Minors
Children of the other gods.
Anarawd Sygrove
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___7762667.jpg)
Anarawd Sygrove
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. With skin as frosty and pale as his, it is often a wonder if he ever stepped outside before. It lacks any blemishes attained from being under the sun: no moles, freckles, or other such spots are on him. And though Anarawd claims to have been ever in the fight and unspeakable battles, not a scar dares mar that perfectly pale skin of his. How this is possible is rather unfathomable. For even those who witness the most insane of injuries often marvel at how they heal without a trace. But there is an odder quality to his skin. It is vibrant, almost glowing with its own energy. Perhaps the lightning that flows from his fingertips by conscious thought remains trapped under his skin, waiting to be summoned. His hair is also very strange. It naturally grows in a rich blue color. He usually passes it off as being dyed by one expert stylist or the other, but it is his original color. More often than not, he has an expert stylist dye it black or some other normal color. It makes him stick out, which is not a desired quality for one who spends most of his life sneaking about. It is rather soft to the touch, and despite being a little wavy, it is easily manageable. It grows fast and gets in his face, so he often takes a knife to it to keep it back. He keeps it as short as he easily can, and it almost reaches his shoulders. That is as long as he will let it go. When he can, he gets it cut very short. With eyes of an electric blue-green, he will receive odd looks from those who happen to meet his gaze. He hardly minds. Where he was from, his eyes were just one pair among the many other strange optics possessed by those far different than he. But now his brilliant eyes draw unwanted attention. Again, for one trying to keep hidden, he has rather the easily attracted appearance. He often remarks that one ought to just draw a massive target on his back and get it over with. If it is not the hair or the skin, it is the eyes. His eyes do not draw others in. Rather his eyes keep them out. It is this vivid, lightning-like wall that shocks people and makes them want to stare, wondering why they cannot get any deeper than the surface of those blue-green eyes. Perhaps they are such a way on purpose, for Anarawd always seems resilient to not tell others of who he is or who he was. Years ago, before he was even brought into this world, Anarawd’s path had been preordained by both his mother and the ruler of Olympus: Zeus. The goddess Astrape was ordered by Zeus to raise her child, be it son or daughter, as an assistant and servant to Zeus. It is not very often that Astrape brings children into the world, for her duties keep her chained to the throne and sewn to Zeus’ side. But when he found herself to be with child by some mortal man or other, she knew this was indeed the child Zeus would desire to have. Her children in the past were always highly valued, just as she. They are brought into Zeus’ confidence as his personal guards and slaves, going to and fro at his every beck and call. Such was the fate of Anarawd. When he was born, he was born on Olympus. He was turned over to handmaidens and servants to be raised during the first few years of his life. He had no contact with his mother, or any figures who stayed long enough for him to bond to. Broken of such attachment, he learned from a very early age the meaning of loneliness and abandonment. Astrape never had time for her son, nor did she try to make any to spend with him. They would meet soon enough for her. Such is the nature of gods after all. From a young age, his life was structured and determined down to the miniscule details. Everything was chosen for him: what he ate, where and when he slept, what he was allowed to do, who he made contact with, what he learned, and everything else in between. As soon as he turned eight years old, he met his mother. She introduced herself by name and denied him the right to refer to her as mother. It hurt him but also made him confused, for he was not so sure why he felt hurt by this or if it was even the right emotion to feel. Under her tutelage, he learned how to wield and control his powers. He learned of fighting and warfare, strategy and tactics. He learned how to follow orders. He learned how to kill. At age eleven, he worked alongside her officially. On occasion, Zeus would order him to go out on missions alone. Anarawd was always ready to prove his worth and follow orders. He never backed down from a challenge, and he triumphed through many quests and missions. There was no reputation to be gained, but Anarawd still felt proud of himself. He could see the validation in Zeus’s eyes when he bowed before his master and relayed to him all of his victories. Astrape told him once she was proud of him. That was all the praise he ever needed to hear. Time passed well enough for Anarawd. In his years in servitude to Zeus his master, he never wanted for anything or felt any regret for his actions. He never judged his deeds as right or wrong, and he followed through every command. But then, at fifteen, he was ordered to bring every child of Zeus he could find and lay his hands on to Mount Olympus. He and several others were sent out from Olympus down to the Earth below to carry out this order. They recovered nearly a hundred of these children, in ages ranging from upper thirties to barely even one years old. Zeus banished them to a pit, and ordered Anarawd to kill them all. And Anarawd did. He sent a massive wave of lightning down upon them. Their screams, the smells, the blinding light: all burned into his memory forever. When he did the deed, it was as if in a dream. When it was over, he snapped. His heart could not handle the massacre he had just carried out. And when Zeus told him he was proud of the job he did, Anarawd did not feel any happiness, only a great sorrow weighing on his heart. He turned on Zeus and tried to kill him then and there. He was beaten down and restrained. He lay for a long time at the bottom of that pit, soaked in the blood of the hundred dead and full of the sight of their horrific corpses decaying around him. When the pit was finally opened, Anarawd was cast out of Olympus. He was told if he ever returned, he would be slain. He could hardly care. Never again would h st foot inside that place that held all his nightmares. It is hard for Anarawd to say whether or not he is enjoying this new freedom of his. Being separated from the only world he has ever known has been quite the challenge. Even after these three years of wandering Earth and seeing and experiencing all it offers, he has not adjusted to it fully. His old life calls him back, a calling that he yearns to answer in his heart but knows consciously that to return would destroy him. He has already been punished for leaving, and it is not further punishment that he fears. It is the work that he may ultimately have to carry out. It is that work that he sought so hard to escape. Escape he did, and at a terrible price. But that price was nothing compared to the horror and guilt he experienced from all that he had done. He can tolerate this new world and life if he takes it slow and easy. It is hard and stressful. He can become overworked and frustrated to the point of nervous breakdowns and nosebleeds. He is still trying to find himself. Not redemption though. He knows fully well that redemption is unattainable, and to seek it would be a fruitless endeavor. No. He merely wants to reinvent himself and create a new life. A new life in a new world. And there are those who believe that sort of dream ended with the Pilgrims on the Mayflower. Anarawd faces his own sets of difficulties, finding it trying to be alone in this place. He is socially awkward to an extreme and is often looked down upon and rejected by society because he does not fit in. His whole demeanor is one that either tries to command or seeks someone to command him. He cannot live fully without orders, and he either needs to give or receive them. He often looks for some sort of authority in the people he meets, and this can often disturb people, even at a subconscious level where they are not sure what is wrong or different about him. Still, he likes being around people, whether he is troubled or not. He also likes to converse and learn about a world built on technology rather than belief. Despite the awkwardness, he is rather easy to get along with for his willingness to listen and obey. He can do any job someone puts him to. He can give advice where it is needed. Unfortunately, he is easily walked on and trampled down because of his naïveté. Though haunted by nightmares and scorned by most, he still retains a very positive and bright outlook on things and life in general. He keeps a smile on his face, and there is always a brightness to his eyes. It comes with the freedom perhaps, for there should not be a lively brightness to eyes as those that have seen the darkness that they witnessed. He does not talk about the past. Refuses to. Even though there are some who have seen his nightmares and his pain, he will not talk of it. As if merely not acknowledging its existence will render it null and void. He knows better than that, but he hates to dwell on it and thinks that the only way to move past it and come to terms with himself is if he first finds the light h desperately craves. So he remains positive and says the glass is half full, and that is how he moves on with what he is trying to establish as a life for himself. Anarawd can be rather clueless at times. And not just about how his inaction to face his past is harming him. He is rather clueless about a lot of things, all the time, not always seeing what is right in front of him unless it is painfully obvious. He is not the best at anything that requires espionage or mystery and secrets. He can deal with the blatant but not the subtle. He cannot pick up on hints and subliminal messages either. Someone needs to be around him to tell him the straight out obvious if they want him to get anywhere with it. Anarawd often curses himself for this, calling himself dumb and blind. He never did have the best self confidence to begin with. It goes all the way to dealing with the fact that he is simply a minor demigod. It is not something he can help, but he has always been downgraded for simply being born to a mother who did not sit on a throne or own the world. The fact that he was a slave the majority of hi life has not helped either. When he is confronted about his parents, he will say that his mother is Astrape, but he doubts anything good will come from such a revelation. He has no better glory gained from his father. He never knew the man, and as he has no contact with his mother, he doubts he will ever discover the answer. He could care less in the long run though. Anarawd can have some issues gaining people's trust over time. Since he worked 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.
