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Omar Maria Media

"Bueno, we have much time to talk, amigo."

0 · 638 views · located in The Isle

a character in “Bloodlines”, as played by lom.conor


Omar Ma. Media
The Balaren Bloodline

El Lobo Solitario


At A Glance

Nombre y Apellido: Omar Maria Inmaculada Ceferino Media e Ybbara

Años: 16

Género: Vírelo “Young man”

Sexualidad: Machosexual “Manly”

Origen: Toledo, Castilla-La Mancha, España, Ibéria

Etnicidad: Mozárabe “Hispano-Arabic Christian”

Fecha de Nacimiento: 8 de Septiembre

Signo: Virgo

Lazo de Sangre: Los Balarenes “The Balarens”

    -Arroz con pollo “Rice with chicken”
    -Pelís de Comedia “Comedy movies”
    -Efebos “Twink boys”
    -Familia y sus eventos “Spending time with Family”
    -Aguas frescas “Fruit waters/juicies”
    -a Cantar, Salmodiar, y escuchar los cantos serenes “to sing, chant and listen to soft hymns”

    -Café de crema “Cream and coffee”
    -Labores manuales “Manual labor”
    -Tíos “slang: Hairy, older men”
    -Marimachos “Lesbians/feminists”
    -Pelís pesados “Heavy/scary movies”

    -“Standing or walking in long hallways, alleys or large rooms with crowds.”
    -“Being romantic with another boy in public.”

      -“Someday become a Mozarabic priest.”
      -“Find a boy and someday ‘marry’ him, ¡se oxalá!

      Omar, being a Mozarab of Toledo, Spain, is deeply religious and spiritual and follower of Mary at heart. He is unbendingly devoted to his family and culture, and would sacrifice, kill and control only if it were the wishes of his family. His father died when he was young, replaced by his stepfather, a Romani-Spaniard, who beat him incessantly for various reasons. Omar developed a sense of insecurity and fear over many things, specifically larger or crowded spaces. Being essentially a homosexual has been one of his greatest struggles, having to balance his sense of manliness and his teenly desires for a boyfriend.

      He is a nervous fellow, constantly on the lookout, constantly aware of his surroundings and the people within them. But he also is surprisingly cool and calm, and most would be hard-pressed to guess Omar was on the alarm at any time. He generally is boyish and fun, never seeming to care for serious matters – until serious matters arrive – and then he exemplifies his brilliance and ability to micromanage. Through his efforts at education and determination to leave his stepfather’s tyranny, Omar earned the right to attend a Catholic secondary school in Northern Spain, allowing him to learn English, proper Spanish and various other skills. In fact, his English suits a very odd accent, one that is simultaneously British and Hispano-Arabesque.

      One of his biggest challenges is balancing his three lives: as a devout Mozarabic Catholic, as an openly homosexual teenager in a mostly conservative community, and as a ‘closeted’ lycanthrope. He’s always had a penchant for nature, being thrilled to waste away in the wild plains and forests around Toledo, as well as intimate love for all animal life – as such, when in human form, Omar attempts to have a mostly vegetarian diet (albeit not absolutely stringent).

      Though his devotion to religion is strong, he has no fear of being a lycanthrope, and in fact believes it is a gift from the Virgin Mary, his patron. He also would have no problem sanctifying any relationship he had with another boy, he simply would detest the social pushback he’d receive. He wants a boyfriend, but he’s afraid that no human could ever understand fully – as such, he tends to impress other people whom he finds boring. Very boring. Most people are boring to him. Dogs, cats, even bulls could never be as boring as a human. So, as such of his romantic despair, he originally planned on becoming a Mozarabic priest – though with his arrival to the Isle – plans have to be put on the shelf for now.

      Budding into his adolescence, he has earned a reputation as a family man, and as a youthful father figure – even to his own group friends. Often, you can find him lecturing his friends on morality or philosophy – when he wasn’t busy giving one of them a wedge… Omar appreciates good humor, smiling, and generally “cute” actions, especially from more feminine males. Omar is also a very, very, very proud virgin… almost too proud. It seems as though, however, he is deeply pained, and through his humorous façade one can gleam a sort of stoic young man. Even with friends… he is still, dichotomously, a charismatic lone wolf.


        Bloodline Gift: Like all in his bloodline, Omar can use Shapeshifting from his human form to wolf form, and occasionally in his… in between, though that seems to be more sporadic and painful. Though it hurts to shapeshift, he has a very high tolerance to pain from years of being beaten by his stepfather. Along with his shapeshifting, Omar has peculiarly deeper and louder lupine vocalizations such as howls that even some of the eldest Balaren cannot muster. Omar definitely likes being a wolf, especially when it means he can hide in crowded places as a blindman’s dog or a child’s friend. However, living in urban, impoverished Spain, being a wolf can also prove to be dangerous due to superstitious citizens fearing Satan.

        Bloodline Weakness: Omar’s Moon Curse is doubly so: although he is terribly vulnerable to its touch, he is also terribly fascinated by it. In fact, if it were not for this curse, he would ornament himself in all sorts of argent garnishes. To compensate for this, he uses what little platinum he can afford or find, and though this may distract others from his lycanthropic nature, it also makes other Balarens incredulous towards his membership.

      Other Skills:
        -Liberally studied: Omar studied at El Colegio de Santa Anna, Madre de la Virgen, a Catholic Liberal Arts school, and is well-read in the “Great Books”, Thomistic thought, and Aristotelian philosophy. This offers him vast educational resources. This often shocks those who have only experienced his frivolous and youthful attitude, especially when they are attempting to insult him. Including the fact that most underestimate his intelligence, his education has also proven to be an occasional detriment, especially when situations require one to NOT question or second-guess assumptions.

        -Natural Charm: Between attending a prestigious school(through scholarship) and coming from a very poor family, Omar has learned to bend and weave from one social group to another almost seamlessly. In mere moments, his peculiar accent, boyish smile and juxtaposed brilliance can beguile even the most hostile individuals. However, few people satisfy Omar, and he throws away relationships before they’ve begun, creating irreconcilable differences with others.

The Mozarabs are a rare tribe. Catholic Spaniards who speak Latin and dress, eat and act like Arabs. They have dwindled since their nation’s birth before the Reconquista. Only two of their original parishes survive, and Omar was raised in one of them, in the ghettos of Toledo. His father was a prince among paupers, told to have been descended both from the Catholic Monarchs and the Muslim Caliphs. His father was a legend in the ghettos of Toledo, using his new found success as a means to spread goodwill among his fellow Mozarabs. His mother, when not raising his twelve siblings, worked part-time as a midwife. Omar was the youngest of all his siblings, three of which are now deceased.

When his father died, his mother married a gypsy man, a bitter, poor, and terribly angry middle-aged man. Omar’s stepfather was an abuser, having abused his mother, his siblings and himself in various ways – the girls received the worst of it. Though Omar was a family-oriented boy, he quite enjoyed being away, off in his own, and earned the nickname amongst the Mozarabs “El Lobo Solitario”. Even as a young boy, his voice was distinctly deep and genuine-sounding, always seeming to be in the moment and concerned.

As bright as he was, Omar earned a scholarship to a distinguished Catholic school in Northern Spain, where he amplified his natural intelligence and learned the various philosophies of the Earth. This is also where he met his first boyfriend, though that disseminated when the other boy wanted to have sex. Omar strictly forbade himself from sex until he felt for certain within in his conscience is was the right time. Omar noticed himself becoming hairer through puberty, watching himself grow into a well-endowed-in-all-manners young man, and achieving the type of strength required to fight of his stepfather in the Summer.

