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childrenofathoria-rp-blog · 7 years

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◆Out Of Character Information◆

Name/Age: Kat, 19 Preferred Pronouns: She/Her Timezone: EST Desired Character: Graham

◆Character Information◆

(1) What pronouns will your character be using? Would you like to list their sexuality at this time?:

He/Him, and yes, heteroromantic, asexual. I feel that while a romantic connection is possible, not highly probable, he has no interest in physical relationships, never really has, even as a human. He has a certain disconnect from other people, so much so that mental connection alone is unlikely, never mind one to the point where he wants someone else to touch him in any sense of the word. However, that being said, there’s a flexibility to this. He doesn’t desire physical relationships and won’t go out of his way in any sense for them, but if someone’s persistent on it he’ll possibly do it just for the sake of doing it. This could also possibly change with development, but I see this as a loose idea of were he stands currently.

(2) Any changes or comments?

No changes but I did make a playlist for my own muse reasons, if you guys have any interest in that you can find it here!

(3) Why this character?

There’s something compelling about him, there’s something.. Special. I’ve always had a knack for angst, and oh boy is he an angst lord. Originally going through this group and the new biographies I found myself struggling to connect with a character on a personal and on a muse level, that was, until I came across this absolute masterpiece of a man. He has a very armored exterior but a calm and collected disposition, he’s clever and witty but not at all extroverted. He ages like fine wine in an uncorked bottle, bitter as fuck. Okay, jokes aside, I fell in love with this character, hard and fast. Graham has so many layers to him that I’m just dying to get my hands on and explore. He has anger and sadness bottled up and kept inside, and his theory on would most definitely be, in the words of John Mulaney, “I’ll keep all my emotions right here, and then one day, I’ll die.” He’s put together by juxtapositions, never being particularly one way or the other. He’s secretive, and yet he publishes his life, his thoughts, his experiences. He’s a fucking mystery, through and through, and I can’t express enough how intoxicating the idea of getting to play that out is to me. I’m practically addicted, which really explains my ridiculous application length, it wasn’t so much me wanting to impress you or to fill space (I’ve never been one to do that, I was actually cursing at myself to shut up when writing this if I’m honest), but more because I just had so many ideas that I wanted to get down as soon as I possibly could, if not for the application then for me in general. I want to raise this already fully grown and matured boy like my own, really.

(4) Interpret this character:

(This part is low key me rewriting the biography with past headcanons)

Graham, subsequently, cannot stop thinking about death. It’s been said time and time again, and is an obvious trait of his that dates back to his first personal experience; when he lost his parents. It was a time of illness and pain, everyone either being a victim or seeing someone they love be taken by the soul. For most kids, a traumatic experience such as that one makes them fear death, it reveals to them their own mortality and takes them apart like building blocks, but for Graham that was never the case. From the first deaths his eyes witnessed, the first two lives taken that truly impacted his life, he formed an obsession, a fixation, and his own illness at the time seemed almost like a blessing. No child wanted to be an orphan, and no child wanted to be alone. However, what set him apart was that no child wanted to be ill either.

He still, to this day, believes that that was what cursed him, the desire that left a black mark on his soul, because within a month, he was cured. It was an anomaly at the time, very few people who had been infected had survived. The townspeople called him a miracle, told him he was lucky. Oh, how wrong they could be. Since that day he had been completely and utterly, for lack of a better word, fucked, and he knew it, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.

One day, not long after reaching recovery, he had been wandering by himself, something that he wasn’t technically allowed to do, and he had come across a woman, a witch. She had given him a look that he’d never forget with words to go with it. “You have stolen from death, and it shall not let that pass without payment, boy.” The interaction had left Graham with a bad taste in his mouth and a churning in his stomach. It wasn’t a feeling he would soon, nor ever, forget.

Despite that horrid memory that knawed on his mind, he found that his days were spent in a slow build, a life empty, and if he were to be honest about it with anyone, boring. Getting through schooling was a process that he wouldn’t wish upon the most obnoxious of lads, and despite his bountiful, perfect grades, he had hated almost every subject of study with the exception of reading and writing, but even that sort was difficult. Not so much because he didn’t like writing, we all know that’s not the case at all, but because he wanted free reign over his own literature and he only wanted to indulge the works he had picked himself. He and his school teacher had a bit of a power struggle, debates being plentiful, but over all, she had appreciated his enthusiasm, and became somewhat of a contributing factor to his passion for self reflection, in fact, she had given him his first journal, which was more or less a stack of parchment bound together at the edges with a very thin twine.

At the time, neither of them had been entirely positive of what that journal would later mean, what it would build in him or how strong his skill would become, but over time it revealed itself, his talent and natural flair of poetry finding its way onto the battered pages.

Graham was a natural in a way, yes, but he struggled with creativity. He was a master of words and phrases, poetic statements and prose, but he could never come up with stories. That was his literary downfall. When it came to reality, things he knew, his own experiences, the words flowed easily, ink practically dripping onto the paper and writing the sentences themselves, but when he tried to create from his imagination, from things he didn’t know inside and out, he found himself with writers block. He wrote beautiful lines, yes, but lines that didn’t quite mean anything, lines that had plot holes and difficult character development. Graham hated not being good at something.

