Post by Thanatos on Mar 29, 2014 17:47:03 GMT -5
Character Image:
Image/Face claim: Iain Glen
Name: Thanatos // Spirit of Death
Gender: Male
Age: Timeless
Occupation: Reaper—collects the souls of the dead and helps to guide them to the after-life. Particularly, he deals with homicides. (Leaving this open for others to toy with as well, seeing as there is plenty of mythos about characters related to death. I.E. The Flying Dutchman deals with drowned men/men lost at sea, I believe.)
Family: Hypnos (Brother - Spirit of Sleep), Kere (Sister - Spirit of Disease)
Friends: Helena of Troy, (business associate with) Hades
Enemies: None that would openly claim themselves as much, but you all know you hate Death at least a little bit.
Strengths: Authoritative, law-abiding, wise, worldly, noble, loyal.
Weaknesses:Lonely, fatigued, reserved, not always empathetic.
Quote: “For one moment in this dragging thing I call my existence, I should like to touch something and watch it come alive.”
Personality:
Thanatos frequently appears dressed in regalia akin to that of a warrior and he conducts his business with a similarly strict regime to that of a man trained on the battlefield. He has a job to do and if you believe that kicking, screaming or pleading for mercy will stop him, you’re headed for disappointment. He’s been doing this for long enough to have built immunity to any and all variations on the rules. He can count on his two hands the amount of times he has gone against protocol and still he will have fingers to spare. Those instances usually had hidden consequences. It’s safer to play by the book. (That being said, he isn’t perfect. If you want to strike a deal with him, there’s a chance he’ll cave, just know that the price will come high. What could Death want for in the world?)
Having been ‘in existence’ (he would never really call it ‘alive’) for so long and having seen as much of humanity as he has, he’s pretty melancholy. At one time, he might have loved humanity but watching it destroy itself over and over again in an endless cycle has taught him not to get attached to much of anything. His personal relations are extremely limited, being that anyone he might grow fond of will already be fond of others and he will have to take them away, as Death excuses no one. (“No wonder we get along so well!” Helena will laugh one day. “The only person I’m truly fond of is me!”)
Of course, even the sturdiest of stone wears down and cracks over time—erosion, and all that. So if someone could get into his graces (and one already has, the little imp), they would find him a patient and faithful companion. Like any good warrior, he is protective of his people. The strong and silent type, Thanatos is more apt to sit in the corner and listen than to actively engage others but with a little wheedling he’ll talk, just never about himself.
He is the patriarch of order and anyone that is found to be breaking the natural balance of the world will be hunted down and dealt with (read as: systematically destroyed). ‘Heartless’, plenty have called him throughout history for his merciless reaping rules and the quick, apathetic measures he uses to deal with those that try to bend or bust them. But Thanatos does not enjoy what he does, he is no sadist. When Fate creates you with a sole purpose, just one job to do, what can you do but do it, whatever the cost to yourself?
History:
He can’t remember the first time he opened his eyes. Possibly it’s just because he’s so bloody old, or possibly it’s because Fate wants it that way. He doesn’t think he ever had a childhood. He can remember being a little younger, a man in his prime, but death takes its toll on everyone, even itself and so the years have weathered him into a lonely old soldier, walking the earth and snatching from its people like a greedy thief in the night. For a long time, it’s painful. Mothers weep at the loss of their children, Fathers throw themselves from rooftops or ship decks and leave a starving family behind, lovers curl up and sleep at the grave. I’m sorry, he is saying over and over each time but nobody it would matter to can hear or see him. It’s only the dead that notice him and to them, sorry means nothing.
--
Eventually, he learns how to show himself to the living.
This is a mistake.
If he tells them, shows them who he is, they fear him.
If he does not, they grow to love him. (Some of the women, he makes love to as well because it feels warm and soft and something like life.) Then the day comes that their brother or their sister or their most trusted companion dies and Thanatos feels deceitful for not having warned them. But to do so would be against the rules and he is scared to find out what happens when he breaks them. So when he reaches into the sheath at his side and pulls out the dagger or opens his little leather book to find out who he will claim next, he simply goes and gets them and he never makes a fuss about it, he just keeps apologizing to the silence as if it’s the only word he knows.
--
The worst of it is always war. He does not understand it, no matter how many times it happens.
Do you not dig graves for each other? he thinks. Do you not understand how fragile and fleeting life can be?
