Remnants of the Earth

{NAME}
Latreille Fer

{ALIASES}
“Trei,” “Firefly” online.

{AGE}
313

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
*gigantic shrug emoji*

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Starstrider elf, House Horizon
Not sure he actually “belongs” to any nation.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’2”, lean but strong.

{OCCUPATION}
Astrocartographer and explorer!

{RESIDENCE}
His ship, the As the Dragonflies.

{RANDOM SHIT}
Voiceclaim: Miranda Otto
Playlist [wip]



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Tall, lithe, with a nice curvature to his hips and strong shoulders, it’ll definitely take more than a strong breeze to knock Trei down. And it’s clear things have tried; he has an old scar across his right eye, one that looks like it once belonged to a nasty wound. He’s broken bones before, including a compound fracture in his left forearm, where another, fainter scar is.

Outside of this, though, Trei is lovely. His soft, full lips are almost always up in a welcoming smile. A small tattoo sits under his left eye, a gift from one of many cultures he’s visited over his long years. He wears his silky black hair super long, the ends reaching the backs of his thighs. When he’s working he keeps it all tamed in a braid, but otherwise just lets all that hair do what it will.

{PERSONALITY}
Pragmatic, patient, and utterly devoted to altruism. Trei is a ready and willing shoulder to cry on, and is more than happy to lend an ear to someone who needs it. Nothing in the universe actually matters, after all, so why not spend eternity being kind to someone? He feels deeply for people, and would readily give the shirt off his back to someone who needs it.

That’s not to say, though, that he’s a doormat. He’s not afraid to put his foot down, and he’s more than capable of standing his ground. More importantly, though, is that he will never give up his freedom. He lives for adventure, it compels him to keep moving, to do new things and see new worlds and experience new memories.

That of course, is what terrifies him. Because somewhere out there is the person he’s destined to love for the rest of his natural life, and he has trouble admitting to himself that sometimes, he’s scared of what will happen when that day comes.

Fun Facts!:

• Thinks insects are just the bee’s knees. Lunar moths are his favorite, though.
• Shutterbug. Loves taking pictures of places he visits or things he sees or whatever horrible local cuisine he’s stuffing into his face.
• Loves myths and legends. Picks up as many as he can and keeps them written down in several journals crammed into a bookshelf.
• Has a wee baby!!

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Very mildly latently psychic. A ‘wayfinder’ of sorts, Trei just seems to instinctively know what direction is “good” and has something interesting or beneficial, or what direction is “bad” and might be dangerous or terrible. He can’t tell you what the good or dangerous thing might be, or even tell you exactly where it is, but when he gets the heebie jeebies about a place, it’s best to listen.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Parents - an “out of Resonance” pair that got together after his elf-parent’s Resonance died. They lived happily together, had Trei and raised him, before his non-elf parent finally died. After that, his elf-parent finally succumbed and died a short time later of grief.

The Resonance - Trei’s soulmate, and someone he both searches for endlessly and is terrified of finally meeting. Fate is funny that way, though.

The Baby Daddy - Whoops! Someone Trei had a one-night stand with and now has a child with. Which is why it’s very important you put the condom on right-side out.

Sipha Fer - aka "Bug", Trei's little bundle of fussy joy!

Ryul - The dude who owns the awesome bake shop and makes amazing pot pies! Trei will always stop to eat at Ryul’s bakery any time he’s on Libra station, and has promised Ryul a very important favor.

Dashiell - “Shell” as Trei has started to call him. A total jackass who seems to be hellbent on treating everyone like shit. But… Trei bailed him out of jail and has made it his own personal mission to Mom that man half to death.


{HISTORY}
ADVENTURES!!

So, the starstrider elves are a race of elves I made because god forbid I do anything simple in my life. They're absolutely open to make and utilize in your own RPs, you don't need to ask permission or anything.

Lore surrounding their culture and biology and such are as follows; there's a lot of wiggle room for them, and most things can theoretically be rules-lawyered because genetics are a bag of fun. If you have any questions or concerns drop me a PM or on Discord. I've probably forgotten a million other details so it's all gonna be a huge work in progress for a while. WOOOO.



                  I. Intro

                  II. Basic biology (Featuring NSFW imagery, view at your own peril >>)

                  III. The Houses

                  IV. Culture

[because let's be real.]

   ‘Never shit where you eat.’

   This was a bit of wisdom his nonna once told him when he was barely up to her knee (a measurement that said a lot, considering just how small a woman she was), and Lupo still wasn't quite sure if she had intended it figuratively or literally.

   Knowing Lupo himself, eh…

   It was really anyone's guess. So tiny Lupo had taken her words to heart, regardless of intent, and made a point to at least try to keep his personal brand of chaos contained to certain avenues— like getting blackout drunk in any city but his own. It was more fun that way, anyway. There was nothing, nothing like getting absolutely blitzed in a city you didn’t know, surrounded by strangers who you would never cross paths with again. Not even so much as a grocery-store run-in, just vanish off onto the rails the next morning without a single care. Except for a splitting headache and a wrecked back.

