Trinity (__trinity_) wrote in __eternal_blood,

Real name & age: Caledonia, 20

AIM/Yahoo: BloodRoseNemesis on AIM


Experience: 8 years in free-form chat RPs, the majority spent in Yahoo’s Ayenee

Where did you find out about us?: livejournal community search

Character name & age: Brynna Tash Caleigh, 19

Species: Human, turning to lycan (see sample)

Character background:

She wasn’t supposed to have been born on Friday the 13th, but there her poor mother was, screaming her lungs out in a blindingly white hospital room a few minutes after the clock tolled midnight, two weeks before the child ought to have arrived. Bryn was born on a bad-luck day, and such dire serendipity has dogged her heels ever since. Her father dropped the new mother and her infant child like a rotten egg after the first ‘poopy’ diaper, and was never seen by the two again. Bryn’s mother was fatally hit my a cab when the girl was possessed of a mere 7 years of life. She skipped from foster home to foster home until she was 13, when she was violently raped by her foster father. Having had enough of foster homes, especially the fathers and brothers, and shoving her pain into the deepest recesses of her psyche, she fell in with a rag-tag group of misfits who fancied themselves a gang. The group fell apart when the ringleader was arrested for armed robbery, and for the next several years Bryn lived some semblance of a normal life, though her job was working as a waitress in a string shithole diners, her boyfriends were bottom-feeding pricks, and the roaches in her apartment building had a combined biomass weight ten times that of the paying tenents. Throughout all this, trapped as so many others are in the gritty, teeming streets of New York like mice in a maze, she has always known there was far more to the city than meets the eye, something dark and threatening, a world she tries not to think too hard about.

LJ name for character: bryn_caleigh


Sirens wailed through the fetid evening air, voices raised in hellish, urgent abandon, though they hardly elicited the bat of a single eyelash from the native New Yorkers, many of whom took no small amount of pleasure in the reactions of the omnipresent bumpkin tourists. It was early enough yet that few of them had been scared into the confines of their expensive hotel rooms to sip cocktails and watch their favorite reality television shows, and the thrumming heart of the city’s nightlife had only begun to pound beneath the rising globe of a full moon.

Bryn seemed entirely unaware for once of her surroundings, not only deaf to the incessant cries of the sirens, but to mass of people that writhed around her. A life lived the hard way had taught her never to take a single moment’s safety for granted, but in times such as these, she hadn’t the heart to care about fighting to keep her head above the mucky water of this mean urban life.

She was slumped half-heartedly against the damp, molding bricks of an alley wall, miraculously absent of any other squatters at this particular moment. Still, it would hardly have mattered had the smelliest, most flea-infested hobo in the hood had decided to defecate on her shoes.

Bryn was pissed.

And depressed and shattered and furious and fixated and feeling almost as bad as she had on that awful day about 9 years ago.

She had the lean, hardened body of a woman who had lived a hard life, which was no more than the truth. But trapped within that tough veneer was a lost little girl, nursing her wounds. She was scarred, body and soul, and the toll had just been given a swift leg up that morning, and she had been viewing the experience on a constant loop in her mind ever since.

She had gotten back to her apartment from the morning shift at Fat Dinah’s Dinuh, walking in the door hoping for a quickie before she had to go to her afternoon shift, when her life was pulled out from under her in the course of a moment. Right there, in the middle of her living room floor, the body of her boyfriend Zack lay in slack repose, the forever sleep glazing his gorgeous baby blues. His blood looked like nothing so much as a pool of spilled ink, soaking the threadbare carpet, no longer even wet-looking. He couldn’t have been killed for anything the two of them had in this apartment; the only things that glittered in this room were Zack’s eyes when he was laughing, or Bryn’s nails if she had just painted them. Now, the hilt of a pocket knife joined the ranks, buried in the ravaged mess of Zack’s throat. No, it must have been for spite that he was killed, his necks hacked at with the little blade.