But humanity is hell-bent upon destroying itself. At least every hundred years, usually less, there is some great battle that decimates a high percentage of any world’s population and Thanatos must then go trekking through the carnage to clean up all the mess. He wonders if the Gods enjoy watching this, like some sick theatrics. He has no love for the divine anymore. He thinks them as cruel, crueler perhaps, than the creatures they have created beneath them. They are your children, he would scold them. Why do you not protect them? Why do you not guide or teach them? Look at how they wander. Look how easily they get lost. Do you take pleasure in watching them fail?
Then again, he has no credibility for parenthood. The Gods would hardly listen to his prayers any more than the prayers of those they like to watch swing sharpened sticks at one another, painting the land in a long streak of blood.
--
As the world spins on, the people inhabiting it change. At one time, they all feared death. Now some of them seek it out, mean to embrace it. Thanatos, lonely as he might be, does not encourage this. He prefers the time when none of them greeted him with tender smiles and knowing eyes. He prefers the era in which they looked up at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending and uttered, “…Am I…dead?” He never acquiesced them if they cried or begged him to spare them, put them back in their body, but he loved the ones that hated him just a little more than the others because it meant that they had something left to live for, that they were hungry for and excited by their own existence when they’d held it, cracking and crumbling as it was in their hands.
This brave new world also breeds those who do not fear nor love death but try to defy him. Hah, they would say when faced with their own mortality. You are a myth. An old wives’ tale. There is nothing that could stop me. He hates these cocky bastards. They are the ones that try to outwit him: Fountain of Youth, Water of Life, spells and charms and deals made with the devil that allow them to keep running on and on while Thanatos tries to track them. The things they would trade for just a few more years sicken him. He worries that the human race will evolve to such a point that one day he will go to reap them and their souls will be so mutilated, they will slip right through his fingers.
The mad race to escape Death begins here and it continues. He is tired, but he walks along behind them, steady and unwavering, and, of course, he catches up to everyone in due time. They do not understand patience as he does.
--
He holds on for longer than anyone should have expected of him. But still, there are lapses in judgment, even on his behalf. No one can walk tall forever. Their legs will tire. They’ll stumble.
“Well, aren’t you a slippery little thing? It’s taken me three years to track you down. All over the world, I’ve travelled. And not just this one.” A woman comes to him one night, smiling in a way that he should have recognized as the beginning of disaster. “I’m here to propose a trade.”
He arches an eyebrow. No one has ever called Death a ‘little thing’. He is uncertain if he’s intrigued or irritated. “What makes you think I care to do business with you or any of your kind?”
The smile becomes a smirk. “Because I know what you want, Thanatos. And I will give it to you. In exchange for just a dozen souls. Not fully resurrected, not breaking any laws. Just twelve ghosts that I may do with as I please and I will hand-pick them. They won’t do lasting harm. I don’t mean to watch the world burn.”
He shouldn’t even humor her, but he’s curious and so he asks, “What will I get in return?” It is the most selfish thing he’s ever said.
“You will get to live for a day. And I will take your place here. Reaping your souls, following your rules.” He opens her mouth to say no because he does not trust her or anyone but she produces a parchment, still lit by enchantment and he can see the rules of the contract spelled out clearly, reading over them thrice before he looks up at her again. “We’ll both sign it in blood,” she murmurs. “Physically binding, that way. I’ll have to uphold my end of the bargain. You’ll have to uphold yours.”
“Why?” he asks gruffly because emotion is starting to swim in his chest and close up his throat. “Why are you doing this?”
“Personal vendetta.” She shrugs. “It’s a human thing. You really wouldn’t understand it.”
And she’s right; he doesn’t. So he signs his name in blood and he gets to see a sunrise and a sunset without having to kill anything at all as price-of-admission in the world. He pays a whore and gets drunk and eats a meal cooked in delicious guilt. He sleeps soundly for once, and nobody hates him and he doesn’t steal from anyone and he’s content. When he returns to her, he finds everything in order: all souls reaped, all guided to their appropriated resting places, no one slighted, no destiny altered. He sneaks her into the Underworld with him and he lets her gather them privately. He doesn’t look at whom she takes because he cannot stop her anyhow and, possibly, he is afraid to know what he has unleashed after all.
--
It is hellfire in the form of one redheaded woman; that is what he has unleashed. He has walked behind her before, watched her riding a man with her head thrown back as she discreetly reaches beneath the sheets and wraps her long, slender fingers around a dagger. She’s done it more than once. There is no little death for Helena of Troy, only great, awful deaths that leave men lying naked in pools of their own blood while she goes and draws herself a warm bath, no tears, no remorse.
