#takendemon

NAME. Viola "Arachne" Dives AGE & BIRTH DATE. Unknown & 4000+ GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Demon ( Manifest ) OCCUPATION. Seamstress at Woven FACE CLAIM. Claire Holt

biography

( tw: death and body horror ) A birthmark in the shape of a dragon was all the proof that Arachne’s father needed to verify that she was his daughter. Many had tried to claim Pelorus as their father, both before the Queen’s passing, and in the years that followed. None had the mark to prove it. Arachne’s mother, Laodameia, was no one of significance; she had beautiful features and a quick mind but little else to the seamstress beyond that. She was a maker of fine clothes and a dyer of purples, one who wove through spools to create the sort of finery that had attracted the King of Thebes. Attraction enough that left the artist heavy with child, a child that grew to the age of four before sickness claimed her mother and left the young woman an orphan. Arachne had no right to claim him, but she’d been raised on stories of the man who lounged about his estate and did little but expect greatness. She was small, skinny, and weak from months without proper nutrition from a family who could no longer spin her craft, but that did not stop her from declaring herself the rightful heir of Thebes before Pelorus himself.

A birthmark in the shape of a dragon was all the proof that Pelorus needed to verify that Arachne was his daughter. Bastards weren’t entirely uncommon, but an Oracle had been given that the heirs of the spartoi would all bear the mark of either a dragon or a spear. Twin markers for which the race of brothers had been eternally known.

A weaver, like her mother, Arachne spun and when she was not spinning she was studying. Training at her father’s side as the sharp, quick hands that she’d inherited from his blood grew to serve her well. Draconic features highlighted the halfblooded’s ancestry, slightly pointed ears and the angular features of someone not quite of this world. Her talent over the loom was without question, time and time again her father praised her works, encouraged her along as Arachne could do no harm in his eyes. She manipulated the silks, the threads, and the fabrics as a whole as a magic slipped between her workings. All across Thebes, to Athens, and beyond tales of the spinner’s grace circulated. Arachne boasted that her powers exceeded that of Athena herself, and for that she paid a price: a contest was dispatched, Arachne won, and Athena cursed the arrogant child of the spartoi King to the farthest reaches of the Inferno.

Above the Gate to the Inferno was the inscription to Abandon Hope, and as Arachne was pushed forward through the tunnel of those who had never committed to anything in life, she moved to stand before the three judges of the damned. Arachne’s fate was already sealed, pride wasn’t the worst of her crimes but it was the most damning; to the fields of hellfrost the woman was cast and it was there that she was frozen beneath the ice. Little by little the cold ate away at who she was, who she’d been, and the person that she’d so long aspired to be. At thirty-five Arachne had died unmarried, her father’s influence who’d never seen a reason why she should have to wed if she didn’t wish to. Thirty years had passed since the death of her mother, so Laodameia’s face had already begun to fade, and it was here in Lucifer’s pit that Arachne lost her mother’s identity entirely. Her name, her skills, and the people that Arachne had long associated with her. Next came Arachne’s childhood friends and the nymphs who’d helped raise her, the ones that draped themselves over every bit of furniture they could find whenever her father entered the room.

Pelorus was last, because Arachne’s father had been so much of her world. In place of his praise came Lucifer’s cruel voice, incentivizing her towards condemnation as Arachne did what most of the souls of the damned did in order to survive. She allowed the power of the Abyss to pervert her veins, let her spindly features twist into something true to her name, many-legged and hideous, an arachnid of demonic proportions. A spinner of webs, lies, and deceptions: she waited, she bided her time, and when stronger demons fell into her traps Arachne gorged herself on their strength. Whatever had been of the King’s daughter faded into the dark as a demon of Pride took her place, wilfully proud, vainglorious and arrogant: the patient spinner of the ninth circle.