Even as Bryn began to crumple to the floor in the open doorway, crawling toward him on shaking knees, tears blurring her vision, her throat feeling as if a jawbreaker had been jammed violently into it, part of her calculated the situation: must have been more than one, Zack wouldn’t have stood still long enough to let someone get at him with a pocket knife and do that much damage. They must have held him down, which was further attested to by the fact that there was no other blood in the room, only around his body.

The whole world shrank down to the few feet between her and his cold, stiff corpse. Once she reached him, her thin fingers gripping the blood-crusted folds of his shirt, her cheek pillowed on the unmoving swell of his chest, she lost herself to weeping, the tears flowing profusely down her sloped cheeks, her frame torn by silent, wrenching sobs.

There is no telling how long she remained there, though it was long enough for one of her neighbors to notice what was happening. Through a dense fog of shock that threatened to drown her in a tangled and hideous web, she heard the voice of the whore who lived one floor up promise to be right back, that she was just going to call the cops. Those words were enough to get her moving; she didn’t exactly have a clean criminal record, and the last thing she needed was to be trying to talk the police out of taking her in for questioning.

Bryn’s survival instincts took over, forcing her to plant one last goodbye kiss on Zack’s bloodless white lips before she changed out of the awful waitress costume, discarding it like a dry snakeskin now outgrown, and pulling on a pair of tattered jeans and a well-worn Rolling Stones T-shirt, the lurid cartoonish mouth flapping loosely over her torso, making her look almost boyish. Despite the heat outside, she grabbed the worn black leather bomber jacket that was one of the only things she had left of her mother, and stuffed a wad of bills, her rainy-day stash, in one of the pockets.

She was at the door a moment later, and there she lingered for a heartbeat, turning to bestow one last mournful, hurt look on Zack’s body. She pressed the fingertips of her right hand to her lips, a few flaked bits of vestigial lipstick adhering to her fingers, and blew him a light kiss. She left the door open behind her: no point in closing it. The only valuable thing in the apartment now lay lifeless and in plain sight.

She spent the rest of the day in an unknowing haze, curled up fetus-like in various hidey-holes littering the city, staying in one place until she felt as if a parade of ants began to swarm beneath her skin, a sort of strange inner claustrophobia that drove her from her places of rest. The day had progressed in this manner without change, and likely the pattern would have stretched onward had it not been for the ugly face of her damnable luck, rearing its infernal head, for later that night, as the streets began to be handed over to the shadier populace of New York, Bryn was about to receive an unwelcome guest in her empty little alley.

A couple of blocks away, in a boarded-up store, a fellow who fancied himself a werewolf hunter was gloating over his prize, which currently lay with admirable restraint and aplomb in a home-made cage of reinforced steel. The exact course of events here is not the important thing, however. The hunter, forgetting which of his guns he had loaded silver shot into and only wanting to torture the beast a bit with a regular bullet, instead shot him with the silver. It missed most of the vital organs, but the pain drove the werewolf to action. He broke free from the cage and then from the store, fleeing to the very alley in which Bryn sheltered.

Perhaps it was the smell of blood that still clung to her that drew the beast, but before she even became aware of the creature, it had sunk its teeth into her shoulder, slicing through the leather of her coat as if it were made of tissue paper. A strangled cry erupted from her, lacking fullness because the breath had been knocked out of her rather effectively with the impact of the beast’s heavy body. If the hunter were not as persistent as he was stupid, things would have ended there for Bryn, dying at the hands of a creature maddened by pain. Perhaps it might have been better that way. Who can say, in the end?

What truth tells is that the hunter took a potshot at the animal which hit the wall above her head, spraying chips of plaster and brick over the creature, who shook Bryn like a ragdoll for good measure before bounding off down the alley, and the hunter followed after, too intent on his prey to pay attention to Bryn’s crumpled form.

She floated in an almost pleasant daze, unmoving but for the shallow breaths that stirred her ribcage, staring up at the corroded underbelly of a rickety fire escape, blood seeping rapidly from the gaping wounds that ran up her right breast and shoulder and down the arm. None of the wounds were killing, but she didn’t have the heart to do anything about her situation. It seemed so inviting to slip into the welcoming dark of unconsciousness, though her shelter there would only be temporary.

