Salvation or Self-Preservation

[Jag]

Background Information

Music has never been just sound, captured momentarily in the lungs of an artist with a vision in his eyes and a tool of culling a song from the sound in his hands. Music is in the most literal sense a form of energy, one that mere humans can only begin to tap into and manipulate when they truly pour their heart, their soul, their rawest of emotions into their music. And thus the song is imbued with those raw emotions, capable of eliciting in its listeners the very joy, or sadness, or rage, or nostalgia that it is borne of.

Sometimes however, that is not enough. Sometimes, the energy poured into the music is such that it begins to coalesce, take shape—from the passion of the music is born consciousness, and from the metaphorical dust and dirt a physical form emerges. A living being, breathing, feeling, thinking, has been created, imbued with the very soul of the song that provided the fuel of its creation.

Some of these souls come of beautiful music, songs that bring to mind images of joy and peace, of love for one’s fellow life. And from these songs are fashioned beings beautiful in body and soul, or, perhaps, souls not blessed with perfection of the body but which are nevertheless imbued with a spirit of love and kindness. Lively optimists, easygoing companions, or perhaps simply quiet but noble souls—of that type of music are they born. They are capable of assimilating seamlessly into modern human society, becoming productive members of civilisation, going through life much as many humans do—finding friends, enjoying hobbies, searching for a purpose in their lives beyond the one which they already have.

Others are...not so fortunate. For as those souls are blessed to be born of beautiful music, others are created of the essence of torment, hatred, angst, anguish, or sheer, unadulterated rage. They are born never knowing anything but the base pain of existence that they are destined from their very birth to feel permeating their very being as residue from the pain that drove the music that created them, and it twists them, tries to drive them into unfettered hate and evil—and often succeeds. For them, acclimating to society is almost impossible. Some will become social delinquents, constantly struggling against their own basic nature—others will be driven to mental derangement by it, and others will embrace it wholly and become embodiments of murder, rape, and destruction.

Some....don’t fall into either category. They’re just fucking weird.

The similarity is that they all depend on the energy of music to live on, and they all have power. Power to use the influx of energy that gave them life to inspire that same creative energy in others...just as they can use their power to siphon the creative energy from music. Some will find sustenance in guiding musicians in crafting their music with passion and soul, thus replenishing and supplementing the reserves of that creative energy...just as others will take the more direct route of taking that energy for themselves, guaranteeing their continued existence even as the passion of music begins to dwindle and fade away.

Plotty Shit

They have existed as long as man has sacrificed a part of his soul to produce music. But today, it’s 2012, and that’s rapidly starting to change. Music no longer depends on the soul and passion of the artist. The music, the lyrics, all is written by someone else, given to the performer to be spat out into the air to be appreciated by those who no longer know it for what it is—soulless, emotionless, factory-produced and packaged. The energy of music is beginning to vanish. Nobody cares to listen to music that bears true feeling and emotion—those songs are now being filtered out in favour of commercialised, catchy tunes, mass-produced for the masses. Living muses were never a frequent occurrence, but now their creations are becoming more and more rare, for no one is injecting their music with the raw passion that is needed to give rise to a muse. Humanity finds itself in a crisis, in a dire shortage of musical energy, that it doesn’t even know about.

Those muses that remain from the songs of bygone eras must make choices of their own—for in this crisis they look upon their own downfall. Should the creative energy continue to dwindle, they will begin to fade away from this world, until at last there is no longer enough of that energy to sustain them and they vanish forever, becoming the essence of the music that formed them once more. Some will, perhaps, strive to inspire the artists of today, to stir within them the passion and emotion necessary to restore a balance to the diminishing energy—thus, hope prevails that the muses will be able to live on, but that most importantly, the soul of music will live on, and muses will continue to be born to inspire that soul within the next generation of artists.

Other muses...seek a more immediate solution. They know that if they do not acquire that energy, they will fade away forever—and for some what awaits them in forever is an eternity of agony in the form of the base torment they are composed of. And so in desperation they siphon that energy directly from the music and from the artists, leaving them more soulless than ever before—whilst the muse itself secures not only longevity for itself, but more and more power by which to assert its hunger over the world.