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. With skin as frosty and pale as his, it is often a wonder if he ever stepped outside before. It lacks any blemishes attained from being under the sun: no moles, freckles, or other such spots are on him. And though Anarawd claims to have been ever in the fight and unspeakable battles, not a scar dares mar that perfectly pale skin of his. How this is possible is rather unfathomable. For even those who witness the most insane of injuries often marvel at how they heal without a trace. But there is an odder quality to his skin. It is vibrant, almost glowing with its own energy. Perhaps the lightning that flows from his fingertips by conscious thought remains trapped under his skin, waiting to be summoned. His hair is also very strange. It naturally grows in a rich blue color. He usually passes it off as being dyed by one expert stylist or the other, but it is his original color. More often than not, he has an expert stylist dye it black or some other normal color. It makes him stick out, which is not a desired quality for one who spends most of his life sneaking about. It is rather soft to the touch, and despite being a little wavy, it is easily manageable. It grows fast and gets in his face, so he often takes a knife to it to keep it back. He keeps it as short as he easily can, and it almost reaches his shoulders. That is as long as he will let it go. When he can, he gets it cut very short. With eyes of an electric blue-green, he will receive odd looks from those who happen to meet his gaze. He hardly minds. Where he was from, his eyes were just one pair among the many other strange optics possessed by those far different than he. But now his brilliant eyes draw unwanted attention. Again, for one trying to keep hidden, he has rather the easily attracted appearance. He often remarks that one ought to just draw a massive target on his back and get it over with. If it is not the hair or the skin, it is the eyes. His eyes do not draw others in. Rather his eyes keep them out. It is this vivid, lightning-like wall that shocks people and makes them want to stare, wondering why they cannot get any deeper than the surface of those blue-green eyes. Perhaps they are such a way on purpose, for Anarawd always seems resilient to not tell others of who he is or who he was. Years ago, before he was even brought into this world, Anarawd’s path had been preordained by both his mother and the ruler of Olympus: Zeus. The goddess Astrape was ordered by Zeus to raise her child, be it son or daughter, as an assistant and servant to Zeus. It is not very often that Astrape brings children into the world, for her duties keep her chained to the throne and sewn to Zeus’ side. But when he found herself to be with child by some mortal man or other, she knew this was indeed the child Zeus would desire to have. Her children in the past were always highly valued, just as she. They are brought into Zeus’ confidence as his personal guards and slaves, going to and fro at his every beck and call. Such was the fate of Anarawd. When he was born, he was born on Olympus. He was turned over to handmaidens and servants to be raised during the first few years of his life. He had no contact with his mother, or any figures who stayed long enough for him to bond to. Broken of such attachment, he learned from a very early age the meaning of loneliness and abandonment. Astrape never had time for her son, nor did she try to make any to spend with him. They would meet soon enough for her. Such is the nature of gods after all. From a young age, his life was structured and determined down to the miniscule details. Everything was chosen for him: what he ate, where and when he slept, what he was allowed to do, who he made contact with, what he learned, and everything else in between. As soon as he turned eight years old, he met his mother. She introduced herself by name and denied him the right to refer to her as mother. It hurt him but also made him confused, for he was not so sure why he felt hurt by this or if it was even the right emotion to feel. Under her tutelage, he learned how to wield and control his powers. He learned of fighting and warfare, strategy and tactics. He learned how to follow orders. He learned how to kill. At age eleven, he worked alongside her officially. On occasion, Zeus would order him to go out on missions alone. Anarawd was always ready to prove his worth and follow orders. He never backed down from a challenge, and he triumphed through many quests and missions. There was no reputation to be gained, but Anarawd still felt proud of himself. He could see the validation in Zeus’s eyes when he bowed before his master and relayed to him all of his victories. Astrape told him once she was proud of him. That was all the praise he ever needed to hear. Time passed well enough for Anarawd. In his years in servitude to Zeus his master, he never wanted for anything or felt any regret for his actions. He never judged his deeds as right or wrong, and he followed through every command. But then, at fifteen, he was ordered to bring every child of Zeus he could find and lay his hands on to Mount Olympus. He and several others were sent out from Olympus down to the Earth below to carry out this order. They recovered nearly a hundred of these children, in ages ranging from upper thirties to barely even one years old. Zeus banished them to a pit, and ordered Anarawd to kill them all. And Anarawd did. He sent a massive wave of lightning down upon them. Their screams, the smells, the blinding light: all burned into his memory forever. When he did the deed, it was as if in a dream. When it was over, he snapped. His heart could not handle the massacre he had just carried out. And when Zeus told him he was proud of the job he did, Anarawd did not feel any happiness, only a great sorrow weighing on his heart. He turned on Zeus and tried to kill him then and there. He was beaten down and restrained. He lay for a long time at the bottom of that pit, soaked in the blood of the hundred dead and full of the sight of their horrific corpses decaying around him. When the pit was finally opened, Anarawd was cast out of Olympus. He was told if he ever returned, he would be slain. He could hardly care. Never again would h st foot inside that place that held all his nightmares. It is hard for Anarawd to say whether or not he is enjoying this new freedom of his. Being separated from the only world he has ever known has been quite the challenge. Even after these three years of wandering Earth and seeing and experiencing all it offers, he has not adjusted to it fully. His old life calls him back, a calling that he yearns to answer in his heart but knows consciously that to return would destroy him. He has already been punished for leaving, and it is not further punishment that he fears. It is the work that he may ultimately have to carry out. It is that work that he sought so hard to escape. Escape he did, and at a terrible price. But that price was nothing compared to the horror and guilt he experienced from all that he had done. He can tolerate this new world and life if he takes it slow and easy. It is hard and stressful. He can become overworked and frustrated to the point of nervous breakdowns and nosebleeds. He is still trying to find himself. Not redemption though. He knows fully well that redemption is unattainable, and to seek it would be a fruitless endeavor. No. He merely wants to reinvent himself and create a new life. A new life in a new world. And there are those who believe that sort of dream ended with the Pilgrims on the Mayflower. Anarawd faces his own sets of difficulties, finding it trying to be alone in this place. He is socially awkward to an extreme and is often looked down upon and rejected by society because he does not fit in. His whole demeanor is one that either tries to command or seeks someone to command him. He cannot live fully without orders, and he either needs to give or receive them. He often looks for some sort of authority in the people he meets, and this can often disturb people, even at a subconscious level where they are not sure what is wrong or different about him. Still, he likes being around people, whether he is troubled or not. He also likes to converse and learn about a