   And that latter part was more of a bonus than anything.

   Truth be told, Lupo didn't have any real reason to pick Haviah. He didn't actually care about the location, just that it had plenty of liquor. Luckily, so too did the railcar, and after a quick pregame nap, Lupo was all set to start the pregame drinking. Just enough to get a good buzz going by the time his boots hit the ground in the big, bright and beautiful capital city. Mm, take a whiff of that circulated metallic air. Lupo breathed deep, all those delicious particles soaking into his sinuses and leaking onto his tongue. Fresh and different and nothing close to home.

   Now to start the weekend right, and work his way in a metaphorical and literal spiral…



   Lupo was pissing drunk by the time he'd hit his fourth bar. The night was in full swing, and so was the Drunken Sod. It was crowded, noisy, full of hot bodies only the barest distance from one another. Everywhere you turned you were brushing against someone, and fuck if Lupo didn’t love it. It made him itch, deep under his skin where there was no hope of scratching without considerable help. He’d long since recovered from the first tryst of the evening, and with every subsequent shot, he found himself getting hungry again. Itching.  He wanted a body, any body, someone to press up to and get lost in their scent and with any luck take some of that scent right along with him into the night.

   To bar number five.

   Knocking back another nuclear green glass, Lupo set the empty down on the bar and pushed off into blissful, staggering uncertainty. It didn't need to matter who he found, he'd likely never even ask their name. All Lupo wanted was that right scent, that perfect cocktail of sweet and spicy Readiness—

   And there it was. Lupo turned, following that teasing trail of bread crumbs all the way to the back of the bar, and what appeared to be some kind of living brick wall. Which suited Lupo just fine: sometimes all you wanted in life was someone who could lift you up like it was nothing, throw you against the back alley wall and fuck the ever living shit out of you. The mere thought was an utter delight; it took a considerable amount of biting down on his lip to keep his knees from going wobbly. The night was still so very young, and the last thing he needed was to wipe out on the bar floor.

   Thankfully, there was a table the Good Smell was leaning against, and so there was something for Lupo to grab a hold of as he so casually leaned forward. The half-full glass on the surface gave a little rattle, betraying just how little control over his faculties Lupo actually had. Not that he was really paying attention to any of that, no. Not when he had all that muscle to look at, thick ropes beneath dark skin patterned with even darker ink. And all of that wrapped up in a perfectly too tight shirt, like some kind of big, beautiful gift-wrapping. And it was almost his birthday.

   It didn’t matter who he was, or where they were, or where they’d end up. Lupo wanted that, all of that, and for all he cared it could be in the filthiest corner of the men’s room. Again, that last part was honestly just a bonus.

   “Hey,” he said, looking up through his lashes at the stranger, all three blurry, grinning, and weirdly familiar versions of him, “what’re you drinking? Next one’s on me. Or we could skip the drinks and just get right to the on me part.”

{NAME}
Lynwood Hext

{ALIASES}
Lupo

{AGE}
30

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
I genuinely am too scared to ask.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Werewolf, but Aedolian born and raised. Probably for several generations.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6' Because what other height does Neph ever make.
Sturdily built.

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Noble, solo combat operations. Which is for the best.

{RESIDENCE}
Travica



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Tall, lightly tanned, and built to last. Lupo is evenly muscled, with sturdy shoulders and well-built legs, a natural kind of strength that takes only minimal effort on his part to maintain. He keeps his wild black hair relatively short and constantly messy, which paired with near constant facial hair lends to an exceptionally scruffy appearance. Thick brows sit over wild grey-blue eyes, and when he grins it's hard to tell if he's about to laugh or explode in rage.

When he doesn't have to wear his uniform or flight suit, he wears kilts and boots almost exclusively. I'm not sure he actually owns pants that aren't just winter leggings for under his kilts.

{PERSONALITY}
Wild, shameless, hard to offend and quick to laugh at the most inappropriate times. Basically Good Guy Insanity Wolf.

Fun Facts!:

• Will never willingly back down from a dare. Ever.
• Has an unholy appetite for rare steaks.
• Has a tiny chubby chihuahua named Oedipus Rex.
• Gave up on keeping his nails trimmed like... years ago. They're just clawlike 24/7. He also has dewclaws on the inside of his ankles.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

Psionics:
Telepathy - Pretty good control and range.

Chronokinesis - Despite its name, Lupo's chronokinetic abilities are more in line with the telepathy tree, as it is the manipulation of the perception of the passage of time by a subject. He can accelerate how a target processes the concept of time, speeding things up beyond any possible reaction, or slowing it down so it feels like a single moment lasts forever.

