Unclaimed
Unclaimed children who may or may not have an inkling of their powers.
Arkadi Alkara
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___207783.jpg)
Arkadi Alkara
18
son of Kronos (unclaimed)
god of time, king of the titans
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Run. Run and don’t look back. Don’t turn around. Don’t stop. He’s coming for you. He? Who is he? Arkadi. He who must not ever be named. A creature so demented and destroyed that he is nothing but a shadow of a human now. His entire existence is one spent with a weapon in hand and a dead body at his feet. Even before the world was bleak and black, he was the bleak and the black of it. He is a young man, eighteen years of age. He is young only in physique, for the truth of his years spent on the earth are unknown. He could be centuries old or born yesterday. Who truly can fathom it, for any such answer is possible. He stands tall and strong with perfect form and a very stable, hardened core. Always upright, head held high, eyes forward, as if he is proud and headstrong. He isn’t. Appearances are not everything. He has a very defined face with a strong jaw, smooth cheekbones, and a gently sloping nose in a somewhat smaller version of the roman style noses. His skin is a rich tan, as if he spends just a little too much time in the sun. His coloring often makes one believe he’s Arabic. It’s not a totally off guess as he did spend some time in Syria. He has dark brown hair with black mixed into the strands. In the strong sunlight, his hair also gleams with golden highlights. Eyes of a swirling, glowing blue watch from a normally expressionless face. Hardened, lean muscle lines and contours across his lithe frame. He usually wears black, red, blue, or sometimes brown, but rarely will you see him wearing any other colors. He’s not very flamboyant or diverse, and it shows. You do not want to mess with Arkadi. You may look, but do not touch. Touching is dangerous. If he perceives you as a threat, you shall die. No questions asked. Even those who trust him won’t touch him, for who can really say where his mind is at. Do not ever let him fool you. Do not let him ever back you into a corner. Do not let your guard down while you are around him, not even for a second. A heartbeat is all it takes for him to attack. It is not always intentional. There are times when it simply happens out of spontaneity. He might be eating dinner, laughing and talking amongst his best friends. Then suddenly, he will have one of those friends pinned to the floor with a knife or some other implement of murder pressed against their throats. He cannot help these impulsive behaviors. He is insane. He has other issues, naturally. Next to being insane, Arkadi has no true understanding of death. Death seems too bizarre a concept for him to fully grasp. He understands the fundamentals of death, but he does not understand why it is considered a tragic event. He has no true value of life, which makes him a nefarious killer. He kills and does so without remorse, without regrets, without a conscience to tell him otherwise. He kills but does not think he can be killed, and in his own right, has turned himself into some sort of god. In his own mind at least. He knows his actions bear consequences, but he does not believe the same of death. Death has no consequences. At least, not the deaths of others. If a stranger dies, he would hardly bat an eye. If a close friend were to die, he might be affected, but not in the same way others would be. To clarify: he may kill without regrets, but he will not kill without reasons. There must be a reason for him to kill, otherwise he will not do it. In his moments of insanity, he finds himself harming others, but he will not always kill. There are cases where his insane mind finds a reason for him to kill others, but if it doesn’t, then they may keep their lives. That is, perhaps, the only way to avoid his outright wrath: to convince him that one’s life is more important than their death, causing the reasons for living to outweigh the reasons for killing. Arkadi also lacks the resolve to kill himself, which can lead him to severely mutilate himself when he’s crazy, but otherwise never make the finishing move. The morality of his actions have often been brought into question. Countless times in fact. He is not an all out murderer or sociopath. He couldn’t be. It would be illogical: to kill just for the sake of killing. He kills with purpose. Then and only then. When he was a baby, he was stolen by Mania, goddess of insanity, being insane herself, she took him to a city far away and raised him as her own for a short while, claiming he was her son. And being the way she is, she made him insane. But as Arkadi grew older, he fought the insanity that plagued his mind until it finally decreased into a very small form that only appears every now and then. Arkadi has problems though, besides his slight insanity, he has no value of life and doesn't understand death, so he will kill with no regrets, but he doesn't kill without reason. Just because of this does not mean he's an all out killer. He can actually be pretty kind and understanding to those who are misunderstood and hurting. He will purposely stand in the way of any weapon to save others even if it means he will die. He also has a strange, almost loving relationship with hellhounds, even stranger because he is not the son of Hades. Hellhounds will not attack him, even when ordered, and the only death he will suffer by them is being licked to death. It is not that often when he meets a hellhound, but when he does it is never in aversion, always in friendship. Another good trait of Arkadi is that he always listens to what you have to say. Whether you're telling him an amazing battle strategy, or unloading the complicated problems of your love life, he will hear it all and only give advice or constructive criticism. He will never put you down, call you names, or be an outright bully. Well, unless he's in a moment of insanity, then he will, but don't take these moments to heart. He doesn't always mean what he says. But what does Arkadi look like? He fights not just with a sword, but with metal claws, throwing knives and daggers, and even bows and arrows occasionally, although insanity is his favorite weapon. He normally seems distant and staring off into space, but don't let this fool you. As said before, if you let your guard down for just a moment, he might just attack you. Arkadi is most definitely a demigod, but who his father or mother is, is unknown. He wields two very powerful swords: Era-thakel; the god slayer, forged of a mysterious black metal and tempered in a mixture of gods' blood, Medusa's blood, water from the river Styx, and hydra poison. His other sword is Isha'ketha; a sword of death. Where he found Isha'ketha is unknown, most guess it was given to him by Deimus while he was in the army, but he forged Era-thakel himself. Despite the fact that Mania claimed him as her son, he is not a son of Mania.
