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Soren Amon

"He is the breathless tranquillity the morning after a storm; gently cataclysmic yet possessing a strange sentimentality"

0 · 383 views · located in Roinnte, Ireland

a character in “The Fair Folk”, as played by themis




xxSoren Amon β–ͺ (soβ–ͺrren ayβ–ͺmon)

SOREN MIKKEL JØRGENSEN (soβ–ͺrren meekβ–ͺel yorβ–ͺgenβ–ͺsen)



xxUnseelie β–ͺ UNBLESSED

xxPansexual β–ͺ Homoromantic

(although any anatomy is preferable; soren has always been drawn to the forbidden, since romance entered his mind as young as ten he has always only seen men as a viable option)

xxAdopted ; Danish by nationality β–ͺ Korean by ethnicity


WE meet our hero by a sycamore tree.

Soren Amon, by all purposes; is a human contrast. His sweet cacophonies, the symphony of coalescence on each feature forming across his face-- it reforms what would be a fairly familiar features into something commanding of immediate attention. He synthesizes hypnotism with eyes like narcotics, deep and black as oxidized coal they seem to forever stare, the subject either (depending on disposition) feeling uncomfortable within their grasp, as you may feel uncomfortable with an insect crawling across your skin, or rather sedated by their intimate void. However, they are strange looking eyes, each ocular fibre plaiting together to form what seems black, but what truly is a deep, molasses thick brown. Permanently framed by bruise-like dark circles tinted just slightly with amaranthine, sleep is never plentiful for this boy, and it is easily told by the first glance upon his form; almost that of a newly sanctified wraith.

While average height, he is almost uncomfortably fragile in weight. A small portion of muscle mass does grace his body, sinews and tendons wrapping around each arm, stomach, and each leg from his walks and runs and visits to a gym inside their home. Despite this, his body is lean and long, his limbs continuing from his frame for what seems to be miles, his legs thin and arching as an arachnid when they are brung to his birdcage ribs.

There is savagery in his features, Lilith calls it a wild lust for judgement day: the stygian hell-fire black of his hair oscillating against the eburnean, alabaster divinity of his skin, creating personal apocalypse with each fine stroke of paint in which he was crafted. Contrasts, they are said to create the most alluring nightmares in a being, and he is seen to be made in the image of the sinful anointed- the organic gracefulness yet pain that comes with bones like his, limbs like branches and vines and a torso like a hollowed edelwood.


"Currently, at this date; a human sorcerer. However, on the fourteenth day of the twelfth month, that shall be no more. He will join the dying breed of Liches within his family. -- more information in greater detail to be found on "Lilith Amon"'s history.
A secret cult was alive and well roughly one thousand years ago; they called themselves a religious community, and their lies were believed by all (just some people trying to make a difference). Until, it was found they possessed plans to massacre the Seelie court. When they found out that the authorities were coming to prosecute them, the leader, Belphegor Amon, ordered a mass suicide (Yet, he was not brave enough to kill himself in the end, and he waited among hundreds of dead bodies while the authorities found him. He was sent to High Court for a multitude of seperate offences.) Belphegor Amon, survived by his children (who escaped the cult with the other diasporas) Faustus and Archelaus Amon. Their magic was stripped from them even though they did not have a major hand in the mass suicide. Their bloodline tainted with thickest tar, it runs through their veins, polluting each ounce of spinal fluid, hardening each vertebrae and making them mortal. The curse, set by the council for his major crimes-- was originally just to turn each Amon child thereafter into a human, what Belphegor despised most of all. However, a grandchild, Barabbus Amon, son of Archelaus, was found to posess a great proficiency in magic. This angered the council, who decided that each deviation of the line to gain magic would be cursed to become a Lich at age twenty five, just the right amount of time for them to grow comfortable in their mortal body-- and then it is ripped from them, and they are cursed to follow the path of each Lich before them, a slow, numbing spiral of insanity due to growing power lust, and a body as fragile as an insect's exoskeleton.