Lycanthropy - Lupo's a werewoof! He does werewoof things! Bark bark! That being said he can absolutely smell that you forgot your deodorant today, MELVIN.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
The usual sort of family. Was raised by a grandma, his Nonna, who is fearsome as she is small, and a sister known as Lupa who works as a lounge singer at the Swansong in Travica. Good relationship with all involved.

His parents aren't allowed to contact him or his sister.

His dragon, who is just as unrepentantly violent as he is.

And then...

Shut up and put your money where your mouth is / That's what you get for waking up in Vegas!! Lupo once awoke from a drunken stupor to find he'd gotten married somewhere during a bender. The divorce was finalized before things got too serious.

{HISTORY}
He has one. Lols forever.

{NAME}
Kharon Blackwing

{ALIASES}
That would require having friends.

{AGE}
Roughly 5,600ish years. Give or take a decade.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
Question mark? I mean he's a Neph character there's like a 80% chance he's some kinda into dick.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, mage. He no longer has a homeland but he used to he from ancient Adela.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’ and lean.

{OCCUPATION}
Servant, mage, explorer, student.

{RESIDENCE}
“His" ship, mostly.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Tall, lean and angular, Kharon doesn’t need bulk to look imposing. It’s all in how he carries himself, head held high and shoulders set, brows permanently furrowed and full lips curved down in a frown. It’s as if he’s expecting a fight at every turn… and in his copious experience, there usually is one.

His brown skin is unmarred, save for a few tattoos over his torso. Two stylized raven skulls sit on his shoulders, and a network of lines follow his natural contours in mimicry of wings and tail feathers. Finally, there is what appears to be a kind of rune set over his heart, and this is the one he is most sensitive about.

His wardrobe choice is… bizarre, to say the least. He likes dark skinny jeans and long boots overtop them, but this is almost always paired with downright anachronistic mage robes and armor, right up to an ornately runed hood that he wears up more often than not when amongst other people. Honestly he looks like a LARPer 90% of the time and he doesn’t even understand what LARPing is.


{PERSONALITY}

Cold, blunt, and cruel. Kharon spares no feelings and makes his contempt perfectly clear, if only because that's the only real freedom he has left. He won't lie, whether by his own choice or because he physically cannot, but that won't stop him from making the truth as difficult as possible. He seems to get no joy out of anything, or if he does, he is very sure to hide what makes him happy.

Tsundere as fuuuu--


Fun Facts!:

• When he’s a crow, absolutely loves getting head and chest pets. Will even seek them out if he knows he can get away with it. Is always embarrassed at his own behavior after the fact.
• Loves old-timey slapstick movies a la the Marx Brothers. Gets a laugh out of him every time.
• Likes collecting things that interest him. He has shelves and shelves of trinkets and odds and ends from over the years. He likes the idea that all of it is his.
• Could eat an entire can of whipped cream by itself. Or two. ...Or three.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

Mage - A powerful mage, skilled in many mortal magics but particularly fond of ones involving transformation. Prefers to spend time as a crow when he travels.

Bound - Cursed by his first teacher, Kharon is immortal. He doesn’t age, and he can’t be physically killed. Any injury he sustains he maintains his awareness through, even during the impossible, and his pieces will reform without any skip in his consciousness. She made sure he’d feel every last agonizing second. This also means he is subjected to kinds of compulsions. He can’t go too far away from his master, he is compelled to defend them against danger regardless of any personal injury he might face, and he must follow any order given to him despite how he personally might feel (so long as it doesn’t interfere with the binding curse directly).

The Tree - Part of his curse: whenever Kharon doesn’t have a “master” to serve, he is bound to spend his time asleep inside of a magically constructed tree. Dripping blood on the bark binds him to his new “master” and wakes him up again, starting the whole cycle over again without any time for him to consider how to escape it.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

His first teacher and “master”, a powerful sorceress with a cruel streak to shake the heavens. She taught him many things, but most importantly, never to trust anyone.

Sita; One of his first new masters upon reawakening in Adela some five thousand years ago. Probably one of the kinder ones he’s ever had, and allowed Kharon several freedoms without restriction.

His current “master”; a bunch of bits in a jar kept alive by medical science. Unable to die and thus bind Kharon to his tree state, but also unable to give orders. Much like a lich with a phylactery, Kharon is obsessively protective of this one, because it’s the closest thing to true freedom he’s ever gotten.

{HISTORY}

Kharon was a promising mage, even when he was very small. Highly adept even at a young age, his parents were quite sure he would one day achieve great things. They had hoped to put him through proper schooling, but being simple farmers, could not afford to do much more than buy their son old secondhand books from which to learn.
Even so, he devoured every bit of knowledge he picked up, but was especially skilled in transmutive/transfigurative magics.

Eventually, he picqued the interest of a passing mage, and she offered to school Kharon free of charge. Elated, his parents said yes in a heartbeat, and soon their son was packed up and leaving with his new master.

