Plots
Major Plots
Oracle War
The Oracle's malevolence has come back from the dead, possessing someone, though none know who. The Oracle will have its revenge and destroy the demigods once and for all. Anarawd, Train, Shady, and a few others seek to end the Oracle before it's too late. Little do they know, Anarawd was a major player in the first Oracle's attempt, the Oracle is kidnapping people including Shady, time is running out, and there is more to this war than meets the eye. No one is safe.
Minor Plots
Character Side Plots
Vertigo's Secret: Vertigo has a secret. A secret no one except the gods and the dead know. Aphrodite has given her heart to him, and he gladly gave his to her. She has forsaken both her former husband Hephaestus and her lover Ares for him. Ares was loathe to let her go and fought with Vertigo. Vertigo retaliated; slaughtering Ares mortal lover and children. Ares has finally let them be, knowing someday Vertigo must die and then Aphrodite will be his. Brishen Price survived the attempt on his life by Vertigo and hunts the strange boy down in revenge.
Oracle War
The Oracle's malevolence has come back from the dead, possessing someone, though none know who. The Oracle will have its revenge and destroy the demigods once and for all. Anarawd, Train, Shady, and a few others seek to end the Oracle before it's too late. Little do they know, Anarawd was a major player in the first Oracle's attempt, the Oracle is kidnapping people including Shady, time is running out, and there is more to this war than meets the eye. No one is safe.
Minor Plots
Character Side Plots
Vertigo's Secret: Vertigo has a secret. A secret no one except the gods and the dead know. Aphrodite has given her heart to him, and he gladly gave his to her. She has forsaken both her former husband Hephaestus and her lover Ares for him. Ares was loathe to let her go and fought with Vertigo. Vertigo retaliated; slaughtering Ares mortal lover and children. Ares has finally let them be, knowing someday Vertigo must die and then Aphrodite will be his. Brishen Price survived the attempt on his life by Vertigo and hunts the strange boy down in revenge.
Vertigo Antigra
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_1120340.jpg)
18
Son of Oizys
goddess of misery, woe, distress, and suffering,
Kin: Andre Antigra (father), Valiant Antigra (demi-brother, whereabouts unknown), Ursula Antigra (stepmother)
Friends: none
Rivals: Brishen Price
God-Friends: Aphordite
God-Rivals: Ares
Status: Lover of Aphrodite
Not part of the camp or anything. Merely a wanderer. He has a secret. A secret he will not share. He is young, roughly eighteen with soft, mousy brown hair that's always getting in his face and golden eyes. He is young, roughly eighteen with soft, mousy brown hair that's always getting in his face and golden eyes. He's quiet and a bit reserved of others. He seems to be unusual for a guy, not ever seeming attracted to women or interested in things like sports, cars, and those sorts of things. He's not much of a team player and prefers to wing everything isntead of formulating a plan. He's quite keen and observant, but seems uninterested for the msot part. He doesn't talk a whole lot and prefers to leave questions unanswered. If it's not a part of his business, he won't get involved in it.
Son of Oizys
goddess of misery, woe, distress, and suffering,
Kin: Andre Antigra (father), Valiant Antigra (demi-brother, whereabouts unknown), Ursula Antigra (stepmother)
Friends: none
Rivals: Brishen Price
God-Friends: Aphordite
God-Rivals: Ares
Status: Lover of Aphrodite
Not part of the camp or anything. Merely a wanderer. He has a secret. A secret he will not share. He is young, roughly eighteen with soft, mousy brown hair that's always getting in his face and golden eyes. He is young, roughly eighteen with soft, mousy brown hair that's always getting in his face and golden eyes. He's quiet and a bit reserved of others. He seems to be unusual for a guy, not ever seeming attracted to women or interested in things like sports, cars, and those sorts of things. He's not much of a team player and prefers to wing everything isntead of formulating a plan. He's quite keen and observant, but seems uninterested for the msot part. He doesn't talk a whole lot and prefers to leave questions unanswered. If it's not a part of his business, he won't get involved in it.
Loki Janaga
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_3127035.jpg)
19
son of Bia
goddess of force, compulsion, bodily strength, power, and might
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
Status: single
The first thing anyone notices about a person is their outward appearance. Never the heart, not the heart. No one pays heed to the heart. So before one might delve into the truth of Loki Janaga and his hammering heart, one must look to the outward appearance; his figure and form. He is Caucasian, though years under the sun have lightened his skin to a fair golden brown hue, coffee with a bit too much cream. His body, though well toned and defined after years of constant, rigorous maintenance, bears several hideous scars of sizable proportions. The most defined one rends the left side of his body, tearing up from his heart to the left side of his face, before crossing to the right side of his forehead over the bridge of his nose. He is neither lean nor heavily built, a definitive middle ground between those two forms. Definitely athletic as foretold in the previous description of his well maintained fitness level. He stands at roughly six feet and three inches, a good height for his nineteen years. His hair is spiky and falls to his shoulders, soft and a vibrant color of the sun. His eyes: black. Depthless. Hollow. They speak volumes of misery and cry out in agony with every flicker. He has lived long and knows much, for he is one of those people that is whispered of in story but seldom seen. An immortal? Ah, many think immortals not to exist, but they do. Here and there and seldom everywhere, but there they are. He flits in the shadows and stays to the unseen corners of the world, keeping out of sight and mind so as not to have attention drawn to him. He is a delicate little thing, that if discovered, will be crushed into oblivion from the hatred of that thing, that unknown specimen that breaks conformity and defies the natural laws of the universe. Such is an unbidden curse born by the gift of living unending, and with that curse also comes the ineffable: outlasting everything that is constrained by time. He has outlived his family and any acquaintances he may have met. To say the least, he has remained predominantly unaffected by the way he slides along gracefully through time while others stop and stumble and collapse inwards before vanishing into the dust of which they were created. He has no care for them, no worry or remorse or feelings of loss. His family died before he attained immortality, and since then, he has formed no attachments. It goes beyond simple personality, it goes to a greater depth. He cannot relate to many as they have all outgrown the pain and horror he remembers so brutally. Now you know such a secret, a question comes to mind: to what does he owe the pleasure of this gift? Not to what, but to whom. That is the proper word. But Before the rest of such natures of his are told, first must be told his story. Perhaps then the meaning of these words will ring clearer to those who wish to learn. Loki Janaga was born in this world in 1928. As far as his knowledge expands, his parents were Piotr and Eloise Janaga and his family included four siblings of varying ages as well as a host of extended family. In 1934, he and his small family were set upon by the famed Nazi Regime. They were but a poor, Polish family squatting in a small hovel in the ghettos of Berlin. Taken from their home, they were thrown into a cold, cramped train car with other unlucky men and women and sent to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp. What happened within the confines of that hellhole is left purely to speculation, yet all the truth is buried in Loki’s distraught mind amidst the memories and the recurring nightmares of his sleeping world. He had entered a confused little boy on a train, cold and curious and wide eyed. When he was rescued eleven years later, he left scarred, wary, wasted away to less than a skeleton. He left that place with the horrible scars he bears, a loss of will, a broken spirit, and too many abnormalities to name. It took him a whole of fourteen years to make a full recovery. Though most of the scars have healed over the past sixty-odd years, the most prominent ones are still there. Painful reminders paired with the viscous events that brought them on. During the fourteen years of recovery, he faced the sweet temptation of surrender. He sought out the end in knives, broken glass, drugs, a gun. And time and time again, the end eluded him, avoided him. He raged against the light of day and the dawn. But his hatred did not live long. His hatred and his pain died with his dreams. Though they were wrought of the unspeakable, they retold him his story, his life, and in it he found a reason to live. The man he called father had suffered all to keep Loki alive. Suffered and bled and evidently died that Loki might live one more day. Ashamed for his many attempts at suicide, Loki swore he would honor his dead father’s memory by living. Living didn’t seem so terrible after that. He had suffered long in the dark and had come out into the light. Now he was free. Reformed. Reborn. Nothing could ever happen to him that would hurt him as terribly as what he experienced within Auschwitz. What on earth could possibly be worth than that place? Loki hasn’t found anything to compare, and from that realization, he has found peace and tranquility in life. He has found a strange respect for it. He doesn’t truly live, for he is immortal, but he won’t try to end his life anymore. He merely exists with it, keeping an outsider’s observance of life. He views the doings of the world with a broad observation as one might broadly observe the ground from an airplane window. One can see lines and contours and big blobs of green, brown, and gray, but the details of the earth’s surface underneath is obscure. And so Loki moves through time in that manner. He doesn’t live, he exists. He observes life and learns from it but does not take part in it. It was during this newfound sense of the world that it happened. As he recovered, nineteen years old, a visitor came to him in the night. Gaia. The mother of earth, of titans, of life. The wife to Uranus from whom all things were born. The world began with Gaia and so did Loki. Gaia spoke to Loki. She whispered an offer into his ear: which would you desire? A long life born with suffering, or a short life brimming with victory? And Loki smiled, remembering when such words were spoken to a certain King, a certain Alexander the Great. And thinking he was wise, he replied: "I choose long life." He chose it so that he might uphold his father’s memory and honor the sacrifice his father made for him. He chose a long life of suffering over a short one of victory. What is victory to him? It is meaningless, as meaningless as power. Power was Hitler and the Nazis. The ability and persuasion of tyrants overpowered the people and forced their eyes to shut and their ears to turn away from the things those tyrants did. Power had numbed their souls and hardened their hearts. What use was power and victory to Loki? It was no better than sand or ashes, easily obtained yet meaningless and useless in the end. No. Hence he chose long life instead. He thought the entire encounter to be some deluded dream, but after he found he was not aging, he realized that this fervent wish was a grim reality. Perhaps it was a wise choice, perhaps not. But there was some grim speculation to this gift of Gaia’s. She warned that his blood was precious. His precious blood is foretold to bring his end. Whether this is truly fate or merely a horror tale he does not know. He does not care. After the horrors he experienced, he fears no more for his well-being or his life. He believes he has endured the worst of sufferings this miserable planet can offer, hence why he chose long life; a long life of peace and sanctuary. Gaia promised suffering, but what possible suffering could he endure now that was not as horrifying as that which he endured in Auschwitz? He could never guess. He doesn’t care to guess, and that’s mostly just a factor of who he is as a person. Loki is relatively uncaring. He faces everything with a dull, passive demeanor. He’s neither pessimistic nor optimistic. Neither black nor white. Just dull, neutral, and gray. He’s a rather serious person and tends to find absolutely no joy in anything. Coaxing a smile to that blank canvas of a face is a daunting task and one seldom undertaken. He keeps his emotions stopped up inside him, refusing to give in to them or the relief of voicing his thoughts. He is stony and silent. Even during recovery, when psychologists swarmed his bed and peppered him with questions and entreated him to tell them his troubles, he was unresponsive. And these days, now that that time has faded away, he could not go to anyone if he wanted to. Humans understand little of the ways of gods and demigods. They would brand him insane, lock him away and toss the key aside. Claiming immortality and being a Holocaust survivor isn’t a bright idea, and if there is one thing Loki is proud of, it is his claim to wisdom. Loki is quite proud of that, perhaps to a fault. His pride can get him into trouble. It’s a small amount of pride that doesn’t rear its head that much, but it appears nevertheless, when he least expects it or wants it to. His experiences have so badly destroyed him and torn him down that it is but a pity that he ought to have such a small amount of pride if he can’t have any self-esteem. He values himself only so far as to exist for his father, and that is hardly enough to keep anyone going for long under such a burden. So any amount of pride he possesses is forgivable, even when it does get out of hand. Usually when he is provoked. Injustice, bullying, and merciless acts provoke him. He hates seeing the weak oppressed by the strong and will step in to stop it. He is particularly fond and protective of children. He absolutely adores them and would readily give up everything in order to meet their requests. He can be ridiculous about it, but it’s probably one of the only things that makes this hard, stern young man loveable in any sense of the word. His compassion and tenderness know no bounds. It hurts him to be near children too though, as he knows he should not have any of his own. It would complicate things, and he doesn’t like complicated things. Detests complications really. It’s a part of his mind arrested. He sees everything simply, as a child would, and whenever people try to make the world more elaborate, he shuts his mind to them and responds in a very disgruntled tone that he doesn’t want to hear about it. As he sees things as a child would, he relates to children and their simple minds more than he does adults and their logical, rational ones. Although he seems to relate to children as far as his view of things, he does not relate to them entirely which can be frustrating. No one can relate to him in fact, or at least seldom anyone. He is a survivor of a great atrocity, who could possibly relate to that? Since he relates with no one fully, developing relationships is hard for him. He finds children easier as they ask for very little and pry even less. They may ask and pester curiously for a time but are soon distracted elsewhere. All they seek is love, attention, and security. They don’t truly care for the deeper things of the past and the depths of the soul, for their souls are too young and inexperienced to understand the thirst for the knowledge of another human being’s every fiber and fabric of his life and will. He wants to be understood, but at the same time he doesn’t want people to know of him. Two conflicting feelings that duke it out in his heart and war in his mind. Emotions sprung from everything buried inside. All the hate, the pain, the loneliness, the abandonment. But does he care? Does he really? Sometimes yes. Emotions and cares and feelings aren’t always prominent, at the ready with swords drawn, ready to oppress the mind and tear the heartstrings of the spirit. Most of the time he doesn’t care. He is Loki Janaga. He is immortal. He is forever. So he lives his life, doing as he may please, watching minutes fade to decades, the world advancing and flying past him. And he breathes. He lives. He survives. He is free.
