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deerlyloved · 3 years

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oh baby, don’t fear the reaper

below cut: writing about my ocs, the grim reaper and the serial killer he fell in love with

Sacrifice was something Reaper knew from the very start of his life. Always giving up things he wanted in favor of his siblings being happy, always sleeping less so Ebony could share a room with him in their small home, always running errands for his mother so Jake could take a day to himself.

He never thought it was a problem, he liked helping out. But maybe sometimes being nice, helping out, wasn’t the right thing to do.

Reaper had been stuck in this new state for what seemed like a decade now, maybe more, all because he was nice. All it took was one look at Ebony’s face, so young and yet so terrified at that moment as they were close to being caught. They wanted to escape, to leave the bright Heavens and find some semblance of freedom on the mortal planes, and Ebony was just a child… So Reaper put a large, clawed hand on her shoulder, pulling her into a soft side-hug before he stepped away.

Jake whispered after him to come back, Cerb tried to follow with a hand outstretched before Jake pulled him back. Their little sister was silent, but Reaper could feel her eyes burning into him, though it did nothing except encourage him to keep walking until he was in the open, staring out into the infinitely confusing body of the angel looking for them.

And he ran.

The angel followed, asking in a voice impossibly loud and yet so sickly sweet, ‘Where are your siblings, little one?’

The other three never saw him again. Oh, but Reaper saw them. Reaper saw everything after that. The angels said he was aptly named, said he was the only true mixture of his parents that was completely half-and-half, neutral. The best of both worlds, they said, new training in order now that we only have you.

It made him feel worried at first, but afterward… He just felt nothing.

The Grim Reaper’s Neutrality. To be uncaring and unworried was much needed in his job, sorting people as Death commanded despite the begging and pleading.

Grim stood tall, bathed in the dark falls of his cloak, black nothingness enveloping where its face should be, where it once was. Once soft, tan hands were now gaunt and grey, cold as ice and gentle as the wind, used mostly to clutch his scythe and guide people to their fates.

Uncaring, unbothered, neutral.

They saw their siblings after it all, though they didn’t see it. Ebony, now going by Death full-time, never interacted with the Reapers she commanded, not even the one who ultimately decided where the souls she allowed to pass over went. Jake never looked too hard in the shadows, investigated into plains beyond his reach. Cerb didn’t seem to care, never looking at the Reapers he could see if he wanted.

Uncaring, unbothered, neutral.

Even if they didn’t worry about their lost brother, Grim didn’t care, and they couldn’t care if they tried. The neutrality gifted to xem leaked through everything, even memories, thoughts, xir very past as an older brother and loving sibling. The memories, once colored grey and lifeless, were easy to forget, fading away into its mind with nothing to keep them weighed down. Much of Grim’s past was a mystery, no matter how much others asked.

Narthy was a short, curious soul doomed to conduct the train to Hell for eternity, though what he had done to deserve it was anyone’s guess. A long, gnarled left arm that would hang far lower than any arm should, black and clawed and impossibly hot. Liquid ash dripped from his right eye, colored grey, his right eye colored purple and blue with a broken, irregular pupil staring into the face of the souls he loaded onto his train. The train in question was cramped, just a little too hot, with ceramics that rattled the whole way.

The soul asked the most questions of Grim, even more than the other two who guided souls to their destinations.

Marisu and Rikiel, Purgatory, and Heaven respectively.

Marisu was the favorite of Grim, just as neutral as he was (well, maybe a little less), ever vigilant. She drove what looked like a van from the mortal plane, loading up a mortal or two these days to go take a look around Purgatory. She had dark skin, though not like Grim did, bright green hair and her left arm took the form of what seemed like mist. It wafted and waded in the windless crossroads that represented the meeting point of them all, the train in the station, the van situated on a barren dirt road with nothing for miles around, and the bus that was positioned to go up a nicely paved road, leading towards a mountain that glowed and burst with life towards the top.

Marisu was kind, curled hair tied back, sitting on the hood of her van and staring at the empty sky. The van ride was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. It had A/C, but no music played and the drive was especially unremarkable, the seats were slightly sticky but there were cracker snacks in the bags on the back seats. Balanced. Just like Narthy, one of her eyes dripped an unknown substance, one of her pupils just as irregular and confusing, but more in a defined shape.

They were all standing around, Narthy in his train, Marisu on her van, Rikiel inspecting his bus.

Rikiel was the last of the trio of souls, the deliverer of souls unto the Heavens. Grim held an unknown and confusing distaste of Rikiel, though it was buried and hidden within his forced neutrality.

Rikiel was the nicer looking of them all, eye dripping pure golden ichor that smelled of vanilla, arm in the form of a soft-feathered wing with a feathered hand at the end, a pupil in the distinct shape of a heart. They dressed in soft yellows and pinks, cloaked in flowers and sparkles floating around them as they glowed with nothing but holy energy. The bus they drove was nice, far nicer than Narthy’s train or Marisu’s van. The perfect temperature, comfortable seats with soft music playing in the background-- Though the souls heard what they wanted.

They sat like this, silent yet enjoying the others company, for as long as it took for Grim to gather together the souls they needed. Along the way, the souls pleaded begged Grim to not do it, to send them to Heaven. They always begged.

Xe arrived with the souls, though they took the form of small, glowing lights that Grim held on xir hand, holding them out and dropping them down one at a time. As they fluttered to the ground, sprouting up into the shapes of humans, Grim spoke in a voice that chilled anyone who heard it, its very presence unsettling everyone around it.

“Heaven,” Grim announced, pointing towards the bus behind the souls. They turned, the bulk of them looking on with relief as they walked towards the bus with one looking particularly shocked, and once their form solidified it could be seen that they wore a vest with several buttons on it, including a large pronoun button. Rikiel smiled at them all, opening the doors and letting them pile on. The angelic soul paused to wave towards the other two souls, and Grim, before they too got on the bus, waiting quietly for any last-minute decisions.

The next bulk of the souls fell quickly, and Grim was quicker to speak this time, “Hell.”

They looked more disdained this time, though most trudged off towards the train, unable to do anything else. Pleads fell on deaf ears, begging did nothing, accept your fate. Narthy was hanging half out of the window in the front of the train with a grin, “Hey, always love to meet new friends!” He called with a malicious cackle.