The woman’s name was Valentina, and her smile dazzled the entire room. She was Arachne’s first excursion from the realm below; she invoked a spell that restored the demon’s memories and brought them to the surface once more. If only so when Valentina asked her, Arachne could tell her her name. Pelorus and his brothers were long from this world; dead was what Arachne’s research told her. Spartoi were figments of fairytales and myths, nothing more, Arachne’s own story twisted to suit the purposes of the Classical age. Rome in the 1920s was on the cusp of change and the witch of the Narcissus coven pursued immortality and power that ultimately saw her life snuffed out entirely. With Valentina’s demise, Arachne was returned to the Inferno.

The boy’s name was Vincenzo, he’d needed a friend or… Maybe something more maternal, he’d conjured Arachne for guidance, but when she would not give him her name, she took the one he offered her instead, Viola. Happy to be freed from her prison, he asked for an arrangement, and the familiar consented to the bargain. The witch wasn’t without talent; he was young, but all that aside, he desperately needed guidance. His mother was a kind woman, hardworking, and lovable, but boys didn’t summon demons because they were hoping to be loved. Even then Viola could see the darkness that festered inside of him, every drop of blood that he spilled along the path to his damnation were reflected in the demon’s gaze. Vincenzo was scarcely seen without the black widow close at hand, the spider prepared to spring to his defence.

Fate divided them, thrown into the Inferno once more as the flames of Rome ignited, Lucifer saw the arachnid-demon firmly placed underfoot. Buried beneath sheets of ice that were not easily broken, even from the place where the archfiend had been sealed, Lucifer held dominion over the ninth realm and did not take kindly to those who sought escape. Viola had betrayed him for the second time, leading witches not to pride, but to their own goals instead: the arachnid had sought love in place of worship, a traitor through and through. It was here that Viola would remain as time lost meaning and gave way to centuries in place of the year that passed instead.

The elf’s name was Cloud. While the Inferno dissolved, Viola fled into the Otherworld with the others before being consumed entirely. Through the aether the elve of the sanguine called out for help, for the sort of guidance that the demon could provide. Once more, the world had changed, and once more, Viola bent an understanding hand to the cheek of someone who desperately needed her.

Free from the Inferno once more, but for how long? That was always the question, wasn’t it?

personality

+ poignant, loyal, patient - self-serving, deceptive, argumentative

NAME. Arturo Guerrero AGE & BIRTH DATE. 256 & February 14th, 1768 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demon ( Familiar ) OCCUPATION. Bartender at Flirt FACE CLAIM. Diego Tinoco

biography

( tw: blood, violence, satanism, death ) Evil wasn’t always made, sometimes it was born. Arturo’s grandmother had sworn that was the case, that her grandson had been born with sin running through his veins, a curse left on their doorstep that was discovered too late. An orphaned witch wrapped in blankets, blessed with mercy the small and humble family welcomed the child into their home. Raised with the mediocre beginnings of an average childhood, something hateful burned behind Arturo’s eyes from even his childhood hour. He’d been a child running amuck with siblings who never let him forget he was of a different blood; there was a thought at the back of his mind, a whisper like a serpent from someone other than him. Their parents had told them not to play in the kitchen, especially while the stove was hot, but one push and the elder sibling who’d chided him for so long suddenly spent the rest of her years disfigured by the burn from her face planting against the searing surface. 

In the pews of the old church they told him that God would forgive those who supplicated themselves on their knees. Forehead pressed to rotted wood, mould seeped through old stones, and the drawl of a Father droned forward. Forgiveness found the pennant but Arturo never asked for penance, wrapped knuckles and back breaking work. If he would not humble himself before the eyes of gratitude then he would be humbled instead through arduous labours and menial tasks. The nuns that he’d been left in the care of never stopped, the boy had the devil in him, that’s what they’d say: they could see it in his eyes. With their lectures, their punishments, and their litany of prayers. He heard her again then, the woman from the flames, the serpent of his dreams. It was only when the dented, bloodied chalice for communion was in his hands, and the nun was dead at his feet that Arturo began to listen. That beautiful pool of crimson ichor spilled across the stones he’d swept and scrubbed for years, Arturo could see himself in it, hateful eyes and a grim smile. Gray matter slipped from her skull, her face forever frozen in something between outrage and fear: she’d never looked better. 