Conflict is inevitable between those who seek immediate sustenance and those willing to risk their continued existence in pursuit of a long-term solution as they coalesce into New York, as one of the veritable centres of musical creativity and production in the world. And amidst this conflict the muses seek still to find their place in the world, their niche in life, by which they can enjoy and have fun in life—whether it be love, friendship, power, wealth, or simply the feeling of purpose in life.

Upon discovery that a number of the muses are attempting to use the creative energy left in the world--an amount rapidly dwindling--to preserve their own integrity and life, those muses who seek to replenish that dwindling stock form a coalition of sorts, an uneasy confederacy--united only by their recognition of the problem and those that aggravate it, these muses are split over differences in sense of justice, views on their opponents, and views on the issues they now face. In the face of a stronger, united foe, the muses who focus on self-preservation are forced to come to a most unstable alliance themselves--a union of misunderstood miscreants, raging psychotics, and manipulative, backstabbing downright villains such that Disney's most wicked of antagonists could only stand in awe at. Two uneasy alliances born solely of necessity in the face of the existence of the other--destruction is simply guaranteed.

The battleground is made at New York, the modern-day centre of global popular music. Those who seek self-preservation go there to be all the closer to their 'food' sources, whilst those who fight for salvation hope not only to better inspire those upon whom their existence hinges, but also to root out the constituents of the Self-Preservation pack. Destruction, death, and violence will reign supreme as two superhuman forces fight for their very existence--a battle whose consequences may shake the very foundations of humanity.

Note On Muses

Each muse is born with a power that is specific to them and based on the song they are born of--ie, a muse created by the song "Light My Fire" by The Doors, aside from being a hopeless romantic, would probably have some ability related to, obviously, fire. A character born of John Coltrane's 'Moment's Notice' would probably have an ability related, perhaps, to superhuman perception or speed, and a character born of Cannibal Corpse's 'I Cum Blood' would p...actually, let's not think too much about what kind of person that song would produce.

Peeps

Salvation:

- Digital Muse : Ophelia Dosselmeyer

- Gadreille : Bill Harris

- Ruu : Lysander Northrop

Self-Preservation:

- Jag : ...Jag

- Syrena : Dream

-

Oh look, character skeleton

Creation Song: Song they were created from, and a link to said song.

Name: Can be any name they've taken since they came unto this world. If you make this 'Dark Lord Invictus the Wicked' or some thirteen year old WoW geek name like that I will flip shit (unless your music was made by a pasty white kid who never leaves his parents' basement and probably has a mental deficiency...in other words, unless you picked a Xasthur song). Otherwise, anything's good. Bear in mind that those who assimilate into society will probably have a 'real name', like, I dunno, John Walker. First name, last name, maybe a middle name if they're an attention whore like that. The ones who are.....slightly less conforming, however, can be named anything from Bob to Dat Rock.

'Age': Pretty much, when the song that created them was made. And perhaps how old they look physically.

Appearance: No anime pictures of some prepubescent chick in a sailor uniform with purple/green/pink hair. Somewhat realistic animation/CGI images are good with me, though. A description is always appreciated.

Personality: Make it clear here whether they're Self-Preservation or Salvation (and, perhaps, how strongly...you know, perhaps there's a chance they may be swayed, or change allegiances of their own volition). Other than that, just put their personality. Make sure, of course, that it's related to their song. I don't wanna have someone born of "Here Comes the Sun" turn out to be some brooding, sadistic bastard. That's why we have emo metalcore bands. To provide us with shitty music and brooding, sadistic bastards.

Power: Use common sense here, don't make it over-powered, have it tie in in some way to their song. Other than that, sky's the limit. Unless your character can breath in a vacuum or something. Then I guess there's no limit and your character can go wherever they want. I'm thinkin power is proportional to how much energy they've accrued--which means yes, Self-Preservation types may be more powerful than Salvation types. That's the price they pay for being the good guys.

Other Shit: Exactly what the name says. If you wanna put a history here, if they've been doing anything in particular since creation, do so. Add more details, do so. Add interesting little tidbits, do so. Offer worship and the sacrifice of seventy two virgins to Jag, do so.