Finally, Grim held out its grey hand, now clutching only three softly glowing souls, and dropped them all down at once. With a look over them that just seemed like staring thanks to the darkness that was the spot where Grim’s face should be, it spoke loudly, no uncertainty in their words, “Purgatory.” A pointed and grey finger motioned towards the van, where Marisu was sliding off the hood of her van.

“I didn’t expect anyone today.” She said, moving around to the driver’s side of her vehicle.

“I wasn’t sure where to put these three,” Grim replied, looking over the souls. “A middle-aged woman who devoted her life to her religion, but used it to hurt her children. A repentant criminal who spent his life making up for his crimes. And…” Grim noticeably turned his head down to stare at the smaller figure among them all, a child no more than twelve, “This one. A child just past the age of automatic admittance to the Heavens. I ask for input.”

Rikiel seemed to also see the child, clamoring over towards the group, “Children,” They began to say without stopping to read the room, “Are allowed into Heaven.”

“They are past the age.”

“They are a child.” Rikiel said, moving to put a winged hand on the small soul’s shoulder, “Children are not considered evil, and Purgatory is for those who are too evil for Heaven and--”

“I know what Purgatory is for,” Grim spoke, fingers tapping against xir staff as they tightened xir grip to reposition it. “I will allow them to go with you. Do not dare to question my knowledge again.”

Rikiel leads the soul back towards their bus without another word, leaving just Grim, the souls, and Marisu to discuss. There was a momentary silence as the air was allowed to clear, and Marisu spoke as she walked towards the group, away from her van.

“The first one, the middle-aged woman. How devout was she?”

“Oh, very,” Grim replied.

“How badly did she treat her children?”

“One of them died on the streets.”

“That is murder.”

“She did not do it herself.”

Marisu suddenly seemed as conflicted as Grim, turning to look at the soul, now in the perfectly seen shape of a woman, long hair, and a silver cross around her neck. “I understand your difficulty in sorting her. What did she do with her devotion?”

“Opened charities for the homeless.”

“But not her child?” “Not her child, and no one like her child.”

“Sympathy with conditions nullifies the original goodness of intentions.”

Grim made a small noise of consideration, looking towards the soul as well, fingers clicking against the wood of the scythe once more before it spoke, words just as chilling as before, “You are right, guardian. The balance has been tipped in favor of evil, it seems.”

The soul looked shocked, eyes wide, and she opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out no matter how hard she tried, and Marisu looked towards Grim, “Can you hear her?”

“Yes.”

“What is she saying?”

“She is calling us monsters and saying she deserves to be in Heaven.”

Marisu looked as stoic as ever, though she moved to place a gentle hand on the second soul, the soul of the criminal, “Come with me.” She said, leading them towards her van. It seems the decision was understood through them all, as even Narthy paused to reopen the doors on his train, looking towards grin with a manic smile.

“Hell.” Grim finally spoke, pointing towards the train. Compelled to walk despite her want to do anything else, the soul turned and marched towards the train, where Narthy giggled, shutting the doors right behind her.

The guardian gave a wave before he started up his train, grinning before the train took off, slowly but surely. Grim did not care either way about the idea of being on the train for as long as the souls would be, but for them it was torture.

Marisu was loading up the soul in her van, pausing to hand him a small plastic wrapper of peanut butter crackers before she turned and gave a wave to Grim, climbing in and starting up her van. It sputtered a bit but did start, and the guardian turned around and drove off. Rikiel left long ago, realizing they would not be needed, and soon enough Grim was left very alone at the crossroads.

Uncaring, unbothered, neutral.

Grim turned, looking at all the exits the guardians had taken and found no one there. With a quiet tapping against xir scythe, a grey hand raised it into the air before bringing it down on the ground with a thunk, and then they were somewhere else.

Quiet, warm energy filled the room they were in, soft light covering everything in the room and making Grim stand out more than it would in general. The very absence of anything that peaked out from under their cloak swallowed up any light, quite the alarming sight in such a quaint living room. Earth toned furniture and paintings of cats and flowers hung everywhere, a blue and white rug just in front of a brown couch on the far wall and a large TV on the other wall across from it. An archway led to the kitchen, though right now the lights were turned off and only the soft blue light from the coffee maker shone in the darkness.

Grim turned, spotting the exit into the hallway and moving towards it. To anyone else, it would seem like he was floating, and in a way he was, floating into the hallway and stopping by the door to gently rest his scythe by the door. A soft jingling drew his attention, and Grim looked down to see a cat staring up at him with big eyes before it slowly sat, another jingle from the bell on its collar sounding, and gave a soft meow.

The cat was a soft golden color that faded into white, a simple black collar around her neck. She meowed again, and Grim felt compelled to lean down, putting a cold hand on her back and petting her slowly. The cat purred before she stood and meowed again, trotting off.

Grim liked the cat.

There was a silence in the house, curiously enough, and Grim found themself curious as they moved forward, looking into the dark bedroom on the left to find no one, following suit with every other room in the home. They… knew he was home, which was where the slight confusion came in, and with a begrudging thought, they moved towards the bookcase in the office. The office followed suit with the rest of the house, warm lighting, accepting energy. Books littered the surfaces of the tables and desks within, the computer on the main desk on with links open to an online store.

Grim paid no mind to the computer as it moved to the bookcase, curling grey fingers around the edge and pulling it open with inhuman strength. The wall behind the bookcase looked normal, though to anyone who had a skilled eye there was a noticeable difference. The paint here was just slightly newer, a tint off, and Grim pulled on it as well, sliding the false wall to the side. It led to a room far more different than the rest of the house, the lighting bright and LED-based rather than warm and inviting. The walls and floors were tile and concrete, a small staircase leading down into the basement. Mementos from an unknown past were scattered around on tables, a stolen ATM in the corner and a stained baseball bat leaned against it, bags, masks, and gloves on a table, with far more in the room that Grim didn’t care enough to investigate as xe moved towards the stairs.

Floating down without a noise, Grim came upon the scene of a man standing in the middle of the basement, staring at a tiled area in the corner that took up a rather considerable part of the small basement. The basement was similar to the room upstairs, cold and harsh lighting, an empty cement and tiled space that was the direct opposite of the rest of the home.

Grim was known for being silent, and just as xe was about to announce xir presence, the man spoke.

“You bring a chill into the room when you arrive, have I told you that? It would be unnerving to others, but since I know it’s you…” The man turned, smiling at Grim, “I think I like it.”

