all american bitch

Where: The bar @the Conclave

She could see the freezer full of chilled martini glasses. Could see the lady in her stunning dress asking for her martini to be overshaken and the imperious man behind the counter just wasn’t. He kept trying to hand a martini to her that had been under shaken and criminally underchilled.

It was a matter of pride with some bartenders not to overly dilute their martinis. But it seemed to be more a matter of making the woman wrong on the bartenders part rather than a matter of pride in the craft. A proper martini usually had the thin shards of ice at the top but that required effort and a lot of shaking. This man had been tormenting his customer for almost 20 minutes and Charlotte just wanted a gin and tonic. So she did something she should never do. She pushed her way forward and leaned forward to snatch the shaker out of the man’s hand.

2 minutes later and she placed a properly overshaken martini in front of the woman. With a nod of shared appreciation for never being heard, Charlotte turned to pick up a pack of fever tree, a bottle of Hendricks, and a thick goblet of ice as she went to do what this counter obviously didn’t want to. Actually make a drink someone wanted to drink.

Dearest Lottie is lingering by the bar and Gemma knows her well enough to track the frustration creeping across her brow. She understands this deeply, these bartenders are a fucking joke. It's not until she watches Charlotte reach over the bar and grab the shaker from the man’s hand that she laughs loudly, then ventures over.

“Oh fucking calm down, she’s done you a favor,” the bartender is stuttering indignantly, “learn how to do your fucking job and then maybe you won’t have this problem.” Gemma gives everyone still lingering her very best mean girl smile and they all decide to mind their own business.

“This is why I only order champagne at events like this,” Gemma speaks and signs at the same time – she misspells champagne and messes up some of the verbs but it's a genuine effort and a huge improvement from where she started. “Caterers are only good for pouring wine and like vodka crans, anyway you look spectacular!”

Who: Open (2/5)

Tonight had been bustling. It was the most crowded Charlotte had seen the place and Charlotte couldn’t be happier. Jaya deserved for this place to be a success and between her and Gemma Obsidian was thriving under the new leadership.

As Charlotte was shaking a martini for a very well dressed witch on the edge of the bar, she finally noticed the time. Shit, she was overdue for a break. She had lost track of time in the crush of customers that had rolled in. As she placed the martini in front of the witch, a new customer caught her eye as they sat on a stool at the end of the bar. One more customer, she promised herself, and then she would go take her break.

She turned a beaming smile on the newcomer and nodded at them, ready to take their order.

Still – she’s in her element now, sliding two gimlets in the direction of the couple in front of her. “Cheers, next round we will do something fun with like mezcal or amaro.” A dazzling smile as she turns, finishing the last bit of gimlet left in the shaker before checking on Charlotte. And a perfect time to intervene – the newcomer was an old regular from Sweetwater, Gemma rushes over. “Double Jame-o neat with a side of ginger ale, this place is a little posh for you, Ronnie.” She pours the drink short, but he’s already too distracted to notice. “Heard you left your old man’s place and thought I might finally have a chance,” he leers and Gemma scowls.

“Yeah, absolutely the fuck not,” she pulls back the double shot before he can even register what she says and knocks it back. “Ronnie get the fuck out of here before I turn you into a toad.” He gulps once, quite toad like, but can’t seem to decide if she’s serious or not. Gemma tilts her head to the side and the cocktail straws start to stir the drink in front of her on their own. He deposits a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and promptly vanishes.

After that little show they both deserve a break – so Gemma follows Charlotte towards the back alley. “Ok so like I definitely did not think anyone would follow me over from my old job I am so sorry,” she’s rudimentary signing as she speaks. “But like my dad owned the bar and so everyone had to be like normal. My dad that disowned me for being a witch that is. Anyway – how’s your night going?”

"I mean- Yes. I was raised similarly but the hunt is never done out of hatred. Why? Did Adrian teach you and Gabe to hunt out of just that?" Hate. Such a vile word. One that should never be associated with the hunt ever.

"Gemma, do you only hunt out of hatred?"

The cobra tattoo along their nape sings. A warning sign. Shiv mistakes the burning sensation for their mother's outrage from whatever spiritual plane hosting her. Outrage to see the hunt this badly misinterpreted, this sorely mistaken. This needs to be corrected or put into a different perspective at the least. "A hunt cannot be sustained on hatred. It is supposed to be a neutral force strictly born out of necessity. Emotions have nothing to do with it. Especially hatred. Never hatred. I'm so sorry but I cannot stress this enough: To bring hate into the equation is to spoil the entire hunt. If we only hunted out of hatred, we are no better than the monsters. Worse even."