Even as she sank into the waiting embrace of shock-induced sleep, changes were afoot within her. The dawning of the next day’s sun will find her flung violently into New York’s Underworld. She will have to face it one way or another, unless in the following hours she falls victim to New York’s more mundane shadowy figures, the common murderers, though any seeing her now might think her dead already.

((Lost my touch near the end, but hey, I was getting sleepy, but wanted to finish it anyway. Hope this gets my foot in the door. YOu guys look like a fun community. :) ))

Real name & age: Stephanie. 23 (almost 24. eek!)


Experience: Some online Shadowrun and D&D. A few months of tabletop D&D as well.

Where did you find out about us?: victoriagamers livejournal.

Character name & age: The Girl (as yet nameless). She’s 16

Species: Werewolf

Character background:

The Girl began and lived life as one of the faceless street children that live in the shadows and in the corners. She’s quiet, shy, and unimposing by necessity. Until the Change. Then she becomes the essence of Feral; killing and hunting and obeying base instincts. She lives between the world of wolf and girl and suffers for it. She is shunned by her lupine kin and feared by her fellow humans. She may bond with a wolf pack for the sake of a hunt, but the solidarity never lasts.

The girl is never fully human. She always displays some wolf characteristics, be it wild eyes, lack of a human voice, etc.

She is suspicious of everyone and has come to rely on no one. She won’t fight unless backed into a corner, but when she does strike, she kills without a second thought.


The girl huddles in the dark alleyway. Head tucked into her chest; like a bird. Shaking, so scared. The smell of fear. The smell of something else. Something feral.

Eyes shut tight against the deepening shadows. Afraid to open. Afraid to see. Shut tight against the blood that drips and flows from the ragged bite on her hairline. Pretty blond hair, now matted red. Wounds from a lost fight.

Her breathing is shallow and ragged. Like the panting of a dog. Lungs burn with each raspy breath and she pulls herself in tighter against the cold wall. The cold brick eases the fire that courses in her veins.

She feels fevered. Wild. Eyes snap open. Yellow pupils betray her. A glance up. The moon. Bright and menacing. A prayer to Luna; that bitch goddess of the night sky. No answer, just unforgiving moonlight.

A noise. What's that? Ears perk. She hears soft footfalls in the darkness. Not quite human. Not quite wolf. All animal.

A growl starts? From where. From her own throat. She rises and fights the pain. She feels broken, but so alive.

She stands, falters, crashes to the ground. White moonlight puts her on cruel display.

She knows it's coming. She always fights it, she never wins.

Skin tightens. Too tight on her body. Tearing. Seering red pain. She must be bleeding, but no. The moon looks down. Passive. She tenses and braces for the change.

The sound of ripping fabric. But not fabric. Skin. The snap of elongating tendons, newly shaped bones. She should be dead. She wants to be dead.

A new form emerges; a twisted metamorphosis. Her flesh cocoon cannot hold her any longer and with a noise; part howl part sob, she breaks free. Slick and wet. Shimmering in the shadows. Sleek fur on a sleeker body.

She drops to all fours in the silence after the scream. Stretching and testing her body. Crouching low, muscles tense and react. With a burst of power, she is on two legs again.

Claws click on the pavement. She stalks out of the alley. The moon is still above. It hasn't changed. It still looks on. She looks up. Feels its pull. Yearns and pines for it. A howl. Another. She honours the moon. That white goddess of the night sky.
She is not alone. More howls. More voices. A chorus of praise. So beautiful to her.

Down on all fours again. She lopes off into the city. She smells them. Humans. They stink of unspoiled meat and she salivates.

Her jaw muscles clench. She feels what it is to bite down. Bite through yielding flesh and tear and tear. Bones breaking and blood running in steaming rivulets down her throat.

A moan of longing and she begins to hunt.


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