𝐂𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂

𝐎𝐔𝐓-𝐎𝐅-𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

Treat these three leads as prompts to base your threads on, but if you have another idea or situation you want your character to investigate, you're free to do so, and it will be counted as canon and the events within these threads will influence future events.

Coterie jobs currently are steering as much attention away from this secret wight plague, keep it out of kine eyes and ears (even if that means influencing media and how and what it reports), as well as track down wight hubs and tracking wight movements to find patterns.

𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

These creatures are nearly impossible to influence mentally or emotionally, and all uses of Dominate and Presence are dramatically more difficult. They only acknowledge pain from fire or sunlight, and are able to soak bashing or lethal wounds more easily than normal vampires. However, they are also extremely susceptible to Frenzy or Rötschreck, and most will flee fire and sunlight without even bothering to resist the red fear - and the same applies when they are confronted with True Faith.

The inhumane character of a Wight makes it unattractive by normal standards. Its moral degeneration and lack of vanity makes them obvious monstrosities. A wight is fundamentally incapable of allying itself with any Kindred save for other wights.

out of character info.

ALIAS › kat

PRONOUNS › she/her

AGE › 20+

TIMEZONE › GMT-4

in character info.

CHARACTER › angel maldonado

GENDER & PRONOUNS › cis man, he/him

APPARENT AGE › mid 30’s

DISCIPLINE › thaumaturgy, auspex, dominate

DEMEANOUR ›

A devil exists in the bones of a not-quite man, a not-quite specter, a near monster. His smile only appears as if ghostly, a turn of lips only caught in quick glances, double-takes, the perceiver unsure whether it were ever truly there at all. He’s built of feet caught slipping in blood, created of dark magic and the taste of humanity on starving lips. He’s a tempter, built of something unholy, something powerful flickering under a darkened gaze, hints of life – of unlife. He’s nothing, he’s everything. It’s so easy for him to play roles, to play parts, a stoic disposition, quiet and thoughtful. He always seems to know what’s lingering under the surface, either analyzing and understanding, breaking into minds and thoughts or just straight bullshitting, lying through the black mystique of his pupils, the permanent circles of his iris’. He’s as sharp as the blade that cuts a clean line between earth and space, heaven and hell, a patron saint of switchblade fights, so very dangerous, so very powerful and gluttonous because of it.

He’s so carefully collected, so permanently unbothered, unreachable, untouchable. He makes himself something invincible on the surface, drags it deep enough into his very being that you cannot break the glamour of it but beneath such structures lay chaos. He laid the bricks of his being with long, painful drags of stone and masonry, worked and worked and worked until you could not see the newborn behind such towers of brick. His humanity bubbled and steamed underneath it, made his fingernails look like claws, his teeth look like daggers, made his image monstrous, even to himself. This was not going to read on his face, not going to come out in his words or actions, but only perceived in the sometimes blankness of his stare, the occasional pauses in his movements. It comes out in small portions, a far away look in his eyes that shows the gore and bloodshed he’s created, that of which he himself birthed.

Do not look too closely, for you may fear what you find.

JOINING THE COTERIE ›

He sees a hierarchy, sees a chair fit for sitting, sees a staircase and glass ceilings capable of being shattered. He feigns loyalty, pretends to be a sorcerer with nothing but the Camarilla in mind but there’s something so very beautiful about a thing of history, a coterie built over so much time, so well known, well structured at least in the intentions of it. There’s something even more beautiful about reaching for the very top, about stealing something that is not rightfully yours but yours nonetheless. He doesn’t think he needs to be a piece of a larger conglomerate, doesn’t need others to ‘scratch his back’ so to speak but he knows what glory he can claim, what life he can revive in the pieces of Camarilla. He sees it the same way he sees all things, all beings, all existences – a chess piece on his board, and, oh, the things he will do to achieve greater power.

(UN)LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY ›

Victory, success. He was chosen for a reason, the Tremere’s not known for careless Embrace, the vitae flowing through him given as a gift, as a curse, to hold the power seen in him by a kindred, by his sire. From the beginning he had taken the idea of unlife in stride, had accepted his new powers and channeled everything in his being into becoming skilled, into becoming the best. He was a glutton for power, greedy for perfection and he sought it in every slice of his blade, every fiber of being. He was born first to be talented, to grow and stain the face of humanity as much as a vermin could, as much as something so delicate, designed of blood and veins, could manage. He was then reborn to overpower them, all of them, to play God in all the ways he was allowed. This was his battlefield, his warzone, his empire in the making. He thinks highly of himself because he was designed to be so, things come easy to him, skills, knowledge, people – he never has to look far, and when he does, when existing simply isn’t enough, he reaches his hungry grasp into battered rib cages and forces out what he must with palms of mess and gore.

