. He just is. He's quick and witty but always thinking ahead. It's a fatal flaw to always be thinking, always be planning and prepared. Always thinking ahead and always planning on how to help himself be the best. By whatever means possible. He could heal with his words--technically even heal a little bit himself, but he prefers to fight.
He prefers to make things far more "interesting" than they really should be. After all, Azrael is everything. He is confident, he is witty, he is smart, he is always thinking ahead. Everything points to him being cunning and confident in the way he moves. His smile, his grin, the way he holds himself with all the confidence in the world, the way he laughs, seems to just blend in wherever he goes.
But he gets a bit uncertain when he has to actually be responsible. Or is asked about his past. No one quite knows it. Either way, Azrael is a bully, he just is. Mosty with his words. But it is far more behind the scenes than one would originally think. Under the masks, Azrael isn't sure who or what to be. Sure, everyone else already knows. But when one can simply hide under a mask that everyone likes? How can he be sure if it's really him?
Azrael won't admit it, he will lash out when someone tries to see what is under the mask. His words are a knife to the soul. Poised, sharp and always at the ready.
After all, it's not him who's a problem. He's got plans, he's just doing his thing--that's what everyone says to do. just do your thing. Well, he is. An object in motion, stays in motion. Azrael's plans stay in motion, no matter what. He gets what he wants and if he doesn't, well, he just changes his plans and gets them anyways. While he does his best to remain a "hero" of sorts, he isn't above twisting things to get rid of others.
Only when the mask comes off does everything stop. Azrael just can't function when the mask isn't there. When all is said and done, when the masks and faces fall, he's done. He can't function, can't think, can't even really work. So he lashes out, he will attack viciously when someone tries to pry the mask off. It's his last defense, his only flaw. He refuses to admit that he doesn't know who he is. He knows how to be things but... himself? No. He doesn't exist. -- I'd put background here but I don't even know it. Imma be honest. We're gonna wing it. |
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Darkseeker
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Name Benjamin Leigh Winslow-Haataja Nicknames Benji, Leigh, Open Name Meaning* Delicate, beautiful outlook Name Pronunciation Bej-juh-men Lee Wīn-sloh Hah-tee-uh Gender Male Sexuality* Bisexual Appearance Personality Benji is a man of effortless charm and contradictions—an oddly captivating presence who seems to belong everywhere and nowhere at once, certainly not in this century. He is warm, charismatic, and endlessly engaging, always attempting to make everyone feel like the most important person in the room. His laughter is easy, his words perfectly timed, and his entire existence seems touched by something golden. To the world, he seems the embodiment of grace and confidence, a boy who thrives in the glow of admiration. Yet beneath the polished veneer lies something far more complex, something seemed to have been lost or dulled by time.
Benji is, above all else, a dreamer and a lover—chasing ideals just out of reach, believing that with enough effort, enough longing, he can gain the life he desires, the life he believes that he deserves. He wears his charm like a gilded mask, flawless and effortless, yet hiding a quiet loneliness. Because of his lifestyle, he had watched those he loves come and go, with no way to keep them with him. In a sense, he is always trying to live the past again. Though mostly adored, he prefers to remain elusive, never really allowing himself to be fully known. Love, to him, is both intoxicating and tragic—he adores the idea of it, yet often builds it into something reality cannot match.
Perhaps his greatest flaw is his tendency to love from a distance, to see the world through rose-colored illusions rather than risking getting too close to something or someone, and losing them to the ever-steady flow of time. He is a hopeless romantic, in both love and life, chasing grand moments and poetic endings, forever wanting for something that always seems just beyond his grasp. Even so, despite the quiet pain he carries, Benji wants more than anything to make the world around him feel brighter. He wants to take on the persona of the golden boy with a touch of melancholy behind his smile, the kind of person who leaves an unforgettable mark—both luminous and untouchable.
Voice & Accent* Benji's voice is an odd mix of many different styles of speaking, mostly from his constant movement. Normally, he sounds vaguely British, with light r’s and and clear h’s, but the accent occasionally sounds forced and fake, and a touch of a New England drawl can be caught in the back of his throat.