"Duty. Honor. Humanity. Those are the sole reasons why anyone should conduct a hunt in the first place. If not that and only hatred, what is stopping from hunters from killing one another? Think about it. What would stop you from turning on me-"

When there's a will, there's a way.

It's hard to get much done with impending doom hanging over one's head. He's already down to one eye, the other socket being held together by an eyepatch, Jameson can't afford another surprise attack. Shit's heating up. The hunter's, or Kanta's (he should say), threats echo in the back of his head. They don't scare him, they light some kind of fire inside Jameson, but not the one Kanta had hoped for. Really what it is, is a reminder that Jameson can't afford any surprises. Every loose end must be tied.

What Kanta said at the night of the Khaos party was correct; Gemma is family. How quickly she had been to fill in Jameson in all things Kanta Shah. Gemma says everyone calls them Shiv, which is actually quite on par with the hunter schtick, but Jameson likes the way Kanta slithers off of his tongue. Kanta Shah. It's a lovely name.

The Shah family owned the Wash Tub, a local laundromat that's been in Port Leiry for ages. Kanta inherited it from their father after his passing. Father died naturally, heart problems, and mother died supernaturally, witch problems. Jameson can't help but wonder, is history bound to repeat itself tonight?

Gemma distracts Kanta inside of the laundromat, while Jameson picks at the lock on the back alley. Using magic crossed his mind, but hunters are often technologically advanced. They have their ways of tracking and alerting nearby magical use, like a built in magic security system. Jameson goes back to basics by picking the lock, which is trickier than he realized, with one fucking eye and all.

Jameson spoonfed Gemma a lie and she ate it up like she couldn't have gotten enough of it. Something about how the Brotherhood is on to her. Onto them. He tells her that someone approached him at the Khaos party with threats to quit seeing Gemma and if he didnt, they would go to the rest of the Brotherhood. Jameson wasn't able to get their name during the whole fiasco, just a basic description. Handsomely tall. Long, dark hair. Beautiful brown eyes. Gemma knew exactly who Jameson was talking about. Shiv is family, she told Jameson.

He has sworn to Gemma that Kanta will not get hurt tonight. Yeah, okay. Jameson said the words she wanted to hear. Breaking, entering, and hostage holding often requires a certain level of improvisation you can't prepare for. Sure, he can plan all he wants not to hurt Kanta, but Jameson isn't clairvoyant. How could he predict the future of what would happen this morning?

After enough poor lock picking technique, he blames the eye, the back door becomes ajar. With the dawn sky hovering above him, he grins to himself. Jameson steps out of the morning darkness and into the light of the Wash Tub Laundromat.

He follows the sound of their voices. They're talking. Gemma's actually really good at this, at keeping Kanta distracted, at lying to someone who she considers family. She's not a bad partner in crime. Out of his pocket comes a navy blue handkerchief, it's already doused with the concoction Gemma and Jameson had mixed up together. He described it to her as magical chloroform. It won't kill them, not if they give Kanta the right amount. It will drift them off to a weightless slumber. Key word: Weightless. This will make it easy to drag their body to the back office.

He steps out into the floor. He makes eye contact with Gemma, and beautiful, smart, gorgeous Gemma, doesn't break. She continues with her conversation with Kanta. This allows Jameson to sneak behind the hunter, with the handkerchief around his hand. In one fluid motion, he reaches over and places the cloth over Kanta's nose and mouth.

Jameson's a strong guy, but he's no match for a Brotherhood hunter with those sexy tattoos. That's okay. The more Kanta struggles against his the grip, the more they breathe in the handcrafted tincture, the weaker they'll get. Faster too. Jameson doesn't have to fight them off; He just has to let them struggle.

"Kanta Shah," Jameson says, his voice dripping somehow with both softness and venom. Some version of a haunted lullaby. "It really is a lovely name."

“Jesus Fucking Christ – do you hear yourself? I mean like really,” anger with its electric bite is soothed by the icy ease of cruelty, settling into a fluorescent hum across her skin. “You are far too old to still believe in the fairy tale of the pious knight who fights for duty and honor.”

