#qayin

Cain (073) -pansexual -i like to see him as big and hairy (like a bear) and also absurdly strong. -he's self-conscious about it and is only fine with people making light jokes about it if he's close with them. -genderfluid. -he realized it during the middle ages and stayed closeted for a while before teasing with it in the 1920s and then fully coming out in the 2010s -sometimes they like to be called cimrin (shout out to my moot on insta who gave me the name, i will forever yearn your abel art) -he's surprisingly really good at make-up even though he will tell you that he's never touched make up in his life

Abel (076) -Aroace (obviously) -i dont got much for him -hes perfect the way he is ❤️ -oh yeah he doesnt gaf about gender n pronouns so he doesn't mind what you call him as long as you arent being an a-hole and provoking him -he has an SCP-9687-OC instance (an scp i thought of) that he geniusly named udu (sumerian for sheep). it's like a buddy and helps him with emotions. -he is very knowledgeable about the dc and mcu because, when he can get his hands on some, he will read some comics. -its easier for him to remember general memories after he dies then it is to remember instant memories (??, like its harder for him to remember who just killed him, he just remembers the general area)

Hevel (7376 a) -transgender (ftm) -You actually can't tell he's trans and at this point he's basically cis cus you know nälkä n ion n all that glitter -He was in a polycule with ion and lovataar -he first found out about 2191 (lovataar) and was devastated and then hit rock bottom when he found out about 7354 (ion's resting place) -he was depressed for a LONG time but eventually got better (he's on a watch and on strict protocols when it comes to mentions of ion and the klavigars) -he does hate his brother for taking literally EVERYTHING from him, but he tolerates having to hear qayin sometimes (unlike abel) -he first came out to qayin when they were younglings, then he came out to ion, then lovataar. -he stays to himself a lot and actually comes off as really calm and nice when he feel he needs to speak even though his demeanor makes him look like he's constantly mad. -this was confirmed by montagueetc (methinks) but he is a really good painter -i like to think he paints ion and lovataar whenever he can

Qayin (7376 c) -kinda like abel I don't have much for him -he's really sweet but sometimes will patronize you by complete accident -wise old tree having ahh -he uses forearm crutches almost equal to walking without them -he has a talking pet lizard because why not : ) -the lizard is like mr fish -he works at the front desk of Site-17's Archive. -he hangs out with cactusman a bit. -he talks lovingly about hevel, as if they were still totally good buddies and not enemies who work for opposing religions -he sees bumaro as his son, and even calls him his son, even though they're not blood related in anyway (bumaro refers to him as his teacher)

Time is a river I was thrown into, forbidden to drown. Centuries smooth the edges of a man, leaving only stone.

When I first met Elias, he was all fire and fragile glass. He was a young alchemist with hands stained by silver nitrate and eyes burning with the hubris of youth. He had studied my movements, noted my unaging face, and deduced my nature.

"Immortality," he whispered, staring at me as if I were the philosopher's stone incarnate. "Tell me how. I must have it."

"It is a cage without bars," I told him, my voice carrying the exhaustion of a thousand lifetimes. "Do not chase the horizon, boy. A fire burns fiercely only because it consumes its fuel. Live, love, wither, and rest. The beauty of the human experience is that it is fleeting."

Elias scoffed, turning back to his bubbling crucibles. "You speak like a man who has squandered his gift. If you will not teach me, I will find the way myself. I will conquer death."

I did not argue. Words are wasted on those intoxicated by the promise of tomorrow. I turned away, feeling the soft, unseen brush of fur against my ankle. Eloa, my little cherub hare, flicked her luminous, feathered ears. Elias couldn't see her—mortals blinded by their own ambition rarely perceive the quiet grace of the divine. With Eloa at my side, I walked out into the sun and resumed my wandering.

Sixty years is a mere breath to a wanderer.

When my path finally circled back to his cobblestone street, the world had moved on. The alchemist's house, however, had not. It was a rotting carcass of wood and stone, the windows boarded tight with heavy planks to block out the sky.

I pushed open the heavy oak door. The laboratory reeked of ozone, decay, and stagnant blood. In the far corner, a brittle husk of a man cowered beneath a heavy velvet cloak. As a sliver of daylight slipped past my boots, he shrieked—a frail, wretched sound, scrambling desperately away from the sun's golden reach. He had found a way to cheat the grave, it seemed, but only by making a tomb of his own home.

"You..." he rasped, his eyes milky and sunken, his body too frail to even stand. "You are still the same."

