#blbcintro

Hello, all! This is Gene. You can find some info about him below, but please do feel free to reach out to me. I’d love to connect, plot, and write together!

Gene has a handful of early memories of living with a birth mother until the age of three, at which time he was placed into foster care. He was adopted by the Joyce family of Queens, NY at the age of six. 

His childhood was comfortable if not doting. His mother, a secretary at a burgeoning public relations firm in the city, was certainly a loving, if somewhat timid, woman who may have had difficulty adjusting to an older child in her home. His father was firm at best, domineering at worst.

He was active in his family’s church growing up, first as an altar server but then as a lector and Eucharistic minister. He attended Catholic school through the twelfth grade.  

A growth spurt in his freshman year made Gene into something of a second-tier athlete. Although he was not particularly good, he secured a spot on his school’s wrestling team and was a founding member of a short-lived boxing club.

An injury in said boxing club benched him for a semester but allowed him to take up additional hobbies, including the school radio station, where he primarily got stuck reading morning announcements. 

Gene then attended Cornell University and earned an undergraduate and then Master’s degree in meteorology. 

Relocating to New Jersey, he worked as a weatherman for a local television station for several years. He jokes it was the dental veneers that eventually got him over the Bayonne Bridge to New York. No one thinks this joke is funny. 

As a midday weekday meteorologist for WNBC, he ferries to work each morning from Staten Island and then back each evening. He makes jokes to strangers about the movie Working Girl.

Sean was born to two doctors, both pediatricians who ran a small practice in South Dublin. 

He had a rather sheltered life. He never wanted for anything and, being an only child, he was quite spoiled though his parents taught him humility and generosity from a young age. 

Do no harm was a staple in his life. It was his parents advice for almost anything and Sean really took that to heart. 

He knew he wanted to be a surgeon from a young age and was always fascinated with anatomy. 

His parents used to joke that he would either become the next Joseph Lister or the next Ted Bundy. 

Thankfully he went the Lister route and quickly worked his way through his undergrad at Trinity college before moving to Cambridge for med school. 

He recently moved to New York, having only lived here for a few months as he gets settled as the new head of trauma at the New York-Presbyterian hospital in Manhattan. 

The Basics

height: 1.96 m (6″5′)

weight: 99 kg (218 pounds)

birth date: 22/09/89

home town: Brooklyn, NY

occupation: construction worker

The Bio

Benjamin was born on the 22nd of September to a working class family. His father was a labourer and his mother was canteen lady. 

He is the oldest of four, and when he has always been protective of his family especially after the sudden and tragic death of his father who was in a freak accident at work when Ben was 14.

At the age of 14 he lied about his age so he could get a job and help his mum with the bills. At an early age he had to step up and become the man of the house.

Ben hated school, at first he only went because it was illegal not too. But then he started playing football and fell in love with the sport. By the time he graduated he was playing varsity football and had two jobs. 

He was offered a football scholarship with the Texas Longhorns. But he turned it down to stay and help his family.

He has always been an outgoing and adventurous guy, just the thought of an office  job makes him squirm, which is why he went an got a job in construction.

Now that his mum is retired and all his siblings have moved out he feels less pressure. But, still likes to help her out as much as he can. 

                            — hello ghouls!! my name is jared r, i’m 19 20 years old and i never learned how to read. i’m excited to plot and write with all of you!! this is freyja and she is honest to God a mess, someone save her. i would truly adore plot with all of you - so come hit me up if anyone would like some plots! if you prefer that, just hit me up on discord too !! i will def be sliding into some DMs as well, too, so like this post if you won’t mind that!! local nerd thinks aliens are going to invade earth, more at 9 /finger gun/

Triggers; Death, Violence, Alcohol, Torture (Brief mention), Abuse (Brief mention).

  You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?

 A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.

            Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.

 What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.

      Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly

                                     flames everywhere.

