NAME. Pandora AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her. SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Worker at Woven & Volunteer at Porus FACE CLAIM. Zorzo Natharuetai Akkharakitwattanakul

biography

Pandora’s existence begins amidst the flames of the Abyss. 

Born from Vulcan’s forge, she is a prototype for mankind but not one of them.

Never one of them. 

The blueprint to Lilith, Eve, and every woman that came after, and yet she cannot be counted amidst their numbers. 

She was never expected to be anything else than the first masterpiece, the first creation that leads to a thousand future vessels for the gods, meant to be set on the shelf and be left alone forever more. Not a true mortal, not a true daughter of the Gods, yet all gifted nonetheless. A lifelong companion in the shape of an avariel that understood animals better than people, a beauty to compare to the gods and a jar of wonders that she was asked— no tasked— to never open. 

Created, not born, Pandora was an unnatural distillation of the cosmos and as such held a great curiosity by what was natural, what was meant in a way that she was not. Not a denizen of the light, nor one who walks the dark, she found forever at the borders between both, never quite belonging to either, neither quite fitting in. Curious by creation and akin to her godly creator, her intelligence shone in a way no other talents except those gifted by the gods did. 

Not a warrior, but a lifelong learner, not a dancer but a patient weaver. 

Entirely unlike the Gods, but far too precious to be discarded for her very existence held the key to the creation of humanity. 

Pandora came into being under Vulcan’s careful hands and dedication. Outside of Vulcan’s forges as the sanguine elf elevated to god worked on his creation, outside of Elysia as disinterested gods mulled around and prepared for a new realm and the new vessels that would come with it, seraphim fought against the Great Old Ones residing on the realm Ulthar had chosen to conquer. Pandora was not made for that realm, no, the pleasure would fall to her successors, to the complete masterpieces given free will by Prometheus’ rebellion. 

Pandora was not made for the mortal realm. 

She wasn’t made for anywhere, never meant to go anywhere but the forge she was created in. And yet, she was given a privilege like no other: she was allowed to watch what would never be hers. 

She was far too young to understand the seeds of bitterness and resentment planted upon her chest as she watched Laurelin and Telperion grow. Too young and ignorant to understand the mockery hidden behind the gifts given to her by the gods.

Pandora was too young to understand that one should never trust the gift of the gods. 

Until she did, far too late for it to matter. 

Created and thrown into Eden without any experience to hold to her name and with nothing but what she was taught to guide her, Pandora took to this new world with a sense of childish wonder as she went off to explore, arms always wrapped around her jar as if it was her lifeline. 

She doesn’t know how true that is. 

Through it all, her only constant was the jar she felt an enduring attachment to, the jar gifted to her by Vulcan — the man that she would grow to see as a distant father as she discovered the meaning to the word —, the jar that picked and prodded at her ever curious nature as she fought the urge to do as she was asked and not open it. 

In the end, she lasted longer than she thought she would, keeping the jar closed even as Eden’s destiny fell upon it and she stood at the edges, waiting, watching. 

Pandora stayed as Eden fell, as humanity died under the rebellion, all too curious to see the progress, all too curious and wanting to understand why would anyone do such a thing as the fallen did. She didn’t understand then, what it meant to hold fury against the gods in her heart, didn’t understand what it meant to be tricked and set aside by those that stood above.

With time, she would learn. 

With time, she would see the unfairness of the gods and their games. 

Pandora is just barely an adult, not yet grown unto herself, when Eden falls. She watches it fall, watches it burn, eyes curious and bright and yet pained at the misery she can see as the garden falls. Pandora is barely beyond a child, when she realizes she is one of the last Elysian left on the mortal realm.

She is alone. 

Alone with her jar. 

The jar she had wanted to open for so very long. 

Curiosity wins, and the lid comes off. 

Pandora opens her pithos.

 Pandora opens the jar she was told to never open. 

Pandora opens the box that contains all of humanity’s evils within.

The world is never the same. 

Not when in this universe, in this life, there is no hope left behind. 

Pandora opens her pithos, and with it, she loses the last vestiges of the innocence of her youth. 

Open and quickly sealed once more, that means nothing in the face of famine, plagues, curses and disease. These curses upon the universe had existed before she did, but it was by her hand she had returned them to Earth, by hers alone. 

It’s a burden she never forgets, not even as she takes her pithos and flees back to her father’s forge. 

A forge that she finds empty, the flames gone and the man she had seen as a father gone. 

She has no one to turn to with Prometheus bound and punished, Vulcan packed and gone. 

Pandora is left alone, given just enough to keep her complacent, given just enough to ensure their precious blueprint does not leave. 

But a house is not a home, when there is only one person to haunt its halls. 

Elysia is awfully lonely, when you don’t belong amidst the gods nor their chosen lovers. 

Elysia is awfully lonely, when you inherited your father’s  creator’s curiosity, but none of his skills on creation.

Elysia is awfully lonely, when your only place is on the shelf; like a forgotten porcelain doll left alone to gather dust. 

personality

+ Curious. Imaginative. Intelligent. – Insecure. Cynical. Resentful. 

NAME. Hyrsam AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Aspect / Archsatyr OCCUPATION. Mayor & Employed Everywhere FACE CLAIM. Carloto Cotta

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: cannibalism, death, violence, theatricality, emotion, performance, art ) At the feet of Corellon Lathander, Sehanine Moonbow bequeathed to him an oracle that would foretell the undoing of the Seldarine. A day would come when the blood of the green flames of Azathoth would fall upon Faerûn once more, and Corellon Lathander would be slain.