author's note: My whole heart goes out to the victims and survivors of Holocaust. This piece is not meant to disgrace the event in any way, shape, or form. Any names or events within the character's life that mirror the life of a real victim or survivor are purely coincidental. This character is a complete work of fiction shaped around a real life event.
son of Bia
goddess of force, compulsion, bodily strength, power, and might
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
Status: single
The first thing anyone notices about a person is their outward appearance. Never the heart, not the heart. No one pays heed to the heart. So before one might delve into the truth of Loki Janaga and his hammering heart, one must look to the outward appearance; his figure and form. He is Caucasian, though years under the sun have lightened his skin to a fair golden brown hue, coffee with a bit too much cream. His body, though well toned and defined after years of constant, rigorous maintenance, bears several hideous scars of sizable proportions. The most defined one rends the left side of his body, tearing up from his heart to the left side of his face, before crossing to the right side of his forehead over the bridge of his nose. He is neither lean nor heavily built, a definitive middle ground between those two forms. Definitely athletic as foretold in the previous description of his well maintained fitness level. He stands at roughly six feet and three inches, a good height for his nineteen years. His hair is spiky and falls to his shoulders, soft and a vibrant color of the sun. His eyes: black. Depthless. Hollow. They speak volumes of misery and cry out in agony with every flicker. He has lived long and knows much, for he is one of those people that is whispered of in story but seldom seen. An immortal? Ah, many think immortals not to exist, but they do. Here and there and seldom everywhere, but there they are. He flits in the shadows and stays to the unseen corners of the world, keeping out of sight and mind so as not to have attention drawn to him. He is a delicate little thing, that if discovered, will be crushed into oblivion from the hatred of that thing, that unknown specimen that breaks conformity and defies the natural laws of the universe. Such is an unbidden curse born by the gift of living unending, and with that curse also comes the ineffable: outlasting everything that is constrained by time. He has outlived his family and any acquaintances he may have met. To say the least, he has remained predominantly unaffected by the way he slides along gracefully through time while others stop and stumble and collapse inwards before vanishing into the dust of which they were created. He has no care for them, no worry or remorse or feelings of loss. His family died before he attained immortality, and since then, he has formed no attachments. It goes beyond simple personality, it goes to a greater depth. He cannot relate to many as they have all outgrown the pain and horror he remembers so brutally. Now you know such a secret, a question comes to mind: to what does he owe the pleasure of this gift? Not to what, but to whom. That is the proper word. But Before the rest of such natures of his are told, first must be told his story. Perhaps then the meaning of these words will ring clearer to those who wish to learn. Loki Janaga was born in this world in 1928. As far as his knowledge expands, his parents were Piotr and Eloise Janaga and his family included four siblings of varying ages as well as a host of extended family. In 1934, he and his small family were set upon by the famed Nazi Regime. They were but a poor, Polish family squatting in a small hovel in the ghettos of Berlin. Taken from their home, they were thrown into a cold, cramped train car with other unlucky men and women and sent to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp. What happened within the confines of that hellhole is left purely to speculation, yet all the truth is buried in Loki’s distraught mind amidst the memories and the recurring nightmares of his sleeping world. He had entered a confused little boy on a train, cold and curious and wide eyed. When he was rescued eleven years later, he left scarred, wary, wasted away to less than a skeleton. He left that place with the horrible scars he bears, a loss of will, a broken spirit, and too many abnormalities to name. It took him a whole of fourteen years to make a full recovery. Though most of the scars have healed over the past sixty-odd years, the most prominent ones are still there. Painful reminders paired with the viscous events that brought them on. During the fourteen years of recovery, he faced the sweet temptation of surrender. He sought out the end in knives, broken glass, drugs, a gun. And time and time again, the end eluded him, avoided him. He raged against the light of day and the dawn. But his hatred did not live long. His hatred and his pain died with his dreams. Though they were wrought of the unspeakable, they retold him his story, his life, and in it he found a reason to live. The man he called father had suffered all to keep Loki alive. Suffered and bled and evidently died that Loki might live one more day. Ashamed for his many attempts at suicide, Loki swore he would honor his dead father’s memory by living. Living didn’t seem so terrible after that. He had suffered long in the dark and had come out into the light. Now he was free. Reformed. Reborn. Nothing could ever happen to him that would hurt him as terribly as what he experienced within Auschwitz. What on earth could possibly be worth than that place? Loki hasn’t found anything to compare, and from that realization, he has found peace and tranquility in life. He has found a strange respect for it. He doesn’t truly live, for he is immortal, but he won’t try to end his life anymore. He merely exists with it, keeping an outsider’s observance of life. He views the doings of the world with a broad observation as one might broadly observe the ground from an airplane window. One can see lines and contours and big blobs of green, brown, and gray, but the details of the earth’s surface underneath is obscure. And so Loki moves through time in that manner. He doesn’t live, he exists. He observes life and learns from it but does not take part in it. It was during this newfound sense of the world that it happened. As he recovered, nineteen years old, a visitor came to him in the night. Gaia. The mother of earth, of titans, of life. The wife to Uranus from whom all things were born. The world began with Gaia and so did Loki. Gaia spoke to Loki. She whispered an offer into his ear: which would you desire? A long life born with suffering, or a short life brimming with victory? And Loki smiled, remembering when such words were spoken to a certain King, a certain Alexander the Great. And thinking he was wise, he replied: "I choose long life." He chose it so that he might uphold his father’s memory and honor the sacrifice his father made for him. He chose a long life of suffering over a short one of victory. What is victory to him? It is meaningless, as meaningless as power. Power was Hitler and the Nazis. The ability and persuasion of tyrants overpowered the people and forced their eyes to shut and their ears to turn away from the things those tyrants did. Power had numbed their souls and hardened their hearts. What use was power and victory to Loki? It was no better than sand or ashes, easily obtained yet meaningless and useless in the end. No. Hence he chose long life instead. He thought the entire encounter to be some deluded dream, but after he found he was not aging, he realized that this fervent wish was a grim reality. Perhaps it was a wise choice, perhaps not. But there was some grim speculation to this gift of Gaia’s. She warned that his blood was precious. His precious blood is foretold to bring his end. Whether this is truly fate or merely a horror tale he does not know. He does not care. After the horrors he experienced, he fears no more for his well-being or his life. He believes he has endured the worst of sufferings this miserable planet can offer, hence why he chose long life; a long life of peace and sanctuary. Gaia promised suffering, but what possible suffering could he endure now that was not as horrifying as that which he endured in Auschwitz? He could never guess. He doesn’t care to guess, and that’s mostly just a factor of who he is as a person. Loki is relatively uncaring. He faces everything with a dull, passive demeanor. He’s neither pessimistic nor optimistic. Neither black nor white. Just dull, neutral, and gray. He’s a rather serious person and tends to find absolutely no joy in anything. Coaxing a smile to that blank canvas of a face is a daunting task and one seldom undertaken. He keeps his emotions stopped up inside him, refusing to give in to them or the relief of voicing his thoughts. He is stony and silent. Even during recovery, when psychologists swarmed his bed and peppered him with questions and entreated him to tell them his troubles, he was unresponsive. And these days, now that that time has faded away, he could not go to anyone if he wanted to. Humans understand little of the ways of gods and demigods. They would brand him insane, lock him away and toss the key aside. Claiming immortality and being a Holocaust survivor isn’t a bright idea, and if there is one thing Loki is proud of, it is his claim to wisdom. Loki is quite proud of that, perhaps to a fault. His pride can get him into trouble. It’s a small amount of pride that doesn’t rear its head that much, but it appears nevertheless, when he least expects it or wants it to. His experiences have so badly destroyed him and torn him down that it is but a pity that he ought to have such a small amount of pride if he can’t have any self-esteem. He values himself only so far as to exist for his father, and that is hardly enough to keep anyone going for long under such a burden. So any amount of pride he possesses is forgivable, even when it does get out of hand. Usually when he is provoked. Injustice, bullying, and merciless acts provoke him. He hates seeing the weak oppressed by the strong and will step in to stop it. He is particularly fond and protective of children. He absolutely adores them and would readily give up everything in order to meet their requests. He can be ridiculous about it, but it’s probably one of the only things that makes this hard, stern young man loveable in any sense of the word. His compassion and tenderness know no bounds. It hurts him to be near children too though, as he knows he should not have any of his own. It would complicate things, and he doesn’t like complicated things. Detests complications really. It’s a part of his mind arrested. He sees everything simply, as a child would, and whenever people try to make the world more elaborate, he shuts his mind to them and responds in a very disgruntled tone that he doesn’t want to hear about it. As he sees things as a child would, he relates to children and their simple minds more than he does adults and their logical, rational ones. Although he seems to relate to children as far as his view of things, he does not relate to them entirely which can be frustrating. No one can relate to him in fact, or at least seldom anyone. He is a survivor of a great atrocity, who could possibly relate to that? Since he relates with no one fully, developing relationships is hard for him. He finds children easier as they ask for very little and pry even less. They may ask and pester curiously for a time but are soon distracted elsewhere. All they seek is love, attention, and security. They don’t truly care for the deeper things of the past and the depths of the soul, for their souls are too young and inexperienced to understand the thirst for the knowledge of another human being’s every fiber and fabric of his life and will. He wants to be understood, but at the same time he doesn’t want people to know of him. Two conflicting feelings that duke it out in his heart and war in his mind. Emotions sprung from everything buried inside. All the hate, the pain, the loneliness, the abandonment. But does he care? Does he really? Sometimes yes. Emotions and cares and feelings aren’t always prominent, at the ready with swords drawn, ready to oppress the mind and tear the heartstrings of the spirit. Most of the time he doesn’t care. He is Loki Janaga. He is immortal. He is forever. So he lives his life, doing as he may please, watching minutes fade to decades, the world advancing and flying past him. And he breathes. He lives. He survives. He is free.
author's note: My whole heart goes out to the victims and survivors of Holocaust. This piece is not meant to disgrace the event in any way, shape, or form. Any names or events within the character's life that mirror the life of a real victim or survivor are purely coincidental. This character is a complete work of fiction shaped around a real life event.