THOUGHTS ON HUMANITY ›

Humanity was both the best and worst thing to ever happen to him. It haunted him, his own slipping mortality pooling between his fingers in bloody rivlets, pouring out of his ears at night, disappearing in his shadows when he passed by lampposts. He was blessed by the perspective it gave him, by the mind it cultivated and cursed by the weakness of it, the fleshiness that came with feelings like remorse and guilt and sympathy. These things only worked in the form manipulation, past that they ate him alive, made homes in his empty organs, his bloodless heart. There was nothing to be sought after in such emotions, in such helplessness, and yet he finds himself concerned about what will happen if he loses it, if it disappears from his frozen veins and leaves him with nothing more than hunger. Is ambition a human trait? Is winning a human sport? The very things he bases his unlife on are things he may lose with the slipping grasp of his most human parts, and that is a fate worse than death.

LIFE EVENTS ›

Angel had always had potential, had always been a smear on the existence of the world, talented in the most nefarious regards. He worked nights, worked in clubs and underground rings of torture and suffering, had never been free of sin, had never been a holy man despite how very often he had found himself in churches. The ringing of those bells woke him up each morning despite the hours of no sleep, the idea of a God knocking outside the windows of his home had sounded so much like sacrilege bleeding out from under his bed. He was designed to be killed, born to be dead, and the number of years he had survived as a human were only there to make him stronger. He hadn’t known it at the time but the meeting that ended his life made it very clear in the taste of inhuman blood; he was designed for this state of being, the power granted to him upon rebirth undeniable. It hurt like a bitch, but all good things do, all things worth time, worth effort come from open wounds and he had bled and bled until his veins ran dry.

Now his stomach remained full, now his hands cast spells and curses, made the world shift and crack to his will.

His life before all this was nothing. The family he was born into, the world he grew up in paled so easily in comparison; the people who abandoned him, the stench of human skin, of having to work twice as hard as everyone else. These things rang hollow, these things were so easily forgotten in the newness of his grip, in the permanence of his grandiose. Angel is no thing of heaven, no winged savior or child of God. He was stolen so easily by the darkness, the heavy and loud drip of wax pouring down his back from the lit wick of the burning sun – none of it could stop him. He sought greatness, sought a solar flare in the other frozen beings around, sought their sources, their energies, what made them tick, what made them burn under the skin as easily as over it. Their epidermis could not be touched by light, but he was a blazing creature.

The first life he had stolen was before the added touch of bloodlust, before precious liquids fed his abilities, and even then it was to protect himself. He had taken the soul from the body of a man who had seen too much, wrong place, wrong time in the matter of Angel’s business. It was quicker than it was now, it was the pull of a trigger in a basement in Seattle, Washington in the year 1993. He remembered it so well because the sky wouldn’t stop screaming, wouldn’t stop crying. It was as if the world was mourning the first flash of the Beast that survived within him, that lay dormant for just a year more.

Still, the church bells sound, still they ring even through the torrential downpour, the blood flooding down into the open drain of concrete.

Yes, an angel indeed.

EXPANDING CONNECTIONS › (Note: these are all written entirely from the characters perspective so comments on “being more powerful” or “more intelligent” than other canons is strictly in his POV and not a reflection on what I as a mun think because characters are generally created equal ect. ect.)

ZAKI › He can’t be read easily and that’s the first thing Angel notices about him, the first thing he sees in him. Zaki is unhinged, that much is prevalent, he contains a level of insanity, of impunity in his existence. He’s looking out for himself first and foremost, he’s a monster built of self-reliance but then again, aren’t they all? He bleeds aggression – his presence, his aura, colored so brightly despite his dark demeanor, similar to the way that poisonous beings spread rainbows in the wild to warn other creatures away. He was just that – a creature. He could rip the throats out of flies, could disembowel Gods and monsters with the nails of his fingers. He was desirable for this, was always in the corner of Angel’s eye, somewhere in his thoughts, someone he considers in every plan he makes, every move of his chess pieces on the board. In his eyes there are only two ways he sees Zaki’s future – either on his side or not at all.

