SCARLET GARDENS

Me neither. He’s so rude...but he’s so fine. 🥺 

Certainly! I think there is a lot of room for interpretation, and players of Luana and Maurice can definitely have the final say in how close/not close the twins are currently, but my impression has always been that they are one another’s best friend, confidant, and protection. They disagree on some things, but agree on much more: keeping their mother’s will a secret, refusing to pledge allegiance to either the House or the Ascendancy, and exercising general distrust of everyone around them. They are family in the purest sense of the word, and to turn one sibling against the other is...nearly impossible. 

What’s driving them apart is Maurice’s increasing fascination with the Undead and Luana’s unwillingness to consider anything other than the (self-imposed) reality that Nikolaas and Cecile were responsible for their family’s massacre—both developments that can and will be explored in-game! At the moment, however, these issues remain dormant and less urgent. The twins are very attached to one another still.

LIVING ♦ TWENTY-FOUR ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

GABRIËL DE JAAGER is a Yellow Jacket affiliated with the House of Eden. The youngest son of the Netherlands’ Koninklijke Landmacht Commander, Gabriël defected early to the House of Eden and was instrumental in the organization and execution of the Oranje-Nassau massacre. Gabriël is one of the few non-Undead soldiers to serve in the House’s massive army, as well as a close adviser to Thalia. Although he is a formidable fighter and strategist, his notorious temper makes him difficult to work with.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: violence

Thalia Yamaguchi met his gaze, and after a brief moment, turned away to wave to the bartender for a second drink. Sifting through the din of the Moulin Rouge, Gabriël settled gingerly into the seat next to her, every nerve singing. When she swiveled around to face him again, he saw that her cat eyes sparkled like tahitian pearls, and her manicured hands were laced neatly underneath her chin. Smug. Neither spoke—for in coming to meet her, Gabriël had already said everything she needed to know. At last, the bartender brought out his drink, an oranjebitter, and Thalia nudged it smoothly toward him with a pale knuckle. Drink, young Gabriël, she purred, and he could have killed her there, three bullets to the head and a crushed windpipe under his foot. But to level his gun at Thalia was to level it at Luana and Maurice. She’d made sure of that. We have something to celebrate, then, in your coming, Thalia said, lifting her own drink. Aan de koningin.

To the Queen. Gabriël knew, she didn’t mean Catharina.

- ❀ -

He was born brawling. The birth was difficult, and after, so too were the years: an endless parade of trouble presenting itself to the de Jaager family in the form of one single boy, scowling and insolent. In some ways, it was understandable—with four older brothers ahead of Gabriël, there was nothing really left to prove, only that he, too, could bite and bruise. They were all the sons of the Generaal, held in the highest esteem and afforded great luxuries for their father’s service to the Netherlands: but where his older brothers were handsome, serious boys in white shirts and chinos, who played football at their private schools and brought home immaculate grades every quarter, Gabriël ran with wolves, himself a sharp-toothed terror. How many lips had split under his fists? How many fights broken up by weary principals, expulsions begrudgingly demoted to suspensions behind doors as a favor to the de Jaager name? Gabriël snarled, bright with fury, and it took all four of his brothers to wrench him off some misfortuned kid.

By fifteen, he boasted a disciplinary record riddled with bullet holes: backtalk, fighting, truancy, fighting, vandalism, fighting. All this violence; and from what place did it come? All this rage; and where could he put it all down? They said he was hanging around wrong folk by then—bubblegum bitches with switchblades under their latex skirts, penoze runners from the hidden alleys of De Wallen, street-racing boys with wolfish smiles who kept Gabriël out hours past curfew. They said he was marked—a winding dragon on his arm, inked in by De Dame’s very own consigliere, that frightening Yamaguchi girl. His family was, of course, at a loss. How were four brothers reared into soldierly perfection, only for the fifth to emerge like some fresh wound of a nightmare, teeth bared and knuckles bloody? Even Gabriël could not have put a name to his recklessness, his enduring love affair with adrenaline, his need to throw the first punch, always—only that he was certain the world would swallow him whole, if he were even a little softer. He had not thought it possible, ever, to be soft. De Jaagers were cold machinery, were war rampages—what nervy soul dared to ask gentleness of him?