There is blood on her hands besides, the crimson life-force of fallen soldiers that came before this, all of them cursing her name as Thanatos laid claim upon their ghosts. If he thought she was bad then, during the war, in the years that followed, she is intolerable now that there are twelve men and a ship she cannot leave for more than a few days to fuel her fire. She was deliberate in her destruction before but now she is reckless, striking blindly before her in hopes of hurting something as badly as life as damaged her.
And yet her number never comes up; no matter the throes of danger, she slips out somehow always, tossing a sparkling smile of victory over her shoulder within the hour. She is a loophole; it would be bending a rule to destroy her without Fate’s blessing but it would be breaking a rule not to, for how can he let her continue like this, unchecked, sailing out and trailing a river of red behind her?
Instead he tries to tame her.
It’s a process.
There are rules for dealing with Helena. If she is gay and sparkling, one must admire and encourage her. If she is in the midst of a tantrum, one must calmly wait it out and never, under any circumstances, are they to strike back. Even the tiniest scratch on her pride or trust seems a mortal wound to her and she is not a quickly-forgiving creature. (He finds this out the hard way, through several difficult bouts of trial and error. He is a patient man but she finds a way to test him all the same.)
At first, he merely tolerates her, sometimes with gritted teeth and deep breaths. He brings her along on his business; she watches him work. Sometimes she asks questions. His affinity for her blossoms so gradually, he doesn’t fully realize that it is happening until one night they are huddled over a table together, a candle lit between them, both intently focused upon a game of cards that he is certain she keeps changing the rules to. And he doesn’t find it irksome or trying anymore; he thinks it’s fucking funny. She smiles this certain way each time she cheats and maybe he’s a little inebriated but he laughs openly for the first time in a long time when she wins each round and acts shocked that he’s ‘just so terribly bad at this game!’
--
He doesn’t sleep very often. He keeps a human form because that is what comforts them most to see when they have passed, and this places limitations upon him—the occasional need for food or drink or rest, the ability to be intoxicated but only with an impressive amount of alcohol, the sometimes-ache of bones or joints. So when he does lie down in bed, she is curious and sits on the edge of it.
“I hope you aren’t expecting a bedtime story,” she quips.
He rolls on his side to face her. “Well, since you’ve offered…”
She narrows her gaze at him but he manages to goad her into it. She has a nice voice for this sort of thing. He isn’t fully sure of what the story is about because he’s weary and his eyes are closed but he likes to listen to her. He has pondered many times what will become of him at the end of the world, because he doesn’t think that he, himself, can experience the mercy of death. Probably he will just cease to be. But even if this is the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever know, he might be alright with that.
--
The night before he is taken, they fight.
Their arguments have become few and far between but the year has been unsympathetic towards him and he is more exhausted than he can ever remember and she is beginning to question the rules of his work and, the worst of it, she drunkenly kissed him three nights ago and awoke not remembering it but everything he has placed in his mouth since the incident tastes still like her little pink lips.
It isn’t worth it, the things that make him snap at her and when he is bound and tethered and at the mercy of another, he is left with plenty of time to think on this. She, of course, strikes back at him and she knows how to rip a man’s heart out without lifting a delicate, milky finger. He thinks he hears her crying behind a closed door in the middle of the night but he is angry and bitter and wounded too by their battle so he retreats into another room to brood about it for a while. It’s where he falls asleep in the dwindling hours of darkness, but it isn’t where he wakes.
--
Note from Nicole: Thanatos needs an abductor! =o I'll be posting a wanted ad shortly. I'm not looking for any specific character. If you think yours would have motivation for/desire to have sway over Death, PM me or post in his plotter! Until that time, we'll be under the general assumption that it's Sisyphus who has him shackled, as that's what Mythology tells us. This opens the gates for anyone with a deceased character to resurrect them without breaking the 'no bringing back the dead' rule of magic, as our Reaper/Gate-Keeper is presently unable to do his job.
Also, I am sorry to whichever staff members keep having to read these lengthy applications. c: You are a champion.
--
Likes: Order, rules, those who uphold them, literature, art, wit.
Dislikes: Chaos, hubris, intentional cruelty, too much time for self-reflection.
Roleplay Example: See Jefferson!!