Vel'drav dúr híril thalran ilta ouhyll lu'l'Rraun fyshname ssark, vel'drav l'asse ithil lu'l'vlos drathir beleg; l'fa'la zatoast rosin d'vlos, d'diz'jalqunn lu'eldalie flames orn ku'lam. L'zhennu lorug withers, l'zhuanth tresk'ri tu'kath, l'xuz d'Seldarine lu'l'Kre'jin d'uss.

From this they divined that the promised son of Oberon would be responsible for bringing about the doom of the Seldarine. That the infant would grow into manhood, and he would raise an army from the court of the Dawn that would rebel against the Seldarine’s empire. As Ada laboured with her son; cataclysms fell across the realm and every curse accessible to the great forces of Corellon Lathander were lobbed at the realm of the elves who’d long taken Oberon as their patron over the Seldarine. The archfey, fearsome, powerful, and indomitable even in the face of an army of divinity, rose to defend his labouring mistress.

From her bowels the unborn child devoured, hungry, cursed, and spurned by the Gods above. Despite the efforts of the Seldarine, Hyrsam was born.

Clip. Clop.

Cloven hooves hit the earth, or at least the realm that would someday be called earth and from that day forth Hyrsam was born. Back when the world was new and the realm was down on its luck, Oberon’s perfect, red faced, screaming satyr came into the world. At his back was the gory mess that he’d devoured from the inside out, Ada was dead, but as an infant he hadn’t known any better. From the moment he was born, Hyrsam stood at full height, wobbly legs got him started, but soon after he was clopping after Oberon everywhere he went.

Hyrsam, twice born, adopted many names over the years but Dimetor was most often used when he was in his youth. Named for the curse that the Gods placed on him; just as Dimetor had consumed his mother on the way out, he himself would have to be devoured at the anniversary of his birth every year. A potent spell woven in blood and cast by Corellon Lathander himself, the assumption was that no father would ever be able to stomach the taste of their own son’s flesh. Unfortunately and not for the first or last time, Corellon Lathander had underestimated Oberon. Stubborn to the bone, he decreed that a great feast would be held every year, a celebration of celebrations, the Bacchanalia.

Year after year the young archsatyr grew and with it his power did as well, Oberon’s flames of creation flowed through his veins and at the height of the world he felt powerful. A mischievous trickster, he traipsed through the realms of the Gods and melded himself within the company of satyrs, nymphs and more. He lay with spouses, hosted orgies, incensed Gods into foolish and humiliating behaviour and then disappeared once more without a trace. He’d have the grandest feasts where he’d encourage mothers to eat their crying babies - no, he didn’t do that. Unless?

Tales of Dimetor’s exploits were rarely uttered; few Gods or nobles wanted to confess that they’d fallen for his tricks. Among the common elves across the Faerûn revered Dimetor as a cultural hero, a champion of the common plight that showed the evidence of the fallacy of divinity. His parties were not limited to the noble houses or the divine realms, he was found in the forests of the Otherworld, in the swamps of murkwood, and Dimetor or his many epithets came to be whispered to over every cup of drink or substance.

In time the Seldarine worked to beat Oberon and Dimetor at their own game, while Oberon took great amusement from his son’s exploits, he never acknowledged this outright. He preferred battles and upfront confrontation to illusions and deception. Spies from the Gods worked their weaves through the Dawn Court and eventually had the people who once worshipped Oberon turn their backs on him. The archfey lost their patronage and he was exiled from the realm before he could be given Titania’s hand in marriage. Furious at this loss, Oberon and Dimetor departed to a fallen realm that had been cast into the Astral Sea with the rising spellplague.

Again and again Dimetor would return though, like genital warts he proved to be difficult to get rid of. The Seldarine fought against the Great Old Ones, the spellplague rose, and inevitably they were chased from Arvandor as well. Absent Oberon and his forces to help them in their fight, their prophecy seemingly self fulfilled as Dimetor followed the tribe of elves from Hyperborea to the land that would be the mortal realm once more. Masquerading as a simple satyr who now served the stinky, false satyr King, Silenus. It was here that he found himself in Eden where he fornicated frequently and ate people rarely. True to his needs, in secret Dimetor established the Bacchic Mysteries, a cult of worship that pervaded the first people and would follow them into the ancient world.

Across the realms Dimetor travelled, different shapes and different forms, his father’s power over the green flames of creation at his fingertips. In one guise or another, the Underdark, Arvandor, Elysia, the Inferno, Elysium, Skyhome, and so many more. Collector of stories and lies, it was in the depths of Menzoberranzan’s royal court that he met the wyvern revenant, the hand of the Queen that was a conquest first and then a lover second. It wasn’t in Dimetor’s nature to love, and yet the stoic riddle maker captivated him; the truth of his identity revealed: Sehanine’s predictions clear, Dimetor travelled between the Underdark and the mortal realm as he gleefully paraded about the annals of history.

The beauty of Dimetor’s worship was that he was just another face in the crowd, fennel wands with tipped pine cones dipped in honey, pan flutes, feathers, and the hides of animals: leopard was a favourite. His followers were everywhere, people from the lowest classes loved him first but in time Dimetor was considered fashionable as Dionysus was adopted into the noble and the ruling classes. Soon he pervaded the many spaces of the rising classical world before falling out of vogue once more.

Embarrassment at Rome saw Dimetor replaced; when he returned to Oberon’s domain, he’d chosen a new heir. A second son, one who didn’t fornicate with every creature that held the mental capacity of something humanoid or greater. One born without a curse over his name or an oracle hanging over his head; it was no matter though, Dimetor and Oberon had once lost the faith of the Dawn Court; he’s take their favor for himself and then use it to devour his father just as he’d done his mother. Now that would be hilarious. First, Dimetor would need an assistant, Elmas was between jobs and came highly recommended. The Assistant was incredibly skilled, and in short order, he claimed the title of Mayor of Rome - and next? The world… Or something like that.

