Anarawd Sygrove
![Picture](/uploads/2/1/1/1/21113942/6434978.jpg?440)
Anarawd Sygrove
17
son of Astrape
goddess of lightning
Kin: n/a
Friends: Train (son of Apollo)
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Anarawd Sygrove is the son of Astrape, goddess of lightning. Hence he attains her abilities and also a bright, electrifying appearance. He has frosty, pale skin, vibrant and almost glowing with its own energy. Flawless too, as though he's never been in a battle in his life. He has beautiful, ocean blue hair, wavy, and it almost touches his shoulders. Easily tousled by the wind, each strand seemingly having a life of its own. His eyes are an electric, green-blue, like turquoise. Before he was even brought into the world, his path was preordained. He was chosen to be Astrape and Zeus' assisstants. It's not very often Astrape has children, but they are as valued as she, becoming the personal guards and servants, more like slaves, of Zeus; going to and fro at his every beck and call. They have some authority, but when in Zeus' presence they are no better than mud. Astrape had Anarawd in Olympus, separated from the world below. He was raised by handmaidens and nymphs, rarely ever coming into contact with his preoccupied mother. She never had time for him or tried to make ay. Such is the nature of gods after all. From a young age, Zeus pretty much dictated Anarawd's life. He picked where Anarawd lived, what he was allowed to do, allowed to eat, when and where he was allowed to sleep, and everything else in between. When he turned eight, he was trained by his mother to assist Zeus. When he turned thirteen, he worked alongside her officially. He finally rebelled when he was fifteen. Reasons unknown. As a result, he has this strange affinity for Zeus demigods, always sacrificing everything to come to their aid. He works alongside his mother a lot less now, hardly ever stepping foot inside Olympus these days, avoiding it as much as he possibly can. Anarawd isn't sure if he's enjoying his freedom or not. It's a strange experience for him, and sometimes he becomes stressed and frustrated, to the point of nosebleeds and nervous breakdowns. At these times he turns from carefree to needy and clingy. He's still trying to find himself and get his footing in the real world, having been sheltered from it for so long. Anarawd is a somewhat socially awkward demigod. He likes being around people and enjoys conversation despite his awkwardness and can be easy to get along with. He is very positive and has a bright outlook on things and life in general. He doesn't talk about himself much at all. He can be a bit clueless at times, not always seeing what's right in front of him unless it's painfully obvious. He often looks down on himself for being a minor demigod. Anarawd is sometimes confronted about his parents. He easily answers about his mother, but has no idea who his father is. He doesn't seem to care too much about finding the man. Anarawd can have some issues gaining people's trust over time. Since he works so close beside Zeus and the other Olympian gods, he knows many things about the dealings of the world, dangerous secrets, and terrible truths. He can be a bit sketchy, and can get a little defensive when pried at. He prefers telling the truth and isn't a fantastic liar, so there is a sense that he isn't totally trustworthy when he talks at times.