Lastly... Where did you hear about us? RPG-Directory! ;D
Image/Face claim: Iain Glen
Name: Thanatos // Spirit of Death
Gender: Male
Age: Timeless
Occupation: Reaper—collects the souls of the dead and helps to guide them to the after-life. Particularly, he deals with homicides. (Leaving this open for others to toy with as well, seeing as there is plenty of mythos about characters related to death. I.E. The Flying Dutchman deals with drowned men/men lost at sea, I believe.)
Family: Hypnos (Brother - Spirit of Sleep), Kere (Sister - Spirit of Disease)
Friends: Helena of Troy, (business associate with) Hades
Enemies: None that would openly claim themselves as much, but you all know you hate Death at least a little bit.
Strengths: Authoritative, law-abiding, wise, worldly, noble, loyal.
Weaknesses:Lonely, fatigued, reserved, not always empathetic.
Quote: “For one moment in this dragging thing I call my existence, I should like to touch something and watch it come alive.”
Personality:
Thanatos frequently appears dressed in regalia akin to that of a warrior and he conducts his business with a similarly strict regime to that of a man trained on the battlefield. He has a job to do and if you believe that kicking, screaming or pleading for mercy will stop him, you’re headed for disappointment. He’s been doing this for long enough to have built immunity to any and all variations on the rules. He can count on his two hands the amount of times he has gone against protocol and still he will have fingers to spare. Those instances usually had hidden consequences. It’s safer to play by the book. (That being said, he isn’t perfect. If you want to strike a deal with him, there’s a chance he’ll cave, just know that the price will come high. What could Death want for in the world?)
Having been ‘in existence’ (he would never really call it ‘alive’) for so long and having seen as much of humanity as he has, he’s pretty melancholy. At one time, he might have loved humanity but watching it destroy itself over and over again in an endless cycle has taught him not to get attached to much of anything. His personal relations are extremely limited, being that anyone he might grow fond of will already be fond of others and he will have to take them away, as Death excuses no one. (“No wonder we get along so well!” Helena will laugh one day. “The only person I’m truly fond of is me!”)
Of course, even the sturdiest of stone wears down and cracks over time—erosion, and all that. So if someone could get into his graces (and one already has, the little imp), they would find him a patient and faithful companion. Like any good warrior, he is protective of his people. The strong and silent type, Thanatos is more apt to sit in the corner and listen than to actively engage others but with a little wheedling he’ll talk, just never about himself.
He is the patriarch of order and anyone that is found to be breaking the natural balance of the world will be hunted down and dealt with (read as: systematically destroyed). ‘Heartless’, plenty have called him throughout history for his merciless reaping rules and the quick, apathetic measures he uses to deal with those that try to bend or bust them. But Thanatos does not enjoy what he does, he is no sadist. When Fate creates you with a sole purpose, just one job to do, what can you do but do it, whatever the cost to yourself?
History:
He can’t remember the first time he opened his eyes. Possibly it’s just because he’s so bloody old, or possibly it’s because Fate wants it that way. He doesn’t think he ever had a childhood. He can remember being a little younger, a man in his prime, but death takes its toll on everyone, even itself and so the years have weathered him into a lonely old soldier, walking the earth and snatching from its people like a greedy thief in the night. For a long time, it’s painful. Mothers weep at the loss of their children, Fathers throw themselves from rooftops or ship decks and leave a starving family behind, lovers curl up and sleep at the grave. I’m sorry, he is saying over and over each time but nobody it would matter to can hear or see him. It’s only the dead that notice him and to them, sorry means nothing.
--
Eventually, he learns how to show himself to the living.
This is a mistake.
If he tells them, shows them who he is, they fear him.
If he does not, they grow to love him. (Some of the women, he makes love to as well because it feels warm and soft and something like life.) Then the day comes that their brother or their sister or their most trusted companion dies and Thanatos feels deceitful for not having warned them. But to do so would be against the rules and he is scared to find out what happens when he breaks them. So when he reaches into the sheath at his side and pulls out the dagger or opens his little leather book to find out who he will claim next, he simply goes and gets them and he never makes a fuss about it, he just keeps apologizing to the silence as if it’s the only word he knows.
--
The worst of it is always war. He does not understand it, no matter how many times it happens.
Do you not dig graves for each other? he thinks. Do you not understand how fragile and fleeting life can be?
