xxxA R S E N x S T . J A M E S
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx⢠x nex x ⢠x god of the dead x ⢠x x â˘
- whoever said the shit
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
g o d x // x nex , major god of the dead
p h y s i c a l a g e x // x28
g e n d e r x // xMale
s e x u a l i t y x // x- - -
o r i g i n x // x - - -
s p e c i e s x // xvampire, emerged god
- whoever said the shit
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
w e i g h t x // x190 lbs
h a i r x // xbrown, straight
e y e s x // xblue
o d d i t i e s x // xdescribe some shit here
a p p e a r a n c e x // x words
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
I N G E N I U M
xxxxxxxxxxxx⢠x a b i l i t y x ⢠x \ É - Ë b i - l É - t Ä \ x â˘
S e m i - i m m o r t a l i t y x // x Like all Gods, Arsen is semi-immortal
N e c r o s i s - I n d u c e m e n t x // x Arsen can cause cell death in living organisms, resulting in rapid decay of the victim's tissue.
D e a t h - S e n s e x // x Arsen can't predict death, but he can feel the moment a human or creature has passed away.
D i m e n s i o n - C o n t r o l x // x As a Major god he is able to create Pocket Dimensions.
F O R T I T U D O
xxxxxxxxxxxx⢠x s t r e n g t h x ⢠x \ Ë s t r e Ĺ ( k ) t h \ x â˘
P a t i e n c e x // x A skill he's gained with time. Arsen can wait as long as it takes for something he really wants.
F o c u s x // x * * *
P h y s i c a l - S t r e n g t h x // x * * *
I N F I R M I T A T E
xxxxxxxxxxxx⢠x w e a k n e s s x ⢠x \ Ë w Ä k - n É s \ x â˘
G r u d g e s x // x Arsen hates hard, quick to makes things physical once he feels like he's been done wrong, more than happy to erase your existence from this world.
w e a k n e s s x // x * * *
w e a k n e s s x // x * * *
M E T U M
xxxxxxxxxxxx⢠x f e a r x ⢠x \ Ë f i r \ x â˘
B e t r a y a l x // x - - -
f e a r x // x * * *
f e a r x // x * * *
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
P E R S O N A L I T A T E
xxx⢠x cunning x ⢠x resourceful x ⢠x arrogant x ⢠x obsessive x ⢠x loyal x â˘
Sometimes itâs all muscle memory and none of the sentiment. Simply the reaper come to collect his dues. Heâs learned that you gotta reach for temporary things while you still have them, even if itâs just his own entertainment and the myriad of ways he could find it. Intention aside, heâs always been friendly. More than happy to bend backwards for the right one, the right cause. Guess that only makes it even rockier when those threads of camaraderie snap but maybe thatâs just how things go. People disappoint you and you leave their flesh in a heap on the sidewalk. Reciprocity? Heâs always been big on that; giving back what you receive in equal measures (for a friend, usually) and the pendulum swings both ways. Sometimes too enthusiastically. He's got a prideful devil on his shoulder and a deep rooted aversion to disappointment, tells him audacity's gotta be repaid in blood and fuck if Arsen wasn't good for a fist fight.
Truth be told, thereâs a fear that burrows in the back of his head, comes out in collecting bodies like safety nets, swinging hard left when he feels slighted, still being too afraid to be honest with anybody except a chosen few. Every bit afraid of the idea of dying alone even if every impulse in his body fights against the idea of bringing people in close (where Nex could touch them). Loss has warped his perception in a way. Like heâs gotta look over his shoulder everytime someone glances his way, like a truck might jump the median and take them both out.
But Nex himself was a languid god. Calm. Wasted little effort. Always so rocksteady in his adherence to patience, that refusal to rush because all things will see me someday, and really whatâs more arrogant than that? Sometimes Arsen hates it. The way he can feel his god creeping in, the cold press of his influence. But maybe it's true what they say; kindred spirits aren't wrong, just mean twice the trouble.
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
xxx
Anyways, he was seven when an old member of his fatherâs crew showed up to the bar. Out on parole and bent on revenge, he gathered a few hunter buddies of his own and shot everyone inside.