DIZZY › They dance around each other like twin shadows, arms outstretched, spines bent ever-so-slightly in a constant readiness for battle, hands composed to reach towards demise, prepared to draw. They are built very different from one another, not alike in their understanding as much as their intelligence, their strategy. One wants the other to drown, the other waits for their opponent to sink. Angel wants dominance, he wants power, to invade into her pretty mind, her delicate craft of a bubbly disposition. He doesn’t buy it for a fucking minute, doesn’t indulge in the pattering of her ways, doesn’t believe the face she wears so openly – she’s a farce, she’s a liar, but so is he. He thinks manipulation is her greatest power but beyond that she’s weak. One sees into the other, built of wavering hands, unpulled triggers – they play nice because they have to, because it’s smart. Ask him how he feels about the girl and his expression remains unimpressed, almost baffled, because why the fuck would he care about her? What makes her special? The unspoken words like poison on his tongue, do not make it past sharpened teeth but if they could, if they had, they would be spit with venom and distaste, perhaps excitement if only in the demise of another, the superiority of his build he would says, “I’m capable of devouring her whole.”

GUERRA › He sees too much of himself in the other, sees too many similarities in their beings to count but one thing is stark between them – the line of selfishness, the matter of their end goals. Guerra is so very interested in his own entertainment, not nearly as ambitious as he is bored. Angel sees potential in him, sees something useful but can’t stand his presence long enough to seek it out. He hates something about him, something about his mannerisms, about his being. Perhaps it’s the challenge in him, the competition of their spirits, of their greatest talents as far as charm and manipulation, but Angel would just claim it’s because he’s fucking annoying.

HAREL › He’s going to break and destroy the city from the inside out, he’s going to let his ghosts catch him and then he’s going to unleash them like hellfire from the bases of his being, the very center of his chest. He’s not nearly as stable as he is powerful and that’s what’s going to consume him, his humanity too potent, his demons too strong for leashes or chains made of steel and gold. Angel is cautious of him, is interested in him, and wants so very badly to manipulate him to his will, to befriend him, to own him. He wants to be the wick that sets light to the molotov of his very being, wants the Beast hidden under those delicate emotions of his to be on his side, to be a part of his plans. To control the assassin, he first must understand him.

DIVYA › She thinks they’re friends, he considers it more of a partnership, more of a game as most things are. She’s entertaining, she’s promising – she’s not as strong as he is. There’s something almost endearing about her, about her youth, about her fire. She wants so badly to be taken seriously, he sees it in the straightness of her spine, the clenching of her jaw. She’s not ready for all the things she wants, she’s not seasoned enough to know how to get them, but he is. She’s not as powerful as she can be yet, but she will be. All these things can so easily fit together and become a bigger picture, a stronger bond, and so he helps with what he can, mirth hidden in advice and made examples of.

PEACH › Chaos in its purest form, uncontrollable and wild. He has no use for her, knows he couldn’t manipulate her, but still he finds her to be one of the more interesting creatures he’s laid eyes on in recent memory. He’s fascinated by her if nothing else, drawn to her for reasons he can’t quite explain considering she tended to embody all the things he should hate, all the things he can’t corrupt, can’t touch. It looks good on her, looks intoxicating, and while he isn’t one for mortal desires she brings out something unique in him, something worth pondering.

JAZIRI › There’s no denying how valuable the seer can be, how useful their abilities can become but even beyond that Angel finds something of interest in them. Jaziri is one of the few he delves further than the skin, deeper than the chess piece. He finds her calming, finds her interesting, ironically, behind the eyes. She’s much more than what’s on the surface, her thin-blood perhaps stirring something more intoxicating in her being. He wants to know more about her, wants to indulge her beyond the collected mask. He feels as if she knows something, as if she’s hiding, and he wants to know what it is. To gain trust you must give it, to learn secrets you must spill some of your own.

miscellaneous info.

EXTRAS ›

I made a sideblog here!

out of character info.

ALIAS › Jenn

PRONOUNS › she/them

AGE › 28

TIMEZONE › GMT-6

in character info.

