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Melchior Taghvaei
TRAPPED SUBJECT
FD5B5B
Caspar Taghvaei (brother), Balthazar Taghvaei (brother)
Melchior has always been about rebellion. His ability, a complete mystery to the GRAIL for the way he keeps it so well hidden, is the cause of their ever growing frustration. He has been a prisoner among them for years, but they have never been able to break him. He won't show them for the simple joy of causing them strife, a subtle way of letting them know they do not have total power over him yet. Eventually they will kill him. That much is clear. The funding put into all the tests and battles and just simple boarding could be better used on a different, more compliant subject. He will use the cards up his sleeve when the time comes. Meanwhile he will sneak and trick and toy until he has absolutley no choice. The problem is that they keep giving him one. He has the ability to manipulate shadows at will, yet possesses no shadow of his own. The scientists don't seem to have realized this very obvious giveaway just yet. He tries not to laugh at their blindness. He won't laugh for very long though. They may be blind past their noses, but they know what gets to him. When especially frustrated, they torture his brother. His precious, beloved twin brother who has had to bear the agonies of this cruel complex alongside him. Melchior has no idea what he would do without Caspar, and shudders to think of it. If ever there was a way to break him, it would be through his brother. He won't let them get too far though. His brother will not die on his watch, this much he swears. Melchior has straight, dark brown hair with a wind-tossled quality to its appearance. His eyes are a seething fire color that make him look like a demon out of hell. He has all the evil tendencies of one if ever given the opportunity. He has been known to tear people limb from limb when they aren't careful enough. His aura is a salmony-red color and smells of a mix of dark myrrh, muelin, and musk.
TRAPPED SUBJECT
FD5B5B
Caspar Taghvaei (brother), Balthazar Taghvaei (brother)
Melchior has always been about rebellion. His ability, a complete mystery to the GRAIL for the way he keeps it so well hidden, is the cause of their ever growing frustration. He has been a prisoner among them for years, but they have never been able to break him. He won't show them for the simple joy of causing them strife, a subtle way of letting them know they do not have total power over him yet. Eventually they will kill him. That much is clear. The funding put into all the tests and battles and just simple boarding could be better used on a different, more compliant subject. He will use the cards up his sleeve when the time comes. Meanwhile he will sneak and trick and toy until he has absolutley no choice. The problem is that they keep giving him one. He has the ability to manipulate shadows at will, yet possesses no shadow of his own. The scientists don't seem to have realized this very obvious giveaway just yet. He tries not to laugh at their blindness. He won't laugh for very long though. They may be blind past their noses, but they know what gets to him. When especially frustrated, they torture his brother. His precious, beloved twin brother who has had to bear the agonies of this cruel complex alongside him. Melchior has no idea what he would do without Caspar, and shudders to think of it. If ever there was a way to break him, it would be through his brother. He won't let them get too far though. His brother will not die on his watch, this much he swears. Melchior has straight, dark brown hair with a wind-tossled quality to its appearance. His eyes are a seething fire color that make him look like a demon out of hell. He has all the evil tendencies of one if ever given the opportunity. He has been known to tear people limb from limb when they aren't careful enough. His aura is a salmony-red color and smells of a mix of dark myrrh, muelin, and musk.
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4 : "Horus/Thoth idk"
Aura Code: 8A0838, dark red-purple
Aura Scent: brandy
Ability: move faster than the speed of light
Age: 20
Kin: 1, 2, 3 (twin brother), 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 (all siblings)
Tattoo: handprint on his right upper thigh by the hip bone
(on the right)
Number 4 is fake. Fake left eye, fake heart, fake mind, fake soul, fake body. Number 4 has a counterpart. Number 4's counterpart is Number 3. Number 4 hates Number 3. This hatred has no explanation that can be put into words. It is not the sort of hatred seen where two individuals are rivals but all around are friends. Numbers 3 and 4 hate each others' guts. They fight every chance they get, often beating each other senselessly bloody since they are too evenly matched. One day they will kill each other. No one else can. Only Number 3 has the right to kill Number 4. Only Number 4 has the right to kill Number 3. Number 4 often lords it over Number 3 that he did break their impasse once before. The reason for Number 3's mask is not show. Number 3's face is horribly disfigured after a fight he had with Number 4. Number 4 ruthlessly rubs it in. Numbers 3 and 4 are twins, but this biological connection has only been a breeding ground for their indomitable hatred for each other. They want to be individuals, separate of any biological or manmade ties between them. But the invisible bonds can only be broken through death. Their death. They will never be free until one of them has been severed. Permanently. And so they live to kill each other that the winner may walk away free.