This would prove to be the worst mistake of his life. She had him sign a contract, which unbeknownst to him, involved far more than simple legal binding-- the contract magically bound every fiber of him to her, to where unless she expressly ordered it, he could do nothing. And she was not kind about it. She put him through the worst conditions imaginable, often for the sake of her own study, or amusement. It really depended on her mood, which was an ever-changing thing. It was only through virtue of his life force being bound to hers that he even managed to survive it.

Kharon was not the type to just roll over, however. Every time she gave an order, he found a loophole, just to spite her. When she forbade him sleep, he made himself pass out via other means. When she forbade him speak to his parents, he taught a crow to do it for him. Every disobedience was met with even harsher punishments, his master making sure to destroy any little thing that gave him joy. It taught him to keep his emotions in check, and to show no favor lest the source of that favour suffer for it.

This all came to a head when Kharon disobeyed her for the final time. In retaliation, she would kill him, but not before giving her final order: that he would return home, and destroy everyone there. Following the deed, he was cursed to continue existing, trapped inside of a tree in the family orchard, living and yet dead, until someone came by and released him again.

Even then, he would be bound to his new master, forced to do every bit of their bidding until they died. And then the process would begin anew, over and over again, until the end of days.

{NAME}
Sevastian Torje

{ALIASES}
“Sev".

{AGE}
33

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
? I mean no one's really asked.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human. For the most part.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’8" and fucking HUGE.

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Echo, Deep strike Combat Operations.

{RESIDENCE}
I'll pick a city later don't judge me


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Sevastian is brutishly huge. He's been packing on nonstop muscle since he hit puberty, and all that set on top of an incredibly tall frame makes for an imposing figure. His penchant to constantly scowl at literally everything certainly doesn't help matters, especially when he's got the most piercing teal eyes surrounded by grey sclera.

He's otherwise an albino: with long pale hair and scarred pale skin, he definitely avoids the sunlight whenever possible. He has a few facial piercings, over his left brow and in the bridge of his nose. He's always considered tattooing, but can never settle on a design for long.

{PERSONALITY}
Gruff, passionate, blunt, with a deep sense of what's right and what's wrong. He's an introvert, but he's anything but shy, more than willing to speak his mind and put someone in their place if they're being an asshole. Was probably the big kid that would stand up for the little kids when he was younger, and probably punched a lot of would-be bullies in the face.

He does put off a severe grump vibe, and that coupled with his typical avoidance of starting small talk, he doesn't tend to make friends super easy. Was also probably the big kid that all the other kids thought would steal their lunch money. Credits. Whatever.

Still, he doesn't seem to mind, or at least has gotten so used to it it barely fazes him.

Fun Facts!:

• Is way into astrology and all that metaphysical stuff.
• Totally does those like... magazine quiz things, "ironically" or "for the hell of it" when in actuality he genuinely enjoys them.
• Rolls his own cigarettes.
• Owns a really nice set of flower print china he uses for tea.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Psionics:
Telepathic: Decent. Can mute his own thoughts and of others to where he's not distracted, and can communicate about the distance between houses. Any further requires complete uninterrupted concentration from him.
Umbrakinetic: Can manipulate shadows to render himself or others invisible to the naked eye. Only works with an absence of light, regular light will negate his illusions. As such, he specializes in nighttime combat drops.
...Also he punches things good.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
None that he's aware of. :3c One of many orphans that would've gone through life unnoticed in the lower levels were it not for his psychic prowess.

{HISTORY}
Sevastian is Sevastian. If he has a history, he's never told it.

{NAME}
Colwyn Trevelyan

{ALIASES}
"Finn" as a personal nickname
"Trevor Call" as an online persona

{AGE}
30

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
Sexuality is a big ? considering.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5'10", lean.

{OCCUPATION}
Horror Writer, mostly cosmic-themed.
...And because there's not that big a market for that, a camboy "on the side".

{RESIDENCE}
uhh, some city in Aedolis. TBD. >>



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Tall and slender, with pale porcelein skin and large dark eyes, Finn is visually striking. His long, naturally dark brown hair falls in soft waves, fading into a light dyed silver that is probably overdue for a touch-up. Still, it's immaculately kept, soft and silky thanks to considerable amounts of product to keep it just that. The same goes for every other part of him, his bathroom countertop just a wide field of different moisturizers and oils and salves. He can be a bit vain about his looks, but then again, when it's your job, you kind of have to be.

He sports several tattoos and piercings, his right arm a mostly complete sleeve and a large one on his left forearm as well. Just above his hips are twin finches in flight. He has a labret piercing, as well as bars through both his nipples and several hoops in either ear.

