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Margot Quinn


0 · 207 views · located in The Prince's Palace

a character in “Heaven Help You”, as played by reed


bodies lie in the bright grass and some are murdered and some are picnicking

Text Color - #715c63├┤Dialogue Color - #aa5f77
Wrath Demon
Theme Song├┤ Faceclaim – Kaitlin White

caught skulking around where she shouldn’t be, with a knife

violence is permissible even desirable occasionally

┤Full Name├
Margot Quinn





┤Hair Colour├

┤Eye Colour├
Dark brown

you have to hurt others to be extraordinary


Margot stands short and lithe— but not slight. Her frame is toned and boyish, small chested with slim hips; beneath her skin her muscles wind compact, tight like a coiled wire, limbs buzzing with contained electricity. She has delicate hands, with ever-present bloodied knuckles and sharp nails. The effort she puts into maintaining her body is functional— her hair being the one aesthetic indulgence. She likes to keep it long, and wear it loose, except for when practicality requires otherwise. Those times she braids and pins it back, out of the way.

She knows how to dress to hide her strength, under loose clothes and long sleeves, shrouding herself in the guise of softness, of femininity— not feminine as in seductive (that’s always been foreign to her), but rather desexualized girlishness. She prefers sweaters, jackets, long skirts and loose dresses, layers with pockets on pockets. Always practical shoes— usually boots. Perhaps there’s even a hint of the maternal, in the thick fabrics and earthy colors of her clothing. Mothers are kind though, and she’s never mastered looking kind; she finds looking naive is far easier. It’s about letting her hair curtain her ruddy face, about letting her mouth hang slightly open haplessly, about blanking her big, dark eyes.

It’s a skill, for sure, suppressing her natural bearing: the urge to move like a predator, with keen eyes and bared teeth, but it’s a skill she’s put a lot of time into honing. And when it works, it’s easy to sink into herself, unassuming, and let others draw their own conclusions. Most people want to believe they’re the smartest thing in the room. She’s glad to let them do it. Speaking softly, almost mumbling, assists in this— and assists in hiding the sharpness of upper and lower canines: dogteeth in the most literally sense of the phrase.

It makes her think about how to an insect, a Venus flytrap must look like a flower.

abuse of power comes as no surprise


The façade is all in the physicality; Margot can keep it going a while in conversation, cloaking herself in simple-mindedness and short answers, but it never lasts for long around other demons. In general, she finds them tedious and petty, and has trouble hiding it. One might expect, with the effort she puts into the initial deception, that she’d be inclined towards the social games that permeate the politics of Hell.

She is not, and she can be blunt in making clear that she is not. Under pressure, her personality claws its way out: acidic, sharp, hot-tempered. She holds a certain disgust towards ulterior motives, debts and favors, manipulation. She knows she’s not good at those skills, and she very much knows others around her are. In that way, her standoffishness is another sort of cover. A hermit crab crawling into a shell versus a snail growing their own.

Or perhaps, deep down, she’s cruel and there’s nothing more to it.

Her distaste for other demons isn’t universal, though when she does take an interest in someone, she tends more towards intensity than friendship. She also prefers the company of women to men, not out of any romantic or sexual inclination but more a preference for familiarity. Even in its intensity, her bonding is one-sided. She wants to know, but not be known. She’s quick to discard relationships if they creep to close growing too genuine.

If there is one thing she is willing to share, it’s her taste for violence. Margot will easily let herself be talked into fighting, with or for or on behalf of, someone she’s taken interest in. Her puzzles, her music, the other things she whiles away her time on in the human world are intensely private. Blood, however, can be shared like wine.

savor kindness because cruelty is always possible later

┤Trophies├─Trinkets, knick-knacks, tsotchkes, whatever term is most fitting. Not in the way greed craves things, but rather significance over quantity. Trophies are about power, about memory; something to touch and feel the heat of emotion clinging to them: a lock of hair, a scrap of a fabric, a child’s toy, a pair of wedding rings.
┤Animals├─Animals don’t feel wrath— but they do feel fear and pain, like the grapes that ferment into the wine. There’s something in her too, a tenderness towards them, that might imply a softer side. Not that she doesn’t feel that innate urge to burn ants under a magnifying glass, there’s just no sport in being cruel to something that can’t comprehend. There is more pleasure to be found in watching rather than interfering.
┤Puzzles├─She prefers puzzle boxes: ornate, wooden, capable of keeping her nimble hands busy. Though she’ll gladly fidget with smaller wooden puzzles, or jumbles of metal rings. She discards the smaller ones once she’s drawn out their solutions, but Margot does have a handful of treasured Rubik's cubes from the human world.