He hated it so much, in fact, that after a few years of trying to learn the art of creative writing in private he scrapped it, instead sticking to what he knew, what he was good at. This in itself was somewhat problematic, as while he had life experience it certainly wasn’t enough, or perhaps wasn’t quite as interesting, as he needed in order to become successful. In his mortal life, Graham had been a writer for himself more than anyone else.

His school experience, while dull, had had it’s moments. He had sat by, watching as students disappeared from class and never returned, teachers falling ill and never coming back from their leaves. If he hadn’t survived the illness, he knew he wouldn’t have questioned it, but because of not only his morbid nature but his experience, his past, he knew what had happened, he knew they were dead, and the witches words always rang clear in his mind. He found himself believing that their demises where somehow his fault, linked to a curse he knew deep down had to exist. He dragged this guilt through schooling, and carried it on his back into adulthood like an unlit pyre.

When he finished schooling, he traveled to Miervaldis to become an apprentice bookkeeper, this is where he met his mentor. Graham had never found anyone quite like him, even his teacher back in Crescent Grove was repressive compared to his new mentor. No one inspired him as that man had, no one taught him new ways of writing and thinking quite like the wise mentor who showed him the world in series of books and poetry. Graham had always been shut off, self-isolating, and seclusive, but he had found his walls broken down by the man, and for the first time, found himself accepting someone into his life as a proper teacher, friend, and almost as a parent. His influence fed into Graham’s literary heart like wood to a fire, making the passion burn red hot as he continued to log his experiences. To this day, he has every journal he’s ever written packed away in a private library, all the things too boring for publishing, all the things he believes no one would care to hear.

This relationship wasn’t short lived, no, it grew well into Graham’s adult life, but as all things do, it ended in death.

When Graham was teetering on his mid-thirties, considered mid-life for most but either three quarters or one for Graham, depending how you look at it, his mentor had reached a very old age, and he died.. peacefully. You would think that fact would make Graham less bitter, less angry, but it didn’t. He knew the man had lived a long, wonderful life, but his stress, his anger, and bitter self-centered nature made him reclusive, he caved back in. All the progress he had made towards opening up to people depleted, and he cowered back into the corners of his self pity and soaked even further into a pool of research and obsession with death.

Do you notice a reoccurring theme?

With that came Graham’s first published story, a written log of his time spent with his mentor, and a tale of his death. It was dark, and his feelings of life and the afterlife spilled onto the pages in black and white. His first proper story of loss, and it put him on the map. Unfortunately, he wasn’t on it for long because shortly after he died. Or, well, he died then came back, which I suppose didn’t effect his readers as much as it effected him, as much as it brought his perspectives and words to a somehow even darker place.

However, the one good thing to come from it, the one positive he finds in reaping, is that he never runs out of stories.

(This is the more current headcanon heavy section)

Now Graham wanders with a confidence in his work but a broken sense of self, he reaps for stories to tell and for the desperate hope that one of the souls would be the one to quench his life source, the one to dissipate him, to send him off to whatever comes after this existence for his kind. He’s the opposite of many people he comes into contact with, despite not being decidedly poor he dresses in dark colors, as many shades of grays and black as he can, perhaps for obvious reasons. Long sleeved dark garments, and tunics were common, paired with a long black hooded garb, tended to make him stand out in the most unusual of ways. The garb of which has a pocket sown into the inside breast that was created to hold his scythe, which is a letter opener with an elaborate silver handle. Most beings in towns and cities stuck to lighter fabrics and colors, a customary show of wealth, or browns and whites, wools and linens, for the lower and middle class, these were schemes in which he did not blend in easily.

Graham continues to live with a sense of superiority, in fact, it somewhat grows with age. It’s hard for him to not speak with a somewhat condescending tone when he finds people of lesser knowledge attempting conversations with him, usually unable to keep up in mental capacity. He finds it frustrating and tiresome, but always does his best to answer any reasonable questions people may have, although, that being said, he’s not afraid to refuse to respond entirely if he feels its inappropriate or not something he has any desire to entertain. Graham is many things, but a liar has never been one. He sees no need to lie, or to make up stories in a sense, in order to make other people feel either pleased or displeased. He’s always had a complex, an idealization, that lies, when found unsatisfactory, are the liars fault, and the disdain can properly be placed onto them. However, when the truth is deemed unsatisfactory, well, at least they didn’t lie, that would’ve been worse, would it not?

Despite the fact that he knows he isn’t the only reaper, and certainly not the oldest, proof given by Azrael’s existence, he still feels as if he carries a burden no one else quite understands. It could be his own deprecating self-centered nature causing this thought process, but he feels that it’s more because of his own obsession and relationship with death, his reasoning for having died and the build up that lead to it, he believes it sets him apart for the rest. Is he right? Perhaps, but even if it was said otherwise he would most likely continue this order of thinking, just keeping it to himself, as he tends to do anyways.

Graham is an anti-social personality at best, despite sticking out due to his well-known stories and choices in attire, he avoids conversation and social events well. Of course, if the most persistent of people find themselves unaffected by his obvious disdain for casual communication he will indulge them for however long he sees fit, usually taking at least some form of enjoyment from the interactions, despite the fact he would never admit this aloud.

Overall, he is a miserable, lonely creature, a dark and cloudy home nestled into his chest full of cracks and stone. Despite this, he hold a certain swagger and charm that, unfortunately for him, draws others interest to him. He’s found ways to manage over the years, ways to mask his disappointment after a reap when he finds he’s still existing, somehow. He keeps an aloof disposition and a sarcastic tone at his friendliest. Somewhat formal in word choices, and conversational topics, he could easily be seen as sententious, but in actuality, it’s a guard that he’s long since put up, protecting his innermost organs and emotions from anymore harm. He knows with time, that all those he meets are destined for death, and with the way his so called life seems to be going, he has few doubts that he will be gone before they.

