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Dahlia Bedacholli

the scourge

0 · 413 views · located in The Academy of Unseen Arts

a character in “Guardians of Hell”, as played by mombie

Description

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Image D A H L I A x B E D A C H O L L I Image
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Image . B A S I C S . Image Image Image


Β§ . m o n i k e r ( s ) . dolly, lia

Β§ . g e n d e r . female

Β§ . a g e . 27

Β§ . s e x u a lx o r i e n t a t i o n . heterosexual

Β§ . o r i g i n . italy

Β§ . r e l a t i o n s h i pxs t a t u s . single

Β§ . r o l e . witch



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Image . A P P E A R A N C E .

Β§ . e y e s . dark chestnut brown

Β§ . h a i r . light brown, wavy, length to her bum

Β§ . h e i g h t . 5' 6"

Β§ . w e i g h t . 125 lbs

Β§ . p h y s i q u e . slender, feminine

Β§ . s k i n . sun-kissed with bronze undertone

Β§ . s c a r s . wrist ligature marks

Β§ . d e s c r i p t i o n . Classical beauty is best to describe Dahlia. She is petite, yet feminine, and she only knows how lovely she is by virtue of what she is told by others. Her flesh is near perfect; a wash of golden warmth and a speckle of freckles as if someone flicked a paintbrush loaded with brown paint at her chest. She has a very elegant style; conserved, but also not at the same time. Leave a little to the imagination, she has always been told - but give enough to whet the appetite.

And all of this beauty and dark grace is for naught, as her gaze is as absent as a grimdark well that only howls but holds no water. There is just an endless wondering about its depth, and the same can be said for Dahlia. It is as though the soul in her body has all but departed, and there is nothing left but a husk with a practiced smile and a cold sense of zealous devotion. She presents herself well, as a Witch that serves the Dark Lord utterly should - poised and with her chin up, but the subservience is not hard to miss.

Her style of dress is as aforementioned; delighted to be a sight of lust for wanting Warlocks, but not so much as to make it easy for their eyes to prey upon her flesh. She is not an embodiment of lust by any means, but the power of flaunting some skin can't be trifled with. She enjoys a variety of looks; deeply plunging necklines paired with a long skirt, or perhaps a short skirt coupled with lengthy sleeves. She lives to please, and there is no better pleasure than carnal delight. She is not afraid to show her womanly figure, as it was fashioned for the enjoyment of men. Or so, that is what she was taught.



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Image . C H A R A C T E R .

Β§ . t r a i t s . cold, zealous, hedonistic, traditional, loyal, punisher

Β§ . f e a r s . Dahlia fears no longer being useful or needed. It is her biggest fear that she will be a disappointment to the Dark Lord or the High Priest. In fact, she would not be caught disappointing any man presumed to be above her.

Β§ . v i c e ( s) . sex, violence, unquestioned subservience

Β§ . d i s l i k e s . haughty Witches, goody-two-shoed peers, cigarettes, and most of the modern Witches and Warlocks

Β§ . f l a w s . subservient, zealously devoted to the Church of Night and the Dark Lord, impersonal, no self-esteem or sense of self, no sense of simply being a human being with her own free will.

Β§ . s t r e n g t h s . loyal when one is deemed worthy of it, observant, well-learned in traditional coven ways, linguistically well-versed in latin, italian, and most of american english.

Β§ . i n t e l l i g e n c e . is a sponge regarding particular classes like hexes, curses, potions, and ritual. She knows more of the traditional side of the Church of Night than others, given that she's grown up with it in a stricter sense.

Β§ . p e r s o n a l i t y . She is of a more traditional flock of witches that always put greater emphasis on Warlocks above Witches. Her life, from a young age until today, has been spent grooming her to be a subservient vessel to the Dark Lord and his Warlocks. When she signed the Book of the Beast, she did so without feeling as though she lost her own free will. After all, she never had it. She doesn't even know what that means.

However, for better or worse, she does not go out of her way to be a bitch. The fear her peers have of her is that she is so devoted that she'd do anything, and at the expense of even more than her own life. If one of her friends or Warlocks asked her to kill someone, the likelihood that she'd comply is higher than her resistance. It's been her lifelong duty to make others happy, and she is a tool designed for just that. It's taken many, many years of abuse, cruelty, and isolation to shape her into this malleable creature one sees before them.