  • They are creatures that shy from combat, using their magic to make ends meet.
  • They slowly madden with age from a primal power-lust, awakened as they turn.
  • The easiest way to turn is by an ancient ritual; "The Procession of Hyrcanus". Named after Hyrcanus, the second oldest Lich of House Amon and probably the smartest of each, he devised this way of binding their magic to their animated corpse with the help of a fellow Lich -- his precise age is utterly unknown, although guessed to be somewhere in his 1000's if he was still alive today. He is additionally said to have died in 1699, yet there is a group of people who believe he lives somewhere in the most remote part of Borneo. It is unlikely, however, that an old, mad Lich would dare to live alone in such an unforgiving climate and these people are often regarded as quite ignorant about the capabilities of the species.
  • The Procession has to occur just as moon shines on the eve of a birthday (for ordinary Liches it can be any, for the Amon branch it must be the twenty fifth, not going through with it causes the subject to die) in the middle of a stone circle on a stone slab. Little is known about what occurs, yet the stone always seems to have fine cracks on it's surface the next morning. In addition, three witnesses must be present, one of which is the leader. Usually in the Amon family, the head of the family leads the procession and carries an ornamental porcelain dagger.


          POSITIVE TRAITS: innocent, artistic, hypnotic, whimsical, inquisitive, kaleidoscopic, astute, perceptive, honest, courageous, emphatic, curious, enthusiastic, charitable, humane, amiable, benevolent, concerned, determined, adventurous, spontaneous, brave

          NEGATIVE TRAITS: obsessive, suicidal, resentful, reckless, addictive, depressive, stubborn, absent-minded, hypocritical, abrasive, blunt , anxious, fanatical, manic, chaotic, episodical, macabre, impatient, capricious, brash, impulsive, troublesome, paranoid, self-loathing, unsophisticated, selfish, surreal

          chaotic good | ISFP: the adventurer | melancholic

          His gentle tragedy, he is the boy with eyes like an ancient tome of apocryphal proportions and the hands of a sinner, and he is silent as he moves through the streets of the city, his body deflecting crowds, moving expertly through them in a listless dance. He radiates a conflicting message of idealistic mirth, and yet a sharp melancholic, drugged to oblivion edge- all beat poetry written through a haze of thick opiates and incandescent, bitter ethanol. And through each movement he transmits both dopamine (each mindless adventure through cobbled pathways) and pure norepinephrine (there is a strange alerting edge to each of his words), his very nature acts as a synapse for emotion and action.

          He seems to live in a separate realm to ours; or perhaps, a planet beyond our observable universe, cold and rigid as his finger tips (which seem to be permanently tinged with frostbite) with laws and social decorum completely separate he shows a pretence of insulting frankness, the words that fall from his lips are often the truth, harsh as inaugural winter's storm. His eyes, injected-anaesthetic calming as they seem to be, have a habit of latching to a subject. Staring at people is a bad, slightly odd habit which Lilith's etiquette courses have not managed to lessen, and it can seem unmannered or fairly amusing.

          His visage resembles the morning after a storm, calm as halcyon, sighing contentedly and virtually soundless as he speaks, hair still dewy with dusk rainfall and eyes wide as the sun emerging through the mist, laying on a park bench and conversing to the homeless man neighbouring him as if they were old friends. Other humans interest him, the humans who have nothing are often the ones who truly know what it is to have everything-- they have the stories of a travelling poet stored in their minds.

          Led astray by the pied-piper's whistling melodies he waltzes between reality; between factual, quantum physics led truths and labyrinthine phantasmagoria. Often, they meld together in a surrealist concoction, a finely mixed cocktail of winding streets and tall houses and beings with stares like solar rays and tendrils of black smoke emanating from their limbs. Yet there is a separate world he enters; vividly hallucinatory and each small intricacy crafted by his unhinged brain. It is complete in it's contingency, it's children's story volatility and yet there is a darkness to everything, an eerie colour scheme to the deftly painted dreamscape. Frogs stand on two feet, birds and flowers speak, the people have a quaint archaic way of life, and the trees in the forest sing silent lullabies. This land is also the home to creatures not as sweet- skeletal creatures with long, sharp fingers, boars with drool and blood falling from their mouths, witches and hags and baba yaga who devours alive. Wolves that speak lies, mercenaries that wield swords, and above all; the beast. A horned entity who watches from the flickering light of a paraffin lantern.