His voice is airy and smooth, always charming and dripping with a desire to be the most adored and appreciated person in the room. Benji has a bit of a high voice for a boy, but only by a little and it’s barely noticeable unless one is specifically listening for it. Strengths -Smart- -Loyal- -Idealistic- -Persuasive- Weaknesses -Spoiled- -Fussy- -Pretentious- Affiliations TBA Backstory no Other He almost always wears pink 𓆩⟡𓆪 (Credits are on the Image) |
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Darkseeker
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Benji smoothed his suit jacket, the vivid pink opulent and elegant against a backdrop of shimmering chandeliers and glistening crystal. Parties like these were never to be missed, and the Fitzgeralds always threw the best ones. Young, recently married, and already unhappy, they masked their discontent behind their lavish lifestyle—a sparkling illusion that Benji found endlessly amusing. He didn’t particularly care for their marital woes, only that their misery ensured an unending flow of champagne and an elite guest list teeming with the city’s most interesting people. He grinned as he stepped away from his milky white Rolls-Royce, the latest of his indulgent, unnecessary purchases. The car was a conversation piece, a statement, much like the ever-present smirk that curved his lips—haughty, aristocratic, and brimming with a confidence that never wavered. As he strolled through the grand entrance, his sharp gaze took in the scene. Gossamer drapes framed the massive windows, candlelight flickered against mirrored walls, and the air buzzed with the low hum of conversation punctuated by bright, tinkling laughter. The hosts were, predictably, nowhere in sight—likely flitting about, making small talk, flashing bright, hollow smiles, and pretending their marriage wasn’t built on the fragile scaffolding of wealth and expectations. What an evening. Almost immediately, he was intercepted by a young actress he vaguely recognized from a previous party. Vienna? No, Birdy? Something equally endearing and airheaded. She latched onto his arm with the fervor of someone desperate to be seen, launching into an animated monologue about a film she’d just starred in and the so-called friend who’d nearly ruined it for her. He offered her a gracious but detached smile, nodding in all the right places as he retrieved a mint julep from a passing tray. Navigating through the throng, he greeted a cluster of men gathered near the bar, the usual crowd of bankers, brokers, and trust fund heirs nursing cigars and expensive whiskey. They asked the customary questions, and he delivered the customary answers with practiced ease. Yes, he was doing well. Yes, business was as lucrative as ever. No, his parents were still in Europe. No, he hadn’t the faintest idea when they’d be returning. The atmosphere was perfectly intimate in the way only a grand affair could be—full of whispered gossip, veiled glances, and laughter just a little too loud to be genuine. Benji relished it. He was well-known in these circles, a fixture of the glittering social scene, and he played the role effortlessly. He flicked an unruly lock of hair from his eyes—eyes that carried a misleading innocence, masking the sharp wit and keen awareness beneath. As the man beside him droned on about some business proposition, Benji allowed himself a moment to simply take it all in—the swirl of silk gowns, the glint of diamonds, the dull shine of pearls, the endless parade of extravagance. Yes, it was shaping up to be a delightful evening indeed. |
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Lightbringer
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The grand affair lifted the night air in a warm array of lights, dazzling colors, and jeweled arrangements. Flowers of all sorts adorned the marble hallways, the grand ballrooms that held massive arched windows. Drapes that were framing the glass panes. The thrum and buzz of a party that was the talk of the upper class. Everything was extravagant, there was not a single thing that wasn't. Well, there was one. But the way he stood, the practiced comfort that he had set him in with the crowd. But his appearance set him out. The dark button-up shirt was all he had. There was no extravagant vest, no fancy suit, just the shirt with the top few buttons undone. A dark necklace looped around his neck, resting just above his collar bone. For most, they simply chatted with him idly. As if he wasn't out of place at all. The social settings were easy to slip into if one had the right strings to pull. But even then, the laughter was too much. But his? Genuine. The rolling chuckle that bubbled from his chest, not shaking his shoulders but it was there. He answered and asked questions alike, a small glass in one hand. But he didn't drink from it, just held it as he spoke. One of the other party-attendees turned her attention toward the crowd, a wistful sigh escaping. She made some mention about a Benjamin and how she'd love to be on his arm. Azrael let out a short snort, almost a laugh. "Pretty face doesn't always mean a pretty personality, y'know." She made some comment about how he was as sweet as he looked but Azrael wasn't really listening. These folks didn't see him for what he was. They saw another party goer, a man with brown eyes... nothing extraordinary. |