Ashes were all that Arturo left behind, his work was sloppy and unclean. He was a witch but he was untrained, he knew nothing of schools or reserves but he knew a great deal about pain. About blood. First the church, then the home that had ousted him and one last time they had screamed that that boy was a demon. Not quite yet, but Arturo was on the right path. 

A bright star that flamed out young, hubris and inexperience had been his downfall, Arturo had flitted from violent delight to violent delight and had suffered a violent end as a result. He did not crawl to hell willingly, but had been dragged kicking and screaming by the jaws of hellhounds as the would-be demon was dropped before the judges three. His soul long claimed, his judgement befell a commandment of the wicked but where he thought to look upon that woman enshrined in flames, he found only virulent madness. Arturo’s skin turned to bark, his body twisted in upon itself, and the devil was joined in the forest of the blood witches. The grove of the many and the damned, where few but the most vile managed to escape. 

One century rolled into another, Arturo watched how these trees would decay, how’d they’d rot and concave upon themselves before crumbling into the dirt. Hell food for the scavengers and the cretins; too spiteful to go quietly, and too hateful to stay stagnant. Will alone broke the creature free as he carved a way through the forest, the ichor of those that were like him flowed freely when he snapped their limbs. They could speak when they were broken, and if they could speak then they could scream. Hungry lips and the curved tongue of a demon lapped at their power as he consumed them with violent urgency. Their strength became his own, Arturo had given the Inferno its meal, and as he gorged himself he would take his own as well. 

Corruption was in his veins; the desire to see others fall had already been bred inside him when a witch conjured him into a luxury city. The world had evolved, ripened by decadence, fattened by greed, it was just waiting to bleed; and the would-be necromancer that had invoked him was begging for defilement. The woman of his dreams had coiled herself inside this one just as she had Arturo all those years ago, while the Inferno had stripped his memories away, the demon saw them restored the first moment he could. Curiosity to start, satisfaction after; Arturo had been born violent, the Inferno hadn’t needed to cement his status as a demon. 

personality

+ observant, honest, protective - violent, hedonistic, jealous

NAME. Mazikeen AGE & BIRTH DATE. 2700+ August, 13, Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her SPECIES. Demon ( Familiar ) OCCUPATION. Part Time Drug Dealer, Marshal FACE CLAIM. Laura Harrier

biography

( tw chronic pain, drugs, addiction, poisoning, murder ) Medicine woman they called Mazikeen’s mother, or shaman. A revered witch among the family that would make up the Ivy coven for generations to come. Growing up under her mother’s thumb, Mazikeen collected all there was to learn about natural remedies and magic spells for restoration. A rival and close neighboring coven had a very difficult history with Mazikeen’s family and for this reason she was encouraged not to associate or speak to them. But she considered herself a fearless witch, raised to be respected and adored. Mazikeen’s confidence led her towards the forests that belong to the other coven in order to collect a flower that she couldn’t find in their own forests, a flower that would be helpful for pain management in the Ivy coven when they got sick or injured. This would turn into her gravest error because witches from the rival coven caught eventually Mazineen stealing from their forests and cursed the young witch, injuring her in a way that could not be cured with magic or with medicine.

