Demon Realm

May 2017 Featured RPG

Hush Wrex

atrox OOC Information

Created
Threads
Posts
IC Posts
Points
03-17-2018
0
1
0
0
content restriction: extreme torture without prior warning.

Character Information

Character Type
Face Claim
Solo Demon
yolandi visser
Human Pronouns
Human Age
Demon Pronouns
Demon Age
n/a
n/a
she
650
Faction
Profession
Unaffiliated
full time chain smoker

Character Summary

Summary

chaos in a glass cage 5'3, 102lbs, skeletal. sun-kissed, blue-eyed.

mouthy, almost more trouble than she's worth. born and bred english.

brittle as thin steel -- cadaverous, the angular curves of her body cunning as cradledeath. skeletal hips emerge from the demon's waifish form in jutting swells, heart-shaped, married by paper-thin skin to the steepness of sinewed thighs. sharp features create a vulpine illusion, a sketch of a face alien and ephemeral. her hair is a sheath of spider silk, quicksilver trailing over the thin muscles of her neck, an untamed tangle of locks. flat breasts, ribs etched in stark beneath the twitching skin of her torso -- she has a fervent grace to her, a dancer's balance in those copper-skinned limbs.
Ascensions and Legacies
Dominions
Combustion legendary power
Deposition greater power
Disintigrationgreater control
Sound lesser control
Precognition minor control
Water minor power

Character In-Depth


  • tw for mentions of child prostitution & abuse, violence, homophobic slurs

    she hadn't meant to fall in with them in the beginning. every gutter-bound bastard in that godforsaken place knew about the Daughters-- pipe wrenches and crowbars, lipstick smeared teeth, the casual cross-dressing, the trail of bodies, the little brothels slipped between the leaning tenant houses and the kids that lingered at their doorsteps.

    she hadn't meant to. but money was tight, and rent wasn't free. it was only casual work first, running errands for a dashing young rat picked up by Big Sis herself. she scrambled after him in the streets, held his hand when he drank too much, warmed the bed when it was cold. lost herself even as she gained things she'd never had. family. friends. a warm place to sleep every night, surrounded by other lowlies, huddled on mattresses and tangled together until the dismal weather didn't matter. and him. crest.
    ---
    tonight, hush forgoes the whiskey and follows him, his strawberry lipgloss still sticky on her mouth, his shirt drowning her waif-thin form. down alleys, black veins in a rotten corpse of a city, and across damp streets, they traipse. the man's exuberant stride is difficult to pace, thighs taught beneath a little black number -- but she has known him, has walked with him, for long enough to manage.

    their destination is a familiar one: a sullen little hidey-hole, grim and leering in a square courtyard lodged between a whorehouse and a dubious gambling parlour. she lurks outside beneath within a doorway, watches as he lights the wick of a tallow candle in the attic room and slinks back into the shadows. hush does not miss the tall, thin man who slides through the door a few minutes later, nor the slick shine of expensive leather shoes. pigeon. easy catch, a little gristly, but fat with cash. it was her turn now, shimmying up the drainpipe and through a cracked window. simple.
    ---
    'c r e s t. are ya listening to me?'
    'not now - '
    - a moan, the dull thud of flesh and force -
    '- bugger off. sis is still working.'
    she can hear him behind the door, the soft huff of his breath and the laboured sound of another's. panting, a rapid series of slaps heeled by senseless noises. bloody hell. how long was he going to take? she was starving.
    'big sis is back.'
    a strangled gasp, but it wasn't his.
    'say what?'
    'she's back. she asked for your nasty faggot ass.'
    from behind the door comes a long inhale, crest sniffing haughtily as he thumps across the carpet. when he opens the door, she can see the colour standing high in his cheeks, the tremble and strain in the sleek muscles of his bare chest. from excitement or satisfaction, she didn't know.
    'off you trot.'
    one thin-lipped look leaves her sighing as she drags his shirt over her head and offers it back to him. he pats her on the head before he leaves. there wasn't really anything to more say, anyway. she slips into the room before the door can click closed, fingers trailing over the cracks in the naked plaster wall. the window rattles in the wind -- the sound is so loud, so sudden, that she almost misses the gargling breath of the thing on the floor. crest's favoured bat is propped against the bare mattress; the metal is slick and sticky, dust clinging where he'd missed and struck the wall. cunt couldn't even do his job properly. she hefts the thing with an artful swish and retreats to the dank bathroom to ready herself