Coming home at a most fortuitous time, Omar walked into his family’s hovel to hear his bastard of a mother’s husband attemping to rape his sister, Marimagdala. Attempting to stop the drunken man, he was thrown to the wall and cracked the back of his shin and shattered several ribs, as well a black out concussion. Ah, but Omar Awakened to find himself naked and surrounded by lobitos in the forest closest to his home, and found himself able to sense what they were thinking, able to know what they were feeling. Omar was a wolfman, painfully gazing upon himself, he noticed both his lupine features and his human features. He couldn’t help but feel… bestial. Free. Free. Free yet obligated. He felt a deep sense of responsibility, and with a profound sense of guilt, hunted across the night searching to satiate his seemingly unending hunger.

As the moon went down that night, he felt himself return to human form. The pain. The pain was excruciating as he cried against a large oak tree. The lobitos were following him before they had stopped to howl. Omar passed out again, only to wake up in a hospital bed. His mother and his stepfather were both dead, and his three sisters were in critical condition that they was hope that they would survive. With that, Omar left the hospital, seemingly guiltless of the crime (the sisters remembered little and the authorities chalked up the gruesome crime scene to nothing more than a drunken sociopath’s final sin). Though he attempted a year with his now-forever-mangled sisters, he forever walked away from that life, and attempted to(though failed) return to his school.

It was about a year to the day of his leaving home when the Guardians found him, quietly weaving his way nakedly through the plains of northern La Mancha, barely living off food he was given or had hunted in wolf form. Having been taken to the Isle just 3 months ago, Omar attempted to avoid much contact with others. Still youthful and charismatic, he has been able to charm most of the other charges, but this has been mostly to accommodate his more serene growth, so as to earn their respectful distance. He's mostly been spending his time amongst the beasts of the Isle, especially the wolves, the foxes and the bears, though others as well. When he has been rarely in human form, he's been naked in the streams or in the meadows, just... thinking. He's almost not even touched his own room, preferring instead to sleep under the stars.

So begins...

Omar Maria Media's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Erin Silver Alier Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Milo Reed Corner Character Portrait: Darcy Lilith Ratri Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Markus Wright Character Portrait: Vendicare Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore Character Portrait: Hazel Ebony Highlynn Character Portrait: Graham Lennox Character Portrait: Daniel Sanderson Character Portrait: Xylea Parihan Character Portrait: Drusa Deszled Character Portrait: Wynston Watson Character Portrait: Nila Loriette Pearce Character Portrait: Tabitha Ezerath Character Portrait: Renn Elliot Character Portrait: Tally Roawn Character Portrait: Ferne Baumiller Character Portrait: Artemis Hulston
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#, as written by throne

Chapter 1 - Convocation

When the call went out , the sun had just begun its final descent for the evening, dipping partway under the horizon and splashing bands of red, orange and then finally violet across the sky. It had been a warm day, though not uncomfortably so, the first untouched by a series of careless thunderstorms that had darkened The Isle for days. To their chagrin, the charges who had largely been trapped indoors for days had been instructed that morning to remain close to The Compound that had become their home. There had been no lessons today, nothing formal, at least.

Arietta had secluded herself away in the library, taking over an entire table with a score of books. Anyone passing through wouldn’t even draw her attention as she flipped through pages, referencing and cross-referencing several tomes at once. She was making notes in a mixture of Greek and Hebrew, the characters so small that they were barely legible, and still she’d managed to fill three pages by midafternoon.

Simon was not his eminently approachable self. He’d apparently traded out his usual easy jocularity for surliness to rival Matthew’s, and spent most of the day hiding out in the small office where he held his confidential sessions. The Balaren Guardian was as solemn as ever, and shortly after dinner (which none of the Guardians had been present for), he enlisted Fleet and any charges willing to assist him in transporting quite a bit of firewood from the stores to the center of the courtyard, where he proceeded to build what looked to be the beginnings of a massive bonfire, neatly stacking the wood like Lincoln Logs until the resulting cube-like structure was nearly as tall as he was. He was characteristically laconic, only speaking to explain the need for proper draft if the fire was to burn all night, and other such survivalist tidbits.

Only Michaela was unaccounted for. Normally, she popped up periodically throughout the day, but she’d presumably consigned herself to the former officer’s quarters that the Guardians used for their more-and-more frequent, at least of late, meetings.

It had been a strange year by The Isle’s standards, though precious few of the current charges would understand that completely. In the past month alone, more than a half-dozen young men and women who had Awakened to their Bloodline had appeared. Most of them would have at least an idea of the fact that a half-dozen was a large number of charges for The Compound. All told, they numbered more than a score now, a fact which the Evincal would likely feel resonant with portent.

The instant that work on the tower of wood was complete, Fleet whipped his head about to regard Matthew with wide eyes. ”Is it time?!” he asked, his excitement even more vibrant than his usual insane baseline. Matthew merely nodded, and anyone in the immediate vicinity would be buffeted by a blast of breeze as the Wind-Born Navarene seemingly vanished. Most would be by now aware of his ability to become wind, rather than merely affect or create it, and in the form of a zephyr, Fleet raced throughout the grounds to give the call.

”Meeting in the courtyard!” He manifested physically for only just long enough to deliver his message before zipping off to find another young man or woman to inform. He scoured The Compound and the area surrounding it, stirring up leaves and dust in his wake as he flitted about, appearing before groups who had come together to talk, in dorm rooms, in the common area, even in the library and everywhere in between. ”Meeting in the courtyard! Meeting in the courtyard! Meeting in the courtyard!” He didn’t stop until every last soul on the island was aware of the convocation that would soon take place.

By the time the charges had begun filtering into the courtyard, the Guardians had all assembled save for Michaela. Arietta, looking as weary as ever, was seated in the lotus position with her eyes closed, not far from the pyre that Matthew had constructed. Fleet reappeared, frowning when he realized that he’d somehow lost his favored white fedora in his rapid fit of transformation and exclamation. Matthew was leaning to the left of The Compound’s main entrance, his arms crossed over his chest and his features blank. Simon had emerged from his office, and was currently pacing back and forth in front of the officer’s quarters, his agitation more than evident in the form of some low-toned self-muttering.

It was only after each and every one of the young men and women had gathered about the courtyard that Michaela emerged from the officers’ quarters. A simple white cotton dress draped her form, and her bright smile was a beacon of reassurance. She maintained it even when Simon bee-lined for her, and stopped to engage in a terse conversation with him. Their words would go unheard, but there was no mistaking that the exchange was anything but pleasant, if only for the fact that the air around them began to show ripples, reflecting the Omarain Guardian’s agitation in visual form. It was concluded quickly enough. Simon’s expression was even bleaker as he stalked off to lean beside Matthew, who was carefully avoiding making eye contact with the Mori.

Michaela drew a single breath, and in that span regained her composure utterly. The distortions surrounding her ironed themselves out, replaced by a warm aura of soft white light. As she walked directly toward the pyre, illusory flowers, poppies in white and crème and egg-shell sprung up in her wake, creating a path behind her. The trail of flowers followed her, then pooled out around her when she came to a stop, as if she had simply come to stand in the center of a thick patch of them.

”Everyone, gather ‘round please.” She was too dignified to shout, but her voice carried remarkably, reaching every ear and tugging at every mind. It was little more than a simple request, but it was difficult to deny. Arietta tried to catch her eye, and when she did, Michaela shook her head succinctly. The Evincal Guardian just nodded a tired nod and closed her eyes, remaining completely still upon the ground.