"I am," I said, my voice heavy with pity. Eloa hopped onto a dusty, rotting tome, her warm golden aura entirely invisible to the miserable creature before us. "And you are still here. But at what cost?"

"I survived," he wheezed, clutching his cloak. "I beat time."

I knelt, ensuring he could hear the absolute truth in my words. "You sought to freeze the sands of the hourglass, Elias, and instead, you buried yourself beneath them. You did not conquer death; you merely surrendered life."

He trembled, but I continued, my voice echoing in the stifling dark.

"Life draws its meaning entirely from its brevity. A symphony is beautiful because it has a final chord. A flower is cherished because tomorrow it will wilt. You traded the warmth of the sun, the bitter wind of winter, and the touch of a lover for a few more desperate, hollow breaths in the dark. You hoarded your time so fiercely that you forgot to spend it."

A single, dusty tear rolled down his pallid cheek. He had no argument left.

I stood up, pulling my cloak around my shoulders. "Rest, Elias," I whispered to the shadows. "If you still remember how."

Eloa fluttered her small wings and settled onto my shoulder. I turned my back on the 'immortal' alchemist, leaving the door slightly ajar so the fleeting, beautiful daylight could pour into the room.

The new chapter of "Sins of the Firstborn" is coming soon.

O Sigilo Chave em torno do Portal dos Mortos

O “Sigilo Chave em torno do Portal dos Mortos” é compreendido como um dos selos fundamentais que permitem a abertura controlada das passagens entre o mundo dos vivos e o domínio dos mortos. Ele não é apenas um desenho simbólico: é uma arquitetura espiritual, um mecanismo oculto gravado no plano astral e plasmado através do rito. Seu traçado contém vetores de atração e repulsão, mantendo a ordem entre forças cadavéricas, espíritos famintos e os Mortos Sombrios. O Sigilo Chave em torno do Portal dos Mortos tem como propósito manter o portal aberto e manter o poder do ponto limiar no centro do sigilo, que age como um caminho aberto entre os vivos e os Mortos Abençoados. Esse sigilo atua como tranca e chave ao mesmo tempo: sela o que deve permanecer no reino sepulcral e libera apenas aquilo que, por mandato ritual e pela vontade do operador, pode atravessar. É cercado de elementos ossíferos e inscrições de sangue, pois une as duas correntes maiores — a Linha Negra (dos Ossos) e a Linha Vermelha (do Sangue). O sangue serve de oferenda que desperta e alimenta, enquanto os ossos são o elo fixo, a âncora que liga o morto ao espaço sagrado. No contexto falxiferiano, o sigilo não é apenas um instrumento de necromancia, mas um selo de pacto: ao ser inscrito no chão do cemitério ou sobre o ataúde, o Portal dos Mortos se abre não de forma aleatória, mas segundo a ordem do Templo e da corrente 182. Ele é descrito como um círculo de poder que circunscreve o espaço do rito, tornando o necromante um guardião da passagem e não vítima da voracidade dos espíritos. O Sigilo Chave simboliza, portanto, o poder do Adepto em trazer a morte à fala, dar-lhe tarefas, ouvir-lhe os segredos, e depois dispersar os mortos de volta ao seu silêncio.

O sigilo do Portal dos Mortos é pintado em uma folha de papel, pergaminho ou outra superfície compatível, limpa, com tinta preta na qual tenha sido misturada cinzas de mirra e losna queimada. Ou então, o sigilo pode ser pintado ou marcado de outras maneiras em uma roda, uma plaqueta de argila ou madeira em forma de disco. Esta placa de argila ou madeira deve ser consagrada pela fumaça de incenso de mirra e losna, e o sigilo deve ser traçado com a tinta supracitada. Em alguns casos, quando um altar em madeira for usado, o sigilo todo pode ser entalhado ou pirografado no centro da mesa, que é consagrada pela aspersão de uma tintura forte de mirra e losna.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ My mother, I barely remember her. 

But, she was so beautiful…

The room is dim, lit only by the faint pulse of a bedside lantern, its glow casting long shadows that ripple like whispers across the stone walls.

Melisande lies beside her daughter, her head propped on one hand, humming a soft melody to ease the restless child. 

Talia clutches her mother’s free hand, her fingers small and insistent as they glide over the smooth skin of her arm, tracing the pale lines of veins beneath. “Ummi,” she whispers, her voice a tiny thread of sound, fragile in the quiet night. “Do the—”

She doesn’t need to finish. Melisande smiles, her lips curving with a tenderness that feels infinite. “Yes, my tigress,” she murmurs, her voice like a lullaby. Her trimmed nails trace invisible lines of comfort along Talia’s arm, soothing the child into a near-dreamlike calm. Talia closes her eyes, her breathing slowing, and finally, she is at rest.