The pain wasn’t horrid but it was constant and this constant pain became unbearable the longer she went on without any reprieve. Mazikeen’s mother tried everything, eventually finding out that the very flower that Mazikeen had tried to steal, the poppy, was capable of easing her pain just slightly. Her mother and the other shamans were able to create a medication using the poppy plant that Mazikeen began to rely heavily on. None of them were aware of the repercussions of this medication until it was clear that the young witch could no longer live without it. When they ran out of the poppy flower, Mazikeen once more returned to the forests of the rival coven and stole more, eventually and unintentionally helping to start a war between both covens for the flower that was dwindling in their area. Mazikeen had become as skilled a potion and medication maker as her mother by now, especially after experimenting on her own to find other ways of creating medications for her pain. She had unintentionally invented a poison that had been born by her medicine and magic and it was this that Mazikeen used to poison the crops of the rival coven. Eventually, the rival witches became so famished after ingesting the poison in their food that no amount of sustenance could satisfy them. They grew so desperate in their hunger that they took to ravaging neighboring lands like locusts, abandoning everything in search for more and more food until even covens from further away were forced to rid themselves of these corrupted, poisoned witches so that they did not try to take their crops. The war between covens was over, and other witches had ended it for Mazikeen and her family but the damage had been done and the Ivy was severely weakened for all that had happened. Mazikeen was reluctantly exiled for her involvement and the cruelty of her methods towards other witches. The young witch took to the streets alone, stealing poppy where she could to sustain herself. Poisoned by her own guilt, resentment and addiction, Mazikeen became a formidable nomadic witch that attacked who she deemed vile and evil with the very poison that got rid of her family’s rival coven. Eventually those vile and evil included people that she simply did not like or who wronged her in even the smallest of ways. 

More poisons were made, more cruel methods created in a marriage of science and magic until a hero of the people was sent to rid the world of the cruel witch. Mazikeen was finally killed and sent to the Third Circle of the Inferno for her crimes, becoming a close companion of Abbadon themselves as time went on. The Inferno was a cruel and merciless place but Mazikeen was an adaptive soul who learned how to make it more bearable for herself. The more she hurt and tortured, the more she didn’t care about anyone else, the more she was favored by the more powerful demons and left to her own devices. When an inexperienced witch first summoned the demon and they proved to be a weak companion, the former and once formidable witch entertained herself by letting them fall and fail despite the fact that it would send her back to the Inferno. Again she’d be summoned, again the witch that summoned her would prove to be an unsatisfactory match and Mazikeen lived only wanting to get rid of the incapable and annoying even if it meant that she’d need to wait in the Inferno each time for another witch to summon her. It wasn’t until a Sovereign from the very family that Mazikeen had once belonged to found her that the demon and former Ivy witch realized she might have finally found her place in the world above the Inferno. She understood why her family and coven had needed to send her away so many years ago. The world now, as well as her family, was brand new and changed over the centuries. Mazikeen would make it her own again. And she had high hopes for her summoner witch this time. The demon would teach Virgil all she knew from her past as a witch and prepare him to live as long and as successful as possible. She would be the spider on his shoulder, the Ivy’s guardian demon, and she would make up for all the hurt that she’d caused her family in her former life as a witch.

personality

+ Familial, cunning, resourceful - Restless, hedonistic, apathetic

NAME. Caradoc AGE & BIRTH DATE. 2,013 & September 16th, 10 AD GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demon ( Familiar ) OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Douglas Booth

biography

( trigger warnings: death ) The harsh land of Ancient Britain was simply up for the taking when it came to the Romans. The Catuvellauni tribe had gained their own fame within Britain, the tribe of “war-chiefs” that pushed them to the top in the southeast of the island. This was the culture that Caradoc was born into. Friends of the druids who held mystical power, the tribes of Britain warred amongst themselves over the land that was provided to them, with the help of the druids that were stationed within each. Caradoc was born into freedom, in the midst of a Roman expansion. His brother was older, wiser – but brash and ambitious. Caradoc figured he must’ve got some cunning from his mother, a lowly woman who’d come to power beside his chieftain father. 

History was set to repeat itself as Caradoc grew up among the green hills and forests of Britain, fighting and learning what it meant to be diplomatic. The Romans began expanding, targeting the druids amongst the tribes of Britain to wipe out as many as possible. There was always speak of rebirth when it came to druids, but Caradoc knew what that meant – it was an excuse to be absent. War was beginning to rage on, and Caradoc simply wished to survive. His personal life was nothing to be excited about – he’d flitted amongst men and women within the tribe, never settling and claiming that it was the wild spirit within him. He prayed to the Morrigan for strength, to the All Mother for peace – but nothing was ever answered.