In the end, there were two. The sun princess, who spotted him from across the expanse of a palace courtyard and, like a barnacle, attached herself henceforth to him with comedic determination—and the moon prince, sapphire-eyed and erudite, who had merely swept his gaze across the dragon tattoo with disinterest, before turning to go. Neither of them afraid. They had played together as children, once, and so now played together again, even as the Scarlet Death wreaked havoc from what felt like a million miles away: Gabriël grumbling in the gardens, dragged along by a glowing Luana to admire the daffodils; Gabriël mussing Maurice’s pale hair by the waterfront, telling him, I’d be good, for you; Gabriël driving his fist into the pretty jut of Thalia’s face after she’d given her sick ultimatum. I never knew you to be a fool, she’d laughed, almost maniacal, stumbling to her feet with a hand cradled to her cheek. You’ll help my men into the palace, or we’ll blow it up from the outside. I’m offering you a choice and a chance. Aren’t I merciful? Gabriël lunged again, but this time, she moved like quicksilver. Click.

Listen, kid, Thalia purred. One hand leveled the gun to his temple, steady as a heartbeat—the other dug its nails into his shoulder, where the dragon she’d inked into him sprawled.

Gabriël listened.

CONNECTIONS

LUANA  & MAURICE – HIS SORROWS, HIS LOVES. Here are two truths, and a lie. Truth number one. He loves them. Truth number two. He is responsible for the blood. And the lie? He regrets it. There was, truly, no other alternative that would save them from the same fate their family suffered: seven years ago, they were, all three of them, teenagers helpless to the machinations of politicians and killers. Agostina was hungry for a power vacuum, Thalia was happy to create it—and the rest is bitter, bitter history. There is, of course, an abundance of history between he and the royal twins. He never did return Luana’s feelings perfectly, but grew to love her all the same for the kindnesses she showed him, and for the countless hours they spent together at her whimsical behest—indeed, it was difficult not to grow fond of someone so effortlessly charismatic. As for Maurice...that is more complicated. They resembled something closer to good, true friends: shared interests, shared silences, shared understanding of the uglier things in life. For Gabriël, he had seen in precocious, careful Maurice a future king—someone to swear loyalty to and serve, as his father served Catharina. Perhaps, they were standing at the precipice of something more than friends, too—but all that is gone, now. The twins, who have recently returned with hollow faces and hunted eyes, hate him for a treasonous crime he did commit. He will not attempt to argue otherwise.

THALIA – A THOUSAND DEBTS AND GRIEVANCES. In the beginning, they were friends. It was hard not to feel heady with power when Thalia Yamaguchi claimed she liked you: she was a striking woman, rumored to inherit the penoze someday and already possessing the cruelty and efficiency required to lead the Netherlands’ most powerful crime ring. She’d shown him every nook and cranny of Amsterdam that was worth exploring: secret passageways in and out of cartel territory, underground fighting pits, glittering clubs, smoky brothels, stretches of urban streets where initiates lounged against the brick like neon demons. When she’d offered to mark him, Gabriël had accepted with awe and pride. Now you’re tied to me forever, she’d mused, etching her tattoo into his shoulder—and he had laughed, not understanding she was serious. Gabriël may have been the instrumental turncoat, but Thalia was always the originating mastermind behind the massacre, understanding it would take nothing less than the annihilation of an ancient family line to ensure her good standing in Agostina’s new empire. Gabriël hates her for it, of course—but finds he can’t fully commit to his rage in this one regard. Thalia had offered an opportunity for Gabriël to save Luana and Maurice, promising she’d turn a blind eye if he could make arrangements for them to leave Amsterdam forever. It is not a kindness, exactly—but it was not something a completely heartless woman would have concerned herself with. 