CHARACTER › Guerra

GENDER & PRONOUNS › cis man, he/him

APPARENT AGE › late twenties

DISCIPLINE › auspex

DEMEANOUR ›

There are moments scattered through life that serve as cross roads.  The pause between a strike of lightning and sound of thunder.  When the bait is taken and the trap triggers.  The deep breath between when eyes meet and hands reach out for their lover.  These intersections, the ones where wonder meets danger is where Guerra can be found.  He is the bait, he is the trap, and he is the prize.

JOINING THE COTERIE ›

Opportunity.  Variety.  New York’s reputation exists for a reason, and it serves as another one of those things he loves so very much:  a crossroad.

(UN)LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY ›

As a human, Guerra’s life was a series of moments.  He was a man with a short attention span and little forethought, one that flitted through life riding an almost unnatural amount of luck.  Afterlife has brought him into a new skillset, specifically patience and an understanding of long-suffering before satisfaction; and the beauty of hairline fractures before a shattering.  These learned skills have become is north star, and they’re the framework of his plans.

THOUGHTS ON HUMANITY ›

Guerra got over humanity startlingly quick.  His transition to undead was taken in stride--- perhaps the adaptability of his human personality that continued on.  As a result, he gives it littler credence.  Humans are necessary in their own right, but as a meal and tools.  They are expendable, short sighted, and not much more than a resource.

LIFE EVENTS ›

Cairo Congress of Arab Music

Guerra can remember the vibrations of the moments before turning.  They came in the form of Râuf Yektâ Bey’s Mahur Peşrevi as a man played an iteration of the piece of the street outside the window.  Cairo was overtaken by music, enlivened by the revitalization decreed by King Fuad.  The festivities carried on for days, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the city as vibrant.  He could smell the small shop down the street that cooked kushari, and the slight bit of sandalwood on the skin of the man beside him.  He could feel smooth skin under his fingertips.  He couldn’t make out words but he understood the tones still.  He understood lips pulled into smiles.  He could feel kisses against his skin--- he hadn’t noticed the slight coolness, but maybe the heat of the night was to thank.  They’d spent nights together, since the Congress had begun.  And there they landed, entangled in sheets, whispering about the brightness of it all.  Teeth had been mistaken for a love bite; and it brought bliss with it.

Taste

He cut the right shape of a temptation and a mirage; two things lacquered together like the color of the prettiest and most poisonous jungle flowers--- the ones that called out to be touched without words.  The kind that let his hands find her hips and slide along her back, his head tipped down so his nose could brush her neck and he couldn’t smell anything beyond the thunderous rush of blood just under thin skin.  It was rhythmic with the music, matching it one for one; so abundant and so personal all at once.  He smiled, and his lips brushed her skin in the process.  He could feel her fall out of sync with the beat, a flutter in her chest making the blood rush---- so easily read and understood.  His teeth sunk in for the first time and it threatened to disconnect him.  It was a punch to the center of his chest, one that made him more thirsty than he’d been since the freefall of a moment began.  He couldn’t feel her fingers tighten in his shirt or the little gasp she took.  There was only sweet metals, ones that wrapped a cool body in warmth as he drank too long.  It wasn’t until a hand gripped his arm, too hard to ignore, that he broke away, his tongue instinctively brushing across the wounds as he was shepherded away--- full, high, and already thinking of the next hit.

EXPANDING CONNECTIONS ›

Harel

Guerra doesn’t care for the Assamite bullshit, much less when its in Camarilla hands. He’d love a blood curse or two of biblical proportion, and he’d love even more to apply them himself.  

miscellaneous info.

EXTRAS ›

out of character info.

ALIAS › addy

PRONOUNS › she/her

AGE › 23

TIMEZONE › gmt -6

in character info.

CHARACTER › divya patil

GENDER & PRONOUNS › cis woman ; she/her

APPARENT AGE › twenty-five years old

DISCIPLINE › auspex

DEMEANOUR ›

The unbridled thirst for power that courses through her veins is an unparalleled hunger; it permeates the very core of her being, multiplying into each cell, each nucleus, until the buzzing desire to control anything within her grasp consumes her in its ravenous flames. Her obsession with the concept of perfection has yielded a woman who abhors error in any form; those who have been cursed with the misfortune of her extended company are forced to reckon with her nit-picking, for Divya would never tolerate anything less than first-rate results. She’s quick to criticize, quick to undermine anyone who dares to stand before her. A cold, glacial exterior keeps her vulnerabilities locked tightly within. A part of Divya is foolish enough to believe that forcibly tearing her demons into small, bite-sized pieces and pushing them into the deepest, darkest crevices of her untouched mind may take away her weaknesses altogether. She speaks with hardened resolve, clinical and business-like at certain times & haughty and enraged at others. Her easily-ignited temper is the product of years of trauma, abuse, and mental degradation. Divya is and always will be the embodiment of power – from the way she holds her head high to the corruption she breeds in her heart.

