ARSEN TARASOV

TWENTY-THREE ❈ INFERNI ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

* this character is a demiboy and uses he/him and they/them pronouns

When he was born, they did not cry out beloved. The only answer to his harmonious wails were the weary groans and tired sighs of the people who filled the room. Those were the only things that the war-torn village had to offer, for their souls knew not the levity and joy that often accompanied the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby boy. The moon shown brighter in the sky, but all they could see were the angry, red blisters upon the palms of their hands. Stars glittered and danced in joy for this beautiful child, but all they could feel was the hunger that choked their stomach, that made their limbs feel weighted with the promise of a death that would come all too slowly. But the babe paid no attention to the suffering that it was born into, for the smiles and laughter that burbled out of his rose-pink lips would not be dampened by the frivolous moanings of humans. For this child knew that it was above it all -- a creature that was better suited to the company of heavenly beings than those who tilled the soil of the earth. That, and that reason alone, was the reason that he smiled as blissfully as he did, the suffering that occurred about him being nothing more than a corruption of the beautiful which was a product of the mundane. Beautiful beings like him have no time for the tribulations of others, it’s a terribly human thing to assume so. 

But he had to learn, at least, to imitate and entertain human thoughts. His parents begged him to when they realized that he was more, so he acquiesced to their demands to humor them. Little did they know what they were asking was for the devil to hide his horns, for a demon to act as if he had a heart in place of the black, decrepit thing that took up the chasm of his chest. If anything, though, he liked to think of himself as the benevolent sort. So he did as he was asked to do, but Arsen Tarasov was never one to do something for nothing. He played the part of the older brother, chiding his siblings when he needed to, wiping their tears away when they poured from their wretched little eyes, and working each day so as to provide more food for the many mouths that awaited. Little did the naive children know that their brother was using them, like a puppet with strings -- playing the part of a particularly malevolent puppeteer. He would pit them against one another, a soft little whisper here, a particularly vile lie there and they would be at one another’s throats with their teeth bared and their mouths spitting. There was more than one time where these quarrels would escalate -- blood spilling from the mouths, bones breaking from the blows --to the point where fratricide was almost assured. Then, who else would step between them, but their savior --  their brother singing the sweet tune of salvation and reconciliation. 

But Arsen was anything but a savior, was anything but a Sankt. By the time his parents realized the game that he played, the strings that he pulled at as he watched the little puppets dance, they knew that they would burn before they could deny him the games that he so loved to play. They considered themselves blessed the day that he was whisked away to Os Alta, knowing that the demon that resided in their home was not to be kept caged in polished walls and polished gates. Mistakenly, they had assumed that it was the place where demons died and angels were formed. Instead, Arsen bloomed under the apprenticeship of violence, thriving as they taught him how to feed his flame -- no, this was not the place where demons died, it was where they were meant to revel in their violence. He rose, he bloomed, he thrived, he reveled. Those who were his peers simultaneously loved him and despised him for the skill he exhibited, for the intuition he showed in the matters of warfare. He was no heatrender, but there were those who would have been glad to bare their hearts for him while sparring -- if only it meant that he would have mercy upon their poor souls. If only it meant that he would croon a sweet song that would soften the blows he reigned upon them. But would he truly be Arsen Tarasov if he ever relented? 

For he was a creature of passion and indulgence, of gluttony and greed. He was all that and more. Arsen was a kiss that bit into one’s lip so as to draw blood, was a flame that danced so enticingly only to burn one’s fingers when they pressed too close. The war that loomed like a shadow in the night, ever-present and suffocating in the way that it promised to draw closer, only allowed for his flame to grow brighter, to burn all in his path. It was an excuse. A means of entertainment, as was the Fold and the excitement that it often promised him and his kind. There were those who cowered in fear of all the bloodshed it promised -- for all the graves that would have to be dug. Because of this they thought themselves gentle souls, righteous souls that cried at the violence of it all. They pitied the humans and the lives that were likely to be lost, and for that they thought themselves beautiful in their kindness. Should suffering befall them all, they would likely wail their lamentations. Hypocrites. Nevertheless, he will carry his tune. His language is lilting, a cadence of darkness and desertion, warning them all of one thing: a creature of beauty is something that he is...and something that he is not. 

CONNECTIONS

VALERIAN PETROV: They have had many siblings, but never had they had a true brother until they met Valerian. The same fire flows in their veins, manifesting itself in their differences -- keeping them together in their similarities. For what is a fire without its spark? What is a bonfire without the flickers of a flame? One cannot manifest itself without the other and so too is it for these brothers. In their differences they earn each other’s respect, in their similarities is where they take comfort. Despite their many faults ( though they are blind to them ) and disparaging characteristics ( Arsen truly believes that they are free from such flaws ) Valerian stands by their side. There are not many that Arsen would take a knife for, even fewer who they would truly die for. But what better way to die, than for the brother that they had always wanted and have finally had? 

SHONA YUL-JUN & LUKA MRAVISNKY: War is their lover and chaos is their ministry, anarchy their beloved wife. Arsen, Valerian, Shona, and Luka -- the most despised and revered of the creatures that could liken themselves to gods, if only they indulged as much as these four men did. Arsen remembers the day that they met Shona, the frankness of the words and the bawdiness of their language something that they found themselves guffawing at immediately. It was not the lilting nor the beauty that they themselves favored upon their tongue -- but they liked him all the more for it. Luka, they knew, was the more gentle and quiet of the four bratvas, but they did not fault him for it no, they saw it as a challenge. For every gentle comment he made, they had twelve more to make an innocent sentence seem contrary. Lovers may come and go -- but these men who they consider brothers? Such things are everlasting. 

RITA JAKOV: Traitor, they hiss whenever the poor creature has the misfortune to pass them. Forsaken. They sneer at the simpering thing she has become, spitting upon the pliable, useless thing that she could be. What is she to them but another toy to disassemble, to take about piece by piece, to tear their teeth into like a lion with a lamb -- hoping that, with each bite they might be able to draw blood. Each word that they utter draws another cut, each smirk of triumph another blister. She might think herself untouchable, important even, by keeping company with the human courtiers. Naive, then, is she. For she will soon learn that Arsen Tarasov is better than her. They are better, and more brilliant, than them all.