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Alpha
Castiel
Stats Are Unknown
His aura has gone completely white and doesn't smell like anything.
LOST LETTER WRITTEN BY EDGAR ALLEN POE. RECOVERED FROM AN UNUSED BANK VAULT IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND AND ADDRESSED TO A CERTAIN DR. JOSEPH E. SNODGRASS. THE RETRIEVABLE CONTENTS ARE AS FOLLOWS:
To My Dear Friend Dr. Snodgrass,
Forgive me my dear friend for coming to you with such terrible burdens as are my afflictions, but I cannot possibly condone myself to cease in telling you all that is happening to me. You think me mad, and rightfully so. I thought myself to have passed all sanity when those frightful words left my lips, but please, please my dear friend, do not stopper your ears to my voice. I beg you hearken and take into account what I am recording for you here in my letter. I pray you understand that I have never been insane. I have not the madness of hatters, though I am indisposed to become mad should this nightmare never cease to plague me. I am close to the end, my dear friend. It is only a matter of time, I know that now. So I write to you in earnest and with a pleading heart that you will be open to all that I shall now tell you.
It started three summers ago in June. You remember do you not? I daresay I hope you do. That day has stuck with me so long. It was the summer we journeyed to visit the strange ring of stones in Stonehendge. And you were so cross with Virginia for giving water to the horses right after our ride. Remember? I'm sure you will, as you shall remember it was the start of all these horrors.
I had gone off alone, don't you remember? I followed the winding road by that lovely green hill, the one I pointed out to you on our first ride. I followed that path all the way down to the bottom of the hill, and there it was. There was Stonehedge. I walked all the way there without stopping to take in the morning air and observe all that nature could unbind in such early hours of the day. I walked betwixt those stone columns, marveling at what hands could fashion such a creation. And there it was. Oh god, why did I have to see it! I'm sorry, dear friend, I write with passion and emotion. Do know I write sober.
I saw the writing on the rocks. I know now it must have been writing. Long, spindly, shadowed scrawl that dipped and weaved between the cracks and crevices. I saw that forbidden, unearthly writing and I felt drawn. Drawn to it! I felt an indescribable hold on my heart that dragged my soul screaming from within me and into those rocks. And a voice from somewhere dark and foul, for where else could such a voice come from, whispered to me quietly and mournfully. It whispered to me in a language I did not know but did not have to, for the meaning of those archaic words were so clear, engraved inside my very skull. Come! A terrible impulse swept over me and I threw myself to the rocks. All things rational abandoned me. I clawed at the rocks with my bare hands. I pounded and hit and clawed, as if I were digging into golden grains of sand and not solid, immovable earth. I do not remember much of that, for as I said, all things rational escaped me, and for a moment, my mind must have escaped me as well.
What I do remember is after my madness. I awoke to shadows and darkness. Fearful, I rose and surveyed my surroundings, but no eye could breach that oppressive black. I felt cold, hard earth under my hands and began crawling across it, hands and knees. I felt along the passage, my fingers grazing against stone. I perceived myself to be in some sort of cave or equally deep bowel of the earth. How I happened upon it I know not, though my confused mind began scrambling to put the pieces together and come to terms with a suitable explanation.
Then there was a soft, heavenly glow. So subtle and dim it truly was, but after the darkness it was more blinding than the sun. I shielded my gaze, almost afraid to look upon it. But momentarily my sight accustomed to the light. I looked about, relief flooding my body at the prospect I had found some form of exit to the surface. Those feelings despaired and died when I found that no such exit had opened to me. I had blundered into a large cavern. Before me was a pool of water most blue. The rock rippled with the shadows and reflections of that pool's odd light. Indeed, the pool was the source of light. I do not lie or make pretenses. I tell you, my dear friend, that pool was glowing with light.