    musty water splutters into the drain as she rinses plaster from the bat, though it did nothing for the look of the thing. the handle is still warm from his grip, familiar, wrapped over with fraying tape for comfort. what a nancy. she knew her friend in the other room could wait; crest had at least made sure he wouldn't be going anywhere fast.

    there's an art to it all. a study in negative space when she cracks him open against that plaster wall. lays him bare between the vividness of force and fury made visible. a symphony-- joints that pop and bones that splinter. there was more love in the meaty, visceral sound of the bat against flesh than she had ever been touched with. grim work. but with every collision came sustenance, mingling with the artificial sweetness of his gloss, redder than rubies and Big Sis's lipstick. he lays barer than the day he was born, the mauve hue of muscle peering from blue-black flesh, splattered and visceral, stinking. she takes her fill like an animal, perched on fingertips and tiptoes. but this was just the final course, his dark thoughts swallowed, her hovering features a crimson mask as she drank, weeping blisters opening across her palms and unnoticed in the fray.
    ---
    she had washed off as best as she could in the intermittent spit of musty water the shower provided, wandering back into the claustrophobic bedroom as the sky began to turn grey with morning's first light. as she dries herself with a clean corner of the sheets, the girl takes a moment to peer from the dusty window. the courtyard below is still-- a dark little square of cracked flags and dead weeds, usually unremarkable. the three figures who loiter just beyond the crooked shadows of the building stand out like sore thumbs: short skirts, fishnets, lips smeared and lurid. real Daughters, in all their eccentric opulence.

    she goes to them without hesitation, clattering down the stairs and swinging open the heavy front door. but something soft catches her stride, an ungainly, clothed sprawl. bloody sheets, but the smell was wrong. the husk of boots across the gritty tiles draws her ice-chip gaze to the kohl-lined eyes of the approaching Sister, then to the dark stains smeared across his shoulder and chest
    'your crest.'
    a voice light as air, laudanum and honey. she feels the gravity of his gaze long after he turns on his heel, disappearing after his Sisters back onto the streets.
    ---
    there had been enough money saved between them to pay her way to the next city, and then the one after that. but the money ran out -- it always did -- and the work didn't pay, got her walking in all the wrong places, made her do things that the Daughters saved for the weak ones lost on hunger and highs. influence stretched like webs, and she had tugged upon the wrong threads one too many times.

    it had been an accidental thing, a skinny human snatched in a back alley and dragged into the night. but property was property and, while theft was not a crime the authorities gave much notice to, other, more powerful forces had different ideas.

    damages they called it. little jobs, the sort that she was used to, to lull her into complacency. but there was a curious respect given to her -- a pet. the idea was hard to properly grasp; she didn't find offence, as some might, just an odd sense of trepidation.

    life in the lap of luxury -- a billion things she could ask for if she cared to, if only she (mostly) did as she was told. a pet. existence narrowed down to the mysterious whims of her unknown handler, a nameless horror at the top rung. incomprehensible, unusual. each request was stranger than the last, but she had always have the sense that outright refusal would end terribly and in short order. each little defiance was a fruitless rebellion captivity of her debt. it was a game of sorts that spanned restless weeks. but she'd meet him eventually, in dim alleyways, in opulent ballrooms. an oddity at his well-dressed side, a curiosity beneath the scrutiny of his fellows. albericht. or whatever he had told her to call him during that particular encounter.

    a nightmare of a fairytale, but intoxicatingly vivid against the greyness of her life. she is content, guilty, still grieving in some unreachable place. but life was not difficult in the way it had been before. she could thrive here.

Demon Information

IN MY HEAD, I PLAY A SUPERCUT OF US.
6'5, 250lbs. wendigo.

Lizzuzci @da

Quest Tracker