But humanity is hell-bent upon destroying itself. At least every hundred years, usually less, there is some great battle that decimates a high percentage of any world’s population and Thanatos must then go trekking through the carnage to clean up all the mess. He wonders if the Gods enjoy watching this, like some sick theatrics. He has no love for the divine anymore. He thinks them as cruel, crueler perhaps, than the creatures they have created beneath them. They are your children, he would scold them. Why do you not protect them? Why do you not guide or teach them? Look at how they wander. Look how easily they get lost. Do you take pleasure in watching them fail?
Then again, he has no credibility for parenthood. The Gods would hardly listen to his prayers any more than the prayers of those they like to watch swing sharpened sticks at one another, painting the land in a long streak of blood.
--
As the world spins on, the people inhabiting it change. At one time, they all feared death. Now some of them seek it out, mean to embrace it. Thanatos, lonely as he might be, does not encourage this. He prefers the time when none of them greeted him with tender smiles and knowing eyes. He prefers the era in which they looked up at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending and uttered, “…Am I…dead?” He never acquiesced them if they cried or begged him to spare them, put them back in their body, but he loved the ones that hated him just a little more than the others because it meant that they had something left to live for, that they were hungry for and excited by their own existence when they’d held it, cracking and crumbling as it was in their hands.
This brave new world also breeds those who do not fear nor love death but try to defy him. Hah, they would say when faced with their own mortality. You are a myth. An old wives’ tale. There is nothing that could stop me. He hates these cocky bastards. They are the ones that try to outwit him: Fountain of Youth, Water of Life, spells and charms and deals made with the devil that allow them to keep running on and on while Thanatos tries to track them. The things they would trade for just a few more years sicken him. He worries that the human race will evolve to such a point that one day he will go to reap them and their souls will be so mutilated, they will slip right through his fingers.
The mad race to escape Death begins here and it continues. He is tired, but he walks along behind them, steady and unwavering, and, of course, he catches up to everyone in due time. They do not understand patience as he does.
--
He holds on for longer than anyone should have expected of him. But still, there are lapses in judgment, even on his behalf. No one can walk tall forever. Their legs will tire. They’ll stumble.
“Well, aren’t you a slippery little thing? It’s taken me three years to track you down. All over the world, I’ve travelled. And not just this one.” A woman comes to him one night, smiling in a way that he should have recognized as the beginning of disaster. “I’m here to propose a trade.”
He arches an eyebrow. No one has ever called Death a ‘little thing’. He is uncertain if he’s intrigued or irritated. “What makes you think I care to do business with you or any of your kind?”
The smile becomes a smirk. “Because I know what you want, Thanatos. And I will give it to you. In exchange for just a dozen souls. Not fully resurrected, not breaking any laws. Just twelve ghosts that I may do with as I please and I will hand-pick them. They won’t do lasting harm. I don’t mean to watch the world burn.”
He shouldn’t even humor her, but he’s curious and so he asks, “What will I get in return?” It is the most selfish thing he’s ever said.
“You will get to live for a day. And I will take your place here. Reaping your souls, following your rules.” He opens her mouth to say no because he does not trust her or anyone but she produces a parchment, still lit by enchantment and he can see the rules of the contract spelled out clearly, reading over them thrice before he looks up at her again. “We’ll both sign it in blood,” she murmurs. “Physically binding, that way. I’ll have to uphold my end of the bargain. You’ll have to uphold yours.”
“Why?” he asks gruffly because emotion is starting to swim in his chest and close up his throat. “Why are you doing this?”
“Personal vendetta.” She shrugs. “It’s a human thing. You really wouldn’t understand it.”
And she’s right; he doesn’t. So he signs his name in blood and he gets to see a sunrise and a sunset without having to kill anything at all as price-of-admission in the world. He pays a whore and gets drunk and eats a meal cooked in delicious guilt. He sleeps soundly for once, and nobody hates him and he doesn’t steal from anyone and he’s content. When he returns to her, he finds everything in order: all souls reaped, all guided to their appropriated resting places, no one slighted, no destiny altered. He sneaks her into the Underworld with him and he lets her gather them privately. He doesn’t look at whom she takes because he cannot stop her anyhow and, possibly, he is afraid to know what he has unleashed after all.
--
It is hellfire in the form of one redheaded woman; that is what he has unleashed. He has walked behind her before, watched her riding a man with her head thrown back as she discreetly reaches beneath the sheets and wraps her long, slender fingers around a dagger. She’s done it more than once. There is no little death for Helena of Troy, only great, awful deaths that leave men lying naked in pools of their own blood while she goes and draws herself a warm bath, no tears, no remorse.