17
son of Astrape
goddess of lightning
Kin: n/a
Friends: Train (son of Apollo)
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Anarawd Sygrove is the son of Astrape, goddess of lightning. Hence he attains her abilities and also a bright, electrifying appearance. He has frosty, pale skin, vibrant and almost glowing with its own energy. Flawless too, as though he's never been in a battle in his life. He has beautiful, ocean blue hair, wavy, and it almost touches his shoulders. Easily tousled by the wind, each strand seemingly having a life of its own. His eyes are an electric, green-blue, like turquoise. Before he was even brought into the world, his path was preordained. He was chosen to be Astrape and Zeus' assisstants. It's not very often Astrape has children, but they are as valued as she, becoming the personal guards and servants, more like slaves, of Zeus; going to and fro at his every beck and call. They have some authority, but when in Zeus' presence they are no better than mud. Astrape had Anarawd in Olympus, separated from the world below. He was raised by handmaidens and nymphs, rarely ever coming into contact with his preoccupied mother. She never had time for him or tried to make ay. Such is the nature of gods after all. From a young age, Zeus pretty much dictated Anarawd's life. He picked where Anarawd lived, what he was allowed to do, allowed to eat, when and where he was allowed to sleep, and everything else in between. When he turned eight, he was trained by his mother to assist Zeus. When he turned thirteen, he worked alongside her officially. He finally rebelled when he was fifteen. Reasons unknown. As a result, he has this strange affinity for Zeus demigods, always sacrificing everything to come to their aid. He works alongside his mother a lot less now, hardly ever stepping foot inside Olympus these days, avoiding it as much as he possibly can. Anarawd isn't sure if he's enjoying his freedom or not. It's a strange experience for him, and sometimes he becomes stressed and frustrated, to the point of nosebleeds and nervous breakdowns. At these times he turns from carefree to needy and clingy. He's still trying to find himself and get his footing in the real world, having been sheltered from it for so long. Anarawd is a somewhat socially awkward demigod. He likes being around people and enjoys conversation despite his awkwardness and can be easy to get along with. He is very positive and has a bright outlook on things and life in general. He doesn't talk about himself much at all. He can be a bit clueless at times, not always seeing what's right in front of him unless it's painfully obvious. He often looks down on himself for being a minor demigod. Anarawd is sometimes confronted about his parents. He easily answers about his mother, but has no idea who his father is. He doesn't seem to care too much about finding the man. Anarawd can have some issues gaining people's trust over time. Since he works so close beside Zeus and the other Olympian gods, he knows many things about the dealings of the world, dangerous secrets, and terrible truths. He can be a bit sketchy, and can get a little defensive when pried at. He prefers telling the truth and isn't a fantastic liar, so there is a sense that he isn't totally trustworthy when he talks at times.
Dragur Vicious
![Picture](/uploads/2/1/1/1/21113942/5904169.jpg?409)
Dragur Vicious
16
Son of Styx
the titan-goddess of hate and the River Styx
Kin: Alec and Bane (brothers)
Friends: none
Rivals: Alec Viscous
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo
A demi-titan: more powerful than any ordinary demigod. Being one of power can be so intriguing, so amazing, but not for Dragur. For Dragur it has been a terrible burden to bear. Born of hatred, born of Styx within her accursed river, he knew the meaning of suffering from an early age. When he was finally released from the Underworld at age ten, he was probably the most helpless and forlorn child on the earth. He had never seen anything except the dark abyss of Styx's corrosive waters. He had never known anything save the feel of liquid fire and acid consuming his very soul. Now he has been tossed into a world that cares as much for him as he cared for the pains of his birthworld: that is to say, not at all. Since he was born and lived in the river for ten years, he is immune and impervious to any physical attacks. His own hatred is directed fully at his mother though he buries it all inside himself. He looks down on demigods, and some gods, as completely inferior beings, and couldn't give a damn about humans. He's mostly a quiet, reserved loner, but very, outstandingly observant and intelligent. He notices minute details and the most obscure of things. Exceptionally bright, most talents come to him rather effortlessly. He's a bit reckless since he does see himself as a superior being, even going so far as to challenge certain gods to duels. He has a brother, Alec Viscous, whom he considers his eternal enemy. The reason for this is all covered up in clever conspiracy and lies. Dragur doesn't talk about himself at all really, and always directs attention away from himself. Since demi-titans are the rarest breed, it is very hard to discern what he is as the thought of such beings doesn't even pass through many peoples' minds. Dragur cares for very few people, so if he does care for someone, it is a huge and very serious commitment he is making and should not be taken lightly. He is rather ruthless, cruel, and inconsiderate. He prefers working others to his advantage and is an incredible liar. Dragur travels around a lot and has picked up on a lot of things. He can speak twelve languages: English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, Mongolian and Irish Gaelic. He can play the violin, duduk, and kaito drums. He can paint very well but doesn't care to, though his preferred mediums are water colors and inks. He has a knack for history, chemistry, and english. He has marvelous stamina, speed, and agility with a fiar amount of strength. Dragur has a thin body with light tanned, near flawless skin. Since he ages slower than mortals, he always appears young. He has lifeless, white eyes that are nearly pupil-less, an after affect of spending ten years in pitch black water. His eyes are ringed in black. His hair comes down to his shoulders. It is is soft as velvet and the color of deathly night. In certain lighting, red highlights shine amidst the black. He can control hatred. He can also summon black waters from the river Styx and consume things with it. He can also bind others to sacred oath by shedding his black blood. He may also teleport at will, but he will always wind up in the River Styx when he does.