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Darkseeker
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Benji was halfway through his second mint julep, the condensation slipping cool against his fingers, and he was growing increasingly irritated with the actress beside him. If she launched into one more self-congratulatory story laced with backhanded compliments, or if another splash of her champagne dribbled onto the sleeve of his suit jacket, he was going to snap. His patience—ever a brittle thing—had thinned to near transparency. With a practiced smile, he extricated himself, murmuring a few honeyed words that she would spend the rest of the evening picking apart for hidden meaning. By the time she realized he had disappeared, he would be long gone, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of his perfume and a half-finished drink. And then, something caught his eye—something that made his smirk falter for the first time that evening. A man. Unremarkable. Benji nearly scoffed aloud. The stranger simply stood, neither possessing the easy arrogance of the old money elite nor the hungry shine of the social climbers who clawed their way into such parties. His clothes were appropriate but uninspired, his demeanor bordering on too easy. And the worst of it? No one seemed to really recognize him. In a place like thisif you weren’t immediately known, you had no business being here at all. Benji’s lip curled slightly in distaste. He cut through the room, brushing past a cluster of tipsy debutantes whose laughter rang sharp and shrill, their pearls slipping askew, their hats tilted at precarious angles. But his gaze remained fixed, scanning the party for the one person who would know. And, of course, he found her. Zelda Fitzgerald stood against the far wall of the ballroom, cigarette poised elegantly between two fingers, exhaling a lazy plume of smoke. Her golden curls caught the light as she tilted her head, half-bored, half-amused. The very picture of careless beauty. Benji slid in beside her, resting one shoulder against the wall. "Hello, lovely Zelda," he crooned, voice dipped in syrupy charm. "Truly a doozy, this one." Zelda tossed her hair, the faintest flicker of satisfaction crossing her face at the compliment, though it was clear she couldn’t care less about the party’s success. "As always, Mr. Winslow," she replied smoothly. Benji noted the slight omission of his full last name and smirked, undeterred. "Oh, come now, love," he chided. "Just because Scott is here doesn’t mean you have to be so dreadfully uptight. Now, do tell me—who is that strange man over there?" His voice sharpened, the velvet-smooth persuasion giving way to something more insistent. Zelda, however, remained wholly unbothered, unshaken as ever. "Who?" she asked lazily, following his gaze. "Him," Benji muttered, resisting the childish urge to simply point. Zelda studied the man for a moment before her lips curled in mild disinterest. "Oh," she said, waving a hand. "Scottie invited him. I’d ask him why, but, of course, he’s off with one of his little *muses*." She exhaled another stream of smoke, this one edged with something colder. "If you see him, do let him know that I’m not pleased with his behavior." Benji inclined his head in mock solemnity before slipping back into the crowd, satisfied that Zelda wished to be left alone. Scott Fitzgerald was nowhere to be found—predictable, really. Undoubtedly tangled in some conversation with an up-and-coming actress, whispering pretty words about inspiration and art. The party, once bright and intoxicating, suddenly felt suffocating. The air thick with perfume, sweat, and the slow decay of expensive pleasure. Benji shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before stepping onto the terrace. The night was cooler, quieter. A few guests wandered through the manicured gardens, their laughter softened by the open air. The cicadas hummed, the scent of late-summer jasmine threading through the evening. Benji rolled up his sleeves, pressing the heels of his hands against the marble railing, his mind churning. Someone unremarkable. Or so it seemed. Perhaps the man was a foreign dignitary, some visiting poet, or an obscure heir to a forgotten fortune. But one thing was certain—he would turn out to be *someone*. Because Benji had never, in all his life, met a person who was not. |
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Lightbringer
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The rush of the conversation drew his ears and attention only slightly. There wasn't much to it other than a brief moment and a pause before he continued. A pink suited young man--with a rather unimpressed look. That, Azrael, could understand. Most of what he had answered was that Scott had invited him to the event. The man had gone on, drawing long strings of sentences together of artistic muse and bringing social classes together. Noting the worlds that were so different from each other but few, special beings, could see both worlds. All in all, Azrael was just happy to be invited. This was a rather new event for him and while it was extravagant in a sort of down-to-earth way and not an ethereal other-worldly way, it still wasn't quite what he enjoyed. While he had gone in, thinking he'd be following Scott around, the winged man was proven wrong when Scott pushed into