world built on technology rather than belief. Despite the awkwardness, he is rather easy to get along with for his willingness to listen and obey. He can do any job someone puts him to. He can give advice where it is needed. Unfortunately, he is easily walked on and trampled down because of his naïveté. Though haunted by nightmares and scorned by most, he still retains a very positive and bright outlook on things and life in general. He keeps a smile on his face, and there is always a brightness to his eyes. It comes with the freedom perhaps, for there should not be a lively brightness to eyes as those that have seen the darkness that they witnessed. He does not talk about the past. Refuses to. Even though there are some who have seen his nightmares and his pain, he will not talk of it. As if merely not acknowledging its existence will render it null and void. He knows better than that, but he hates to dwell on it and thinks that the only way to move past it and come to terms with himself is if he first finds the light h desperately craves. So he remains positive and says the glass is half full, and that is how he moves on with what he is trying to establish as a life for himself. Anarawd can be rather clueless at times. And not just about how his inaction to face his past is harming him. He is rather clueless about a lot of things, all the time, not always seeing what is right in front of him unless it is painfully obvious. He is not the best at anything that requires espionage or mystery and secrets. He can deal with the blatant but not the subtle. He cannot pick up on hints and subliminal messages either. Someone needs to be around him to tell him the straight out obvious if they want him to get anywhere with it. Anarawd often curses himself for this, calling himself dumb and blind. He never did have the best self confidence to begin with. It goes all the way to dealing with the fact that he is simply a minor demigod. It is not something he can help, but he has always been downgraded for simply being born to a mother who did not sit on a throne or own the world. The fact that he was a slave the majority of hi life has not helped either. When he is confronted about his parents, he will say that his mother is Astrape, but he doubts anything good will come from such a revelation. He has no better glory gained from his father. He never knew the man, and as he has no contact with his mother, he doubts he will ever discover the answer. He could care less in the long run though. Anarawd can have some issues gaining people's trust over time. Since he worked 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.
Ciaran Trublood
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___5208166.jpg)
Ciaran Trublood
17
son of Aeolus
god of the winds
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
17
son of Aeolus
god of the winds
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Dajaex Mirou
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___3534965.jpg)
Dajaex Mirou
128 (appears 18)
son of Akheron
god of the river Akheron, god of pain
It was only a matter of time. He knew it all along. No one can survive long in this nightmare anyway. Why should he be any different? Why should he be exempt from the rules? Of course he shouldn't. Of course he wouldn't ever be. He just never thought it would really happen. Not to him at least. Even now, he lives in denial. Until his father reminds him of the truth he finds so hard to face. This is Dajaex Mirou. This is Dajaex when he was young. Wide eyed. Innocent. Fearless. Naïve. Blissful. At that happy age when the world is a playground and the sky is always blue, even when it’s gray. This was his fantasy. His safe haven. This was his reality. A woman shunned by society for her infidelity. A whore who slept around, who couldn’t keep her pride, who ran to the first man she saw once her husband was off at war. A trouble maker. A home wrecker. An adulterer. The product of a jealous town’s lies. A woman hated. A woman scorned and despised. A woman brutally wronged in the dark of the night by a faceless foe who wanted nothing more than his own sick pleasures. Distressed. Mutilated, both inside and out. Alone. Afraid. Broken. A man. Her husband. A hero. A soldier. Brave and fearless. So terribly betrayed by his petty wife. Such a poor man; to return from god knows what horrors of war to find the worst of sins has been committed by she who was dearest to him, she who was most faithful to him. A man. Disgraced. Heart broken. Troubled. Determined to stay with his wife. Brave and stupid for doing so. But he loved her. He believed her. He knew the truth and he ignored the lies. The ignorant voices of the citizens in their city, their neighbors, friends, relatives: they were nothing compared to the truth she spoke and the truth he believed in. Then she had a son; the product of that dreadful night. He was a beautiful boy with raven hair and ocean blue eyes. But she would never see him. She died halfway through the labor and he had to be surgically removed from her before he too died. His father, for it is best to refer to him as such as he never referred to the man any other way, was grief stricken, but took the child nevertheless. He named the boy Dajaex, the name of a war friend of his who had fallen in battle. And so, the two of them, began their life. Dajaex was a lonely child, but it was his choice and his father did not hinder it. He had no friends and very few acquaintances. When he went to school, he sat alone, neither communing nor conversing with others. He did his work and then went straight home. He lived a quiet life, and for that he was content. He would oft hear others speak of him. Quiet, murmuring whispers behind his back. He knew they spoke of him, for they looked and pointed and hushed each other up when he came too close. Then, one day, he overheard what was spoken of him. He went to his father about it, for it troubled him greatly. “Dad? What’s a whore?” His father was furious that Dajaex would use such a word, but Dajaex explained he heard his teachers talking about him, and they called his mother a whore. His father never told him the story or explained to the confused boy what cruel things were being whispered about him and his dead mother. Instead, he fell very quiet. It confused and disturbed Dajaex greatly, but he didn’t press any further about it. A month later, his father moved them to a city, far, far away from the little town they grew up in. His father called it a new start. A new life. It was hell. His father lost the job that was promised to him and they couldn’t afford the house. Any attempts at getting work failed miserably, and the two were forced to move into the ghetto. Dajaex spent most of his days sick and starving, huddled next to the boiler trying to keep warm as winter hit. He had to drag himself through the streets, begging for food, while his father begged for work. He was often beaten and ignored, being nothing than a gutter rat. His father finally found a job in a car factory, but by that time, Dajaex’s health plummeted. The medical bills were ridiculous, and they barely made enough to live on because of his expensive medicines. It all ended abruptly when local gangs did a drive by shooting at his father’s factory. His father was killed trying to help some of the workers escape. Police came to the house a few days later for some investigating and found Dajaex, pretty much at death’s door. He lived at an orphanage for most of his life. When he turned, fifteen, he left to return to the little town where he grew up. He had this feeling gnawing at his insides that he had to go back there. So he did. Once there, he learned. He learned who his father was, his real father. He learned about his mother, or at least what they thought of his mother. The town didn’t want him though. Once he had learned what there was to be found out, he left, never to see it again. He grew. He learned. He adapted to the world, taking every challenge as it came. He never complained, for he had learned early in life that complaining was useless and seldom got him anything. He struggled through life, but despite the struggle, he was ever determined. There were days when he was happy, and there were days when he found himself once more at death’s door. He took