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morvantmortuary · 11 months

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the miraculous mr. sunday -

(the magician)

(rarae aves’s slasher oc)

“You know, when I got my name, everyone in town was glad when Sunday rolled in. Nowadays I’m wondering if I need to rebrand. You, though - you can call me Seth. All my friends do.”

age: finally stopped aging somewhere in his mid-40s (5/22/1901)(taurus-gemini cusp) birthplace: A town that doesn’t exist anymore in Western Kansas, USA. height: 6’0” current location: ominously close to the parish line near Greymoon, Louisiana. favorite book: says it’s the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald (it’s really the wonderful wizard of oz by l. frank baum) hobbies: travel (anywhere the wind blows, really), oddities and miracles, old-fashioned circus/sideshows, magic, and their history (especially in the US tradition), parties (mostly attending, never hosts much himself for such a gregarious fellow), and any and all forms of theater and performance. being with as many people as possible, far from the empty fields and endless wind. occupation: former stage magician, now fixer for They Who Provide. Aspiring Necromancer.

(what he’d pick as his own walk-on music: I put a spell on you - screamin’ jay hawkins what it actually would be: when the circus came to town — aurelio voltaire fc: david dastmalchian, underrated horror darling of my heart.)

“You wouldn’t believe the kind of opportunities people just… throw away.” Seth Sunday flicks a vintage lighter open and closed as he speaks, almost without realizing it. He hasn’t needed it for decades now - no point in smoking when you don’t always need to breathe. it’s mostly there for him to fidget with, truthfully. “It’s not every day Destiny prostrates itself at your door, you know. You’d have to be awful conceited to act like it’s just going to hang around while you get your shoes on.” He laughs, and it’s a cold, hard little sound like something stunted from a lack of sun despite the warmth of his smile. “Me, I came up the old fashioned way.” The lighter flicks closed. “I saw my moment, and I didn’t wait for ‘my turn.’ I found my own way in. I gave everything I ever knew for just one chance. And now look at me.” He pulls another hand from the pocket of his long, oddly patterned black coat, but there’s something… unfamiliar about it. The fingertips are dark, as though they’ve lost blood and then been dipped in ash. The nails look like they’ll snag on any ephemeral trace of you they can reach. “You know the secret to getting everything you ever wanted?” he says, gazing almost admiringly at his warped digits.

The longer you look, the more you’d swear the air over his fingertips starts to ripple. As if something is stroking the very fabric of the space around you, toying with the individual threads.

When his eyes find yours, you feel like you’ve been shoved down a flight of stairs in the face of all that bottomless blackness. His smile isn’t so warm now. “I do.”

a history, of sorts:

Seth says he doesn’t remember his birth name. The one written in a mildewed family Bible in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, Kansas, on an overcast spring day in 1901. He doesn’t need to remember it. That child - later, that man - is dead. Has been for more than a century now.

He’d seen to that himself.

Seth’s parents were immigrants, would-be homesteaders in a countryside drenched in blood they were willing to overlook for the cheap promises of a government looking for labor. Then they were farmers. Farmers with shit luck in multiple regards: first in their curse of an eldest child, a sickly daydreamer with no stomach for the grisly aspects of tending livestock and no fortitude for planting crops, who spent good money on books and useless picture show tickets when it could have gone to food. Then in the fact that his mother got pregnant, again, far too late to save his parents’ marriage or for their struggling household to support more mouths.

But for a few years, the scrappy little family seemed to catch a break. For one blissful bubble after Isaac and Ezekiel were born healthy and hale, and there was a wheat boom in the wake of the first World War (the ‘Great War’, the war to end all wars, it had been called. So much for that.), it seemed like everything might just turn around. Father was strong, Mother was healthy, and Seth was set to inherit a thriving farm when it was his time. Seth hated every minute of it.