( Once upon a time there was a Princess trapped in a very tall tower deep inside the dark forest. Her only companion was her brother, a very brave but very small Knight. He protected the Princess from the Wicked Witch who trapped them there, held her hand and whispered to her that she must be brave and strong, for they will surely be saved if their hearts were true. One day a mighty Huntsman happened upon the deep, dark woods and followed the Wicked Witch back to the tower, discovering the lost Princess and her Knight. A fearsome battle waged, but because the Huntsman was honorable and true he prevailed and rescued the Princess and the Knight. The End. )

“Adrian taught us to kill.” There’s a clinical chill in her voice, an almost scientific detachment that’s all the more unnerving as she dissects her past, pulling out all the darkest parts and laying them out for inspection. “Let’s not mince words, we were children, and he taught us how to track, capture, possibly torture, and ultimately kill other beings. There is nothing noble about that. We never had a choice,” her icy exterior cracks for a moment, and the neon OPEN sign in the window begins to pulse in time to Gemma’s heart rate. Fuck – control this. She curls her left hand into a fist behind her back, nails biting into her palm until she draws blood. The pulsing stops, neon sign burns out, but one of the very front dryers whirrs to life. Close enough – she claims the victory and presses on – her anger and hatred having sparked the exact nerve in Shiv to keep them focus fully on her in their sanctimonious sermon.

Jameson does have a flair for the dramatics, it’s one of the things she likes most about him, and this timing is impeccable. What would stop you from turning on me – cloth, concoction, struggle – all according to plan. Jameson hums something about names, but Gemma is too focused on the frantic darting movements of those dark eyes. She steps closer, that same Mean Girl smile she’s known for taking on a darker twist in this moment.

“So many things,” she muses in response to their earlier hypothetical, “So many different things could have prevented this moment – me turning on you, but your blindness to your own hatred practically guaranteed this eventuality. But don’t worry, we don’t need to kill you in order to achive our aims.”

Shiv falls into unconsciousness, weightless in Jameson’s arms. Gemma lingers for a moment longer, than snaps back to business, eyes meeting Jameson. “The office is through that door; it's got enough space for the ritual and there are absolutely ropes or zip ties or something in one of the desk drawers or cabinets.” She pulls another tincture they made in preparation from her bag. “I can take care of the cameras, and meet you back there in like two minutes?” The electric cruelty still glints in her eyes but softens – still the eager student trying to please her tutor.

Romy was currently lounging on the hood of a perfectly polished teal Chevy parked just outside the 205 Drive-In, sipping a strawberry milkshake like it was a fine wine and she was about to monologue about the golden age of cinema. One boot dangled lazily above the gravel, and beside her, in a meticulously curated little display, sat the haul —a collection of birthday gifts that practically screamed Romy loves you and has no concept of restraint.

There was a sleek, rose gold cocktail shaker set, the kind you’d expect to see in an editorial spread titled Hot Bartenders of the Apocalypse. Nestled beside it, a cat-shaped ring holder sculpted out of crystal and definitely overpriced, tail curved like it held secrets and jewelry alike. A cashmere throw in blush pink, because Romy believed in luxury comfort and also emotional damage control via soft things. And lastly, a tiny, glitter-filled snow globe that featured a black cat in a tiara — because Romy saw it and thought Gemma would either love this or haunt me with it, and honestly, win-win.

The cake box had GEMMAGEDDON iced across the top in metallic gold letters, complete with edible glitter stars because subtlety had never been Romy’s brand.

When Gemma finally appeared, Romy popped off the car like a toast popped from a very enthusiastic toaster. Arms wide. Grin wider. “There she is! The only person I’d break my no birthdays after midnight policy for.” She walked over, looked her cousin up and down with mock scrutiny, then gasped. “Wait. Are you taller? Did you level up in height and hotness? Disgusting.”

She wrapped her up in a hug, all tight squeeze and warmth and hair in her face. “Happy birthday, baby chaos,” she said quietly. “I remember when you tried to convince me glitter was a seasoning. And honestly? I still believe you a little.”

Pulling back, she gestured grandly to the gift spread like she was about to present treasure to a queen. “So I might’ve gone a little bit overboard,” she announced. “But in my defense, you’re incredible and I’m pathologically allergic to giving people just one thing.”

A wink. “And if you say you don’t like them, I will cry. Not, like, fake cry. Oscar-qualifying sobs.”

She nudged the cake box. “Also, there’s cake. I will not fight you for it. I will guilt you emotionally until you share.”