16
Son of Styx
the titan-goddess of hate and the River Styx
Kin: Alec and Bane (brothers)
Friends: none
Rivals: Alec Viscous
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo
A demi-titan: more powerful than any ordinary demigod. Being one of power can be so intriguing, so amazing, but not for Dragur. For Dragur it has been a terrible burden to bear. Born of hatred, born of Styx within her accursed river, he knew the meaning of suffering from an early age. When he was finally released from the Underworld at age ten, he was probably the most helpless and forlorn child on the earth. He had never seen anything except the dark abyss of Styx's corrosive waters. He had never known anything save the feel of liquid fire and acid consuming his very soul. Now he has been tossed into a world that cares as much for him as he cared for the pains of his birthworld: that is to say, not at all. Since he was born and lived in the river for ten years, he is immune and impervious to any physical attacks. His own hatred is directed fully at his mother though he buries it all inside himself. He looks down on demigods, and some gods, as completely inferior beings, and couldn't give a damn about humans. He's mostly a quiet, reserved loner, but very, outstandingly observant and intelligent. He notices minute details and the most obscure of things. Exceptionally bright, most talents come to him rather effortlessly. He's a bit reckless since he does see himself as a superior being, even going so far as to challenge certain gods to duels. He has a brother, Alec Viscous, whom he considers his eternal enemy. The reason for this is all covered up in clever conspiracy and lies. Dragur doesn't talk about himself at all really, and always directs attention away from himself. Since demi-titans are the rarest breed, it is very hard to discern what he is as the thought of such beings doesn't even pass through many peoples' minds. Dragur cares for very few people, so if he does care for someone, it is a huge and very serious commitment he is making and should not be taken lightly. He is rather ruthless, cruel, and inconsiderate. He prefers working others to his advantage and is an incredible liar. Dragur travels around a lot and has picked up on a lot of things. He can speak twelve languages: English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, Mongolian and Irish Gaelic. He can play the violin, duduk, and kaito drums. He can paint very well but doesn't care to, though his preferred mediums are water colors and inks. He has a knack for history, chemistry, and english. He has marvelous stamina, speed, and agility with a fiar amount of strength. Dragur has a thin body with light tanned, near flawless skin. Since he ages slower than mortals, he always appears young. He has lifeless, white eyes that are nearly pupil-less, an after affect of spending ten years in pitch black water. His eyes are ringed in black. His hair comes down to his shoulders. It is is soft as velvet and the color of deathly night. In certain lighting, red highlights shine amidst the black. He can control hatred. He can also summon black waters from the river Styx and consume things with it. He can also bind others to sacred oath by shedding his black blood. He may also teleport at will, but he will always wind up in the River Styx when he does.