He wanted more. He was meant for more. He wanted to be one of the people from his childhood in the center of the three rings on his one and only visit to a circus, or someone in the glow of stage lights, on his brief ventures into the city for errands, or one of the ghostly faces on the giant shimmering screen in the lone little theater three towns over. The farm was the handcuffs he couldn’t manage to unlock, as easy as the traveling magicians made it look. He didn’t want younger brothers, or aging parents that clearly preferred them and not him, or the responsibilities of the supposedly cherished oldest son. He didn’t want to be born and die on the same plot of land, buried somewhere the cows could graze over for the rest of eternity, his name only ever meaning wasted potential. He’d tried to enlist for the Great War, tried to get sent abroad like other boys he knew. He was a little young, but he was tall for his age even then, and he almost - almost - got away to see the world.

But his father, a cheap bastard if he’d ever known one, had somehow scraped together enough money and their best cow to bribe the recruiters who came to town looking to look the other way. He wouldn’t dignify pretending it was done out of love, either. His father was a pragmatic man. He’d known that it was only ever about keeping enough labor for the farm, especially with his mother newly pregnant at the time.

His life as he knew it was only ever in service to those around him. Their choices defined his. It was enough to make any man see red, after so many years.

Then came what would be known to later generations as the Dust Bowl, and Seth’s world turned black.

The crops withered up, and so did the cows. Dirt swept through the skies in curtains so thick it blocked out the sun. There was no surface in the little ramshackle house that wasn’t covered in it by nightfall, no matter how much one swept or wiped or screamed. For years, it felt like his every breath was studded with grit. He had nightmares of being buried alive in the miserable barren plot that used to be the pasture.

Just when he thought he’d choke to death on it, his father beat him to the grave, leaving him and his fragile mother alone with his two boisterous brothers. He was the man of the house, now, and it made him want to claw off his own skin.

So much so, he thought it was worth trading someone else’s to escape. It’s no surprise that certain folklore has a habit of dispersing itself, even through a country as vast as this one was already. Tales whispered in half fear, half hope by the desperate circulate like much-needed storms, especially when those storms refuse to materialize.

It was Seth’s idea to go to the crossroads, but he let his mother think it was hers — a half-remembered story from the old country, rather than something strange he’d found in a book long forgotten under his bed. The little family trekked there together, walking the miles in shoes close to worn through, and only just reaching the nearest junction when his father’s cracked pocket watch read midnight.

Seth had been chosen to ask for the family’s salvation, for the ability to carry them all on for another year — he had the best English of the family, and what else would a demon speak in a land like this? But when something emerged from the darkness like it was a curtain, asking in a voice like smoke what he wanted…

Seth spoke up for himself, for the first time in his life.

He only felt a little bad when he saw what the demon did to his mother. But he couldn’t deny his own glee when he saw what happened to her precious twins. Before a quarter of an hour had passed, Seth could make fire appear at the tips of his fingers, could make coins appear from thin air. The things he could do would have caused his idol, Harry Houdini, to break into a nervous sweat. Everything he’d ever dreamed of as a lonely boy in the fields, he could do at his own merest whim.

Seth ditched his human name, and at the demon’s suggestion, adopted the surname of Sunday. “The Miraculous” had been his own touch. It was finally his turn to be the miracle he never was to his folks. And for decades, he was. He was beloved in the small towns he stopped in, his own traveling show, with a rotation of beautiful assistants at his beck and call over the years. Nothing was ever too good for him, he could dazzle his way into anywhere he wanted.

As long as he kept things square with They Who Provide, he was living the good life.

…But times have a habit of changing. As the world grew, magic - both real and sleight of hand - shank in its influence. For all his caustic nature, Seth Sunday was ill-equipped for a world that finally matched his inward cynicism. And what did They Who Provide need with some little nobody from the middle of nowhere, when they had entire established families, generations of magic, at their beck and call?

After decades of earning his keep by tying up his benefactors’ loose ends, Seth finally heard something very interesting: A whisper of a family down south that was refusing to hold up their end of their contract.

A family with power over Death itself.

…Well. If there was an open spot to fill, and no one there to fill it, Seth saw no reason he couldn’t throw his own metaphorical hat in the ring. After all, he has plenty of experience keeping demons satisfied. What’s three more names to add to his list of sacrifices?