”This won’t take very long at all,” she explained, panning her gaze to draw in each of them, address each of them. ”I know you’re all probably wondering why you’re here, in this courtyard, but more than that, why you’re here. On The Isle. With everyone finally settled in, it’s high time that you learn the purpose of this place, one of the world’s last bastions of magic, and your purpose in this place.” She was a perfect admixture of solemnity and wisdom as she began her speech, but she dazzled them with a vibrant grin. ”I also have a surprise for all of you, but that will have to wait till after the end of the story.”

* * *


The faerie prince was uncharacteristically alone when the messenger arrived.

Aaron did not normally seek out solitude. Generally, he fled it. He was seldom in his room, save to sleep, change his clothes, and shower, but when he was simply there, he tended to leave his door open, a standing invitation to all the courtiers who had reason to petition him (there had never been an actual petition, of course, but he eagerly awaited the day that the first of many came). Tonight, though, the door stood closed and even locked. His endeavor was a private one, and distractions were the mortal foes of such work- foes that the faerie prince had no defense against save for seclusion.

He’d been at it since just after dinner, though not to great success. The idea, like most of his, had sprung fully formed but elusive from his mind, and he was having difficulty getting his mental hands upon it now that it was free. He already had pen and paper, used for sending missives to his family, which was all he truly needed for the task at hand: to begin to commit to ink on paper the story of the faerie prince. His story.

It was proving a challenge that might ironically be termed princely. Words came easily to him, when speaking, but catching them with the nib of a pen and then sticking them fast to paper was proving an entirely different matter. Thus far, he’d managed after three attempts to arrive at a working title (the appropriate but not particularly inspired Tales of The Faerie Prince), and nothing else worth keeping. He’d tried speaking aloud, saying words and then writing them down afterwards in effort hopes of fooling the fickle Muses into helping him. They were apparently cannier than he’d suspected. He’d tried making lists with bullet points to organize his thoughts, but his thoughts were not made for such a static, rigid template. From the small graveyard of balled up sheets that were now scattered about the floor around and beneath his desk, an observer might have thought him in the midst of penning a novel full, but fortunately, there were no observers to bear witness to the fitful process.

At least, there weren’t until Fleet arrived. His gusty entrance sent the crumpled pages skittering, and Aaron had to lunge, using his forearm to trap the almost-empty expanse of white paper that he’d been staring at intently for the past ten minutes while thinking instead of what Graham might be up to, or if Renn was busy with Erin, or if Milo would like the title he’d come up with, or… well, of anything but the task at hand, really, in order to keep it from flying away from him. Startled and embarrassed (though he’d never admit the latter), he wheeled around in his seat (literally, it had wheels) to face the intruder.

”Meeting in the courtyard!” He heard the call before he saw the speaker.

His wroth fled when he noted it was Fleet. The Navarene Guardian never failed to bring a bright grin to Aaron’s full lips. Lifting a hand to brush down a bit of fitfulness that his spun-gold hair seemed to have engaged in thanks to the miniature localized windstorm that was Fleet, he relaxed in his seat and regarded the man. ”How now, spirit? Whither wander you?” His voice rang out like music, the first part of an exchange that he never failed to encourage. The words had come to mind immediately when he’d first met Fleet, and like most of the words that came into his mind, they had exited soon thereafter through his mouth. Fleet had been confused, but after a few encounters, had begun to respond, creating something of an inside joke between the two that the elemental didn’t quite comprehend but enjoyed nevertheless.

”Sorry Aaron, very busy. Something about a girdle! Gotta go!” With that he was gone, and this time, a somewhat dejected Aaron was unable to stop the first page of his great work from sailing from his desk to under his bed. A meeting, in the courtyard? Only in the messenger’s absence did he process the message. Such an event wasn’t unprecedented, but neither then was it ordinary. Aaron’s affinity for all things out of ordinary abolished his frustrations with the Muses from his mind. He hopped to his feet, arching his back in feline fashion to stretch. He glimpsed himself in the glass (he’d read a story that had referred to mirrors as glasses, which had initially confused him, but now he’d adopted the terminology into his increasingly archaic vocabulary) to ascertain that he was ready for a public appearance.

He was already wearing his favorite shirt, one that he’d found in the cache of spare clothing (a simple white linen peasant’s shirt with billowing sleeves and a plunging neckline that showed off a great deal of his pale chest), along with a pair of breeches (really, they were simple dark khakis, but he rolled the legs up to his mid-calves and insisted they were breeches). He waxed and waned on wearing shoes and decided that he’d prefer his feet bare. The sound of them slapping the concrete floor of the hallway that led out of the dorm area in a rapid rhythm would announce the faerie prince’s timely departure. It wasn’t quite a run, or a skip, or a dance, but something that sat fixed squarely between the three, as playful, impatient, and amusing to watch as Aaron himself.

He was among the last to arrive, which only meant that he didn’t have time to sort out who he meant to stand with around the bonfire. His violet eyes flitted about, evaluating the prospects, and he started towards Renn, eager to see if the Earth-Born might know what was going on.

”Everyone, gather ‘round, please.”

Michaela’s voice drew his attention to her immediately, in a way that her mastery of illusion never could. The boy was as susceptible to Glamour as anyone, maybe even moreso, and a smile scrawled itself across his features as he simply stopped moving, standing in place to listen. His eyes lit up and did a rather remarkable saucer impression at the revelation that followed her introduction: a story AND a surprise. There were few things that Aaron enjoyed more than either, and he was hard-pressed to decide which he preferred (never mind that he had no idea what the surprise was). Fortunately, he needn’t decide at all; he was getting both!

With story-time looming, he assumed his favorite position for tale-telling; he lowered himself with aplomb into an “Indian” style of sitting, his legs folded up above and beneath one another, and then balanced his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms, leaning forward in a show of eagerness for what was to come.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Erin Silver Alier Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Milo Reed Corner Character Portrait: Darcy Lilith Ratri Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Markus Wright Character Portrait: Vendicare Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore Character Portrait: Hazel Ebony Highlynn Character Portrait: Graham Lennox Character Portrait: Daniel Sanderson Character Portrait: Xylea Parihan Character Portrait: Harvey Mak Chinnen Character Portrait: Something Seraphine Character Portrait: Drusa Deszled Character Portrait: Wynston Watson Character Portrait: Nila Loriette Pearce Character Portrait: Tabitha Ezerath Character Portrait: Renn Elliot Character Portrait: Tally Roawn Character Portrait: Artemis Hulston
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#, as written by throne

Michaela’s grin abated, and she let her eyes slipped closed. As serenity settled into place on her features, dusk truly descended. It was no illusion, no trick of glamour, but it hardly seemed a coincidence that the shadowy terminator was just now creeping over the westernmost of the tumbled-down fort’s walls. Twilight was upon them, and gravely, as the Omarain prepared herself, Matthew pushed himself away from his perch and stalked toward the wood he’d earlier stacked, choosing a path that steered him clear of clumped charges. He used a plain Zippo lighter to ignite a torch, and then thrust it into the tinder and kindling that had been arranged at the base of the soon-to-be-bonfire. Flames caught quickly, streaming smoke into the sky, and hungry fire began to taste the sturdier plinths of wood with flickering tongues. Matthew retreated, his duty discharged, but continued along in a circular path around the courtyard, using his captive flame to light braziers and standing torches that were used to light the fort by night.

As the last of daylight died, Michaela, eyes hidden away as if in repose, began to breathe deeply, rhythmically. Her chest swelled, making her breasts all the more obvious beneath the thin white cotton that veiled them. The fire crackled as it climbed the scaffold made for just that purpose, and then the luminous corona of white light that ensconced her began to spread out in every direction. At first it crept inches, and then feet, until every soul attendant was seemingly bathed in that light as well. Before their eyes, the light would seem to congeal, separating into motes that left impenetrable blackness between them, so dark all that would be visible aside from the pricks of white were their fellow charges and Guardians- each other, and the fire, which continued to burn. So potent was her gift that it might be a moment before some realized they were under the sway of an Omarain illusion, each and every one.