On camera he doesn't wear much >>; but during his day to day his clothing style could best be described as strega fashion, with loose, grey tops over dark skinny jeans or leggings tucked into boots, all featuring some kind of eldritch/witchy patterning of some kind. He's never without his necklace, though, what appears to be a small animal bone dyed a gradient grey to black and on a long black cord. He likes silver jewelry otherwise, and often swaps out several different rings depending on the day.

When he's writing he wears a special pair of glasses to help ease eye strain and prevent him from needing glasses for realsies.

{PERSONALITY}

Smoldering, intense, observant, creative, devious, cynical.

OH, READ A BOOK, WHY DON'T YOU
Despite the way he conducts himself on camera, Finn is genuinely not interested in someone who's just after his looks. He craves intellectual stimulation, conversation, and an exchange of creative ideas. His vocabulary can get a bit overly flowery, which just results in him being a little more than disappointed when he's not understood. He's not exactly an asshole about it, but it's pretty obvious his interest starts to wane if the other person isn't near the same level as him.

CAN'T TAKE THE HEAT
Finn knows he's pretty, and he knows exactly how to utilize that. His writing might be a little on the niche side, but his camwork certainly isn't. When he's in the zone, he gets downright smoldering, and certainly isn't shy about what he wants. A passionate lover, and nigh insatiable, it can be a little hard to keep up with him, and usually results in several bruises.

STAY OUTTA THE KITCHEN
Despite how lean he is, Finn is not helpless. His intensity is not just reserved for bedroom eyes, and anyone who thinks they might be able to just force what they want are in for a rude awakening. He is not above absolutely destroying someone who he feels deserves it, and oftentimes with the kind of heated string of insults to haunt you for years to come.

Fun Facts!:

• Only ever wears lilac perfume. Often ends up sniffing himself at home just because he loves it so much.
• Looooves sushi.
• Is into some really weird eldritch shit. Loves tentacle motifs, monstrosities, noneuclidean cosmic bullshittery. It's just his JAM.
• Falls asleep with headphones in, and his music tastes vary. Mostly he picks and chooses individual songs versus following specific artists.
• Collects tea sets.
• Knows Krav Maga. C:

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
N/A

{RELATIONSHIPS}
TBD!

{HISTORY}
TBD! Because I'm a lazy shiiiiit.

“She's right through here,” came a soft voice from somewhere distantly to Donatienne’s right hand side. She turned her head, but it sounded a bit like the words were coming through the door and so she didn't really pay them any mind. There was always someone coming and going in here, visitors meeting up with family and vice versa.

She didn't really care, she wasn't here for them, she was here for her grandmother, the tiny little frame before her rocking in her seat as she considered the next piece to move on the gameboard between them. It wouldn't happen for some time, of course. Mamie always tended to lose her thoughts between decisions, eyeing her cards and then the board and then eyeing her cards as if she hadn't just looked at them ten seconds prior.

Donatienne didn't mind that this very game had thus far, taken three weeks to play. The soft, pleased look on Mamie’s face was enough. She didn't get many visitors beyond Donatienne these days, despite all of Dona’s nagging to her tiny pack of wild children that they should make the time. But, of course, boys would be boys, and children never quite understood how precious time was before it was all used up. Still, her eldest had promised, and it was getting late in the day, the light lengthening and shadows sharpening beneath sheer curtains.

He was in for it if she made it all the way home to find he’d blown the whole thing off. Grown man or not, decorated soldier or not, he would get a dressing down the likes of which would make even the hardest drill instructor in Haviah blush in shame.

“Non, Mamie,” Donatienne said softly, reaching over the board to return a card the elderly woman had just placed down, “that’s a green, you need t’ place a blue this round. Remember?”

“Bien sûr,” Mamie said, her voice crackling and low, a surprising baritone for one so small and dainty-looking. But oh, Donatienne remembered back when she was a girl, a tiny thing all her own, how much fire and brimstone could be contained in small bodies whenever they got well and truly angry. Why, there was a time that Papi had snuck Donatienne a small glass of his beer, and oh the verbal lashing that had ensued had been one to shake the dome itself.

Not that it had actually hurt her any. But she could see the concern. Children were a trial to handle all their own without them being inebriated on top of everything else. Donatienne had her hands full as it stood, and they only kept getting fuller.

“Isn’t that right?” she said aloud to the quiet bundle resting in the crook of her arm, adjusting the blanket’s corners to guarantee tiny feet wouldn’t catch cold. “You’re gonna make me run ‘round like a mad spranger, too, aren’t you? Mon petit semeur.”

“Mama,” came a sound again, to her right but closer this time, and Donatienne caught a whiff of summer air as a chair was pulled up to the table beside them.

“Eli! It’s damn near dinnertime, you were gonna make your great-granma wait th’ whole night?”

Eli’s face twisted, his jaw setting tight as if she’d physically slapped him. It faded after a moment, even as Mamie rose from her seat and pressed her hand of cards into his broader, calloused one. He took it without a word, nodding as Mamie whispered something in his ear. It was probably nonsense, of course. Mamie had been getting worse as the years carried on. She was over a hundred, after all. Donatienne couldn’t rightly remember the exact number, however.