          On earth he has the temperament of both a damaged poet and an adrenaline addict, his crushing lonesome depression, his abuse of things meant to cure-- and other things intended to excite. Occasionally, he doesn't leave the house for days, in fear that his façade shatters as soon as his shoes touch the concrete. He can become all too overwhelmed by senses and sensations around him, each slight sound sending him screaming and sending scorching tears from his eyes, covering his ringing ears with clammy palms. Hallucinations and delusions are never fun, despite what some may lead you to believe. He is self loathing and broken from years of abuse, insecure and anxious, his hands sometimes trembling so violently cups of delicate porcelain smash from his loosened grasp. Just so afraid of what is to come of him, his life planned with a ticking time bomb stopping at age twenty five - dread is etched into each vein of his body.


              ┍━━━━━━━━ β–ͺβ”‹LIKESβ”‹β–ͺ━━━━━━━━┑

                FAIRY TALES, FOLKLORE AND MYTHOLOGY: Before he knew of the existence of fae, he was always drawn to these so called false stories of amazing beings, of right and wrong. He is obsessed with fairy-tales, from Hans Christian Andersen to Brothers Grimm, the happy endings that popular culture give them are more tragic than the original in their censored modernity. Death and cruelty is a part of life as we know it. Always one to be fascinated by mythology all over the world- from Japan to neighbouring Sweden, tales passed from ear to ear for thousands of years tend to be the most interesting.

                TRAGEDIES (THE PSYCHOLOGY OF): As awful as it may sound-- and Soren deals in "awful"-- he cannot help but feel compelled by tragedies. War, massacre, death, each court case, each tear-filled apology brings a new subject, a new perpetrator. Humans, as he has observed being fairly human for the most part of his life, are the most fascinating creatures to study- human minds have so much capacity for error, from either nature or nurture, and sometimes even the most innocent people are the ones who commit the most terrible acts. What is more frightening; a kind, average person who "snaps", or someone who has been acting innocent their entire life, but really has a mind filled with the sinister?

                GRAVEYARDS: The slumbered silence- one may believe the boy who is scared of his own death avoids others' -- they would be wrong, he is a multifaceted creature with his own hypocrisies. He find those he does not know, names from people long-dead, and he reads to them. He speaks and converses with them as if they were a live person. Even he himself does not know exactly what he is speaking to, only that he is socialising.

                ┍━━━━━━━━ β–ͺβ”‹DISLIKESβ”‹β–ͺ━━━━━━━━┑

                ABRAHAMIC RELIGION: Remnants of his adoptive parents who branded him hellish and a son of Satan, he is made uncomfortable when people speak of heaven and hell as tangible, even more so as a place he will enter and never vacate. This will anger him of course, each mention of religion makes him on edge and wary. Wicked boy, user of Witchcraft and vessel of Lucifer.

                HIS FATE: If you can, imagine being told at ten years of age that you were to become a Lich on your twenty-fifth birthday. Slowly maddening as time goes by, the clock ticks against his head, a ticking time bomb of life ready to blow him to shreds. He cannot imagine the pain, but what follows is worse- an existence plagued by the constant ache of power hunger, a slow numbness to the world around him and to everything. He cannot think of anything worse than losing his passions in life; he may as well... die.

                HIMSELF: A slight fear turned to hate as soon as he realised his parents had been prophets. He metamorphosed into, he became the monster they told him he was- he was a real, flesh & blood murderer. It didn't feel as exhilarating as some make it out to be, rather it made his legs falter from under his weight, and he lay on the ground curled up for several hours-- his mind running through images of blood, hell, his parents, memories -- before anyone came to collect him. He still sees himself as evil.