“Hello, Neil.”

“Hello, Grim.” The man replied, smiling as he moved to walk towards the reaper, “How was your day, love?”

“Long.”

It was… different around Neil. When it was around Neil, it felt… No, it just felt. That was shocking in its own right, though it didn’t start like that. It took many, many meetings and a fist-fight before Grim ended up realizing there was some sort of bubbling feeling within them when they were forced to reap with souls of the victims.

Neil was not a good person. He would most definitely be sorted to Hell when he died despite Grim’s personal feelings, that was their job after all. They didn’t have to like it, they didn’t like it, but it… had to be done.

But Neil wouldn’t die for a long while, surely, and he hadn’t killed since Grim began visiting regularly. Surely he had an entire lifetime to make up for it…? Purgatory was better than Hell. That was a conversation for another time, Grim considered, as Neil reached him and grabbed his cold hands without a hint of hesitation.

Grim wasn’t sure what it felt, it had been longer than they remembered since the Reaper’s Neutrality had no hold on an aspect of them. Was it love? Perhaps. Enamoration? Maybe. But they liked it. They liked it a lot.

“Let’s go upstairs, alright?” Neil said, smiling again.

“What were you doing down here?” Grim inquired, pausing before it lifted a hand to cup Neil’s face, “Are you bothered by it again?”

“I guess it sort of dawned on me who I used to be.”

“It was acts of what you perceived to be justice.”

Neil didn’t reply, how could he? He just offered another smile, tugging on Grim’s hand, “Let’s go upstairs, love. I don’t want to be down here anymore.”

Grim nodded, following after Neil up the stairs and out of the false wall, closing up the bookcase behind them. Neil walked out of the office, speaking a bit louder for Grim to hear him, “I know you can’t eat, but do you want something to eat?”

“I dissolve it within the shadows.” Grim responded as he followed Neil into the kitchen, watching the lights turn on as Neil hit the switch, lighting up the homey kitchen. It was just as warm as the rest of the house, tan tiles, and brown cabinets with spices and coffee mugs on the counter.

“Well, would you like something to dissolve within the shadows then?”

“I would enjoy a bagel.”

Neil gave a soft chuckle, moving to open the bread box, “As you wish, dear.”

The reaper took a seat near the bar, not that it needed to sit at all. It was… just something it saw Neil doing and took after. Most of its behavior here was just mimicking its boyfriend, following what the mortal did to make him more comfortable.

Grim would truly like to understand the feelings he held for Neil, but with no past reference, it was hard to tell. The others would condemn him for becoming so entangled with this mortal’s life, and Grim knew that Heaven would most likely banish him if they found out, that was to say nothing of what the entire otherworldly plane would do. Would his decisions be called into question? Reversed? Reviewed?

Perhaps, xe thought, that was a problem for another time, a time when Neil wasn’t toasting a bagel for a being that couldn’t eat and looking over his shoulder at xem, smiling. A time when Grim could focus on something else other than the soft brown of his hair, and the way he always wore the same white button-up, black pants attire even though he had a variety of clothes in his wardrobe because it ‘suits my personality’.

Another time, when Grim could go back to being what it was always supposed to be.

Uncaring, unbothered, neutral.

9/9/19

But maybe neutrality was dangerous, maybe Grim didn’t want to be what it was supposed to be anymore. These feelings always crept up on him when he visited Neil, pushed their way to the front of xir mind, and stayed there, eating away at them until they finally excused themself and returned to the crossroads.

The crossroads were truly the only places they were truly, fully neutral. The Grim Reaper’s Neutrality extended throughout it’s life, into it’s memories and thoughts and feelings, but at the crossroads it was different, it was more so. The neutrality wasn’t just some blanket feeling of uncaring, some numbness that made the world feel fuzzy and thick-- at the crossroads, it was clear, the ability to think and reason came easier than in other planes, and it was a wonder Grim ever left the crossroads to visit Neil anymore. At the crossroads, Grim could reason that they were bordering on wrongness, that the enamoration it held for a mortal wasn’t right, and yet… At the end of every day, after collecting souls from around the world, answering the orders of a sister that would never notice him and he barely remembered, Grim found his way back to Neil.

Back to warm lighting and the smell of cinnamon, back to soft cats and softer mortal hands, back to the one thing that Grim has felt in a long, long time.

#long post #my writing #my ocs #oc #oc writing #neil young #reaper #grim reaper

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killypool-archived · 5 years

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* getting to know the mun :

NAME : alana aisling

NICKNAME : variations of my name, ais, ash, etc. my mom calls me baby bop for some unholy reason

FACECLAIM : mun fc? i’ve used shannen doherty and ryan stiles from whose line

PRONOUNS : she/her

HEIGHT : 5′4″ ish

BIRTHDAY : june 26th

AESTHETIC : the colors orange and blue. tulips. landscapes. black ink. leather bound pagess. mountains capped with snow. 20 2-liters of dr. pepper thrown haphazardly in the back of a ford fiesta

LAST SONG YOU LISTENED TO : someone you loved - lewis capaldi

FAVORITE MUSE (S) YOU’VE WRITTEN : wade, heather, ty lee, seamus

* getting to know the account :

WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO TAKE ON THIS MUSE : during a pretty rough spot emotionally in may-ish? of last year, i kept trying to get out of the house, and i impulse ran to the movie theater. surprise, surprise, deadpool 2 came out that day so it was my first pick. then i cried. and laughed my ass off. and proceeded to watch it in theaters like... 8ish? more times? it was my happy movie, and it still is - just like the first one was. so i posed the idea of writing wade to billow and was met with nothing but encouragement. i gave him a trial on omegle and liked writing his voice, and now i can’t drop him.

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE ASPECTS OF YOUR CURRENT MUSE : i love being able to have a muse where it’s safe to shitpost and be silly and ridiculous, but also have the emotional depth and range of emotion that wade has. there’s really something to writing him that can fit any mood, and i love how flexible he is.

WHAT’S YOUR BIGGEST INSPIRATION WHEN IT COMES TO WRITING : aesthetics, music, other media has always been big for me, but i find a lot of inspiration just in silly memes and random youtube videos for wade.

FAVORITE TYPES OF THREADS : any. i love the silly, i love the random, i love the angst, and i love the smut.