Clip. Clop. Hyrsam would never stop.

PERSONALITY

+ charismatic, charming, entrepreneurial – deceitful, cannibalistic, hedonistic

NAME. Ganymede AGE & BIRTH DATE. 5648 & April / 1st / 3625 BCE GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Nick Jonas

BIOGRAPHY

Born beautiful, Ganymede’s birth was heralded by the courts of men and fey alike. The spare to the heir, the expectations placed upon Ganymede’s shoulders were few and far between. Someday he’d marry and someday he and his bride would be King and Queen of Dardania while his elder brother went off to found Troy. It wasn’t like ruling was particularly hard, his father, Tros always made it look incredibly easy; it certainly helped that few people ever really argued with Ganymede. Not only was he a prince but he was a beauty so rare that the Gods themselves turned their heads to watch him as he walked on by. Accompanied him in the breeze that filtered by as he wandered up Mount Ida, looked up from the stones below as Ganymede danced and twirled ashen spears with the meiliai. Overhead oversized, enchanted eagles named rocs circled and watched while the prince among the nymphs twirled and somersaulted in his chiton.

Supreme in his appeal, Ganymede’s natural charm and allure attracted both mortals and supernaturals from far and wide. Many approached King Tros for his son’s hand, for the chance to rule over Dardania alongside the future King, but no matter who Ganymede was affectionate towards, no one was ever good enough. His father demanded the perfect match, but as the prince grew he wistfully hoped for the sort of love that would rewrite the stars. Fey sang of unending yearning, friends that told him the rich stories of the past - particularly the great romances of the ages. Ganymede wanted so badly to have the chance to choose for himself, but the decision and the power was always in Tros’ hands.

Ida was where the prince spent his days, the lazy summers upon the summit were where he would look across the horizon and confess all the things that he was too afraid to say to his father. Or to anyone who, despite their obvious affection for Ganymede, would immediately go running to tattle on the prince’s true heart. He spoke to the sky and to the wind, to the birds that circled overhead until one roc seemed to take particular interest. It grew closer each day as if the young prince was earning its trust, in the canopy of a tree, on a lower branch, on a rock nearby. Eventually the full form of the great Zeus, King of the Gods stood in front of him. The weight of his divinity was blinding to look upon and it was all Ganymede could do to avert his eyes before they were burned from his skull. All too quickly the prince fell to his knees in subjugation, worshipping at the altar of the divine.

For King Tros, no one had ever been good enough for his youngest son, but who was he to deny the will of a God? If not Zeus, then who? Taken by the roc, Ganymede left Ida and Dardania behind as his new life started in the realm of the divine, splayed beneath the weight of a God who now introduced himself as Ulthar. His children, the stuff of biblical legends were now Ganymede’s children, the new King of the divine realm, the former prince of Dardania was filled with Ulthar’s divinity. Taken and blessed, their passionate love affair was biblical in essence, unyielding as Ganymede took to his new role of house-husband and stay-at-home-father with great vigour. His story was a love story for the ages, deified by the Greeks as the God of homosexual male love, he would look down from the clouds as Ulthar had all those years ago and discreetly conspire to make lovers what they needed to be in any given moment. A little bit kinder, a little bit more patient, love was the answer to all life’s struggles and he wanted everyone to be as overcome with it as Ulthar had made him.

Loneliness returned in the form of discontent, an empty nest that used to be so full of children that Ganymede hardly knew what to do with them all. With all their eyes and all their wings, their absence made the divine realm feel cold, and very very boring. Left in charge by Ulthar, the potent stepfather decided he would take it upon himself to heal the broken family through the most powerful force in the universe: love. He would love these seraphim so hard that they’d have no choice but to get together again.

PERSONALITY

+ giving, taking, switch – submissive, breedable, needy

NAME. Níðhöggr AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Queensguard  FACE CLAIM. Charles Michael Davis

biography

( tw death, blood, gore, corpses ) A story of inherited darkness, Nidhogg is the omen told of malice and misfortune, his is the story which commands those who hear it to stray from evil and cherish goodness within. Lies spread of his history, misconstruing the malice striker as one who was born and raised upon the shores of Nastrond, when in reality he was once a mere dark elf, living alongside the other denizens of Álfheimr. The realm of the dark elves was associated with duty and Nidhoggr learned quickly how monotonous life could come when one’s only company was the slumbering Gods and the few dark elves that were left to enact guardianship over them. The frigid environs of Álfheim were where souls were cast as nourishment for Yggdrasil. Life was a balancing act, and it was Thanatos who ordered if they would be cast to the aether or if they would be at the mercy to slumber under Hypnos’ prowess. 

Nidhogg was warden of these creatures, a step below Hypnos who oversaw their Uthenera for both Gods and those of infernal upbringing. Thanatos and Hypnos were respective in their duty that was cast upon them by the Graeae, but Nidhoggr grew restless at their decree. It is a story of inherited darkness and as Hypnos wandered in the land of dreams, Nidhoggr feasted upon a slumbering Old One, enacting his betrayal. His fall was foretold by the Graeae and Nidhoggr, restless in his watchmanship over the slumbering Gods, the dark elf did not resist this fate of temptation and damnation; he drank the ichor with greed. 