The cop that leered over him was one he recognised. Accented by the flash of red and blue lights in the background. He grabbed Arsen by the hand and let him sit on the hood of the car, not quite bold enough to say the words out loud but Arsen could see it in the manâs movements, in the way he just barely managed to cast hurried, sidelong glances in his direction, as if saying even a single word might disrupt his concept of normal and they had to hold onto it while they still could. Didnât really matter, though. Arsen was old enough to realize things had changed.
He moved around a lot after that. Like the courts were just throwing darts at a family tree and hoping one would finally stick. His grandmother stuck with him the longest. Quick tempered and tired from spending her better years running after her own kids, she was a stark contrast from his parents and their hands-free, almost noncommittal approach to parenting. Theyâd argue about his bad habits and his attitude then heâd leave only to slink back at night -- where else would he go at thirteen? -- and sheâd make him some food and together theyâd watch her old people shows in silence like nothing had really happened. The resentment was still there. From an older woman running out of patience and a boy unaccustomed to any kind of structure. Kept quiet by guilt; hers stemming from the voice in her head that wanted to pass him along to the next person; his from watching her take care of him when she shouldâve been kicking back in her final years.
He didnât own any dress pants, so he wore jeans to her funeral. Her friends tell him about how much she seemed to enjoy him, which comes as a surprise to Arsen. He tried to picture it and could only remember the broken screen door out back. How heâd slammed it too hard after one of their fights and couldnât get it to shut right. So she did like him, after all.
When the social worker picks him up he cries in the backseat of the car.
Heâd moved in with his older brother (half brother, but Michael didnât like that word) who might have been the wrong crowd, but Arsen didnât really see it that way. Far too taken with the older guy who asked him how his day went, enjoyed playing games, and actually listened to his mindless rambles. There was always something a little off about the memories, though. Things he didnât pick up on until he was older; all the ways Michael made up for being gone the whole day, the money he thought heâd hidden, the skinny people who hounded them whenever they were out (the same people whoâd duck whenever they owed some money and didnât want michael to see them). By all measures he shouldâve ruined Arsen, but theyâd come to some sort of silent agreement. Do your part and I wonât bother you. A simple concept that people had tried to hammer into Arsen since day one; somehow it made perfect sense when it wasnât being yelled from across the room. Go figure.
Arsen was perched on the curb outside some house party a few years later. Head still swimming from the downers, base still humming in his chest, catching whatever stray light he could from cars passing by as he pressed the phone to his ear. Just a pool of sweat and despair when he eventually asked why are you calling me and got a hypnotically calm youâre the last one I wanted to hear in return. The kindest thing he couldâve done for himself was not answer. Arsen couldâve been passed out in another room. Maybe tongue kissing some random girl, blown to hell and back via his brotherâs personal (but itâs not really personal if i can find it, you get that, right?) stash. It wasnât often Arsen had enough sense left intact to even answer a phone call, let alone the last one heâd ever get from his older brother.
Maybe seventeen is too young to know men die but actions donât and sometimes thatâs all we have to live for in this world. Michael was a giant in his own right, a blight on society if you cared about that, but Arsen didnât and that was enough deference to get his way where his older brother was concerned. Still, Arsen shouldâve known his werenât the only ears perking up at the sound of a promise made, but hindsightâs always twenty-twenty and the ins and outs of selling drugs never enticed him as much as the buying and smoking and taking. He fell asleep in the yard that night. Limbs heavy like his veins were loaded with cement. Woke up with mosquito bites and a hangover and the dream-like feeling that his best friend was gonna be gone for the next five to ten. Maybe longer if the rest of his skeletons came out to play.
Whatever. Heâs seventeen when his brother finally goes to jail, which isnât really a death, but still a quiet kind of extinction nonetheless, when something that still is canât be what it was before.
eighteen is the end of the rope. no longer bound to the state or his family or anyone, really. Itâs not as freeing as it should be since camaraderie is the one delusion he canât live without (closely followed by power, and lastly, silence) but he canât tell the difference between compulsion and actual feelings, so they all tend to fall by the wayside.