BIGGEST STRUGGLE IN REGARDS TO YOUR CURRENT MUSE : it’s easy to get overwhelmed with all the things i want to do and want to focus on, and my energy level really doens’t match what i want to do. there are so many worlds and verses i want to spend time building and improving, but i lack the motivation to push for more threads in certain verses, or lack the confidence to reach out and suggest certain plots i really want. and when i do have that confidence, i often find myself without energy and too afraid to tell the other person that i just don’t feel like writing. communication is something i really struggle a lot in building relationships for wade and plots.

TAGGED BY : i’m a thief

TAGGING : be a thief

#( 🦄 ) how do you make sure adblock blocks my posts. ( *OOC )

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saintaugustinerp · 5 years

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Congratulations Jess! You have been accepted for the role of The Abettor with the faceclaim Anton Lisin. Please be sure to check out the accepted applicants checklist! Also be sure send us a link to your blog within the next twenty-four hours. Welcome to St. Augustine!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name/alias: Jess Age (18+): 27 😭 (or I will be, you’re opening the day before my birthday!) Gender/Preferred pronouns: She/Her Timezone: EST

IN CHARACTER

Desired Skeleton: The Abettor Character Name: Elias Jerabek Ballard Age (18+): 19 Gender/Pronouns: Cis Male, He/Him Hometown: Prague, Czech Republic/Brookline, Massachusetts Major: International Studies Desired Faceclaim: Anton Lisin

Character Blurb:

He stands on the platform like an out-of-place shadow—odd because he’s alone, when everyone knows where he belongs, stuck tight to the heels of another. He stands tall, a figure clad in black with a heavy brow and a tight-set mouth cutting through the bright and unforgiving splendor of the mountain backdrop. But it’s only an illusion, nothing more than a prey animal making itself foreboding and big. He’s not proud; everyone knows that he bows, and who to. It’s a pathetic thing, to stand in someone’s shadow, to come when called, to bite and snarl at their command—but if he didn’t, then who would even know his name? Better to belong to another, to be known and feared; than to be alone, invisible and unmoored.

Developed Head Canons:

FAMILY. When they whisper about him, they call him bastard. It isn’t true, or at least it isn’t fair: his mother was married to his father, but his father hadn’t told her that he had married another woman first. And his mother never found out, which Elias thinks might be kinder: she wasted away with cancer when Elias was just thirteen, and when he was sent to live with his father in America, he found he already had a family—one that there was little room for Elias in. One where he was less of a boy and more of a secret, an uncomfortable truth brought to light.

IDENTITY. Loss after loss after loss. He lost his mother. He lost the entire narrative of his life he had believed in up to that point. He lost his country. He lost his father, in a way, too: he’d seen him too little growing up, for he was very important, always traveling, but he’d always been doting when he was around—but he was better at loving Elias from a distance, maybe, better when his lives and his wives were kept separate, and when Elias needed him the most, all that affection was nowhere to be found. And, with all of these things slipping through his too-young fingers, he lost himself. Lacking an identity, he became bitter and snarling. Wanting someone to follow. Wanting someone to tell him who he is.

TEMPER(MENT). He never got used to America. Never learned how to be winsome and sweet, even though he knew he should have, never figured out how to endear himself to his father’s real wife and half-siblings. Instead he’d learned to be quiet: that way he’d never say anything wrong; that way no one could make fun of his accent. But while he didn’t speak much, he did snarl, walking through the halls of his high school or his father’s Massachusetts home with a mulish set to his jaw and hard cast to his shoulders, ready to respond to the simplest slight. He was aimless, and he was angry—or maybe he was just hurt.

ATHLETICS. He found himself on the soccer field, in school in Massachusetts. He got good grades, worked hard at his classes even when it felt like he was starting behind—(who needed multiple years of just American history?)—did it to try and make his father proud. But soccer was something he did just for himself: an outlet, something physical that took him out of his head; a game, something that felt easy when everything else felt too hard. He was an aggressive player, sometimes too aggressive for his posh and polite private school, not to mention the similarly prim schools they played. He was disappointed to find that Augustine didn’t have a team, but he set his mind to transferring his skills to rugby instead. He got laughed off the field during tryouts his first year, but in his second, has finally made the team.

AUGUSTINE. If he were following in the footsteps of his father, a career diplomat and former Ambassador who guest lectures as Harvard in his retirement, he would have set his sights there, or on another American Ivy. But his father already had two children doing just that, and so Elias set his sights elsewhere: on returning to Europe, and to Augustine. He wants to make his father proud, wants to recapture the doting affection his father had lavished upon him in his youth, but he thinks it might be easier to do from a distance. Thinks that the greatest gift he might be able to give him—(and for the rest of his father’s family, which had never come to feel like Elias’)—would be to separate himself from them once again. To carve his own path.

Writing Sample:

(End of the school year, last year)

When Elias was a first year, he was a fool. Wearing that sweater, holding it close like Augustine could be his salvation. How embarrassing, practically asking to be hazed, to be one of the first years plucked from youthful obscurity and, crest over his heart, enticed toward the frigid lake with pretty promises that he was all too eager to believe in. And, more fool he, he had gone.

Now—(on the cusp of his second year, with that night at the lake like a dark veil pulled over his formerly rosy vision)—he wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Nor could he. He knows what’s soaked into those fibres, old blood dark and matted in the knit. A tell-tale heart shoved into the dark depths of his closet, where it has stayed ever since that night. He can’t bear to look at it. Can bear even less the thought of someone finding it. Has thought more than once of asking, of begging, to be told what to do with it—if only he could bring himself to speak of it. But he can’t. It’s his problem alone to solve. And, surely, he could manage that much.

He’d longed for its warmth, once it was gone. Standing in the clearing with his jaw clenched and every muscle tensed, trying not to let his teeth chatter or shivers to wrack his frame, even though it was a losing prospect, even though the gooseflesh was plain to see, what with all of it—(all of him)—on display. He’d folded it neatly, then, placed it with care in a pile with his other shed clothes on top of a rock so that the damp from the snowy ground wouldn’t seep into it.

He’d pulled it back on with less care, hands numbed by more than just the cold. Jaw clenched against something else, too, that might have been a scream or might have just been tears. But he hadn’t been pathetic before, had been willing—before the Good Samaritan intervened, both kind and useless—to wade out into the frozen lake to prove himself tough, to prove himself worthy, to never admit to his fear. Why did he have to interfere?