The walls of the erstwhile fortress were drowned in black. The library faded away as well, then the officer’s quarters, then The Compound itself, leaving nothing but endless darkness punctuated with little bits of light. It might be dizzying, or even frightful, to have the entire world as they knew it slip away from them, replaced with what might be the night sky, or the endless depths of space, or something else. Whatever it was or soon would be, the Omarain among them would know better than most how exacting the illusion must have been on Michaela. The other charges too; none of them, not even Renn, would ever have seen her display her power on such a scale before. Even the other Guardians seemed awed to behold it, all save for Simon, who simply folded his arms across his chest and made his face a still mask.

Adrift in blackness, they would hear her voice, but not from her lips. It seemed to come from all around them like the music of the stars that her motes of light were no doubt meant to represent.

”You have learned of your bloodlines, sweet ones, but most of you have been taught little of the ancestors from whom that blood flows. Most of what you have heard you learned away from this sacred place; lies, perversions, bastardizations meant to pollute what was once real magic, to reduce it to simple, commercial entertainment, to sanitize and slay it. Tonight you will learn more.”

The “stars” began to re-order themselves once more. They were legion now, great swarms of light particles in a silent dance with one another. They separated into five distinct-yet-shapeless clouds, leaving vast tracks of void beneath them, and then took their places behind the rough circles that the charges and Guardians described around the growing bonfire.

The largest free-wheeling constellation came to a stop between Michaela and Arietta, nearly between them but set lightyears back. Another settled into place 72 degrees to the first’s left, and another 72 degrees to the left of that, and so on until the five points of a star, or perhaps a pentagram, had been defined in the space around them. Some might have to crane their necks or turn about to see them all, and if they did, they’d note that the specks of light had begun a new dance, one that only lasted until they had taken on a new shape. The largest spread out, thrice as tall as Michaela (for in the illusion, sizes could really only be compared in a relative sense), and then grew even more massive as it unfurled its starry wings. The next separated into the three distinct forms, tall and slender. The next dance around the pentagram yielded two large shapes, one that seemed to walk on four legs and one that walked on two. After that, another large shape, but it was escorted by many smaller ones, and finally, to the right of the first, four distinct shapes of vaguely human size.

Michaela’s voice hummed like a leyline again, and as it did, the masses of stars, the tiny galaxies, would continue their dances, taking more distinct and recognizable shapes.

”The mighty dragons were fire and magic made flesh. They were old when the world was young. Their claws dug rivers, their breath stirred storms, and their battles raised the mountains and scorched the land into deserts. Their ways are mostly lost to us, but we know that they began primordial and will not end until the last Evincal is ended. The last true dragon was named Snowscale; she fled to the deepest reaches of the icy parts of the Earth after men had slain her brothers and sons. When the envoys came she agreed that it was the only way and shed a single frozen tear, the only component needed for the ritual that would make the blood of one strong mortal line draconic evermore.”

The largest shape was fully formed by the time she took a pause. The star-dragon was not a static thing. Its tail stirred through the deep blackness, its wings buffeted cosmic currents, and its head lowered, as if in a courtly bow, toward the circle.

”The envoys were the true fae, creatures either born of dreams or responsible for them. The truth will never be known, for they are all gone now, all sealed away in their own kingdoms to save themselves from the iron and church bells and saucers of cream that men learned were their banes. They were the architects of the Bloodlines, and stole away young men and women from a noble family for the turn of a single moon. They returned with lighter step and faerie blood and Omarain children in their wombs. The fae did not return, though. They locked the gate and melted down the key, consigning themselves forever more to dreams, until men are gone and their dreams with them.”

The three slender shapes resolved themselves into three fae, tall and willowy, with features that resembled those of humans, but too perfect to be anything but alien. They wore swords and finery of stars, and they too bowed, deep and courtly, toward the charges.

”The children of the moon had lost more and most to humankind. Their domains were the wyld places, untouched until civilization began its inevitable spread. They fought back with tooth and claw, but the advantage of men has always been numbers. The war of attrition dwindled them to almost nothing, but it made them remember that they were half-man themselves. Repentant rather than wroth, they chose a dozen humans and a dozen wolves, calling them The First Pack, and thus the Balaren were born.”

One part of the next set of stars became a dire-wolf so large that a grown man standing would barely reach its shoulders while all four of its paws touched earth. The other became a thing of nightmare, muscle and fur and claws and teeth. Both of the stellar apparitions lifted their head in an eerie, silent howl. The one on two legs declined its head toward the charges, and the one on four bent the knees of its forelegs, a lupine bow. The tale continued.

”The lords of the pit regarded humanity as little more than sustenance, things to be played with. They were the terror born of the darkness, the evil things that stalked the night, but they too were offered the chance to bind their fate more meaningfully to the races of men. Most balked or laughed, but one wise pit-lord agreed, abandoning the council of his enemy-brethren and infusing the most cunning and dangerous mortals he could find with his hellfire blood. The Mori would need his strength and their own as the centuries stretched into millennia, for there are cracks in the prison that was forged for demonkind.”

The demon lord that resulted of the dancing stars was nearly as tall as the dragon, powerfully muscled, with cloven hooves and a supple tail. In one hand he held a whip, and in the other a sword that glowed with starfire. He did not bow, but instead regarded the charges coldly with eyes made black by lack of stars.

”The spirits of nature only revealed themselves truly for the first time in the course of a single evening. They had always been there, perhaps for even longer than dragonkind, though it is not for me to say which came first, fire or dragon. They had sought harmony with men and beast alike, but men were too clever by far. Rather than being content with the gifts of the elementals, they found ways to trap them and bend them to their will without ever knowing the pain they caused. Still the elemental ones sought harmony, and bonded with a people who had never once enslaved them willingly that the Navarene might one day bring about the balance that was lost.”

The final four became fire, water, wind, and earth. Their shapes were vaguely human at best. Fire was the brightest, a burning crucible of stars. Water’s shape ebbed and flowed. The stars that formed Wind raced ‘round one another in vortices. Earth was more solid, compact and strong. As one, the joined what might pass for hands and bowed deeply.

In silence save for the crackling of the bonfire, the darkness receded, returning control of their senses to those assembled. The constellations remained, though, like an afterimage, and in the last light of dusk could be seen briefly in all their glory before they too faded. Snowscale’s armoring was gleaming alabaster, her eyes brimming with sorrow and intellect. The finery of the fae stole every color of the rainbow, and their skin was pale and far too smooth. The standing wolf had fur that was black as coal and eyes like slivers of the moon; its companion on all fours had fur of mottled gray and brown, and it was laying with its belly against the grass. The demon stood tall still, its skin burnished and rough looking, its features sinister but proud, its whip and sword forged of hellfire. The nature spirits were all the colors that they should have been, flickering or flowing or blowing or standing stalwart.

And then, they were all simply gone. The courtyard was restored to reality, and anyone who chanced to look upon Michaela would see her looking very tired, and very, very old. She drew a single breath, and in that span was young and beautiful again. She managed a smile, the weariness of which would match Arietta on her worst day. The Omarain spoke again, only just audible above the feast of flames gnawing at the wood.

”Humans are forgetting their magic.” She opened her vibrant eyes again, and let her gaze pan once more along the circle of charges and Guardians alike, Omarain and Evincal and Mori and Balaren and Navarene. ”It is the natural state of all things, even men. Remember childhood, when all the world seemed new and bright and exciting? When imagination weaved spells all its own upon you? Man has been squandering his magic, though. It is not enough for him to lift a stick from the ground and make it, just by thought, into a cane, or shelter, or a pretend-sword. Now he must cut the tree open and count the rings, must abolish every secret of nature in the name of Progress.”