One would be better off staying away from the likes of Dahlia. Or at the very least, be wary and alert.



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Image . A B I L I T I E S .

Β§ . f a m i l i a r . a three-foot Puff Adder snake. It is a plain light brown viper female that likes to spend her time twisted around her owner in some way or form. Sometimes, she hides in the clothing and can be seen poking out of Lia's neckline. Her name is Velena, which loosely translates into 'poison' from Italian.

Β§ . s t r e n g t h s . hexes, curses, rituals, music, singing, sacrifice of any kind

Β§ . w e a k n e s s . conjuring, herbalism, small stature, modern Coven shenanigans

Β§ . m a g i c . she is a tit-for-tat magic-user; everything has a price, and she is willing to pay. She is not above indulging in the darkest of the arts, and when she practices it is often a huge drain on her humanity. Whatever is left of it. Dahlia has been known to hex and curse her peers when she's been slighted, and she's grown quite good at it. She can utilize a variety of objects such as enchanted objects that mimic her victim or create sickness and pestilence.

She's also very fond of rituals, and if anyone is feeling sqeamish about something, she's the first Witch to volunteer. Ancient Tongues is one of her favorite subjects, and she's quite flirtatious with the teacher. Though she does not do well in herbalism, her peers know better than to touch anything she's had a hand in making. She's growing fonder of Sacred geometry as it holds great importance in Binding Rituals and Conjuration, but she's not quite at expert level. Yet. She practices very often so that she could perform as needed for the Dark Lord - whenever the time comes to do his bidding.

She does not touch things that offers anything in the way of comfort or healing. She prefers vicious and aggressive magics. Dahlia has very little qualms with testing things out on the Mortals. After all, who are they to her anyway? If she was beneath Warlocks, then Mortals are definitely beneath her. In fact, she has a very bad habit of giving Mortals a hard time. She's been known to kill them without question, and using magic to do so under the guise of natural causes.



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Image . H I S T O R Y .

Dahlia was born is a pretty messed up household. They lived in a large manor, but it was not just one family - there were multiple. This small coven was run by men and the women were subservient to them. That was just the way. There was a rampant cycle of abuse of all kinds. The men have multiple wives, and the only job of women in the coven was to have daughters and conduct the more dirty business of the house. Dahlia does not know who her mother is, and it is this way by design. Men were like gods in that House, and the women truly believed that they held more power over them than they actually did. The women of the House were condemned to practice the darkest of sorceries - hexes and curses, blood magics and other things. Their jobs were to use their skills to con the mortal population to bring in money. If they had to use their bodies to do so, then they did. The daughters never went to school, and by the age of fifteen, they were put to work. The House did not have boys. If a woman were to give birth to a boy, he would be killed as to ensure that there would be no competition. Men were chosen from outside of the Coven.

Dahlia did not grow up as a typical child would. Instead, she suffered abuse in even her earliest years. She was forced to practice and practice until sometimes her body would give out from all of the magic use. At the age of 15, she was promised to a new gentleman that had entered the Coven of the House. He was fairly young, in his mid-twenties, and had no taste for her at the time. Too young. But that did not mean she wasn't groomed to be subservient to him naturally, as her years progressed. She worked with some of the older women, one of whom she thought her mother, in a new-age shop where people came in with their problems and desires to be rid of them.

That is when her father's cruelty began to really surface in her. She spent all of this time listening to other people's problems, and she became obsessed with the lives of their customers. She began delivering real curses and hexed objects; even without their knowledge. If they wanted a simple tarot card reading, she would do it. However, she'd then hex an object and sell it to them because she didn't need money - she needed to be cruel to people. After being raised so long in a house where the men liked to play God to her, she felt she should do the same. That must be the way the world worked.

The man she was promised to eventually marries her when she's eighteen. Of course, he was just like her dad - abusive, cruel, monstrous. But by this time she was used to it and even loved it. There was just no other way of life for her. She existed for him, and in turn, he made her feel beautiful and needed. It didn't matter that he beat her or... did other unmentionable things... only that she clung to him. Battered spouse syndrome, if one could call it that.