the good with the bad, the ugly with the beautiful, not because he wanted to but because he had to. And through it all, he tried to discover himself. And that journey began with a single step: finding his father. Though he would never call the man father, he eventually did discover the identity of his biological parent. His biological father is a very delicate issue, one that must never be brought up. To do so would not inspire a violent or radical reaction, merely it will affect Dajaex internally. When approached on the subject, he may cringe, flinch, or perhaps simply blink. Then he will respond to the approach in a calm, collected manner. Dajaex does not hate as a rule, for he finds there to be no logical reason to hate. But he does reserve that singular emotion for his father. His father was the one who raped his mother and eventually caused Dajaex to exist. Dajaex blames the death of his mother on his own existence. If he had never been born, his mother would still be alive. And in essence, it is his father’s fault for him being born, making his father the initial blame on his mother’s death. His father was Akheron, the god of the river Akheron, the god of pain. The particulars on how son and father met are unknown. Even Dajaex does not quite recall. From what he remembers, he confronted his father somewhere in the midst of the Underworld, facing against the god with a strangely colored short sword. The god merely laughed at his petty attempts to threaten him, and cast him into the river. Dajaex prefers not to recall the events thereafter. All he may remember is that over a century later, he was freed of the black waters and was roaming aimlessly in the world of the living. He found some relief. He hid himself from the world. Alone. Afraid. Every sound made him jump, every beam of light made him cringe. He crawled into some forgotten corner of the city and curled into a ball, ready and waiting to die. But he didn’t. He had a life to live yet, and death would not come so quickly and sweetly as he longed for it to. With a despairing heart, he was forced to abandon his misery. He walked the world a dead man, mimicking the life he had come to regret having. He became a shell. No, not a shell. He became the creature without the shell. Raw, naked, and vulnerable. Helpless. It took him a long, long time to come to terms with what had happened to him and this new world he had been thrown into, and it took even longer for him to finally snap out of his state. When he did, it was like coming up for air after being held under the water for so long. Only, it wasn’t the world he knew anymore.
128 (appears 18)
son of Akheron
god of the river Akheron, god of pain
It was only a matter of time. He knew it all along. No one can survive long in this nightmare anyway. Why should he be any different? Why should he be exempt from the rules? Of course he shouldn't. Of course he wouldn't ever be. He just never thought it would really happen. Not to him at least. Even now, he lives in denial. Until his father reminds him of the truth he finds so hard to face. This is Dajaex Mirou. This is Dajaex when he was young. Wide eyed. Innocent. Fearless. Naïve. Blissful. At that happy age when the world is a playground and the sky is always blue, even when it’s gray. This was his fantasy. His safe haven. This was his reality. A woman shunned by society for her infidelity. A whore who slept around, who couldn’t keep her pride, who ran to the first man she saw once her husband was off at war. A trouble maker. A home wrecker. An adulterer. The product of a jealous town’s lies. A woman hated. A woman scorned and despised. A woman brutally wronged in the dark of the night by a faceless foe who wanted nothing more than his own sick pleasures. Distressed. Mutilated, both inside and out. Alone. Afraid. Broken. A man. Her husband. A hero. A soldier. Brave and fearless. So terribly betrayed by his petty wife. Such a poor man; to return from god knows what horrors of war to find the worst of sins has been committed by she who was dearest to him, she who was most faithful to him. A man. Disgraced. Heart broken. Troubled. Determined to stay with his wife. Brave and stupid for doing so. But he loved her. He believed her. He knew the truth and he ignored the lies. The ignorant voices of the citizens in their city, their neighbors, friends, relatives: they were nothing compared to the truth she spoke and the truth he believed in. Then she had a son; the product of that dreadful night. He was a beautiful boy with raven hair and ocean blue eyes. But she would never see him. She died halfway through the labor and he had to be surgically removed from her before he too died. His father, for it is best to refer to him as such as he never referred to the man any other way, was grief stricken, but took the child nevertheless. He named the boy Dajaex, the name of a war friend of his who had fallen in battle. And so, the two of them, began their life. Dajaex was a lonely child, but it was his choice and his father did not hinder it. He had no friends and very few acquaintances. When he went to school, he sat alone, neither communing nor conversing with others. He did his work and then went straight home. He lived a quiet life, and for that he was content. He would oft hear others speak of him. Quiet, murmuring whispers behind his back. He knew they spoke of him, for they looked and pointed and hushed each other up when he came too close. Then, one day, he overheard what was spoken of him. He went to his father about it, for it troubled him greatly. “Dad? What’s a whore?” His father was furious that Dajaex would use such a word, but Dajaex explained he heard his teachers talking about him, and they called his mother a whore. His father never told him the story or explained to the confused boy what cruel things were being whispered about him and his dead mother. Instead, he fell very quiet. It confused and disturbed Dajaex greatly, but he didn’t press any further about it. A month later, his father moved them to a city, far, far away from the little town they grew up in. His father called it a new start. A new life. It was hell. His father lost the job that was promised to him and they couldn’t afford the house. Any attempts at getting work failed miserably, and the two were forced to move into the ghetto. Dajaex spent most of his days sick and starving, huddled next to the boiler trying to keep warm as winter hit. He had to drag himself through the streets, begging for food, while his father begged for work. He was often beaten and ignored, being nothing than a gutter rat. His father finally found a job in a car factory, but by that time, Dajaex’s health plummeted. The medical bills were ridiculous, and they barely made enough to live on because of his expensive medicines. It all ended abruptly when local gangs did a drive by shooting at his father’s factory. His father was killed trying to help some of the workers escape. Police came to the house a few days later for some investigating and found Dajaex, pretty much at death’s door. He lived at an orphanage for most of his life. When he turned, fifteen, he left to return to the little town where he grew up. He had this feeling gnawing at his insides that he had to go back there. So he did. Once there, he learned. He learned who his father was, his real father. He learned about his mother, or at least what they thought of his mother. The town didn’t want him though. Once he had learned what there was to be found out, he left, never to see it again. He grew. He learned. He adapted to the world, taking every challenge as it came. He never complained, for he had learned early in life that complaining was useless and seldom got him anything. He struggled through life, but despite the struggle, he was ever determined. There were days when he was happy, and there were days when he found himself once more at death’s door. He took the good with the bad, the ugly with the beautiful, not because he wanted to but because he had to. And through it all, he tried to discover himself. And that journey began with a single step: finding his father. Though he would never call the man father, he eventually did discover the identity of his biological parent. His biological father is a very delicate issue, one that must never be