Is that SAMANTHA LOGAN? No, thatâs just GIANNA âGIAâ WALSH. They were born on 25/10/1998 and are a BANSHEE/SHAPESHIFTER HYBRID living in Northknot Town. They work as a BARISTA/BARTENDER. Some say they're PERCEPTIVE and EMPATHETIC, but Iâve heard others say they're INCONSISTENT and APPREHENSIVE. When you think of HER, donât you think of FADING POLAROIDS OF FACES YOUâLL NEVER SEE AGAIN, FLEETING SHADOWS IN A GLOWING BAR LIGHT & OLD, WEATHERED STONE CEMETERY WALLS?
Name: Gianna Penelope Walsh Pronunciation: jee-AH-nah puh-NELL-uh-pee wawlsh Nickname(s): Gia, Hurricane Gianna Birthday: October 25th, 1998 Age: 27 Zodiac Sign: Scorpio Sun, Capricorn Moon, Leo Rising Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her Species: Banshee/Selena Shapeshifter Hybrid Orientation: Pansexual, Demiromantic Occupation: Barista at the Brew Crew/Bartender at the Grapevine & Le Neptune Faceclaim: Samantha Logan
HEADCANONS
She drinks way too much coffee but somehow still falls asleep in the weirdest places; on counters, in storage rooms, curled up in booths at the bar after her shift
Gia loves thunderstorms and will 100% go outside in the middle of one just to stand in the rain. Claims it helps her âclear her headâ
When overwhelmed, her banshee instincts take over. Gia blacks out and wakes up in places she doesnât remember going to, mostly near death sites
She has a bad habit of ghosting when things get too personal; whether it's relationships, friendships, or even just a conversation that hits too close to home
She wonât ask for comfort, but leans into casual touches; grabs wrists instead of shoulders, lingers in hugs just a second too long, always drapes herself over the people she trusts
Gia canât sleep before 3 AM. Prefers the quiet of late-night city streets, the glow of streetlights, and the hum of the world winding down
She has a weird comfort with cemeteries. Sometimes just sits by old headstones, running her fingers over the names like sheâs memorizing them
She sometimes hears whispers of the dead, but itâs never clear; itâs like a radio stuck between stations, words slipping through her fingers before she can make sense of them
Gia has uncontrollable screams. Itâs not always loud. Sometimes itâs just a whisper that makes peopleâs skin crawl, a vibration in the air before something terrible happens
She has woken up in different forms without meaning to, sometimes even mid-dream. Itâs why sheâs hesitant to sleep around people she doesnât trust
APPEARANCE
Gia is the kind of beautiful that lingers; wild, unpolished, and entirely her own. Her long, inky-black hair falls in loose waves, often tousled like she just ran her fingers through it in a rush. Strands are always escaping whatever half-hearted attempt sheâs made to tie it back, framing a face that holds stories in every glance. Her warm brown eyes, deep and knowing, flicker between mischief and melancholy, like sheâs always one step ahead but never quite where she wants to be. Her skin, a rich blend of her Irish and Trinidadian heritage, glows with an effortless warmth, though often marked by faint bruises from running into things (or people) in her usual reckless fashion. She moves with a quiet intensity; fast when she needs to be, but slow when it counts, like sheâs always testing whether she should stay or go. Leather jackets, threadbare sweaters, and silver rings she never takes off complete the picture; an enigma wrapped in caffeine and midnight.
PERSONALITY
Gia is a walking contradiction wrapped in leather and late-night regret; sharp-witted but soft-hearted, reckless but deeply loyal. She thrives in the chaos of crowded bars and coffee shop rushes, a master of the art of distraction, both for herself and others. Restless and constantly running, physically, emotionally, metaphorically, she spent years on the move, stealing faces and slipping through the cracks until Northknot found her first. Taken in by a family who saw past the fugitive tendencies and the haunted look in her eyes, sheâs lived there ever since, tethered but still convinced the storm will catch up to her one day. Her banshee instincts make her hyper-aware of the fragility of life, and maybe thatâs why she lives like sheâs always on borrowed time; chasing adrenaline, diving headfirst into bad decisions, and loving like sheâs never going to get the chance again. She cares deeply, sometimes recklessly, and it shows in the way she fights for people, even when she doesnât fight for herself. Messy? Absolutely. But beneath the sarcasm, the inconsistency, the habit of pushing people away before they can leave, thereâs a heart that refuses to stop beating, even when the world tells her she was never meant to stay.
AESTHETIC
half-packed suitcases she never fully unpacks - polaroids of people she swears she wonât forget - old motel keychains she keeps as mementos - fading polaroids of faces youâll never see again - fleeting shadows in a glowing bar light - old, weathered stone cemetery walls - a warm cup of coffee between cold hands on a brisk autumn night - worn-out combat boots - the sound of heels clicking against wet pavement - oversized sweaters that smell like smoke and vanilla - the space between night and morning, between staying and leaving - thrifted band tees - layered silver rings with forgotten meanings - flickering âOPENâ signs - glowing city skylines through fogged-up windows - dimly lit bars where secrets slip through the cracks - cemetery gates rusted with age - wilted flowers left behind on gravestones - the eerie beauty of fog rolling over a quiet lake at dawn - a playlist filled with indie rock, melancholic blues, and something hauntingly orchestral - that moment right before a storm hits; electric, inevitable, a mix of dread and thrill - the kind of laugh that comes too easily after one too many drinks, covering up something unspoken - glowing bar lights
CONNECTIONS
Old Acquaintance Someone who met Gia before she settled in Northknot and still remembers the girl who ran. Maybe they were the one person she regretted leaving behind
The Walking Omen A supernatural whoâs always been wary of her banshee side, either fearing or resenting the fact that sheâs always close to death. Do they avoid her or do they try to prove that fate isnât set in stone?