IVONNE – THE ACE. She’s the PYTHIA. Gabriël knows this because he had, painstakingly, traveled to London in the days leading up to the massacre in search of one Walpurga Albert—only to find her creation, Ivonne, instead: wrist-deep in carnage, lips stained in unspeakable sin, head cocked to the side as she regarded him with calm, intelligent eyes. He had asked of her what he couldn’t trust to ask of any other soul in Amsterdam: save the children. And this she accomplished, with a shaking of hands and exchanging of goods. You owe me a debt, now, Ivonne had said. Someday, I’ll call on you to repay it. Gabriël isn’t necessarily interested in whatever strange agenda she’s pursuing, but he feels she is someone to keep an eye out on. He’s upset with her for not ensuring the twins would never return, as this puts them back in danger—but finds there’s little he can do to ask for a second favor. He is already indebted to her, and this makes him uncomfortable. Debts are the currency of the PYTHIA; it feels uneasy to know she could call on him at any moment, and he would be likely forced to do her bidding.

Yes! Following the last open bio, which will be Ivonne, Dimitri, Jacques, and Thalia will follow. 

Zhenya is so gorgeous, but unfortunately, Oksana’s FC must be a POC!

Yes! Aditi fits Zelda very well.

There are four open bios left, which I’m hoping to have all written this week! I believe a tentative date will fall sometime between August 15-20, but I’ll need to confer with my co-admins.

hfeufhksf no please thank you so much!!!!! ;w; I have to shoutout Emma and Ripley, too—they’ve been wonderful sounding boards for me and also have some incredible plots planned ahead! 

After Gabriël, who I’m hoping to finish tonight and have up in a few hours, Kisara and Oksana are arriving one after the other! <3

Yes, Indya is gorgeous! They work wonderfully.

Yes, it’s literal! Blood and flesh are both adequate “sacrifices” a resurrector can make. Just as Julian and Neeve have given up parts of their flesh, Nikolaas and Cecile have given up blood. I’d say flesh is more powerful than blood in most cases, as blood replenishes itself at a faster rate and the process isn’t as painful than, say, having to gouge out an eye or cut off a finger. In being easier/less painful, a blood sacrifice is not as valuable as a flesh one. But...Cecile is sort of a special case in that she’s the prototypical rotbeest and a genetic anomaly. I imagine this rule doesn’t apply to her, simply because of how abnormal of a resurrector she is. So, to answer your question, I believe her blood can be interpreted to be quite powerful!

UNDEAD ♦ TWENTY-EIGHT ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

SASHA WOJCZIKOWA is an Undead Yellow Jacket affiliated with the House of Eden. Resurrected by Julian in the Carpathian Mountains of Ukraine, Sasha remains one of the Yellow Jackets’ most competent soldiers, whose exceptional physical prowess and faithfulness to the House renders her a model member and valuable addition to the Undead army. Her nickname, the Doctor’s Bride, is a testament to the great favoritism she enjoys from not only Kazimir, from whom she received her surname, but also her Resurrector, Julian.

BIOGRAPHY

He called the place by the riverbank Sołokija. She called it Солокія. In the spring, the water which divided them was cold and clear, and slow-moving enough that she could wade across it safely to meet him. There was not much to do, truthfully, and even less to say. They would tussle in the meadow until their bodies ached, then simply lay on their backs, waiting for the pale sun to crest over the pines. He was, from the books full of morbid diagrams he sometimes brought to show her, a scholar and apprentice of могильник. Not a very good hunter, she thought with some disappointment. That was fine. She would bring the game—a trapped rabbit or squirrel, sometimes a net of fish freshly caught—and he the bread and berries, the copies of Tolstoy or Dostoevsky to read aloud to her. Those were simpler times, when the sound of Kazimir’s voice felt like a thumb he was too shy to run across her cheek. The two most powerful warriors, he said, stumbling slightly on the Russian, are patience and time.