Her survey of them all was done. She brought her hands together, clasping them in front of her with a gentle clap. ”There is hope for magic though. It is here, not around you, but in you. It is you. History cannot reveal a time when so many have Awakened to their blood at once, been found and brought together. Such things happened once; they were called Convocations, and the Bloodlines would meet and squabble and boast and the world continued to suffer for their arrogance. They had forgotten, but we must not forget.”

She spread her hands, as if to gather all of them in her arms. ”We must come together, not ignoring each other’s differences but embracing them. The days ahead will be different than the days behind. We have lapsed, in order to bring you all here safe and whole, but on the morrow, we begin in earnest to help you become what you must. I know to some of you, this sounds fanciful, but think of what you have learned to do already, what you have seen your fellows do. On the morrow, we begin in earnest…”

With a flick of her wrist, she sent something that glittered as it flew through the air catching firelight toward Renn: a set of keys. Where she’d hidden them on her pocketless person was anyone’s guess, as was how she’d managed to produce them, but they were there. ”Tonight, though, we revel.” Her warm smile became a grin. ”Or, I should say, you revel. It would hardly be a party with a bunch of stodgy grown-ups about, would it? Enjoy yourselves. Learn of one another. Relax for one final evening and make merry together…” One of her eyebrows lifted to form a perfect arch, as she continued. ”But try not to overdo it. I meant what I said about the morrow. You won’t want to still be feeling tonight when you awaken.”

Her fellow Guardians were not unaffected by the display; like many charges, most of them were still recovering from both the power of the vision and the strangeness of being made to see what had been so long ago. Simon had already slipped off, possibly in the midst of the presentation. Arietta was smiling softly, her expression cast thoughtful, as she rose to her feet and dusted herself off, preparing to return to the library. Matthew was frowning, but shook his head and stretched out, nodding curtly to anyone who met his eye before he took his wolf shape without a single cry of pain and raced off beyond the walls.

Poor Fleet looked positively a mess, his lower lip jutting out as he directed his attention, eyes wide, toward Michaela. She laughed, and the sound was the tinkling of bells more than it was laughter. ”Sweet Fleet, you are less a stodgy grown-up than many of our charges. Of course you may stay.” The Navarene Guardian let loose a cheer, jumping several feet into the air and then floating back down, as if gravity showed him favor just as the Omarain had. ”I need to find my hat!” he exclaimed before taking off at a run and then dissipating into wind once more.

”Good night,” Michaela called, her smile sweet as she turned to make her way back toward the officers’ quarters. No poppies followed her now; indeed, it seemed that she might have strained herself with the display. With her gone, none but the charges were left around the fire, which was now a roaring blaze.

The night was theirs.

* * *


Faerie princes were used to being attended, and so it bothered Aaron not at all when so many valued friends joined him prior to the presentation. Seph was gifted with a warm smile, and absently, his hand. He reached out, taking hers in his in simple, friendly fashion. When Renn’s shadow fell over him, he craned his neck to look up at his most beloved advisor, craning his neck back so far that his smile for the Navarene would essentially be upside-down.

Daniel and Hazel came to sit beside them as well, and Aaron lifted his free hand in a wave to the two, slight and courtly. He said no words, for it seemed a time for silence, though delight danced on his features, almost moving him to an excited greeting when Milo came to crouch at his other side. He grinned at the boy’s bafflement, before his attention was again stolen, this time by the advent of the Western Wind, bringing spring with her as always.

He heard a question, and only then noted that Darcy was among them as well. His brow creased and his eyes hardened just a little when he gleaned distress from her demeanor, but there was no time to find the cause with Michaela drawing them all in. Then Graham was there, so close at hand, and the hand that wasn’t linked with the wolf-born maid came forward to comb fingers through the demon prince’s hair, affectionately and absently, as one might stroke a cat. The realization of who was near cast light on who was not, and he glanced about quickly, finding the others in their small clumps or solitude. He had no hands to wave with, so instead, he fought back the falling dusk with a dazzling grin.

When Michaela began in earnest, he was still and silent (save for his hand teasing through Graham’s soft locks and the slight rise and fall of his chest), captivated. Snakes might be immune to their own venom, but the fae-blooded were far from immune to Glamour. Aaron in particular was more inclined to fall under its sway than most, his resistances stripped bare in the course of embracing what he could of the fae so eagerly. As her words and phantasms enfolded them, even his hand grew restive, to slowly slide from the Mori and into his lap; his hold on Seph remained, but slackened. It was eerie, that darkness. Unreal. Even though there was still earth as firm and sturdy as Renn beneath him, he could almost feel himself floating through it, the persistent whisper of vertigo in his ear.

The swarms of stars brought movement, his head whipping this way and that to mark them and track their progress while their leader described to them their forebears, codified the images that had been dancing through his head. The fae he knew of well, but he knew little of the dragons, the demons, the spirit-folk, the wolves. They all had their secrets, that was the way of it, but Michaela had elected to lay some of them bare in a fantastic showing.

He wanted to weep when it was done, when the shadows of the fae had faded, when stark reality reigned once more. Not so stark, though. Nothing seemed entirely real when limned only by firelight, and he drew comfort from that even as he struggled not to shed a tear. The impact of the presentation on Aaron was obvious; his despair might well have been written on his face in glowing ink. They’re all gone, but we remain, he told himself. A faerie prince must only cry for love.

Fortunately, there was more. In his consternation he had forgotten the surprise! His mind was practically tripping over Michaela’s songbird words until it came at last: a revel. The eldest Omarain was retreating, leaving them to their own devices. He had known parties in his time, everything ranging from the boring but beautiful galas of his parents’ world to the crowded teenage affairs that happened behind closed doors in boarding schools, but never had he enjoyed a party on The Isle, before…

… and the faerie prince hardly needed a pretext to dance. He already had Seph by the hand, and his grip strengthened even as he lashed out with his other for one of Milo’s. ”M’lord,” he spoke, looking left, and then ”M’lady,”, looking right. It was courtesy, plain and simple, but in a show of absurd dexterity he untangled his legs and rose in one fluid bit of worship to the god of movement, drawing them up to stand with him. As he did, the music began. Organ music, oddly enough, to compete with the crackling flames and the murmurs that would no doubt follow Michaela’s departure. It was the only remotely impressive trick of illusion that Aaron had mastered as of yet, to bring music with him wherever he went. Female voices in harmony broke in over the electronic organ, making known the unspoken command of the faerie prince: let the beat control you, let the beat control you…

His Gift was only so strong, though. Artemis, alone across the courtyard after Simon’s departure, would be the only one outside the range of the song, but he might still know what the youth was up to (Aaron often provided soundtracks for their fencing practice to join the clash of foil on foil). Everyone else would hear the song, growing more and more cheerful, infectious as a pox one caught from overeating sweets.

Tethered to Seph and Milo, he kept things simple at the onset, shoulders swaying, head bobbing to the rhythm, arms swinging so that his friends’ would swing as well. He was well aware that neither were dancers, not like him (but then, who was?), but he was content to simply drag them however clumsily they might along with him into the embrace of music and motion. He turned to glance at Graham, his eyebrows providing gesture that his busy hands could not. Up, up, slugabed! they exclaimed, bouncing up toward his hairline. Just you and me, let’s break it down!

Even as simple as he was keeping it for now, there was undeniable Glamour in the performance. His grin, broad and goofy, beckoned any who beheld it to give in to the joyous imperative that the song professed. He just looked to be having so much fun that only an enemy of fun wouldn’t wish to join in. He let loose delighted, musical laughter as he began to sing along, leaning in close to Milo, to Seph, to anyone who came near enough, as if his words were meant only to serenade them.