Number 3 is a robot, and Number 4 is much the same. He does not act through emotion or really have any to begin with. He lacks basic principles that make him human, such as a sense of morality and self. He takes orders and follows them through. He does not disobey his masters so long as they prove to him their prowess. But despite all appearances of such, Number 4 has one fear and one fear only, something a theia of such power could easily latch onto and make a reality or make him crippled by it. He fears what will happen when his brother is gone. What will be his drive then when he has done the unthinkable and killed him off? What will his purpose be? Will he truly lose the one thing that made him human: his goal? Will he even be able to go on living when Number 3 is dead? Like any man, he fears the unknown, but rather than man, he fears this one specific unknown. Fighting and hating and trying to kill his brother have been the only things he ever knew in life. Take away his life and what is he? Nothing. So he fears the unknown and the challenges that will come or the challenges that will end. But the lusty voice of curiosity and desire beckon him onward. So he teeters on the edge of wanting to kill and fearing its reality. He balances there and tries not to slip as he edges his way towards his victory over the bond that keeps him chained down to this wasted blob of flesh they dare call his twin brother.
Number 4 can move faster than the speed of light. While many would see this as a useful or even invaluable power, Number 4 knows firsthand just how difficult it can be to control. When moving, everything around him appears frozen. But if he makes one wrong move, he can get a leg torn right off just by bumping a brick with his toe. Or if he comes to a quick stop in the middle of somewhere busy, he can get hit by a car hard enough to tear him in half. That happened once. Hence why he has a mechanical heart pumping blood through his veins and not a real one. He stooped too suddenly, and there it was: a bullet he did not see coming. But the speed at which he moved into its path, it caused the cavitation of the bullet to rip his body clean in half. It certainly terrified the hunters who fired it, as they thought they were aiming at a deer when some person appeared out of thin air and was suddenly cut in half. Number 4 repeated the mistake a few times. It just happens. There are things he cannot predict or control while moving at such a pace, and so he has suffered more than gained by using such an ability. He is well aware of his weakness though, and so, takes every single precaution when using his power.
Aura Code: 8A0838, dark red-purple
Aura Scent: brandy
Ability: move faster than the speed of light
Age: 20
Kin: 1, 2, 3 (twin brother), 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 (all siblings)
Tattoo: handprint on his right upper thigh by the hip bone
(on the right)
Number 4 is fake. Fake left eye, fake heart, fake mind, fake soul, fake body. Number 4 has a counterpart. Number 4's counterpart is Number 3. Number 4 hates Number 3. This hatred has no explanation that can be put into words. It is not the sort of hatred seen where two individuals are rivals but all around are friends. Numbers 3 and 4 hate each others' guts. They fight every chance they get, often beating each other senselessly bloody since they are too evenly matched. One day they will kill each other. No one else can. Only Number 3 has the right to kill Number 4. Only Number 4 has the right to kill Number 3. Number 4 often lords it over Number 3 that he did break their impasse once before. The reason for Number 3's mask is not show. Number 3's face is horribly disfigured after a fight he had with Number 4. Number 4 ruthlessly rubs it in. Numbers 3 and 4 are twins, but this biological connection has only been a breeding ground for their indomitable hatred for each other. They want to be individuals, separate of any biological or manmade ties between them. But the invisible bonds can only be broken through death. Their death. They will never be free until one of them has been severed. Permanently. And so they live to kill each other that the winner may walk away free.
Number 3 is a robot, and Number 4 is much the same. He does not act through emotion or really have any to begin with. He lacks basic principles that make him human, such as a sense of morality and self. He takes orders and follows them through. He does not disobey his masters so long as they prove to him their prowess. But despite all appearances of such, Number 4 has one fear and one fear only, something a theia of such power could easily latch onto and make a reality or make him crippled by it. He fears what will happen when his brother is gone. What will be his drive then when he has done the unthinkable and killed him off? What will his purpose be? Will he truly lose the one thing that made him human: his goal? Will he even be able to go on living when Number 3 is dead? Like any man, he fears the unknown, but rather than man, he fears this one specific unknown. Fighting and hating and trying to kill his brother have been the only things he ever knew in life. Take away his life and what is he? Nothing. So he fears the unknown and the challenges that will come or the challenges that will end. But the lusty voice of curiosity and desire beckon him onward. So he teeters on the edge of wanting to kill and fearing its reality. He balances there and tries not to slip as he edges his way towards his victory over the bond that keeps him chained down to this wasted blob of flesh they dare call his twin brother.