Eventually, the police were able to intervene surrounding dark rumors of abuse in the House. They were ambushed, a few of the men shot in the process, and the rest were jailed and the women "rescued". They were taken to shelters. Many of them couldn't handle being on their own without their husbands and fathers, so they ended up actually killing themselves. Just as Dahlia was about to take her own life, the High Priest from the Curche of Night in America intervened. He told her that she would have a purpose at the Academy, and at the age of 25, he saw to it that she'd attend. He helped her attain the money of the House she came from through the legal system, and that would pay for the Academy and for everything she'd ever need. Yet, she never felt like she had anything at all.



coding x dreamwaker | fc x Bridget Saterlee | hex x C48495




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R O M A N x B L A C K
"He speaks of desire and choice, as if I know what that means."


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It's strange to see this hovering just slightly above only neutral on a man that she is around quite often. Dahlia is his favorite, but she doesn't necessarily recognize that. her belief is that she serves him well, whether it be sex or other kinds of companionship. She views their relationship as something she needs rather than something she wants. That's not to say, of course, that she doesn't have something more for him. It is possible, but she doesn't know what that feels like. She does know, however, that his salacious behavior around other women leaves her prone to bouts of jealousy. He tries to remind her that she's a human being with her own mind and body, but she's hesitant to be wanting. With him or with anything else. She follows the rules to the T - men above women.


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T A M S I N x R E E D
"You can smell the encroaching darkness in this one."


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It may, at first, appear that Dahlia would rather see Tamsin wiped off the face of this earth; however, the dour woman is a source of morbid curiosity. They are completely different as witches - Tamsin is doom and gloom and Dahlia is happy to be of service to the Academy. Yet, they are both equally as far removed from their peers. They both have their own devices that numb the cold realities of their world. They are both, in a sense, dead on the inside. For now. There is no doubting that Tamsin is also intelligent and sharp, and those are traits that Dahlia can admire. But they don't talk much given their personal dispositions, and perhaps it is best that way. For both of them. Maybe even best for the Dark Lord himself, really.


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B O D H I x K R I S H N A N
"We aren't terribly different."


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Dahlia and Bodhi seem to have a mutual understanding of one another. They are both well-mannered and aloof, and all of this comes off as something cold and crass. They can be themselves without the excess baggage of trying to be outwardly friendly. What they have is respect for each other, and that is more than Dahlia can say about the other girls. Oh, and they both really want to hex some people - and well, no one is more unabashed about hexes and curses than Dahlia. They are almost like two peas in a pod - two possibly very hostile peas in one very volatile pod.




h e x c o d e x // x # * * * * * * x // x f a c e c l a i m x // x * * * x // x c r e a t o r x // x * * * x // x c s x // x mjolnir

So begins...

Dahlia Bedacholli's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dorian Fawkes Character Portrait: Roman Black Character Portrait: John Ito Character Portrait: Dahlia Bedacholli

0.00 INK

#, as written by mombie
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j o h n x i t o

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t h e x h e r e t i c
#87975C || Outfit

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Just as Dorian opened the door, there was John. He looked a little bit like a hot mess, and his right palm clutched something so tightly that blood pooled in his palm. It leaked onto the floor, and if Dorian would peek just a bit over the man's shoulder, he'd see a few droplets behind him. John pressed his other hand against his roomate's shoulder, moving him aside in the most gentle of manners.

"Let me shower and get dressed and I'll join you. I'm guessing you need a drink just as much as I do," he said after he dipped past him to do just that. He quickly stuffed something under his pillow; his rosary that was passed down to him from his father. There didn't seem to be a God attached to it at all - it was just an object now. It was just an object that he still clung to, and it would appear that he failed to find anything in it during the early hours of the morning.

He trusted Dorian not to pry, and even if the curiosity overwhelmed him, he trusted that he wouldn't flay him limb from limb because of it. So, John left for the shower taking the pristine ivory suit that hung up on the door of his closet with him. He spent quite a long time in the bathroom, and if Dorian would have just left him behind - he wouldn't have blamed him. After all, he had to take care of his hair, go from five o'clock shadow to perfectly shaved. He tugged on his attire, the steam from the shower having smoothed out certain wrinkles, and checked and rechecked himself.

What was going to happen once he signed his name? Would he still retain the person he was? He didn't want to change. Hell, he didn't like change all that much. He was content with himself as he was. For the most part anyhow. There were a lot of things he hated about himself. He loathed this - this lineage devoted to Lucifer and those damned practices that were darker than he could have ever imagined. He didn't like that he was here. It was almost an out of body experience - He, himself, devoted to God was watching some other husk of himself, one devoted to the Dark Father. He's not sure about which entity is actually him anymore - this one or that one. It was confusing. Does he sign the Book of the Beast or does he run far, far away from this place and never look back? What would happen to him if he did? What would happen to the people at this Academy that he's grown fond of? What would they even think of him if they knew the truth? Would that slithering snake of an empty shell murder him as soon as she could get her vicious claws on him?