When had she died?

Eli had been seven, hadn’t he?

“Sorry t’ make you wait, Mama,” Eli said. Donatienne frowned a bit, and looked at her son’s face, angled and dark and sprinkled with freckling stars. Not for the first time, she noted with pride just how handsome her boys were, had grown up to be. Handsome and, while forgetful of family obligations, good.

But Eli didn’t sound good today. His voice rumbled in a way that was strange, too low, like he were speaking through gravel in his throat.

“You gettin’ sick?”

“Naw, mama, I’m feelin’ just fine,” came the reply, but Donatienne knew a lie when she heard it. She clicked her tongue a bit, holding her bundle a bit closer. Summer colds were terrible contagious things, and Eli always was the one to bring the first of the season home.

“You been drinkin’ tea? Do you need me t’ pick you up some honey? You sound like you got a sore throat, you feelin’ feverish?”

“It’s just a tickle, mama,” Eli said, sounding more and more uncomfortable. Which was to be expected, she supposed. Eldest son, out on his own, and still getting fussed over like he were a joey. Prideful. Donatienne sighed, figuring she could afford to let him be an adult all his own this once, and settled back in her chair.

“Remember t’ cough into your shoulder, don’t be givin’ th’ baby none a’ your sniffles. He’s tiny as it is. I swear you an’ your brothers just et up everythin’ I had an’ left him with naught.”

“Th’ ba-? Yeah, mama, ‘course.” Eli said, clearing his throat and careful to not do so in Donatienne’s or the tiny sleeping bundle’s direction. Eli moved from his chair to the one Mamie had sat in, all those years ago, and studied the gameboard between them. Catching up to where they had left off. It felt like there was always catching up to do.

“When did you grow up?” Donatienne murmured, softly, rocking the tiny bundle in her arms as she waited for Eli to complete his turn. Eli frowned again, his brows knit tight over bright blue eyes-- her husband’s eyes.

“Pardon?”

“You all grow up so fast. It feels like I blink and you’re off into th’ world. I wish I’d had more time… but here it is, almost Soul’s Night again, and--”

“Mama…” Eli said, gently, placing his cards down and looking like he was being made to swallow a lemon wedge, “Soul’s Night was weeks ago. Remember?”

Weeks ago?

Donatienne snorted in amusement at the joke, and looked at the open window. Someone had closed it, of course, drawn the curtains, thick and wooly, shut. There was a frosty chill in the air, a kind of sharp coolness that had no scent but was utterly distinct from the heated coziness of the ventilation systems. Like… frost? Was that frost? Oh, Donatienne hoped it snowed, it was always so pretty against the deep glass, pretty and--

And ashen against the dome, burnt and ashen and leaving nothing behind, nothing for her at all but the grey and the dust and the memories and oh, gods, they were putting her babies in jars--

She looked down at the bundle in her arms, and choked on her alarm to find it was empty, simply blankets folded upon blankets. He was gone! Gone! Where had he gone?

“The baby!” She cried out, standing up despite how badly her knees ached in the winter cold. Mamie had been the same, joints locking up the second the sun set in the desert, leaving the whole of Solarta chillier than the catacombs below. “The baby, where’s the baby!”

“Th’... mama, th’ baby’s fine, he’s fine,” Eli was standing too, his hands outstretched towards her, trying to calm and soothe but they were wrong. This was all wrong. He sounded wrong, he moved wrong, even his face was wrong, hair too long and what--

“Who the hell are you an’ what’ve you done with my son?” Donatienne shouted, batting away those prying hands and shoving her own out, catching Eli-- no, catching this not-Eli in the chest and sending him right back down into his chair. Again, he looked like he’d been slapped, but this time Donatienne saw through the ruse.

“You tell me what you did with him, you son of a bitch!”

“Mama, mama it’s me, it’s me, it’s okay, it’s--”

“No! Non! Tu n'es pas mon enfant, oh gods they killed them, they killed them, my Eli--”

Not-Eli, the bastard imposter, sat stunned, and for a moment Donatienne thought he might actually have a soul of his own because those bright blue eyes were watery with tears. Good. Good! He deserved it, he deserved it for trying to pull one over on her, for trying to sneak in like a changeling in the night and make her think he was her own. Donatienne wanted to grab him and shake him, wring him by his neck and demand all the answers that had been denied her for so many years.

“What did you do with him?” she sobbed out, rushing forward only to be pulled back, faceless awful beings grabbing her by the arms and dragging her back and away from the table. She kicked out, screaming and crying, her foot catching the table edge and sending it onto its side. The boardgame crashed to the floor, all progress lost as the cards and pieces went scattering across the room, even to the walls where other soulless husks stood, watching in silent judgment of how hard she fought.