He looks upon the letters he’s been receiving with an almost lackluster interest, not because he has any real intention of listening to them, quite the contrary, actually, but because he finds the concept itself curious. He could easily ignore the letters entirely, not finding any cause for reading them but to sate his own curiosity, but he finds the game of letters to be something new, even entertaining, perhaps, so he continues to read them and finds an interest growing somewhere in his mind to find the author.

◆ Interview Questions ◆

How cryptic is your writing when it comes to life on the other side?

I sit back in my chair, legs crossing and eyes narrowing slightly, only for a short moment before I speak. “It seems someone hasn’t read my work.” My voice dripped not venom but satin, not coming across with any emotion and yet I chose my tone so carefully that one wouldn’t feel threatened, maybe even somehow comforted but in a rather patronizing way. As if I were talking to child, and, well, I suppose considering my age, I am. If they had indulged any of my works, they could answer the question themselves. “In my published work? Vague.” I say simply, a sharp look finding its way in their direction. I’ve always been careful of my own words, my choices. Literary freedom only goes as far as you allow it to. Other beings cannot see the other side for a reason. Why? I’ve never been sure. Perhaps it’s because they wouldn’t be able to withstand it, physically and mentally, maybe it was just pure cosmic coincidence. I have my own theory. I believe that mortality, in the simplest sense of the word, is what holds one back from limbo and all that it inhabits. Who am I to break the mystery? How cruel and selfish would it be of me to ruin it, to break the enchantment that a well-kept secret holds in its palms? No, it’s not my place. I’ve always known that. “My personal collection? Much more educational.” I speak as if this information isn’t surprising, because logically, it isn’t. What is an artist without a private gallery? Secrets. Even in thirty nine years of life, death, and four hundred years thereafter, I still have my own secrets. Some call it a link to humanity, I just say its to stay sane. How does a man who desires nothing but death yet cannot die stay sane? Answer: He takes pleasure in knowing things that others do not. It’s one of the only things in eternal life that I find even somewhat bearable. A silver lining, no matter how thin it may be. I almost forget there’s another person in the room, lost in my own thoughts. That happens a lot. I snap myself out of it. “Allow me to put it this way, if you were to ever find out what lies on the other side, you’d find yourself just as cryptic.”

Do you think you would have become a reaper if you hadn’t killed yourself?

My face remains flat, not exactly stoic, but calm. A tension that should be forming in my shoulders at the brass question does not build. I have asked myself the same thing time and time again. It’s redundant to think about, but to speak it out loud would be a new venture. Maybe it will clear my head, maybe it makes more sense to speak my thoughts out loud. Perhaps, another being will have something to say about it that I have not considered. Unlikely. “I cheated death long before I ever faced that carriage. It’s simply achieving it’s revenge.” My voice sounds more sure than I feel, but it’s nearly impossible to tell just by looking at me, I spent my years learning to keep a straight face. “That being said, I believe what was supposed to be my tragic end was doing nothing but taunting Azrael, and maybe even death itself.” I clasp my hands together, back straight with a surprisingly comfortable disposition. I find that after four hundred years I no longer feel stress or anger as much as I experience an eternal craving, a sadness. A jealousy. Reapers who kill themselves, in my experience, tend to want nothing more than to breathe the rest of the breaths they stole from themselves. They have a desire to live again. I do not sympathize, nor do I share the sentiment. “It sounds as if you’re asking me whether or not I regret my actions.” I added, eyes focusing on the person opposite of me, the one with such an open questionnaire. I shared the sentiment, and debated briefly whether or not I should answer the unasked question. I decided not to, instead shifting backwards in my seat, resting against the back of the armchair. If they want to know, they could ask. I wondered how far I could press their brave curiosity. Though I wouldn’t say it, I’m refreshed. Not many people talk to me so openly, not anymore. The older I get the more of a ancient relic I seem to become, the more cautious people are talking to me. I don’t have much to live for, much like an elderly man with a deceased wife. Yes, give me even less with your hesitant silence. This individual doesn’t seem to experience that heavy burden. Oh, to be ignorant again.

◆Writing Sample:◆

Sample Para 1: (Okay so.. trigger warnings, like a lot of them. Suicide (2x), death, blood, low key vomiting, some gore, low key body horror (?)… insects, maybe? There’s probably so much more, you can add any you feel like there should be oh boy.)