In time, Caradoc learned to take what he wanted. That’s what their tribe had done for centuries, anyway, and the only person standing in his way was his brother. Caradoc didn’t have to do much, not in the sense that some would think. He won the hearts of the tribe; of the men and women warriors who took up arms against the Romans. If anyone were to be victorious, it would’ve been him. Revenge, he’d whisper amongst the people. He’d speak of how his brother was too hardheaded, that he would never lead them well. It’s what caused the mantle of leadership to pass to Caradoc, a ruler once more, loved and revered by the tribes that he’d convinced to join them in their cause against the Romans. 

Even the death of his brother did not stop him. Caradoc could see his future – to gain enough glory that would get him to Rome, to leave the hills of Britain and the tribes that did not know gold, did not know power. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do everything he could to make his name known. The governor of Rome had it out for him, the barbarian that had fought back time and time again. During one of his last stands, Caradoc found himself in chains. His army was decimated, it would retreat into the hills of Britain, be taken over by Boudicca, but that’s where Caradoc’s story ended. 

At least, it ended in Britain. He’d thrown away who he’d used to be when he was carted to Rome, as the governor paraded him around in chains. A barbarian, he’d claimed, but while he knew what would happen to those he’d convinced to continue fighting in his homeland, there was something else for Caradoc in Rome: infamy. His wit was something to be envied, where his biting words of how he’d die a martyr like Vercingetorix convinced the Roman governor to show mercy. His chains were broken, and he was set free. Caradoc, however, was far too eager to remain in the city of stone – any kin left behind forgotten about immediately. His greatest vice was to want – he lusted for fame, for little gleaming trinkets that he could hold in his hand and covet. Every now and then he wanted to love and be loved, in some strange twist of fate that always ended poorly because of something he did wrong. 

His life was more or less whatever he wanted in Rome, where he got what he wanted and passed away among all his trinkets and fame. None of that was taken to the inferno with him, where the winds buffeted him at all times – storms cracked above him. It was a deep and meaningless place, muted and without color to someone who had always seen things in brilliant shades. It’s the want that drove Caradoc mad. There was nothing for those who pushed people for vengeance, who tainted hearts black like his own and sent them forward in a righteous quest when all Caradoc had ever wanted became his. The expense of others was something that he didn’t consider, never had. 

It’s why when he met another tortured soul, one who had felt the same aspirations as he had once before, they’d collided in mutual understanding. It was something ridiculous, to find love in a pit that could torture souls until there was nothing left. Not for Caradoc, not one like him who understood what it was like to get what he wanted in the most ridiculous of circumstances. He also knew what it was like to sweet talk, what it was like to understand someone in a place where there was nothing but dull emptiness. 

When the time came, when there was a witch calling for a familiar – it was the soul he’d fallen in love with that had gotten there first. Moments before exiting, moments before they were free – Caradoc a step behind. He called out to stop them, some ridiculous goodbye. He felt like the Caradoc of old, the one who’d loudly proclaimed and won the hearts of Roman citizens to procure his freedom instead of death. This was no different. Their defenses down, it was Caradoc who shoved them back and walked out victorious. 

A young witch was awaiting him on the other side. Dark curls and bright hazel eyes. There was no fight to be had – it was a pact of blood between witch and familiar. Caradoc would bide his time in the mortal realm, stand at Raffaele’s side when he needed him. Rome apparently was calling him back, little remorse for the soul he’d left behind. Caradoc was on his third chance at this point, and well, who was he not to live his life to the fullest once more? All things glitter and gleam, and he’d take what he wanted.

personality

+ witty, loyal, ambitious - dramatic, petty, violent

NAME. Sybella AGE & BIRTH DATE. Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Demon VARIANT. Familiar OCCUPATION. Dancer at Flirt FACE CLAIM. Savannah Lee Smith

biography

Sybella was at the river Euphrates when she first heard of her brothers disappearance, the darkness had always been waiting inside of her but the missing case of Alastor was a spark that gave flame to a desperate search. They had grown up in the great city of Babylon, lived in a civilization that had it all and yet Sybella always hungered for more, the hanging gardens brought her serenity and yet there was a wanting within her for when rich tourists would visit, she would con them easily out of their coin. Sybella began to worship a goddess that did not align with the idea of Ulthar but the Goddess would later grow into her name after Sybella had left the Earth, Babalon was one of her many names and it was at her altar that Sybella worshipped.