Am I just a creation of my upbringing? My monstrosity but a trait, the blood permeating my veins but a poison. My lungs were bound to rotten with my first intake of air. Or am I the apple that fell far from the tree? The abnormality none dares talk of, a grim shadow lying in wait. Sunk in debauchery, afloat in a sea of destruction. The whys and hows matter little, in this narrative. No use delving deep into psychology, or theories. There won’t be a sympathetic insight into my life. After all, there’s no pity for the wicked. I am what I am, no lamentable excuses or justifications will change that.

On occasion, one finds oneself immersed in dark waters; trouble.

Freyja Skjeggestad understands enough of human nature to perceive her morals; nor black nor white, but shades of grey. Most are darker than others, more prominent. Some are hardly noticeable, but the danger is still unmistakable. In hindsight, it should be said her morals are questionable, simply put. There is no wrong or right, for Freyja. Sides are of little importance, as the only side she cares for is her own. A selfish greedy little thing, with only her well-being in mind; she doesn’t partake in any activities if she is not gaining something out of it. Freyja is easily buyable, and that’s where the trouble is; her loyalty is not worth a penny, at the end of the day – Not if someone pays better for it. Betrayal is part of Freyja’s nature; it’s in her blood, her instinct. She is a Skjeggestad, after all, and leaving people behind is what they do best.

She remembers her childhood all too well.

It was a chilly November night when Bertrand Skjeggestad came running into his villa drenched from head to toe, pale and shaking in fear. The man’s steps were careful, not daring to disturb the ghostly silence plaguing the hallways, almost tangible. Droplets of water flowed down the glass panels, and particles of dust danced in the air when he opened the door of the master’s bedroom, relief apparent on his face. His darling wife sat on the blood-stained bed, trusted maids and guards watching the scene with wide eyes. In the woman’s eyes, disgust could be found. Gently, he retrieved the cold bundle from her arms, a finger touching a rosy cheek. “Oh, dearest Freyja,“ he whispered, ”look at the mess you’ve made.“

Freyja Alexandrine Skjeggestad shed no tears, during that chilly November night. No cries or whimpers left the newborn’s mouth, causing the assigned names and nurses to watch the baby with bated breath. Freyja, in turn, remained motionless, taking in her new surroundings. The heavy layer of silence was shattered only when morning came; a piercing cry woke staff and residents alike, all rushing to the nursery. “What a strange child,” some dared whisper, cowering and scattering when lady Astrid Skjeggestad entered the room, accompanied by her nurses. The child’s cries subsided when her mother picked her up, but there was no warmth in lady Astrid’s eyes when she gazed at her daughter.

”‘Tis just the Skjeggestad way, dearest,“ her mother clicked her tongue one evening when she saw tears being too well in Freyja’s eyes, her hand holding her daughter’s chin, nails breaking the skin. “You are a Skjeggestad, Freyja. Behave like one.”

There’s no love in a Skjeggestad’s household. Only money. And, oh, they had plenty of it. A fortune, enough to last for generations to come. Freyja was doted on and pampered all her life, given anything she could wish for. Clothes. Cars. Houses. Boats. Planes. People. With a snap of her fingers, the world could be hers. Or, it was what Freyja used to think. Her attitude was of a queen, thinking people should bend to their knees when she passed. “I’m going to inherit my father’s fortune,” she bragged, a smug smirk decorating her lips.

It is safe to say Freyja didn’t have many friends. The closest friend she had was Scott Connelly, the oldest son of her father’s right hand. They weren’t tight, but they would hang around often, and they had a silent agreement of having each other’s back, always. Scott stayed by her side even when her father sent her away, to study. The truth was, Freyja’s reputation was sinking her father’s stocks; her dalliances with random women, her drinking and drugs, and parties – It was not good for the company. She resided in countryside France for a year before she had to return home.

   I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,

           that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.

     I’m not the princess either.