Hamza Urdu
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_33459.jpg)
16
Son of the Fates
Kin: Abraha Urdu (father), Lolita Urdu (step-mother), Stanley and Muslima (brothers), Tracy (sister)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: Selene, Khione, Artemis, Apollo
God-Rivals: n/a
Status: single
Hamza means 'foul taste' and supposedly that's what his family thinks of him. Nothing but a foul taste left in their mouths. So they cursed and spit upon him and drove nails through him. Fueled with an insatiable hunger to tear apart the child, the suffering lasted years till he found the means to escape. He still wonders what sort of thing could have driven his family to despise him so, but the answers remain elusive. Hamza is the son of the Fates. Which one, he is not sure of, as neither of them bothered to divulge that information. He was always aware that he was different. Besides his general appearance, his supposed mother always held extreme aversion and hatred for him. Eventually, his father also turned on him, till both his mortal parents became the worst tormenters he ever faced in his young life. They were far more powerful and oppressive than any bully he may have faced or criminal he may have encountered, since they were always with him, day and night, and he was in constant fear of his life. Home was a thing to abhor, a place to cower from. When he was sent to school, he always dreaded returning to the house. Eventually he was pulled from school as his parents didn’t want others to discover the abuse. He was all but forgotten then. When relatives or visitors came, he was sent to the basement to play with toys or some other meaningless thing to pass the time. Even his siblings were cruel to him. It wasn’t entirely their intention or their wish, for children are often far too innocent at that age to understand right from wrong. They saw Hamza as a thing, as a horrible terrible thing that mommy and daddy hated. So they too, hated him. He was beaten, mistreated, and abandoned. He was forced to eat his meals in the confines of the basement or at different times of the day when the family wasn’t around to see the revolting creature. Revolting creature indeed. Bruised, scarred, and a face disfigured by their actions. He had a crooked nose, a slacked jaw, one eye almost permanently half closed, and weak, twisted fingers. He could hardly do anything properly but forced himself anyway since he could never rely on anyone else’ help. He was always weak of body, but not of mind. He learned to adapt, to shift, to change. He learned to block pain and ignore hatred. He learned to numb his soul and created his own world in his head. In his own world he was happy. The basement became a sanctuary for him to escape to his world in Him and his little toys would run and play and fight dragons in his secret world. He would weave elaborate tales and fantasies, all for himself. They would always start with the little ugly boy in the basement, and end with the little ugly boy receiving a great reward or being praised as a hero. And he dreamed and lived in those worlds, until he quite forgot reality altogether. His family took notice and declared him mental. He couldn’t communicate with them or anyone else anymore. He never talked or wrote or made any gestures. His strange red gaze wandered, and he never seemed able to focus. He seemed to revert to more infantile ways. He was finally taken to see doctors, probably for the first time in his life. They found nothing wrong with him but said his behavior was like that of a severe autistic. His parents were convinced he had gone mental and found that as only more of an excuse to hate and reject him. Now they had an ugly, stupid boy to feed and shelter. The basement became his permanent residence, and he was forbidden to go outside. But he wasn’t mental, he was merely lost. Lost in his head, in a world of imagination, where no one could hurt him. Where he couldn’t hear his screams and couldn’t shed any tears because no such things existed in his world. In his world he could move his fingers. In his world he could eat at a table and sleep in a big, soft bed. He preferred his world and that is where he stayed. He stayed there for years until he turned thirteen when he was violently ripped, screaming and clawing, from his beautiful, flawless world and into a reality more unimaginable than he could have dreamed in his worst nightmares. His father hurt him. It’s a dreadful thing that can’t be described in words, but his father took away Hamza’s last shred of security, a security he never knew he had until he lost it. And then Hamza seemed to wake up from his dream world. He woke up and murdered his father. He took hold of everything that was his father and unmade him. Then he fled. He came alive with energy and fled the horrible house that held all his nightmares and untold stories. He fled to the cruel and harsh world. And it was there he cried. He cried because the world was so beautiful and he was too fragile to exist in it. He was weak, ugly, broken. A deformed, demented creature without any shred of spirit left in him. He let his pain consume him, and he almost died from it. When he finally awoke, he awoke with the dawn. The darkness, the misery, it all vanished with the rising of the sun. And from that, Hamza found some strength left. He begged God for peace and forgiveness. He made his promises. He took his vows. He found his strength and he found his resolve. And with that, he walked away. Away from his old life, away from everything that made him who he was and he entered a new world as a new being. Such was not to last long. Innocent of the mythical world he was a part of, he was not prepared for the sudden appearance of. What seemed to be a relatively peaceful swim in a forest lake while on his wanderings, soon turned for the worst when a monster appeared. The hydra would have killed him if not for divine intervention. Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt, came and rescued him, whisking him away where he would be safe for the time being. He had been terribly injured by its poison, his entire body shifted and grossly deformed, destroying itself from the inside out. Artemis entreated her brother to save him, and Apollo readily answered his sister’s plea. Hamza was healed. Completely. His face no longer bore the ugly visage he gained from his abuses. His fingers were no longer weak, his body no longer thin and unreliable. No longer was he damaged. He was completely healed. Made anew. When he awoke, he was shocked and stunned by the face he viewed in the mirror. It was… beautiful. His skin was soft and smooth as a baby’s. He was strong and lean. His eyes burned with a brilliant flame and his once ragged, dirty hair was silky smooth and shimmery like silver. Immediately, he hated and loved it. He hated it for he did not believe he deserved it, but loved it, for it was such an act of mercy and compassion, an act only a divine, benevolent creature could have performed for something like him. It was another one of those rare moments when he truly cried. Almost as hard as the day he escaped his old life and was reborn. Reborn in spirit and now reborn in flesh. It was then the Fates came to him and told him who he was and what he was. A demigod. Their son. He doesn't know which of the three is his actual mother, but as they all are a part of a whole, he has come to address all three of them as his mothers in turn. It's strange, but both parties accept it. After they left him, he abandoned his mortal family. He knew there was only going to be more danger and figured it was high time he left them anyway. Hamza is actually quite grateful for his parent's mistreatment of him as it has better prepared him for the brutal reality he has to face day-to-day on his own in the outside world. Whether running from monsters, man, or his own inner demons, he is both mentally and physically prepared for the encounters and fated outcomes the world and its devices have to offer. He has gained enough survival skills to adapt to any given situation and is never afraid of the risks these situations may pose. Hamza is a mental puzzle. Often times his morals and beliefs clash with his actions and intentions. Not so much that he can be labeled as a hypocrite, but enough to keep others guessing and surprise them. He has a love for violence and is not afraid to kill, but he hesitates and is actually conflicted with ending a life. It goes hand in hand with his power, more on that later. He values life. He believes it to be precious and the worst thing to waste. Life is a gift. Life is a treasure. He has such a strong love for life that it almost outshines his love of violence. But it must be noted that violence is not the opposite of life, hence, this is not one of his contradictions. Violence is the opposite of gentleness, and he is not malevolent normally. He finds that peace is more quickly attained through violence and that the best way to neutralize a threat is to kill it. Permanently. No matter the risks, no matter the journey, the outcome is what is important and so he will sacrifice all to reach that outcome. He holds a sanctity in life, yet will trample others underneath him to reach his goals. If he cannot finish the job and reach the end, then he considers himself worthless and his self-esteem lowers even further. He has a very unstable confidence in himself because of this struggle but doesn't seem ready to overcome it. His gentleness shines through when peace has been reached. He is only kind and gentle to those who are weaker than him, taking on some sort of guardian role. He will not pamper and baby the weak, but he will be kind to them. Sometimes. The rest of the time he will strike and drive the weak until they become strong. He will force them into finding their strength and then use his own methods to amplify that. He believes his childhood and the suffering he endured was the best form of training and he will imitate it when he trains others. This can cause problems for him, seeing as no one else thinks that physically life-threatening abuse is a good form of training. He doesn't really understand people that well from the get go. Often making passive aggressive statements that he sees as truths and blunt statements of fact where others find them provoking. There are occasions where he seems to understand people down to their core, which can be arrant frightening. He seems to read their minds, speak from their hearts and souls. He lays their emotions bare before them, picks and pokes and displays every detail, every moment of them as if he was simply inside their heads. It comes from being a son of the Fates. With his parent's heritage, he can see the fates of others, and then, he can unravel them. That is how he kills people and that is why he cannot decide his parent of the three. One winds the thread, one weaves it, one snips it. And he? He is there in between them all, pulling out the strings and un-working the weave. Unraveling. Unraveling fate. He sees the entire future, past, present of the person. He sees their fears, their memories, their choices, their decisions, their actions, their intentions. He sees all the possibilities their futures hold. And then he tears it apart. He reworks the fabric of their lives and makes them die. Right there, right then. By his hand. They say the worst weapon to use is a sniper rifle. If one used a psitol or a machine gun, they pull the trigger, and they see a body drop to the ground. With a sniper, they see the face. They see the body. Every detail before their eyes in crystal clarity. Up close. Personal. Such is unraveling fate. He is up close. Personal. For a moment he is inside that person. For a moment he is that person. And then he is not. And then he is Hamza once more and the incredible surge of life he cherished for an eternal moment screams and twists and dies in his arms. And not even the gods can undo what Hamza has done.
