[ OC ] gaia
a demon adept in mimicry who escaped from hell and slaughtered a magical girl. she wears her skin and uses dark magic to preserve the image of her host in order to trick unsuspecting victims.
age: 70000
mimic form: 5’1
true form: 12’0 (including horns)
species: mimic demon
sexuality: aroace lesbian
in her mimic form, she uses a variety of weapons to dispose of innocents she doesn’t deem “worthy” to inhabit. her favourite is the chainsaw due to its messy tendencies. being stuck in hell for hundreds of centuries and only now escaping to the surface, she is fascinated with man-made weaponry, and finds it satisfying to kill humans with their own creations.
in her true form, she has sharp misshapen teeth, sunken eyes, long thin hair, sharp horns and claws. she is not made to be comprehended by humans, so to mortals, her body is a thin, constantly altering and pulsing mass of black vines. this is used to disorient victims.
gaia’s mimicry can be identified by the blurry/muddied, almost glassy eyes of her hosts. she has yet to find a way to disguise eyes properly. this detail is almost unnoticeable to mortals, however to other demons and hunters from hell like lynne, its very easy to spot.
as gaia is a runaway sinner, she is actively being hunted by lynne. however, despite lynne’s orders, she seems to have formed a strange bond with gaia. whether it is genuine or simply a form of deceit to lure in and dispose of the mimic is unknown.
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uncanny valley Nimona. loosely self-contained eldritch horror Nimona. She smiles and it's just a liiiittle too wide. Her teeth are a little too sharp. Her eyes flash in the dark even when there's no light. She shifts into something big and there's the smell of petrichor, of something old and ancient being unearthed. She smiles, she laughs, she plays like a kid. The weather report says it's going to be clear all week but Nimona just glances up at the clear sky, wrinkles her nose, and says it's gonna storm tonight. It does. She goes to grab something from a high cabinet and instead of climbing on the counter, her arm extends. She shifts into a rhino and it's almost like the wind's been knocked out of you. She shifts into a cat and it's like the air has been sucked out of the room. Is she taller? Are her eyes a different color? Are arms supposed to be able to bend that way?
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jon?
Something is different, but he cannot be quite sure what, exactly.
Everything is… more linear than it was Before. He still Knows, quite in a way like he did Before, but it is finite, clear, manmade. It does not come from fear, but curiosity. A wide web of knowledge, rattling around in the dark of him, and what even is dark to a thing that cannot perceive it? A lack, perhaps, an unbeing, a noticable absence where there should be merely an ordinary kind of nothing.
He has a voice. And there is something he desperately, desperately needs to say, but there are no words that are his own, and every sentence he speaks he borrows, and they are each one of them painted with fear and confusion and loneliness and huntedness and a watchful eye.
He is also not alone, never alone. There are voices all around him, nice ones, chatting, making tea, fighting, changing, and only some voices stay the same, have been the same since… well, since when? Since when has he been… like this? It gets hard to think like this, sometimes – to assign a point in time to a moment and to file them away together. A collection of information, disorganised, lost, confused, perhaps deliberately so. It feels achingly familiar.
And sometimes, he hears something like himself speak in a different voice, even when he does not talk. And even though the words are borrowed too, taken from throats and fingers to be forgotten, they feel like coming home, simply because they were said in that soft, cruel tone. A familiar melody, slipping through wires and speakers and programmes like it was made for this, but it wasn’t, was it? It might’ve been.
And this brings him comfort, of course it does, except he must be trapped, right? Because why can he not say his own words, when he has so many of them? He is not lonely, but he is alone with the thoughts he cannot voice, the words that have no mouth, the things that cannot be said. It hasn't always been like that, has it?
Something is different Now from how it was Before, at least. He Knows everything, but he knows nothing of truth, and knows nothing at all, but the difference to What Was seems clear, in a clumsy, calculated way. Something is hiding, quite badly, behind a blurred vision that he does not have, behind lines of numbers and letters, running for its life through old wires. He knows it lingers, he knows it is there. He just cannot make it out quite yet.
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