Sliding back onto the hood, she patted the space beside her. “Come on, sit. Tell me everything. The birthday chaos. The new job. Did you punch a man? Fall in love? Summon a demon? I’m here for all of it.”

“No, it's absolutely these shoes I’ve literally been the same height since like the sixth grade and you know that,” a mock pout gives way quickly to easy laughter. “Thank you – glitter is for sure seasoning if you aren’t a coward.” Gemma gasps appropriately when Romy pulls back to reveal all the gifts – and it's utterly genuine. It’s not a stretch to say that Gemma has been somewhat spoiled in her short life, but this year feels so different as distant as she is so suddenly from the other half of her heart, Gemma’s never felt more alone.

“No – stop, no,” now she might actually cry, swiping quickly at a few tears. “Now I’m gonna actually cry, like ugly cry! Thank you so much, obviously I’m going to love it because you’re literally the coolest person ever and I have always said that. THE CAKE OH MY GOD !” She shrieks just a little too excited, but it's her fucking birthday so why cares. “I’m immune to emotional manipulation, I’ll share because it's you and obviously I’m not so cruel as to eat an entire cake alone.”

Gemma hops up on the car hood, popping the two mini bottles of champagne that constitute her contribution to this little shindig, and passes one over to Romy.

“Cheers!” The bubbles ease the lies she’s about to tell, second nature to protect Romy from the realities of her world, but they taste a bit like guilt – an echo of accusations in Gabe’s voice. “Oh you know, the usual, a casual day nothing too wild,” which is one way to describe her morning, “I’ve yet to summon a demon, I’m saving that one for like a more milestone birthday, maybe 25 or 30? New job is great, a much cooler place than fucking Sweetwater. A girl can only pour so many shitty beers before losing it.”

“How have you been? I miss you – this past month has been so chaotic and. Anyway!”

        gemma startles backwards, this time, without stumbling. her fear stains the air so potently gabriel can taste it, it sours his stomach, knots up the same kind in him. calming his sister down, finding comfort in their own little world was a skill gabriel knew well. but, this, now? she’s scared of him, he can feel it. gemma’s scared of him and gabriel doesn’t know how to fix this. he has to convince her, he has to make her understand-  “ no, gemma, he lied. gael lied. he lied to us, he lied to adrian. he lied longer than we’ve been alive. ”

        he doesn’t mean to look away from his sister, but he still does, his eyes snapping to the lights as they begin to flicker, sharp movement drawing from instinct. the lights, it’s like they’re breathing. in panicked, quick heaves, they’re breathing, pulsing, the feeling snakes up his spine and wraps around his ribs and he’s listening to gemma and his tattoo- no. no, no, no, no-

        he doesn’t run away from his sister. he doesn’t flinch, or cry, or aim the weapons he has tucked under his shirt towards her. he keeps talking. firm, and steady.  “ they’re our fathers. they’re supposed to keep us safe, but they can’t anymore. they failed. we have to keep each other safe. it’s up to us. ”  they could get out, just the two of them. his sister, the witch. her brother, the hunter. they could. for gabriel, there’s never been anyone else. it’s always just been her. he’d do anything, he doesn’t care. the brotherhood accepts help from witches, they could pretend that’s all it is, like they hadn’t betrayed anyone else to get out of this town. for gemma, he’s willing to do whatever it took to keep her safe.

Or maybe it was always going to be like this – they’ve been cursed since the moment of their birth – or rather the moment in which Adrian found them and decided to keep them.

She’s back in the corner – fighting all of very real and very present fear that surges up through her body. It’s so goddamn horrible. Gabe is her twin, her only confidant, the one person she would happily lay down her life for. And yet here he is, standing before her saying such horrid things and fuck they have to go down stairs where everything will be fine – but he’s pulling out a stake and a knife and Gemma is so goddamn scared.

Scared – and fucking angry. She’s goddamn livid. And she has been for a long time.

“You lied to me,” but it's more like a whimper, a desperate plea for this to all be a dream, for her twin, her best friend in the whole world to take her hand and tell her none of it was real – it was all some cruel hunters’ trick. And for a second she might think it's that – but they won’t trust her with this kind of thing anymore.

So she stands there trembling as he offers a stake and a knife. In another world she’s a proper lady who accepts the tokens offered to her. In another world she’s stronger and cleverer and takes these weapons and fights back – however feeble that would be. But no – Gabriel is offering them to her. The promise that follows is heavier than she’s willing to carry, but she does take the knife and the stake.