brought up. To do so would not inspire a violent or radical reaction, merely it will affect Dajaex internally. When approached on the subject, he may cringe, flinch, or perhaps simply blink. Then he will respond to the approach in a calm, collected manner. Dajaex does not hate as a rule, for he finds there to be no logical reason to hate. But he does reserve that singular emotion for his father. His father was the one who raped his mother and eventually caused Dajaex to exist. Dajaex blames the death of his mother on his own existence. If he had never been born, his mother would still be alive. And in essence, it is his father’s fault for him being born, making his father the initial blame on his mother’s death. His father was Akheron, the god of the river Akheron, the god of pain. The particulars on how son and father met are unknown. Even Dajaex does not quite recall. From what he remembers, he confronted his father somewhere in the midst of the Underworld, facing against the god with a strangely colored short sword. The god merely laughed at his petty attempts to threaten him, and cast him into the river. Dajaex prefers not to recall the events thereafter. All he may remember is that over a century later, he was freed of the black waters and was roaming aimlessly in the world of the living. He found some relief. He hid himself from the world. Alone. Afraid. Every sound made him jump, every beam of light made him cringe. He crawled into some forgotten corner of the city and curled into a ball, ready and waiting to die. But he didn’t. He had a life to live yet, and death would not come so quickly and sweetly as he longed for it to. With a despairing heart, he was forced to abandon his misery. He walked the world a dead man, mimicking the life he had come to regret having. He became a shell. No, not a shell. He became the creature without the shell. Raw, naked, and vulnerable. Helpless. It took him a long, long time to come to terms with what had happened to him and this new world he had been thrown into, and it took even longer for him to finally snap out of his state. When he did, it was like coming up for air after being held under the water for so long. Only, it wasn’t the world he knew anymore.
Draco Psych
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___8746559.jpg)
Draco Psych
15
son of Hecate
goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts, and necromancy
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Fifteen, but tall for his age. Shaggy black hair that reaches past his ears and falls in his face too much, hiding his eyes from the world so they can't see in. His eyes are a startling ice blue that grab your attention and hold you transfixed when you see them. He wears black, baggy clothes to hide his wire-thin frame. He can count his ribs and see the lines of his very muscle under the skin. He's gaunt and pale, incapable of doing lots of things because of how sick he always is. He tends to be very depressed, and people call him 'emo kid' or 'gothic wannabe', but he just ignores their taunts, takes his meds, and sucks it up. Draco is the son of Hecate, goddess of magic, the dark of the moon, night, ghosts, and necromancy. He found that out shortly before he wound up on the streets. He was abused badly by his foster dad. So he killed him. without any remorse or regret. But it was the way he killed him. He spoke in a language he did not know and watched as black fire poured out of the man's mouth and burned him to cinders. Hecate appeared to Draco and revealed to him what he was before vanishing. Draco used another spell to make the gas main rupture, and he inadvertently set fire to the house and barely made it out himself, but at least he was safe from the prying eyes of the law. He loves his powers in that he wouldn't want any others.They have helped him more times than he can count. But they don't make him any better. He has CIPA (Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis), a strange disease which makes him feel no pain. Usually, people with this disease die at a very young age, but he is determined not to. He doesn't know who his father is, and his mother never bothered telling him. Hecate never pays much attention to her son. Despite this obvious neglect, Draco never paid much attention to it, using whatever time he had to hone his fighting skills as well as his powers, becoming an incredible fighter. He never went to school, being all alone on the streets with claiming a goddess is your mother didn't exactly get you into any institution except for the psychiatric ward. So Draco fended for himself, learning all he could educational-wise from books he found discarded and people he met on the streets. He can read very well, is horrible at math, knows plenty of history, knows hardly any science, and is an incredible artist, a natural, which is strange since his mother isn't the goddess of art or anything like that. Draco is determined to find out who his father was and perhaps find out why he never got to meet him. Meanwhile, he remains alone, seclusive from everyone. He especially hates it when anyone asks him questions about his past, and he will most definitely not tell you of his strange disease. He hates having people feel sorry for him, and is determined to keep everyone in the dark about who he is.
15
son of Hecate
goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts, and necromancy
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Fifteen, but tall for his age. Shaggy black hair that reaches past his ears and falls in his face too much, hiding his eyes from the world so they can't see in. His eyes are a startling ice blue that grab your attention and hold you transfixed when you see them. He wears black, baggy clothes to hide his wire-thin frame. He can count his ribs and see the lines of his very muscle under the skin. He's gaunt and pale, incapable of doing lots of things because of how sick he always is. He tends to be very depressed, and people call him 'emo kid' or 'gothic wannabe', but he just ignores their taunts, takes his meds, and sucks it up. Draco is the son of Hecate, goddess of magic, the dark of the moon, night, ghosts, and necromancy. He found that out shortly before he wound up on the streets. He was abused badly by his foster dad. So he killed him. without any remorse or regret. But it was the way he killed him. He spoke in a language he did not know and watched as black fire poured out of the man's mouth and burned him to cinders. Hecate appeared to Draco and revealed to him what he was before vanishing. Draco used another spell to make the gas main rupture, and he inadvertently set fire to the house and barely made it out himself, but at least he was safe from the prying eyes of the law. He loves his powers in that he wouldn't want any others.They have helped him more times than he can count. But they don't make him any better. He has CIPA (Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis), a strange disease which makes him feel no pain. Usually, people with this disease die at a very young age, but he is determined not to. He doesn't know who his father is, and his mother never bothered telling him. Hecate never pays much attention to her son. Despite this obvious neglect, Draco never paid much attention to it, using whatever time he had to hone his fighting skills as well as his powers, becoming an incredible fighter. He never went to school, being all alone on the streets with claiming a goddess is your mother didn't exactly get you into any institution except for the psychiatric ward. So Draco fended for himself, learning all he could educational-wise from books he found discarded and people he met on the streets. He can read very well, is horrible at math, knows plenty of history, knows hardly any science, and is an incredible artist, a natural, which is strange since his mother isn't the goddess of art or anything like that. Draco is determined to find out who his father was and perhaps find out why he never got to meet him. Meanwhile, he remains alone, seclusive from everyone. He especially hates it when anyone asks him questions about his past, and he will most definitely not tell you of his strange disease. He hates having people feel sorry for him, and is determined to keep everyone in the dark about who he is.
