#cs.au

Name: Morpheus, son of Hypnos (Tristan) Sexual Orientation: Pansexual Occupation: Lead vocalist of the band Oneiros, musician, secondary guitarist Date of Birth: 21st of January Place of Birth: The Underworld (although he’ll say New Orleans, Louisiana, USA) Languages Spoken: In order to communicate with every human on Earth, he has the ability and the knowledge of every spoken human language. However, he’ll say that he’s fluent in French, English, and Ancient Greek. Accent: American (Cajun), although it’s just part of his cover. Face Claim: Colin O’Donoghue

Hair Colour: Black Eye Colour: Blue Height: 5’11 Weight: 168 pounds Build: Muscular Distinguishing Features: Indistinct tattoos of dragons and leviathans that snake up and around his forearms and chest. Extra ear piercings, eyebrow ring.  Tendency to wear stage makeup like kohl around his eyes even off stage.

Positive Traits: Charismatic, Intelligent, Iconoclastic Negative Traits: Reckless, Hedonistic, Unfocused Hobbies: Pool, Gambling, Poetry Slams

He has a white Fender Stratocaster which is his baby

This is not the first time that Morpheus has come onto Earth in disguise. He first took strides into the human world during the time of the Ancient Greeks, but has made effort to arrive in a different disguise and under a different name every century, as he’s long been fond of humanity.

 Drives a lime green Beetle he’s nicknamed the Dream Machine

Claims to live back in the States in Los Angeles, is on a Eurotour. 

He has a Hello Kitty keychain that he picked up in a stint in Tokyo.

Name: Loki, son of Farbauti and Laufey.  Nickname: Lord of Chaos, Prince of Lies Sexual Orientation: Pansexual Occupation: Chief editor of Chaos Ventures, magazine devoted to all things haute couture.  Date of Birth: 24th of March Place of Birth: The Jötunheimr, although he’ll say Oslo, Norway.  Languages Spoken: Norwegian, Danish, Swedish, English, French.  Accent: Soft, cultivated French, with only a hint of his ‘native’ Scandinavia. 

Face Claim: Mads Mikkelsen Hair Colour: Brown Eye Colour: Hazel Height: 6 feet Weight: 181 pounds Build: Slender, strong Distinguishing Features: Has an ouroboros (snake biting its own tail) on his left pectoral, wears a simple amber ring. Dresses in three-piece suits, tends to incorporate a simple silk scarf somewhere in his outfit.  Positive Traits: Alluring, Sophisticated, Ambitious Negative Traits: Selfish, Materialistic, Reserved Hobbies: Gossip, Fine food and drink, literature, fashion. 

The story is that he made his way as a young fashion designer into the cutthroat world of Parisian fashion, eventually hired into Vogue, from which he split over creative differences to take a few different positions before creating Chaos Ventures. His background is said to be impoverished, but he got along by hard work, drive, and learning French at night. 

He has access to the most powerful people in the city, dressing the wealthy and the famous. He also is known to donate quite a bit to the city’s less fortunate, and is an accomplished chef on the side. His dinner parties are lavish and legendary. 

This is not his first identity, which he switches every few centuries. He is drawn to power, but inevitably becomes bored, at which time he moves on to another life, and another world. 

“I WOULD RATHER DIE OF PASSION THAN BOREDOM” -VAN GOGH | Mads Leclair | Ravenclaw | Metamorphmagus

Morpheus dwelt in abstractions, messy, contradictory pieces of information that burst from the cage of a mind like so many flowers. This was far more physical than he usually indulged in, but sometimes, he liked to test the extent of this mortal body, liked to feel something as simple and grounding as skin against bag, as the pounding of his borrowed heart. It wasn’t something he needed to do, he could quite happily avoid most forms of exercise and still shape his body like clay to the changing desires of the times, but he liked it all the same. Partook because it took his mind off the whirrings of the universe and the sweet aching of human hearts, and because it was where he was most likely to find his lead guitarist.

Most of the time, he spent lifting weights, aping at a necessity to build aesthetically pleasing arms, but this time, he wanted to try something different. He was stripped to the waist, casually showing up the soft swirls of black ink that lined and marked his skin. Leviathans and beasts of legend curled and writhed and stalked across his muscular back and arms as he stood like a spark of chaos, arms crossed in front of his chest and hands wrapped. Pointedly ignoring the occasional whisper of attention that came from a sudden sighting of someone who knew him from the Oneiros’ performance,  he focused his sights on the young man across from him. The electricity of divinity arced off his skin like a trapped flame, caught his eye and curiosity.

Soft classical music penetrated the air, along with the delicate scent of roasting meat. His back was turned to the door as it opened, busy over the oven. With his graceful movements, there was still something regal about the way that he held himself despite the domesticity of oven mitts. He removed the roast, placed it to cool, and turned with a polite nod to greet his visitor. “Alexandre,” he addressed him in French, curiosity lingering in his expression. He removed the oven mitts and strode forward to clasp his visitor’s hand, a light, direct shake. His own hand was slim, long-fingered and bore the recent evidence of a manicure.

Even at home, it was clear why he was renowned for his impeccable taste and why he was trusted for setting the aesthetic tone for the elite of Paris. Despite his age - he could have appeared to be between forty and mid-fifties - he was meticulously turned out, dark hair combed and showing only a few delicate strands of silver, trousers ironed and although he was bereft of a suit jacket, his simple silk shirt and vest combination cost more than an average salaryman made in a year. That remarkable shirt was rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms.

He strode into the bar like Moses parting the tides, flashing white teeth in response to something mentioned by the willowy blond on his arm. When he laughed, his laughter was bright and uncomplicated, and turned heads to him in its genuine joy. There was nothing manufactured about him, but for as much information as he gave, mystery clung to him tightly as the leather jacket tossed carelessly over broad shoulders. His eyes, a startling blue dark-rimmed with kohl, sparkled obscenely. His words were soft as kisses, each bestowed lovingly, and it was simple to think that each syllable were a domino, each one placed just so and resting like tired soldiers back from war until an almost careless flick of his fingers brings them all crashing down, but he was more complex that that. 

Unlike many of his brethren, he preferred to mingle with the humans who he inspired, enjoying the peace or chaos that he strew in his wake. A long time ago, he was messenger of the Gods, well known for his gifts at copying human kind. He had been there since the beginning after all, had granted these little hairless apes with both soft joy and sharp warning. The night was when he worked and when he felt most alive. Whilst the other Gods had to find their worship where they could, he soaked up the hopes and the tragedies of Mankind and in them took his nourishment. For he was old - older than the Titans, and no longer a messenger save for what messages he wanted to give.

Night was when he worked, when he felt the most alive. They had had a heart-stopping set that afternoon, sold out, and why not? They shared the kindest of illusions, where a stadium of people could hold their breaths for a moment and be transported elsewhere - the illusion of freedom was theirs. Why wouldn’t they adore him when his light voice rang out across the air and inspired all kinds of flights of fancies, when he released their burdens and fears from them? He sang, and he played, and for a moment, all was well. The Oneiros was, to no one’s surprise, again, a smash hit in Europe and elsewhere. Eventually, he would tire of his game of musicianship, would bid farewell to Apollo, and drift elsewhere again, but for now, their dreaming gave him what he needed.

And so he laughed, and so he flirted, and signed autographs. Stood patiently for photographs until his eyes stung.