That spark of anger warms him, as he takes his spot without complaint, shoving his arms underneath the lifeless corpse and heaving it into his arms, unheeding of the lifeless head that shifts with their every stumbling step, knocking into him and marking him in dark red, smeared across that once-proud crest. How senseless, how useless—he’s wading out into the water anyway, and his hastily pulled-on clothes make no difference, the cold of it still stings like thousands of tiny needles driving into his skin.

He hasn’t been back to the lake, not since that night. Had stumbled back to the school with his pants soaked to the knees with icy water, that stained sweater feeling hot like a brand against his chest. He’d ripped everything off and hidden it away. Never looked at it again, tried to let it fade from his memory—(out of sight, out of mind)—like the body swallowed by the lake.

But things buried, in lakes or in closets, don’t always stay that way. The dark water that had swallowed Frederick Wells had spit him back out again, and so there’s no reason to think that anything Elias buried that same night might not meet the same fate. And so there’s only one thing to do: destroy it. He hasn’t been back to the lake, not since that night, but as the year draws to a close and nothing of Frederick Wells left unfound, he can’t imagine a place more private.

It looks different after the spring thaw. His breath doesn’t fog in the air, his feet sink slightly not in hard-packed snow but in ground made soft by snowmelt. Alive, despite what happened there in January. It still fills him with some unnamed emotion—like a memory of the cold of that night, the terror, the guilt that had only crept in after.

He finds a section of brush that’s dry enough for the sweater to catch when he sets it alight. Watches it burn, leaves nothing but ashes behind. Back in his room, his bags are packed, ready for a summer in Massachusetts that will be both a welcomed reprieve and interminable.

He doesn’t linger.

Other: Pinterest board [here]

#abettor #rp #rpg #roleplay #accepted

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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years

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CONGRATULATIONS, JEM!

You have been accepted for the role of LUKA MRAVINSKY with a faceclaim change to Francisco Lachowski. I’m screaming because our bratva group is nearly complete! Jem, you breathed aching life into Luka. Your application was a culmination of highs and lows -- of crescendos of joy and sorrows. It was a beautiful thing, to watch you deconstruct Luka then put him back together again -- pulling him apart while making him whole. You captured his voice, his motivations, his contradictions, and his commonalities. There was a depth there that I was hoping would be captured, and you did it in one fell swoop. You’ve killed us with Luka’s tragedy, his sorrow, his potential for redemption or damnation. All in this singular application. How you managed to fit the whole of (arguably) Ravka’s most tragic pyro, I’m not entirely sure. And for that, I thank you. I can’t wait to see him unfold on the dash! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Jem!

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/her.

AGE: 23.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: I live in EST, and I’d say I’m about a 6 or 7 in terms of activity! I’m always able to plot and respond to messages a few times a day, and I try to crank out replies every day or every other day.

TRIGGERS: OMITTED

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: Y’all already know: alexanderrallis (active), cygnusblck (inactive), and thesaintofsin (inactive).

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Luka Alexei Mravinsky.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? Luka, Luka, Luka!!!!!!!!!! Oh, Luka. To be frank, Luka sort of snuck up on me, and I bounced around between a bunch of different characters before finally settling on this sweet, sweet Sankt. When I first began writing Luka’s app, I was a little stuck, and I didn’t quite knowwhat to do with him, how to interpret him. And it was a bit frustrating, to be honest—trying to solve Luka, who, at the time, seemed so unsolvable to me. But I couldn’t let him go, I really couldn’t, and so I kept studying him and learning him, and here I am, utterly in love with Luka Mravinsky. I think I initially struggled so much with understanding Luka’s composition because his composition is incredibly complex. In many ways, Luka is an anomaly—a haphazard bundle of contradictions that shouldn’t be, but is. He’s soft and gentle and kind, but he’s also damaged and tortured and miserable, and for all his altruism, he has a tremendous capacity for destruction—and that was all a little difficult to navigate at first. How do you decode a character who aches for tenderness but was bred for cruelty? A character who wants desperately to be a Sankt but whose curse has damned him? I don’t think you can decode a character like that—I really don’t. I was searching for some Luka-esque inspiration material and discovered this little gem, and it all sort of just clicked for me—Luka can’t be known, not really; he can be learned, but never fully known, never truly mastered, because he hides—from others, from himself—and I think Luka was written in such a way that he can never be definitively decoded. Like a sad, lovely Frankenstein, Luka is a monster of creation, not a monster of origin—he is a product, a result. Half of his parts are missing, and the ones that aren’t missing are foreign—unfamiliar limbs and organs that do not belong to the sweet-natured boy who played in the trees and picked wildflowers for his mama and stole scraps of food from the dinner table for the horses and sat on his papa’s soldiers like a boy-king. The sum of Luka Mravinsky is this: no heart, no smile, wrong hands, wrong head. He left his heart in his village, buried it between the corpses of his mama and papa and left it to rot in the dead soil of the graveyard he’d erected—a shrine to his monstrosity. He left his smile in a chasm of memories stowed away somewhere between his ribs—an endless loop of crisp spring mornings spent in the garden with his mother and cold winter nights spent reading the Istorii Sankt'ya near the hearth with his father. His hands are all wrong—they ache in perpetual want of blood, of sin; they were made to destroy, and Luka was made to restore. His head is all wrong, too—it urges him to do things he ought not to, to indulge in the embers that smolder between the lines of his hungry palms, to stop fighting his nature and bow to the inferno he’s neglected to stoke for so long. So much of Luka is lost, and so much of Luka is not Luka, and so much of Luka is dead. It’s no wonder, then, that the boy knows so little of himself (angel, Sankt, darling); it’s no wonder, then, that the boy hides what little he does know of himself (monster, killer, demon). In short, I’m not certain Luka knows who he really is anymore, and if Luka doesn’t know who he is, how can anyone else? Once I was struck with that idea, everything else just sort of fell into place beautifully, and I became enamored with the prospect of exploring all of the parts (present and absent, belonging and foreign) of Luka Mravinsky. And maybe he’ll recover some of his old parts, and maybe he’ll discover some new parts, and maybe he’ll reconcile with some of his wrong parts. And isn’t that such an incredible creative adventure—to be able to take a character and learn and unlearn and relearn of the parts of their makeup until you find the right combination? He’s so stunningly complex, Luka, and so heart-achingly tragic. A benevolent destroyer, an otkazat’sya-loving otkazat’sya-killer, a lamb in wolf’s clothing, a beautiful boy steeped in tragedy, a tragedy steeped in beauty. He, a Grisha, a god, envies the mediocrity of humanity, aches in want of death, in want of relief from the curse of the Small Science. A lovely, frightening boy capable of lovely, frightening things. Feared by those who know of the monster that razed an entire village to ash; pitied by those who know of the sad almost-Sankt who tirelessly fights his nature, growing paler and hungrier and more tired each day; scorned by those who know of the fair-weathered Grisha who moons over otkazat’sya like they’re something to be admired, to be treasured. Nothing makes my muse sing like navigating a character that’s full of contradiction and complexity, and I think it would be an incredible creative journey to try to put Ravka’s very own Humpty Dumpty back together again (if such a thing is possible, of course—poor Luka had an awfully great fall).