And this my dear friend is where even I fall to confusion, for my memory of the dealings hereafter are so muddled and troubled that I can scarcely write them illegibly even now as I dare to recall it. In that strange pool, I found a boy. Not a child, but he seemed so like a boy that it is the only way I can place him. He had such a gentle face. A face that could not hold all the darkness that he really was. He was crouched in the middle of that pool. Crouched there, staring at me. He looked unnatural, but beautiful. I never describe living creatures as beautiful except perhaps the animals or my sweet wife, but he had such an unnatural beauty about him. He was strange, oh yes. His skin was pale like a rich lady and his face devoid of any conceivable blemish. His shoulders, the only other visible part of his body were disturbing. Flesh that was knotted and roped with scars. His ears were pointed. His hair was like lavendar. But his eyes! His frightful, terrible eyes. I shall never forget them. They were made of death. Death! I am rambling, I am talking foolishness. No, no I am not. I am frightened and passionate but I am not mad. I am only afraid. I cannot think of those eyes. Oh god, those horrible eyes. Those eyes wanted me. They wanted to tear me apart. Those eyes wanted to kill and they wanted to die. Death! Death! They were made of death I tell you!
And then he stood. He stood from the water and approached me. He was whispering to me. Whispering unending. A single word, no two, but they were one. His voice was so soft and sweet that I felt tears rise in me. That word. That word that has haunted me for so many years. "Nevermore" That is what he said. Over and over again. Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore. He kept whispering and approaching. He reached out to me as he came closer, and those hands; they ended in claws! The claws of beasts, the claws of things that are not men. And I was so frozen in fear, I could only cower there in awe and in pure, abject terror. My blood had turned cold, my heart refused to beat properly. He came to me! He came to me and, oh god, he-
THE REST OF THIS LETTER HAS BEEN LOST. MANY HISTORIANS HAVE LONG SINCE PROPOSED DIFFERENT THEORIES AS TO THE CREDIBILITY OF THIS LETTER. SOME SAY IT WAS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING OF AN UNPUBLISHED SHORT STORY. MOST BELIEVED HE HAD GONE MAD. THIS LETTER HAS BEEN STORED IN THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS AT THE DISPOSAL OF PROFESSORS AND STUDENTS FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
Castiel
Stats Are Unknown
His aura has gone completely white and doesn't smell like anything.
LOST LETTER WRITTEN BY EDGAR ALLEN POE. RECOVERED FROM AN UNUSED BANK VAULT IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND AND ADDRESSED TO A CERTAIN DR. JOSEPH E. SNODGRASS. THE RETRIEVABLE CONTENTS ARE AS FOLLOWS:
To My Dear Friend Dr. Snodgrass,
Forgive me my dear friend for coming to you with such terrible burdens as are my afflictions, but I cannot possibly condone myself to cease in telling you all that is happening to me. You think me mad, and rightfully so. I thought myself to have passed all sanity when those frightful words left my lips, but please, please my dear friend, do not stopper your ears to my voice. I beg you hearken and take into account what I am recording for you here in my letter. I pray you understand that I have never been insane. I have not the madness of hatters, though I am indisposed to become mad should this nightmare never cease to plague me. I am close to the end, my dear friend. It is only a matter of time, I know that now. So I write to you in earnest and with a pleading heart that you will be open to all that I shall now tell you.
It started three summers ago in June. You remember do you not? I daresay I hope you do. That day has stuck with me so long. It was the summer we journeyed to visit the strange ring of stones in Stonehendge. And you were so cross with Virginia for giving water to the horses right after our ride. Remember? I'm sure you will, as you shall remember it was the start of all these horrors.
I had gone off alone, don't you remember? I followed the winding road by that lovely green hill, the one I pointed out to you on our first ride. I followed that path all the way down to the bottom of the hill, and there it was. There was Stonehedge. I walked all the way there without stopping to take in the morning air and observe all that nature could unbind in such early hours of the day. I walked betwixt those stone columns, marveling at what hands could fashion such a creation. And there it was. Oh god, why did I have to see it! I'm sorry, dear friend, I write with passion and emotion. Do know I write sober.
I saw the writing on the rocks. I know now it must have been writing. Long, spindly, shadowed scrawl that dipped and weaved between the cracks and crevices. I saw that forbidden, unearthly writing and I felt drawn. Drawn to it! I felt an indescribable hold on my heart that dragged my soul screaming from within me and into those rocks. And a voice from somewhere dark and foul, for where else could such a voice come from, whispered to me quietly and mournfully. It whispered to me in a language I did not know but did not have to, for the meaning of those archaic words were so clear, engraved inside my very skull. Come! A terrible impulse swept over me and I threw myself to the rocks. All things rational abandoned me. I clawed at the rocks with my bare hands. I pounded and hit and clawed, as if I were digging into golden grains of sand and not solid, immovable earth. I do not remember much of that, for as I said, all things rational escaped me, and for a moment, my mind must have escaped me as well.