When Bertrand  Skjeggestad perishes, weak and fragile in his deathbed, he leaves behind a trail of sins. Deep ingrained in the walls of his luxurious Villa, in his office and company. He leaves behind the young and bewildered Freyja Skjeggestad, eyes glued to her father’s coffin. Next to her, Scott Connelly mops his brow with a kerchief, his face pale and devoid of emotion. He turns to her, glances at her fidgeting hand, the nails digging into the skin of her palms, and sighs. “You will take over with your mother,” he says, and Freyja can hear the tiredness in his tone, “it is what your father would want.” Lies, Freyja wants to reply, but the words die in her mouth at the glare her recently widowed mother shoots her way. Lips thinning together, Scott drags his eyes back to the coffin, but he scoots closer, his present and familiar warmth soothing. Freyja is truly thankful for the comfort, but she only voices her concerns when Scott pours her a glass of whiskey, later, when the walls of her father’s office suffocate her.

“He wouldn’t want me here,” she chuckles bitterly, warm fingers rounding her cold glass, clasping it in a futile attempt to ground herself. “He would want me to live my dandy life somewhere else, far from his empire.” She stands up, then, sitting on her father’s chair gracefully. ”Can you see it, Scotty?“ the man flinches when he sees the corner of her mouths twitching and curling into a smirk. Freyja lays her hands on the corners of the wooden table, and crosses her legs, leaning forward slightly. “Me. In charge of this whole company. Of his fortune.” Scott visibly gulps, tugging at the collar of his shirt before he downed the content of his glass “Oh, it is going to be marvellous. Marvellous, indeed.”

        For a while I thought I was the dragon.

    I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was

                                                                                            the princess,

cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,

      young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with

confidence

Freyja Alexandrine Skjeggestad was thrown to the wolves, then. Shoved into the spotlight with little guidance. They devoured her, tearing into her with their bare fangs, trying to find similarities between her and her father. The same striking green eyes carry madness in them, people would comment when all the corners of Ireland were flaunting pictures and speeches of th Skjeggestad daughter.

Freyja was only twenty, then, and the weight of her father’s empire left red angry marks on her shoulders. Her nervousness was not apparent by how she carried herself, how she held her head up. But it was there – the fear, anxiety, doubts, and darkness. She pushed it deep into the base of her spine, a place so dark it would unable to flourish under the sunlight. It threatened to rise, to shoot up her veins and consume her – But every time Freyja could taste its aphrodisiacal taste, she would swallow it back through the knots in her throat. She tried to keep the company together, tried to be good, do good. But the sins of her father flowed in the air, like mist. Freyja watched it move, breathed it into her lungs. It’s taste that of gold, cigarette ashes, of power. It poisoned her somewhat good intentions, rotting her already uncanny smile.

After, her own sins taint everything she touches. It tarnishes the family’s good name. Her father’s vanity and pride wrap around her skin, it crawls inside her bones, run through her veins. It changes her.

She has a penchant for violence, and she left a wake of destruction, dragging Scott down to hell with her. He warned her to not pick a fight with Thomas Wolff, but Freyja never knew how to chose her wars.

Freyja still remembers the sand in her mouth, filling her lungs. The throb of her head, and blood dripping – the darkness wanting to take over. There was not enough air, her ribs ached and heart barely beat, but all Freyja could care about was Scott. She held the cold body to her chest, strength slowly giving away. Scotty. There was no life in the man’s eyes, the gunshot piercing his heart. She clung to him for as longs as she could, until unconsciousness took over. She woke up to a bright light, a bandage covering her side, and dirt under her nails. The coppery taste of blood still lingered on her lips, and she had difficulty sitting up.

“Thought that shot would be the end of you, huh?” the strange doctor who nursed her back to life said, voice tired. “No. You are hard to kill, kiddo. There’s strength in you. Bullets and sand, and determination. And lives, here,” he taps her chest, just above her heart, “despite all, you still walk. The world hasn’t ended you, yet.”

She crawled out of the grave, healing from the torture and gunshot and the grief. It devastated her. Consumed her. Rage was a constant in her green eyes, during that year after Scott’s funeral. Despite surviving, something in Freyja died, that night. And eighteen months after Scott Connelly’s tragic death,  Thomas Wolff was found dead in his apartment. Freyja spent an entire night washing the blood off her hands.