With song and dance, the revelry was begun. Leave it to a faerie prince to conjure a celebration from the very air.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore Character Portrait: Harvey Mak Chinnen
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The Cloistered Witch

Sinry had done her best to ignore most everyone else as she and Seph had made their way to the courtyards. She herself had decided to sit down by a broken down stone pillar, bringing out a pocket knife which had been stored in her, well, pocket. She had been about to set to work on her knees when Michaela decided to get things started way too quickly for her taste.

So as surroundings receded to pitch black, she successfully managed to stab herself. Soren winced, but made no noise otherwise, blood pooling just a bit, trickling down her shin. It hadn’t been a big cut thankfully, but it would still pose a bother.

But she was soon enveloped by the stars and the lights playing against her eyes. She leaned forward, crossing her arms over her knees, and her head resting atop her arms. She was immediately captured by the dragon, her eyes only leaving it to scarcely flicker across the other four.
The Evincal remained silent even after the visions had subsided. Now, she wasn’t at all too happy about being under the command of a Fae’s power, but she trusted Michaela (somewhat) to keep it only educational.

So when she gave them free reign of the night, Sinry wasn’t one to stick around. Though she took a second to briefly look over and watch the smoke filter up from the wood, soon being whisked away by a small breeze. Not only that smoke, but also Harvey's cigarettes.

By then her small wound had pretty much sealed up, though there were dried blood stains at her socks and along the skin of her shin. This wasn’t her forte anyway. She wasn’t social, so this, much like herself, would grow quickly awkward, and only make her feel terrible about herself anyway.
So without a peep, she slipped away from the campfire, knife in hand, and headed straight for the ghostyard, hoping not to be seen and not approached, but since when did such hopes ever stay fulfilled? Besides, the ghosts would like to hear what happened. Maybe she could even find a wisp or two…. Unlikely, but hey, she could at least look forward against faith that they’d show up.

She’d lost her chance to go look for them that day anyway. There was a small throbbing to her leg, but she wasn’t too worried about the leg injury. If anything, she was worried that the knife would rust, which was highly unlikely anyway. She made one last forlorn glance back to where everyone was still gathered, but decided to stay with what she wanted to do. She surely wouldn’t bother Seph, that’s for certain.

So Sinry shoved her hands in the pockets of her shorts, letting out a calm breath of air, turning and walking silently along the grounds, head tilted down and eyes focused on the ground towards her place of solitude.


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Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Vendicare Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore
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Omar found himself laying at the bank of a small creek; the Mozarab had been enjoying sleeping near this creek for several months now. It’s bends and curves seemed to descend from a local hill, though Omar had yet to follow it to its source. The water chuckled at him, it seemed, as he slowly displayed a soft a caressing against the water’s edge. He refused to wake, to ruin the wonderful rest he had. This evening, however, he felt a slight tug of resentment.

The Sun had yet to accept its own fall, barely at the cusp of the horizon, and the faint purples of night danced across the sky like flamboyant feathers against the black blanket sky. The sunrises and sunsets of the isle were certainly gorgeous, though in Omar’s mind, second only to the sunrise and sunset of Toledo. Toledo had been the ancient capital of Iberia, not just for the sweat of her peoples’ brows, but also for the divine imagination that had been pressed upon it. Omar was not one to break his sacred bond to his home just because he had been taken to a quiet little island.

Omar had fallen asleep still in canine shape, as had been the rule for almost a year of his life now, though as he woke he realized his body was human, fleshy and weak. Naked by personal choice, Omar quite enjoyed trekking through the isle in both his lupine and human forms in his birthday suit. It was simply his own way of relishing his freedom. He was alone, and knew it. Without a pack, he had no idea what to do with his life, and being in the nude was certainly something that helped him forget that void.

Omar was a family man, through and through, and humored the dream of being an alpha with dozens of sons and daughters. That seemed like such a far off fantasy, however, because between the death (and murder) of his mother and his separation from his sisters, Omar had no family. And although it seemed that it was the way nature, or God, planned it, Omar couldn’t but help but be afraid to settle down with a woman. He was much more enamored with… well, Aaron the faery boy and Vendicare his fellow lycanthrope. Neither seemed to be interested in him, though they remained courteous and friendly.

Omar wasn’t about to open his mouth, make himself vulnerable and pursue any romantic advance with the two, however. Frivolity, invitation-only and complete invulnerability were the codes Omar lived by, and though it pained him so, he would never break those codes. They were his bond to his father, his one tie to manliness, and the one of the two bases of his entire identity.

Most high, all powerful, all good Lord!
 All praise is yours, all glory, all honor, and all blessing.
To you, alone, Most High, do they belong.
 No mortal lips are worthy to pronounce your name.
Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars; 
in the heavens you have made them bright, precious and beautiful. 
Of your Mother, Most High, she bears the likeness.
Praise and bless my Lord, and give thanks,
 and serve him with great humility. Amen.

As daybreak erupted, Omar silently whispered his evening prayers, borrowed from St. Francis, a greeting to Doña Luna. The Mozarabs’ entire identity belied upon their faith. To be Mozarabic is to be Catholic, Spanish and brave. There are no exceptions. A boy who is born to Mozarabic parents but is not Catholic is simply another Spaniard, an orphan of sorts, and he would only return to good graces if he sought out the divine graces.

The truth was, that if Omar did not find love in the next few years, which could be Aaron, Vendicare or anyone, then he would devote his life to Christ and Church. It was not a simple decision, no, but something he had pondered over for many hours. It would provide for him everything he needed: a home, a great education, a purpose and a pack. Sacrifice? Indeed. The only trouble Omar had with this, however, was that he wanted needed a boyfriend, a husband, a life.

Shrugging all of this away, Omar left the bank of the river to the nearby tree, where his outfit for the night (and really everyday) lay. Linen was his fabric of choice, with black pants (drawstring, no belt) which fit just over his sandals and a long-sleeve guayabera, also black with a loose slit that reached just above the bottom of his pecs for a collar. He had long ago learned to live simple, with barely anything on his back; between traversing the Spanish countryside with hobos, wolves and gypsies, AND emulating his idol, St. Francis, Omar knew that simplicity was the key to finding himself. The ONLY semblance of clean he may have kept up was his head. His hair was always dressed with a black comb, and his face was always clean-shaven using an ivory straight-razor (chrome and steel, no iron).

His ears twitched, his nose panged to the shift of the wind. The others were about, a fire was being built, and shouts were shared. They seemed to have been congregating, and so with the slide of his sandal, Omar rushed to join them all. He had hoped that whatever reason they were congregating was a good reason, and he hoped nobody questioned his tardiness. As the young Balaren stole a seat near the back of the congregation, he made it just in time to realize the fae-lady AND them were on some stellar presentation – literally. Omar, however, felt rather unimpressed, even with appearance of the astral wolf just before them. That is not to say he was unimpressed by the actual presentation – Omar was awestruck indeed, and had gazed at many stars and never seen such beauty – but rather, he was unimpressed by the story to be told. It was heretical, it was pagan… and it was boring. The young lycanthrope, although a religious and somewhat superstitious boy, was also somewhat skeptical and cynical. Faith was a struggle, superstition was a product of culture, but magic? Magic was the imaginary plaything of the gypsies.