18
son of Kronos (unclaimed)
god of time, king of the titans
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Run. Run and don’t look back. Don’t turn around. Don’t stop. He’s coming for you. He? Who is he? Arkadi. He who must not ever be named. A creature so demented and destroyed that he is nothing but a shadow of a human now. His entire existence is one spent with a weapon in hand and a dead body at his feet. Even before the world was bleak and black, he was the bleak and the black of it. He is a young man, eighteen years of age. He is young only in physique, for the truth of his years spent on the earth are unknown. He could be centuries old or born yesterday. Who truly can fathom it, for any such answer is possible. He stands tall and strong with perfect form and a very stable, hardened core. Always upright, head held high, eyes forward, as if he is proud and headstrong. He isn’t. Appearances are not everything. He has a very defined face with a strong jaw, smooth cheekbones, and a gently sloping nose in a somewhat smaller version of the roman style noses. His skin is a rich tan, as if he spends just a little too much time in the sun. His coloring often makes one believe he’s Arabic. It’s not a totally off guess as he did spend some time in Syria. He has dark brown hair with black mixed into the strands. In the strong sunlight, his hair also gleams with golden highlights. Eyes of a swirling, glowing blue watch from a normally expressionless face. Hardened, lean muscle lines and contours across his lithe frame. He usually wears black, red, blue, or sometimes brown, but rarely will you see him wearing any other colors. He’s not very flamboyant or diverse, and it shows. You do not want to mess with Arkadi. You may look, but do not touch. Touching is dangerous. If he perceives you as a threat, you shall die. No questions asked. Even those who trust him won’t touch him, for who can really say where his mind is at. Do not ever let him fool you. Do not let him ever back you into a corner. Do not let your guard down while you are around him, not even for a second. A heartbeat is all it takes for him to attack. It is not always intentional. There are times when it simply happens out of spontaneity. He might be eating dinner, laughing and talking amongst his best friends. Then suddenly, he will have one of those friends pinned to the floor with a knife or some other implement of murder pressed against their throats. He cannot help these impulsive behaviors. He is insane. He has other issues, naturally. Next to being insane, Arkadi has no true understanding of death. Death seems too bizarre a concept for him to fully grasp. He understands the fundamentals of death, but he does not understand why it is considered a tragic event. He has no true value of life, which makes him a nefarious killer. He kills and does so without remorse, without regrets, without a conscience to tell him otherwise. He kills but does not think he can be killed, and in his own right, has turned himself into some sort of god. In his own mind at least. He knows his actions bear consequences, but he does not believe the same of death. Death has no consequences. At least, not the deaths of others. If a stranger dies, he would hardly bat an eye. If a close friend were to die, he might be affected, but not in the same way others would be. To clarify: he may kill without regrets, but he will not kill without reasons. There must be a reason for him to kill, otherwise he will not do it. In his moments of insanity, he finds himself harming others, but he will not always kill. There are cases where his insane mind finds a reason for him to kill others, but if it doesn’t, then they may keep their lives. That is, perhaps, the only way to avoid his outright wrath: to convince him that one’s life is more important than their death, causing the reasons for living to outweigh the reasons for killing. Arkadi also lacks the resolve to kill himself, which can lead him to severely mutilate himself when he’s crazy, but otherwise never make the finishing move. The morality of his actions have often been brought into question. Countless times in fact. He is not an all out murderer or sociopath. He couldn’t be. It would be illogical: to kill just for the sake of killing. He kills with purpose. Then and only then. When he was a baby, he was stolen by Mania, goddess of insanity, being insane herself, she took him to a city far away and raised him as her own for a short while, claiming he was her son. And being the way she is, she made him insane. But as Arkadi grew older, he fought the insanity that plagued his mind until it