After, when years have passed and she stands in Manhattan, her mistakes behind her – She tips her head back, letting the cold rain hit her skin. Her eyes close, and Freyja breathes in deeply, holding the air in her lungs. It tastes of mist, of mud and wet grass — And new beginnings. Her mother moved the company to New York, and Freyja is all too happy to not be caught up in much of the business.

On occasion, one finds oneself immersed in trouble. It destroys, it burns, and it consumes – like flames, from a wildfire. When the fire dies out, a tempest is born. Such is the Skjeggestad way. They destroy everything in their path, simply for the joy of watching the world burn under their touch. Not the biggest fishes in the pond, the Skjeggestad’s, but the ones that stand brighter than most. Their money, their clothes, their glamour. They act as if they are gods. But there’s nothing divine about divinities, in the end. Freyja Skjeggestad is a poetically broken little thing. And oh, how she makes tragedy look so magnificent.

Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.

      You still get to be the hero.

Freyja Skjeggestad looks appetizing at first glance, but it takes only one bite to discover the horrendous pain she can inflict. Much like a ceramic fruit. Or a rotten one, painted with vivid colors to mimic something delicious. Perhaps not a good comparison, but one that gets the point across; Freyja  Skjeggestad is a vile beautiful thing. Her smile, charming and kind – if at times cocky, serves only to hide the monster underneath. If one looks closely, its shadow can be seen dancing near the surface, threatening to break free. It shows in her smiles, always a tad too sharp; in her words, sounding honey-like but laced with sarcasm or hostility; in how she tantalizes women with empty promises of eternal love and fortune. She has no qualms about spilling blood, if necessary.

It is well known Freyja is a charmer, one that only truly cares about her own needs, her own pleasure and bank account. Her words are lies, that she mastered to lure poor souls to her bed or to sign business deals. She gloats over her enemies failures. And, at times, pull the rug out from under an ally. Of course, for as long as she is gaining something, Freyja can be fiercely loyal. That changes easily, however, if someone pays her better.

Freyja offers cheap thrills to please people; orgies in her penthouse, gambling in her casino, lavish parties with an abundance of sweet honeyed wine. Ecstasy. She pulls people so deeply into her mess, it becomes nearly impossible to crawl out. For her own delight, of course. Freyja adores attention, loves when all eyes are on her. She has an ego the size of the world, if not bigger. Her posture is of a queen, even when she is but a pawn in a game she doesn’t care for.

BULLET POINTS

With a short temper and high tolerance for pain, Freyja often finds herself in fights, not afraid of punching someone – or getting punched.

She is vain. Extremely so. The type who has a cane, wear silk robes, and sunbathes naked up in her penthouse.

Despite her cold personality, Freyja has some quirks and habits, that only who she trusts get to see; she flinches at noises, her eyes hurt when the lights are too bright, she often fidgets and squirm in the presence of a crowd, and many more.

Freyja hadn’t had many friends, and she still doesn’t have them. She keeps to herself, most of the time, preferring her own company than those of others.

However, with people she trusts,  she dances between to lines with ease; she can be so quiet one moment no one would guess she was in the room, and in the next, she would be babbling a lot and being the light in the room.

Babbling is a thing she does a lot. She sometimes talks too fast, her words blending together and being barely understandable. Other times, she talks too slow, as if she needs to remember how a word is pronounced.

Which, does not match with her personality – But, most of the time she is talking about money or violence, which is more in character.

She can actually be sweet, she just chooses not to.

Freyja is the black sheep of the family; her mother is cruel, but she is not maniacal like Freyja. Her father, despite his many sins – mistresses, corruption, dirty money – wasn’t cruel, when he was alive.

Freyja betrayals people, a lot. It has gotten her in trouble more often than she would like to admit. Freyja definitely got stabbed a few times, and because of pure lucky she survived, and kept the daggers.

But truly, she is not a loyal person. The only person Freyja has ever been loyal to is herself and those who she deems a good friend.

She is pretentious, but cunning.

Is always watching and studying people.

Says fuck and darling a lot.