What I do remember is after my madness. I awoke to shadows and darkness. Fearful, I rose and surveyed my surroundings, but no eye could breach that oppressive black. I felt cold, hard earth under my hands and began crawling across it, hands and knees. I felt along the passage, my fingers grazing against stone. I perceived myself to be in some sort of cave or equally deep bowel of the earth. How I happened upon it I know not, though my confused mind began scrambling to put the pieces together and come to terms with a suitable explanation.
Then there was a soft, heavenly glow. So subtle and dim it truly was, but after the darkness it was more blinding than the sun. I shielded my gaze, almost afraid to look upon it. But momentarily my sight accustomed to the light. I looked about, relief flooding my body at the prospect I had found some form of exit to the surface. Those feelings despaired and died when I found that no such exit had opened to me. I had blundered into a large cavern. Before me was a pool of water most blue. The rock rippled with the shadows and reflections of that pool's odd light. Indeed, the pool was the source of light. I do not lie or make pretenses. I tell you, my dear friend, that pool was glowing with light.
And this my dear friend is where even I fall to confusion, for my memory of the dealings hereafter are so muddled and troubled that I can scarcely write them illegibly even now as I dare to recall it. In that strange pool, I found a boy. Not a child, but he seemed so like a boy that it is the only way I can place him. He had such a gentle face. A face that could not hold all the darkness that he really was. He was crouched in the middle of that pool. Crouched there, staring at me. He looked unnatural, but beautiful. I never describe living creatures as beautiful except perhaps the animals or my sweet wife, but he had such an unnatural beauty about him. He was strange, oh yes. His skin was pale like a rich lady and his face devoid of any conceivable blemish. His shoulders, the only other visible part of his body were disturbing. Flesh that was knotted and roped with scars. His ears were pointed. His hair was like lavendar. But his eyes! His frightful, terrible eyes. I shall never forget them. They were made of death. Death! I am rambling, I am talking foolishness. No, no I am not. I am frightened and passionate but I am not mad. I am only afraid. I cannot think of those eyes. Oh god, those horrible eyes. Those eyes wanted me. They wanted to tear me apart. Those eyes wanted to kill and they wanted to die. Death! Death! They were made of death I tell you!
And then he stood. He stood from the water and approached me. He was whispering to me. Whispering unending. A single word, no two, but they were one. His voice was so soft and sweet that I felt tears rise in me. That word. That word that has haunted me for so many years. "Nevermore" That is what he said. Over and over again. Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore. He kept whispering and approaching. He reached out to me as he came closer, and those hands; they ended in claws! The claws of beasts, the claws of things that are not men. And I was so frozen in fear, I could only cower there in awe and in pure, abject terror. My blood had turned cold, my heart refused to beat properly. He came to me! He came to me and, oh god, he-
THE REST OF THIS LETTER HAS BEEN LOST. MANY HISTORIANS HAVE LONG SINCE PROPOSED DIFFERENT THEORIES AS TO THE CREDIBILITY OF THIS LETTER. SOME SAY IT WAS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING OF AN UNPUBLISHED SHORT STORY. MOST BELIEVED HE HAD GONE MAD. THIS LETTER HAS BEEN STORED IN THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS AT THE DISPOSAL OF PROFESSORS AND STUDENTS FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
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Omicron
Kazimierz Lief Stryker
His aura was a chocolate brown and smelled like allspice. Now it fades into the darkness of oblivion...
His powers are unverified.