This late in the evening, the lounge should be packed. Instead, Jaya was alone at one of the booths, music playing low through the speakers, a drink in one hand as he outlined the essay that Cait had assigned him. Whatever anyone could say about him and the decisions he makes in life, he was undeniably thorough, and reflective work like this required peace and quiet for it to be done well.

With how woefully understaffed the lounge was, it was for the best that it remained closed for the time being. One new employee wasn’t enough to keep it afloat, and forcing that new employee to man the bar on the same night felt both cruel and ridiculous. He was rich enough already, and sending her off with a signing bonus for the sheer luck of being the first to come looking for a job after so many others had left felt much better than trying to pander to the crowd that would be looking to get drunk after a hurricane when they should be focusing on rebuilding and helping others to rebuild.

Besides, he’d put his trust in the idea that someone might just walk in looking for a job before, but he didn’t think it would happen a second time. He could put up a Help Wanted sign in the morning. For now, he had an essay to write and some ideas about the relationship between blood and magic to unpack.

The little rune he’d slapped over the door rang in his ears as someone entered the building, and Jaya set down his glass, looking up from his seat at the newcomer. “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

She’s not actively looking, more like wandering through Port Leiry nursing an iced coffee feeling sorry for herself. Something catches her eye, a little static directing her attention towards a storefront. Obsidian, recently under new ownership, lures her in with velvet and glamour, the possibility of some taste of magic. So she does the thing that every boomer parent tells their job hunting kid to do, and simply walks in to ask for a job.

“Hi, yes – sorry, I noticed that.” She grins sheepishly but presses on. “I’m Gemma and I cannot believe I am doing this but are you possibly hiring? I am a spectacular bartender with like four years of experience and yes it was much more of a divey place than this but that means that I can literally deal with anyone and everyone.” She’s speaking far too quickly, emotions bubbling up in her rush to explain. A lamp flickers. “And I would absolutely love to give you a reference but I can’t because I worked at my Dad’s bar and, uh, yeah – he disowned me!” She smiles more like a grimace, and blinks furiously to prevent any wayward tears. “But that’s a very complicated story that I don’t need to bore you with, and honestly I don’t think he’d give me a good reference regardless because he was all like,” she lowers her voice in an imitation of Adrian’s gruff scolding, “’we only do beer and bourbon’ and ‘what the hell is a gimlet, Gem?’ so like. Yeah.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry. This was so much, I can just go.”

The question runs a shiver throughout his entire body. It's not something cool and breezy, as if the crisp hurricane air had followed Gemma inside the door. No, this shiver aches his joints and is so bone chillingly subtle and cruel. It's the warning shots of a ghost, letting him know he shares the space with the dead. What dead do they find themselves in company with today? The death of their father and daughter relationship; It haunts this entire goddamn bar.

It makes Adrian wonder, why did he do it?

He felt justified at the time; being betrayed does that, it will greenlight every violent thought one has. Gael's lies are secondary, still a knife to the chest, but perhaps, a wound that could heal. Not a mistake Adrian could forgive, but one he could daydream about forgiving. The twins is where Adrian drew the line and that is the line Gael crossed repeatedly.

Liars make for shitty husbands and terrible fathers, yet Gael was neither. Adrian wonders if Gael played the part so well, he began to believe it. You say I love you to a person enough times, it starts to stick. Where did the lie end and where did truth begin with Gael?

Adrian chooses to believe Everything was a lie. It makes it easier for him to live with himself.

Adrian doesn't say any of this to Gemma. He only ponders the question, as if any string of words he could say would get Gemma to understand his point of view. Even if Adrian had been good with words, trying to explain to someone the reason why you killed their father is a tough sell.

He's silent as he walks over to the bar, silent as he pours himself a shot of whiskey, silent as he shoots it down and the harsh alcohol hits his chest. He hasn't had a drink since he was a kid. Adrian opens a bottle of beer.

Owning a bar has taught him, it's easier to talk after a drink. With this conversation, with Gemma, Adrian needed all the liquid courage he could stomach.

“Define it.” Thirty years sober, the whiskey hits him hard. It sharpens his tone and harshes his gaze at her. There's no use of dancing around the subject, this open pit of a conversation. Their graves, dedicated to father and daughter, have already been dug. Why not jump in and let the dirt bury them whole?

Define it.