There were just too many thoughts, and his mind swam with them to the point of drowning. A drink would help. God, it would help so much. Well, fuck... God isn't even listening to him anymore.

He moved out of the bathroom to check and see if Dorian was still around. When his eyes landed on the guy he just gave off a little nod while adjusting the cuffs of his white suit. Virginal, they said. John wasn't a rampant manwhore like Roman, but he wasn't exactly the epitome of virginal virtue, either. The attire looked good on him, so that was that.

John's dog was just downright lazy today. There was no way in Hell that it'd be part of the Dark Baptism, especially since he senses that hesitance from the Warlock. Maybe it was that apprehension that made Max incapable of rousing himself from his master's bed. The lack of enthusiasm was draining, and perhaps he also felt that the decision John would make tonight will also impact him somehow. Just as John doubted, as did Max. He snored away, and John just waved a hand dismissively at him.

"Let's get out of here," he said while he pushed open the door to set them on their way to the rest of their lives. He'd become relatively quiet for the majority of the walk; his eyes cast down to his feet and his thoughts obviously elsewhere. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He hadn't even thought of his Baptismal name. He wasn't as prepared as others were because he still just wasn't sure if he could do it. But if God left him, then maybe... just maybe this was the last chance he had to find Faith again.





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t h e x s c o u r g e
#C48495 || Outfit

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The shower in her room was running, and it was overbearingly hot. The steam slipped through the cracks of the door, slithering along the floor until it simply vanished into thin air. Her soft flesh was reddening, but Dahlia was sort of out of it right now. She had placed a hand on the shower wall in front of her; curving her fingers inward as if grasping at the immovable tiles. That long, long hair clung to her wet body, even as she lowered her head and shut her eyes. She had been done washing long ago, but she was just here - waiting in the searing water to cleanse something. Something that couldn't be cleansed. This place, maybe. It didn't meet her needs. She wanted to go home, but she didn't have a home. The Dark Lord assured her that this would be her home.

Something slithered at her ankles, and it winded up her thigh until it coiled about her stomach and latched to her arm. Then it coiled there and slithered up to her neck. The brown serpent coiled some more, then constricts slightly - just enough to jerk her out of reality. It hissed in her ear. It was like a whisper that only she could understand, and she opened her eyes to turn her cheek toward it. "Presto caro," she assured, her words smoothly rolling along the Italian notes. "È tempo per il Battesimo oscuro." The serpentine creature nodded its head, and just as swiftly as it slithered in, it slithered away. By the time she reached up to turn off the shower, Velena was gone.

She had brought her outfit in with her so that Tamsin wouldn't manage to ruin it somehow. It was a long mermaid dress with a plunging neckline. Sure, she didn't have much breast to truly honor the outfit's purpose, but she was going to make do with it anyway. There were plenty of beautiful dresses in her closet, but this one she had yet to wear. It was a special occasion, after all, to witness those that would sign the Book of the Beast. Perhaps even catch a glimmer of the one he suspects heavily will not. It would feel good to finally be rid of his blasphemous presence - John was like a glaring light in these dark corridors. She has had her eyes on him, and she knows. She knows where he goes to wish for the False God's hand.

She spent time drying her hair first, of course, as to not dampen her attire. It took a while and the blowdryer thankfully tuned out the humdrum of whatever was going on outside of the door. It was good because while Roman and Winifred seduced each other in that not so subtle way, she wanted to rip the girl's throat out from her neck. Yes, that was jealousy reeling its ugly head. Not that she liked Roman in any way, shape or form, but that she had a rather strange attachment to him. So, she took her time so that she wouldn't tear the girl to shreds in front of him, and they could flirt away in seeming peace without her.

Yet, she still managed to slip into her dress and out the door before the pair were done. Luckily, just as they were trying to remove themselves from the room. She must have frightened poor Winifred, as she often does with her eccentric and quiet personality because a dash of red fled the room and that left only Roman; his back toward her and the door still propped open.