Io Amarok
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___4844175.jpg)
Io Amarok
18
son of Khione
goddess of snow
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Io. It's hard to really tell about this boy. He's all ice and snow, but velvet and shadow too. There's no easy way to describe him, no perfect category to stick him inside. Io is cold. His icy stare can freeze any heart yet at times it melts them. He keeps his distance. He doesn't speak. At all. To prove his loyalty the Night Children's calling, he cut out his own tongue and became the Tower. Being mute, he has had a lot of trouble communicating normally on a day to day basis, but he manages in ways that get his point across bluntly enough. He cares for his team, and it shows, but people wouldn't know it just by asking him. In any life threatening or team threatening situation, he would go to the extreme to guarantee his fellow brethren's safety. So much as to break every moral and code laid down for the team. He is quite possibly one of the most ruthless of all the Night Children. Not to say he doesn't have any calm or peace, just that he has a different way of attaining that peace. If a threat poses itself, he will not talk it out or try and reach a solution through compromises. He will take initiative and neutralize the threat. Permanently. This has caused a great deal of controversy between him and fellow members, since that is the duty of Justice and not the Tower. On some instances, he has been deemed unfit to be a Night Child, but the team has put a deal of faith into him and his ability and he will see them all survive to the end. When the world fell, he knew that they couldn't survive through avoiding the problem. They were being targeted by the living dead. Things had taken a drastic turn, and what better way to respond than with drastic measures. He wasn't all that keen on simply killing and fighting at first. In fact he wanted more than anything to reach some kind of peaceful balance with others and maintain order, but the more time went on and the threat increased, he quickly realized those sorts of solutions wouldn't work. Times had changed, and the only course left was to adapt. To his own team he is absolutley self-sacrificing and caring towards them. He does not discriminate between strong and weak. He believes all have the potential to be great if only they are helped to be that and not hindered. He is kind and gentle, and those are the times where he seems soft and loving. Like some pure, guardian angel. Yes, a guardian angel. That is how Io can be described as. Gentle and loving, but fierce and menacing when things grow dire. Io has been described as beautiful before. He has pale, flawless skin the color of milk chocolate. He has shaggy, white hair, and the most insane, ice blue eyes. They seem to glow and shimmer, writhing and pulsing, as if they are alive all in themselves. Endless, endless, cold, frosty blue. Like the sky or some northern ocean dropped into his eyes. He wears mostly white, such as his armor and normal clothing. Seldom does he wear other colors. Io is very strong, but lithe. Nearing eighteen years, he is growing stronger and more powerful every day.
Jace Rowlings
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___8965862.jpg)
Jace Rowlings
17
son of Hecate
goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts and necromancy
Kin: n/a
Friends: Akheron Metaxas, Vrykolakas Stavros
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
17
son of Hecate
goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts and necromancy
Kin: n/a
Friends: Akheron Metaxas, Vrykolakas Stavros
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Keiran Riagan
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___2786277.jpg)
Keiran Riagan
15
son of Deimus
god of nightmares
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
15
son of Deimus
god of nightmares
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Lucjan Janaga
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___3089732.jpg)
Lucjan Janaga
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 Lucjan 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. Lucjan 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 Lucjan'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 Lucjan alive. Suffered and bled and evidently died that Loki might live one more day. Ashamed for his many attempts at suicide, Lucjan 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? Lucjan 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 Lucjan 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 Lucjan. Gaia spoke to Lucjan. 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 Lucjan 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 Lucjan? 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. Lucjan 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 Lucjan is proud of, it is his claim to wisdom. Lucjan 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 Lucjan 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.
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 Lucjan 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. Lucjan 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 Lucjan'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 Lucjan alive. Suffered and bled and evidently died that Loki might live one more day. Ashamed for his many attempts at suicide, Lucjan 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? Lucjan 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 Lucjan 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 Lucjan. Gaia spoke to Lucjan. 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 Lucjan 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 Lucjan? 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. Lucjan 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 Lucjan is proud of, it is his claim to wisdom. Lucjan 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 Lucjan 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.
Legend Nothamori
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___5212214.jpg)
Legend Nothamori
16
son of Phobos
god of panic fear, flight, and battle rout
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
16
son of Phobos
god of panic fear, flight, and battle rout
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Sir Madigan Delacour
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___6571140.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.
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.
Mason Laos
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___6386968.jpg)
Mason Laos
17
son of Hecate
goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts, and necromancy
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
17
son of Hecate
goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts, and necromancy
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Matthias Nytewraith
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___7513295.jpg)
Matthias Nytewraith
17
son of Hades
god of the underworld and the dead
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Matthias is a strong, seclusive sixteen year old guy with black hair and red eyes. His black hair has a blue sheen to it, and the blue really stands out when in certain light. He has pale skin, which makes him more of a "darkness" kind of guy. He rarely ever talks and remains by himself. He doesn't trust people, which explains his reluctance to be around others or make friends. His father is Hades, god of the Underworld and the undead. His father doesn't love him very much (no real surprise there) and treats Matthias more as a puppet than his son. Matthias has never felt love or friendship, so he thinks nothing of his father's hatred towards him. Matthias is extremely smart and agile, and he knows how to wield a blade better than most. He is constantly developing his powers, even learning more ways to use them. Matthias doesn't know who he will kill when the time comes, but he doesn't care who it is. He will only kill a god when his father tells him to. Such is the life of a puppet.