In her brothers absence, she gave way to the madness that had always existed. She danced wildly in the streets, fell in and out of beds and gained the reputation of a whore of Babylon. Sybella only saw what she could inherit, it did not matter to her anyone else who might carry the consequence of her sin. She would seduce virgins into her bedchambers and where she was meant to press a kiss, she would instead press a knife to their throat and lay them down on the ritual table instead of in a soft bed. She’d spill the blood of the pure and within such a dark depravity, she would use the spilt blood to scry for her lost brother. Anything to bring him home, the answer kept coming back as an unknown realm ‘the Otherworld.’ She didn’t know what it meant but it didn’t stop her search, only increased it with more heartless mania, she seduced more and more innocents off the Babylonian streets in hopes of answers as to what the Otherworld was and where its doorways were located.

She justified her evil rituals by the society they lived in, a women wasn’t worth anything in marriage once she had lost her virginity and would be discarded anyways. This was her way of triumphing and defying the society, truly she was just greedy for her own happiness and those that held a place in her obsidian heart. One day the answer in Scarlett came back differently, Alastor was in the Inferno. It was the day she was dragged to the cross for crucifixion for her crimes, Babalon couldn’t be found and she was turned over to a new patron by the name of Mammon. The nails were hammered into her hands and feet and she did not scream for mercy. She knew where she’d be going she had a stronger chance of finding her brother. 

Sybella’s soul changed within the Inferno, instead of bright lights and the twinkle that her dress made when she moved, she was greeted by sulfur and the screams of the damned. Peace would never come for her again but there were moments of reprieve, lesser demons that she could have attempted to use as a step to climb out of hell instead became companions. Even as heavy cloud sunk over Sybella, she never lost the ability to dream for something bigger – refusing to relent from the idea that she would one day escape and find her brother. A spark that refused to go out even in the depths of hell.

The days blurred together in one hellish torment from the next but she was being called away, leaving many in the pit to rot. She wouldn’t waste another second as she entered the mortal realm trapped in a summoning circle to a Witch who had just begun his story. She saw him for what he was with his curls, beat up sneakers and ink that covered every inch of his skin – all it took was one look and she knew that she wouldn’t rest until they had it all. She’d conquer all the pleasures that this realm had to offer and she’d bring him with her into the golden light of luxury, it’s what they deserve.

personality

+ ambitious, determined, resilient – stubborn, self-seeking, ruthless

NAME. Konstantin Vasiliev AGE & BIRTH DATE. 4000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demon VARIANT. Incubus OCCUPATION. Tattoo Artist at Mystery Ink, Marshal FACE CLAIM. Chace Crawford

BIOGRAPHY

When he met his unfortunate demise as Electryon, it was due to the loss of his sons. Konstantin had been born a son of Perseus and there were none that mimicked their father quite like he had. It wasn’t that he looked up to his father, but he had always thought the man was one to be admired. There had never been a moment in time where he thought he was lesser than any of his many siblings. However, he had suffered a great deal because of one of his brothers. When a sibling came to take Mycenae from him, all but one of his sons had perished. The one that had survived was the illegitimate one that he had created with a woman so far below the king in rank that it would not have even been noticed that it had happened if the child didn’t come out looking nothing like his wife. Nevertheless, he still loved that child with his entire being. If not for his son and daughter, he would have been a shell of a man with nothing good to mention in his life at all. Family had never been kind though. It was his own nephew that had taken his life in an accident. He had died amongst his cattle, a former king of Mycenae.

When he awoke, he was in the Inferno within the second circle. Lust. What a horrible way to go and for the one choice he made that he would never be able to apologize for. When he had found himself with that woman, he had not expected to end up in the Inferno. He had not expected to be swinging for what felt like an eternity in that pit. Would he have ever taken back what happened though? Never in a million years. He could be swinging for more than an eternity and he would have always looked at that woman with nothing but love. He would have looked at the child she gave him with all of the love in the world. It was easy for him to accept his fate when he knew the kind of person he had let himself become. Konstantin had been swayed by nobody but himself and he would accept those consequences every single day for the rest of his time in the Inferno if he needed to.