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND? SAD SOLDIER BOY: A CAUTIONARY TALE Like calls to like, and the damned call to the damned, and Valerian Petrov calls to Luka Mravinsky. Luka’s heart beats in threes: once for Shona, once for Arsen, and once for Valerian. He doesn’t think he remembers how to love, not anymore (he was very young when he last loved, a spritely boy whose mother kissed him often and whose father praised him well)—but he remembers (only just) how to be tender, and so he shares his tenderness with his brothers. Arsen has never been a particularly amenable recipient of soft things (he’s sharp-tongued and sharp-toothed, and he has too much blood in his mouth to know the taste of tenderness) and matters of sentimentality don’t seem to appeal to Shona, not much and not often. Valerian, though—Valerian isn’t tender, not really; he never was, not even before he was robbed of his Juliya. But he’s tender with Luka, as tender as men like Valerian can be. Arsen prods Luka tirelessly, always eager to provoke him, to summon flame, and while Shona tolerates Luka’s gentle disposition, it’s clear that he’s not too terribly keen on it. But Valerian—brightly-burning, jagged-edged, wildfire Valerian—has expressed to Luka on more than one occasion how very fond he is of the sad soldier boy’s stark oddities—of his quietness and his tenderheartedness. He’s always been tender with Luka, Valerian, but Luka fears that his pseudo-brother has razed his own capacity for tender things. Passion has given way to lifelessness, love has given way to grief, tolerance to impatience, and tenderness to cruelty. Grief—it’s a death Luka knows well. The hero of Ravka has fallen, baptized by atrophy, stricken from legend to tragedy, from god to broken-hearted boy. Luka has been treading the brutal current of grief for years now, and so he’s learned well how to navigate these waters. But Valerian is drowning, and Luka fears that his lungs are filling too quickly with too much water, too much grief. He needs a lifesaver, Valerian—not an anchor, but abuoy; someone to keep him afloat, to teach him how to swim in waters as treacherous as the Unsea—and who better to school Valerian in the ways of wading than the sad soldier boy who’s been swimming in the channel of grief for a lifetime? Luka has never saved someone before. He’s well-acquainted with the ways of damnation, but redemption? Salvation? Foreign concepts. Alas, Luka cannot and will not stand idly by and watch grief make a pretty tragedy out of Valerian Petrov the same way it made a pretty tragedy out of Luka Mravinsky. If anything good is to come of Luka’s tragedy, let it be this: the cautionary tale of the sad soldier boy. Woe to all who follow in his steps.

FORGIVE ME NOT Luka is a creature of passivity, a being of indifference whose once-bright passion and once-brighter heart atrophied from lack of use a long, long time ago. But Aarvas Rai summons passion from Luka as easily as the Tidemaker summons waves. Of course, the sort of passion Aarvas invokes is certainly not the kind of passion anyone with a will to live to wants to be on the receiving end of. With Aarvas, gentle Luka is not so gentle, and kind Luka is not so kind; he is hotheaded, and cruel, and brash, and bitter-tongued. Arsen practically dances with glee whenever Aarvas sidles up to Luka, for the Tidemaker has a knack for inciting the ugliness in Luka that Arsen has been trying to pry from the tenderhearted boy for years now. A sinner forged in fire and a Sankt forged in water were never meant to be fast friends, surely, but the blind, consuming animosity that buzzes between the two Grisha goes beyond elemental polarity. Who does this righteous pseudo-Sankt think he is? Preaching redemption, promising salvation. Sanctimoniously hailing the Small Science as a holy relic when he should be condemning the pitiable curse. The road to hell is paved with odinakovost and etovost, and the only fate that awaits Grisha is perdition. That Aarvas Rai has crowned himself savior of all damned Grisha is laughable. They share the same curse, he and Aarvas, abominations of water and fire, and to glorify the Small Science, to laud Grisha as heroes of the new world—it’s blasphemy. Luka is irredeemable, and he seeks no salvation, no decree of absolution from the Sankts. He wants Death’s kiss, and he wishes to wait for smert in solitude (misery doesn’t love company, it seems). But Aarvas is persistent, and stubborn, and mad, and even sad soldier boys have their limits. Tread carefully, Sankt Aarvas—do you know what happens when you push an already-broken boy to his breaking point? Do you want to find out?

GLUTTONY, THY NAME IS GRISHA He’s a glutton, Luka—all Grisha are. It’s easy to forget that sweet, soft-spoken Luka once turned an entire village to ash; it’s easy to forget that gentle, quiet Luka was once so gluttonous, so eager to taste flame and soot, that he ignored his parents’ warnings like Adam ignored God’s warnings and danced with fire like Adam danced with Eve. It’s easy for you to forget, maybe, but it’s easy for Luka to remember. He remembers every day what he did all those years ago, how he surrendered to gluttony, how he fell prey to temptation; how the fire bewitched him, enchanted him, spellbound him. He’s an inferno, Luka, always burning, burning, burning, and he tries—oh, he tries—to smother, smother, smother, to quell the flames that lick at the barren wasteland of his ribcage and gnaw at his ash-laden palms. He fights this battle from dawn until dusk, each day, each night, always trying to temper himself, to douse the fire that refuses to die. He’s always rigid, always clenching his fists to keep those damnable hands of his from playing with matchsticks, always disengaging and dissociating from those around him to eliminate the catalyst of emotion. He’s a glutton, an addict, and try as he might to rehabilitate his nature, a wildfire is a wildfire is a wildfire—they must consume, or die; there is no happy medium for wildfires—no ending but death. Luka’s regimen of restraint is uncharacteristic of an Inferni, and his rather un-Grisha-like behavior is bound to draw someone’s attention, be it the Darkling’s disapproval, his peers’ judgment, or the Ravkan court’s suspicion. After all, what use is a boy of fire who refuses to play with fire? What use is a gun with a broken trigger? Wildfires must eitherconsume or die, and so, too, must Luka. Fair-weathered Grisha don’t fair well in Ravka, I’m afraid, and It’s only a matter of time before someone forces Luka’s hand in the matter. Soon, he will have to make a choice: surrender to his gluttony and reconcile with fire and flame, or perish. What’ll it be, Mravinsky? Live a sinner or die a Sankt?