Kai Lupos
![Picture](/uploads/2/1/1/1/21113942/485289.jpg?502)
Kai Lupos
17
son of Zeus
god of the sky, king of the gods
Kin: Zan Lupos (brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
17
son of Zeus
god of the sky, king of the gods
Kin: Zan Lupos (brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
Lucjan Janaga
![Picture](/uploads/2/1/1/1/21113942/2037305.jpg?318)
Lucjan Janaga
19
son of Bia
goddess of force, compulsion, bodily strength, power, and might
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
The first thing anyone notices about a person is their outward appearance. Never the heart, not the heart. No one pays heed to the heart. So before one might delve into the truth of Lucjan Janaga and his hammering heart, one must look to the outward appearance; his figure and form. He is Caucasian, though years under the sun have lightened his skin to a fair golden brown hue, coffee with a bit too much cream. His body, though well toned and defined after years of constant, rigorous maintenance, bears several hideous scars of sizable proportions. The most defined one rends the left side of his body, tearing up from his heart to the left side of his face, before crossing to the right side of his forehead over the bridge of his nose. He is neither lean nor heavily built, a definitive middle ground between those two forms. Definitely athletic as foretold in the previous description of his well maintained fitness level. He stands at roughly six feet and three inches, a good height for his nineteen years. His hair is spiky and falls to his shoulders, soft and a vibrant color of the sun. His eyes: black. Depthless. Hollow. They speak volumes of misery and cry out in agony with every flicker. He has lived long and knows much, for he is one of those people that is whispered of in story but seldom seen. An immortal? Ah, many think immortals not to exist, but they do. Here and there and seldom everywhere, but there they are. He flits in the shadows and stays to the unseen corners of the world, keeping out of sight and mind so as not to have attention drawn to him. He is a delicate little thing, that if discovered, will be crushed into oblivion from the hatred of that thing, that unknown specimen that breaks conformity and defies the natural laws of the universe. Such is an unbidden curse born by the gift of living unending, and with that curse also comes the ineffable: outlasting everything that is constrained by time. He has outlived his family and any acquaintances he may have met. To say the least, he has remained predominantly unaffected by the way he slides along gracefully through time while others stop and stumble and collapse inwards before vanishing into the dust of which they were created. He has no care for them, no worry or remorse or feelings of loss. His family died before he attained immortality, and since then, he has formed no attachments. It goes beyond simple personality, it goes to a greater depth. He cannot relate to many as they have all outgrown the pain and horror he remembers so brutally. Now you know such a secret, a question comes to mind: to what does he owe the pleasure of this gift? Not to what, but to whom. That is the proper word. But Before the rest of such natures of his are told, first must be told his story. Perhaps then the meaning of these words will ring clearer to those who wish to learn. Lucjan Janaga was born in this world in 1928. As far as his knowledge expands, his parents were Piotr and Eloise Janaga and his family included four siblings of varying ages as well as a host of extended family. In 1934, he and his small family were set upon by the famed Nazi Regime. They were but a poor, Polish family squatting in a small hovel in the ghettos of Berlin. Taken from their home, they were thrown into a cold, cramped train car with other unlucky men and women and sent to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp. What happened within the confines of that hellhole is left purely to speculation, yet all the truth is buried in Lucjan's distraught mind amidst the memories and the recurring nightmares of his sleeping world. He had entered a confused little boy on a train, cold and curious and wide eyed. When he was rescued eleven years later, he left scarred, wary, wasted away to less than a skeleton. He left that place with the horrible scars he bears, a loss of will, a broken spirit, and too many abnormalities to name. It took him a whole of fourteen years to make a full recovery. Though most of the scars have healed over the past sixty-odd years, the most prominent ones are still there. Painful reminders paired with the viscous events that brought them on. During the fourteen years of recovery, he faced the sweet temptation of surrender. He sought out the end in knives, broken glass, drugs, a gun. And time and time again, the end eluded him, avoided him. He raged against the light of day and the dawn. But his hatred did not live long. His hatred and his pain died with his dreams. Though they were wrought of the unspeakable, they retold him his story, his life, and in it he found a reason to live. The man he called father had suffered all to keep Lucjan alive. Suffered and bled and evidently died that Loki might live one more day. Ashamed for his many attempts at suicide, Lucjan swore he would honor his dead father’s memory by living. Living didn’t seem so terrible after that. He had suffered long in the dark and had come out into the light. Now he was free. Reformed. Reborn. Nothing could ever happen to him that would hurt him as terribly as what he experienced within Auschwitz. What on earth could possibly be worth than that place? Lucjan hasn’t found anything to compare, and from that realization, he has found peace and tranquility in life. He has found a strange respect for it. He doesn’t truly live, for he is immortal, but he won’t try to end his life anymore. He merely exists with it, keeping an outsider’s observance of life. He views the doings of the world with a broad observation as one might broadly observe the ground from an airplane window. One can see lines and contours and big blobs of green, brown, and gray, but the details of the earth’s surface underneath is obscure. And so Lucjan moves through time in that manner. He doesn’t live, he exists. He observes life and learns from it but does not take