JOINING THE COTERIE ›

Divya’s very existence has always hinged on the ability to step on others to lift herself up from her own ashes; as the daughter of one of New York’s most powerful influences perched upon the throne of Wall Street, she learned quickly that any and every man around her would come for blood if it mean subjugating her into nothing. Her aching desire to prove herself fostered the urge to join ranks with the most powerful forces around her. She often gravitated towards royal-esque entities, hoping to glean even the slightest bit of their golden-hued aura for herself – so to be offered the prestigious opportunity to join the ranks of generational power un her unlife felt almost like a reward for her trauma. To be bestowed with this chance – this gift… it felt right. Like this had been her destiny all along. She joined with arms outstretched, unbeating heart twisting at the ability to finally embrace a coterie that fitted her ideals of absolute perfection.

(UN)LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY ›

Her transition into the life of the Kindred allowed Divya to embrace the ravenous hunger that had always gnawed at the pit of her stomach; to be able to fully embody the petulant desire to tower high above others was a natural inclination that seized her almost immediately. Christened by the Clan Ventrue, Divya and her refined palate find a certain level of carnal pleasure in using the dimwitted Kine to her advantage. She had always been a bit exclusionary in her mortalhood – and now, as one of the undead, it feels only natural that she view vessels as nothing more than toys, devices, and forms of nutrition rather than as sentient, separate viewings. She views her new unlife as a transition for bigger and better things. The ability to pervade the senses, thoughts, and perceptions of the Kine bring her much joy, an adrenaline-induced power trip often following suit. Her philosophy surrounding her new state of being is what it had been when she had been a weaker, sniveling human fool – become greater than anything anything anyone has ever seen and then some.

THOUGHTS ON HUMANITY ›

Foolish, dimwitted sheep; Divya views nothing more disdainfully than she does her own time as one of the Kine. Humans had always been so painfully ignorant of their own capabilities, slaving away to graves of their own making – and now that Divya has been reborn as one of the Kindred, she sees them for what humanity truly is. A plague. Her archaic beliefs are abnormal for someone born in such modern society, but they linger nonetheless, dwelling in the hollows of her black heart until all she can see in humans is whether they are worthy of her finicky palate or would be better off left dead.

LIFE EVENTS ( tw: physical abuse. ) ›

manhattan, new york city, ny / 2013 – She was 23 years old; under her belt was a masters in business analytics from Columbia University. Divya had foolishly thought that such a fleeting accomplishment would earn her father’s good favor – but she learned quickly that not even exemplar grades and a prestigious institution would be enough to prove that she was worth her salt. She stood idly in the entryway to the large, sprawling penthouse her father called home, perfectly-manicured fingernails digging ever so slightly into the smooth surface of her iPhone. Dark hues watched with thinly-veiled anticipation as her father’s large figure paced intermittently in the wide living room. There was an air of impending doom sinking deep into her skin, burrowing into her bones and making a home in her marrow – but then again, it always seemed as if a deep sense of foreboding followed her wherever she went. All Divya had asked was whether her father had decided to appoint her to the position of CFO or not, as he had promised he would upon the completion of her degree. She had spoken calmly, measured tone far from minced, and had her head held high. Such an act, however, had been easily misconstrued as defiance. Heresy. She clenched her teeth together tightly as her father came to an abrupt halt. Her heart raced angrily in her chest, beating wildly against the confines of her ribcage, as she watched him turn then slowly make his way over to her. Divya didn’t dare speak; if she wanted her moment of glory, wanted her moment of appreciation, she would have to bide her time. When she looks into her father’s eyes, though, she sees nothing akin to pride. Instead, there was a look of disappointed rage. The fire lighting up her insides dimmed and before she could part her lips to ask what concerned him, his hand came sharply down against her cheek. Head snapped to the side and the dull throb of angry pain singing her face was nothing compared to the shame coiled deep in the pit of her stomach. She lowered her gaze, swallowing back the protest balancing at the tip of her tongue. “Never ask me again for something outside of your league,” her father warned, baritone growl low and menacing. “When you finally show promise worthy of anything more than a lowly intern position, then I will consider it. You think your Masters makes you any more qualified? Please.” His patronizing scoff crawled under her skin and twisted her insides. “If you want power, you’ll have to work harder than that.”