Son of the Fates
Kin: Abraha Urdu (father), Lolita Urdu (step-mother), Stanley and Muslima (brothers), Tracy (sister)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: Selene, Khione, Artemis, Apollo
God-Rivals: n/a
Status: single
Hamza means 'foul taste' and supposedly that's what his family thinks of him. Nothing but a foul taste left in their mouths. So they cursed and spit upon him and drove nails through him. Fueled with an insatiable hunger to tear apart the child, the suffering lasted years till he found the means to escape. He still wonders what sort of thing could have driven his family to despise him so, but the answers remain elusive. Hamza is the son of the Fates. Which one, he is not sure of, as neither of them bothered to divulge that information. He was always aware that he was different. Besides his general appearance, his supposed mother always held extreme aversion and hatred for him. Eventually, his father also turned on him, till both his mortal parents became the worst tormenters he ever faced in his young life. They were far more powerful and oppressive than any bully he may have faced or criminal he may have encountered, since they were always with him, day and night, and he was in constant fear of his life. Home was a thing to abhor, a place to cower from. When he was sent to school, he always dreaded returning to the house. Eventually he was pulled from school as his parents didn’t want others to discover the abuse. He was all but forgotten then. When relatives or visitors came, he was sent to the basement to play with toys or some other meaningless thing to pass the time. Even his siblings were cruel to him. It wasn’t entirely their intention or their wish, for children are often far too innocent at that age to understand right from wrong. They saw Hamza as a thing, as a horrible terrible thing that mommy and daddy hated. So they too, hated him. He was beaten, mistreated, and abandoned. He was forced to eat his meals in the confines of the basement or at different times of the day when the family wasn’t around to see the revolting creature. Revolting creature indeed. Bruised, scarred, and a face disfigured by their actions. He had a crooked nose, a slacked jaw, one eye almost permanently half closed, and weak, twisted fingers. He could hardly do anything properly but forced himself anyway since he could never rely on anyone else’ help. He was always weak of body, but not of mind. He learned to adapt, to shift, to change. He learned to block pain and ignore hatred. He learned to numb his soul and created his own world in his head. In his own world he was happy. The basement became a sanctuary for him to escape to his world in Him and his little toys would run and play and fight dragons in his secret world. He would weave elaborate tales and fantasies, all for himself. They would always start with the little ugly boy in the basement, and end with the little ugly boy receiving a great reward or being praised as a hero. And he dreamed and lived in those worlds, until he quite forgot reality altogether. His family took notice and declared him mental. He couldn’t communicate with them or anyone else anymore. He never talked or wrote or made any gestures. His strange red gaze wandered, and he never seemed able to focus. He seemed to revert to more infantile ways. He was finally taken to see doctors, probably for the first time in his life. They found nothing wrong with him but said his behavior was like that of a severe autistic. His parents were convinced he had gone mental and found that as only more of an excuse to hate and reject him. Now they had an ugly, stupid boy to feed and shelter. The basement became his permanent residence, and he was forbidden to go outside. But he wasn’t mental, he was merely lost. Lost in his head, in a world of imagination, where no one could hurt him. Where he couldn’t hear his screams and couldn’t shed any tears because no such things existed in his world. In his world he could move his fingers. In his world he could eat at a table and sleep in a big, soft bed. He preferred his world and that is where he stayed. He stayed there for years until he turned thirteen when he was violently ripped, screaming and clawing, from his beautiful, flawless world and into a reality more unimaginable than he could have dreamed in his worst nightmares. His father hurt him. It’s a dreadful thing that can’t be described in words, but his father took away Hamza’s last shred of security, a security he never knew he had until he lost it. And then Hamza seemed to wake up from his dream world. He woke up and murdered his father. He took hold of everything that was his father and unmade him. Then he fled. He came alive with energy and fled the horrible house that held all his nightmares and untold stories. He fled to the cruel and harsh world. And it was there he cried. He cried because the world was so beautiful and he was too fragile to exist in it. He was weak, ugly, broken. A deformed, demented creature without any shred of spirit left in him. He let his pain consume him, and he almost died from it. When he finally awoke, he awoke with the dawn. The darkness, the misery, it all vanished with the rising of the sun. And from that, Hamza found some strength left. He begged God for peace and forgiveness. He made his promises. He took his vows. He found his strength and he found his resolve. And with that, he walked away. Away from his old life, away from everything that made him who he was and he entered a new world as a new being. Such was not to last long. Innocent of the mythical world he was a part of, he was not prepared for the sudden appearance of. What seemed to be a relatively peaceful swim in a forest lake while on his wanderings, soon turned for the worst when a monster appeared. The hydra would have killed him if not for divine intervention. Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt, came and rescued him, whisking him away where he would be safe for the time being. He had been terribly injured by its poison, his entire body shifted and grossly deformed, destroying itself from the inside out. Artemis entreated her brother to save him, and Apollo readily answered his sister’s plea. Hamza was healed. Completely. His face no longer bore the ugly visage he gained from his abuses. His fingers were no longer weak, his body no longer thin and unreliable. No longer was he damaged. He was completely healed. Made anew. When he awoke, he was shocked and stunned by the face he viewed in the mirror. It was… beautiful. His skin was soft and smooth as a baby’s. He was strong and lean. His eyes burned with a brilliant flame and his once ragged, dirty hair was silky smooth and shimmery like silver. Immediately, he hated and loved it. He hated it for he did not believe he deserved it, but loved it, for it was such an act of mercy and compassion, an act only a divine, benevolent creature could have performed for something like him. It was another one of those rare moments when he truly cried. Almost as hard as the day he escaped his old life and was reborn. Reborn in spirit and now reborn in flesh. It was then the Fates came to him and told him who he was and what he was. A demigod. Their son. He doesn't know which of the three is his actual mother, but as they all are a part of a whole, he has come to address all three of them as his mothers in turn. It's strange, but both parties accept it. After they left him, he abandoned his mortal family. He knew there was only going to be more danger and figured it was high time he left them anyway. Hamza is actually quite grateful for his parent's mistreatment of him as it has better prepared him for the brutal reality he has to face day-to-day on his own in the outside world. Whether running from monsters, man, or his own inner demons, he is both mentally and physically prepared for the encounters and fated outcomes the world and its devices have to offer. He has gained enough survival skills to adapt to any given situation and is never afraid of the risks these situations may pose. Hamza is a mental puzzle. Often times his morals and beliefs clash with his actions and intentions. Not so much that he can be labeled as a hypocrite, but enough to keep others guessing and surprise them. He has a love for violence and is not afraid to kill, but he hesitates and is actually conflicted with ending a life. It goes hand in hand with his power, more on that later. He values life. He believes it to be precious and the worst thing to waste. Life is a gift. Life is a treasure. He has such a strong love for life that it almost outshines his love of violence. But it must be noted that violence is not the opposite of life, hence, this is not one of his contradictions. Violence is the opposite of gentleness, and he is not malevolent normally. He finds that peace is more quickly attained through violence and that the best way to neutralize a threat is to kill it. Permanently. No matter the risks, no matter the journey, the outcome is what is important and so he will sacrifice all to reach that outcome. He holds a sanctity in life, yet will trample others underneath him to reach his goals. If he cannot finish the job and reach the end, then he considers himself worthless and his self-esteem lowers even further. He has a very unstable confidence in himself because of this struggle but doesn't seem ready to overcome it. His gentleness shines through when peace has been reached. He is only kind and gentle to those who are weaker than him, taking on some sort of guardian role. He will not pamper and baby the weak, but he will be kind to them. Sometimes. The rest of the time he will strike and drive the weak until they become strong. He will force them into finding their strength and then use his own methods to amplify that. He believes his childhood and the suffering he endured was the best form of training and he will imitate it when he trains others. This can cause problems for him, seeing as no one else thinks that physically life-threatening abuse is a good form of training. He doesn't really understand people that well from the get go. Often making passive aggressive statements that he sees as truths and blunt statements of fact where others find them provoking. There are occasions where he seems to understand people down to their core, which can be arrant frightening. He seems to read their minds, speak from their hearts and souls. He lays their emotions bare before them, picks and pokes and displays every detail, every moment of them as if he was simply inside their heads. It comes from being a son of the Fates. With his parent's heritage, he can see the fates of others, and then, he can unravel them. That is how he kills people and that is why he cannot decide his parent of the three. One winds the thread, one weaves it, one snips it. And he? He is there in between them all, pulling out the strings and un-working the weave. Unraveling. Unraveling fate. He sees the entire future, past, present of the person. He sees their fears, their memories, their choices, their decisions, their actions, their intentions. He sees all the possibilities their futures hold. And then he tears it apart. He reworks the fabric of their lives and makes them die. Right there, right then. By his hand. They say the worst weapon to use is a sniper rifle. If one used a psitol or a machine gun, they pull the trigger, and they see a body drop to the ground. With a sniper, they see the face. They see the body. Every detail before their eyes in crystal clarity. Up close. Personal. Such is unraveling fate. He is up close. Personal. For a moment he is inside that person. For a moment he is that person. And then he is not. And then he is Hamza once more and the incredible surge of life he cherished for an eternal moment screams and twists and dies in his arms. And not even the gods can undo what Hamza has done.
Brishen Price
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_9022428.jpg)
15
Son of Ares
god of war, battlelust, civil order, and manly courage
Kin: Moira Price (mother), Angelina (sister), Arthur and Ferdinand (brothers)
Friends: none
Rivals: Vertigo Antigra
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Status: single
Brishen. Born during a rainstorm. It seems his name has more than one meaning to it. The rain. It hides his tears. It hides his heart. He lets the rain wash away his pain, and he becomes numb in reply. Brishen was born on a cold, rainy night in England to a loving single mother and her two sons. He was loved, cherished, supported. He had anger management issues and was prone to violence, but this was nothing new for a boy in his living situation. His mother was often stressed, but she never complained. For the most part they lived in poverty, going from trailer home to trailer home, one run-down community to the next. One day, on a stroke of luck, his mother was hired at a top notch position in a financial job and they were flown to America. It was like coming out of a long, dark tunnel into a light filled dream land. They lived in a modest home in a quiet neighborhood. Brishen and his brothers were able to go to decent schools. They could buy new clothes and didn't have to worry about getting food on the table. Brishen, now nine, also became an older brother when his little sister Angelina was born. Two years later, Vertigo came in the night, dragged them all screaming from their beds, and brutally slaughtered them. Brishen was writhing on the floor from a slit jugular vein, watching as Vertigo carried his little sister into the bathroom and locked the door. The sound of her screams still rings in his ears, the scene of bloody water streaming out from under the bathroom door as his little sister's screams become chokes and gurgles and eventually silence. It's forever engraved in his memory, and he still bears the scars on his throat and chest from Vertigo's knife. Brishen has all the hatred of Styx in his heart, a hatred born of helplessness, suffering, and loss. After that evil creature known as Vertigo Antigra massacred his family, Brishen Price has sworn to never sleep until he has hunted the son of Oizys to the ends of the earth and made an end of him. His father warns him not to get involved, that there is more to the deaths of his family than he is aware of, but Brishen isn't one to listen. He doesn't care for the reason, even if there is one, he wants justice and revenge. Revenge is a chimera. While he battles the lion, the goat lunges with its horns and the snake sinks its fangs in his back. He is journeying down a dangerous, frightful path, one that will test all the limits of his morals and judgements, but he is dead set on following it to the end. He kills. He is a killer. He will make an end of any who stand in his path and he will not feel remorse. So blinded is he, so twisted is he. He will use and manipulate and torture everyone for the mere pleasure of achieving his goal. It is destroying him and he loves it. He seeks destruction. He seeks the bitter end and the pleasant misery it shall bring to him. After that night, Brishen discovered his identity as a demigod. He doesn't understand why Ares hasn't done anything to avenge Brishen's family, a family Ares claims to have loved, a family Ares helped create. Brishen has never felt so alone or betrayed before. It eats away at him as fiercely as his hatred. Born during a rainstorm. Born to be forever covered in thick, smothering clouds. Born to forever be trapped in the rain that will hide all his pain filled tears.
Brishen is still young, only fifteen now, with dirty blonde hair and steel gray eyes. He still has a British accent, but to avoid too much attention he will switch to an American one. Brishen is a bit rash and very arrogant. He's hot-headed, stubborn, and not very bright. He doesn't do well in social situations and prefers to be alone. He has a very tender heart, and sometimes cries when he's alone, though he'll never admit it, always portraying a tough exterior.
Son of Ares
god of war, battlelust, civil order, and manly courage
Kin: Moira Price (mother), Angelina (sister), Arthur and Ferdinand (brothers)
Friends: none
Rivals: Vertigo Antigra
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Status: single
Brishen. Born during a rainstorm. It seems his name has more than one meaning to it. The rain. It hides his tears. It hides his heart. He lets the rain wash away his pain, and he becomes numb in reply. Brishen was born on a cold, rainy night in England to a loving single mother and her two sons. He was loved, cherished, supported. He had anger management issues and was prone to violence, but this was nothing new for a boy in his living situation. His mother was often stressed, but she never complained. For the most part they lived in poverty, going from trailer home to trailer home, one run-down community to the next. One day, on a stroke of luck, his mother was hired at a top notch position in a financial job and they were flown to America. It was like coming out of a long, dark tunnel into a light filled dream land. They lived in a modest home in a quiet neighborhood. Brishen and his brothers were able to go to decent schools. They could buy new clothes and didn't have to worry about getting food on the table. Brishen, now nine, also became an older brother when his little sister Angelina was born. Two years later, Vertigo came in the night, dragged them all screaming from their beds, and brutally slaughtered them. Brishen was writhing on the floor from a slit jugular vein, watching as Vertigo carried his little sister into the bathroom and locked the door. The sound of her screams still rings in his ears, the scene of bloody water streaming out from under the bathroom door as his little sister's screams become chokes and gurgles and eventually silence. It's forever engraved in his memory, and he still bears the scars on his throat and chest from Vertigo's knife. Brishen has all the hatred of Styx in his heart, a hatred born of helplessness, suffering, and loss. After that evil creature known as Vertigo Antigra massacred his family, Brishen Price has sworn to never sleep until he has hunted the son of Oizys to the ends of the earth and made an end of him. His father warns him not to get involved, that there is more to the deaths of his family than he is aware of, but Brishen isn't one to listen. He doesn't care for the reason, even if there is one, he wants justice and revenge. Revenge is a chimera. While he battles the lion, the goat lunges with its horns and the snake sinks its fangs in his back. He is journeying down a dangerous, frightful path, one that will test all the limits of his morals and judgements, but he is dead set on following it to the end. He kills. He is a killer. He will make an end of any who stand in his path and he will not feel remorse. So blinded is he, so twisted is he. He will use and manipulate and torture everyone for the mere pleasure of achieving his goal. It is destroying him and he loves it. He seeks destruction. He seeks the bitter end and the pleasant misery it shall bring to him. After that night, Brishen discovered his identity as a demigod. He doesn't understand why Ares hasn't done anything to avenge Brishen's family, a family Ares claims to have loved, a family Ares helped create. Brishen has never felt so alone or betrayed before. It eats away at him as fiercely as his hatred. Born during a rainstorm. Born to be forever covered in thick, smothering clouds. Born to forever be trapped in the rain that will hide all his pain filled tears.