Imbued with serpentine strength but banished to the roots of Yggdrasil, Nidhoggr writhed under and gnawed upon the tree with the same willful determination that convinced him to steal the ichor of a slumbering god. He would not wane under the test of time again but as his serpentine form writhed and twisted beneath the tree, so did his soul. Gnawing at its roots, if Thanatos and Hypnos were meant to garner balance for the realms with their decisions, then Nidhoggr would chew up the roots in the hopes that what the three wasted their lives upon would lead to chaos and imbalance. The shores of Nastrond were riddled with darkness, if Alfheim once cast a lightless sky, Nastrond was an obsidian apparition; nothing could compare to it nor the creatures it unearthed upon its shores.  

Treachery and betrayal wrought Nidhoggr's companions, but they were not meant for eternity on the shores as the dracaenae devoured creatures of shadow and light and spat them from his maw, heralding power and rulership over the Shore of Corpses. Malice striker and omen of a fall from grace, his mind was ravaged by the cyclical feasting upon the treacherous souls that found their ways to Nastrond. He was a relic as he writhed beneath Yggdrasil, unaware of the legend told of his fall, his loss of honor as oath breaker, and his punishment to chew upon the corpses of fellow oath breakers, too. 

Reclamation came at the order of Lloth, at the hands of Ayi’ig, as the spider goddess slipped into the shores of Nastrond and plucked out what creatures she saw best to do her bidding. The drow were considered maleficent creatures, riddled with evil and darkness, but to Nidhogg Ayi’ig was a healer, and most importantly, a friend. The dark elves of Alfheim had been bound together by duty, but Ayi’ig had set her sights upon the mindless monster beneath the world tree and sought to heal his mind, releasing him from invisible chains which had kept him gnawing upon its roots. The Graeae had foretold of his downfall but they had not garnered whispers of his rebirth. It was one thing to devote his time to an intangible belief, guarding over sleeping Gods beneath the command of ‘sacred oaths’. The Elder Gods held no ownership upon him, but Ayi’ig had released the serpentine dragon from his chains and a new oath and path was forged. 

Healing his fragmented mind imbued loyalty above all else in the dracaenae. Ayi’ig would ascend to a Queen and as a spider crafted their web, Lloth sent Ayi’ig the kindling to resurrect the slain elves of Hyperborea. They would be her advisers, serve as her infantry, but Nidhogg would be her dutiful queensguard. He watched as an empire was constructed of nothing, as darkness bled into chasms of exquisite power. Darkness that once lorded over him upon the shores of Nastrond became magnificent under the freewill given to the dracaenae in the Underdark. Ayi’ig was Queen and though he was ushered power from the ichor of a Great Old One, bolstered by the corpses he’d gluttoned upon, Nidhoggr kneeled dutifully to the Queen of the Drow, molded by her image. 

She conquered legions, constructed a city capital, commanded the drow under her guide and Nidhoggr served as her right hand, dutifully enacting that which she asked of him. Though the world crafted in the Underdark was clouded by ruthlessness, reverence of what was constructed before Nidhoggr’s eyes came naturally to the dracaenae. Crystalline structures jutted from darkness, limitless caverns stretching out far past what the eye could see; but Ayi’ig and her legions, Nidhogg included, descended upon the golems and mindflayers, commanded them to obey the Queen of Drow. Those who were not privileged to be directly under Ayi’ig perhaps could not romanticize the Underdark, nor the drow capital, but Nidhoggr had been used to constructing a home out of nothing. Alfheim had housed a restless dark elf, Nastrond had housed a mindless writhing beast, but Menzoberranzan homed a beast turned divine. 

Ayi’ig’s ambitions were infectious; though she had dominated upon the Underdark, crafted a society from what Lloth had gifted to her, it was the Otherworld that was her true sight. Under Ayi’ig’s command, Nidhoggr had come to learn of the truth that lay beneath her ambitions. The Otherworld was hers to rightfully rule and Nidhoggr, oath breaker no more, would come to his Queen’s aid to deliver what was rightfully hers to reign over. 

personality

+ Steadfast, dutiful, forthright  – Vindictive, merciless, myopic

NAME. Aytaç Durmaz ( Circe ) AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Owner of Çiçek FACE CLAIM. Hande Ercel

biography

Within the great halls of Elysia sat an obsidian throne, whose owner bore a power that was unmatched by so many, and a magnetism that seemed to draw in any who wished to hear stories of great wars waged within the mortal realm. None more so than a small child, whose eyes sparkled with wonder and excitement whenever those stories were shouted into the great halls, repeated again and again for any who might wish to listen, or whoever so happened to be caught within that orbit the man of divinity seemed to cast around him. It was within the shadows of that throne the small child hovered, an uncertainty that had her near but distant as she listened to her father, with a want nestled so deep within her that perhaps his command or allure may break apart and lend a small piece to her.

There had been nothing overtly special about Circe when she had been born within the proverbial halls of Elysia. Her beauty could not be whispered in songs or tales, her power no more so than any other that walked beside her, for perhaps the only thing that made her any fraction of special was that she had been born as Helios’ daughter. It had been through the ambrosia fed to her during infancy that found the ichor of the gods within her veins, an immortality that would see her through the changing of the realms and the rebellion of the angels. It had been a gift that Circe had treasured within those early years, finding solace in the notion that she was just as divine as those whose shadows she walked within, of her father, who kept her at his side through many different excursions.

It was one, however, that tainted the taste the ambrosia had left upon her tongue. Young only by certain standards, Circe had been made to watch as a judgment was dealt to a would-be titan, who had thought himself daring, or perhaps a savior, and the subsequent punishment that followed it. As blood spilled against the ground, again and again, a daughter of divinity came to understand that none were impervious of being flawed. Which followed the young elf throughout the years, from those that had found her within the shadow of her father’s throne, to the sides of her siblings as she watched them perform pharmakis intently. To even the moment as she watched Pasiphaë and Aeëtes follow Queen Yidhra to the moral realm, a place that she had visited only so seldom. For stories of war had kept her within Elysia, with a sharp gaze that wished only to admire the mortals from a distance, afraid of what may happen if she were to truly engage with any of them. 