Walking home was a casualty as well as a time to rearrange thoughts. Graham always used this time to his leisure, prolonging the span between leaving and arriving, trying to spend as many waking moments as self-involved as possible. He no longer had a desire to share thoughts with words, to speak, even when spoken to. Since the painful loss of his mentor he found himself knit tightly with silence, almost having taken a personal vow. No one really noticed the exceptional quiet, he was never particularly talkative to begin with. The only words people had heard from him in his last living days came in the form of quill to paper, words on parchment. It was the last push he had needed to completely give up on the life he was never supposed to have. So broken heartstrings bled the blues. Graham had never considered himself suicidal, but he had found himself in questionable situations with rather morbid possibilities more and more often recently. Sometimes it was something small, like leaving the candles lit when he went to sleep, not caring if it were knocked over, sending himself up and the house up in flames. Other times, it was something bigger, more obvious, like when he would climb onto the roofs of buildings, claiming he was seeking muse, but secretly fantasizing about an earthquake, or a surprising noise that would knock him from his placement on the high safety to the ground. He wondered whether the noise would be dramatic, like a ’crunch’ or a maybe even a reasonable ’splat,’ or whether it would be a muted noise, a ‘thump,’ the sound of a rock hitting soft underfoot. Rather anticlimactic. Some would say that he always had that mentality, that lack of self preservation and the urge for his life to diminish before his very eyes in a swirl of dust. They would be correct in that sentiment, at least in some way. Graham had never truly cherished his life, he was never thankful for it. There were very few moments, if any, where he found himself thinking he was glad to be alive, not even in passing, not even for a second. He flaunted the Earth in a blissful indifference as a child, an empty shell that held on only by pure coincidence. Then, as he grew older, as more people fell like crumpled sacks of mud around him, his blissful neutrality soon became a dull ache. A throbbing in his chest region, right below the heart, and another, pressed up against his brain and skull, telling him that this life was no longer worth living. His life was a death sentence from the moment it began. He had always known himself to be a beacon for destruction, and he always thought that perhaps that would end if his life did. Death was always a way out, a plan B lurking around every corner. It called to him from sharp objects and tall places, it cooed like a mother to a child, coaxing him to the edge of cliff, the waves offering a sweet caress. He always restrained himself, held back from going out of his way to cause such a messy fate, however, he always found himself in a constant swirl of ’if death barrels in my direction, why should I flinch?’ It was that exact notion that kept his feet planted in the path of an unruly horse.

His eyes found the horse quite quickly, it was hard not to with the commotion surrounding such a thing. A whip, a startled coachman, and quite a bit of screaming. He looked at the scenario unfolding in front of him slowly, as if the clock wasn’t ticking for him to move out of the way, his last moments to save himself from total destruction. He didn’t take it. He felt his fists close in on themselves instinctively, his body’s natural reaction to run being fought with every fiber of his being. He wanted it, actually, he needed it. All he found himself thinking as the carriage barreled towards him was ’so this is what’s it’s like.’ His entire existence was building to the moment he ceased to, that’s what he had always believed, and as the coachman screamed at him, eyes bugging out of his head as he tried to warn Graham, they made eye contact. Then there was a bright burst of light, a noise loud in his right ear, and nothing. The sensation of death is like drowning, even if the cause is nothing to do with water, swallowing mouthful, lung, mouthful, of something that isn’t quite air and then… numbness. It’s painful, and then peaceful. All at once. Once the pain subsided, Graham found that he liked death. Oh, how morbid a thought. He loved it; the feeling of it, the force. He always knew he would, and there was something so pleasurable in finding out he was right. The dull ache that had plagued him through his entire life was gone, empty, it left him with a feeling of pure freedom, of unadulterated nothingness that filled the desecrated void that he believed his humanity had been. They say there are stages of grief when it comes to dying, but what they don’t tell you is that the same stages apply for coming back. The next thing Graham saw was white, but not a light this time. It wasn’t a walkway to heaven, or whatever it is that people say you’re supposed to see when you die. It was smoke, shifting around his face, breathing into his lungs despite the fact he no longer felt as if he required oxygen. Sucking in air, or whatever it was that was corroding his vision, was a comfort. It drifting through his nostrils and lungs, clouding his vision. Cool on his skin. He found his arms, his hands, his legs. He pushed himself up, face searching for something other than white, and he was greeted with just that. Darkness, black. A long empty stretch of field and despite the smoke covering the sky, making him wonder whether there was really a sky at all, he somehow knew it was night time. If it were a time at all, that was. He half expected the clouds to part, to reveal a sky of stars or perhaps for him to jolt out of a dream. Was this this other side? The thought flooded quickly and he felt a gnawing at his stomach as he got his footing. Of course he would be damned to a life of spiritual limbo. He had heard stories, tales, myths, of this place, or of what he assumed this was. Was he a specter? Was this real? He felt a growing frustration, a growing confusion. Where was he? “Hello?” His voice was demanding, saturated with disbelief and vexation, agitated, and maybe even the slightest bit afraid. His voice echoed back to him despite the lack of walls or mountains, there were no barriers, not that he could see. His voice didn’t stop there, it continued it’s bounce, back and forth, back and forth, the volume increasing each time until he was screaming at himself, his voice so loud in his ears he crumpled back to the ground, hands covering his head as the word beat him like a brick. Then it went silent.