Brishen is still young, only fifteen now, with dirty blonde hair and steel gray eyes. He still has a British accent, but to avoid too much attention he will switch to an American one. Brishen is a bit rash and very arrogant. He's hot-headed, stubborn, and not very bright. He doesn't do well in social situations and prefers to be alone. He has a very tender heart, and sometimes cries when he's alone, though he'll never admit it, always portraying a tough exterior.
Nemo
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_3256494.jpg)
17
Son of Phobos
god of panic fear, flight, and battle rout
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Phobos, Deimus, Ares
Nemo is one of the most evil demigods you shall ever face. A completely heartless killer without remorse or care. He will laugh in the faces of those suffering at his hand, and then he will prolong it. He has only one goal, one driven purpose: to become worthy enough to face his father in battle. His father is Phobos, the god of fear, panic, flight, and battle rout. A mad, despicable god who enjoys torturing and destroying his own children. He wasn't much of an exception. When he was hardly seven years old, Phobos beat his mother to death in front of him then stole the boy away to his domain. There, he tortured him. After a year, the child's heart gave out and he died. Phobos simply laughed it off and resuscitated him, then repeated the process, becoming more and more violent until he began dying twice a month on a regular basis. The boy eventually forgot his name, and since Phobos never bothered to remind him of it, he still doesn't know what it is. Phobos saw his son as an absolute weakling and christened the child Nemo. "Nemo! Because you are nobody! You are nothing!" When he turned sixteen, Nemo managed to break away from his father's domain and escaped to earth. Repercussions of eight years spent in agony have taken their affect on him. Only a year has passed and he has slaughtered over fourteen dozen people. He has a very limited memory now, only remembering events that happen within four months time. He has distanced himself comepltly from his father and remains at a distance in any and all relationships. He prefers open confrontation to peaceful settlements and really doesn't care about people in general. He's harsh, critical, and cruel. Also quite promiscuous, using girls and women, manipualting their feelings, then dumping them when it becomes inconvenient. He sees people as tools, a trait he unwillingly derived from his father. Nemo has blue-gray, spiky hair and dark gray eyes. Tall, muscular, and scarred along his back and chest. He is the enemy of most of the gods as he has killed many of their children already.
Son of Phobos
god of panic fear, flight, and battle rout
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Phobos, Deimus, Ares
Nemo is one of the most evil demigods you shall ever face. A completely heartless killer without remorse or care. He will laugh in the faces of those suffering at his hand, and then he will prolong it. He has only one goal, one driven purpose: to become worthy enough to face his father in battle. His father is Phobos, the god of fear, panic, flight, and battle rout. A mad, despicable god who enjoys torturing and destroying his own children. He wasn't much of an exception. When he was hardly seven years old, Phobos beat his mother to death in front of him then stole the boy away to his domain. There, he tortured him. After a year, the child's heart gave out and he died. Phobos simply laughed it off and resuscitated him, then repeated the process, becoming more and more violent until he began dying twice a month on a regular basis. The boy eventually forgot his name, and since Phobos never bothered to remind him of it, he still doesn't know what it is. Phobos saw his son as an absolute weakling and christened the child Nemo. "Nemo! Because you are nobody! You are nothing!" When he turned sixteen, Nemo managed to break away from his father's domain and escaped to earth. Repercussions of eight years spent in agony have taken their affect on him. Only a year has passed and he has slaughtered over fourteen dozen people. He has a very limited memory now, only remembering events that happen within four months time. He has distanced himself comepltly from his father and remains at a distance in any and all relationships. He prefers open confrontation to peaceful settlements and really doesn't care about people in general. He's harsh, critical, and cruel. Also quite promiscuous, using girls and women, manipualting their feelings, then dumping them when it becomes inconvenient. He sees people as tools, a trait he unwillingly derived from his father. Nemo has blue-gray, spiky hair and dark gray eyes. Tall, muscular, and scarred along his back and chest. He is the enemy of most of the gods as he has killed many of their children already.
Dragur Viscous
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_4949176.jpg)
16
Son of Styx
the titan-goddess of hate and the River Styx
Kin: Alec and Bane (brothers)
Friends: Nightwish
Rivals: Alec Viscous
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo
coming soon
A demi-titan: more powerful than any ordinary demigod. Being one of power can be so intriguing, so amazing, but not for Dragur. For Dragur it has been a terrible burden to bear. Born of hatred, born of Styx within her accursed river, he knew the meaning of suffering from an early age. When he was finally released from the Underworld at age ten, he was probably the most helpless and forlorn child on the earth. He had never seen anything except the dark abyss of Styx's corrosive waters. He had never known anything save the feel of liquid fire and acid consuming his very soul. Now he has been tossed into a world that cares as much for him as he cared for the pains of his birthworld: that is to say, not at all. Since he was born and lived in the river for ten years, he is immune and impervious to any physical attacks. His own hatred is directed fully at his mother though he buries it all inside himself. He looks down on demigods, and some gods, as completely inferior beings, and couldn't give a damn about humans. He's mostly a quiet, reserved loner, but very, outstandingly observant and intelligent. He notices minute details and the most obscure of things. Exceptionally bright, most talents come to him rather effortlessly. He's a bit reckless since he does see himself as a superior being, even going so far as to challenge certain gods to duels. He has a brother, Alec Viscous, whom he considers his eternal enemy. The reason for this is all covered up in clever conspiracy and lies. Dragur doesn't talk about himself at all really, and always directs attention away from himself. Since demi-titans are the rarest breed, it is very hard to discern what he is as the thought of such beings doesn't even pass through many peoples' minds. Dragur cares for very few people, so if he does care for someone, it is a huge and very serious commitment he is making and should not be taken lightly. He is rather ruthless, cruel, and inconsiderate. He prefers working others to his advantage and is an incredible liar. Dragur travels around a lot and has picked up on a lot of things. He can speak twelve languages: English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, Mongolian and Irish Gaelic. He can play the violin, duduk, and kaito drums. He can paint very well but doesn't care to, though his preferred mediums are water colors and inks. He has a knack for history, chemistry, and english. He has marvelous stamina, speed, and agility with a fiar amount of strength. Dragur has a thin body with light tanned, near flawless skin. Since he ages slower than mortals, he always appears young. He has lifeless, white eyes that are nearly pupil-less, an after affect of spending ten years in pitch black water. His eyes are ringed in black. His hair comes down to his shoulders. It is is soft as velvet and the color of deathly night. In certain lighting, red highlights shine amidst the black. He can control hatred. He can also summon black waters from the river Styx and consume things with it. He can also bind others to sacred oath by shedding his black blood. He may also teleport at will, but he will always wind up in the River Styx when he does.
Son of Styx
the titan-goddess of hate and the River Styx
Kin: Alec and Bane (brothers)
Friends: Nightwish
Rivals: Alec Viscous
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo
coming soon
A demi-titan: more powerful than any ordinary demigod. Being one of power can be so intriguing, so amazing, but not for Dragur. For Dragur it has been a terrible burden to bear. Born of hatred, born of Styx within her accursed river, he knew the meaning of suffering from an early age. When he was finally released from the Underworld at age ten, he was probably the most helpless and forlorn child on the earth. He had never seen anything except the dark abyss of Styx's corrosive waters. He had never known anything save the feel of liquid fire and acid consuming his very soul. Now he has been tossed into a world that cares as much for him as he cared for the pains of his birthworld: that is to say, not at all. Since he was born and lived in the river for ten years, he is immune and impervious to any physical attacks. His own hatred is directed fully at his mother though he buries it all inside himself. He looks down on demigods, and some gods, as completely inferior beings, and couldn't give a damn about humans. He's mostly a quiet, reserved loner, but very, outstandingly observant and intelligent. He notices minute details and the most obscure of things. Exceptionally bright, most talents come to him rather effortlessly. He's a bit reckless since he does see himself as a superior being, even going so far as to challenge certain gods to duels. He has a brother, Alec Viscous, whom he considers his eternal enemy. The reason for this is all covered up in clever conspiracy and lies. Dragur doesn't talk about himself at all really, and always directs attention away from himself. Since demi-titans are the rarest breed, it is very hard to discern what he is as the thought of such beings doesn't even pass through many peoples' minds. Dragur cares for very few people, so if he does care for someone, it is a huge and very serious commitment he is making and should not be taken lightly. He is rather ruthless, cruel, and inconsiderate. He prefers working others to his advantage and is an incredible liar. Dragur travels around a lot and has picked up on a lot of things. He can speak twelve languages: English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, Mongolian and Irish Gaelic. He can play the violin, duduk, and kaito drums. He can paint very well but doesn't care to, though his preferred mediums are water colors and inks. He has a knack for history, chemistry, and english. He has marvelous stamina, speed, and agility with a fiar amount of strength. Dragur has a thin body with light tanned, near flawless skin. Since he ages slower than mortals, he always appears young. He has lifeless, white eyes that are nearly pupil-less, an after affect of spending ten years in pitch black water. His eyes are ringed in black. His hair comes down to his shoulders. It is is soft as velvet and the color of deathly night. In certain lighting, red highlights shine amidst the black. He can control hatred. He can also summon black waters from the river Styx and consume things with it. He can also bind others to sacred oath by shedding his black blood. He may also teleport at will, but he will always wind up in the River Styx when he does.