Number 4 can move faster than the speed of light. While many would see this as a useful or even invaluable power, Number 4 knows firsthand just how difficult it can be to control. When moving, everything around him appears frozen. But if he makes one wrong move, he can get a leg torn right off just by bumping a brick with his toe. Or if he comes to a quick stop in the middle of somewhere busy, he can get hit by a car hard enough to tear him in half. That happened once. Hence why he has a mechanical heart pumping blood through his veins and not a real one. He stooped too suddenly, and there it was: a bullet he did not see coming. But the speed at which he moved into its path, it caused the cavitation of the bullet to rip his body clean in half. It certainly terrified the hunters who fired it, as they thought they were aiming at a deer when some person appeared out of thin air and was suddenly cut in half. Number 4 repeated the mistake a few times. It just happens. There are things he cannot predict or control while moving at such a pace, and so he has suffered more than gained by using such an ability. He is well aware of his weakness though, and so, takes every single precaution when using his power.
![Picture](/uploads/3/9/0/9/39097339/2574042_orig.jpg)
Aura Code: FFFDFA, palest of pale oranges till nearly white
Aura Scent: rotting corpses
Ability: protective force
Age: appears 9
Kin: unknown
Tattoo: none
What is existence? If you are lost in the woods and scream, and no one is there to hear your scream and search for you, then did you really scream and are you really lost?
What is in a name? A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. But there is a power to a name. A name is everything. It bears the weight of an identity, a life, a soul, a conglomerate fabrication of thoughts, feelings, memories, experiences, and interactions. A name has the power to give life, and it has the power to destroy. If a name had no power, then why do those who lose their names, seek ever to obtain them once more.
He does not really exist, at least, not in the way most comprehend. If anyone ever knew him at all, they are dead. If he ever had a name, it too, is dead. Like a lost soul never found or a rose never named, he exists in this constant state of being nothing, and so has come to ascend to a heightened sense of existence, believing himself the all-seeing, never seen god of this world. That, or he has descended into the depths of true madness that can only be obtained by the truly broken of mind.
Life begins when cells collide and a being begins developing inside the safety of its mother. But he cannot remember such a thing. No one can. He can neither remember when he first began to live in the outside world, leaving the warmth and the darkness for the cruelty and trauma that is life. He only remembers what happened later. Life for him began in a never ending loop of opening his eyes to a dark, damp hole in the ground, only to be dragged out to be subjected to an unimportant existence. If he existed at all, it was as a corpse. The fiends that imprisoned him kept his heart beating and blood pumping through scraps of sustenance, just so the bare minimum became the usual. He was kept alive in every scientific sense of the word, and that was enough for them. He was never living in their eyes, at least not on their level. A lab rat to be poked, prodded, drugged, hacked, chewed, and spit out. And he knew this as his life, and never did he falter from that, for it was all he knew. But he could never feel pain. A disease kept him from ever noticing the slices in his milk white skin or the needles that pierced the moist flesh of his eyes or the syringes that pumped strange liquids into his blood. He bore witness to these things, the blood and needles and knives, but he never screamed or fought against it. It was life. It simply was. And in that way, they and the corpse existed amicably for years. But one day, everything changed when something within him began to emerge. It was the first time he had ever felt pain. It did not terrify him. He did not quite know how to be terrified. He had never been terrified before. This strange sensation became a guardian to him, manifesting itself as an ethereal sort of hand that would cover him and protect him whenever he needed. But then, when it was not. When the scientists came to cut him, the pain emerged and manifested and crushed one in its embrace. Ever since that day, He started to talk the scientists. He began to ask them what they were doing and why. Why did the hand stop them? What were they doing that he needed to be protected from? But they became angrier and angrier at this, and in turn, so did he. He killed the scientists and left the hole in the ground and the dark building in the dense trees. He wandered aimlessly through jungles and forests, deserts and fields, cities and villages. He never cared about anything. He was always protected. Always safe. He wandered simply because stopping never crossed his mind. He wandered for years, crossing countries on foot, bus, or boat. He wanted nothing and feared nothing. He only stopped when he was tired of wandering. And where did he find himself but in another hole. And there he stayed. No one noticed or quite cared. He passed under their noses as a forgettable face in a forgettable sea of forgettable faces. He remained as interesting as a corpse for the entirety of his life, and he so deemed that he would remain just as interesting. If anyone ever takes notice of him fully, it is a rare and strange thing. And perhaps, if they are lucky, they will live long enough to remember him.
He grew up being experimented on by an illegal science facility in South America his entire life, at least what he remembers, which is very little. He never had a name that he can think of. The scientists and guards there never spoke to him, except the one simply called Doctor. But it was only to check on his vitals and his responses to whatever it was he was being tested on at the time.