part in it. It was during this newfound sense of the world that it happened. As he recovered, nineteen years old, a visitor came to him in the night. Gaia. The mother of earth, of titans, of life. The wife to Uranus from whom all things were born. The world began with Gaia and so did Lucjan. Gaia spoke to Lucjan. She whispered an offer into his ear: which would you desire? A long life born with suffering, or a short life brimming with victory? And Lucjan smiled, remembering when such words were spoken to a certain King, a certain Alexander the Great. And thinking he was wise, he replied: "I choose long life." He chose it so that he might uphold his father’s memory and honor the sacrifice his father made for him. He chose a long life of suffering over a short one of victory. What is victory to him? It is meaningless, as meaningless as power. Power was Hitler and the Nazis. The ability and persuasion of tyrants overpowered the people and forced their eyes to shut and their ears to turn away from the things those tyrants did. Power had numbed their souls and hardened their hearts. What use was power and victory to Lucjan? It was no better than sand or ashes, easily obtained yet meaningless and useless in the end. No. Hence he chose long life instead. He thought the entire encounter to be some deluded dream, but after he found he was not aging, he realized that this fervent wish was a grim reality. Perhaps it was a wise choice, perhaps not. But there was some grim speculation to this gift of Gaia’s. She warned that his blood was precious. His precious blood is foretold to bring his end. Whether this is truly fate or merely a horror tale he does not know. He does not care. After the horrors he experienced, he fears no more for his well-being or his life. He believes he has endured the worst of sufferings this miserable planet can offer, hence why he chose long life; a long life of peace and sanctuary. Gaia promised suffering, but what possible suffering could he endure now that was not as horrifying as that which he endured in Auschwitz? He could never guess. He doesn’t care to guess, and that’s mostly just a factor of who he is as a person. Lucjan is relatively uncaring. He faces everything with a dull, passive demeanor. He’s neither pessimistic nor optimistic. Neither black nor white. Just dull, neutral, and gray. He’s a rather serious person and tends to find absolutely no joy in anything. Coaxing a smile to that blank canvas of a face is a daunting task and one seldom undertaken. He keeps his emotions stopped up inside him, refusing to give in to them or the relief of voicing his thoughts. He is stony and silent. Even during recovery, when psychologists swarmed his bed and peppered him with questions and entreated him to tell them his troubles, he was unresponsive. And these days, now that that time has faded away, he could not go to anyone if he wanted to. Humans understand little of the ways of gods and demigods. They would brand him insane, lock him away and toss the key aside. Claiming immortality and being a Holocaust survivor isn’t a bright idea, and if there is one thing Lucjan is proud of, it is his claim to wisdom. Lucjan is quite proud of that, perhaps to a fault. His pride can get him into trouble. It’s a small amount of pride that doesn’t rear its head that much, but it appears nevertheless, when he least expects it or wants it to. His experiences have so badly destroyed him and torn him down that it is but a pity that he ought to have such a small amount of pride if he can’t have any self-esteem. He values himself only so far as to exist for his father, and that is hardly enough to keep anyone going for long under such a burden. So any amount of pride he possesses is forgivable, even when it does get out of hand. Usually when he is provoked. Injustice, bullying, and merciless acts provoke him. He hates seeing the weak oppressed by the strong and will step in to stop it. He is particularly fond and protective of children. He absolutely adores them and would readily give up everything in order to meet their requests. He can be ridiculous about it, but it’s probably one of the only things that makes this hard, stern young man loveable in any sense of the word. His compassion and tenderness know no bounds. It hurts him to be near children too though, as he knows he should not have any of his own. It would complicate things, and he doesn’t like complicated things. Detests complications really. It’s a part of his mind arrested. He sees everything simply, as a child would, and whenever people try to make the world more elaborate, he shuts his mind to them and responds in a very disgruntled tone that he doesn’t want to hear about it. As he sees things as a child would, he relates to children and their simple minds more than he does adults and their logical, rational ones. Although he seems to relate to children as far as his view of things, he does not relate to them entirely which can be frustrating. No one can relate to him in fact, or at least seldom anyone. He is a survivor of a great atrocity, who could possibly relate to that? Since he relates with no one fully, developing relationships is hard for him. He finds children easier as they ask for very little and pry even less. They may ask and pester curiously for a time but are soon distracted elsewhere. All they seek is love, attention, and security. They don’t truly care for the deeper things of the past and the depths of the soul, for their souls are too young and inexperienced to understand the thirst for the knowledge of another human being’s every fiber and fabric of his life and will. He wants to be understood, but at the same time he doesn’t want people to know of him. Two conflicting feelings that duke it out in his heart and war in his mind. Emotions sprung from everything buried inside. All the hate, the pain, the loneliness, the abandonment. But does he care? Does he really? Sometimes yes. Emotions and cares and feelings aren’t always prominent, at the ready with swords drawn, ready to oppress the mind and tear the heartstrings of the spirit. Most of the time he doesn’t care. He is Lucjan Janaga. He is immortal. He is forever. So he lives his life, doing as he may please, watching minutes fade to decades, the world advancing and flying past him. And he breathes. He lives. He survives. He is free.