"Hello, Di bell'aspetto," she purred out that endearing name of hers for him. It sounds complex and exotic, but it was really just "Handsome". "Apologies for scaring date, but would you be kind to zip me?" After the question slipped from her lips, heavy in her accent, she turned to display to him her back. She'd move her hair so that it would be out of his way because there was a whole lot of it, and it covered her back and bottom in a way that would obstruct his task. She pulled it all over a shoulder and turned to look at him through a side gaze as he proceeded to zip her up.

"Are you ready?" Dahlia inquired, adjusting the sheer fabric that hugged her arms.

Once he was done with that, she turned around to face him. She had to crane her neck slightly to peer up at him, and they locked eyes for a moment. There was a slight tilt of her head and that familiar blank stare accompanied a practiced smile. She looked away and rose to the tips of her toes to smooth out a wrinkle that had formed on his shirt. No doubt from lounging about on Winifred's bed.

"It looks like she wanted to leave early, Roman. Come, I go with you." she insisted in her not so perfect English as she held out an arm for him to take. To accompany him was more of a dutiful thing - one witch to a warlock, as she was used to. They were not each other's keepers, but it would be rude for her to allow him to go on his own.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Tamsin Reid Character Portrait: Dorian Fawkes Character Portrait: Constance Lamotte Character Portrait: Bones Burroughs Character Portrait: Isaac Courtney Character Portrait: Roman Black Character Portrait: Lucia DuBois Character Portrait: Taylor Montgomery Character Portrait: John Ito Character Portrait: Dahlia Bedacholli

0.00 INK

#, as written by mjolnir
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dorian fawkes
the charlatanx|xoutfitx|x#8BA3A6

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With the door open, Dorian's eyes widened slightly at the sight of John before him. His gaze temporarily fell to the blood that dripped from the male's hand. But he didn't comment on it and quickly shifted to look somewhere else and act as though he didn't see it. "Let me shower and get dressed and I'll join you. I'm guessing you need a drink just as much as I do."

Dorian nodded his head and side stepped so John could walk past him. "Understatement," he replied quietly as he closed to the door after his roommate entered their room. He took his time making his way back over to his bed and gently took Pearl from his shoulder and placed her on his pillow. His hands gently hiked his pants slightly, before lowering himself onto the mattress. It didn't take a genius to notice the conflict in John. The man clutched to his rosary like his life depended on it, although it was his soul that was truly at stake.

Neither one of them seemed to be in the best of standings for the day's proceedings. One of them worshipped God, the total and complete opposite of Lucifer in everything. The yin to Satan's yang. While Dorian was living a false life. He had no idea what would happen to either one of them once they signed their names. A heretic and a fraud. John was giving up everything he believed in while Dorian was signing his name a second time. Would hell rip open and swallow them both whole? He raised his right hand to tug at the collar of his sweater, finding it significantly more difficult to breathe.

Then the bathroom door open and out came John dressed in head to toe white, although far more formal than Dorian. "Let's get out of here," he said as he opened the door.

Dorian pushed off his bed, moving to his feet. He stroked Pearl's head with his index finger before scooping her up and placing her back on his shoulder. As he past John in the doorway, he gave the male a reassuring pat on the back. There weren't many words exchanged, or any as they exited the dormitory and made their way toward the coven's Gray Room, the local gentleman's club for warlocks. Neither one of them wasted much time making their way inside and to the bar. No one was working, no doubt getting ready for the Baptism and celebration to follow. So Dorian took it upon himself to walk around the counter and search the bottles for the strongest liquor he could find.

Halfway through his search, he found absinthe and figured that would more than suffice. Dorian grabbed two shot glasses and filled them to the brim. He held the small glass between his index finger and thumb as he raised it. He parted his lips to say something encouraging maybe? But no words escaped. Instead he simply clinked his shot glass to John's, then downed the contents without hesitation. He slammed the empty glass down on the bar and gripped the edge of the counter in his hands. The alcohol was supposed to help but he could feel his hands fighting to tremble against his grasp.

He spared a glance around the gentleman's club, making sure they were in fact alone. Dorian inhaled sharply as he poured another shot for himself. His hand trembled just enough to make some absinthe miss the glass and hit the counter. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath as he set down the bottle. He tried to calm himself with deep breaths, then quickly downed the alcohol once against with a cough.

