#devcontest

legacy of BUBILAS

also known as the former lithuanian divinity of BEES.

currently LUCIDLY (un)aware of this peternatural identity.

so lives in new york's CHINATOWN as it's local favorite BEEKEEPER and MEADERY OWNER.

as iko avilys, autistic savant, studying a master in ENTOMOLOGY, minor mellitology, at NYU.

born from the union of a famous ASIAN-AMERICAN psychiatrist, and a LITHUANIAN minor businessman.

ophelia shay villaire is a walking, talking disaster. born as an exact replica of two other twin sisters, she’s always struggled with finding an identity. for the majority of her life, she as well as her sisters, mother, and aunts have traveled the globe in a mobile caravan. a nomadic lifestyle was perfect for the ever impetuous ophelia, and one would think that she’d never grow bored.

idle hands were, in fact, the devil’s playground and the middle triplet had often found herself without anything to do. her affinities for magic had taken longer than usual to manifest themselves. by the time she was thirteen, both of her sisters had already learned basic spells and spent a lot of time practicing them with their older relatives. ophelia, on the other hand, had remained barren of any abilities for much longer than her twins. while her sisters were perfecting their craft, ophelia seethed with envy and spent a lot of time locking herself in her room.

convinced that the gene had skipped out on her entirely, ophelia began to begrudgingly accept life as a normal human. however, once the witch reached age seventeen, the magic in her veins transpired all at once. it was overwhelming, but ophelia was too eager to care. some might say that she went a bit too crazy with her new tricks, but ophelia was just making up for lost time. she used magic whenever she could on whoever she wanted. she became reckless and impulsive, despite the countless warnings from the other villaire’s she resided with. 

SPELL IT OUT. – TW: WAR VIOLENCE ⤷ an old, french line spun by aristocrats in a grandiose light. every year of childhood granted a continuity of fighting at long, laced skirts with sage and lavender wafting through a much too big house. he doesn’t know what a man is cut from [ he does– cowardice, flight-tendencies, a boy murdered ] a house of four, but fitting for forty at the very least. a manor that’s cast its denunciatory glare at the top of its hill, seemingly impregnable, for hundreds of years past. closest to the mountains, the very periphery where it was easy to fade from reality, many times parker found himself swept away by some gentle lullaby of an older era, one filled with hope yet tinged by apprehension. mother swore she’d raise him right, ella too, even the moppy-haired intruder that looked a little too like him, calls himself aidan. fashioned from the same cloth, all from the same purgatory, a state of being and not before brought here, reshaped, to maluma. his entire presence was molded by strong women and stronger still, and he both hated and loved them for that. catty women with raven hair, eyes that were cut from an alchemist, surely, complementary to angled faces and hollowed cheeks. odd, never even with the rest.

this is what he knows, unity. and there is one thing he’s not, subservient. an existence shrouded by what way natures breath lulled beneath the feet, in the belly of a rapacious world. humanity, while complex and both mundane, was an aspect of parkers life that would be immovable; consisting of a line both darkness and light, but never dormant, encroaching. so he lifted his heel and stepped into a tepid darkness, nothing the eyes nor mind couldn’t adjust to. it began with spreading himself thin over two domains: war and home. a split of stark red and ivory, a metamorphosis that only a stubborn youth could conjure and begin. muddy greens of camaraderie ushered him in soon after enlistment, and although he walked in unscathed, the heart would surely face scarring under searing shrapnel– coupled by the sickly prayers curling off a dying mans tongue, the pulp of youth saturating fields for miles. it was a curious step, composed, that brought him there and it was one that carried him out. into the light, out from the dark.