There was always something to be said for reinventing oneself when your act was getting stale. He could see himself growing into “The Miraculous Master Lazarus” just fine.

#the miraculous mr. sunday #seth sunday #slasher oc #necromancer oc #magician oc #david dastmalchian fc #morvant mortuary #monsterkisser fics #(not affliliated with the appreciation tag for actor seth numrich)#(I've never seen him in anything but he seems nice. good for them.)#ofc I introduce him on world goth day are you kidding me #(eta: idk wtf is going on with the spacing excuse me while I fix that)

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recvordshqs · 2 months

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* EXTRA, EXTRA! desde westbound mag nos complace presentar a otra de las estrellas del firmamento de don crowlley, MAGDALENE LOOMIS ha hecho una aparición de último momento en las oficinas de westbound tras el fallecimiento del rey midas de la música ¿cuál será su próximo movimiento? descuida, que maureen y sus secuaces le seguirán muy de cerca.

¡bienvenide a recvordshqs, lourdes! te agradecemos muchísimo el interés puesto en el proyecto, te recordamos que cuentas con veinticuatro horas para enviar la cuenta de tu personaje, de necesitar más tiempo no dudes en enviar un mensajito a la administración.

# fuera de personaje.

SEUDÓNIMO: lourdes.

ZONA HORARIA Y/O PAÍS: gmt-3

TRIGGERS: toda clase de abuso o violencia sexual.

¿NOS DAS PERMISO DE QUE TU PERSONAJE PARTICIPE DE MANERA ACTIVA EN LAS INTERVENCIONES Y CAPÍTULOS?: sí, pero no doy permiso a usarlo si doy unfollow.

¿ERES MAYOR DE VEINTIUNO?: sí, 24.

CANCIÓN PARA LA PLAYLIST: "mr. crowley" de black sabbath.

# ficha de identificación.

NOMBRE Y STAGE NAME: MAGDALENE es su stage name. ¿es acaso LOOMIS su verdadero apellido? sólo crowlley, con su papeleo y contratos, lo sabía a ciencia cierta.

FACECLAIM: mia goth.

EDAD, FECHA Y LUGAR DE NACIMIENTO: 28, nacida el 11 de noviembre y salida del midwest estadounidense, probablemente oriunda de misuri. ¿evidencia? su leve arrastrar de las palabras al hablar.

PSIQUE: MAGDALENE apareció en la escena musical de los angeles hace más de un lustro cargando consigo un bajo y ojos furiosos. su actitud es desagradable, quizá por eso es que se dice de ella que es mejor en la cama de lo que es en la música, y que tiene suerte de que don crowlley haya caído presa de sus encantos, los cuales, por supuesto, parte de la prensa dice que son dudosos o, si le preguntan a un crítico más cruel, nulos. oculta sus intenciones y también miente: nadie sabe de dónde ha salido ni quién es su familia. es reservada, por lo mismo, pero no es una mujer lógica; es explosiva. algo es cierto: no llegó a donde está por nada, de apagada a escandalosa como con el clic de un botón.

FÍSICO: cejas blanquecinas, nariz respingada, pecas en el rostro y el pelo voluminoso. se viste como le gusta, sin importar si está de moda o no, y tiene callos en los dedos por las cuerdas de su bajo.