Dorian had long accepted the fact that there was going to be a special place in hell for him. He was a liar, a fraud... a murderer. He cleared his throat, looking down at the counter as he tapped fingers upon it. "Are you sure you can go through with this?" While he himself was royally fucked no matter what he did, John still had a choice. Dorian's finger tapped upon the bar faster before he lightly smacked the surface with his hands. "I can cover for you," he offered in a hushed tone, looking his friend in the eyes. He might beyond saving, but... If John wanted out, maybe he could help him. Before Lucifer smites him from existence when he signs his name a second time.




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tamsin reid
cursed witchx|xoutfitx|x#000000

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It seemed as though her presence was a magnet that day. Surprising. More often than not Tamsin was her own special breed of deterrent but it seemed that she must have mixed up her honey and vinegar that morning. Taylor, dressed nearly as dark as herself, found her way into some semblance of the group, sitting herself down in a chair that was close but not too close. She made a priority of getting out a book or tome of some sort before addressing the small handful of them that lounged around. "Morning, folks."

Before she could part her lips and make some half assed comment about how it was actually evening or who knows whatever else, Constance strutted down the corridor toward them. Tam knew full well that caramel skinned she wolf was seeking out her clingy French counter part. It wasn't like she hated either Constance or Lucia, arguments could be made that she was friends with one of them but that didn't change the fact that the toxic relationship between the two churned her stomach.

β€œNow, Tamsin. There are plenty of orgies and whatnot all around the academy now, you just haven’t been asked to join.”

β€œAs oppose to you, who has been explicitly asked not to join,” Bones spoke up without even sparing the queen a sideways glance.

Tamsin pursed her lips slightly at the comment. She chuckled, running the tip of her tongue along her teeth as she shook her head. "Lucky for you, Princess. You wouldn't be able to handle me."

Constance ignored her comment to no surprise and turned her attention temporarily to Lucia. β€œThis why you were occupied? You’re talkin’ to the town elder, letting her fill your head with heretic ideals of our Dark Lord and talks of nihilism. How nice.”

"Someone has to corrupt the youth," Tamsin replied plainly as she ran her index finger along Chesare's back.

Although her head was downcast, she slowly looked up over the frames of her sunglasses catching Constance gain a mischievous smirk as she eyed her up and down. Tamsin quirked a brow curiously, just a fraction so only the witch opposite her would notice. β€œYou look exceptionally jaded and morbid this morning.”

Tamsin reached up, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. "Black has always been my color." Simple words uttered with a very subtly suggestive undertone. To most it'd appear to be a simple comment about to choice in attire, but Constance would be able to pick up the hidden innuendos in her words. All the while, Tam's thumb and index fingers playfully toyed with the zipper on her shirt. "And it's always a sad day when people willingly sign their souls over to the world's biggest twat."

She leaned her head against the wall, trying not to audibly groan as Lucia leapt to her feet and to Constance's side. Tam rolled her eyes as she looked over at bones and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The following quips between Connie and Taylor, or whatever clingy shit Lucia did quickly lost her attention. Eventually the pair left to finish getting ready for their baptisms or whatever else. She couldn't care less to be honest.

β€œToo late to lodge a petition against her joining our coven? I’m sure I could get a million signatures with a little effort.” Tam chuckled as he moved to his feet. β€œI’ll catch you at the Baptism, I’m going to find Josie.” She gave bones a salute with her right hand before he left her sitting there with the ever talkative Taylor... And a talk, dark and very handsome gentleman that joined the chaos some point around the topic of orgies.

β€œWhat’s Connie’s deal?” the handsome stranger asked once they were alone... Or relatively while Taylor's nose was back in her book.

Tamsin adjusted how she sat slightly, crossing one ankle over another. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly as she tried to think up a substantial response. "No fucking clue," she chuckled. Her index finger tapped on her thigh for a moment before she spoke up once again. "You're new here." Tam said it like a fact, not a question. She's been at that damned academy long enough to know everyone's names and a new face when she saw one. "So, what's your name and how do you know about Constance?" Her brow quirked as she posed the question, curious to hear his response.





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"Hello, Di bell'aspetto," Dahlia all but purred from behind him as Roman stood in the open doorway. "Apologies for scaring your date, but would you be kind to zip me?"