NEEDS SERIOUS EDITING
17
son of Hades
god of the underworld and the dead
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Matthias is a strong, seclusive sixteen year old guy with black hair and red eyes. His black hair has a blue sheen to it, and the blue really stands out when in certain light. He has pale skin, which makes him more of a "darkness" kind of guy. He rarely ever talks and remains by himself. He doesn't trust people, which explains his reluctance to be around others or make friends. His father is Hades, god of the Underworld and the undead. His father doesn't love him very much (no real surprise there) and treats Matthias more as a puppet than his son. Matthias has never felt love or friendship, so he thinks nothing of his father's hatred towards him. Matthias is extremely smart and agile, and he knows how to wield a blade better than most. He is constantly developing his powers, even learning more ways to use them. Matthias doesn't know who he will kill when the time comes, but he doesn't care who it is. He will only kill a god when his father tells him to. Such is the life of a puppet.
NEEDS SERIOUS EDITING
Mordred Maeland
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___6553566.jpg)
Mordred Maeland
15
son of Hades
god of the underworld and the dead
Kin: Lancelot (brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
15
son of Hades
god of the underworld and the dead
Kin: Lancelot (brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Nemo Balliside
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___7714549.jpg)
Nemo Balliside
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.
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.
Nico Mortesoul
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___4501535.jpg)
Nico Mortesoul
17
son of Ioke
goddess of onslaught, battle-tumult, pursuit and rout
COMING SOON
17
son of Ioke
goddess of onslaught, battle-tumult, pursuit and rout
COMING SOON
Selene Wayfarer
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___6400969.jpg)
Selene Wayfarer
16
son of Selene
goddess of the moon
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
son of Selene
name was something along the lines of Selene, Stella, Stellaluna, or Luna
I'm pretty sure his name was Selene...
Or maybe Silvia...
Serkan Serhan
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___2194172.jpg)
Serkan Serhan
23
son of Alistair
god of blood feuds
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
23
son of Alistair
god of blood feuds
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Severin Greed
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___8002319.jpg)
Severin Greed
15
son of Phobos
god of panic fear, flight, and battle rout
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
15
son of Phobos
god of panic fear, flight, and battle rout
Kin:
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Shia Acre
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___8277347.jpg)
Shia Acre
15
son of Proteus
god of the sea and a shapeshifter
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
NEEDS SERIOUS EDITING
Shia Acre, name rhymes with "hiya", is only twelve, seemingly too young to be a bloodthirsty warrior, but it's true. He has known no other life but one of suffering, killing, and death. He is an expert in all sorts of combat styles, from hand to hand, to range, to long swords. He could probably be a great javelin thrower for all he knows. He's quite an expert at weapons and weaponry, and loves to use many different kinds, never favoring one over the other. He tends to fight with a sword a lot, but his favorite weapon is an ngbaka; an African throwing and fighting knife; a very deadly weapon in the hands of an expert. He also likes using his hidden blade, stowed in a hidden mechanism in his vambrace, and his short sword. Shia has medium length black hair and ocean blue eyes. He doesn't know where his destiny will lead him. Many were confused at this young ones powers. At first they assumed he was the son of Poseidon because of his uncanny ability to control water. But no, he is not the son of Poseidon, he is the son of Proteus, carried on through him, he has the power to not only to control water, but to shape shift as well. He doesn't speak to his father, for reasons unknown to others, and Shia will never say. If he ever tells you, that means he trusts you completely and wholeheartedly. Of course, you would have probably figured that much out long before he tells you the reason for his hatred towards his father, for Shia has many secrets that he will only tell the ones he trusts. Like the reason for the strange scar over his heart.
15
son of Proteus
god of the sea and a shapeshifter
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
NEEDS SERIOUS EDITING
Shia Acre, name rhymes with "hiya", is only twelve, seemingly too young to be a bloodthirsty warrior, but it's true. He has known no other life but one of suffering, killing, and death. He is an expert in all sorts of combat styles, from hand to hand, to range, to long swords. He could probably be a great javelin thrower for all he knows. He's quite an expert at weapons and weaponry, and loves to use many different kinds, never favoring one over the other. He tends to fight with a sword a lot, but his favorite weapon is an ngbaka; an African throwing and fighting knife; a very deadly weapon in the hands of an expert. He also likes using his hidden blade, stowed in a hidden mechanism in his vambrace, and his short sword. Shia has medium length black hair and ocean blue eyes. He doesn't know where his destiny will lead him. Many were confused at this young ones powers. At first they assumed he was the son of Poseidon because of his uncanny ability to control water. But no, he is not the son of Poseidon, he is the son of Proteus, carried on through him, he has the power to not only to control water, but to shape shift as well. He doesn't speak to his father, for reasons unknown to others, and Shia will never say. If he ever tells you, that means he trusts you completely and wholeheartedly. Of course, you would have probably figured that much out long before he tells you the reason for his hatred towards his father, for Shia has many secrets that he will only tell the ones he trusts. Like the reason for the strange scar over his heart.
Spencer Tracy
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___8858098.jpg)
Spencer Tracy
14
son of Morpheus
god of dreams
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
14
son of Morpheus
god of dreams
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Tao Dracule
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___248439.jpg)
Tao Dracule
20
son of Hades
god of the underworld and undead
Kin: Simone Dracule (mother), Helena Claubia (aunt, unknown)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Tao Dracule doesn't know what his purpose in life is. He knows he is different, he knows he is a demigod, and though many people think that being a son of Hades is cool, he does not. Being a son of Hades was never all it was cracked up to be. People assume it means you are "dark and cool and somewhat creepy" and you "control the dead and people are scared of you." Well, yes, actually, that's all true. But many forget what else that this entails. He is considered very dark and scary and everyone fears him. He is ostracized and constantly alone. He never had any friends, and unlike some Hades kids, he never had any siblings to be his friends. He had his mother for a short time, and she eventually died, being a very sick and fragile woman. He had taken care of her as much as he could, but he was a son of darkness and death, what life could he possibly bring to her. She wasn't entirely happy with him either. He always seemed depressed and quiet, and that made her unhappy. She was never ungrateful, thanking him every time he did something for her, but otherwise she didn't do anything with him, being confined to her bed and all. Tao had to take complete care of himself: make his meals, clean the house, go to school, do the shopping, etc. He took over these responsibilities when his mother became too weak todo it herself, when he was seven. They lived in mutual silence and distance from each other, until he turned ten. A minotaur attacked the house, and inborn instincts of survival known only to demigods kicked in, and Tao fought bravely, killing the monster in the end but wounding himself terribly. The house was almost completely destroyed, and it took Tao a while to reach his mother's bedroom to check on her. She was alright, but very frightened and angry. She found some strength in her fear; yelling, screaming at him, and banished him from the house, saying she never wanted to see him again. Rejected, he left, living on the streets, but always close enough to the house to be there in case his mother needed him. And that is how he was found, one cold and rainy day, when he was fifteen. His