His power did not fully surface until he was six. If he wants to be protected from something, a giant, shadowy, translucent hand appears out of nowhere and protects him. Sometimes it creates a forcefield, sometimes it crushes others. He just sort of accepts it.
He has hair that used to be blonde, but somewhere he lost all pigmentation to it. He is extremely pale from having no contact with sunlight all his life. He has very, very delicate bones as well because of this. He is anorexic and suffers from CIPA.
Aura Scent: rotting corpses
Ability: protective force
Age: appears 9
Kin: unknown
Tattoo: none
What is existence? If you are lost in the woods and scream, and no one is there to hear your scream and search for you, then did you really scream and are you really lost?
What is in a name? A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. But there is a power to a name. A name is everything. It bears the weight of an identity, a life, a soul, a conglomerate fabrication of thoughts, feelings, memories, experiences, and interactions. A name has the power to give life, and it has the power to destroy. If a name had no power, then why do those who lose their names, seek ever to obtain them once more.
He does not really exist, at least, not in the way most comprehend. If anyone ever knew him at all, they are dead. If he ever had a name, it too, is dead. Like a lost soul never found or a rose never named, he exists in this constant state of being nothing, and so has come to ascend to a heightened sense of existence, believing himself the all-seeing, never seen god of this world. That, or he has descended into the depths of true madness that can only be obtained by the truly broken of mind.
Life begins when cells collide and a being begins developing inside the safety of its mother. But he cannot remember such a thing. No one can. He can neither remember when he first began to live in the outside world, leaving the warmth and the darkness for the cruelty and trauma that is life. He only remembers what happened later. Life for him began in a never ending loop of opening his eyes to a dark, damp hole in the ground, only to be dragged out to be subjected to an unimportant existence. If he existed at all, it was as a corpse. The fiends that imprisoned him kept his heart beating and blood pumping through scraps of sustenance, just so the bare minimum became the usual. He was kept alive in every scientific sense of the word, and that was enough for them. He was never living in their eyes, at least not on their level. A lab rat to be poked, prodded, drugged, hacked, chewed, and spit out. And he knew this as his life, and never did he falter from that, for it was all he knew. But he could never feel pain. A disease kept him from ever noticing the slices in his milk white skin or the needles that pierced the moist flesh of his eyes or the syringes that pumped strange liquids into his blood. He bore witness to these things, the blood and needles and knives, but he never screamed or fought against it. It was life. It simply was. And in that way, they and the corpse existed amicably for years. But one day, everything changed when something within him began to emerge. It was the first time he had ever felt pain. It did not terrify him. He did not quite know how to be terrified. He had never been terrified before. This strange sensation became a guardian to him, manifesting itself as an ethereal sort of hand that would cover him and protect him whenever he needed. But then, when it was not. When the scientists came to cut him, the pain emerged and manifested and crushed one in its embrace. Ever since that day, He started to talk the scientists. He began to ask them what they were doing and why. Why did the hand stop them? What were they doing that he needed to be protected from? But they became angrier and angrier at this, and in turn, so did he. He killed the scientists and left the hole in the ground and the dark building in the dense trees. He wandered aimlessly through jungles and forests, deserts and fields, cities and villages. He never cared about anything. He was always protected. Always safe. He wandered simply because stopping never crossed his mind. He wandered for years, crossing countries on foot, bus, or boat. He wanted nothing and feared nothing. He only stopped when he was tired of wandering. And where did he find himself but in another hole. And there he stayed. No one noticed or quite cared. He passed under their noses as a forgettable face in a forgettable sea of forgettable faces. He remained as interesting as a corpse for the entirety of his life, and he so deemed that he would remain just as interesting. If anyone ever takes notice of him fully, it is a rare and strange thing. And perhaps, if they are lucky, they will live long enough to remember him.
He grew up being experimented on by an illegal science facility in South America his entire life, at least what he remembers, which is very little. He never had a name that he can think of. The scientists and guards there never spoke to him, except the one simply called Doctor. But it was only to check on his vitals and his responses to whatever it was he was being tested on at the time.
His power did not fully surface until he was six. If he wants to be protected from something, a giant, shadowy, translucent hand appears out of nowhere and protects him. Sometimes it creates a forcefield, sometimes it crushes others. He just sort of accepts it.
He has hair that used to be blonde, but somewhere he lost all pigmentation to it. He is extremely pale from having no contact with sunlight all his life. He has very, very delicate bones as well because of this. He is anorexic and suffers from CIPA.