[Jag]

Creation Song: Antischism - Scream

Name: She's just called Jag. No real reason, no symbolism, no metaphor, no real relation to the song that birthed her--it's just a fuckin' name. Monosyllabic, short, to the point, no-nonsense--it fulfilled everything Jag figured she'd need out of a name, and therefore she took it. It was never necessary for her to name herself anything more than that anyway, because she never was able to integrate into society, so it was not necessary for her to come up with a last name or anything. As for whence it came, Jag herself can't even remember. A corruption of 'Jack', maybe? Makes sense. After all, Jag has essentially no concept of names (traditionally) belonging to specific genders, so for her to take up the name Jack for all the reasons outlined above and then have that somehow shift into 'Jag' wouldn't be unexpected.

'Age': Jag as a conscious being was born in 1991, and thus for about twenty years she's been accumulating and actively seeking to siphon away energy for herself. Appearance is less simple to determine--depending on the viewer in question, she could be anywhere from twenty five to thirty five, judging from the lines contouring her face and the general aire of weariness about her.

Appearance:



Jag is not, in physique, a particularly eye-catching sight. Coming in at a pretty unremarkable 180 centimetres, or about five feet and ten inches tall (she prefers centimetres to feet, because one hundred and eighty centimetres sounds taller to her than five foot ten), Jag doesn't exactly stand head and shoulders over anybody else in a crowd, much to her own continued malaise. As if that weren't enough, she's also not particularly well-built--not only because in frame Jag is naturally lean and all too slender. In fact, in times when she had yet to begin actively seeking out the dying vestiges of energy still remnant in this world for herself, Jag became downright emaciated. Fortunately, she's since learnt to set aside petty moral qualms and begun to very aggressively take the energy she is due, and as such, though by no means is she at all burly or well-built, she's certainly robust in that her skinny frame is accentuated with lean, evenly distributed musculature--not at all the kind that shows, not the kind suitable for punching or lifting or other such activities, but more geared towards endurance, towards withstanding the immensely taxing output of her own powers.

What she lacks by way of outstanding physique in the realm of 'standing out like a sore thumb in a crowd of normal, sane people' she makes up in nearly every other way, including...well, her skin. Stripped of all that now stains it, Jag's skin would be a pale canvas of ivory white, a canvas that has since been marked and defiled in just about every way. She was essentially born armoured in a vast array of tattoos from head to toe--literally; there are some on her head, though they're rather obscured when Jag doesn't shave her head, which she no longer regularly does. Some do have feelings associated with them--some of them, for example, help her feel a little more at ease and calm if she looks at them, whilst others remind her directly of the fate that awaits her after death and stir wrath and fear within her. Additionally, since her birth, the strenuous nature of her power has opened scars across her body, when it at times could not handle the strain of being the vessel to such destructive potential or when Jag herself drove herself to the limit in her usage of it.

To say she's not very pretty, therefore, would be the understatement of the century, and she'd probably blast you from a solid into a liquid for saying it (that is, for understating it, not for denying the prettiness she is well aware she lacks). She may have been, at least, not too hard on the eyes, were she not the physical manifestation of a psychological compulsion to destruction and massacre on a huge scale, but Jag does not make a habit of pondering that which does not directly concern her, and physical attractiveness, a concept foreign to her mind, doesn't register on that list. Her features are angular and nearly gaunt--in fact, if she goes too long without siphoning energy for herself and emaciation takes in, she gets to lookin' like a walking corpse, an impression not at all helped by the skull-like features of her face, by the high-set, pronounced, gaunt cheekbones that pull her skin taut and her thin, pallid lips. Nor is it an impression helped by her heavy lidded eyes or her heavy browline, casting a consequent shadow of sorts that makes her eyes seem as dead and corpse-like as her skeletal features. Her hair is generally kept to a fairly short cut, the tough wiry black hairs accustomed to sticking out just about every which way; she swears sometimes she sees bits of grey in their midst only to find nothing there upon closer examination, leading her to honestly believe her hair is fucking with her head. She gets revenge by (sometimes) remembering to shave her head whenever she thinks it's getting too long. She likes to think her hair is screaming and writhing in agony as she shears off swathes of the treacherous, deceitful shocks. Serves the fuckers right for tryin' to mess with her.