Anarawd Sygrove
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_1439641.jpg)
17
son of Astrape
goddess of lightning
Kin: n/a
Friends: Train (son of Apollo)
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Anarawd Sygrove is the son of Astrape, goddess of lightning. Hence he attains her abilities and also a bright, electrifying appearance. He has frosty, pale skin, vibrant and almost glowing with its own energy. Flawless too, as though he's never been in a battle in his life. He has beautiful, ocean blue hair, wavy, and it almost touches his shoulders. Easily tousled by the wind, each strand seemingly having a life of its own. His eyes are an electric, green-blue, like turquoise. Before he was even brought into the world, his path was preordained. He was chosen to be Astrape and Zeus' assisstants. It's not very often Astrape has children, but they are as valued as she, becoming the personal guards and servants, more like slaves, of Zeus; going to and fro at his every beck and call. They have some authority, but when in Zeus' presence they are no better than mud. Astrape had Anarawd in Olympus, separated from the world below. He was raised by handmaidens and nymphs, rarely ever coming into contact with his preoccupied mother. She never had time for him or tried to make ay. Such is the nature of gods after all. From a young age, Zeus pretty much dictated Anarawd's life. He picked where Anarawd lived, what he was allowed to do, allowed to eat, when and where he was allowed to sleep, and everything else in between. When he turned eight, he was trained by his mother to assist Zeus. When he turned thirteen, he worked alongside her officially. He finally rebelled when he was fifteen. Reasons unknown. As a result, he has this strange affinity for Zeus demigods, always sacrificing everything to come to their aid. He works alongside his mother a lot less now, hardly ever stepping foot inside Olympus these days, avoiding it as much as he possibly can. Anarawd isn't sure if he's enjoying his freedom or not. It's a strange experience for him, and sometimes he becomes stressed and frustrated, to the point of nosebleeds and nervous breakdowns. At these times he turns from carefree to needy and clingy. He's still trying to find himself and get his footing in the real world, having been sheltered from it for so long. Anarawd is a somewhat socially awkward demigod. He likes being around people and enjoys conversation despite his awkwardness and can be easy to get along with. He is very positive and has a bright outlook on things and life in general. He doesn't talk about himself much at all. He can be a bit clueless at times, not always seeing what's right in front of him unless it's painfully obvious. He often looks down on himself for being a minor demigod. He never knew the camp existed until he met a demigod named Train. Anarawd is sometimes confronted about his parents. He easily answers about his mother, but has no idea who his father is. He doesn't seem to care too much about finding the man. Anarawd can have some issues gaining people's trust over time. Since he works so close beside Zeus and the other Olympian gods, he knows many things about the dealings of the world, dangerous secrets, and terrible truths. He can be a bit sketchy, and can get a little defensive when pried at. He prefers telling the truth and isn't a fantastic liar, so there is a sense that he isn't totally trustworthy when he talks at times.
son of Astrape
goddess of lightning
Kin: n/a
Friends: Train (son of Apollo)
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Anarawd Sygrove is the son of Astrape, goddess of lightning. Hence he attains her abilities and also a bright, electrifying appearance. He has frosty, pale skin, vibrant and almost glowing with its own energy. Flawless too, as though he's never been in a battle in his life. He has beautiful, ocean blue hair, wavy, and it almost touches his shoulders. Easily tousled by the wind, each strand seemingly having a life of its own. His eyes are an electric, green-blue, like turquoise. Before he was even brought into the world, his path was preordained. He was chosen to be Astrape and Zeus' assisstants. It's not very often Astrape has children, but they are as valued as she, becoming the personal guards and servants, more like slaves, of Zeus; going to and fro at his every beck and call. They have some authority, but when in Zeus' presence they are no better than mud. Astrape had Anarawd in Olympus, separated from the world below. He was raised by handmaidens and nymphs, rarely ever coming into contact with his preoccupied mother. She never had time for him or tried to make ay. Such is the nature of gods after all. From a young age, Zeus pretty much dictated Anarawd's life. He picked where Anarawd lived, what he was allowed to do, allowed to eat, when and where he was allowed to sleep, and everything else in between. When he turned eight, he was trained by his mother to assist Zeus. When he turned thirteen, he worked alongside her officially. He finally rebelled when he was fifteen. Reasons unknown. As a result, he has this strange affinity for Zeus demigods, always sacrificing everything to come to their aid. He works alongside his mother a lot less now, hardly ever stepping foot inside Olympus these days, avoiding it as much as he possibly can. Anarawd isn't sure if he's enjoying his freedom or not. It's a strange experience for him, and sometimes he becomes stressed and frustrated, to the point of nosebleeds and nervous breakdowns. At these times he turns from carefree to needy and clingy. He's still trying to find himself and get his footing in the real world, having been sheltered from it for so long. Anarawd is a somewhat socially awkward demigod. He likes being around people and enjoys conversation despite his awkwardness and can be easy to get along with. He is very positive and has a bright outlook on things and life in general. He doesn't talk about himself much at all. He can be a bit clueless at times, not always seeing what's right in front of him unless it's painfully obvious. He often looks down on himself for being a minor demigod. He never knew the camp existed until he met a demigod named Train. Anarawd is sometimes confronted about his parents. He easily answers about his mother, but has no idea who his father is. He doesn't seem to care too much about finding the man. Anarawd can have some issues gaining people's trust over time. Since he works so close beside Zeus and the other Olympian gods, he knows many things about the dealings of the world, dangerous secrets, and terrible truths. He can be a bit sketchy, and can get a little defensive when pried at. He prefers telling the truth and isn't a fantastic liar, so there is a sense that he isn't totally trustworthy when he talks at times.
Kiba Suzuki
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_8839998.jpg)
16
son of Moros and a Laimia
god of depression and doom who drives mortals to their fate / a vampiric creature
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Kiba Suzuki has straight red hair and light green-yellow eyes. He's polite and quiet, not very outspoken or ready to stand up for himself, but he has a toughness that he isn't himself aware of. He is usually found around the city working multiple part time jobs. He doesn't venture out much, not really one to want to fight with the demons and monsters in the area. He enjoys drawing, reading, and writing poetry. He's quite antisocial and doesn't care to talk to people unless he has to for his job or something. He is like a human lie detector, always knowing when someone isn't telling the truth.
son of Moros and a Laimia
god of depression and doom who drives mortals to their fate / a vampiric creature
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Kiba Suzuki has straight red hair and light green-yellow eyes. He's polite and quiet, not very outspoken or ready to stand up for himself, but he has a toughness that he isn't himself aware of. He is usually found around the city working multiple part time jobs. He doesn't venture out much, not really one to want to fight with the demons and monsters in the area. He enjoys drawing, reading, and writing poetry. He's quite antisocial and doesn't care to talk to people unless he has to for his job or something. He is like a human lie detector, always knowing when someone isn't telling the truth.
Emiliano Raneri
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_4715567.jpg)
Appears 16, True age is somewhere near 30,000
a titan, son of Eros
primordial god of procreation, sexual desire, and the brotherhood of men
Kin: Cleo (mother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: Eros (father), Eros, Cupid, Aphrodite, Gaia, Thesis, Physis, Hera
God-Rivals: none
Emiliano is a Titan son born to the primordial, self-created god Eros: god of procreation, sexual desire, and the brotherhood of men by one of the first mortal women, Cleo. When the other primordial gods learned of his birth, they became worried. They knew of the tendencies of men and their inborn wickedness, so they used their power to diminish Emiliano's abilities. Over the past eras, his powers have drastically decreased, now existing on the level of a demi-titan where he is expected to stay for the remainder of his life. He was born on the land that would one day become Italy. At the time, the world was formless and under the reign of Kronos. When he was seven, he was entered into battle training. In those days, the Golden Age of Greece, it was the time for heroes and power. As a Titan, Emiliano was feared, revered, worshipped even. As he grew and strengthened, he became more and more loved by the people, and he loved them just as fiercely. He served, guarded, and taught them. He emulated Eros greatly and sought to be the same, wise man his father was. Having been raised in such an era, it was only natural that his loyalty lay with Kronos. And when the time came, he did indeed fight in the Titanochamy. At Kronos' side. When the war ended and his powerful king sent to his knees, Emiliano surrendered to Zeus, begging the god to take him and let his warriors go. Zeus complied, but also found in his heart, compassion for the warrior. He had Emiliano imprisoned within Tartarus, true to Emiliano's request, but after a few thousand years, he had him released. Emiliano never thought evil of Zeus, and as he found his footing in the world once more, he returned to his role of guardian and councilor. He assisted many kings and taught many children. never in one place for too long, he was always disappearing and reappearing, using his power of disguise to keep his identity concealed. Thus he avoided recognition, but also remained out of any and all stories. A side effect. In the Trojan War, he chose Achilles as his favored hero. When the boy Patroclus, and eventually Achilles himself was struck down in battle, it was perhaps the first time Emiliano had ever truly grieved for anyone. He bore the two kin to the Elysian fields himself. He then proceeded to follow Aeneas to Italy and they built Rome together. Emiliano remained in Rome until its fall, influencing and taking part in many famous, historical events. After Rome fell, he ventured around the world. It was around the time of the Renaissance that he truly felt his powers diminish. It was the first time he felt fear. He returned to Olympus, among the gods his friends, and sought out the audience of the primordials, begging them not to take his life. They assured him they would not, but even still, he is far more prone to death than he ever had been. Around the late 1900s, his powers ceased fading, and since then, he has remained at the power level of a demi-titan. More powerful than any demigod but not as powerful as a god. He does have far more advantages than other demi-titans. He is immortal to age and disease, has a decreased aging process, impressive regeneration capabilities, bleeds ichor, has extremely heightened reflexes, higher influence and some control over lesser creatures, higher intelligence and comprehension, and more dominating skills in battle. Emiliano is something special it seems, being extremely old and the first of his kind, possibly the only one of his kind. He is on good terms with many of the gods. His knowledge and memories have made him very wise, even seeming to be a mystical guru at times with the things he says. He roams the world, acting as an ordinary demigod of sorts. Despite the seriousness of his life, Emiliano has always retained a light-hearted, playful personality. Emiliano seems strangely carefree and childlike for an ancient titan. He is gentle, tender, and rather delicate. Some might even say he’s a bit feminine, always speaking softly of beauty and love and other things. But there’s a strong, regal air to him that surpasses it. He’s light. He’s the air, the wind, the breezes. He’s free and sweet and soft. He's always happy, positive, with such a silver and gold outlook to all. But his sympathy, compassion, and his understanding reach deep beyond the surface of the heart. He comforts those who have nothing but harsh cruelty. He tames the tormented souls of those who know only savagery. He soothes the pain of those who slumber and wake in pain. He’s very romantic. His words, his gestures, his ways with women. Being playfellows of Cupid, Eros, Himerus, and Hedone, he knows very well the art of love and seduction. Centuries of practice and lovers have made him quite knowledgeable in the art. He can be either something of a playboy or true hearted. It can be a bit hard to tell the difference. He’s very loyal and self-sacrificial. Though in recent years he has become a bit more careful and cautious, he will still do whatever it takes to save the innocent and uphold justice. He is always striving for unity and peace. He absolutely despises fighting these days though he still has an unspoken prowess on the battlefield. Naturally. He hates to fight not simply because he finds the act immoral, but it’s also become an irrational fear of his. He is most definitely paranoid of death. It never was a problem for him when he was in his prime. Gods and titans never fear death for death has no power over them. But now he can feel the cloying grip and the metallic taste of mortality. He can feel himself rotting. Exaggeration? Not truly. All mortals are rotting away slowly unto death. Mortals always feel it, so they are unaware that they even do. But Emiliano feels it because he has never felt it before. He feels himself aging, slowly, but aging still. He feels every fiber of his being withering and dying. At times, when he is most aware of it, it sickens him. He can become rather delusional in his paranoia which also makes him dangerous yet vulnerable. He might have all the appearance of being open and carefree, but his worries, his fears, his nightmares are hidden inside. Only Demius could wrench them out. Emiliano enjoys many pleasures of the human world. To say the least, his procreation and influence from other gods has only enhanced the loving nature of him. At times he seems more a son of the minor god Eros than the primordial deity of the same name. He flirts, he serenades, he loves. He plays and impresses but he never manipulates, no. Even in the days of tyranny and war he was never dark. It is simply not his nature to do anything so evil as manipulate or toy with others. He has a severe loyalty streak to the extreme of suicide and is terribly honest. It’s almost a problem, since he also tends to state what’s exactly on his mind. He thinks perhaps his brain is deteriorating, among other silly mortality notions, but he finds his brutal honesty and ridiculously outspoken side to be decrementing to himself and his noble self-pride, so naturally it must be because of this mortality business. Emiliano is also very wealthy. Extravagantly. He enjoys every comfort and leisure that the earth’s finest have to offer. He has always spent his life treated as royalty, for he was very royal, and even now he sees no reason to change that. When not relaxing on his magnificent cruise ship or in one of his ridiculously breathtaking villas, he’s in the fanciest hotels eating the most exquisite of foods while bedding the most exotic of women. There is a difference to his mere trysts and mortal love. He would never betray a women he loves, but in between his loves he seeks the company of women as any man or god naturally would. He seems to acquire everything he wants, nothing seems unattainable to him. It is speculated that he acquired this extravagance from Hades, and that is very likely. He is on Hades’ good side after all, as he is with nearly all the gods. He doesn’t seem to get along all that keenly with Ares, since he did woo Aphrodite for a few decades, but the matter is mostly forgotten and not something to go to war over. In appearance, Emiliano is often portrayed young, between the ages of sixteen and twenty. His height lands more on the line of an average eighteen year old. His skin is rather light, a dull coppery color, hinting on brown. Sleek and supple, without traces of blemish or any scars. Since he is very particular about beauty, he takes good care of every detail of himself, including the skin. He uses rare products, most of them natural or ancient. Scented oils, gentle soaps, purified water: only the finest and most perfect of things may refine his body. He remains lean but strong, keeping to a regulated and efficient program of rigor that keeps him in perfect physical shape. It shows in the lusciously proportioned, toned, and defined musculature that wraps itself about his sturdy yet gentle structure. Like something carved by masons, he is as serpentine and fluid as smoothed marble, but not nearly so cold and unrelenting. He is catlike; tensing and releasing, gliding and pausing, feeling and dancing through the world with steps light as feathers. His hair is black. Dark as ravens’ wings in the night. Spiky at the edges, with a tousled look in the curls and long, flowing tresses. He always preferred his hair long. As soft to the touch as cashmere and it flows as gently over the hands as running water. His eyes are pools of molten ruby starlight. Expressive, alight, vibrant: filled with emotion and they speak volumes of the depthless ecstasy found in dreams. He can capture the world and hold it prisoner with those unfathomable optics. They burn as the stars and sun in the heavens, melting the coldest of hearts, even the frozen rock that was Khione’s. Yes, even hers. They loved each other for many years before parting ways; a passionate, unspoken romance that ended dramatically. When they were together, he froze in her arms and she burned in his eyes. It was as violent as fire meeting ice, and it ended much the same. All the eyes. It was all from his eyes. He has soft facial features, somewhat feminine in appearance. Definitely not boyish in any respect, but feminine. A gently sloping nose perfectly centered, a little upturned. He has full, baby soft lips that curve upwards into a most tantalizing smile. A teasing, playful, inviting grin that brightens up an entire room. He has a slightly angular jaw that helps define his otherwise soft proportions, and a strong jaw. Strong but not prominent or heavyset, but strong. Strong enough to make him appear as noble as he is without drawing to much attention. His face amplifies the delicate figure he strikes, and he only amplifies that with his carriage and ability. He dances, he sings, he plays instruments, he dresses fashionably: he does it all. The definitive line between man and woman seems oddly blended with him as he is both feminine of touch and taste yet imposing and severe when need be. He has all the compassion and sense of a mother, yet the proud and harsh decisiveness of a father. He is both mother and father bear, both lover and warrior. Some may find it odd, but he sees no reason to. It is his nature and shall remain to be so. This is Emiliano. The lover, the fighter, the councilor, the conqueror, the lord, the Titan. Someday his time will run out. The thread of his fate shall be cut. And until then, he shall live. He shall live and teach and give all he has to those he shall leave behind. And perhaps, in his final days, he shall find someone who will look to him and know of the Titan lord he once was. Perhaps someone, somewhere, will find it in their hearts to remember him and never forget. Or maybe he too shall fade into eternity, lost, forevermore.