finally decreased into a very small form that only appears every now and then. Arkadi has problems though, besides his slight insanity, he has no value of life and doesn't understand death, so he will kill with no regrets, but he doesn't kill without reason. Just because of this does not mean he's an all out killer. He can actually be pretty kind and understanding to those who are misunderstood and hurting. He will purposely stand in the way of any weapon to save others even if it means he will die. He also has a strange, almost loving relationship with hellhounds, even stranger because he is not the son of Hades. Hellhounds will not attack him, even when ordered, and the only death he will suffer by them is being licked to death. It is not that often when he meets a hellhound, but when he does it is never in aversion, always in friendship. Another good trait of Arkadi is that he always listens to what you have to say. Whether you're telling him an amazing battle strategy, or unloading the complicated problems of your love life, he will hear it all and only give advice or constructive criticism. He will never put you down, call you names, or be an outright bully. Well, unless he's in a moment of insanity, then he will, but don't take these moments to heart. He doesn't always mean what he says. But what does Arkadi look like? He fights not just with a sword, but with metal claws, throwing knives and daggers, and even bows and arrows occasionally, although insanity is his favorite weapon. He normally seems distant and staring off into space, but don't let this fool you. As said before, if you let your guard down for just a moment, he might just attack you. Arkadi is most definitely a demigod, but who his father or mother is, is unknown. He wields two very powerful swords: Era-thakel; the god slayer, forged of a mysterious black metal and tempered in a mixture of gods' blood, Medusa's blood, water from the river Styx, and hydra poison. His other sword is Isha'ketha; a sword of death. Where he found Isha'ketha is unknown, most guess it was given to him by Deimus while he was in the army, but he forged Era-thakel himself. Despite the fact that Mania claimed him as her son, he is not a son of Mania.
Jade Skyfall
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/524555.jpg?541)
Jade Skyfall
18
son of unknown
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Jade acts older than he really is. He usually takes on the leader/mentor/father/big brother role because no one else really does, at least not the people he typically meets. He likes to take responsibility rather than flee from it. He adapts to situations easily and won't back down from challenges. His only fear is that one day he'll be faced with something he cannot handle. His worst memory is of the day his girlfriend was kidnapped by centaurs. They did terrible things to her before giving her over to a cyclops they pissed off. Jade arrived too late. H killed the cyclops, then hunted down, captured, and tortured the centaurs who did those things to her. He carries a ring on a chain around his neck. It was her ring, and he keeps it to remind himself of her. He has never done anything so brutal before or since that event with the centaurs. He doesn't hold a grudge against the whole race either, only the ones responsible. He usually lives his life in the moments rather than dwelling on things. Jade is working towards being an MP. It's not a glorified career, but it's his dream.
18
son of unknown
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Jade acts older than he really is. He usually takes on the leader/mentor/father/big brother role because no one else really does, at least not the people he typically meets. He likes to take responsibility rather than flee from it. He adapts to situations easily and won't back down from challenges. His only fear is that one day he'll be faced with something he cannot handle. His worst memory is of the day his girlfriend was kidnapped by centaurs. They did terrible things to her before giving her over to a cyclops they pissed off. Jade arrived too late. H killed the cyclops, then hunted down, captured, and tortured the centaurs who did those things to her. He carries a ring on a chain around his neck. It was her ring, and he keeps it to remind himself of her. He has never done anything so brutal before or since that event with the centaurs. He doesn't hold a grudge against the whole race either, only the ones responsible. He usually lives his life in the moments rather than dwelling on things. Jade is working towards being an MP. It's not a glorified career, but it's his dream.