Roman slowly turned around and found himself greeted by her slender bare back. Dahlia slowly swept her hair out of the way. He didn't say anything, instead closing the distance between them in silence. His fingertips softly brushed her bare skin as he took ahold of the zipper and slowly tugged it upwards. All the while his breath was warm, tickling the side of her exposed neck. Once he finished, he gently took her hair and pulled it back over her shoulder so it could cascade down her back. But before he stepped back, he couldn't help himself and placed a gentle lingering kiss upon the cusp of her shoulder.

"Are you ready?" Dahlia asked as she adjusted the sleeves of her dress.

Roman was quiet for a moment as she turned to face him and even smoothed a wrinkle in his shirt, causing him to smirk slightly. "As I'll ever be."

"It looks like she wanted to leave early, Roman. Come, I go with you." She held out an arm to him in offering which Roman didn't hesitate to take. He led her out of the room and closed the door behind them.

"You look absolutely ravishing, bella donna." He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. Unlike the other witches and warlocks who wasted their time socializing and scurrying about the dorms, they made their way to the desecrated church for the evenings proceedings.

The walk was peaceful and they went, relatively, unbothered aside from some glances from the younger students they passed on the green. It came as no surprise that upon entering the church, Roman and Dahlia were some of the first to arrive other than some of the teachers and the high priest. Father Proctor was the first to approach them. Although the man's smile seemed friendly, Rome could see through it to the hidden animosity he felt towards him due to his mothers favoritism. "Roman Black, punctual as always." His handshake was firm, borderline threatening before he released Rome's hand.

The High Priest greeted Dahlia with a chivalrous kiss to the hand and then motioned to the rest of the church. "We will beginning at sundown. Until then, feel free to mingle. Although Ms. Bedacholli will not be able to accompany you during the ceremony."

Once Father Proctor left them to their own devices, Roman's mother was quick to approach the pair giving a friendly smile to Dahlia before embracing her son. "Roman, my love. You look so handsome. I cannot believe the day has finally come." She took Roman's face in her hands then proceeded to place a kiss on either of his cheeks. She gave him one more hug before looking back over toward his company. "Dahlia, darling, you look beautiful."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dorian Fawkes Character Portrait: Roman Black Character Portrait: John Ito Character Portrait: Dahlia Bedacholli

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#C48495 || Outfit || Location

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"You look absolutely ravishing, bella donna," Roman complimented her as his lips found their place tentatively upon Dahlia's knuckles. Most women might fawn over him for such expression of praise coming from a man such as he. However, she knew that she was ravishing already because he had uttered such words before. The more traditional Witch was inclined to say nothing, as it was duty to be appeasing.

When his lips fled her knuckles, she hooked her arm through his, her fingers gently grasping his bicep. They were not each other's keepers, but she could not see her accompanying anyone else to the Desecrated Church. No other Warlock would touch her, and she was neither a friend nor acquaintance to many of her own Witch peers. Roman was not the last resort, of course. He'd always be her first choice regardless of her popularity among the rest of the coven. She didn't still understand what he wanted of her, but she believed that he would bend the knee to the old ways when his name was signed in the Book of the Beast.

Is it an awful thing to hope for that? She wondered this as their steps carried them quietly down the corridors of the Academy. Some Witches and Warlocks change in certain ways after signing their names. The woman's deep chestnut gaze sought him sidelong for only the most fleeting of seconds, a small smile gracing naturally dark rosy lips devoid of other false shades for this special night. She watched the array of expressions that venture across his features and even those that might not. During one brief second, the long crimson nails of another hand stroked quietly at his wrist. Then it all fell away; her fingers, her curious and hopeful eyes. She kept hold of him, of course, until they were at the threshold of the Desecrated Church.

Dahlia released Roman entirely so as to not seem attached to him by others. She wouldn't want to give off any wrong impression, and the man had a reputation to keep. She walked with him, however, her pace keeping in line with his. She'd not speak out of turn, so she stayed in the realm of silence until words were directed to her.

"Roman Black, punctual as always," addressed the Warlock first, of which she had no qualms with. Her hands fell in front of her at the lap of her dress, one folding over the other. Dahlia did not pick up on many social ques, and she didn't care for whatever drama took place at the Academy. Father Proctor, however, was a handsome man to place eyes on. Not that she'd give him some sort of leering gaze while at Roman's side, nor would she ever.