HUNTED Luka’s loyalty to his bratvas is true and steadfast, but he is not truly beholden to anyone. He is too much a monster to owe fealty to otkazat’sya, and he is too full of self-loathing to owe fealty to the Darkling, soverennyi of Grisha and champion of abominations. As it stands, he is exclusively loyal to Valerian, Arsen, and Shona, but there are, unquestionably, Grisha and Ravkans alike who have their sights set on Luka Mravinsky—namely, Luka Mravinsky’s knack for razing villages. If wielded properly, he’d make for an extraordinary weapon, no? His brothers would never use him as such, but others certainly would. Rhea hunts him, and while the she-wolf is certainly the most transparent of all of Luka’s suitors, he suspects she’s not the only one waiting in line to have a go at making a proper weapon out of the Inferni. Best wishes to the fools who seek to wield Luka Mravinsky—you can’t break what’s already broken, you can’t tame what can’t be controlled, and you certainly can’t win over the heart of a brokenhearted boy.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE? Likely not, but if you admins felt strongly about using Luka’s death as a plot device, I’d certainly be open to it! (Do it for the Angst™.)

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE: “Luka.” His mothers warnings were always gentle, never stern, and even in her admonition, her maternal love shone—a bright, dazzling thing full of honeysuckle and sun. A small flame leapt from his thumb to his forefinger, dancing about like a riotous storm. He was good-natured, Luka, and obedient, too, for the most part, and so he yielded to his mother’s call, a soft “mama?” springing from his upturned lips. “Dostatochno, moya lyubov.” Enough, my love. The flame flickered once, twice.

“Luka.” Like a lark, Arsen always sings, even when they’re being cruel, but their song is rougher today, a little more exasperated than the sweet, lilting serenade Luka has grown accustomed to. A faint breeze sweeps across the Summoners’ Pavilion, and Luka is grateful, for the chill smothers the heat in his palms some, and he feels anchored once more. Arsen makes a sound of impatience, and he reaches into the bag of flint hooked onto the belt of his kefta, crooning, “Bolshe, bratva.” More, brother.

Instinct bade him to play a little more, burn a little more, destroy a little more, but his mother bade him to stop, and so he stopped. Or he’d meant to—he really had—but some wildfires cannot be quelled, and some hungers cannot be sated. It began with a single wildflower. His mother loved wildflowers, and she would’ve been sad to see her sweetling lay waste to a thing so lovely if she’d lived to bear witness to her would-be-Sankt’s mighty fall from grace. He willed the flame to jump from pink petal to pink petal, from corolla to stem, and he watched with morbid, Icarus-like fascination as fauna fell and turned to ash. It was the first lovely thing he’d ever destroyed, but it would not be the last.

Instinct bids him to bend to Arsen’s will, to indulge in his true nature, to stoke the fire he’s too long neglected. But to trust one’s instincts is to trust oneself, and Luka pities anyfool who deigns to trust Grisha. His instincts betrayed him all those years ago, and he’s since abandoned reliance on intuition, instead favoring the instruments of restraint and control, suppression and solitude. It’s safer this way. But it’s also agonizing this way, and his body aches and groans in protest, angry at being denied nourishment time and again. Hunger gnaws at his stomach, and his hooded eyes are so eclipsed by shadow that he’s beginning to resemble the Unsea. Such is the price to pay for monstrosity; such is the price to pay for penance.

The first lovely thing he destroyed was a flower; the second was a freckled girl named Irina. She was sweet-natured and sweet-toothed, and she was always cold. Her home was near the meadow of wildflowers Luka often played in, and what first consumed one wildflower next consumed a dozen of them, and then hundreds of them, and then the homes surrounding them. Like dominos, lovely flowers and lovely girls and lovely homes fell victim to the ravenous monster forged in the embers of Luka’s palms, and he watched with anguished, Atlas-like horror as home and hearth fell and turned to ash—a blazing pyre of one man’s sins, a monument to one monster’s savagery, a graveyard for one boy’s ghosts.

Arsen sighs, and it’s a mean sound, but Valerian, from across the Pavilion, pins them with narrowed eyes of daggers, and Arsen is almost immediately tempered. To Luka’s left, he sees Iskra, who’s dancing so intimately with flame that you’d think the girl and the element were age-old lovers. She speaks the archaic language of inferno, takes to flame like the stars take to shine, and she’s effortless in her art, a master of that which cannot be mastered. He isn’t sure if envies her or admires her or hates her. To his right, he sees a small crowd of Tidemakers and Squallers alike, and they watch him with a peculiar mix of pity and contempt. Sad soldier boy, they lament. Broken Grisha, they sneer. Pitiable Sankt, they sigh. His traitorous hands ache in want of liberation, but Luka is captive to the ghosts who haunt his barren ribcage, and he will never permit himself the privilege of freedom, not ever again, not even in small doses. He looks to Arsen, and then to Valerian and Shona, and he marvels at how lovely they are. The first lovely thing he destroyed was a flower; the second was a freckled girl; the last was his his family. He will destroy no more lovely things. And so he smiles, faintly and apologetically, and exits, leaving Iskra to her fire and his fellow Grisha to their judgment and his lovely brothers to their loveliness.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

Of the four bratvas, Luka is the least troublesome, but certainly not the least capable of trouble. Kinder than Arsen and gentler than Valerian and quieter than Shona, he’s often mistaken for a wingless seraph, a pitiable, impressionable boy who falls victim time and again to the whims of his bandit brothers. And although Luka is kind, and although Luka is gentle, and although Luka is quiet, he’s also wicked, and whip-smart, and dangerous. He’s less inclined than Valerian and Arsen to incite trouble, surely, but he makes a fine bratva nonetheless—always using his pretty eyes of melancholy to deflect suspicion; always using his sad birdsong to cajole victims of Arsen’s tongue and Valerian’s fists (sometimes—at Arsen’s insistent bidding—using his sad birdsong to lure prey for Arsen’s tongue and Valerian’s fists); always using his intellect to talk his brothers out of trouble. He’s lovely-looking, Luka, and no one ever expects lovely-looking things to be capable of anything but loveliness. And lovely he is, and kind he is, and gentle he is, and quiet he is. But boys of fire always burn—it’s all they know how to do; they burn, and burn, and burn. Lucky for Ravka that Luka Mravinsky drowns in misery each dawn and each dusk—pain makes for a handy leash.