Morgaine Agravane
![Picture](http://www.editmysite.com/editor/images/na.png)
Morgaine Agravane
20
son of unknown
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
20
son of unknown
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Shane Grafton
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___7854096.jpg)
Shane Grafton
17
son of unknown
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Shane; the kid that no one really cares about. He's practically invisible to the world in that no one knows him. He was raised as an orphan his whole life, never adopted. When he turned seventeen, he left the orphanage with nothing but the clothes on his back and his iPod, his only possession. He lived in the big city, the cheapest place for him to live, in a rundown apartment in the slums. He doesn't seem to react to anything, mostly cause of how he was raised. The orphanage was a very small building but filled to bursting with children. They were forced to stay quiet and sit still or they would be punished, so as long as he obeyed, he was fine. That's why he doesn't show emotion or really form attachments to things because he feels they will just be taken away from him. If he ever tried to express himself, he was shut down, so he doesn't even bother to try. He doesn't know who his parents were, since he was found and brought to the orphanage as an infant. No one ever adopted him because he seemed so quiet and troubled. As a little one, he was bullied by the older kids and was considered an outcast. One such incident with the bullies left him deaf in his right ear; they set off a firework next to his head. His burns healed, but he still has crisscrossing scars on the right side of his face near his ear and eye going down his neck to his shoulder. He had managed to close his eyes in time, so his right eye was spared from being blind. He is, however, blind in his left eye. No one knows how that happened. It was actually the result of a monster's failed attempt at killing him, but not even he knows that. Sometimes he can sense monsters and demigods, but he doesn't really know what he's sensing. He has an exceptional ear for music and sometimes says that he "can't live without it." He wears dark sunglasses to hide his eyes from the world, so no one can tell where he's looking. He also doesn't want them to see his blind left eye. He isn't one to care about appearances, but deformities like blindness and scars draw attention, and that's the last thing he wants. Shane is tall for his age, not overly so, just about two inches taller than average. He has spiky, burgundy hair that almost brushes his shoulders. He has bright amber eyes, but his left eye is paled from lack of light reception. He is very smart, but he never went to school. Still, he's fast when it comes to learning, and he often studies things by reading books at the library. He doesn't care for electronics except his iPod and perhaps a laptop, but only for it's use in putting new music on his iPod. He mostly wears black, white, anything in neutral shades. He wears surprisingly nice clothes, but that's because he stole them. He's like a modern day Robin Hood: he steals from the rich and from thieves and lawbreakers, and gives what he takes to the poor, only keeping some things for himself. He doesn't do it often, because it's risky.
17
son of unknown
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Shane; the kid that no one really cares about. He's practically invisible to the world in that no one knows him. He was raised as an orphan his whole life, never adopted. When he turned seventeen, he left the orphanage with nothing but the clothes on his back and his iPod, his only possession. He lived in the big city, the cheapest place for him to live, in a rundown apartment in the slums. He doesn't seem to react to anything, mostly cause of how he was raised. The orphanage was a very small building but filled to bursting with children. They were forced to stay quiet and sit still or they would be punished, so as long as he obeyed, he was fine. That's why he doesn't show emotion or really form attachments to things because he feels they will just be taken away from him. If he ever tried to express himself, he was shut down, so he doesn't even bother to try. He doesn't know who his parents were, since he was found and brought to the orphanage as an infant. No one ever adopted him because he seemed so quiet and troubled. As a little one, he was bullied by the older kids and was considered an outcast. One such incident with the bullies left him deaf in his right ear; they set off a firework next to his head. His burns healed, but he still has crisscrossing scars on the right side of his face near his ear and eye going down his neck to his shoulder. He had managed to close his eyes in time, so his right eye was spared from being blind. He is, however, blind in his left eye. No one knows how that happened. It was actually the result of a monster's failed attempt at killing him, but not even he knows that. Sometimes he can sense monsters and demigods, but he doesn't really know what he's sensing. He has an exceptional ear for music and sometimes says that he "can't live without it." He wears dark sunglasses to hide his eyes from the world, so no one can tell where he's looking. He also doesn't want them to see his blind left eye. He isn't one to care about appearances, but deformities like blindness and scars draw attention, and that's the last thing he wants. Shane is tall for his age, not overly so, just about two inches taller than average. He has spiky, burgundy hair that almost brushes his shoulders. He has bright amber eyes, but his left eye is paled from lack of light reception. He is very smart, but he never went to school. Still, he's fast when it comes to learning, and he often studies things by reading books at the library. He doesn't care for electronics except his iPod and perhaps a laptop, but only for it's use in putting new music on his iPod. He mostly wears black, white, anything in neutral shades. He wears surprisingly nice clothes, but that's because he stole them. He's like a modern day Robin Hood: he steals from the rich and from thieves and lawbreakers, and gives what he takes to the poor, only keeping some things for himself. He doesn't do it often, because it's risky.
Taikatalvi Tockspringe
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___7582898.jpg)
Taikatalvi Caradhras Tockspringe
14
unclaimed
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo and Artemis
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly.
14
unclaimed
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo and Artemis
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly.
Voltaire Ashforge
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/___6480525.jpg)
Voltage Ashforge
15
son of
god/dess
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
15
son of
god/dess
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none