brooklyn, new york city, ny / 2016 – Two years of fighting tooth and nail for every promotion, every acknowledgment, every little success left Divya with jaded disgust regarding every little surrounding her; having every move she made analyzed so relentlessly by the tyrant who helped birth her proved to push Divya to maddening extremes. She had successfully taken on the role of CFO of her father’s company, ousting each and every person that dared to gaze upon her for a fraction too long – and her agonizing temperament left her with few friends and far too many enemies. She was unwavering, a beacon of pure mental fortitude – and soon enough, her name became associated with the harbinger of figurative death. Women like her were never meant to be dainty. She was as jagged as a blade, sharpened teeth ready to destroy anything that came too close… and such a tenacious attitude won the favor of her soon to be sire. A chameleon Kindred from the Ventrue Clan had discovered her blazing flame of potential like a diamond in the ruff, spotting her at a Fundraising Gala with the astute sharpness of a hawk. When he approached her, Divya immediately fell into the dangerous habit of sizing up her supposed prey – though little did she realize that the man before her was an apex predator to the nth degree. It was not a sordid love affair nor was it anything romantic in the slightest; the bond Divya developed with her future sire was one of mentor and mentee. She learned how to control her surroundings in a way that her father never could – and soon, she became filled with the thirst for more, to become so much stronger than she already was. The initiation into her unlife came both suddenly and slowly. The culmination of her sessions with her sire came in the form of a singular offer – would Divya like to become the strongest there ever was? It felt rhetorical; she had laughed at first before finally, she said – “Of course I do.” It was the clarity of her voice that won her sire’s confidence. She would make for a strong Kindred. The Embrace and her sire’s careful protection produced a fledgling with stone-faced potential. She learned the ways of her discipline carefully and diligently until she was able to take on her most coveted task – to take out the man that had turned her into the monster she was today. One year after her Embrace, her Sire made it clear that she was ready for her Becoming. But to prove herself one more time, Divya had to embody her most carnal desire. When she slipped into her father’s penthouse, the man was sleeping soundly in his bed. She stood idly at his bedside, head cocked and dark hues intent. When careful fingers slowly drew the blankets back, he stirred with a tired groan. It was the last sound he made before Divya let the Beast spill free, unbridled and fueled by rage. She still remembers the warmth of his blood staining her palms and fingers, and the way he tasted so foul. One thing became clear – her curated palate had no taste for the greedy.

EXPANDING CONNECTIONS ›

dizzy / Vapid, air-headed behavior incites the most ragged of violences from within Divya’s core; she had never taken kindly to those who take everything they have for granted and Dizzy’s painful bubbliness easily falls under this category. Perhaps, though, Divya’s obvious distaste for the girl stems from a place of vague jealousy. What is it like, to live so freely and free of shackled chains binding one’s ankles? Will she ever know, or will she always be a slave to her own work ethic? She has not a clue and perhaps that is exactly why Dizzy’s dizzying personality pulls at Divya’s desire to snap uncontrollably at the drop of a hat. Maybe one day – she can learn from the other. But only when the tension is finally relieved from her bones.

harel / Respect is not a sensation Divya gives out freely; to earn her respect is a game of whether you can bear the brunt of her heavy gaze or not – but somehow, Harel has managed to tear down the expectations Divya so often holds. Their quietude and ability to bear what feels heavier than humanly – or Kindred-ly – possible puts her in a state of silent awe. She dares not admit this, though, because that would be weakness. Instead, she studies them suspiciously in hopes of one day besting them. It does not sit well with her to feel so small and meager compared to another and so, she persists. Uncomfortable, begrudging respect has left her with no words to say.

angel / Rapt attention has always so childish – but it’s a sensation that cannot be helped when her eyes fall upon Angel. Their strange ways interest her and she can’t help but feel as if they are the only being in this coterie that understands her in a way beyond superficial. She chides herself often on the fact that perhaps her fascination is childish – like a schoolgirl crush – but it does little to quell the fact that the lingering desire to treat Angel not only with respect, but as an equal, continues.

miscellaneous info.

EXTRAS ›

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› spotify

› blog

LAST WORD ›