Soon, it would be a distance that she would not be able to keep, for her punishment came swiftly upon the heel of her brother’s destruction. It had been in hushed tones that Perses had confided to her, of a flower that had grown from the blood of the titan that had been spilled by the Erinyes, one that was capable of turning any such creature into that of another. And it was with this flower that Perses had done the unthinkable, to a God nonetheless. The outrage had come in a blink of an eye, and before Circe could have uttered even the smallest of noises, she had watched as her brother had been destroyed. Ripped apart into nothingness, as if he had never truly existed by her side. And to ensure the understanding that no God could be crossed, Circe had been dealt an exile from the only home that she had ever known.

Into the mortal realm she had been cast, amongst a time that she had not been familiar with. The angels had rebelled, their punishments dealt and the Inferno created for those that wronged their fellow man or committed the unspeakable crimes that mortals feared so wholly. It was in this new age that Circe was forced to adapt, to understand the way of the mortals so that she may live peacefully amongst them, within her exile that would last until all the realms crashed in upon themselves. Separated from her father, and her mother, and all those that she had considered friends dealt a blow unlike anything that Circe had ever experienced. Yet, that cavern that had been created within her chest had soon been filled with the love that she had fallen into with a mortal man. One who had whispered of his wants of becoming a God, if only so that he may spend eternity by her side. 

Though powerful in her own respects, Circe had been foolish to love, to the ways of mortals and the feelings that had been too strong. It was with the knowledge of the flower that Perses had once used that found her love transformed into a light elf, just as she, so that they may spend eternity together. Or so she had thought. For divinity had always been flawed, and the moment divinity entered his blood, it was not she who he had run to, but instead Scylla. With a rage that she had inherited from her father, Circe enacted her revenge. It was to Scylla that she had bound the blood of an old god, it was to Scylla that she had transformed into a monster out of anger, out of jealousy, and out of hurt. And it was a punishment dealt by the soldiers of Ulthar that Circe had taken with a solemn look upon her features.

The island had been her prison, but it was her magic that made it her sanctuary, hidden away from the prying eyes of mortal men, save for those that she lured to its shores. And it was to those that chanced upon her throne that she gave her test. Tales of what men were capable of had flitted through history long before she had touched upon the mortal realm, and it was to those travelers that she baited. Were they honest men, or were they as untrustworthy as the one that she had given her heart to? And it had been those that failed her test that found themselves either killed with the potions she crafted, or as permanent fixtures upon her lands as the very swine that they were.

Year after year, more and more men traveled to the beaches of her shores, only to find themselves transformed into the very pigs that they had seen scattered about the beaches and the forest. Even a god or two found themselves intrigued enough to land upon her island, to see if the rumors of Circe, the exiled sorceress, had been true. It had been harsh and vile words that continued to scare off those that wished only to gossip, save perhaps for Hermes, who instead wished only to bring her news of Elysia, and the other realms that had remained hidden from her for all those years of exile. And gifts, in the form of a loom constructed by Vulcan himself, and a stave that had been imbued with the very flower that had seen her dear brother destroyed. And her own exile to the mortal realm.

To that island that had become her home, her sanctuary, until the necessity arose for her to step off of its shores. A promise had been made to return promptly, if Circe were granted the chance to help her sister deliver a baby, and granted she had been, before she had traveled to Crete, before she had helped to welcome in the little eladrin to the world. Yet it had not been enough time that she had received with her sister, with the one that would be her nephew, or with the simple notion of spending time anywhere other than Aeaea. Within the seemingly blink of an eye, Circe was back to those familiar shores, to that familiar forest, and to all those familiar little piglets that roamed the island’s expanse.

The years once more continued to pass by in blurs, with news of her brother’s dominion over Colchis, to the arrival of Medea and Jason, along with each of his Argonauts and the Golden Fleece. It would be familiar ties that had the pair cleansed of their crimes, and a warning from Circe in the ear of her niece. Yet just as soon as they had come, they were gone once more, leaving the elf to her avocations yet again. Until Odysseus arrived, with his men in tow, and he rivaled her in ways that she had not yet seen from a mortal man thus far. And so she had kept him at her side, educated him on all things divinity, from the Gods to the plants within her gardens, and what each one would be capable of. A decade soon passed, and with it, came the necessity to bid her newfound lover goodbye. Circe could not keep him any longer within her grasp, for while her years would be infinite, his would be numbered. And it was not with her that he belonged.

So to loneliness she returned, as the years yet again began to pass her by, until the seraphim became fewer and fewer, and the power behind the exile that had kept her rooted to the island weakened. As those numbers become scarce, Circe took her opportunity to finally be rid of the island that had been her prison, her sanctuary, her home. It was back into the world that she fled, hidden among the mortals that had progressed with the changing of the times, where she adapted to her new way of life. 

personality

+ Methodical, knowledgeable, humble – Calculating, spiteful, venomous

NAME. Harlow Daniels AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Venus Magister FACE CLAIM. Suki Waterhouse

biography

History marched on, wars happened, economies tanked, but she was a self made woman, she always had a full stomach and bed. In a way, she was above it all, the tragedies of mortals, free to be frivolous and have fun. In a way she did, she has lived what feels like a thousand lives. Each one is a little different, has her taking on a new name, a new identity, going to a new place. It is much like the world has become a stage and she is constantly parading herself upon it as someone new every couple of decades. She’d been a barmaid, she’d been a dancer, a seamstress, a shopkeep, a nurse, whatever she liked and so she never got bored. Lonely sure, she’d also been the wife, lover, girlfriend, ‘side piece’, best friend, confidant, trusted advisor, shoulder to cry on, mortal enemy, she has held many a title, forged many a relationship, played many roles. Sent many a gift to Titania’s children that they’ll never receive. At present she’s in a band that plays small clubs around the UK, affectionately called ‘Huntress’ and it’s possibly the most fun she’s had in years. The goings on in Rome, the pain felt by her fellow Venus vampires at the death of Elmira Kent, it was all something she couldn’t look away from, but didn’t yet intervene aside from consoling the queen.