Misery burgeons in darkness, and so, too, does Luka. It’s only fitting, then, that what’s outside matches what’s inside: shadows. He’s always swathed in shadows, Luka, bathed in the dreary dusk of tragedy and the moonlight of melancholy. His eyes are always rimmed with dark crescent moons—a result of his negligence, surely, for he does not stoke the inferno stowed in his palms as often as he ought to, and it shows. Rawboned, dark-eyed boy of shadows, hide your fires; let not light see your black and deep desire.

Luka is relatively neutral in matters of politics and prejudice. He holds no particular grudge against the Ravkan court, and he doesn’t subscribe to the overarching Grisha axiom of human inferiority—and why would he? Luka is a well of self-loathing, and he aches to be ordinary, to be human. He thinks himself cursed, thinks otkazat’sya lucky, and so the only ill will he feels for humans is this: envy. He remains neutral in all areas regarding the disparity between otkazat’sya and Grisha, and he has no stake in the game of politics. Because of the brotherhood he shares with Shona, he’s also quite accepting of those who hail from lands outside of Ravka.

Ravka is a treasure trove of secrets, a shrine of gossip and hearsay. Among the well of rumors that spill from lips to ears in Ravka is the great tragedy of Luka Mravinsky. He was a mystery to them at first—a sad, soot-covered orphan boy plucked from the bedlam of war. But mysteries never remain so for long, and soon, tongues were wagging about the pyro who started the great fire, wiped an entire village. “Angel smerti,” they hissed. Angel of death. “Smert kosoy,” they whispered. Reaper. And he’d been certain—so certain—that the three boys he’d learned to love as well as any monster could would hiss the same, whisper the same; leave him to perish in the hearth of his own flame. And he’d been wrong. Every cruel whisper aimed at Luka was met with a crueler barb from Arsen’s crueler tongue, and every mean hiss at Luka’s expense was met with Valerian’s meaner fists. Shona followed in suit, and soon, residents of the Little Palace (and the Grand one, too) learned not to whisper or hiss about Luka Mravinsky, for to do so was to incite the wrath of fire and storm. To this day, most who live in the Little and Grand Palaces know of Luka’s story, but few discuss it plainly for fear of the three hellhounds that follow the sad soldier boy around like guard dogs.

Because of his consuming fear of losing control again, Luka has learned to depend less on his powers than other Grisha, and he has, in turn, committed himself to the study of hand-to-hand combat. His fellow Inferni wield flame with much more precision and ease than Luka, to be sure, but there are few Grisha who can best Luka in the training room, where the use of Small Science is forbidden and Grisha must rely on fists and reflex. To maintain constant restraint, Luka trains and meditates religiously, for he finds that exercising the most human and most base parts of himself keeps him grounded (and keeps the monster in him at bay).

Much in the same way that Luka has learned to depend on hand-to-hand combat so as to relieve his dependence on flame and fire, he’s also taken to academia. Every hour spent avoiding the Summoners’ Pavillions was, in turn, spent in the Grand Palace’s library, where Luka read voraciously and studied even more so. Because of this, he’s certainly one of the more intellectual Grisha. He’s well-versed in Grisha theory and militant strategy and is able to speak Kerch, Suli, Shu, and Fjerdan as fluently as he speaks his own mother tongue.

Of course, his excellence in academia and combat training have yielded an obvious deficit in his ability to summon and wield fire. Despite his great capacity to wield flame (as is evidenced by his burning of an entire village), his obsessive need to retain control and his reluctance to call to the fire that betrayed him all those years ago make for a poor Inferni. He can’t summon nearly as well as Arsen can, and he can’t wield half as gracefully as Valerian can. Many other Etherealki sneer, call him weak-willed and bare-boned, a broken Grisha who’s about as useless as otkazat’sya. They’re wrong, of course—Luka Mravinsky might yet be one of the greatest Inferni Ravka has ever known if only he’d embrace his nature. But he’s got no qualms about the sneers and whispers, really. Better a broken Grisha than a monster.

Luka has a tattoo on his left bicep that reads: XCIII. It’s the population of his mother village; the number of people he killed, the number of ghosts that have taken up residence in his hollow body.

Luka has crossed the Unsea many times, perhaps more than any Inferni of his age. Those who don’t know him might call it a grab for glory, but those who do know Luka know that he cares nothing for glory. He has nothing to prove, and his dreams of earning the title of ‘Sankt’ have long since perished. Those who don’t know him might call it a quest for redemption, a voyage to do enough good to make up for all the bad he’s done, but Luka thinks himself irredeemable; to try to pay penance for the 92 lives he stole is, he thinks, a fruitless quest. Why, then, does the almost-Sankt so readily volunteer to travel the Unsea? Why not? Men who have nothing to lose are dangerous creatures, beings of fearlessness who know not the confines of survival or self-preservation. They call him fearless, courageous, bold—but he doesn’t care what they call him. He’s not fearless, or courageous, or bold—he’s dead, a ghost among the living. Perhaps it’s luck that he’s not yet been made a victim of the Unsea; perhaps it’s penance, a sentence of purgatory that manifests in the flush of his cheeks and the stubborn beat of his heart. Or perhaps he’s escaped the clutches of the volcra because the ghastly beasts feed only on the living, and Luka is only half-alive, too hollow to feast on. *All headcanons are, of course, subject to player discretion!

EXTRAS: You can find a mockblog for Luka here! MBTI: ISFJ. ASTROLOGY: Pisces (February 24th). HOGWARTS HOUSE: Hufflepuff. MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good.

ANYTHING ELSE? OMITTED

#raraccepted #accepted: luka

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