author's note: My whole heart goes out to the victims and survivors of Holocaust. This piece is not meant to disgrace the event in any way, shape, or form. Any names or events within the character's life that mirror the life of a real victim or survivor are purely coincidental. This character is a complete work of fiction shaped around a real life event.
19
son of Bia
goddess of force, compulsion, bodily strength, power, and might
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: n/a
God-Rivals: n/a
The first thing anyone notices about a person is their outward appearance. Never the heart, not the heart. No one pays heed to the heart. So before one might delve into the truth of Lucjan Janaga and his hammering heart, one must look to the outward appearance; his figure and form. He is Caucasian, though years under the sun have lightened his skin to a fair golden brown hue, coffee with a bit too much cream. His body, though well toned and defined after years of constant, rigorous maintenance, bears several hideous scars of sizable proportions. The most defined one rends the left side of his body, tearing up from his heart to the left side of his face, before crossing to the right side of his forehead over the bridge of his nose. He is neither lean nor heavily built, a definitive middle ground between those two forms. Definitely athletic as foretold in the previous description of his well maintained fitness level. He stands at roughly six feet and three inches, a good height for his nineteen years. His hair is spiky and falls to his shoulders, soft and a vibrant color of the sun. His eyes: black. Depthless. Hollow. They speak volumes of misery and cry out in agony with every flicker. He has lived long and knows much, for he is one of those people that is whispered of in story but seldom seen. An immortal? Ah, many think immortals not to exist, but they do. Here and there and seldom everywhere, but there they are. He flits in the shadows and stays to the unseen corners of the world, keeping out of sight and mind so as not to have attention drawn to him. He is a delicate little thing, that if discovered, will be crushed into oblivion from the hatred of that thing, that unknown specimen that breaks conformity and defies the natural laws of the universe. Such is an unbidden curse born by the gift of living unending, and with that curse also comes the ineffable: outlasting everything that is constrained by time. He has outlived his family and any acquaintances he may have met. To say the least, he has remained predominantly unaffected by the way he slides along gracefully through time while others stop and stumble and collapse inwards before vanishing into the dust of which they were created. He has no care for them, no worry or remorse or feelings of loss. His family died before he attained immortality, and since then, he has formed no attachments. It goes beyond simple personality, it goes to a greater depth. He cannot relate to many as they have all outgrown the pain and horror he remembers so brutally. Now you know such a secret, a question comes to mind: to what does he owe the pleasure of this gift? Not to what, but to whom. That is the proper word. But Before the rest of such natures of his are told, first must be told his story. Perhaps then the meaning of these words will ring clearer to those who wish to learn. Lucjan Janaga was born in this world in 1928. As far as his knowledge expands, his parents were Piotr and Eloise Janaga and his family included four siblings of varying ages as well as a host of extended family. In 1934, he and his small family were set upon by the famed Nazi Regime. They were but a poor, Polish family squatting in a small hovel in the ghettos of Berlin. Taken from their home, they were thrown into a cold, cramped train car with other unlucky men and women and sent to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp. What happened within the confines of that hellhole is left purely to speculation, yet all the truth is buried in Lucjan's distraught mind amidst the memories and the recurring nightmares of his sleeping world. He had entered a confused little boy on a train, cold and curious and wide eyed. When he was rescued eleven years later, he left scarred, wary, wasted away to less than a skeleton. He left that place with the horrible scars he bears, a loss of will, a broken spirit, and too many abnormalities to name. It took him a whole of fourteen years to make a full recovery. Though most of the scars have healed over the past sixty-odd years, the most prominent ones are still there. Painful