He woke up in a field, the same field, gasping for air he still wasn’t sure he needed anymore. His senses were blurry, coming back slowly, one by one as he coughed and spit, blood and God knows what pouring from between his lips as his vision streaked its way into existence. The shine of a bright early morning almost blinding him again as his eyes lids fought to open, his entire body protesting, as if it knew that he should no longer be there. Limbs cracked, trying to bring themselves out of positions they weren’t made to be in. His eyes flickered through the pain, through the light, taking in the surroundings. They were the same, while being entirely different in every way. The smoke was gone, the darkness was missing. That echo dissipated into thin air, as if it had never existed. Maybe it hadn’t, of that he was still unsure. The next thing he noticed was that he was covered in mud. It was caked to his clothes, his skin, his hair. He was drowning in dirt, and more than displeased to find the other inhabitants of his mouth were insects, hands planted on the ground as he struggled to sit up, dry heaving and his brain reeling as memories flooded back. Was the darkness a dream? He was hit by a carriage, that much was painfully obvious, how else would he have gotten into this situation? Another thing he knew, or was almost sure he knew, as he struggled on his hands and knees, still emptying his body of whatever fluids and contents had decided to make a home of it, was that he should’ve died. He should be dead. Did he survive? The question struck like lightening, sending pain down his spine that wasn’t quite physical. It looked, it felt as if he survived, but he died. He knew he died, he had felt it. Confusion and nausea over took his body, a shaking in his hands and arms that was caused entirely by his panic. He took another look at his surroundings, head not much clearer but more desperate and curious now. He was pushed off road, down a hill. Either the horse wasn’t to be stopped at even the collision or the coachman was in a hell of a rush. He stared at his hands with a sort of angry confusion, fists flexing to be sure they were real. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t place the reality for the situation, he couldn’t sense if this was right, if it was what was supposed to happen. He pushed himself off the ground, trying to dust dirt off his pants and matted tunic, both covered in blood that he could only assume was his own, as he struggling with the waves of emotions coursing through his head and chest, almost drowning him all over again. He wiped the blood from his mouth. This felt a lot like survival, a lot like something he wanted no part of. How long had he been in the field? Was he still alive? Had he died? Was this a sick joke? He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything and he felt the overwhelming sense of frustration and confusion from what he could only guess was real returning, and it wasn’t until he was taking slow steps towards the trail ahead that he realize he shouldn’t be able to walk. He was hit by a carriage, his legs should’ve been the first to give, they where bound to be shattered, broken, unusable. He could only feel the frustration and anger mounting at the thought, and suddenly he found himself at the verge of absolutely losing it. There was no way he’d survived that crash, it was completely implausible, unlikely to the brink of absolute insanity. The universe was laughing at him, as if he were some huge cosmic joke, a fluke.