“Please,” Donatienne said, sobbing and begging, “please, just give him back. He's all I've got left me. Please, please just give him back.”

Something pinched against Donatienne’s arm, and faded again, leaving only a faint sensation of nothingness, of absence, a mutedness that spread from her skin to her muscles to her bones and right up to her eyes that still overflowed with wracking tears. She didn’t even have the strength to fight anymore-- she could only watch, hazy and unfeeling, as she was lifted and carried away, through white doors and white lights and down onto white sheets, leaving Eli, tiny little Eli, long behind.

Yavul barely made it out the front doors of the facility before he was tearing at the paper carton in his hands, pulling out a twisted roll and tucking one end firmly to his lips. The lighter sparked, sputtered, sparked again and sputtered again, sparked a third time and wavered wildly as he huddled under the building’s massive awning. He didn’t care about the cold, he didn’t care that he’d left his jacket inside, he didn’t care how badly the winter chill bit at his cheeks and nose and ears, singing along his metal arm until it bit right into where what little of his shoulder remained.

Amristah was always so much colder than home.

Yavul pulled hard on the joint, and pulled hard again, filling his lungs to maximum capacity and holding his breath until it felt like the organs were going to shrivel up into nothing for all the abuse.

“I’m sorry,” came a soft voice from somewhere distantly to Yavul’s right hand side. He turned after exhaling sharply, a plume of hot smoke and hot breath escaping into the air. The nursing home director waited, calmly and patiently for Yavul to focus, before she continued, “but her condition is… volatile. She’s lucid to a degree most days, but, as you saw…”

“Yeah,” he said, not wanting to be reminded of the hate in his own mother’s eyes, “yeah, I… ain’t there nothin’ I can’t do?”

“Whatever options there were, we’ve already exhausted. Even if there was something left, it’s advanced far too much to be of any help now. The most we can do now is… make her comfortable, make what time she has left a good one.”

What time there was left.

Yavul took another big hit, held his breath, and let it out again. Already it was kicking in, the blood vessels in his flesh lung permeated with foreign contaminants, those muddying his thoughts and easing his nerves and helping to keep him from fraying like a worn out quilt.

“Thank you,” he said, the words leaving him and fading like something spoken through water. The director seemingly understood well enough, though, and went back inside.

Yavul didn’t follow. He didn’t want to follow, not right now.

But if not now, when? Over and over, her words echoed in his head, ringing louder than any of the sobbing fury that had been unleashed on him that night. He shifted, shuffling one foot in front of the other, directionless and aimless but moving, each bootfall like the ticking of a clock amongst a hundred thousand others.

What time she has left.

What time there was left.

What time was there left?

{NAME}
Brett M. Gutiérrez

{ALIASES}
"Cayenne"

{AGE}
Very late twenties, but he's really not 100% sure of the actual number.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
Demiromantic homosexual.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Were-jackal, not sure of the exact parameters of his "condition", or if it's really a "condition" at all.
Nationality is Edani, but genetically/ethnically Adelan-Essyrni.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6', long and lean.

{OCCUPATION}
Bandit, outlaw, thief, lockpicker

{RESIDENCE}
Pepper Gang Hideout, "somewhere" in the Frontier.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

• Tall, lean musculature. Longer than he is broad, built like a long distance runner. He's packed on some upper body muscle, but it never gets bulky.
• Dark haired, which he keeps cropped short around his neck and ears and only slightly longer on top. It's not cut very clean, much like he's been doing it himself for years, and he has.
• Cayenne has deep copper skin, which is littered with scars and knicks and small cuts, especially around his hands. The most noticeable scars, however, are the series across the right side of his face, much like an animal took a swipe at him. He also sports several ghoulish looking ones up and down his forearms.
• His eyes are a striking pale gold, flecked with bits of darker brass, and surrounded by long, dark lashes.
• Long and sharp upper and lower canines, he's painfully aware of how "odd" his teeth look, and is very careful to keep his mouth closed as much as possible.
• Piercings! One of the few "oddities" that he chose for himself, Cayenne has a set of snakebite piercings of a dark silver metal.

{PERSONALITY}
ISTP

Quiet Doesn't Mean Shy

An introvert at heart, Cayenne doesn't like being in the midst of large groups of people, and likes to be left to his own thoughts and special brand of creativity. That being said, his tendency towards keeping to himself does not at all mean he's shy or any kind of demure-- snarky, self-assured and more than a little bit of a wise-ass, he's not afraid to tell you exactly what he's thinking.

Fit Only to Hang a Dog, or To Be Hanged Like One

Cayenne is a criminal, no ifs ands or buts about it. Criminal behavior is how he's survived all these years, and it's been made very obvious to him that the law is not always the better route. He's sneaky, suspicious, and certainly not above petty wrongdoing if it benefits him.