the crowd and Azrael had lost him. A slippery little beast. Which was surprising. His eyes caught sight of golden hair that pieced through the crowd toward the woman on the edge of the ballroom. The conversation was less than pleasant, assuming by the expressions. Largely, he ignored it. But the man had studied him once again. And Azrael caught the look. Was it vaguely silly? Sure. Sure it was. He excused himself from the conversation, swaying through the crowd with practiced ease as he stepped onto the balcony. The crisp touch of cool night air was a blessed relief to the rush and warmth of the ballroom's heat. Jasmine mixed with the budding of faint grapes, but the gardens were hardly full of life. Azrael watched the gardens before turning around and leaning against the balcony, his back pressed against the marble. "Rather sour look I received back there," he noted, swirling the glass of half-hearted champagne. "Can't say I know you, which means, I can't say I know why I'd get such a nasty little glare." His voice was deeper, silky and smooth, a rough note of amusement tinged on the edges of his words. To Scott, Azrael was magnificent. In reality? Azrael knew better. Social classes like this? They only lasted for so long. Social classes in his world? They had eons worth of money, history and traditions. He knew what brought this young man to the party. Money, status... and nothing better to do. Azrael was there as a sort of subtle social status for Scott himself. The only issue was that no one else knew or could see what Azrael was--or could be--so it seemed like a rather sore thumb had wandered in. |
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Darkseeker
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Benji wasn’t startled that the man had followed him out. A hard look, especially one delivered with such deliberate disdain, was rarely ignored—especially in a place like this. Reputation was currency, and the slightest slight could cost more than one was willing to pay. Still, Benji didn’t turn. He kept his face angled toward the moonlight, letting it gild the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He resisted the urge to scoff, instead tilting his chin up in that effortless, aristocratic way that made lesser men feel small. “I’m sorry,” he said smoothly, the apology as insincere as the pearls around half the women’s throats. “I should’ve kept those emotions to myself. Has Scott shown you the stables yet?” His tone was airily conversational, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it, a deliberate probe. Scott Fitzgerald rarely *failed* to parade his guests through the stables unless they were someone he deemed unworthy of the effort. It had only happened a handful of times before, and with the curious presence of the man beside him, Benji wouldn’t have been surprised if this was one of those rare instances. Finally, with the slowness of a cat stretching in the sun, he turned. “Benjamin Winslow-Haataja,” he offered, extending a hand that was baby-soft, unmarked by labor. “You’ve most likely heard of one of my parents.” It wasn’t arrogance; it was simple fact. Blanche Winslow had once been the darling of Southern society, a belle so luminous that even her fall from grace—marrying a wealthy but enigmatic Finnish businessman whose fortune had appeared as if conjured from thin air—had only added to her legend. Their social ascent had been meteoric, his father wielding wit like a blade, his mother weaving effortlessly through gilded salons and candlelit ballrooms, her beauty untouched by time. Benji studied the stranger with a lingering sense of unease. There was no logical reason for him to be here. Scott wasn’t foolish enough to invite someone who would provoke Zelda, and yet, here he stood. And, more perplexing still, no one else seemed to care. His lips pursed, but before he could dig deeper, the moment was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter. A girl he had ignored earlier swept onto the terrace, dragging a friend in her wake. The shift in the party was unmistakable. The orchestra had begun in earnest, the windows flung open to spill music into the humid night. Dancing had begun. Benji exhaled, resigned. The girl was undeniably pretty—an enchanting little thing he had known since childhood, all sparkling eyes and mischief, wrapped in the soft shimmer of a champagne-colored dress. “Evelyn, love,” he greeted smoothly, slipping an arm around her waist as if it had always belonged there. She gave the stranger the full force of her attention, all the warm, lazy charm of a drunk princess bestowing a favor. Then, she turned her gaze back to Benji, her large, wet eyes gleaming with expectation. “Ask your friend to dance with Lottie, Benji dear,” she demanded, smoothing a hand over the delicate beadwork of her dress. “They said a waltz is coming up.” Benji grimaced. He did *not* care for waltzes, nor for playing the role of social coordinator, but Evelyn was not the type to take no for an answer. He turned, at last, to the man beside him. His smile was courteous, his tone impeccably polite. But beneath the silken veneer, the question was edged with something sharper. “Well, Mr. …? Will you deign to dance with little Eva’s friend?” A challenge, not a request. |
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Spring Month: 1 
Night 
Flood Moon: 