As he found himself trudging up the hill, struggling to make his way back home, he had the thought, his anger and tension piquing. “To cheat death twice is an anomaly, a complete disassembly of the facts to life. No, I’m not cheating death. Death is cheating me.” I. DENIAL & ANGER The thoughts hit like a horse running at him full speed, except impossibly harder, because while that he expected, desired even, this was a page of a novel he hadn’t even known existed. There was an immediate anger that went hand and hand with the idea of being forced to continue living on this plane of existence, of surviving well past what he felt he was reasonable. No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that. He was a smart man but he suddenly found himself opposing logical ideas like a child who couldn’t get his way. This was a mistake, another happenstance were he, for some reason, avoided death. This was a joke, a blip in the universe, an i left undotted and a t uncrossed, a mistake plain and simple. He walked through town, covered in mud and blood, face hard as rock and eyes blazing with an anger that could only belong to someone who was scammed, who was betrayed. His veins were alight with an anger, a complete irrational blazing hot frustration that was driving him home, back straight and fists clenched at his sides as he strode with almost a confidence, a positivity. A woman looked at him with a shock, pulling her child from his path as if he were a monster, and he supposed he looked that way, eyes only meeting her for a moment as he continued his trek, his quick yet agile pace not slowing nor stopping for anything. He was going to finish this. He was tired of being laughed at, being picked on by whatever entity controlled life, whatever controlled him. He wasn’t going to be a play thing, not anymore. He had decided he was going to die today, he refused to accept otherwise. It was a breaking point, waking up in the field not once but twice. Something was messing with him, or maybe trying to save him. It is possible to save someone who has no desire to be saved? No, it isn’t possible, because while you could save them from situations, you cannot save them from themselves. An elderly woman in her rocking chair, she always sat in her upstairs window, looking out over the town in blissful silence. Graham knew her, he had bought apples from her from the market before, she was kind and always gave him a smile, asking him about his writing, but as she looked at him now, her face fell into that of fear. She wasn’t concerned, not like she would be when seeing him under normal circumstances, her face contorted into that of plead, her eyes shining. She would never look at him that way. He felt as if she was no longer looking at him, she was looking at something else entirely, like was gazing upon a man that is no longer Graham. She looked at if she was expecting him, and he felt a growing feeling in his stomach, he didn’t know what it was, but it was telling him no. She wasn’t ready. This was unsettling, it gave him a sense of anxiety, almost like he should turn around, that maybe there was something behind him, something on him. Something riding his back, a part of him that maybe wasn’t there before. He didn’t stop, not even with the concerning thoughts or the shocking look he was greeted with, his face didn’t falter, he didn’t flinch. He was being driven by insistence and anger, all the things he had felt throughout his life, all the loss and pain, all the emptiness, it built itself up like a tower, a castle teetering on the edge of falling over. It all screamed in his ears, only feeding into his determination, his persistence. Death was going to finally knock on his door, he was going to give it no choice. Two full grown men, drunk and making their way home after a long night knocked into each other, faces covered in confusion and alarm as they fumbled out of his way, eyebrows drawn together and eyes betraying a certain fear that could only be evoked by something truly horrid. What has he become? What have the last few hours, days, weeks, of time spans he isn’t sure, but what have they made him? II. BARGAINING Then he’s tying a noose, fingers quick with his anger, fumbling over themselves and only making his ferocity more intense. He undoes and redoes it several times because he couldn’t seem to get it right. His brain still isn’t processing what it is he’s going to do, it’s too overrun with emotion, and even if it had been able to understand, to keep up, it wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He was finished. Graham was no longer going to wait, he wasn’t standing in front of a carriage anymore. Waiting for death wasn’t an option, it was refusing him, it was pushing him away. He had to make it come to him, he had to force it’s hand. He was certain this time, there would be no way, no possibility of survival. He stood on the chair, neck wrung tight with a rope as he took what he felt was going to be his final breath, then he stepped off and the chair fell, he was in midair. First, there was the restraint, his breath being taken from him and pain, his eyes watering and mouth gasping for breath instinctively as his legs flailed. It felt like the first part of dying, that’s what he would tell you. Or, well, it did for the first twenty minutes or so, after that, it was just uncomfortable. He was hanging there, a rope digging into his neck, stopping air from entering his lungs, but he wasn’t losing feeling, not anywhere. His vision was fine, he could move his limbs perfectly. How long had he been hanging there? He looked at his curtains and tried to judge what time it was, tried to guess why the amount of light filtering through. It was only then that he realized that this wasn’t working. He was hanging there, for what felt like ages, and he could still guess the fucking time. He supposed that answered the oxygen question. He brought his hands to the rope and pulled himself up with a surprising ease. He had never been particularly strong or well trained in the physical regions. That fact, however, was taking a back seat, as he had more pressing questions, more upsetting and frustrating things to consider. His feet touched the floor once again and he flung a fist at the wall, punching a hole clean through it, something he had never be able to do before. There wasn’t new blood on his hands, his knuckles weren’t torn. They were fine. This thought brought a new one, of what the rest of him looked like, his clothes torn and matted with blood and dirt. Perhaps a bath was in order, maybe it would clear his head, wake him up. Maybe this is all a dream, a sick, twisted, hyper realistic dream that’s squeezing his mind, made to torture him even further. Looking at himself he knew he’d have to clean up, at least as best he could, before making his way to bathhouse. He couldn’t go back outside in this condition, he had caused enough of a stir in the town, and he couldn’t imagine that his appearance had improved at all since he’d reentered his home. His fingers touched his throat where he felt the rope indents still pressed into the skin. III. DEPRESSION & ACCEPTANCE He stripped off his tunic, face distorting at the sight of it, and the sight of his bare chest covered in earth. He could help but think that he had really had bled a lot, it had to have been more than he contained in his body, the red streaking over all his skin like a morbid oil painting not made for the faint of heart. Then he stepped into the mirror and saw his own face. His eyes were hardened more than he’d ever seen them before, they were harsh and unforgiving. The skin on his cheeks were almost unrecognizable, his face looked different. It looked hollow. Blue eyes gazed into blue eyes, staring with ferocity that didn’t belong to him. He could still see the lines where the rope had dug into his neck, the marks clear and prominent, even when opposing all the other marks and streaks covering his skin. He could remember every time he had done this. When his parents had died, that was the first. He had stared at himself with such a hatred, such a dislike. It was the first time he had really wanted to die, the first time he had gotten that ache in his chest. He saw himself, those same eyes, as a young boy, as a teen, as a young man. He had given himself that same look millions of times before, but now it was different. His eyes weren’t the exactly same. They were still crystalline blue, the pure physicality of them was the same, it was still exact, but there was a new sadness, a new immortality shining back at him like a beacon. It was screaming at him. The way his eyes sat and shone on his face, the line of his mouth, the sharpness of the bones on his cheeks and jaw and the color of the bright red contrasting his light skin. He finally knew, a new feeling running through his bones as disgust took over his features, his eye contact not breaking not even for a moment. All this time, all this fucking time he had been searching for death. Candles, cliffs, roof tops, carriages, rope, he had been searching, seeking, desiring. He had wanted it for so long, and this whole time he had been looking in the wrong place, peering around the wrong corners. Now, as he stared himself dead in the eyes, he finally knew. He had been confused, thinking that death would save him, thinking it would be the end, that it was waiting for him. It wasn’t a reprieve, it wasn’t destined to save him after a life of sadness and regret, he wasn’t meant for a clean ending, he was never designed for a peaceful rest. This whole time he had been looking, searching around him for the answer as if it were hiding when really, it had been here, in his polished metal mirror, this whole time. He shook his head slowly, subtly, lips drawing back to bear his teeth as he narrowed his eyes, his reflection mimicking the action. His gaze didn’t break as his mouth finally spoke the words, the disgust and realization, the displeasure, prevalent, obvious as he spit. “So, I finally found you, you son of a bitch.”

Sample Para 2: (This isn’t third person or past tense, this is an example of a writing I feel that he would’ve done. This is a second para because it doesn’t line up with the actual requirements for a para lmao.)