Needless to say, Jag is not about to go out in a maroon sweater, plaid skirt, and flip flops. She's not one for subdued fashion, and in that spirit quickly found herself gravitating towards the most extreme attire she could find, towards the dirtiest, crustiest, nastiest look possible (which, considering just how much attention Jag pays to her hygiene, she had little trouble with). In point of fact, one of few possessions Jag has maintained throughout her entire existence, more than twenty years, is a leather jacket. Maybe it was pristine back when she got her hands on it--it sure as hell ain't no kind of pristine by now. For one, Jag's never washed it. For another, it's absolutely covered in studs, spikes, and patches of all kinds--bands, obscene language with occasional racist, sexist, or homophobic undertones, contradictory political messages--a huge pellmell of just all kinds of shit. Frankly, a lot of the time she doesn't pay much attention to what she's put on her jacket--if it looks pissed off to her, onto the jacket it goes. Under the jacket, though, she's a little less discriminatory in what she dons--you're not gonna see her traipsing about in a polo shirt, but you will find her decked out in anything from an Antiproduct t-shirt to that 'Jamaica - No Problems' shirt you see in that picture up there. Just don't go up to her all 'OMIGOD I LOVE YOUR SHIRT WHERE DID YOU GET IT'. For one, she probably has no clue. For another, she'll shatter your eardrums.

She tends not to acquire lower body apparel as easily as she seems to with the random assortment of shirts she wears--consequently, she opts for some reliable ol jeans, and she tends to wear them until they're literally falling apart, no matter how many tears, stains, or other debilitations have marked them. Tucked under the jeans she wears a pair of harness boots, similarly designed for durability and long wear, as always stained with mud and dirt and other...less than savoury materiels. Of course, it's not like she stops being punk as fuck (as she so fondly puts it) from the waist down, hell no. Right where the leather jacket ends one finds a rusted old copper bullet belt slung low on one side around her waist, the kind you can buy at a surplus store with all the gunpowder and works and whatnot taken out of the bullets (predictably, Jag has probably attempted in vain at some point to fire the bullets in her belt out a real gun...). Rusted old bike chains of various lengths hang from the loops of her jeans, just as the finishing touch--y'know, just in case somebody didn't get the point that Jag is here to kick ass and chew bubble gum, but she fuckin' hates bubble gum, so really, she's just here to kick ass.

Personality: Jag is angry. Angry to the point of bordering on literally psychotic. She’s angry at the world because she just can’t fit into it, angry at the muses who got a better lot in life than she did, angry at herself because she just can’t make sense...of herself. And if that makes no sense to you, well, it makes absolutely no more sense to Jag. All she knows is that she’s filled with this senseless hate and rage towards everything around her, driven on and fuelled by a constant sense of torment that permeates her entire being. It makes her unpredictable, such that at times she can easily come off as mentally demented and off her rocker—to say her temper is quite short would be akin to stating that poking a sleep-deprived, starving, and thoroughly angry bull with a sharp stick repeatedly might be bad for your physical integrity. Her ability to deal with setbacks, obstacles and other such troubles extends only insofar as her ability to blast them to pieces, as she knows of no way to deal with them other than with violence. She's angry, she's violent, she's fed up with everything including things that have absolutely nothing to do with her, she hates nearly everything simply because it exists, she sometimes sees or hears things that aren't there, she thinks the whole world is simply geared against her at every step, and she's convinced coconuts are planning something sinister but nobody else seems to have come to this realisation.