reminders paired with the viscous events that brought them on. During the fourteen years of recovery, he faced the sweet temptation of surrender. He sought out the end in knives, broken glass, drugs, a gun. And time and time again, the end eluded him, avoided him. He raged against the light of day and the dawn. But his hatred did not live long. His hatred and his pain died with his dreams. Though they were wrought of the unspeakable, they retold him his story, his life, and in it he found a reason to live. The man he called father had suffered all to keep Lucjan alive. Suffered and bled and evidently died that Loki might live one more day. Ashamed for his many attempts at suicide, Lucjan swore he would honor his dead father’s memory by living. Living didn’t seem so terrible after that. He had suffered long in the dark and had come out into the light. Now he was free. Reformed. Reborn. Nothing could ever happen to him that would hurt him as terribly as what he experienced within Auschwitz. What on earth could possibly be worth than that place? Lucjan hasn’t found anything to compare, and from that realization, he has found peace and tranquility in life. He has found a strange respect for it. He doesn’t truly live, for he is immortal, but he won’t try to end his life anymore. He merely exists with it, keeping an outsider’s observance of life. He views the doings of the world with a broad observation as one might broadly observe the ground from an airplane window. One can see lines and contours and big blobs of green, brown, and gray, but the details of the earth’s surface underneath is obscure. And so Lucjan moves through time in that manner. He doesn’t live, he exists. He observes life and learns from it but does not take part in it. It was during this newfound sense of the world that it happened. As he recovered, nineteen years old, a visitor came to him in the night. Gaia. The mother of earth, of titans, of life. The wife to Uranus from whom all things were born. The world began with Gaia and so did Lucjan. Gaia spoke to Lucjan. She whispered an offer into his ear: which would you desire? A long life born with suffering, or a short life brimming with victory? And Lucjan smiled, remembering when such words were spoken to a certain King, a certain Alexander the Great. And thinking he was wise, he replied: "I choose long life." He chose it so that he might uphold his father’s memory and honor the sacrifice his father made for him. He chose a long life of suffering over a short one of victory. What is victory to him? It is meaningless, as meaningless as power. Power was Hitler and the Nazis. The ability and persuasion of tyrants overpowered the people and forced their eyes to shut and their ears to turn away from the things those tyrants did. Power had numbed their souls and hardened their hearts. What use was power and victory to Lucjan? It was no better than sand or ashes, easily obtained yet meaningless and useless in the end. No. Hence he chose long life instead. He thought the entire encounter to be some deluded dream, but after he found he was not aging, he realized that this fervent wish was a grim reality. Perhaps it was a wise choice, perhaps not. But there was some grim speculation to this gift of Gaia’s. She warned that his blood was precious. His precious blood is foretold to bring his end. Whether this is truly fate or merely a horror tale he does not know. He does not care. After the horrors he experienced, he fears no more for his well-being or his life. He believes he has endured the worst of sufferings this miserable planet can offer, hence why he chose long life; a long life of peace and sanctuary. Gaia promised suffering, but what possible suffering could he endure now that was not as horrifying as that which he endured in Auschwitz? He could never guess. He doesn’t care to guess, and that’s mostly just a factor of who he is as a person. Lucjan is relatively uncaring. He faces everything with a dull, passive demeanor. He’s neither pessimistic nor optimistic. Neither black nor white. Just dull, neutral, and gray. He’s a rather serious person and tends to find absolutely no joy in anything. Coaxing a smile to that blank canvas of a face is a daunting task and one seldom undertaken. He keeps his emotions stopped up inside him, refusing to give in to them or the relief of voicing his thoughts. He is stony and silent. Even during recovery, when psychologists swarmed his bed and peppered him with questions and entreated him to tell them his troubles, he was unresponsive. And these days, now that that time has faded