Of course, what Konstantin expected and what actually ended up always happening were two entirely different things. Summoned from the Inferno by a fey, he had been called upon to teach a man a lesson. An incubus is what he was called. It seemed fitting for him though. No matter how long he was there swinging, it seemed like a second chance for him. Seemed was the key word in that statement as he wished he hadn’t needed to hurt anyone at all when he was living this second life. However, every single time he fell into bed with someone, if even for just a night, they were soon gone. Love was a foreign thing for him now simply because he didn’t know how to love someone without having the thought that he would hurt them all the way in the back of his head. What would that make him if he hurt anyone else? That power had felt…addicting though. It had given him strength he could only dream of whenever sex was on the table for him and a soul was within his grasp. He was weak to it and it had taken a long time for him to even try to control anything about who he was.

Once he did, he finally found it within himself to stay away from people unless he absolutely needed to take a soul. There was still a weakness he had to it, but he decided to distract himself most of the time with art. It wasn’t always easy to control who he was, but Konstantin had never apologized for anything he had done. He never felt regret for anything and he never wanted to take back any decision he had ever made in life. If he ever hurt anyone, he would only look at the moment as a lesson for himself to be better than the person he was in the past. The only problem he always ran into was that it ended up happening often. Too often. But family was something that kept him going most of the time. The family he still had was small, only his father and his brother. Neither of them knew who he was, but he wanted to be a better person for when they did. That was always what he worked towards. Being a better person. Well, actually, he would probably only end up being a semi-decent person. As much as an incubus could be at least.

PERSONALITY

+ charming, quick-witted, adventurous – self-critical, pessimistic, reclusive

NAME. Amico Ocasio AGE & BIRTH DATE. 118 & April 21st, 1905 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demon VARIANT. Familiar OCCUPATION. Owner of Flirt FACE CLAIM. Henry Zaga

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death ) What Amico’s life had been before the Inferno had seemed insignificant, but it was a part of who he was. It played a pretty big part of where he ended up within his afterlife. To be honest, being a heretic shouldn’t have been as horrible of a crime as people made it out to be. If people didn’t want to hear what he would say, then why would they give him a platform to say any of it? He had always been the kind of person to speak his mind. Even as he grew up, merely a little boy with two parents that loved him, he ended up talking a bit too much. It was one of the problems they would point out to him often. 

“Don’t speak too much.”

“You’ll get yourself into trouble.”

They were all words he had heard several times before and none of them mattered when he met his untimely demise at an early age. Talking too much had been his fatal flaw and it had led him right to his death. There had been not a single supernatural thought in his head throughout his life and, when he ended up in the Inferno, he was surprised by it. Well, he was more surprised by the fact that he was in hell as opposed to where he thought he belonged high up in the sky as some sort of angel. Maybe he should have learned to shut his mouth and then he wouldn’t have ended up in this predicament. The flaming tombs were certainly not a fun part of being in the sixth circle, but he had gotten used to it for however long he had been stuck in there.

Amico considered himself lucky when he was summoned by a little witch. The boy had been eleven years old and the demon had no idea what he was supposed to do with someone that young. Was he supposed to take the boy under his wing? Ciro would only end up corrupted was all he could think, but they would have each other. The little witch had called him Amico and it seemed like the only name he could ever know. Friend. How could he be a problem for someone that had been so innocent and considered a demon like him to be a friend of his? And he was a familiar no less. A dove.

The familiar watched the little witch grow and grow, following along wherever Ciro needed him. They were not blood, but they were family and there was nothing that Amico would not do for the young man. He did want a life of his own though. If he could step far enough away from the witch, he would be able to do such a thing. It was somewhat of a godsend that he didn’t have to worry about stepping away and being met with resistance. From the relationship they had garnered since the little witch was eleven years old, what did he ever have to worry about?