Needless to say, as Aaron, el Rey del Corazon instructed the various other charges to dance and play and whatever, Omar stole his chance to once again steal away. Alcohol, dancing, orgy, whatever of the night was intended, Omar had no desire to fulfill it. Now, the boy was no stickler or temperance wife – by God, he WAS Catholic afterall – but socialization was certainly not a sport he was inclined to play in unless he had a very, very, very, close group of intimate friends to back him up. Shy? Maybe. Stoic? Definitely.

Just past the entrance to the compound, completely irreverent of any other soul, Omar Maria Media dropped his lonesome tuchus against an equally lonely tree, and waited. For what? Hell if he knew. But he waited nonetheless.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore Character Portrait: Harvey Mak Chinnen Character Portrait: Tally Roawn
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The Cloistered Witch

“I won’t force you if you really want to leave, but I think you should at least dance a little bit before you leave. Trust me it’s really fun when you get into it” A voice suddenly presented itself to interrupt her thoughts. Not only was Sinry not expecting it, but it was Tally of all people. So Soren faltered in her step, freezing for a fraction of a second before regaining her footing and standing still.

The Evincal’s eye twitched lightly, and she wriggled the fingers of her right hand absently. I don’t dance. I can’t dance, I don’t want to dance, and it’s beyond awkward. I know that you don’t know me well at all, but I would have thought that such would be apparent. She thought silently towards her fellow dragon-born, watching her turn around and head back to the party.

Soren lingered for a few moments, her eyes scanning over the gathering and the people grouped around. She really didn’t want to remain in the area, especially as Aaron currently had free reign to use his Fae powers, which she despised most of all. With the arrival of alcohol however, she bit her lower lip, patting her pockets searchingly before nodding and quietly slinking back, a new plan forming in her head.

No, the necromancer was not going to be sticking around. Alcohol and large social gatherings were far beyond her, but she still crawled back over, hoping not to be engaged by anyone else as she gathered what she wanted. Without a word she came up by the small group clustered around the boxes and keg. Silently, she let out a breath of relief as no one else was really approaching yet.

Her fingers traced along the material of one of the lids before she popped it open from behind, her eyes quickly flickering over each individual bottle for the first letter on the labels. Her particular box was behind the keg stand, and it took probably four seconds before she found what she had been in quest for, and reached in, pulling out an entire bottle of rum, new and obviously unopened.

It was only luck that that particular alcohol had been hiding in the box, comfortably snug in the corner. Sinry backed away from the little area, walking mutedly towards another spot behind some random stonework in the area, her eyes scanning once more for one person in particular. Once having spotted him, she backed out into the darker portion of the clearing, away from the bonfire and circling in his direction.

Harvey just happened to be pretty occupied with at least three other people, so it would make her job immensely easier. Well, it still had a few bumps in it, but in a rough amount much smoother. Her lips were pressed together tightly as she walked up behind him, the rum unmoving in her left hand so it wouldn’t swish and make noise, even if the music Aaron had so… graciously bestowed was pretty loud and would most likely drown out any noises she made, it never hurt to be cautious with these things.

By the time she had finally gotten over there, most of his little group had dispersed, though still one or two lingered to keep his attention occupied, and if they couldn’t hold his attention, she was sure Aaron’s new little dance probably would.

Soren’s quick gaze came into play yet again, and she scanned over the backs and sides of his pants from her own position. Holding her breath, she leaned forward, allowing her lithe fingers to flicker into his back pocket, the space between her index and middle finger enclosing around his lighter just enough to get a grip on it and almost seamlessly pull back out. However, Sinry wasn’t an all too practiced thief, and the tips of her two fingers brushed fractionally against the fibers of the material, probably triggering the smallest of reactions in his body and alerting his brain to something being off. Or if he was sensitive anyway; he may not even care.

But by then she had the lighter sliding up with a bit of momentum, her thumb and pinky enclosing around it as well so it wouldn’t drop, and she turned, already walking away, her left hand angled so the rum was a bit more of a prominent vision point, just in case he looked up and around. “I’ll just borrow this.” A hushed whisper, holding her relief in it as well, slipped through her lips, already drowned out by the chatting and music of the party.

As she walked back out, heading towards the Ghostyard once more, someone caught her attention. She allowed a very frail yet sincere smile to present itself as she turned her head to better see him. Altering her course slightly, she walked over to Omar, slipping the newly lifted lighter into her front pocket and made a small wave towards him. “Hey Omar, wanna come to the Ghostyard and sit with me?” Her voice was somewhat soft and reserved, smooth and the tone only altering a few times in the span it took to say the sentence.

Her fingers tapped the glass of the bottle, her facial features showing that she was in thought, though a bit leaning to still hear his answer. She was tracing a figure along her right thigh in order to remember it. She had a plan to entertain herself, plus she might even get to lure those bloody wisps out of hiding, and the sooner the better.


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Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore
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As he sat under the lofty tree, its branches reaching just over his head into the dark abyss of night, Omar couldn’t help but feel… alone. He had been alone only for the last two years; understandably, he was still getting used to it.

Omar heard himself silently whistle an old tune that he had picked up back in Toledo; it was probably originally a chant, but Omar didn’t know the lyrics.

“Hey Omar, wanna come to the Ghostyard and sit with me?” Her voice was somewhat soft and reserved, smooth and the tone only altering a few times in the span it took to say the sentence. Sinry’s nervous persona reached above him, and in the dark, seemed to unite with the darkness of the Earth to create one solid entity. One of Omar’s few friends.

Despite Omar’s inhibition to ever go near the Ghostyard, Omar felt honorbound by the invitation. Therefore, he almost resented his words as they spilled quietly from his mouth. “I-“ Omar stopped to clear his throat, which was dry from hardly ever being used. “I would like that.” Not really, but he would never reveal that.

Placing his feet flat on the ground before him, he shifted his weight and shot his head up. Successfully rising without using leverage besides the momentum of his own body, Omar began to shake the dirt and dust off his ass, and then turned to Soren.

Now, with perspective and proper lighting, she really looked beautiful. Almost stunning. [b]”Whoa,” Omar said, looking over her in the light of the Moon and the lamps, “if I didn’t play for the boys, you’d have yourself a suitor in me!” With the silliness of his comment, Omar gave her a slight giggle. He still remembered the first time he realized he liked boys.

He could see the glow on Sinry’s eyes and the look on her face. He wasn’t sure what she meant by it, but he assumed it was a sassy look like “Really?” To answer her, “You know, if my mother knew I liked you-know-who and not you, she would have hit me across the head and command me to marry you.” He giggled some more, waiting for the girl to lead them off to the Ghostyard.


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Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media
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The Cloistered Witch

Soren put one hand leniently on the pocket with Harvey’s lighter stashed away within, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly and her left eyebrow raising in disbelief. She tapped the bottle against her thigh lightly, waiting for him to finish what he was saying, in order to be polite. It wasn’t that she disliked listening to him, it was just the random comment was throwing her off.

A small almost mischief-like smile flickered across her features, gone as fast as it had appeared. “Voldemort!?” She put her hand up to her mouth in a mock gasp, her eyes lighting up ever so slightly before she shook her head, turning and leading the way down the well trodden path to the Ghostyard.
She glanced around for a moment. “So what have you been doing all day?” Her voice was loud enough to travel over the music that was still lingering within their range as the two walked further into solitude.

Sinry of course just expected him to talk as they walked, so walk she did. The sooner they got away from the large social gathering the better. The necromancer really disliked having to trek through one of the forests to get there, and she was still set on trying to find a different path. However, she rarely had the time to really go exploring for such a purpose, as she was always wrapped up in some form of training or another. (Or diving down stairs, or walking along window ledges, or crawling under furniture, or vaulting over random obstacles, or- well, you get the point, in pursuit of pencils.)