There is blood on her hands besides, the crimson life-force of fallen soldiers that came before this, all of them cursing her name as Thanatos laid claim upon their ghosts. If he thought she was bad then, during the war, in the years that followed, she is intolerable now that there are twelve men and a ship she cannot leave for more than a few days to fuel her fire. She was deliberate in her destruction before but now she is reckless, striking blindly before her in hopes of hurting something as badly as life as damaged her.
And yet her number never comes up; no matter the throes of danger, she slips out somehow always, tossing a sparkling smile of victory over her shoulder within the hour. She is a loophole; it would be bending a rule to destroy her without Fate’s blessing but it would be breaking a rule not to, for how can he let her continue like this, unchecked, sailing out and trailing a river of red behind her?
Instead he tries to tame her.
It’s a process.
There are rules for dealing with Helena. If she is gay and sparkling, one must admire and encourage her. If she is in the midst of a tantrum, one must calmly wait it out and never, under any circumstances, are they to strike back. Even the tiniest scratch on her pride or trust seems a mortal wound to her and she is not a quickly-forgiving creature. (He finds this out the hard way, through several difficult bouts of trial and error. He is a patient man but she finds a way to test him all the same.)
At first, he merely tolerates her, sometimes with gritted teeth and deep breaths. He brings her along on his business; she watches him work. Sometimes she asks questions. His affinity for her blossoms so gradually, he doesn’t fully realize that it is happening until one night they are huddled over a table together, a candle lit between them, both intently focused upon a game of cards that he is certain she keeps changing the rules to. And he doesn’t find it irksome or trying anymore; he thinks it’s fucking funny. She smiles this certain way each time she cheats and maybe he’s a little inebriated but he laughs openly for the first time in a long time when she wins each round and acts shocked that he’s ‘just so terribly bad at this game!’
--
He doesn’t sleep very often. He keeps a human form because that is what comforts them most to see when they have passed, and this places limitations upon him—the occasional need for food or drink or rest, the ability to be intoxicated but only with an impressive amount of alcohol, the sometimes-ache of bones or joints. So when he does lie down in bed, she is curious and sits on the edge of it.
“I hope you aren’t expecting a bedtime story,” she quips.
He rolls on his side to face her. “Well, since you’ve offered…”
She narrows her gaze at him but he manages to goad her into it. She has a nice voice for this sort of thing. He isn’t fully sure of what the story is about because he’s weary and his eyes are closed but he likes to listen to her. He has pondered many times what will become of him at the end of the world, because he doesn’t think that he, himself, can experience the mercy of death. Probably he will just cease to be. But even if this is the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever know, he might be alright with that.
--
The night before he is taken, they fight.
Their arguments have become few and far between but the year has been unsympathetic towards him and he is more exhausted than he can ever remember and she is beginning to question the rules of his work and, the worst of it, she drunkenly kissed him three nights ago and awoke not remembering it but everything he has placed in his mouth since the incident tastes still like her little pink lips.
It isn’t worth it, the things that make him snap at her and when he is bound and tethered and at the mercy of another, he is left with plenty of time to think on this. She, of course, strikes back at him and she knows how to rip a man’s heart out without lifting a delicate, milky finger. He thinks he hears her crying behind a closed door in the middle of the night but he is angry and bitter and wounded too by their battle so he retreats into another room to brood about it for a while. It’s where he falls asleep in the dwindling hours of darkness, but it isn’t where he wakes.
--
Note from Nicole: Thanatos needs an abductor! =o I'll be posting a wanted ad shortly. I'm not looking for any specific character. If you think yours would have motivation for/desire to have sway over Death, PM me or post in his plotter! Until that time, we'll be under the general assumption that it's Sisyphus who has him shackled, as that's what Mythology tells us. This opens the gates for anyone with a deceased character to resurrect them without breaking the 'no bringing back the dead' rule of magic, as our Reaper/Gate-Keeper is presently unable to do his job.
Also, I am sorry to whichever staff members keep having to read these lengthy applications. c: You are a champion.
--
Likes: Order, rules, those who uphold them, literature, art, wit.
Dislikes: Chaos, hubris, intentional cruelty, too much time for self-reflection.
Roleplay Example: See Jefferson!!
Lastly... Where did you hear about us? RPG-Directory! ;D