- ❀ -

They told her much of the circumstances surrounding her death and undeath: Julian had found her a hundred miles south of Przemyśl, a vicious rotbeest drowning beneath icy waters—and, as if in possession of a death wish, pulled her from the frozen river to best her properly. After, he would carry her to Agostina and Nikolaas, to Thalia and Kazimir: and from that moment on, she was a soldier who belonged not to herself, but to the hands which revived her. She was their first and best soldier, cutting a ruthless path into Amsterdam, carving out a place for these lofty false-gods to build their pantheon. But these were not the stories she longed to hear, so violent and foreign; rather, it was a meadow she returned to over and over in the woods of her memory, by a river she’d forgotten the name of. She could recall nothing if this: her exquisite, hardy youth, her hunger-thin body sprinting through the underbrush, the shape of her mouth as it split into laughter, a motion that came so easy to the girl she once was. She was happy, she was whole.

Still, they would push pill after pill upon Sasha, numbing her out and smothering every nagging uncertainty, until all that remained was a hollow-eyed weapon. She was as lovely as a dream in stone. They would tell her story to the Undead over and over, like ritual, like religion: the Doctor’s Bride, once but a feral, pitiable beast of the mountains, rescued from the jaws of lunacy by the Resurrector Julian and the Doctor himself in the later years of the Scarlet Death. Now, she was beheld in wonder, in approval: the strongest among them all, the most loyal and competent by far, given any privilege she desired and beloved by the living for her service. It was all one tall, aggrandizing tale, Sasha knew. She made for a fine poster-girl for Agostina’s army of corpses, after all: a swift-footed Achilles, graceful and taciturn, bearing just the right amount of sharpness to the set of her elegant mouth so as to convey strength, and the right amount of cold, flat blue in her eyes so as to convey some strain of mechanized, inhuman obedience. It was easy for the living to adore her, because she was perfectly unlike them: bright as a divine god and dead as a lamb on his altar.

Could someone so suited to death secretly loathe it? Sasha did. She was not a barbarian, not a monster, not a killer—but she was, she was, she was. The House made her into something fearsome, and set her upon its enemies like a well-trained dog. And God, the pills: bottles of them filling her sink, filling her bedside drawer, sewed into the leather lining of her Yellow Jacket, each one a giver-sustainer-stabilizer of life, and each one as nauseatingly inevitable as death. Elixir-poison. The truth of it was so simple: she was tired. She had walked the Earth once already, in goodness and joy; to walk it again, but this time dressed in suits of blood, sent to stalk the streets like an unholy phantom, compelled to abide the wills of worser men and women—it was not what she wanted. It didn’t matter how well she wielded devastation—Sasha had no love for it in the end. She longed for sun, for warm skin, for books, for peace. If not for this wretched city of sin, then at the very least, for herself. 

CONNECTIONS

KAZIMIR – ONCE UPON A DREAM. She remembers him. She knows him. And she doesn’t at all. Like most Undead, she awakened without memories and without a name—and of the latter, the caustic Kazimir had supplied his own surname for her in an uncharacteristic show of...possession? No, not quite that. The House loves to sink its claws into her, marking her one of theirs, but he has never displayed such a territorial attitude. Rather, the Doctor’s care for her approaches something much...softer. Sasha is drawn to him, not only because he is kind to her without expectation for reciprocity, but because his is a face she hasn’t forgotten. The only face. He wanders in the nightscapes of her dreams and lingers in the shadow of her mind like a mirage just out of reach. Sasha thinks they were friends in another life. Maybe more than. In this one, he is the intimate stranger who watches her, helps her, and evades her. Who was I? Who were we? She asks this with her hands, folded over his; with her eyes, bottomless wells of faded blue, searching for truth in an eternal night. But Kazimir refuses to speak, only watches her sadly, the ghost of a word lingering beneath his tongue.