Jag does have her moments of calm and...well, something like peace, the closest she'll ever get to it, and at most times it seems simply impossible for her to achieve that state in which her rage is momentarily quelled and the torment that perpetually engulfs her seems to ebb away just a bit. Even then, however, she cannot escape her own nature, the nature she hates so much, given to her by the song she hates so much, and as a result in those fragile states of calm something as simple as stubbing her toe, or remembering something she forgot (which happens a lot), will compel her into a profanity-ridden, often violent rage, and she just loses it again. When she does have a modicum of self-control, however, Jag is prone to sometimes revealing aspects of her personality that even she was unaware of--to revealing that she is composed of more than just hate and blind fury, and that (if so cliche a term may be ventured) she does have feelings other than the rage under which they are often subdued and buried, and that she is (or has the potential to be) a little more than just a tormented sociopath. Those moments of calm are the sole respite she gets from an existence of otherwise constant physical and mental agony, and therefore, Jag longs to fully and permanently become that state of relative calm and peace. It just seems that no matter what, that rage, which seems to her almost like a separate entity, is constantly boiling under the surface, lying in wait of an opportunity to surge up and replace a moment of peace with renewed hatred and resentment towards the entire world.

As such Jag, despite her impulse to violence and destruction, is not quite evil so much as she is simply in a constant struggle against her very basic nature, relentlessly attempting to change herself into someone that can find a place in life. This makes her actions endlessly erratic—she may do something genuinely noble, save a person’s life at the ‘risk’ of her own, in an effort to fight back the ever-present rage into submission. And yet, it is just as possible, and in fact more often than not happens, that she is overcome by that rage, or succumbs to it, compelling her to violence, destruction, murder, and her responsibility for all that destruction only makes her all the more confused and hateful of herself. But above all, she fears what awaits her if the creative energy fuelling her dissipates...and she knows that the mental agony she exists in now is but a taste of the anguish that is her destiny if she is to fade from the world and become the blinding fury that composes her. And so in desperation she chooses to siphon the energy she needs from the music and musicians of today—she is only barely aware of the damage she is potentially doing in draining that energy for herself. But her fear of that hell of pain and all-too-pessimistic belief that attempting to inspire the soul of music in the musicians of today is a lost cause (and of course her own impulsive, 'act first, forget to think later' nature) have caused her to default to taking that energy for herself. What she doesn’t realise is that in doing so, she is fuelling the same rage she is locked in perpetual struggle against...for every time she siphons energy, she—or rather, her power—becomes more and more powerful, and as a result the rage that is the main catalyst of that power becomes more and more powerful.

Power: Jag possesses the power of sonic manipulation--she can manipulate the very waves and frequencies of sound around her in various ways; the effect is even more destructive when she actually creates a sound and then amplifies it (ie, she screams like a banshee, and her power amplifies the sound into a wave that can tear buildings apart). She can direct sound waves with her body as well, creating a huge burst of sonic energy with a violent motion of her hand to cause destruction in its path, or creating an extremely high frequency burst of sound that causes intense pain to anyone within range. Her powers lack subtlety just as their vessel lacks subtlety, and though they’re great for wide-scale destruction, they’re virtually useless in situations calling for stealth and covertness (but hell, Jag hates all that sneaking about anyway. Fuck it, the fuck is she supposed to be, a goddamn ninja?) and given how prone she is to losing control...the destructive, uncontrollable nature of her power becomes almost a liability. Added in, of course, with the fact that that same sheer destructive potential puts significant pressure on her physical body, forcing her into a state of constant pain that ranges from a perpetual ache to a relentless agony permeating throughout her being. On the other hand, given how long she has existed and been determined to keep herself in existence, one could say her power is growing rather powerful...at the cost of her rage, her lack of control over herself, and the magnitude of the perpetual physical agony growing along with it.

Other shit: Jag speaks with a distinct South Carolinian accent--owing, perhaps, to the fact that Antischism, the band which 'created' her, were from South Carolina. Her left eye has kind of a twitch, which she doesn't notice half the time and becomes disproportionately infuriated whenever she does notice it; it tends to come up at the most random of times, not really corresponding to any emotion or situation. She also tends to bite at her fingernails when she's especially agitated and trying not to blow up. It...isn't always very effective. She sometimes uses the strangest words ('dawg', 'nigga', 'cunt', 'brotha', 'son', etc) to refer to people.