Amico had gotten used to the life they led. There was money in the palm of his hands and everything he could ever want. People to spend nights with and parties to go to that could last an entire night. The familiar loved all of it and he would milk it for as long as he possibly could. Well, that was until they got the news while outside of Rome. The Amaranthus were gone. Neva was gone and everyone he had ever known from the coven was gone. As much as he would have loved to say he could help, he knew damn well that he couldn’t. The coven wasn’t his family, but Ciro was and he had only ever wanted the best for that little witch.

Doves did symbolize renewal, transformation, love. All things Amico had not ever experienced before he had been summoned from the Inferno. Now that he had experienced it, love most of all, he felt himself not ever wanting to let it go. So he would do whatever it took to make sure that the love he wanted to protect, his family in Ciro, was safe.

PERSONALITY

+ loyal, co-dependent, spirited – petty, facetious, reckless

NAME. Elijah Sequiera AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3799 & February 14th GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demon (Cubi) OCCUPATION. Dancer at Il Cane Nero FACE CLAIM. Rafael Silva

biography

Humanity had not been new enough for Elijah’s birth to have come as a surprise— That is, if his father had bothered to explain to the mortal woman he had slept with that he was anything but human. He had not, and from their union Elijah had been born, a nephilim unsuspecting to what his existence meant. He had a happy enough childhood, he tells anyone willing to ask. An ordinary, if lovely, mother, and an empty space where his father was supposed to be. Nothing unusual in his time, nothing out of the ordinary, and despite the everything relating to his birth, he was well beloved as a child.

He was bitten by the wanderlust bug as a child, however, leaving home as soon as he reached maturity to explore the wide expanse, the great unknown. Elijah discovered much more than he had expected, much more than he had imagined possible. A world where magic was real, and he was more than just the son of a courtesan. A world where he was a nephilim, and his father a seraphim. A world that he suspected existed every time he closed his eyes and opened them to find himself somewhere else. A world is for the taking, and take it by the storm he would. Born and raised by a humble woman, Elijah had no access to luxury until he was of age, and for that, he craved it.

His path into temptation began small, some fraud here, some fraud there. Low grade copper sold to a man in Sumer, only for Elijah to disappear with the payment, moldy rations delivered to a trader in Cairo in exchange for jewels worth more than the damaged crop. Small bits of mischief born from the sense of superiority his status as a nephilim afforded him. He was a descendant of the  divine, after all, why should he be beholden to mortal laws? Fraud soon grew to outright thievery, devolving further and further until Elijah did as mortals do: He made a mistake and died for it.

The next thousand years of his existence were spent in what Dante would later call the Eight Circle, Bolgia 7, the place where thieves are punished. The less the said about what he experienced in that terrible place, the better. All's well that ends well, a scorned husband summoned him in a fit of fury around the time Troy fell, and for the first time in a millenia he felt the grip of the snakes on his heels loosen. For the first time in a millenia, he was free.

Elijah had not killed anyone during his time in the Inferno, refusing to cross the line as a son of the divine. He had been corrupted nonetheless, and desperation is a dangerous thing. As the sunlight hit for the first time in over a millenia of suffering, the last bits of reluctance at his path disappeared.

Screw his divinity, his father had never done anything for him anyway.

He would not go back to Beelzebub’s grip, not when he could avoid it.

Elijah had been born a nephilim, but a nephilim he did not remain. Instead, his soul was twisted, broken into the form of an incubus willing to sacrifice anyone in order to escape the faith that awaited him in the deepest pits of Hell.

The thought of scales and reptilian fangs still sends a shiver down his spine as he remembers the sheer desperation that came from knowing his very self could be stripped away at every moment if he did not escape. Faded snake bites marr once perfect skin, the reminder that he is no free and never will be. The reptilian tails are still wrapped around his wrists, dragging him down and back into an eternity of suffering.

He is not going back.

He will not allow it.

personality

+ cunning, affectionate, convincing – self indulgent, envious, dishonest