The two men exchange their pleasantries - or the lack thereof - before the High Priest brings Dahlia's knuckles up for a kiss, "We will beginning at sundown. Until then, feel free to mingle. Although Ms. Bedacholli will not be able to accompany you during the ceremony." "Certo, Padre Proctor," she spoke in her native tongue, as it came more easily. Just as swiftly as the Italian words departed, as did the High Priest, and she watched him leave as Roman's mother stepped toward them to impart some last words on her son before his momentous occasion.

"Roman, my love. You look so handsome. I cannot believe the day has finally come," she praised him, complimenting it all with those loving and proud maternal kisses on his cheeks. "I agree. His looks must come from mother," she replies with an obligatory smile. "Dahlia, darling, you look beautiful," came a slightly more unexpected line from Vanessa Black. Surprising because Herbalism was not her best course by any means. Maybe the woman was just being kind, just as Dahlia was. "Grazie, signorina Black," Dahlia thanks her.

She turned her body toward Roman, but is also careful as to not intrude upon his mother's space. After she rolled to the tips of her toes, she placed a departing kiss on the side of his mouth while grasping at him for a little leverage. She whispered something quietly in his ear, "We celebrate later, hmm? Find me." Then she pulled away from him and stepped backward a couple of times before turning around to find a pew to place herself on. She was going to give him and his mother a bit of privacy before the flood of Warlocks and Witches began to fill the space, and he was the social sort. Dahlia was not. He attracted people to him, and she wanted to keep most of them away. It was just for the best.

Her attention all but slipped away; the mother and son interaction melting into the background as her thoughts venture to other places.





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#87975C || Outfit || His Room

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Dorian was excellent company. In fact, he was the only company that John could stand for more than five minutes. There was one other, but that was a complicated matter. The loneliness of the the Gray Room was welcome because that meant that the two of them could relax without the threat of other Witches and Warlocks breathing down their necks. Many were happy for this day - they had waited for it all their lives, but there was a sense of dread here so thick that it could choke the air out of this room.

As Dorian helped himself to the bar and poured the glasses, John placed himself on a stool. His own tremorous fingers reached for the glass set for him, and they clinked glasses. They both must have locked eyes for a moment. They both wanted to say something to each other, but neither could summon the words that either of them needed to hear. John pulled his shot glass up to his lips, kicked his head back, and let the burning liquid slide hotly down his throat. After Dorian refilled his own, John soon followed and poured himself another. He'd have said something about Dorian's little spill, but honestly - they were both feeling the same anxiety for two different reasons.

"Are you sure you can go through with this?" The question jolted John as the shot glass was pressed to his lips as though the current thought was: should he be drinking? It wasn't a new inquiry, honestly. Not or him. He asked himself this same question so many times that he had lost track of what his answers were. He lost count of all the reasons not to go through with it, or to do so. He forgot how many times he asked God for answers, and then could not conjure the last time he felt his Faith could help him. It was so simple. Wasn't it? He could sign it. He could not sign it. He could choose to do so many things, but this would come back over and over again. He didn't want to give up certain things that he has become used to. If he were honest with himself, God left him a while ago. If He was even there to begin with.

He didn't answer just yet, instead, he finally proceeded to tackle his drink in one swoop. "I can cover for you," Dorian offers.

Broad shoulders rise and fall to the slow cadence of a long, drawn-out and defeated sigh. John's eyes lock with his and he offers up a weak smile and a gentle chuckle. "I'll sign the Book," he relents, but he doesn't sound happy about it. He had hoped for a different path. The one that his parents took. The one that got them both killed. "I haven't come up with a Baptismal name yet, though. Maybe it will come to me when I get there."

He reached for the bottle of Absinthe, offering to pour Dorian's right after his own. "How about you, Dorian? Do you need me to cover for you?" Since they were both talking about conspiring to somehow beat this rite of passage. He leans forward toward him, a forearm sliding along the counter. His head tilts a bit and he traps his friend's gaze with his own. You know, he never really asked what the deal was with his own obvious nerves. They, up to this point, never pried into each other's personal lives. They had glimpses, maybe, of certain things but they never asked too many questions. "What has your nerves rattled? I know we don't typically... share these things, but if we can't escape signing the book, we will still be there to help each other. You can trust me, Dorian. I am the last person to judge anyone here for anything, I think."

That was all, and there didn't seem to be any pressure to entertain his inquiry. There was only a genuine wish to know, at the very least, about what troubles him. John's own conundrum was not so hard to notice if one was astute enough, but he could not pin down Dorian's own source of hesitation.