It's worth noting that in her 'younger' days, Jag refused to siphon creative energy for herself, taking a sort of moral exception to the concept: she was not, perhaps, quite so affected by the nature of her essence as she is by now, and believed it was not worth sacrificing what morals and ideals she still had at that time in order to exist just a little longer. However, she saw how emaciated she was growing, how corpse-like she'd become, and then she realised if she let herself fade away to save what little creative energy was left in the world, she wouldn't be thanked for it, or awarded for it, or even remembered for it--she'd be rewarded nothing but an eternity of horrible torture in the form of the ravenous rage that composes her. That was the point at which she began desperately seeking out every trail of energy to fuel her relentless hunger for the stuff, to distance herself more and more from the inevitable fate which she fears beyond all else.

[Digital Muse]

Creation Song: Under the Radar - Abney Park

Name: Ophelia Dosselmeyer

'Age': Created in 2009. Jinx appears 23 years old.

Appearance: A rail-thin girl with flaming red hair tied into two ponytails on each side of her face. She wears a mish-mash of clothes that includes a pair of cycling goggles on her head, a dark blue man’s frock coat from the 1890’s over a high-necked victorian blouse, brown riding breeches and tall lace up boots.


Ophelia’s transportation:


Personality: Ophelia is brightly optimistic and insatiably curious. She will jump into situations often before she completely thinks things through. Since she only came into existence in the past 3 years, Ophelia has to investigate and try everything. All at once. She loves nothing more than a good fight, but in this one thing, she prefers sneak tactics and the use of overwhelming force.

Ophelia stands on the side of Salvationists, but to her shame, she has become hungry enough to simply take the energy she needs. She fights it every day.

Power: Jinx can learn just about anything simply by seeing it or reading about it. This is fueled by her insatiable curiosity. It takes her 10-15 minutes to assimilate what she’s learned. Ophelia also has the power to bend the laws of probability to her advantage slightly. She can pull the right card to win or toss the dice to come up boxcars more often than not. She just seems to be uncommonly lucky.

Other Shit: Born of the upbeat and bright music of the Steam Punk band Abney Park, Ophelia (named for the airship the band names in their other songs), Ophelia is a bit of an anachronism on the modern music scene with their love of synthesizers and electronic re-mixes. The music she inspires is half folk, half sea shanty, half gypsy and all fun.

[Gadreille]

Creation Song: Crazy He Calls Me - Billie Holiday

Name: Bill Harris. Bill took the male version of his creator's name, and her birth family name.

Age: Bill was created in 1949, which makes him 63 years into existence. However, he looks somewhere in his thirty's.

Appearance:


Personality: Bill is a lovesick buffoon. He's fallen in love no less than six times. He spends a decade or so with each one, and stays by their side until they start to age...and he doesn't. Then, heartbroken, he has to move on. He's kindhearted, charming in a serenade-you-into-love sort of way, and very giving - but can be stubborn sometimes, if he's got his mind made up. Unfortunately...he's always changing his mind. He's slightly unstable, in that some days he wakes up and forgets where he is, or what's happened, or what year it currently is...it makes it hard to live amongst humanity, as he's been doing his entire existence. As the music of his time began to die, and creative energy began to dissipate, it was Bill's first instinct to siphon it for himself. Over time he realized that when he siphoned power, his instability grew...this, coupled with his love for humanity, put him on the side of Salvation...whether he knew it or not.

Power: Bill can endure. Whether it's a storm or fire, a shot to the chest or starvation....even lack of creative energy, Bill can outlast all of those around him. Perhaps this is how he has survived for as long as he has, while siphoning as little energy as possible. He is also physically stronger than most other muses...it is said he can move mountains, though he's never actually tried.

Other Shit: Bill is still looking for the one, to spend the rest of forever dancing in a jazz bar with.

[Jag]

Both characters look great and they've been added to the roster.

[Syrena]

© Lily Cole

Creation Song: Sweet Dreams (Marilyn Manson)

Name: Dream
Nickname: --
Alias: --

Age: 17, appears to be 23
Date of Birth: 1995
Zodiac Sign: --

Height: 5’7”
Weight: 110lbs
Appearance: Dream is the heroin chic poster child. Her skin is very pale (although she does not have dark circles underneath her eyes), and her bone structure is sharp and angular. Her emaciated features have an ethereal appearance; at first glance, Dream appears to be a beautiful figment of imagination.