Barstool Confessant A regular at one of the bars she works at, someone who Gia has developed an unspoken connection with; sharing quiet glances, stolen smirks, and maybe the occasional late-night conversation that neither of them acknowledge in the daylight
Partner in Crime A fellow troublemaker who Gia used to run cons with before she settled in Northknot. Do they come looking for her, wondering why she suddenly stopped running?
BIOGRAPHY
tw: parental loss, orphaning, violence, persecution, child endangerment, theft, identity fraud, passive suicidal ideation
"No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark."
Born on a storm-lashed night in Dublin, Gianna Penelope Walsh entered the world in a cacophony of screams; some hers, some her motherâs, but only one of them survived it. Zinora Walsh, a banshee, left behind a daughter who was more than human, a girl who carried death in her veins and omens in her throat. Her father, Patrick, a human shapeshifter, raised her alone, loving her fiercely despite the ghost of her mother lingering between them. Gia barely remembers those early years before everything unraveled.
A child with no control over the wails that tore from her, no understanding of why death followed wherever she went, Gia became a pariah before she knew what the word meant. The people in their small Irish town didnât see a lost little girl; they saw an omen, a curse. When tragedy struck, they blamed her. When another death followed, their fear turned to hatred. When an angry mob came, torches in hand, she and her father ran.
"You can only run for so long before you run into yourself."
Life on the run was not the worst thing. Gia learned to be a shadow, to slip into new skins like second nature. She and her father stole names, faces, and wallets, shifting between identities like changing clothes. They never stayed anywhere too long; never long enough to put down roots, never long enough for anyone to see her for what she really was. But even ghosts leave footprints. Eventually, their thefts caught up to them, and the people they wronged came hunting.
Worse still, her father had stolen from the wrong man; a man with power, with reach, with a taste for revenge. Gia didnât know this at the time. She only knew that her father had been worried, that he had started looking over his shoulder more often. And then she saw it; the thing she hated seeing. She half-predicted it, the way all banshees do. A flicker of something terrible ahead, a warning she couldnât put into words fast enough. And when the moment came, it was too late. Patrick bled out in a cold desert night, and Gia learned what it was to be truly alone.
"Grief is just love with no place to go."
At eleven, she buried her father in an unmarked grave and kept running. There was no time to mourn. She stole, she shifted, she survived. But the people who killed her father werenât done with her. They followed like shadows, their presence a constant whisper in the back of her mind. By thirteen, she was running out of places to hide.
That New Yearâs Eve, snow in her hair and exhaustion in her bones, she considered stopping. She wondered if it would be easier to let the past catch her, to let fate do what it had been threatening to do her whole life. But then... fireworks. Bursts of gold and red against the black sky. A flash of something in the distance. A city, hidden in the woods. Northknot. A supernatural safe haven, a place that did not turn her away, a town where monsters werenât hunted but protected. For the first time, Gia had a home. A real one.
"Family isn't always blood. It's the people in your life who want you in theirs."
Northknot gave her more than safety; it gave her people. A family that took her in, a brother who teased her but understood the weight she carried. Over time, the hypervigilance faded just enough for her to breathe, though she never fully let her guard down. Even years later, she still wakes up expecting to run. Gia finished high school. She even made it to college, mostly because her brother pushed her to. But purpose was harder to find. What did you do when survival was no longer the only goal? She wavered, dropped out, went back.
It took six years, but eventually, she earned a degree in Forensic Psychology, a fitting choice for someone who had spent a lifetime untangling lies and studying human nature. For a time, she worked as a Victim Advocate, helping others navigate their trauma; until it became too much. Gia had spent her life absorbing grief, witnessing tragedy. Taking on others' pain felt like drowning in an ocean that had no shore. She left the field. Found quieter work. A barista by day, a bartender by night. Simple, unassuming jobs. A routine. But she never really stopped running.
"The past is never where you think you left it."
A year later, Gia works three jobs, juggling lattes and liquor like lifelines. She keeps her circle small, her secrets even smaller. Only her brother knows the truth; that she still feels the weight of unseen eyes on her back, that the past still lurks in the edges of her vision. She doesn't want their parents to think she was ungrateful for the life they've provided for her.
She wants peace. She craves it. But she doesnât know how to exist without the tension of waiting for something to go wrong. Gia is always listening for the sound of footsteps behind her, always waiting for the day sheâll have to run again. Because no matter how far sheâs come, she knows one truth above all else; The past doesnât stay buried. And some ghosts never rest.