Outside, the world shifts. The air seems to change, the warmth inside the room disrupted by the sharpness of something foreign. Melisande’s eyes snap to the window, her body tensing like a drawn bow.

A shadow darts past the open window—a flash of movement, fleeting yet undeniable. She sits up swiftly. A mother’s instinct overtakes everything else.

“Stay here, child,” she commands; her voice is firm, but kind, and Talia nods reluctantly – but as soon as her mother leaves, the pull of curiosity is too strong. Quietly, the girl slips out of bed, her bare feet padding softly against the cold floor as she follows.

From the shadows, Talia watches, peeking from the corner as Melisande follows the shadow into a room Ra’s al Ghul had long forbidden.

Her mother moves with the grace of someone who has known danger before. The heavy oak door creaks shut behind her, leaving Talia alone in the silent corridor.

She creeps further.

The air crackles with raised voices. The sound of a struggle follows—a crash, a clatter of something heavy hitting the floor. Melisande’s voice is met with the stranger’s growling retort.

Talia’s small heart pounds in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears. Her tiny hands press against the door left slightly ajar.

Her mother screams.

The door flies open with a sudden, violent force, and the stranger bursts out, his figure a dark blur against the dimly lit hall. His wild eyes meet Talia’s for a brief, chilling moment. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the night as swiftly as he came.

Inside, the room is empty. Talia steps in, her breath caught in her throat. She hears it then—the distant splash. Her mother.

Her mother is in the pit.

Her scream pierces the stillness, shrill and shattering. It carries down the halls like a siren’s wail, reaching her father. But, when Ra’s al Ghul arrives, it is already too late.

Melisande is in the pit, her body swallowed by the waters.

“Beloved?” His voice wavers.

She is gone.

Ra’s kneels by his daughter, his hands trembling as he cups her tear-streaked face. 

Talia’s grief is wild, unrestrained. She pounds her small fists against his chest, her cries rising like a storm. “You’re not Ummi!” she wails, her voice cracking under her sorrow. “I don’t want you—I want her!”

He doesn’t flinch. Ra’s wipes her tears with the sleeve of his robe. His the look in his eyes, usually so sharp and unyielding, is haunted now, darker than ever. What can he say? What words could ever mend the gaping wound left in both their hearts? How does he explain a loss that has hollowed him to his core?

Melisande is dead. She leaves nothing behind. Her love, her laughter, her warmth is gone.  Her spirit lingers only in their memory – a trace of her existence.

Her scent taunts the rotting stench deep within his heart. Her silken fabrics hang untouched, unfit for the jagged thorns of the life she left behind.

It twists the knife of grief into his chest.

To the world, Ra’s al Ghul is the Demon’s Head. The League’s Master. A warrior forged in flame and fire, etched in legend.

His servants fear for Talia; they do not know what will become of her.

But tonight, he is only Baba.

That night, when sleep eludes her, when the silence of her room becomes suffocating, and the shadows seem alive with whispers, Talia slips out of bed.

She runs.

Barefoot and clutching the blanket her mother once stitched, across the darkened halls, she runs, her small feet ringing in the vast emptiness, until she reaches the door to her father’s chamber.

She bangs on it with all the strength her little hands can muster.

Ra’s opens the door. His gaze softens at the sight of her – trembling, her eyes red-rimmed. She looks up at him.

“She’s not coming back, is she? Ummi,” Talia asks – her voice is steady, but each word is a plea for the truth she already knows.

He kneels, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. For a long moment, he hesitates – the truth is too much for even him to bear. The words are caught somewhere between his heart and his throat.

“You’re all I have left,” 

She doesn’t reply.

And though grief looms over them like a cloud that refuses to lift, he gathers her in his arms. 

For tonight, at least, they face the void together.

She remains so, in our hearts, daughter.

Never forget that.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

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𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯

𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔯

𝔚𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔞𝔩𝔢 𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔬𝔫 𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔰

𝔗𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔫-𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯, 𝔰𝔠𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔢𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔯

𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔱'𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔨

𝔅𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔩𝔢𝔣𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔩𝔩

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔫 ℑ 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔯

𝔖𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔡, 𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔱

𝔗𝔬 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔩𝔢𝔡𝔤𝔢

𝔅𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥'𝔰 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔩 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡

𝔉𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡

𝔄𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔪𝔫 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔨𝔲𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰

𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢

𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡

ℑ𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥

𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔫𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔢𝔰

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰

𝔄𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔢𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔡 𝔞 𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔔𝔞𝔶𝔦𝔫