It was a very long time ago that she was just a woman standing behind a man and rolling her eyes. Growing up without a father and with an ailing mother, she married quite young to a fellow dreamer and off they went into the world much too cruel to mortals. Taking a shortcut through the forest, their wagon was attacked by something that couldn’t have been human. It was there on the beaten path, bloodied and bruised that Harlow met Venus. A beautiful woman offered them not just the power of her bite, but a home with her, a place in her family and the young couple was eager to accept it. They traveled under the cover of night towards Rome where they made a home for themselves with her, with other’s of their kind. They were a family, bonded by the blood of Venus that was shared between them and from her they learned to move in and out of states of being, how to disappear into the fog, the mist, they’re elusive. And yet Harlow cannot escape the man she’s shackled to. Once a dreamer like her who aspired to have a better life, he became distant after they settled into their new life and she assumed he was restless, longed to venture out again. So she let him be, focused on the teachings of Venus, on this new and extravagant home near the forest. She learned the world was not just full of vampires and mortals, that there were others there in that very place. The fey had offered a proverbial hand to her creator, they already had an order, they had a monarchy and were led by a beautiful and powerful woman that the Venus vampire’s could do nothing but watch in awe, befriend her people as they came and went. Humans were often their focus, those whose spirits seemed free and wistful. Venus gave them a gift truly mysterious and with no locked door in their way, the world was open to them. But even with that, she desired to keep them close and so she made a home because while Venus had never quite required structure, she did crave companionship and if her family was so busy going about their own business, she’d simply reshape one of her own. And Harlow wanted to be a part of it, even if her lover grew restless. It was there in the forest that she finally caught the attention of the fey queen and while most seemed to shrink away from the woman aside from their creator, Harlow couldn’t bring herself to keep away, her affectionate nature making it nigh impossible. The woman might have been a queen, but she was still a person, sought companionship and to be understood. The leader of the fey was far more whimsical than one would think and they became fast friends, both girls at heart in awe of magic and the world, their kind. 

Friendship aside, years came and went and she longed for more, as there was so much love inside her to give and so began the hunt to find someone to give it to. Her life with her lover was eternal now, that was something she’d once dreamed of and yet the man was still distant and her heart too soft to up and leave despite how unhappy she grew. But it was a cruel fate that ended their marriage and for the man whose head had once been full of dreams had been caught in the crossfire of a battle, hadn’t been quick enough to disappear into the air. It said a lot about what she wound up thinking of him that she was more concerned for a fallen mortal. They were already dead, already gifted immortality, but this fallen soldier she ran into was just a boy and she couldn’t just let him die there. And so she bestowed Venus’s gifts upon him after pulling him to safety. But the fighting did not stop and while she was far stronger than any man, she was forced to flee the scene and hope for the best for him. 

While she wondered what became of her progeny, she was free now and so seeking love and adventure she moved through the world. Many a lover was taken, a progeny made, but she always returned to Venus, always returned home to the woman who had given her this gift and importantly, she returned to Titania, for she was a space for the queen to set her crown down for a while and just be a friend. It was these connections, her love and loyalty for her bloodline, that had Venus asking her to become a magister when the original’s wished to go about their own business. In those days, she’d gone from being sure of her identity to scrabbling to find where she fit in the world. For not all the magisters were war heroes or scholars, the most prevalent one was Amulius and the man had become a menace to be put down by a prophecy. Harlow had never desired to see vampires at the top of the food chain, had held strong to her bloodlines alliance with the fey and she’d sheltered mortal and supernatural alike from his onslaught. Which is why she was devastated to return to hear that it had finally happened, that a vampire had fed from the fey and it was their own bloodline. They had literally bit the hand that fed them and imagine her shock when the man who had sank fangs into an Eladrin was the very one she’d saved all those years ago. Conflicted, she wanted to go to him not just to comfort him, but to take responsibility and ease the guilt that plagued her. Centuries of friendship, of what little harmony they could have, destroyed by one bite. 

Romulus and the man had united them all against Amulius, had killed the man and then his brother. It wasn’t the end of it, they weren’t out of the woods yet and love made a fighter of her, her kindness was not to be mistaken for weakness. When the disputes over territories and nests and resources broke out she was frantically trying to hold down the fort near what would become England. The originals had left them to their fight, deserved their own peace and so when Romulus founded the senate, had united them, she had to support him. 

History marched on, wars happened, economies tanked, but she was a self made woman, she always had a full stomach and bed. In a way, she was above it all, the tragedies of mortals, free to be frivolous and have fun. In a way she did, she has lived what feels like a thousand lives. Each one is a little different, has her taking on a new name, a new identity, going to a new place. It is much like the world has become a stage and she is constantly parading herself upon it as someone new every couple of decades. She’d been a barmaid, she’d been a dancer, a seamstress, a shopkeep, a nurse, whatever she liked and so she never got bored. Lonely sure, she’d also been the wife, lover, girlfriend, ‘side piece’, best friend, confidant, trusted advisor, shoulder to cry on, mortal enemy, she has held many a title, forged many a relationship, played many roles. Sent many a gift to Titania’s children that they’ll never receive.