“Beings go missing. It is not an oddity, not in the slightest. It has always been a simple fact of life. With no traces, no words, no proof, living beings drop off the plain of existence at a bat of an eye. This is a cruel fact of which we are all aware. There are search parties on occasion, for a day, perhaps two or three, but after such a small allotment of time it is to be assumed that they are gone, deceased or otherwise. After that, the families are left to their own devices, given time to mourn however it is deemed necessary. The concept of murder, while not highly considered, is certainly not unheard of. When beings disappear, you, mortals, tend to blame illness, animals, perhaps even bad decisions. Sometimes even death itself, but most commonly, I find myself getting such a blame. It is more often than not that the ‘blame’ you’re so eager to pin on an individual, in actuality, lays on the shoulders of your peers, those closest to you, the humans at your sides that sleep under the same roof as you, they are at fault more than I. Mothers smother their children in the night when they find them too burdensome, men kill their wives when the arguments get too tiresome, and enemies kill enemies over a dinner table with a vial of poison and a sickly sweet smile. I am not to blame for any of these things. These are the truths of which you are not told, the stories you gossip but refuse to believe. I know them, I see them, and while I would tell you I do not judge you, it is my job. The only reason I still exist is to tell you whether or not your decisions feed into my concept of perfect mortality. Of course, this isn’t to say my judgement should go unquestioned, in fact, you are allowed to question my process all you would like, but the simple fact is my word is law. The final decision I make cannot be undone nor bargained with. Do I ever regret a decision? Perhaps. Is there any way to ease such a guilty conscience? I could lie to you, I could tell you there is a reprieve waiting on the other side of such a cold decision, but it would be nothing but a falsehood made to comfort those that have no real interest in what it is I’m articulating. You do not care for my sanity, or my own personal well being. I find more often than not that my books, my writing, only ends up in the hands of those that have experienced loss themselves. I fear that I cannot tell you their fate. I cannot explain nor reason with what is happening in the inner workings of the universe, and I cannot tell you where they are now. I can only tell what I already know, and what I know is this: Predestination is a concept created by the indolent and the insane. There is no way to gain access to one afterlife or the other based entirely on birthright, it’s an outrageous concept defied by my kinds existence entirely. Yes, I cannot speak for all of my specie, but I can speak for myself when I say that I do not look at your bloodline when it comes to deciding whether you are ‘good’ or 'bad.’ I do not look at your clothes, your name, I do not look at your skin. Whether or not you have made what decisions I deem morally fit will be revealed in the span of but a minute. Tough syrup to keep down, I’m sure that’s what you are thinking. Yes, the entire life you are living will come down to a minute, give or take. There is no great destination, and unfortunately, your life does not flash before your eyes. It flashes before mine. How anticlimactic that must be for you to hear. I’d apologize but it is not like I chose for it to be this way. Of course, that brings another question. Who is to say that I am worthy to judge you? How wholesome and honest a query to consider. It is not like I had a pure life, I was never a saint nor was I a righteous man. The answer to that question, according to legend, of course, would have to be Azrael. I’m afraid that is all I can tell you, because it is all I know. I, personally, have always found myself disagreeing with this decision, for many reasons you could imagine, but the most blindingly curious one having to be that my moral compass is not exactly in full service. I have always had my own ideas of what is to be considered 'right’ and 'wrong’ and I have found them somewhat unaligned with those of others. I do not see in black and white, ironically enough, nor do I see shades of grey. There is an entire spectrum of color behind my eyelids, different scenarios and color schemes that fill an empty head. I have struggled with this plethora of observation and consideration for as long as I can now care to remember, over four hundred years of experience and you would assume that I have it down pat, but alas, I was not blessed with the object of caring less with the more experience I have. I will not let my own bitterness overshadow someone else’s eternity. Just because my own seems to be a never ending damnation does not mean that I have the right to inflict a similar experience onto others without fair reason. –”

#athoria accepted

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southparkcoven · 7 years

Text

Craig Tucker

Mun Information

NAME: Harvey

AGE: 22

PRONOUNS: he/him

TIMEZONE: CST (Central Standard Time)

RP EXPERIENCE: going on 10 years

ACTIVITY LEVEL: i work full-time overnight, but have access to my phone during work hours. starting classes in the spring

OTP/NOTP: i’m not even picky. i like cryle a lot, but anything else with craig idm

DISCORD: harvey#3357

ANYTHING ELSE: i’d like to think i’m pretty laidback and chill.

Muse Information

NAME: Craig Tucker

AGE: 17

GENDER: Cis-male

SEXUALITY: Gay

BIRTHDAY: January 25th, 2000 (Aquarius)

OCCUPATION: Student, Cashier at the retro diner off of main st

SPECIES: Witch

POWER: Clairvoyance/Divination

CHARACTER APPEARANCE:

FACECLAIM: Matthew Bell [ x ] [ x ]

Craig Tucker stands at a whopping six-foot-two, weighing about 150 pounds. He participates in track and field during the spring, therefore retaining a rather lean physique on top of his lengthy legs. If given a body type label, he would be considered on the bridge between ectomorph and mesomorph. His hair is a soft black color, kept in a taper-fade cut with a loose side-part, and he has brown-green hazel eyes. He had his nose broken once in middle school from horsing around on a longboard, and a few scars littered on his arms and knees from childhood rough housing, falling off of bikes, etc.

CHARACTER HISTORY:

Craig’s clairvoyance has actually been something he’s been able to tap into since he was a young child, however he found the capability rather unsettling after he vividly predicted the death of their first family dog – to which they haven’t had a dog since – at the age of four. He never told anyone about the things he’d seen, not even his parents, therefore it became fairly easy to start pushing his divination to the background in attempt to ignore it. It never really left, but this resulted in his premonitions becoming much less intense. He’d prefer it be a lot more dull, anyways. However… after the incident in Peru, the Pandemic, Craig’s capability became revitalized and he was back at the first square he’d been avoiding all these years. Regardless, he still kept this matter private, not caring to share any of his visions, no matter who it involved. It wasn’t everyone’s business how much he knew, how much he knew that little blonde girl in kindergarten –what was her name?– was going to walk in front of that bus without looking. She was going to die, squashed flat in front of the entire school. And so she did. It’s now high school, the divination won’t leave, and Craig has already resigned to his fate –much to this utter dismay. While he’s at it, he might as well try to figure out how to control the damned thing as to prevent it from being a continuous nuisance. He really has nothing to go off of in order to get things under control, so all he can do is make it up as he goes. It’s a work in progress.