                ┍━━━━━━━━ β–ͺβ”‹WEAKNESSESβ”‹β–ͺ━━━━━━━━┑

                COMBAT IN ALL FORMS: A body like paper bound with twine, he doesn't excel on any battlefield of any form. He cannot take it upon himself to lift a sword against another once more, he cannot hurt or injure any more as long as he may live. His mind is one of a great explorer, his body is of a caged nightingale, mercurial bones only used to fly across a small space, he longs for excitement yet is only handed books that tell tales of others' adventures. He likes to sneak into city at night; feel the darkness and spectrum of city lights wrap around him like a warm blanket, catch a snippet of each person's life and marvel at our world, flashes of each face, each life and conversation he witnesses play in his mind as he sits on a park bench. Sonder, they call it. He likes to speak with the unnoticed; the wrinkled men smoking outside a pub and laughing as they recall wild days of rock-and-roll and dance halls, the worker at the fish & chip shop with tattoos of poetry and names etched to his freckled skin, the young woman with the echo of youth still in her eyes living at the corner of a theatre. They have the most interesting tales.

                HIS MIND : Reality is a fickle thing for Soren; often he sees eldritch creatures on his bedside as he refuses to sleep and they stare at him with aureolide eyes, other times he is completely transported to different made up worlds as he waits for morning earl grey. With recurring characters and themes, only lasting an ephemeral quantity of time (although, time moves differently in his head-- slower) each visit "there" feels like an episode. It is fantastical, yet odd in its utter complexity. Each autumnal wind feels terribly real, each croak of a frog against a saccharine swamp, each fly that buzzes idly around his head. Characters from famous myths of folklore live among talking animals and men with the heads of dragons, emaciated, hunched, large eyed beings, furry, mammoth-like winged beings. As long as he can imagine it, it shall appear in "there". This becomes a problem when reality mixes with vivid fantasy, as well as when his fantasia turns insidious, as it always seems to.

                CONTROL: Although power is there, it is erratic in it's effectiveness, erratic in it's actual power. Magic, the occult, it has always interested him yet he never practised his own, he never thought to. Newly is his power more controlled and yet Lilith still has to teach him to slow down to properly incant each curse or spell, to focus without going off on to a tangent and speaking of other things.

                ┍━━━━━━━━ β–ͺβ”‹PHOBIASβ”‹β–ͺ━━━━━━━━┑

                HYPNOPHOBIA: fear of sleep -- While his daydreams are vivid in their own story-book opulence; at night, he doesn't dream of anything but an endless abyss. Black holes, dark matter hypnotises him with a resounding call, reaching out tentacles of nothingness it whispers to him that he could just end it all, take the sleeping pills that lay beside his bed and fall into an everlasting slumber. Sleep is rare, good sleep is a rarity within his mind; a mind that tells stories every waking second.

                PUPAPHOBIA: fear of puppets -- Their false oil-painted normality, he sees chaos beneath rosy cheeks and perpetually forward staring eyes. Almost as if there was life beneath them after they are lain down, their slow moving joints and twisting necks awakening from a constant slumber. A childhood ventriloquist dummy that winked at him through the night, it's body slow moving and spider-like in his insomniac drunkenness-- it's skin still a perfect in it's veneer, shoe-polish plasticity, emotionless clumsy-lidded eyes just staring into his.

                STYGIOPHOBIA: fear of hell --- "You're going to hell." was almost the constant mantra of his childhood. He was told magnificent stories of fire and blood and anguish, his flesh melting from his bones and the world around him turning to flame. Wicked, wicked, wicked boy. He still believes, somehow, deep inside that he is a monstrous creature destined to burn with the murderers (of which he became..) and each truly evil person to ever walk this earth. His adoptive father and mother, he sees them flashing against his mind in moments where he cannot control which awful thoughts pass through--- they speak in a constant whisper and they repeat scripture as their eyes flash with delight. It's the constant unknown.