GABRIËL, OKSANA & PETER – YELLOW JACKETS. They are the best of the best: soldiers and spies of the House who don the coveted Yellow Jacket, which label them elite members of the Undead army under Thalia’s direct supervision. When all is said and done, it’s not an unlikely place to find friends, given the extensive hours they spend together. Sasha gets along well enough with all three—Gabriël is her assignment partner, Oksana feels like a sister, and Peter had been someone she admired, if not at the very least, envied. Nonetheless, there is still quite a bit of squabbling that errupts within their group:  Gabriël stalks about the Peace Palace like an ill-tempered criminal when he’s not on assignment with Sasha, while Oksana’s catastrophic appetite for merriment gets them all into trouble after trouble. In the beginning, fights broke out daily, and it took both Sasha and Peter’s long-suffering pragmatism to establish some semblance of peace—at least, until his betrayal sent them right back at each other’s throats. Gabriël and Oksana continue to be prickly with one another, bickering and jabbing, but Sasha has since learned to disregard it. Their animosity is all bark and no bite—when it comes down to it, they would all defend one another like dogs.

JULIAN – HER CROWN. Julian cuts a striking image: tall and ruefully handsome, silver-tongued when he wishes to flatter, the sort of man to feast with tigers, himself a dominating and predatory force. Sasha has him to thank for her extraordinary athleticism and strength, she knows, at least partially—his gift for resurrecting perfect soldiers is no unfounded myth. On the other hand, she knows he is the reason for her sorrow, too; had a gentler hand resurrected her, say that of Neeve’s, Sasha might not be so predisposed to listening to his every command like a soldier eager to deliver. She might have memory of her past life, as Oksana and Peter do—and what wouldn’t she give for that? Certainly, she’d sacrifice this terrible strength for it. Nevertheless, Sasha feels no resentment for Julian, particular given how he treats her with such attentiveness, such brotherly possession. She doesn’t need someone to protect her—but she senses to deprave Julian of this strange role he’s taken to...would hurt him, for some reason. He’s a complicated, dark man—but there is real tenderness to his care for her, however subtle. She’s not a monster. She’ll follow his order like a soldier and accept his peculiar, quiet love like a sister.

Yes, you can either disregard that section for roles with pre-assigned middle names, or write the already pre-assigned middle name for those roles. 

Ehehehe yes certainly~~ 

Zelda and Thalia are written with this juxtaposition in mind, something I discuss HERE. Dimitri and Maurice are another pairing that plays very much into dark-light motifs, which I’ll let Emma talk about a little as Dimitri’s writer! And, lastly, I’d say Neeve and Julian are a pseudo-couple with contrasting characters! I discuss their relationship in conjunction with Kazimir HERE.

With Dimitri and Maurice’s relationship, I definitely see them as contrasting ideas. One molded from the streets, the other born in the laps of luxury - yet ironically despite the circumstances of their lineage, Dimitri pre-death was far from darkness compared to Maurice’s life in nobility which despite the glamor certainly alluded to murkier circumstances. In current gameplay time, Dimitri has certainly embraced the shadows and now acts as a harbinger of death where he's attempting to pull Maurice into the same darkness as him. And I could see this struggle be a crisis for Maurice who is stuck between Dimitri's temptation and his sister, Luana's dimming light. All of which I think would be extremely exciting to explore!

Hi! White-washing is never my intention, so thank you for bringing this up! I have tried my best to ensure tone integrity across all visuals, and this was something I kept in mind while making the graphics for SG! I've attached under my signature comparisons of each original image with the masterlist icon. The PSD adjusts warmth and contrast, but shouldn’t affect the actual skin tones. I also understand that many photos of these FCs are already white-washed in their original state, so my PSD did attempt to correct for this by slightly darkening the photo as well. I was unfortunately unable to find the original photo of Thandie Newton that was used, so I went ahead and used a similar photo and made a new icon with the same PSD. If you feel that there is still something amiss, please let me know!

I think many of us would agree that chemistry would be the basis of determining the relationship. Nothing is set in stone given that there will be plots and arcs within the game that may sway your character to develop in a whole new way that we never expected before. I’d like to think that the connections are made as a great jump point of where to start and build. If it works out well with another writer than by all means, I don’t see why the relationship wouldn’t progress into long term but if not- that shouldn’t be an issue either! We do hope that relationships outside of romantic / sexual connections are also considered as significant themes in SG center around family as well as friendship.