┤Fighting├─What could be more in her nature? Though Margot tends to turn her violent attentions towards Earth rather than Hell— less interested in scuffling for land or power than brawling for the sake of brawling. Maybe humans make the whole thing feel less real, like the way puppies nip and play fight. Or maybe they make it feel more real, their bodies and lives fragile like glass figurines. Both at once, even. She finds most weapons pretentious, prefers the sound of fist on muscle.
┤People watching├─Another habit in which she anchors her focus on humans. Like animals, they sometimes even stir a certain tenderness in her rather than detached fascination, the myriad of ways they ruin their little lives. No such soft feelings rear their heads at the denizens of Hell, but the fascination for watching is still there— and often gets her in trouble.
┤Music├─Live performance, specifically. It has a listening quality that recorded music could never touch: a man at a piano bar, a stranger with a guitar on a subway platform, a child in a crowded apartment block clumsily fingering a piano. Margot plays a bit herself, with a fondness for fiddle and harmonica.

┤Being manipulated├─Whether the machinations are real or perceived, if she feels someone is trying to play her it’ll raise her hackles like nothing else. She prefers deception to be a one-way street, or at least to have the upper hand herself.
┤Small talk├─Conversation can, on rare occasion, be interesting in the way sparring is. Small talk, however, is like eating wet sand. She much prefers to demure and listen, rather than speak. And while she understands the purpose of pleasantries, they grate against her teeth.
┤Eating├─It feels like the sort of animalistic activity she might enjoy, at least with meat, but Margot doesn’t care for any of it. Putting food into her mouth and masticating it with her teeth until it’s a paste? Gross. Teeth are weapons: biting is fine, chewing and swallowing is strange. As a child she’d bite and chew and then spit; it didn’t make her popular at dinner parties.

┤Weakness├ ─Fighting and losing is something she can accept; not being able to strike back at all is something she can’t. It’s the thrumming anxiety that keeps her muscles tensed and eyes sharp.
┤Intimacy├ ─Platonic, emotional, romantic— all of it make her itch. She despises the idea of having any deeper self, any inner life that someone could pry open and dissect. The thing under the façade is not a woman but an animal, ready to bite any hands that get too close.
┤Sleeping in the dark├─Not the dark itself, just resting it in. Margot is perfectly comfortable being awake at night; when she sleeps it is fitfully, generally in her clothes, during the day or at night with candles burning. She wouldn’t even call it a fear— though that’s what it is.

¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*••*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸protect me from what I want


Her mother was a Wrath demon, statuesque and blood-soaked. At some point she had a father too, as biology necessitates, but she’s never met him. Perhaps he’s dead, and perhaps he’s not: the only thing she can know of him is his unknowability. Margot bears her mother’s hair, takes after her mother’s nature, carries her mother’s penetrating gaze in her eyes. When she searches for echoes of him in the mirror, they’re scant—

Well. Clearly, he must’ve been the short one, but that’s not anything to pin a feeling on. So she doesn’t consider him much at all.

As a child, she was close to her mother in the way only two very similar people can be— like twins, or a snake with two heads; as a teenager she fought with her mother, as two very similar people are wont to fight. She’s missing a notch out of her left ear from this time, but the relationship isn’t one she regrets. To tear at each other so single-mindedly was the platonic ideal of affection, of love, of care. Her relationship with her mother is severed now, for both their sakes, but she’s still the only person Margot has ever felt affection for.

She likes to think about it like the natural order of things, pushing baby birds out of the nest and onto cement. She likes to think about their incessant pecking at each other, drawing blood, as a sign that she was ready to hold her own as an adult at sixteen. Still, her prolonged state of arrested adolescence might imply otherwise— not that she’d let anyone make that argument to her.

The next few lonely years, Margot drew to the human world like a moth to light. (Because light isn’t always flame, it is? Sometimes it’s the moon.) People oozed wrath, and she found their anger (fear, pain, despair, rage) purer and more visceral than the petty politics she’d left behind. There were so many of them too, swarms of small and meaningless lives to disappear within. No better cure for losing like a mother like a mirror than to go somewhere where nobody would ever see her face twice if she didn’t want them to.

It was easy, nesting, always with the intention to come back home and return, matured, to a life shaped like her mother’s but solely her own. It was also easy to imagine slipping off for good and never feeling that phantom pang again. But, really, it was easiest of all to keep one foot in each world; to feed her hunger for territory and power in a hundred smaller ways; to keep her ears open for anything interesting going on back in Hell—

And rarely are things as interesting as during the prince’s ball. (Most of the time a light is a flame).

So begins...

Margot Quinn's Story