Dark chocolate hair, eyes the color of allspice, skin as smooth as newly spun silk, and a face flawless of any markings or blemishes; Kazimierz Lief Stryker is not nearly as ordinary as he looks. He is completely aware of the presence of any and all Theia and Void beings that inhabit the surface and shadowed workings of the world he is a part of. In the heart of the city, a poor boy commoner and one with the crowds of lowly lives that dwell in the festering sewers and streets of the proud city's inhospitality, he is well acquainted with the crime and conspiracy that taint the hearts of hundreds. His own tainted heart has long tasted the black and bitter satisfaction of anarchy, murder, and sin. He is not pure by any stretch of imagination and though many can claim innocence at young ages, he cannot. He is a wandering soul, without a purpose and searching for a calling. He has partaken of many human indulgences, particularly those dealing with the bedding of women and the acquiring of wealth. He ceased in both activities entirely not too long after his sixteenth birthday. Near seventeen, his life had taken an unfortunate turn of events, events he will not name. They ended in his self discovery of being a Void. Not a Void enough that it is obvious, but he can see and sense himself losing his soul. Desperate, he sought the aid of the Families. Such a foolish act. The Norcross Family has their eyes set on him, hunting and chasing him down wherever he goes. He is alone in this world. He doesn't even bother seeking out the other Families really, feeling it is not worth the risk. He isn't afraid of his changing. He can't remember the last time he was ever afraid. He does feel different. Losing himself and becoming steadily more powerful are the two most obvious things. But now, now he has reverted. Having returned to his killing, thieving ways, it appears that the young man, now fifteen, hasn't changed all that much from the way he was before he began changing, but he has. He really has. It's what's on the inside that has transformed so drastically, not the outside facade he parades in. Kazimierz has a strange symbol on the back of his neck, right where the first vertebrae can be felt. He keeps it hidden by wearing collared shirts or jackets. Occasionally a choker, collar, or scarf. It is quite possibly a tattoo.
Kazimierz Lief Stryker
His aura was a chocolate brown and smelled like allspice. Now it fades into the darkness of oblivion...
His powers are unverified.
Dark chocolate hair, eyes the color of allspice, skin as smooth as newly spun silk, and a face flawless of any markings or blemishes; Kazimierz Lief Stryker is not nearly as ordinary as he looks. He is completely aware of the presence of any and all Theia and Void beings that inhabit the surface and shadowed workings of the world he is a part of. In the heart of the city, a poor boy commoner and one with the crowds of lowly lives that dwell in the festering sewers and streets of the proud city's inhospitality, he is well acquainted with the crime and conspiracy that taint the hearts of hundreds. His own tainted heart has long tasted the black and bitter satisfaction of anarchy, murder, and sin. He is not pure by any stretch of imagination and though many can claim innocence at young ages, he cannot. He is a wandering soul, without a purpose and searching for a calling. He has partaken of many human indulgences, particularly those dealing with the bedding of women and the acquiring of wealth. He ceased in both activities entirely not too long after his sixteenth birthday. Near seventeen, his life had taken an unfortunate turn of events, events he will not name. They ended in his self discovery of being a Void. Not a Void enough that it is obvious, but he can see and sense himself losing his soul. Desperate, he sought the aid of the Families. Such a foolish act. The Norcross Family has their eyes set on him, hunting and chasing him down wherever he goes. He is alone in this world. He doesn't even bother seeking out the other Families really, feeling it is not worth the risk. He isn't afraid of his changing. He can't remember the last time he was ever afraid. He does feel different. Losing himself and becoming steadily more powerful are the two most obvious things. But now, now he has reverted. Having returned to his killing, thieving ways, it appears that the young man, now fifteen, hasn't changed all that much from the way he was before he began changing, but he has. He really has. It's what's on the inside that has transformed so drastically, not the outside facade he parades in. Kazimierz has a strange symbol on the back of his neck, right where the first vertebrae can be felt. He keeps it hidden by wearing collared shirts or jackets. Occasionally a choker, collar, or scarf. It is quite possibly a tattoo.
![Picture](/uploads/3/9/0/9/39097339/8766068.jpg?486)
Zeta
The Zeta Void has forgotten his real name, so he sticks by Zeta. Demented by the people whose lives he has stolen, and suffering in fear for his life, he has turned to the savage and sacrilegious art of consuming the souls of others.
He has the ability to manifest himself inside of others, either physically, mentally, or spiritually.
The Zeta Void has forgotten his real name, so he sticks by Zeta. Demented by the people whose lives he has stolen, and suffering in fear for his life, he has turned to the savage and sacrilegious art of consuming the souls of others.
He has the ability to manifest himself inside of others, either physically, mentally, or spiritually.