OUT OF CHARACTER
NAME/ALIAS:
hi, i’m nikki, welcome to chili’s
AGE, TIMEZONE, PRONOUNS:
eighteen, gmt+8, she/her
TRIGGERS:
just self-harm, suicide, and vivid depictions of possession
ACTIVITY & EXTRAS:
it’s our semester break right now, so i’m more or less free for the next few weeks. unfortunately, i have rehearsals interspersed at random points throughout the week and those usually take up my entire day, so there will be some moments when i won’t be able to go online and do replies, but i will get to check in every now and then! other than that, however, my schedule is pretty much empty.
IN CHARACTER
DESIRED SKELETON:
Dyspistia, love of my life
CHARACTER NAME:
↠ cordelia [ kawr-DEEL-yə ]
Father always spoke of the wonder of the stars: how infinitesimal our mortal lives appear once placed on the same pedestal as these untouchable constellations — indestructible in their prime, beautiful even in their ruin. In their glory, they stood rivaled only by the sheen of the Moon — an enchantress by her own right, even when the Night seemed a void, capable of consuming all.
Father always spoke of the planets, and how each bore its own Moon; sometimes, a single planet was bestowed with the gift of a dozen moons ( maybe less, maybe less, maybe less — but always enough to drown even the darkest skies with a warmth, or perhaps a cool breeze never imposing itself upon the skin to induce discomfort ). When innocence was all but unfamiliar to you, he reminded you why you were named after the Moon — or, rather, a moon: for so long as you stood in the sky, even as you passed out of sight and Time, you would be immortalized by the glory of your existence, however short or extensive that phase may be. Doomed to orbit an unnamed Fate, you would remain uncontested, so long as eternity permitted it.
Father always spoke of the vulnerability of mortals: how the threat of our demise constantly hung by a thread ( he was more than correct with his chosen metaphor, you realized of late ). Although never granted the gift of precognition — of the supernatural variety, it’s safe to say — Father was naught if not a wise man: the soul of an aged preacher clinging to the youth of his body, as did the crow’s feet to the corners of his eyes. Deep in his bones dwelt a certain kind of knowledge — leastways, a special kind of inkling you now so prefer to call — of things you suspect no other could’ve foreseen. He meditated on such things with ease. Perhaps it is a curse that comes naturally to the people of your sort — of Father’s sort: try as you might to deny it, the intelligent and the judicious will always be beasts of burden to the things they know. Such are the implications of this world and the worlds that precede it: that even in the presence of triumph, disaster lies patiently in wait. Perhaps these very perceptions tormented Father then. Perhaps these very perceptions torment you now. Perhaps this is the reason why the pair of you could never find happiness that lasted for more than a few fleeting moments.
Father always spoke of the uncertainty of your Fate, and how misaligned fortune was when it came to your predicament. His aforementioned acumen rendered him aware of what life would be for those who stood in your very position: heroes — personifications only of tragedies divvied into sonnets or songs or plays that tomorrow’s generations may marvel at once their stories were put into writing by the scribes of old. Father knew that one day, the burden of the world will fall upon your shoulders ( he wasn’t wrong ); that war will befall your kind whether you like it or not, and in the midst of that hurricane, you will remain: incarcerated; robbed of a choice ( he certainly wasn’t wrong ). Still, against all dictates of his mind, the vocation of his heart remained intact: even when you were torn in two, your allegiance would stay safe in his keeping. Father called you Cordelia— the name wrung through the vestibules of his home ( you could never call it your home, not without the slightest hesitation ) — christened with the name borne by King Lear’s youngest, the only child to remain loyal to her father. Your own Father hoped you would follow such a Fate: that even in the midst of turmoil, your heart would always return to him. Unfortunately for the hopeful, life operates in such a way that makes fools out of them. It certainly made a fool out of him. Cordelia — a beautiful name cursed with an oath that will never be held fulfilled.
↠ marie [ ma-REE ]
The Hall of the Greats is filled with the miserable. It’s a fair barter in the eyes of the gods, you recently concluded: a fleeting existence furnished with strife in exchange for a death succeeded by glory. What would be the makings of timeless tales if not the pervasive presence of tragedy? Artists and scientists, holy men and innovators, philosophers and politicians — names that, to this day, haunt every nook and cranny of this condemned world — are only ever so achingly different in all aspects, save two: the splendor by which their names are escorted; and the agony which has long attached itself as a steadfast companion to the lives of these individuals: the divine and the damned; the beautiful and the cursed. Such is the Fate of those who make martyrs of themselves — be it for faith in a nameless god, or for defense of discovery in the new and the scorned. No matter the trajectory of their lives, happiness was compromised so they may be remembered by us — temporal beings who will pass through this Earth unnoticed. Long may their names be sung, if only to fully reap the rewards for which they suffered.
The Hall of the Greats would one day make room for you. Father did not strive to keep it a secret — not to you, not to the gods. He was fearless and perhaps even callous in his words: an eager herald of the phenomena you were yet to offer this world, made a firm believer with the mere sight of your infantine self, brilliance interspersed through twinkles nestled in the depths of your eyes. He yearned for moments when he would see you grow in numbers measured only by years ( one, two, three, innocence meets its end, four, five, six, you grow more suspicious of the world around you, seven, eight, thenceforth the ability to discern friend from foe dissipates, nine, ten, you are a child no longer, eleven, twelve, you don your armor with ease and slip into the pretense of heroism ). Father could not find his footing in this world long enough for him to see his wish fulfilled. If only he weren’t so tactless with words — words, which are ever so eager to betray their deliverer. If only he didn’t fall prey to the sway of emotions. If only, if only, too many if only’s haunt your past. If only you faced the challenge posed by the past from which you run with the same courage you carry to the battlefield, you would not be so far from salvation damaged.