It's a command more than a question, and she’s never been an obedient daughter. But it's also an opening – and invitation. He may have let her inside out of a misplaced sense of parental affection, but there’s no mandate that he carry on a conversation with her – so she will take each and every opportunity given.

“No and like that’s the question isn’t it? Defining it?” Gemma sips her wine, “And it's super important because I don’t know how long you’re going to tolerate me being here, so I don’t know how many questions I get to ask.” A pointed look, another sip. “So I should just dive right in with ‘why’d you kill my dad?’ but then that question is really – why’d you make Gabriel kill him? Were you too cowardly to do it yourself? Was it some kind of profoundly cruel hazing ritual?” She lobs these accusations with an air of negligence, nursing the bottle of wine and flexing her fingers such to work the feeling back into them.

“But then because I’m me, and a wholly self-centered creature – I have to ask. Why was I never good enough for you? And I don’t mean like all the technical hunter bullshit, I mean like why was I, Gemma, the whole person and your daughter, never good enough?”

They are so quick to greet her that they don’t even realize the Kessler file is still on hand until they’re already behind the counter. Oh well. Gemma was no stranger to Shiv’s dedication to their work; surely she wouldn’t mind.

When considering possible places to take Thera, Brewed Awakening was an immediate first contender. Quint little place that serves tea as well as coffee. It would have been perfect had Brewed Awakening not been ravaged by the storm and indefinitely closed since. To add salt to the wound, the establishment is now rumored to be under new management, Kessler ownership. But that’s another can of worms to open after the Castillo-Fiori twins’ birthday.

“23 is a big number! Or is it 24 now? It's hard to tell. You don’t look a day over 32!” Shiv laughs. They hope the teasing will distract Gemma as they tuck the file into the counter drawer. Out of sight and out of mind as they turn their full attention to the birthday girl. “Oh but enough of that. What did you want to talk about? I’m all ears.”

“Thanks!” It’s almost genuine. She’s much more perceptive than most people realize, having played up the ditzy cheerleader bit for most of the past ten year to her benefit. So Gemma notices the file Shiv tries to hide. “24, yeah – ok that’s a terrible joke and a little bit mean,” She frowns, fully joking. “Like if I look 32 then I have to start botox like yesterday.” There's another way to preserve youth, but that’s not something they would be receptive too, even if she’s joking. For now.

“Have you seen Gabe recently?” Suddenly she’s all business, catching sight of the faintest hint of movement behind them – it has to be Jameson. So she continues, truth bleeding into her words even though they are meant only as a distraction. “He told me something recently, well more like confessed. And it scared me – I don’t, I mean – “ she huffs in frustration. “Like you were raised like us right? Do you ever think about how like, profoundly fucked up it is that our parents, the people who are supposed to keep us safe, are the ones who are putting weapons in our hands and teaching us to hate before we are even old enough to know what that means?”

SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Please specify the muse for multimuse blogs.

Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? Which one are they closest with?

What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

Has your character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them? If so, does anyone else know?

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

Does your character have recurring themes in their dreams?

Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

Has your character ever fired a gun? If so, what was their first target?

Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

Does your character remember names or faces easier?

Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?

Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

What was your character’s favorite toy as a child?

Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?

If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?

What does your character like in other people?

What does your character dislike in other people?

How quick is your character to trust someone else?

How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

How does your character behave around children?

How does your character normally deal with confrontation?

How quick or slow is your character to resort to physical violence in a confrontation?

What did your character dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true?

What does your character find repulsive or disgusting?

Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

Describe a scenario in which your character feels most uncomfortable.

In the face of criticism, is your character defensive, self-deprecating, or willing to improve?

Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

How does your character behave around people they like?

How does your character behave around people they dislike?

Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?

Is your character more likely to remove a problem/threat, or remove themselves from a problem/threat?

Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

How does your character treat people in service jobs?

Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?

Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?

Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?

How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

I killed Gael. I shot him.

The room tilts as her own personal gravitational force – the love of her family, her twin – shatters before her eyes. Gemma is suddenly on high alert, pulling out of her brother’s grasp and backing into a corner, her fear winning out over any other drive.

“No – you’re lying. That can’t be true, say it's not true!” But he won’t, or can’t, and she’s panicking and the lightbulbs are flickering, rattling in their sockets with such ferocity. “How could you?! He loves us! He would never do anything to hurt us – he did all of this to get back! And maybe not all witches are bad!"

The desperation bleeds through and she realizes Gabriel doesn’t know or hasn’t connected the truths within their fairy tale founding.