1) Craig was taken to inpatient over in Denver for a good two months during a severe episode of depression he experienced the middle of his sophomore year. He’s since been diagnosed with a mood disorder and has refused to see any doctors following. The situation caused him distress about his own mental health internally, but he’s really afraid of finding out what’s actually going on with him. But, since he internalizes a lot of his emotions, the unaddressed stress had caused his clairvoyance to heighten –especially in the form of nightmares or viewing only negative outcomes. Craig became more reclusive during this time, growing apart from all of his friends and family. Because of his reluctance to talk about his issues, everyone just assumed it was part of the depression he was struggling with. It took that full year for things to finally go back to how they had been before the episode, and for Craig to get back to his usual self again. The incident should have taught him that shadowing his emotions is dangerous not only for his mental health but also for his already haywire ESP. 2) Dating Tweek for about five years before they both mutually called things off really helped Craig mature in a more positive light. He’s learned a great deal about how to handle more hectic and stressful situations, being emotionally supportive ( to the closest extent he’s capable of being, Craig struggles with empathy ), listening and understanding, etc. The two of them ended up mutually breaking things off, not ending on a sour note in the slightest, and Craig believes that’s due a lot in part by their willingness to understand one another throughout.

As far as social life, Craig remains within the same group of friends he’s been around since elementary school. There’s not much room to roam around anyways. He’s stuck more to himself over the years, however, withdrawing but not alienating. He’s usually seen hanging around Tweek, Kyle, Kenny, or his cousin Red. His family life remains pretty uneventful. The common parental arguments here and there, a threat of divorce once or twice… maybe three times. Craig tries to ignore most of that bullshit, keeping an eye on his sister throughout these trying times. It doesn’t appear to him that his parents will separate anytime soon, and likely won’t until his sister is out of high school at least. If not, then they’re shitty parents for putting that on her.

CHARACTER PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Pragmatic, Candid, Inquisitive, Capable Leader, Rational.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Cynical, Stubborn, Apathetic, Cold, Reckless.

MBTI: INTP

TYPE ENNAEGRAM: 5w4 (548)

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

Once a hot-headed kid who wouldn’t back down from a good fight, Craig Tucker has mellowed out starting in fifth grade onward. His relationship with Tweek really aided in his maturity throughout middle school, helping him become more intune with other people on top of knowing some of their immediate futures ( that was already intimate enough ). Craig has retained a lot of his apathetic and cynical demeanor regardless, still blunt and rational. The one thing that’s been revving inside of him since high school is his sense of adventure. Unlike in his childhood, Craig Tucker desires to go out and do something nonsensical, something extraordinary. It wasn’t until after his brief period of hospitalization that he became restless, maybe anxious to break from the ordinary. He retains a deep interest for space, the unknown, even the paranormal, ironic to his otherwise cynical and realistic demeanor. There’s somewhat of a rift between two sides of Craig and he’s almost fed up with it.

*SEE ABOVE FOR POWERS

ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:

Weekend shifts were the worst shifts because everyone else gets these days off and swamp to cute places like the retro diner off of Main Street. It’s only five after lunch hour and Craig already wishes he was locked dead in the freezer until next shift came to check. The place was full of families and teens as per usual at a time like this. One group of girls hadn’t even ordered anything the whole half hour they’d been sitting there, only then realizing that these tables weren’t waited at. Another family of four ordered, what felt like all of the menu, and complained three separate times about it taking more than fifteen minutes for their entire order to be served.

Craig was tired, just like he was every single time lunch hour rolled around without fail. The bags under his eyes were never more prevalent as he stood there at the cash register, monotonously reciting his customer service role. His ultra obvious enthusiasm is a real kicker with the guests, they really love to watch a deadpan kid tap a touchscreen and swipe their cards. He’s a sight to behold.

Speaking of sights to behold… a hot second of a break settles in as everyone in the building has placed their order and no longer require Craig’s immediate assistance. Rubbing the heel of his hand into one of his eyes, the dark-haired teen glances off to the right, free eye settling on a small kid with an open cup in his hands. And before he can even blink, a vivid series of pictures plays out in front of his eyes. The kid appears to be running with the cup in his hands, soda sloshing around violently as he does so, only to spill some of the sticky liquid on the floor in front of him. Unsurprisingly, it looks like the kid slips and falls straight onto his front, mouth banging into the floor with an ugly slapping noise. Craig already knows this ends in him having a mess of coke and red to clean up.

All of this imagery plays moments before the kid actually does do a sprint forward, spilling his drink in the process, only to slip and slam his face into the hard floor. And, as promised, there’s blood to clean up. Just wonderful.

With a very, very deep sigh to drown out the shrieks of the child on the ground, Craig Tucker leaves his spot at the front counter in order to retrieve the mop and bucket. Hey, at least he saw it coming.

#;application #submission #;southparkcoven #craig tucker #;south park #south park roleplay

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