The Hall of the Greats is a future you have yet to explore. Father paved that pathway for you long before you could even comprehend the beauty and the sorrow brought about by life. In lieu of stories of girls clothed in rags and ballgowns who made haste to slip unnoticed before the clock struck midnight, or tales of witches — both of the good variety and the bad variety — who cast spells and hexes upon those who felled them, Father told you the lives of those whose footsteps he intended you to follow. It was a painful cycle of constant reminders, day and night, from the light of the rising sun to the soft gleam of the waning moon, as though he doubted your ability to retain such things — limitless, this ability seemed, to the eyes of many and to his as well, but he could not risk it, lest you faltered. Before the midnight clouds swallowed all that shone in the sky, he recounted the biography ( almost in its entirety, as you now fall victim to retrospection ) of she whose namesake you bear: Marie Curie, the physicist and chemist who also understood the burden of unending knowledge. You see yourself in her ( or, perhaps, Father had told you so just enough times for you to claim the belief as your own ) and no other mortal could possibly understand your plight. But while she battled sexist coworkers and the threat of radiation from which she would later suffer, you met monsters in combat. Sometimes, you wonder if your contribution would be sufficient to grant you passage to the Hall Father intended you to be a part of. Most of the time, however, you care too much about just getting the job done rather than thinking about what comes after.
↠ palmer [ PAH-mər ]
This, you could not rid yourselves of. On this front, Father had not a choice. The surname long brandished as a banner of pride, the mere utterance of which brought both admiration and envy to the hearts of nearby spectators seemed to sour as the years progressed. It was Father’s fault — the pristine white paper upon which vivid blank ink stains impresses these words on your infallible memory. Father who, in his might and wisdom, became a quick victim to the tempting snatches of emotional vulnerability. He of all people should’ve understood the preponderance of the mind over the heart, but even he acquiesced without so much of a decent fight. He tainted the glory of your family name — a name which could’ve alleviated the burden of the path assigned you by millimeters: mere millimeters could’ve made the most tremendous difference. But you could never bring yourself to despise Father for this, no. It was human nature — idiotic and unwise, but nature nonetheless; and you, in all those moments when curiosity hungered and was satiated, knew that each point in time that devastated history was perpetrated by man — man who succumbs so easily to carnal instincts. Oh, the misery of wisdom: this piece of information with which you rationalized Father’s actions forbade you even the slightest manifestation of anger. For how could fury prevail when knowledge had already given it a justification not to?
AGE & GENDER:
22 ( b. January 20, 1996 ), cis female
b i r t h c h a r t
↠ sun, moon, and ascendant in capricorn
The Fates find enjoyment in their meticulous ways. Perhaps such is the curse of immortality: to seek pleasure in the details insignificant to the mortal eye. The trajectory upon which they set these accursed heroes is a specific path that does not stray, the most minuscule features borne in mind. It was not by chance that the literal thought of Cora was birthed by Athena on the 20th day of January, 1996, just as the harsh sun rose at 6:25 in the morning upon the dying land of our world. Her existence came upon the Earth as a reminder of the perpetual grand ushering of dawn. With her creation came the promise of a new age — whether it is better or worse than that which preceded remains a mystery, so long as the fate of the quest stands upon the edge of a knife. But just as her birth served as a forbearance of the genesis of this brand new age of demigods and heroes, it also stands as evidence of the person Cora has long forged herself to become. To have her birth fall on the very moment the planets aligned with Capricorn seemed almost fateful — poetic, even, dare I say. She is an apotheosis of her star sign, the very personification of those who fall under the Capricorn category. Pragmatic even in her fantasies and steadfast in her actions, Cora works towards her goals efficiently and effectively. Although not a stranger to haste, she leaves no stone unturned. All her ambitions remain within the scope of achievement — all other tasks beyond the breadth of realism are ignored. Such is Cora’s attitude to all things, even this quest. Although never granted the choice, she still pursues the success of this task because she genuinely believes that the betterment for all remains achievable. It’s a slim chance, the odds of their victory, but perhaps for once in her life, Cora has opted to take the path of hope; or, perhaps, she just strongly believes in her ability to overturn the course of everything within her control, even the minimal probability of their triumph.
FACECLAIM:
Zendaya
Maisie Richardson-Sellers
Laura Harrier
BIOGRAPHY:
This can be in any tense, any length, any point of view, and any format, whether that be paragraph, bullets, or something else more creative. Please be sure to touch on how your character found out they were a demigod, as well as their lives at Camp Half-Blood/Camp Jupiter up until the quest.
FATAL FLAW/DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:
The skeletons’ “labels” are our ideas of defining characteristics, and in most cases, fatal/tragic flaws for these heroes, translated into either Latin or Greek. Here, we would like you to expand on what this means to you, as well as how you can see this characteristic defining them or ultimately being their downfall.
EXTRAS:
p e r s o n a l i t y
( + ) brilliant —
( − ) arrogant —
( + ) subtle —
( − ) detached —
( + ) methodical —
( − ) inflexible —
( + ) pragmatic —
( − ) repressive —
( +/- ) goal-oriented —
h e a d c a n o n s
when your shadow crosses my door,
admiration for the Romans
please enter without fear.
unprepared for the journey back
but remember not to ask where i’d been,
cartoons and robbed childhood
or what had fed me in this empty room —
let others cheat off of her
curtained with fine webs of silk.
first book ever read was the bell jar
ignore the seethe of all my memories.
no direction in life
come, take my hand.
aware of her flaws, doesn’t change
i am human at your touch.
twisted morality
p o t e n t i a l p l o t s
i.
ii.
iii.