Such was life. Eternity was a drag and the road only got longer when you didnât have enough to satisfy you. Or maybe it's an attachment issue that has him hopping from city to city. Either way, he quickly learns that vampire isn't a moniker for the faint of heart but hiding isn't part of his plan so he wears the title like a badge of honor, more than happy to have sold all nine of his lives for just a taste of immortality. of power. of whatever the strange man had to offer him when he found arsen on the receiving end of needing to stand out - pinned between a hunter and a hard place -- and chose to save his life. He gripped him with talks of a coven, something Arsen had missed out on thanks to his own parents strict adherence to blending in with the humans. He started out with small tasks; collecting the debts of mortals who'd failed to pay back the mysterious stranger, running errands through the city, standing guard. Light work. Boring work. The early days of his servitude barely register in his head when he looks back on it, less a memory and more a feeling as he watched vampires much older than himself live a life he'd never seen before.âJust donât look too much.â That was their advice at the time. Donât look too much or the temptation will surely overwhelm you.
In any case, Arsen didnât follow the no looking rule. Once the honeymoon period of family and gore had waned he was suddenly very aware of how much humans had to offer. How easily he could take what he wanted. Within limits, at least. His new life came with its own kind of bondage, tied to his leader and his exploits. He went where he was told. Followed commands. It didnât take long to relegate humans down to different tiers of usefulness, the idea of them slowly becoming muddied in his mind, as if they had only ended up on the same planet by chance, like they werenât all made from the same dirt and carbon and bone. Some sneer at the idea of him. Others were sable soft and grossly compliant in the palm of his hand, addicted to the honor of seeing themselves in the reflection of his blue eyes, as if anything they had to offer was gonna leave a better impression on his mind than the metallic taste of their blood on his tongue.
In the end itâs not the humans that come for him. Tired of the way things were, the clan his master had created decided to take things into their own hands, starting with the most loyal subjects and ending wherever their efforts took them.
Arsen heard the mob before he saw it and by the time he realized what was happening they'd already surrounded the home. Swarming like ants. He remembers the windows shattering, no match for the army of weapons and booted feet careening off it. Then through it. They stormed in like it was nothing and from where he stood, feet placed unevenly against the shards, arms at his sides, Arsen could see them tear through the first floor and somewhere the shriek of metal on metal rose above any scream, curse, or shout that attempted to reach his selective ears. He held them off as best as he could.
They cut him down eventually.
They say if a man gets killed by a bear then his children learn to run, say we inherit every little thing from our parents, say shit canât go wrong if it was never right to begin with, say history repeats itself over and over again, say âif this is how your folks went out then shouldnât you have been a little smarter?â He manages a smile from where heâs laid out on the floor. All slow like. The airâs wire tight and settles heavy on his chest when he tries to take a breath and only manages a wet, mangled weeze, blood seeping out from between the cracks in his teeth, down the lines of his jaw, dripping onto the floor in little pools. His pride won't let him beg and he couldnât place the word stop on an exhale even if he tried. Somewhere voices are arguing; heâs not the one they wanted and guilty by association and why would they leave a witness, what sense would that make.
Something changes in the moments that follow. Like heâd died and woken up again. His body remained like an altar to a dead thing but somehow, somehow, he could actually move it and a feeling of irascibility flowed through him at the realization. Followed by that one instruction. Over and over again. To find the thing that wasnât right and kill it.
Theyâre shocked when he gets up, but thereâs not much they can say when their flesh is rotted down to bone. He stalks each one through the house and even out onto the street when one gets through the door, running even as the blackened sludge of their skin sloughed off onto the pavement, squelching underneath Arsenâs shoes and splattering across the concrete when his fists find the traitor's face.
But Nex himself wasnât a violent god. Only one accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted at one point or another. He seizes Arsen once the last body drops and Arsen doesnât really fight it, coming down off the ecstasy of agony and suddenly violently aware of the heat still radiating off the dusty cement and up his heels despite the blanket of night and buzzing mosquitoes. somewhere a dog lunges once it picks up his scent and the fence squeaks in protest everytime paws meet the chainlink. his heart kinda flips, too, but whateverâs fluctuating through his veins in time with his pulse keeps him steady. Heâs not used to being this aware of the life around him. Or this impatient for all of it to end.