away, he could not go to anyone if he wanted to. Humans understand little of the ways of gods and demigods. They would brand him insane, lock him away and toss the key aside. Claiming immortality and being a Holocaust survivor isn’t a bright idea, and if there is one thing Lucjan is proud of, it is his claim to wisdom. Lucjan is quite proud of that, perhaps to a fault. His pride can get him into trouble. It’s a small amount of pride that doesn’t rear its head that much, but it appears nevertheless, when he least expects it or wants it to. His experiences have so badly destroyed him and torn him down that it is but a pity that he ought to have such a small amount of pride if he can’t have any self-esteem. He values himself only so far as to exist for his father, and that is hardly enough to keep anyone going for long under such a burden. So any amount of pride he possesses is forgivable, even when it does get out of hand. Usually when he is provoked. Injustice, bullying, and merciless acts provoke him. He hates seeing the weak oppressed by the strong and will step in to stop it. He is particularly fond and protective of children. He absolutely adores them and would readily give up everything in order to meet their requests. He can be ridiculous about it, but it’s probably one of the only things that makes this hard, stern young man loveable in any sense of the word. His compassion and tenderness know no bounds. It hurts him to be near children too though, as he knows he should not have any of his own. It would complicate things, and he doesn’t like complicated things. Detests complications really. It’s a part of his mind arrested. He sees everything simply, as a child would, and whenever people try to make the world more elaborate, he shuts his mind to them and responds in a very disgruntled tone that he doesn’t want to hear about it. As he sees things as a child would, he relates to children and their simple minds more than he does adults and their logical, rational ones. Although he seems to relate to children as far as his view of things, he does not relate to them entirely which can be frustrating. No one can relate to him in fact, or at least seldom anyone. He is a survivor of a great atrocity, who could possibly relate to that? Since he relates with no one fully, developing relationships is hard for him. He finds children easier as they ask for very little and pry even less. They may ask and pester curiously for a time but are soon distracted elsewhere. All they seek is love, attention, and security. They don’t truly care for the deeper things of the past and the depths of the soul, for their souls are too young and inexperienced to understand the thirst for the knowledge of another human being’s every fiber and fabric of his life and will. He wants to be understood, but at the same time he doesn’t want people to know of him. Two conflicting feelings that duke it out in his heart and war in his mind. Emotions sprung from everything buried inside. All the hate, the pain, the loneliness, the abandonment. But does he care? Does he really? Sometimes yes. Emotions and cares and feelings aren’t always prominent, at the ready with swords drawn, ready to oppress the mind and tear the heartstrings of the spirit. Most of the time he doesn’t care. He is Lucjan Janaga. He is immortal. He is forever. So he lives his life, doing as he may please, watching minutes fade to decades, the world advancing and flying past him. And he breathes. He lives. He survives. He is free.
author's note: My whole heart goes out to the victims and survivors of Holocaust. This piece is not meant to disgrace the event in any way, shape, or form. Any names or events within the character's life that mirror the life of a real victim or survivor are purely coincidental. This character is a complete work of fiction shaped around a real life event.
Taikatalvi Tockspringe
![Picture](/uploads/2/1/1/1/21113942/8939880.jpg?416)
Taikatalvi Caradhras Tockspringe
14
unclaimed
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo and Artemis
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly.
14
unclaimed
Kin: n/a
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: Apollo and Artemis
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly.
Zan Lupos
![Picture](/uploads/2/1/1/1/21113942/3668777.jpg?439)
Zan Lupos
6
son of Zeus
god of the sky, king of the gods
Kin: Kai Lupos (brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none
6
son of Zeus
god of the sky, king of the gods
Kin: Kai Lupos (brother)
Friends: none
Rivals: none
God-Friends: none
God-Rivals: none