Has some scars she hides, some she shows with pride.

She lives to annoy and piss people off.

Nathaniel Bremmer, aka Nathan or Nate is a 35 year old FBI agent

Born and raised in Brooklyn his dad was a best cop and his mum a chef.

He had a fairly normal and happy childhood until he was 9

His dad put a notorious gang member in prison

Some other members came after Nates mum as pay back. They murdered her on her way home from work.

This drove Nate’s dad almost to the point of insanity he became obsessed with his work and put most of them away before being killed in the line of action when Nate was 15

After that he was out in the system,!no one wants to adopt a teenager so he aged out

This pushed Nate into wanting to be a cop too, so he could help find justice not just for himself but for all families

While he was a cop he quickly rose to the top in every field and a man from the fbi came and recruited him to work for them

He is now an FBI agent and has been part of many task forces

Bio

Born in London, Coralia (or Cora) was given the best of life from her parents, leading her and her older sister to do whatever activities they wanted. This introduced Cora to dancing when she was two, falling in love, immediately.

Every summer for eight years, Cora was given the chance to train in Paris with the ballet company’s instructors and choreographers, giving her the edge in ballet.

At sixteen, her parents decided to pick up and move to New York for her father’s job, leading Cora to get used to a new surrounding as well as finding a ballet school that matched her needs.

Life changed completely at eighteen, her parents dying in a car accident. It took a lot for Coralia to adjust to a new life without the people who supported her and her sister. With luck, she got accepted into Juilliard for dance, promising herself that she would achieve her goals in honor of her parents.

Once she graduated Juilliard, the dancer decided to audition for American Ballet Theatre, getting accepted into the company. She is still a part of it to this day, dreaming of becoming a choreographer later in life.

Personality

Cora is very free spirited when she’s not in rehearsals or on the stage. Her personality was considered to be a light in a room to other people.

She is very dedicated to ballet, dancing almost all the time, even when she doesn’t need to.

hey guys !! im len or lenny, and im terrible at introducing myself so im gonna go ahead and skip to the bullet point bio xoxo

james moved to england when he was fairly young (about eight), but would often visit the states until he had to officially move back for his education

he comes from a wealthy family with a decent income, so as far as struggling, he hasn’t much- at least not financially. his parents were happy to let him do whatever - until they found out “whatever” was creative writing anyways. but he couldn’t be swayed, so here we are.

he detests anything (and always has) anything to do with numbers. he’s always loved short tales/stories and poetry - somehow speaking through metaphors made it easier to express himself.

he published his first book with poems when he was 19, and since then his name has been getting around. 

he’d always been a creative- if not hyperactive, boy, that was too curious for his own good.

literally never knows what fucking day of the week it is

used to live w hale in brooklyn until his wife decided to leave him for better things

hale refuses to move back in with him ?? which is outrageous.

doesn’t sleep like a proper human being. it’s not even insomnia, he just drinks coffee until he cant anymore and his brain shuts down

used to have really bad sleep paralysis during his teen years, but it has since passed

he writers poems about the most mundane things and is overly dramatic about anything and everything. if he can dramatically turn from a chair as you walk through the door - he will.

he stole a bunny from a lab once. he got attached and she now lives w him. he named her hale and calls her his muse.

clearly he has issues

he actually gets along with his parents, but he’s very poor at communicating

he doesn’t like to be alone for long periods of time, but he also isn’t someone who needs to be around crowds all the time. he prefers to have at least one friend at arm’s length to make sure... you know- he won’t cut off all the sleeves from his shirts on impulse or something.

his dating profile is... a series of unfortunate events.

that was until he dated lara - when he was 16-17. he wasn’t really in love, at least he doesn’t think he was. they were together for six years before she finally ended things because he couldn’t bring himself to. it’d been a relationship that existed because it was comfortable and easy, and once it was over he felt drained and disillusioned. he hasn’t been in a relationship since.

his type is “emotionally unavailable”

sometimes he will literally start quoting edgar allan poe so ppl will leave and let him rest in peace