Home is Where the Heart Is

...That being said, Cayenne is especially doting and caring towards those who've earned his trust. A lot of his above-mentioned petty wrongdoing may be entirely to do something nice for someone he cares about, like stealing an object he thinks the other would like. For him, the only thing as important as "survival" is "family", something he hasn't always had in his life.

Shiny, Shiny, Shiny

Likes the finer things-- having never had any when he was growing up, he's attracted to items he considers "fancy", and has a tendency to take said things if they catch his eye. Whether or not his idea of "fancy" is the same as anyone else's is another matter entirely, and he has been known to make truly horrid fashion choices as a result. His current favorite is a leopard print belt. Woof.

Fun Facts!:

• City boy! He originally "grew up" in the megacities after being orphaned at a very young age. His penchant for turning into a barking wild animal, however, eventually pushed him out and onto the Frontier:
  "A lot's the same. But even in the worst slums there are the creature comforts."
  "Like what?"
  "Well, for one thing you don't have to go eighty-seven miles to steal your neighbor's cable."
• Does not get along with animals. At all.
• Likes it rough and fast. >> Basically if his adrenaline's going, he's already gone.
• Likes chewing on long grass, plenty of oral fixation jokes to be made here.
• Pop culture junkie-- being out where they are doesn't make for easy music listening or movie viewing, so as such Cayenne tends to get his entertainment from books and magazines. He's got stacks and stacks of them, of all different types.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Variant Lycanthropy - Cayenne is a were-jackal, and his transformations are (thus far) entirely involuntary. Every other month for two weeks he changes form, back and forth each day (at dawn and dusk). It's an awful process and pretty damn painful, though he does tend to try and fight it which doesn't really help.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

The Pepper Gang

Ghost - Vaguely Malevolent Parental Figure and Boss! In Cayenne's mind, he owes Ghost everything, and while he may backsass them, there is no question that what Ghost says, goes. Always, and without any hesitation.

Carolina Reaper - Designated bratty little sister. They fight a lot, but he will slice off fingers for her.

Habanero - Despite their mutual habit of pranking one another and getting under each other's skin, Cayenne really likes Habanero and considers him a friend. He's stitched Cayenne more times than the latter can count.

Serrano - TBD

{HISTORY}
More details to follow, but the usual schtick of "orphan turns to crime in the city, rap sheet eventually leads to the Frontier."

Yavul pulled his legs up a little closer, crossing them beneath himself as he sat on the boulder, and thumbed the controls to his designated RC car. The little vehicle hummed, whirred, the wheels twisting to turn hard right before it shot off across the dry, bitter sands. Right, left, right again, and then right on back to his perch.

The sun was low, but not quite to setting yet. It provided a fair amount of glare, but that was why they had picked this particular segment of the dune wastes to go hunting-- well, that and Razican had done his little radar thing, and it looked like there was a batch of potential tunnels within which their quarry might be hiding. But the position of the sun would put what light they had at their backs, and subsequently right in the face of whatever decided to pop up out of the sands.

Well, that, and there were plenty of rocky parts to provide safe walking space. Could never really trust soft ground out here.

The plan was pretty simple-- race the cars over the trapdoor spider's triggers, and when a car got bit, everyone converged for a good old-fashioned giant spider beatdown. It served a kind of double purpose that way. They kept these burrowing sons of bitches far away from the city walls, and thus away from the general populace, and they got the benefit of beating the absolute shit out of something for the funsies.

After the past couple of weeks the Valkyries had had? Fuck yes, beating the absolute shit out of something for the funsies. Yavul sure as shit needed that bit of catharsis; he'd spent nearly the entire past twenty four hours dead asleep, but that had done next to nothing for the rattling ball of... whatever that had been pinballing against his ribcage for fuckall too long.

"Y'all done squabblin' over who gets the blue one? We're gonna be losin' daylight at this rate." He hummed over the coms linking his and his compatriots' helmets, even as he made his own little car do tiny whirring donuts in the dust. Or, at least, until a second car came barreling down to side-swipe him, their tiny little motors squealing.

Yavul frowned, and turned to look somewhere to his right, where a much more slender figure was similarly seated, and shaking with suppressed laughter.

"That's how you wanna play it," he muttered, turning his RC around and similarly ramming Locusta's own, the two kicking up sand and dust in a weird anti-tug of war.

"Hyakinthos, really, stop running into walls like this! You're going to damage your equipment!" Locusta crowed, whirling her car around and pushing his right into the outcropping, leaving his wheels raised and spinning.

"Oh, now you done it, girl," he shot back, teeth bared in a grin. The bit of antagonism wasn't unwelcome, but perhaps a little unwise considering their current toolset, which perhaps occurred to Locusta just before Yavul twitched his left index finger at her car and reduced it to fizzing sparks.

"...Well played." came her response, before she looked over to the rest of the gathered squad members. "Can I get a little tech support over here?"