So the girl resigned herself to her fate every time and made the same trail to the place she knew best. And that’s where they happened to be now – on that very trail. The trees that surrounded the leaf littered path seemed to close in on the bodies that ventured to break their unspoken rule of silence and privacy; that they dared to speak out this night among them, to break their time of peace.

Soren actually didn’t mind her surroundings much. She knew the path pretty much like the back of her hand. Besides, she was a necromancer after all. The leaves shuddered and shifted as a breeze kicked up, running through or around anything that dared pose a hindrance to its path. Sinry gave a small yawn, noting that they were almost out of the tree cluster anyway.

As soon as the two broke out of the woods, the Evincal’s eyes darted across the clearing, scanning for anyone who was up. And by that she meant ghosts and the likes. There were only about three wandering the large expanse. Lips pressed tightly together, Soren led Omar towards the single tree which was the only prominent thing in sight.

She looked around the circumference of the tree, searching for a stick or something like one that she could use. Once discovered, she returned to the front of the tree, or where Omar was anyway, and stepped two feet away from him. Soren crouched down, her left arm resting on her left knee, and leaned forward, running the end of the stick through the terra until there was a somewhat deep line.

Flashing Omar a small half grin, she returned to her work, her head tilted slightly as she traced the stick through the soil which had been dampened and thus softened by the previous days' rains. However she paused for a moment, bringing the bottle of rum which she had been carrying to the close proximity of her foot. She set down the stick, and drew her pocket knife from one of the many pockets in her shorts.

The girl thumbed through some of the different tools before coming to the actual blade, proceeding to rest it against the plastic wrapping which surrounded the cap, slicing along the ridge carefully before removing it entirely. After about twenty-five seconds of attempting to wrest the cap off, she crawled back over to Omar and handed it to him expectantly.

She then turned back around, reclaiming her stick, and then resumed to continue in her drawing, a thoughtful and focused expression on her face as she recalled the images from earlier that evening. She only blinked every so often, as she didn’t want to lose the point at which she was at.


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Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore
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“Oh yes, totally. Voldemort.” Omar replied, face mock-agitated. “You know, I’ve only ever seen the first two movies and never read the books. That being said, I don’t like reading in English.”

Following Soren, Omar lightly let himself into a dreary state, dreaming of the soft waters near Toledo where he would spend his nights howling. Yes, he would howl for days it seemed, mourning the loss of his mother, his family, his life. A small strain of relief always gleamed in the back of his head: his stepfather was dead. But without an other picture, Omar was certain it had been him who had murdered both mother and stepfather, injuring his two elder sisters, and Lord only knew what else.

The night’s moon wasn’t particularly full or vibrant, but nevertheless, the Moon was always Omar’s main attention. Yes, even if Aaron was half-naked in Omar’s bed, moaning with anticipation (which wouldn’t necessarily thrill or discourage Omar either way), Omar’s eyes would be cast against “La Luna”. To him, She was the celestial manifestation of the Virgin Mary, the Feminine principle of divinity and his one protectress. No, flesh, EVEN fae-flesh could never tempt him away from his devotion to the Moon. The only boy who could ever do that would have to be the one boy who could personify the moon. Was the Aaron? Maybe, but Omar didn’t rest that idea too long. Aaron had many more suitors, and Omar was just a fool in the dark.

Omar’s education had taught him very simple but essential precepts: 1) Never believe in anything unless you absolutely want to believe in it; 2) Never judge someone based on their beliefs; 3) See the beauty in others’ beliefs, AND if they have proven their passion to be truly genuine, then view it equal to your own. Omar refused to see ghosts, or spirits, or anything. He didn’t necessarily NOT believe in them, he just wasn’t focused enough TO believe in them. Omar had realized that he was only one of a few people Soren trusted to see her art and not judge it. And indeed, Omar never judged. He gazed on in fascination and wonder, but he never judged.

When Soren had passed him the rum, he made sure the opening was clear and clean, sniffed it, and swallowed back a few gulps’ worth. Omar wasn’t a rum-fellow. Nor beer, nor vodka nor anything of that sort. He liked wine and brandy, especially cognac, and he wasn’t usually one to indulge in alcohol just for sport. He was a quiet drunk. The type of drunk that sit in the corner and seemed to listen to some eternal playlist of the world’s most anguishing music. But this time, Omar realized the rum was a sort of “peace pipe” from Soren, and to refuse it would probably be to refuse her.

“Would it disrupt your art if I prayed? It has put me in a strangely spiritual mood. I am surrounded by dead, it seems, and as we say: espera respirar por acá de los muertos.” Omar’s eyes flashed in the moonlight beneath the tree. His breath had settled low and light, attempting not to disturb the dead; this was a very old superstition he had learned and lived by. And as someone who had murdered, he was not one to disturb the dead further.


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Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Omar Maria Media
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#, as written by Skwidge
The Cloistered Witch

She cocked her eyebrow at him, crossing her arms lightly. “You haven’t seen all the movies?” She shook her head in mock disappointment, clicking her tongue against her teeth quietly. Without another comment, she watched him easily unscrew the top, and then proceed to take a few gulps of the alcohol. She expected him to drink at least a little bit of it, so she outstretched her hand for the bottle back.

Once he consented to her request, she crawled back over to her drawings in the dirt. One of the dragon, it’s eyes being the most detailed and prominent, as she had worked at it with her trusty pocket knife instead of the bulky and awkward stick. The second drawing was of the wolf, its head tilted up and maw parted in a silent howl. She had even detailed the wind from its jaws softly in her dirt canvas.

”Would it disrupt your art if I prayed?” She was about to ask which art he was referring to before he continued. ”I am surrounded by dead, it seems, and as we say: espera respirar por acá de los muertos.” Soren’s left eyebrow quirked up once more, and a small grin wormed its way onto her face. “Something about it not being polite to breathe in front of the dead? Sorry, rough translation. I’m not very good at Spanish.” She shook her head, it was silly, but she didn’t really let that show on her face. Being a necromancer, the dead loved to listen to her breathe and speak, it was strange, but it was a ghost thing. “Of course not, feel free to do so.”

With a nod of approval in the direction of her art, she then uncapped the rum again, quietly allowing it to trickle into the indentions of the dirt. She smiled contently to herself, her eyes closed in that simple self-joy of what she’d accomplished, and she pulled out Harvey’s lighter from one of her pockets. She flicked a sideways glance at Omar, and put a finger up to her lips. “Yeah, don’t tell Harvey I took this. Also I’m a secret pyromaniac,” She rolled her eyes comically. “I’m giving Daniel a run for his money, don’t tell him either. Also you probably shouldn’t mention this to Seph, or- well, you know, let’s just keep this a secret between ourselves.” By the time she finished her slightly awkward phrasing, she had her chin and left cheek resting in the palm of her hand as she watched Omar.

Once she was satisfied with his reaction, she turned back, pressing down on the smell lever and ran her thumb down of the wheel. The flame flicked to life, and she silently lowered it down to the alcohol, waiting a few second before it caught, and then watched as the fire licked its way along all of the lines and dashes and the like. Afterwards, she shifted to the right a bit, doing the same with the wolf and then the breath. It was a calming look with the flames blue against the dark night, the only other bright thing in the clearing being the faint glow of the specters wandering around, minding their own business.

Another self indulged nod, and she slid back against the tree next to him, resting her chin on her knees with her arms clasped around the front of her shins, watching the flames flicker without a noise. She once more brought the rum bottle back to her leg, and she ran her finger along the mouth of the bottle, and brought it up into her own. She didn’t particularly like alcohol, unless it was mixed into something else, like coke or pepsi or other. She was never a big drinker. So instead, Soren listened to Omar’s breathing, and the soft rumble in his chest of a few escaped, incoherent words.