At present she’s in a band that plays small clubs around the UK, affectionately called ‘Huntress’ and it’s possibly the most fun she’s had in years. The goings on in Rome, the pain felt by her fellow Venus vampires at the death of Elmira Kent, it was all something she couldn’t look away from, but didn’t yet intervene aside from consoling the queen. 

Now that Romulus is gone, she thinks the senate needs far more help than just weeding out corrupt forces. 

personality

+ whimsical, compassionate, cunning – neurotic, unpredictable, fawning

NAME. Diana AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Tristin Mays

biography

First born to a king of creation, emerging only seconds before her brother, their twin light was the radiance to quell all the darkness around them. Artemis would dance among the cosmos, the stars tangling in her essence, divinity’s touch leaving a platinum light in her wake. Where Ulthar’s daughter danced, Titan ichor spilled as her joyful steps turned purposeful. But as darkness bows to light, so does light bow to darkness and even the twin light of Artemis and Apollo would be smothered by the great war of the Titanomachy. So when she awoke again, Artemis baptized her new high elven body in the blood of the enemies of the divine. Her family were gods, and there would never be anything that the goddess would not do to usher in an era of peace and prosperity for the divinity and their kin. It seemed as though that era was finally upon them when the Titanomachy finally ended. Elysia, Hyperborea and even the Otherworld seemed tranquil enough that Artemis might’ve put down her weapons if she so desired. But weapons and warcraft had become the goddess’ first purpose and so she took to it by honing her skills with the seraphim and teaching the high elves what it meant to hunt and battle outside the peace of their home. Then Eden was created.

With the emergence of both demigods and immortal humanity, there would be no shortage of vessels for her and her family to take. For them, Artemis took great care of the precious demigods and humans and kept a close eye on them by making her home in the paradise lands of Eden. It was there that she found many new purposes among the humans: protecting and empowering the females and female-presenting among them, particularly Lilith and Eve, as well as falling in love with the call of the wild. Artemis would also run through the forests and mountains in pursuit of Epimetheus and Oztalun’s creatures, both learning to hunt them and keeping her most treasured among them as friends. Prometheus’ crime and gift to humanity would be an obstacle that would present itself in ways such as Lilith’s rebellion and free-spirited humans that would refuse the Gods, but there wasn’t yet cause to worry for the abundance of willing vessels that still lived peacefully. Then, when Lucifer’s rebellion launched conflict between the seraphim, Artemis’ hunting bow and leathers were put down to be replaced by her armor and metal once more. The Goddess took to a great divine war for the second time in her life and fought on the side of the Blessed Seraphim, fiercely protecting Eve with every intention of using her as her own new vessel one day. When the conflict ended, humanity had lost its viability as divine vessels and the number of demigods had vastly depleted. For Artemis, there was no choice but to travel the new world in search for the remaining demigods and any bodies that might become viable vessels one day. Once found, they had to be protected and kept safe in Elysia. 

Unlike many Gods who remained sequestered in Elysia or slumbering in uthenera, Artemis made many names for herself among the mortals. Her truest purpose remained to bring her divine family as many demigods as she could find, even when it became nearly impossible to sense them. The Goddess had found other ways of contenting herself as well: protecting women, warriors and wildlife alike. Loneliness did not plague her immortal life once she had taken to finding women of both fey and human offshoot species to partake in her hunts and her journeys, wise and talented women that would one day by called valkyries. With her valkyries, Artemis searched the endless wars and battlefields for warriors who were worthy of her favor. Some would be unstoppable with her blessing and others, unfortunate men or women who had fallen, would be deemed worthy enough for their souls to be granted eternal rest in a paradise realm of their choosing. The huntress goddess was worshipped and honored for millennia, but Artemis had grown weary of failing to find more vessels for her family in the vastness of the mortal realm’s space and time. Artemis and the few of her valkyries that remained took their hunts to the Otherworld until word reached her of the Necronomicon’s impending war and the awakening of her godly family. Artemis returns to the mortal realm as Diana, once more poised to fight for the victory of the divine. Demigods are no longer hidden from her gaze. When victory is called for her side once more, Artemis intends to bring Oztalun’s murderers to justice and then bring the potential vessels home to Elysia.

personality

+ dutiful, loyal, inspirational – illogical, spiteful, inconsiderate

NAME. Circe AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Aspect OCCUPATION. Owner of Çiçek FACE CLAIM. Hazal Filiz Küçükköse

biography

Within the great halls of Elysia sat an obsidian throne, whose owner bore a power that was unmatched by so many, and a magnetism that seemed to draw in any who wished to hear stories of great wars waged within the mortal realm. None more so than a small child, whose eyes sparkled with wonder and excitement whenever those stories were shouted into the great halls, repeated again and again for any who might wish to listen, or whoever so happened to be caught within that orbit the man of divinity seemed to cast around him. It was within the shadows of that throne the small child hovered, an uncertainty that had her near but distant as she listened to her father, with a want nestled so deep within her that perhaps his command or allure may break apart and lend a small piece to her.

There had been nothing overtly special about Circe when she had been born within the proverbial halls of Elysia. Her beauty could not be whispered in songs or tales, her power no more so than any other that walked beside her, for perhaps the only thing that made her any fraction of special was that she had been born as Helios’ daughter. It had been through the ambrosia fed to her during infancy that found the ichor of the gods within her veins, an immortality that would see her through the changing of the realms and the rebellion of the angels. It had been a gift that Circe had treasured within those early years, finding solace in the notion that she was just as divine as those whose shadows she walked within, of her father, who kept her at his side through many different excursions.