Occupation: --
Previous Occupation: --

Personality: Dream is dysfunctional and demanding.

She is the fantasy many people imagine, but she isn’t the fantasy she imagines. Ironically, she is happy to be a fantasy—a lover, a jealous ex, a submissive piece of arm candy—for the people she comes across. Nothing is free, though. Dream demands gifts for her services; she especially likes expensive bottles of wine, designer clothes, and fast cars.

But she cannot maintain fantasies long term. Dream is ultimately abusive; although, her abuse is sugar coated in lavish fantasies tailored to an individual’s desires. She is also prone to dangerous mood swings. One minute she is a loving girl, and the next minute she is severely depressed and jealous.

Power: Dream’s influence lies in fantasy. She can telepathically sway individuals into believing she is the dream they’ve been waiting for. Typically she takes on the role of a lover, a jealous ex, or a submissive piece of arm candy.

Although, Dream only takes on various fantasies in order to exploit a stranger. She often demands gifts, such as expensive wines, and often takes everything a stranger is worth. In some cases, though, Dream takes on roles where she allows a stranger to exploit her. Strangers have thus taken her for everything she is worth.

Her social class is always in an upheaval. Sometimes she is living the good life surrounded by wealth, and sometimes she is out on the street with nothing but a thread-bare coat. Regardless of her current social class, Dream is destructive. Her mood swings make her increasingly unstable and, recently, she’s become careless about how she siphons her energy.

Biography: --

[Jag]

I'm gonna guess she's Self-Preservation--added to the roster.

[Syrena]

Oops. I thought I put self-preservationist in the character sheet somewhere... But, yes, she's self-preservation.

[Ruu]

If this is still open, I'd like to join!


Creation Song: Fireflies (Owl City)

Name: Lysander Northrop

'Age': 4, but looks to be about 12 years old.

Appearance: Lysander has the appearance of a slight, petite twelve-year old boy with sandy, somewhat long hair and crystal blue eyes. He always looks tired and weary, as if he could drop off to sleep at any moment. He prefers to wear light-colored clothing, as it is comforting to him, though it makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

Personality: Lysander is a gentle soul, afraid to hurt others emotionally or physically. He wants nothing more than to live in tranquility, but sees that in the current crisis there is little hope for a peaceful solution. And yet, even though he consider himself part of the Salvation side, he is easily manipulated due to the powers of his that are beyond his control. He tends to cling to others who are stronger than him, or to cling to ideals and precious memories of the past. He can often be a space cadet, immersing himself in a world that only he can see, a world where fireflies...can sometimes become reality...

Power: The only power of Lysander's directly under his control is the ability to shape and manipulate light. Not a very powerful ability, but it sometimes can come in handy. The bulk of his power lies in his abilities to see the dreams of others as wisps of light, very much like fireflies. At strange times and in different circumstances, he can give shape and form to dreams...and even nightmares, whether he wants to or not. He is more likely to give form to these fancies of the imagination when he is hurt, sick, or extremely tired. Thus he is very careful to try to keep these powers in check as much as possible, lest they be used for evil...

Other Shit: Lysander was cared for by a kind, elderly couple for the first three years of his "life". When he turned four, things began to change. It was about this time that his hidden powers began manifesting themselves. One night, he woke up to find fireflies flitting all about his room. The strange thing was, he had just been dreaming about the creatures. He understood that as a muse, this could become very dangerous for those caring for him. The youth quietly left in the middle of the night, fending for himself and begging for food when needed to. He was very careful to stay away from other muses, as he didn't want to get involved with their conflicts, even as their numbers rapidly dwindled...But now, it seems like the time for running and hiding is coming to an end...

[Jag]

I'm still reading the profile, but Ruu, Lysander cannot be twenty three years old. That song was only made four years ago in 2008.

EDIT: Other than that (and of course, the 'other' portion, as that is very much dependent on Lysander having reached twelve years old at all), it's okay.

[Ruu]

Whoops, I totally messed that up. I apologize. Thanks for catching that for me. I edited it to make it make more sense.

[Jag]

Lysander's been added to the list. That puts us at three Salvation and two Self-Preservation. One more to the latter group and I think we can quite safely get started.

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