                NUCLEOMITAPHOBIA/RADIOPHOBIA: fear of nuclear war/radioactivity -- Chernobyl traumatised him with pictures of terrible mutations and calls of hundreds with cancerous tumors, hundreds more already lying underneath the ground (endless slumber) an overactive imagination wonders what still lies in the depths of that Ukranian city, a strange fears wells inside his veins and to each cytoplasm in each cell as he imagines what would happen if humans were to turn nuclear warheads to eachother's heads in a serious manner-- if they were to detonate them, if he were laying unknowingly in the line of firing. For hours he hid in cupboards and under tables, he stocked the basement with non-perishable foods and after he had read the newspaper each morning he would lay it in his secret war bunker-- occasionally he would know it was coming, he would run to his bunker and just hear each shattering explosion, each scream from behind closed doors. His parents had to retrieve him from underneath the house and show him a nuclear winter was not imminent.

                ┍━━━━━━━━ β–ͺβ”‹QUIRKS & MISC. FACTSβ”‹β–ͺ━━━━━━━━┑

                Cinematography student, obsessed with film and often takes videos of people without their consent β–ͺ Still speaks with a Danish accent-- although most mistake it as a miscellany of American and some sort of vague Northern European lilt β–ͺ Has to climb every climbable surface, especially trees, and although a practiced climber, often falls β–ͺ Has an aversion to haute cuisine, although has taken to tolerate it as he lives with Lilith β–ͺ Conspiracy theory nut; also completely believes in Astrology (despite all science) β–ͺ A decent player of the flute and slightly better at the piano β–ͺ He was born on the 14th of December, making him a Sagittarius β–ͺ History enthusiast; wont hesitate to ask elder fae about the past, as Lilith refuses to tell him anything past the 90's β–ͺ Cannot listen to someone speaking the Latin language β–ͺ Makes himself unnervingly comfortable in even the most formal situations, this usually involves him being upside down β–ͺ His drug of choice tends to be LSD, acid β–ͺ He's terrible at cooking, but quite a proficient maker of assorted confectioneries and pastries β–ͺ Speaks Danish and English fluently, although has an interest in Old Norse, Hieroglyphics and the Akkadian language that he may partake in β–ͺ Writes haikus on restaurant napkins β–ͺ Has phases of speaking in rhymes, riddles or song β–ͺ Reptile, amphibian and insect enthusiast- has rooms in his house dedicated to frogs β–ͺ Little to no regard for personal space, or social conduct β–ͺ Stares at people he finds interesting, or attractive-- will not stop staring until they leave or speak to him


BORN: 청평면/Cheongpyeong, South Korea

RAISED: KΓΈbenhavn/Copenhagen, Denmark

A newlywed, struggling couple in Denmark- both vehemently against the secularity of contemporary society, seemingly average, well-to-do God-fearing people, their bodies found barren by doctors. Entirely infertile and entirely incapable of artificial or immaculate conception, tear stained promises of children led to them adopting a small Korean boy. They named him Soren, after Saint Severus of Antioch, wishing him a life of clergy or at the very least; a blessed life filled with god's grace. Their wishes were never granted- perhaps you could say that the opposite occurred, as of course they didn't know that the child they had brought into their home, the child that was their own-- so serene, cherubic and tranquil in his infancy, came from a cursed bloodline tainted with occult.

Water trickles to his lungs, and Catholicism to his throat. Baptismal holy-water drowns him each morning he rises from slumber, the bible lies on his beside table-- read, for the hundredth time, each testament, each passage-- and he awakens early to knot his tie and polish his leather shoes for Sunday Mass. The choir singing in shrill consonance, morning sunrise filtering through stained glass depictions of biblical scenes in a spectrum of subdued colour. They sing in a mixture of Danish and Latin, mauled through sharp accents it looses it's ancient lilt, and all Soren can do is stare at the paintings on the walls, carefully studying the scripture that he memorised before he could understand the actual meaning of it , with a permanent front of precise emotional control. The crucified form of Jesus always seemed to stare down at him in that church, a laurel of barbed wire and thorns wrapping around his throat as he sung hymns with a faltering melody. Barbaric retribution, disgraced angels and serpentine demons interlaced with cyanide deceit.