It was one, however, that tainted the taste the ambrosia had left upon her tongue. Young only by certain standards, Circe had been made to watch as a judgment was dealt to a would-be titan, who had thought himself daring, or perhaps a savior, and the subsequent punishment that followed it. As blood spilled against the ground, again and again, a daughter of divinity came to understand that none were impervious of being flawed. Which followed the young elf throughout the years, from those that had found her within the shadow of her father’s throne, to the sides of her siblings as she watched them perform pharmakis intently. To even the moment as she watched Pasiphaë and Aeëtes follow Queen Yidhra to the moral realm, a place that she had visited only so seldom. For stories of war had kept her within Elysia, with a sharp gaze that wished only to admire the mortals from a distance, afraid of what may happen if she were to truly engage with any of them. 

Soon, it would be a distance that she would not be able to keep, for her punishment came swiftly upon the heel of her brother’s destruction. It had been in hushed tones that Perses had confided to her, of a flower that had grown from the blood of the titan that had been spilled by the Erinyes, one that was capable of turning any such creature into that of another. And it was with this flower that Perses had done the unthinkable, to a God nonetheless. The outrage had come in a blink of an eye, and before Circe could have uttered even the smallest of noises, she had watched as her brother had been destroyed. Ripped apart into nothingness, as if he had never truly existed by her side. And to ensure the understanding that no God could be crossed, Circe had been dealt an exile from the only home that she had ever known.

Into the mortal realm she had been cast, amongst a time that she had not been familiar with. The angels had rebelled, their punishments dealt and the Inferno created for those that wronged their fellow man or committed the unspeakable crimes that mortals feared so wholly. It was in this new age that Circe was forced to adapt, to understand the way of the mortals so that she may live peacefully amongst them, within her exile that would last until all the realms crashed in upon themselves. Separated from her father, and her mother, and all those that she had considered friends dealt a blow unlike anything that Circe had ever experienced. Yet, that cavern that had been created within her chest had soon been filled with the love that she had fallen into with a mortal man. One who had whispered of his wants of becoming a God, if only so that he may spend eternity by her side. 

Though powerful in her own respects, Circe had been foolish to love, to the ways of mortals and the feelings that had been too strong. It was with the knowledge of the flower that Perses had once used that found her love transformed into a light elf, just as she, so that they may spend eternity together. Or so she had thought. For divinity had always been flawed, and the moment divinity entered his blood, it was not she who he had run to, but instead Scylla. With a rage that she had inherited from her father, Circe enacted her revenge. It was to Scylla that she had bound the blood of an old god, it was to Scylla that she had transformed into a monster out of anger, out of jealousy, and out of hurt. And it was a punishment dealt by the soldiers of Ulthar that Circe had taken with a solemn look upon her features.

The island had been her prison, but it was her magic that made it her sanctuary, hidden away from the prying eyes of mortal men, save for those that she lured to its shores. And it was to those that chanced upon her throne that she gave her test. Tales of what men were capable of had flitted through history long before she had touched upon the mortal realm, and it was to those travelers that she baited. Were they honest men, or were they as untrustworthy as the one that she had given her heart to? And it had been those that failed her test that found themselves either killed with the potions she crafted, or as permanent fixtures upon her lands as the very swine that they were.

Year after year, more and more men traveled to the beaches of her shores, only to find themselves transformed into the very pigs that they had seen scattered about the beaches and the forest. Even a god or two found themselves intrigued enough to land upon her island, to see if the rumors of Circe, the exiled sorceress, had been true. It had been harsh and vile words that continued to scare off those that wished only to gossip, save perhaps for Hermes, who instead wished only to bring her news of Elysia, and the other realms that had remained hidden from her for all those years of exile. And gifts, in the form of a loom constructed by Vulcan himself, and a stave that had been imbued with the very flower that had seen her dear brother destroyed. And her own exile to the mortal realm.

To that island that had become her home, her sanctuary, until the necessity arose for her to step off of its shores. A promise had been made to return promptly, if Circe were granted the chance to help her sister deliver a baby, and granted she had been, before she had traveled to Crete, before she had helped to welcome in the little eladrin to the world. Yet it had not been enough time that she had received with her sister, with the one that would be her nephew, or with the simple notion of spending time anywhere other than Aeaea. Within the seemingly blink of an eye, Circe was back to those familiar shores, to that familiar forest, and to all those familiar little piglets that roamed the island’s expanse.

The years once more continued to pass by in blurs, with news of her brother’s dominion over Colchis, to the arrival of Medea and Jason, along with each of his Argonauts and the Golden Fleece. It would be familiar ties that had the pair cleansed of their crimes, and a warning from Circe in the ear of her niece. Yet just as soon as they had come, they were gone once more, leaving the elf to her avocations yet again. Until Odysseus arrived, with his men in tow, and he rivaled her in ways that she had not yet seen from a mortal man thus far. And so she had kept him at her side, educated him on all things divinity, from the Gods to the plants within her gardens, and what each one would be capable of. A decade soon passed, and with it, came the necessity to bid her newfound lover goodbye. Circe could not keep him any longer within her grasp, for while her years would be infinite, his would be numbered. And it was not with her that he belonged.

So to loneliness she returned, as the years yet again began to pass her by, until the seraphim became fewer and fewer, and the power behind the exile that had kept her rooted to the island weakened. As those numbers become scarce, Circe took her opportunity to finally be rid of the island that had been her prison, her sanctuary, her home. It was back into the world that she fled, hidden among the mortals that had progressed with the changing of the times, where she adapted to her new way of life. 

personality

+ methodical, knowledgable, humble – calculating, spiteful, venomous