a titan, son of Eros
primordial god of procreation, sexual desire, and the brotherhood of men
Kin: Cleo (mother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: Eros (father), Eros, Cupid, Aphrodite, Gaia, Thesis, Physis, Hera
God-Rivals: none
Emiliano is a Titan son born to the primordial, self-created god Eros: god of procreation, sexual desire, and the brotherhood of men by one of the first mortal women, Cleo. When the other primordial gods learned of his birth, they became worried. They knew of the tendencies of men and their inborn wickedness, so they used their power to diminish Emiliano's abilities. Over the past eras, his powers have drastically decreased, now existing on the level of a demi-titan where he is expected to stay for the remainder of his life. He was born on the land that would one day become Italy. At the time, the world was formless and under the reign of Kronos. When he was seven, he was entered into battle training. In those days, the Golden Age of Greece, it was the time for heroes and power. As a Titan, Emiliano was feared, revered, worshipped even. As he grew and strengthened, he became more and more loved by the people, and he loved them just as fiercely. He served, guarded, and taught them. He emulated Eros greatly and sought to be the same, wise man his father was. Having been raised in such an era, it was only natural that his loyalty lay with Kronos. And when the time came, he did indeed fight in the Titanochamy. At Kronos' side. When the war ended and his powerful king sent to his knees, Emiliano surrendered to Zeus, begging the god to take him and let his warriors go. Zeus complied, but also found in his heart, compassion for the warrior. He had Emiliano imprisoned within Tartarus, true to Emiliano's request, but after a few thousand years, he had him released. Emiliano never thought evil of Zeus, and as he found his footing in the world once more, he returned to his role of guardian and councilor. He assisted many kings and taught many children. never in one place for too long, he was always disappearing and reappearing, using his power of disguise to keep his identity concealed. Thus he avoided recognition, but also remained out of any and all stories. A side effect. In the Trojan War, he chose Achilles as his favored hero. When the boy Patroclus, and eventually Achilles himself was struck down in battle, it was perhaps the first time Emiliano had ever truly grieved for anyone. He bore the two kin to the Elysian fields himself. He then proceeded to follow Aeneas to Italy and they built Rome together. Emiliano remained in Rome until its fall, influencing and taking part in many famous, historical events. After Rome fell, he ventured around the world. It was around the time of the Renaissance that he truly felt his powers diminish. It was the first time he felt fear. He returned to Olympus, among the gods his friends, and sought out the audience of the primordials, begging them not to take his life. They assured him they would not, but even still, he is far more prone to death than he ever had been. Around the late 1900s, his powers ceased fading, and since then, he has remained at the power level of a demi-titan. More powerful than any demigod but not as powerful as a god. He does have far more advantages than other demi-titans. He is immortal to age and disease, has a decreased aging process, impressive regeneration capabilities, bleeds ichor, has extremely heightened reflexes, higher influence and some control over lesser creatures, higher intelligence and comprehension, and more dominating skills in battle. Emiliano is something special it seems, being extremely old and the first of his kind, possibly the only one of his kind. He is on good terms with many of the gods. His knowledge and memories have made him very wise, even seeming to be a mystical guru at times with the things he says. He roams the world, acting as an ordinary demigod of sorts. Despite the seriousness of his life, Emiliano has always retained a light-hearted, playful personality. Emiliano seems strangely carefree and childlike for an ancient titan. He is gentle, tender, and rather delicate. Some might even say he’s a bit feminine, always speaking softly of beauty and love and other things. But there’s a strong, regal air to him that surpasses it. He’s light. He’s the air, the wind, the breezes. He’s free and sweet and soft. He's always happy, positive, with such a silver and gold outlook to all. But his sympathy, compassion, and his understanding reach deep beyond the surface of the heart. He comforts those who have nothing but harsh cruelty. He tames the tormented souls of those who know only savagery. He soothes the pain of those who slumber and wake in pain. He’s very romantic. His words, his gestures, his ways with women. Being playfellows of Cupid, Eros, Himerus, and Hedone, he knows very well the art of love and seduction. Centuries of practice and lovers have made him quite knowledgeable in the art. He can be either something of a playboy or true hearted. It can be a bit hard to tell the difference. He’s very loyal and self-sacrificial. Though in recent years he has become a bit more careful and cautious, he will still do whatever it takes to save the innocent and uphold justice. He is always striving for unity and peace. He absolutely despises fighting these days though he still has an unspoken prowess on the battlefield. Naturally. He hates to fight not simply because he finds the act immoral, but it’s also become an irrational fear of his. He is most definitely paranoid of death. It never was a problem for him when he was in his prime. Gods and titans never fear death for death has no power over them. But now he can feel the cloying grip and the metallic taste of mortality. He can feel himself rotting. Exaggeration? Not truly. All mortals are rotting away slowly unto death. Mortals always feel it, so they are unaware that they even do. But Emiliano feels it because he has never felt it before. He feels himself aging, slowly, but aging still. He feels every fiber of his being withering and dying. At times, when he is most aware of it, it sickens him. He can become rather delusional in his paranoia which also makes him dangerous yet vulnerable. He might have all the appearance of being open and carefree, but his worries, his fears, his nightmares are hidden inside. Only Demius could wrench them out. Emiliano enjoys many pleasures of the human world. To say the least, his procreation and influence from other gods has only enhanced the loving nature of him. At times he seems more a son of the minor god Eros than the primordial deity of the same name. He flirts, he serenades, he loves. He plays and impresses but he never manipulates, no. Even in the days of tyranny and war he was never dark. It is simply not his nature to do anything so evil as manipulate or toy with others. He has a severe loyalty streak to the extreme of suicide and is terribly honest. It’s almost a problem, since he also tends to state what’s exactly on his mind. He thinks perhaps his brain is deteriorating, among other silly mortality notions, but he finds his brutal honesty and ridiculously outspoken side to be decrementing to himself and his noble self-pride, so naturally it must be because of this mortality business. Emiliano is also very wealthy. Extravagantly. He enjoys every comfort and leisure that the earth’s finest have to offer. He has always spent his life treated as royalty, for he was very royal, and even now he sees no reason to change that. When not relaxing on his magnificent cruise ship or in one of his ridiculously breathtaking villas, he’s in the fanciest hotels eating the most exquisite of foods while bedding the most exotic of women. There is a difference to his mere trysts and mortal love. He would never betray a women he loves, but in between his loves he seeks the company of women as any man or god naturally would. He seems to acquire everything he wants, nothing seems unattainable to him. It is speculated that he acquired this extravagance from Hades, and that is very likely. He is on Hades’ good side after all, as he is with nearly all the gods. He doesn’t seem to get along all that keenly with Ares, since he did woo Aphrodite for a few decades, but the matter is mostly forgotten and not something to go to war over. In appearance, Emiliano is often portrayed young, between the ages of sixteen and twenty. His height lands more on the line of an average eighteen year old. His skin is rather light, a dull coppery color, hinting on brown. Sleek and supple, without traces of blemish or any scars. Since he is very particular about beauty, he takes good care of every detail of himself, including the skin. He uses rare products, most of them natural or ancient. Scented oils, gentle soaps, purified water: only the finest and most perfect of things may refine his body. He remains lean but strong, keeping to a regulated and efficient program of rigor that keeps him in perfect physical shape. It shows in the lusciously proportioned, toned, and defined musculature that wraps itself about his sturdy yet gentle structure. Like something carved by masons, he is as serpentine and fluid as smoothed marble, but not nearly so cold and unrelenting. He is catlike; tensing and releasing, gliding and pausing, feeling and dancing through the world with steps light as feathers. His hair is black. Dark as ravens’ wings in the night. Spiky at the edges, with a tousled look in the curls and long, flowing tresses. He always preferred his hair long. As soft to the touch as cashmere and it flows as gently over the hands as running water. His eyes are pools of molten ruby starlight. Expressive, alight, vibrant: filled with emotion and they speak volumes of the depthless ecstasy found in dreams. He can capture the world and hold it prisoner with those unfathomable optics. They burn as the stars and sun in the heavens, melting the coldest of hearts, even the frozen rock that was Khione’s. Yes, even hers. They loved each other for many years before parting ways; a passionate, unspoken romance that ended dramatically. When they were together, he froze in her arms and she burned in his eyes. It was as violent as fire meeting ice, and it ended much the same. All the eyes. It was all from his eyes. He has soft facial features, somewhat feminine in appearance. Definitely not boyish in any respect, but feminine. A gently sloping nose perfectly centered, a little upturned. He has full, baby soft lips that curve upwards into a most tantalizing smile. A teasing, playful, inviting grin that brightens up an entire room. He has a slightly angular jaw that helps define his otherwise soft proportions, and a strong jaw. Strong but not prominent or heavyset, but strong. Strong enough to make him appear as noble as he is without drawing to much attention. His face amplifies the delicate figure he strikes, and he only amplifies that with his carriage and ability. He dances, he sings, he plays instruments, he dresses fashionably: he does it all. The definitive line between man and woman seems oddly blended with him as he is both feminine of touch and taste yet imposing and severe when need be. He has all the compassion and sense of a mother, yet the proud and harsh decisiveness of a father. He is both mother and father bear, both lover and warrior. Some may find it odd, but he sees no reason to. It is his nature and shall remain to be so. This is Emiliano. The lover, the fighter, the councilor, the conqueror, the lord, the Titan. Someday his time will run out. The thread of his fate shall be cut. And until then, he shall live. He shall live and teach and give all he has to those he shall leave behind. And perhaps, in his final days, he shall find someone who will look to him and know of the Titan lord he once was. Perhaps someone, somewhere, will find it in their hearts to remember him and never forget. Or maybe he too shall fade into eternity, lost, forevermore.