They don't think of themselves as abusive, just vessels of the lord enacting punishment of witches and consorts of the devil. They suspected his strange behaviour being that of a possessed child. The exorcisms are never successful, and they mark his skin with silver knives, trail marks of pain across a sacrificial living-room table, chanting latin, screaming latin, curses falling from his mother's mouth as Soren wriggled to free himself, screaming for them to stop, that he wasn't a consort of the devil. He says he'll stop his magic, he'll stop his bad attitude, he'll be the son they had dreamed for and not the imperfect one he turned out to be-- but it isn't enough, the pain continues until the sun rises from above the clouds. They had resorted to locking him inside cupboards for portions of the day while he cried, and soon enough he would slip into a fantasy world of his own creation, just to escape the reality of spider-web silence, and the arguing of his parents about "where to put him" from the outside. There- he was a hero, brave and valiant he undertook adventures and defeated beasts, but here on earth he was but a pitiful young boy, thin as spun thread and striking in his wide-eyed curiosities. He didn't intend for anyone to die under his grasp, but yet, the final time they tried to purge the demon from his body ended in blood and tears, killing his adoptive parents with what seemed to just be a blast of achromatic luminescence-- it left a trail of red and a thick smell of iron throughout the house. I thought they said bad things only happened under the cover of darkness? not summer days such as this.

Apostolic in his tale; he cannot recall anything further than that from his life in Denmark. Lilith may tell you, if she is willing to unlock her mouth, that as the bodies held no evidence of their pre-adolescent son being the murderer, and as he fabricated a story of an unknown assailant, charges were not held. The police investigators found Lilith under the name ReginiΓ© Devereux, living somewhere in Irelandβ€”and after some legal turmoil she was granted custody of the child, her guardianship validated.

It is then he was exposed to what he only believed to be legend. The utterly unimaginable, forced upon him was a certain truth, a malediction that prophesised his demise, on his twenty fifth birthday he will become a Lichβ€”transmuting into a more frenzied, cadaverous body than he already is. It almost feels as if there is a hourglass to his sanity; to his sense of self, and he is a glass tied with roping twine, thorns and roses grazing his delicate skin, a membrane respiring yet thick with dense epoxy. He is set in stone. His life is methodically sculpted from slabs of marmoreal stone, depicted as a roman battle it is planned and he is expected to follow the paths of so many before him.


2000; At ten, he seemed demure. His wary language-- English practiced and limited and a thick, offshore Danish accent, hidden under mountains of woollen scarves and puffed jackets, he refused to let anyone touch him for seven months. His big, dark eyes hinted a hushed poignancy, body as fragile as the arthropod's iridescent wing. Lilith believed he was simply an angel walking among us, and treating him as her own child they slowly developed a bond that he had never felt before, familial, maternal and warm as a crackling fire.

2001; At eleven, he re-enters his own body; pranks and adventures are commonplace in his little world filled with mischief. He still visits the land he once did, reality plagues him with a crushing doubt.

2004; At fifteen, he attempts suicide just this once-- knowing he would fall through the rabbit hole, cast to a spiral of deliria in an immortal balancing act he could no longer take the globe placed between his shoulder blades. Atlas' sempiternal curse, one man forced to carry the earth for each one of us. Lilith found a container of sleep inducing pills, prescribed for insomnia that lay haphazardly, strewn across his floor. Soren himself is transparent, his heart failing to push blood around his body in a final act of defiance, his hand lies limp over the bed. Frantically, she forces him to purge each drowsy trace of little death.

2008; At nineteen, knives befriend his skin once more. She sees the fresh wounds and hides each sharp object in the house, taking him instead to the seaside, hoping to let the calm of the violent Atlantic cleanse his lungs.


    ImageImageFACECLAIM: Go Sang Gil

    PLAYED BY: Themis

    So begins...

    Soren Amon's Story