aunt found him and told him his mother was in the hospital, with only a few hours left. He went with her to the hospital to see her, and even then she yelled at him to get out, but this time he refused. He had been attacked by monsters constantly the past few years he had been alone and he wanted answers. That's when his mother told him who his father was: Hades. She told him they met one night in a bar, one thing led to another, and they woke up in the same bed. It had been completely accidental and unplanned. She had been angry and ashamed and ran back home. Later she discovered she was pregnant with his child. Apparently, one of Hades mortal lovers, a daughter of Hecate, found out, and in a fit of jealousy and rage, she cursed her to a slow, painful death, the reason to her unending sickness. She also said the only way out would be to kill Tao. She tried, once, to have him aborted, but Hades would not allow it. He confused the doctors too much to operate and she ended up having Tao. So she was sick and dying. She never found the strength to try again, never being one capable of murder. But she would always hate Hades and resent Tao. When she finished the tale, Tao's aunt found the story to be ridiculous and insisted that she was lying, but Tao knew it was true. He flicked his wrist, and instantly, a hellhound materialized. His aunt freaked and ran out, screaming. That was the last he ever saw of her. As for his mother, she died, and he felt it through his entire being, for a child of Hades always feels the deaths of others. Angry and hurt, he left the hospital without a word. He went to her funeral, but stuck to the shadows, away from the friends, neighbors, and family that attended. He visited the grave often, for he still felt a twisted form of love for her, he doesn't know why he does after all she did to him. He supposes it is a part of thanking her for not killing him. Now he stays alone, wandering here and there with no real purpose, ruthlessly slaughtering any mortals or monsters that cross his path. He feels the need to kill, the need to feel the deaths of others flooding his body, filling his senses with that bizarre sensation. So he does. The shadows are his friends but also his enemies. He does not give a damn for anything living, not even hellhounds. He uses them and manipulates them to his service, but he will never trust anyone or call anyone friend. He does not bear a resemblance to Hades, not at first glance. He is of average height, tanned skin, which is not common in Hades children. His hair is messy and a dark brown mixed with blood red. He usually wears red or black clothes. His eyes are what give him away; they are black, a sort of shimmery, liquid-like black color, but if you shine a light on them in the dark, they reflect it as a demonic red, almost like one shines light on a cats eyes and they reflect the color. He has a strange tattoo on his hand; a twisted, eight pointed cross. He doesn't say what it means.
20
son of Hades
god of the underworld and undead
Kin: Simone Dracule (mother), Helena Claubia (aunt, unknown)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Tao Dracule doesn't know what his purpose in life is. He knows he is different, he knows he is a demigod, and though many people think that being a son of Hades is cool, he does not. Being a son of Hades was never all it was cracked up to be. People assume it means you are "dark and cool and somewhat creepy" and you "control the dead and people are scared of you." Well, yes, actually, that's all true. But many forget what else that this entails. He is considered very dark and scary and everyone fears him. He is ostracized and constantly alone. He never had any friends, and unlike some Hades kids, he never had any siblings to be his friends. He had his mother for a short time, and she eventually died, being a very sick and fragile woman. He had taken care of her as much as he could, but he was a son of darkness and death, what life could he possibly bring to her. She wasn't entirely happy with him either. He always seemed depressed and quiet, and that made her unhappy. She was never ungrateful, thanking him every time he did something for her, but otherwise she didn't do anything with him, being confined to her bed and all. Tao had to take complete care of himself: make his meals, clean the house, go to school, do the shopping, etc. He took over these responsibilities when his mother became too weak todo it herself, when he was seven. They lived in mutual silence and distance from each other, until he turned ten. A minotaur attacked the house, and inborn instincts of survival known only to demigods kicked in, and Tao fought bravely, killing the monster in the end but wounding himself terribly. The house was almost completely destroyed, and it took Tao a while to reach his mother's bedroom to check on her. She was alright, but very frightened and angry. She found some strength in her fear; yelling, screaming at him, and banished him from the house, saying she never wanted to see him again. Rejected, he left, living on the streets, but always close enough to the house to be there in case his mother needed him. And that is how he was found, one cold and rainy day, when he was fifteen. His aunt found him and told him his mother was in the hospital, with only a few hours left. He went with her to the hospital to see her, and even then she yelled at him to get out, but this time he refused. He had been attacked by monsters constantly the past few years he had been alone and he wanted answers. That's when his mother told him who his father was: Hades. She told him they met one night in a bar, one thing led to another, and they woke up in the same bed. It had been completely accidental and unplanned. She had been angry and ashamed and ran back home. Later she discovered she was pregnant with his child. Apparently, one of Hades mortal lovers, a daughter of Hecate, found out, and in a fit of jealousy and rage, she cursed her to a slow, painful death, the reason to her unending sickness. She also said the only way out would be to kill Tao. She tried, once, to have him aborted, but Hades would not allow it. He confused the doctors too much to operate and she ended up having Tao. So she was sick and dying. She never found the strength to try again, never being one capable of murder. But she would always hate Hades and resent Tao. When she finished the tale, Tao's aunt found the story to be ridiculous and insisted that she was lying, but Tao knew it was true. He flicked his wrist, and instantly, a hellhound materialized. His aunt freaked and ran out, screaming. That was the last he ever saw of her. As for his mother, she died, and he felt it through his entire being, for a child of Hades always feels the deaths of others. Angry and hurt, he left the hospital without a word. He went to her funeral, but stuck to the shadows, away from the friends, neighbors, and family that attended. He visited the grave often, for he still felt a twisted form of love for her, he doesn't know why he does after all she did to him. He supposes it is a part of thanking her for not killing him. Now he stays alone, wandering here and there with no real purpose, ruthlessly slaughtering any mortals or monsters that cross his path. He feels the need to kill, the need to feel the deaths of others flooding his body, filling his senses with that bizarre sensation. So he does. The shadows are his friends but also his enemies. He does not give a damn for anything living, not even hellhounds. He uses them and manipulates them to his service, but he will never trust anyone or call anyone friend. He does not bear a resemblance to Hades, not at first glance. He is of average height, tanned skin, which is not common in Hades children. His hair is messy and a dark brown mixed with blood red. He usually wears red or black clothes. His eyes are what give him away; they are black, a sort of shimmery, liquid-like black color, but if you shine a light on them in the dark, they reflect it as a demonic red, almost like one shines light on a cats eyes and they reflect the color. He has a strange tattoo on his hand; a twisted, eight pointed cross. He doesn't say what it means.
Theodred Range
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___5139342.jpg)
Theodred Range
15
son of Hades
god of the underworld and undead
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.
15
son of Hades
god of the underworld and undead
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.
Vertigo Antigra
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___5003121.jpg)
Vertigo Antigra
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
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 most 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.
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
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 most 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.