Sir Madigan Delacour
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_1581646.jpg)
18
son of Bia
goddess of force, compulsion, bodily strength, power, and might
Kin: Vitaly Delacour (brother), Nikolai Domikov (step-brother)
Friends: Li
Rivals: n/a
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
coming soon
A young calvary officer from the Russian Revolution. A Red. He was the head of the firing squad that executed Tsar Nicholas. Most likely immortal to disease and age. Those who know of the existence of such, speculate he is a demi-titan. He has soft white hair and dragon-like golden eyes that always seem to be glowing. He is always accompanying Li, even taking bullets for her on occasion.
son of Bia
goddess of force, compulsion, bodily strength, power, and might
Kin: Vitaly Delacour (brother), Nikolai Domikov (step-brother)
Friends: Li
Rivals: n/a
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
coming soon
A young calvary officer from the Russian Revolution. A Red. He was the head of the firing squad that executed Tsar Nicholas. Most likely immortal to disease and age. Those who know of the existence of such, speculate he is a demi-titan. He has soft white hair and dragon-like golden eyes that always seem to be glowing. He is always accompanying Li, even taking bullets for her on occasion.
Li
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_3785729.jpg)
16
THE ORACLE
The Oracle has appeared as a very beautiful, seductive sixteen year old girl. The body being Japanese by birth, she has porcelain skin and bright green eyes. She wears the traditional kimono worn by young women and always dresses as a princess or some other royalty. She appears delicate and very gentle, but that tranquil face of hers hides the darkness underneath.
THE ORACLE
The Oracle has appeared as a very beautiful, seductive sixteen year old girl. The body being Japanese by birth, she has porcelain skin and bright green eyes. She wears the traditional kimono worn by young women and always dresses as a princess or some other royalty. She appears delicate and very gentle, but that tranquil face of hers hides the darkness underneath.
Arabella Noony
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_8251342.jpg)
4
daughter of Hypnos
god of sleep
Kin:
Friends: Li, Madigan
Rivals: Shady Stars and army
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals:
daughter of Hypnos
god of sleep
Kin:
Friends: Li, Madigan
Rivals: Shady Stars and army
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals:
Taikatalvi Tockspringe
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_1875428.jpg)
14
unclaimed
Kin: Io Amarok (half-brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly.
unclaimed
Kin: Io Amarok (half-brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly.
Ciaran Trublood
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_3768431.jpg)
17
son of Aeolus
god of the winds
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
son of Aeolus
god of the winds
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Shia Acre
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_1557423.jpg)
13
son of Proteus
god of the sea and a shapeshifter
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
son of Proteus
god of the sea and a shapeshifter
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Theodred Range
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_4813431.jpg)
15
son of Hades
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Hades
Theodred Range is the bastard son of Hades, but then again, aren’t they all? His mother was raped and he was the result. From day one, he sought no love or acceptance, save that love that can only come from the sword. He took to blades as a fish takes to water. He loved the feel of the leather grips, the ring of metal against metal, the flash of silver arcing through the air, the red glimmer of blood streaming from open wounds. He kills monsters and men equally, and it is the only exemption of his prejudice. He believes all are imperfect and must be removed from the world. Who better than he to perform such a task. He’s unstable. Faltering, hardly functioning. His red eyes are always watching for his next victim, his hands always twitching, reaching for the grip of his sword.
He’s rarely the ambitious one. He prefers to bide his time and wait for his chance to strike rather than run out in the open and demand it come to him. He will only act if the circumstances prove it the best option, but even then he will not drive himself to the utmost to see them through. He’s more likely to give up if the path proves too treacherous than struggle on in the vain attempt something will come out of it. There are those who would deem such as cowardice, but he prefers to call it a lack of ambition. In some instances, taking a step back or finding a different course of action, proves to be the best method. And it would be. But for Theodred, the majority of his plans often go awry. He isn’t meticulous with details or careful in his calculations, and it is often noticed that he isn’t the brightest bulb of the bunch. He tries to achieve his goals despite himself, and the roads he takes are less traveled and often brutal. He believe the best course of action is always to eliminate and obliterate the obstacles he faces, which includes but is not limited to, killing people who stand in his way, even if they be good and innocent. He puts up with people only because he knows he won’t be seeing them for very long. He’s always on the move, wandering to and fro with no care, no ties, no home to call his own. He trusts people only because he knows he has the resolve to harm, even kill them, should the opportunity arise and present itself. He doesn’t care for others or their well-being and holds no sympathies to the weak, the oppressed, the frightened and the hurt. If someone in his party is injured, he will dispatch them and leave them to their fate for the simple reason that they slow him down. He doesn’t need people, so he insists. He can survive on his own and pursues all skills and talents to make it so. He will take what knowledge he can from others before disposing them. Theodred is not known for his sociability. He is never the same, and always wears different faces for different occasions. He can be polite, but it is to the extent that he knows he must suffer in one’s company. If that is not the case, then he is never for want of rudeness. He is loyal to others who have proven themselves worthy of his loyalty, and even that is to its own extents. He is loyal as long as the occasion suits him. Once problems and predicaments present themselves to him and the strength of his loyalties are tested, then he will do the honor himself of slaughtering his friends in the face of such trials as an attempt to escape them. Suffice to say, being his friend is a dangerous undertaking, and any who take him under his wing or into their confidence, should keep an open eye and their backs always guarded. What of the heart and its deeper things? What of love and passion and romance? Yes, he can be quite the lover. Not a flirt. He isn’t promiscuous. In fact, he takes romance on a more serious note than he would friends and allies. He loves very few, but he loves them forever. He rarely finds love, but even he considers it a rare and welcome gift. A happy chance. He isn’t the happiest of people, but when he loves, he is the happiest of them all. Perhaps this is his true weakness. Not his lack of looking before leaping nor his inability to be loyal nor his ruthlessness and brutality, but his disposition when it comes to falling head over heels for someone. He would protect them until the end, best he could, and that’s all anyone can really ask of him. What really gets in his way is his incredible sense of egoism. As explained in great detail, he only seeks to better himself and rise above all challenges as the supreme victor. Morals and people do not dampen this goal. He shall meet it at the expense of others. It hasn’t been tested yet, but it can only be assumed, he would go so far as to harm or kill the ones he loves so deeply to meet his own benefits and personal interests. He doesn’t care for this extreme practice of self-importance. He lets his perverse behaviors go unchecked and unchallenged and even encourages them. He loves being bad. He’s good at it and sees no reason to change that. All sense of remorse or self-loathing or even the need for repentance and redemption have not crossed his mind in any event. Seeing as he just drowns himself further in this miserable existence, it is suffice to say that he may never come around and pursue more upright and moral pursuits. His heart has been hardened to the atrocities he has performed. His mind has been so tempered to pursue his own lusts and desires that he does not hear the call to repentance. He is what he is: evil, wicked, awful through and through, and he likes it that way.
son of Hades
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Hades
Theodred Range is the bastard son of Hades, but then again, aren’t they all? His mother was raped and he was the result. From day one, he sought no love or acceptance, save that love that can only come from the sword. He took to blades as a fish takes to water. He loved the feel of the leather grips, the ring of metal against metal, the flash of silver arcing through the air, the red glimmer of blood streaming from open wounds. He kills monsters and men equally, and it is the only exemption of his prejudice. He believes all are imperfect and must be removed from the world. Who better than he to perform such a task. He’s unstable. Faltering, hardly functioning. His red eyes are always watching for his next victim, his hands always twitching, reaching for the grip of his sword.
He’s rarely the ambitious one. He prefers to bide his time and wait for his chance to strike rather than run out in the open and demand it come to him. He will only act if the circumstances prove it the best option, but even then he will not drive himself to the utmost to see them through. He’s more likely to give up if the path proves too treacherous than struggle on in the vain attempt something will come out of it. There are those who would deem such as cowardice, but he prefers to call it a lack of ambition. In some instances, taking a step back or finding a different course of action, proves to be the best method. And it would be. But for Theodred, the majority of his plans often go awry. He isn’t meticulous with details or careful in his calculations, and it is often noticed that he isn’t the brightest bulb of the bunch. He tries to achieve his goals despite himself, and the roads he takes are less traveled and often brutal. He believe the best course of action is always to eliminate and obliterate the obstacles he faces, which includes but is not limited to, killing people who stand in his way, even if they be good and innocent. He puts up with people only because he knows he won’t be seeing them for very long. He’s always on the move, wandering to and fro with no care, no ties, no home to call his own. He trusts people only because he knows he has the resolve to harm, even kill them, should the opportunity arise and present itself. He doesn’t care for others or their well-being and holds no sympathies to the weak, the oppressed, the frightened and the hurt. If someone in his party is injured, he will dispatch them and leave them to their fate for the simple reason that they slow him down. He doesn’t need people, so he insists. He can survive on his own and pursues all skills and talents to make it so. He will take what knowledge he can from others before disposing them. Theodred is not known for his sociability. He is never the same, and always wears different faces for different occasions. He can be polite, but it is to the extent that he knows he must suffer in one’s company. If that is not the case, then he is never for want of rudeness. He is loyal to others who have proven themselves worthy of his loyalty, and even that is to its own extents. He is loyal as long as the occasion suits him. Once problems and predicaments present themselves to him and the strength of his loyalties are tested, then he will do the honor himself of slaughtering his friends in the face of such trials as an attempt to escape them. Suffice to say, being his friend is a dangerous undertaking, and any who take him under his wing or into their confidence, should keep an open eye and their backs always guarded. What of the heart and its deeper things? What of love and passion and romance? Yes, he can be quite the lover. Not a flirt. He isn’t promiscuous. In fact, he takes romance on a more serious note than he would friends and allies. He loves very few, but he loves them forever. He rarely finds love, but even he considers it a rare and welcome gift. A happy chance. He isn’t the happiest of people, but when he loves, he is the happiest of them all. Perhaps this is his true weakness. Not his lack of looking before leaping nor his inability to be loyal nor his ruthlessness and brutality, but his disposition when it comes to falling head over heels for someone. He would protect them until the end, best he could, and that’s all anyone can really ask of him. What really gets in his way is his incredible sense of egoism. As explained in great detail, he only seeks to better himself and rise above all challenges as the supreme victor. Morals and people do not dampen this goal. He shall meet it at the expense of others. It hasn’t been tested yet, but it can only be assumed, he would go so far as to harm or kill the ones he loves so deeply to meet his own benefits and personal interests. He doesn’t care for this extreme practice of self-importance. He lets his perverse behaviors go unchecked and unchallenged and even encourages them. He loves being bad. He’s good at it and sees no reason to change that. All sense of remorse or self-loathing or even the need for repentance and redemption have not crossed his mind in any event. Seeing as he just drowns himself further in this miserable existence, it is suffice to say that he may never come around and pursue more upright and moral pursuits. His heart has been hardened to the atrocities he has performed. His mind has been so tempered to pursue his own lusts and desires that he does not hear the call to repentance. He is what he is: evil, wicked, awful through and through, and he likes it that way.
-
![Picture](https://www.editmysite.com/editor/images/na.png)