PUNTOS CLAVE: 1) nació en el medio oeste estadounidense, pero nadie sabe en qué parte. es fácil, dada la falta de tecnología de punta, hacerse con una vida nueva. la realidad, o al menos parte de ella, es que magdalene era la única hija de una pareja inestable. su madre dice que su padre se fue porque no las amaba más (dependiendo el humor del día, decía que no las amó nunca), aunque los rumores del pueblo lindante al río dicen que su madre le dio muerte con un trato diabólico o con un hacha. era esa madre la loca del pueblo, la supuesta bruja de las afueras que, a los pocos que le creían su poder, les leía las cartas y los embadurnaba en verbena y laurel. a magdalene eso la volvía loca. sobre todo cuando se ponían a gritar, supuestos exorcismos los que se llevaban a cabo en el cuarto de atrás de su triste casa. 2) además, hacerse con una vida nueva es fácil cuando estás en los ángeles. es más, es la regla. fantaseó con ese lugar al otro lado del país, sueño gigante el de sentir el olor a mar y ver las luces por primera vez, desde que comenzó a ver películas. a veces escapaba de su pueblo y se iba a la ciudad cercana, al cine, y quería ser como las estrellas que pasaban a la trasnoche, soñaba con esa vida sin dolor. logró llegar a california, eventualmente, y se posicionó en una de las diminutas casas en una zona poco glamurosa. tenía veintiún años. era el final de los sesenta y el mundo entero hablaba de la contracultura hippie, la cual no significaba nada para magdalene, tan presa del dolor y la rabia ¿cómo podría encontrar sustento en la paz y el amor? las drogas las tomó, por supuesto, eso sí que lo hizo. 3) en los angeles quiso ser actriz y modelo pero no tuvo suerte, incluso si posó para algunas revistas adultas y para las portadas de algunas novelas pulp, todas de poca monta, ese un pasado difícil que ha intentado olvidar. seguía siendo mesera incluso ahí y lo fue hasta mil nueve setenta, cuando black sabbath publicó su primer álbum. cambió su vida. ser actriz pasó a ser algo inoportuno, torpe, adolescente. todo parecía un sinsentido excepto el heavy metal. por eso sacó sus ahorros y se fue en su auto destartalado, el cual se quedó varias veces en plena carretera, a seguir el primer tour de la banda en estados unidos. los siguió hasta a sus bares, haciendo que le firmen su vinilo rayado. 4) sucedió, eventualmente, en una de las últimas fechas, que la banda la invitó a festejar el fin de la gira con ellos en un bar. después de todo, era una fanática verdadera que se cantaba todo con una botella de cerveza en la mano, derramándola en los demás al moverse en la marea de gente. no se acostó con ninguno de los integrantes, incluso si para los medios ahí comenzó todo, y sólo se pusieron terriblemente borrachos. en esa ocasión conoció a un simple trabajador de la agrupación, el cual cargaba y bajaba amplificadores del tour bus. no se enamoró de él, pero por él tocó su primer bajo. en ese entonces magdalene ya tenía veintitrés, era ya una mujer, y aun así sintió que toda su vida fue nada, menos que una niña o que una mota de polvo. eso hasta que tocó ese bajo grave y apenas sonoro. se enamoró, sí, pero del instrumento. 5) regresó a los angeles igual de furiosa que antes, pero ahora decidida a olvidarse de la actuación y de ser mesera: quería ser igual que ozzy, pero con el bajo. tuvo que endeudarse y empeñar sus pocas alhajas para conseguir uno de segunda mano, y con eso llegó a cruzar pasos con don crowlley hace cinco años. con un álbum de estudio ya lanzado, no es exactamente la mujer más famosa del mundo, pero ahora es reconocida cuando camina por sunset boulevard.

# archivo en westbound records.

POSICIÓN EN WESTBOUND: es bajista y corista. cuando toca hacer versiones acústicas, toca la pandereta. a veces escribe canciones, pero nunca llegan a ver la luz y sólo don era el espectador de sus letras.

RELACIÓN CON DON: todos dicen que lo sedujo, que era su amante, que todas las veces que pasaba sin cita previa a la oficina de él, se acostaban. también se opina que es gracias a ello que su contrato sangrante llegó a darse. magdalene lo adoraba, incluso con su terrible carácter, y se refiere a él como su mentor y gran amigo, sin importar si alguna vez, presa de su personalidad, magdalene le habrá intentado reventar botellas en la cabeza. jura que nunca se acostó con él.

REACCIÓN A SU FALLECIMIENTO: removido.

OPINIÓN DE WESTBOUND: le ha dado todo y lo sabe, eso que no es una mujer agradecida, y habla bien de su disquera.

#app.#fc: mia goth.#usuario: lourdes.

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