codependence and cruelty is a toxic combination. welcome to the estate. an original 4x4 roleplay set in chicago, illinois. contains mature content, please view with discretion.
After a lot of thought, I’ve decided to put Deicide on hiatus.
Activity has been slowing down, mine included. Of course, a big part of it is the stress of finals and preparing for the holidays, but I also know that I haven’t done everything I can to keep Deicide active, nor do I have the time and energy to do so.
Thank you so much to all members, former members, applicants, and anyone who’s ever even looked at the main. This experience has been so much fun and I’m so grateful for the interest and enthusiasm.
I definitely hope to revamp Deicide and reopen in the future, potentially with more roles. My sincerest apologies to members and potential applicants for this abrupt change.
Hi there! I just wanted to say that this is an incredible roleplay, and if I had found it earlier I would definitely have applied. I wish you the best of luck! <3
Thank you so much! You are so sweet. If there’s ever an opening, I would love for you to apply.
Here is the poll. If you did not have a chance to submit , it is assumed your character opted not to participate. My apologies for the short notice it was for some of you, but I’ve let this prompt drag on on for too long and I’m excited to move on to new things.
I will tally the votes Sunday evening. Remember that each character gets one vote, and it’s considered good taste not to vote for yourself.
The remaining four have 24 hours to submit their kill. The poll will be posted then. If a pairing does not submit a murder method, then it will be assumed in-game that they opted not to participate.
If you wish to participate in the prompt, remember to submit your murder method by noon on Saturday, November 28th (CST)!
Congratulations V! You have been accepted as five Nadiya Sevchenko with the face claim of Jessica de Gouw. You have twenty-four hours to submit your blog. Please read the accepted member checklist.
Your writing style is stunning, your biography was detailed, and your characterization was intriguing. I especially loved your headcanons, where you really fleshed out Nadiya and discussed the details that brought them to life. I can’t wait to see what directions you take them!
Application under the cut.
Content warnings: Murder, substance abuse, mental illness
OUT OF CHARACTER
Name/Alias: V.
Age: 22.
Preferred Pronouns: They / them.
CHARACTER BASICS
Number: Five.
Full Name: Nadiya L. Sevchenko.
Gender Identity/Preferred Pronouns: Agender & they / them.
Sexual Orientation: Panromantic demisexual.
Date of Birth: 17/01/1989. ( Capricorn; twenty-six years of age. )
To leave behind the warmth of the womb was to embark upon one of life’s grandest adventures. Acquiring breath into burning lungs, clenching fists and knobby knuckles, squeezing eyes and a scrunched up mouth, a tuft of translucent hair over flickering gaze - babies were miracles. At least, they should be. Should they not? Especially to a woman who has been trying, and trying, and t r y i n g to obtain one of her own, much to her own continuous disappointment. Especially to a man who wanted little more than something warm to hold besides his wife. And so he was granted this darkened wish, this insatiable desire; the child’s birth took his darling from him, stole the breath right out from the unfilled sacs of her lungs, made her collapse and grow limp in the unremarkable chill of the hospital. He was left holding a bundle, clinging to them as the doctor and nurses rushed forward, as lines were slung in two different languages, as he took three steps backwards, pressed his spine to the wall, looked down to the face nestled in the crook of his arms, with now-wide eyes and an almost-sob in their mouth - and felt nothing. All things which could have appeared at the culmination of the miracle in his hands had been SQUELCHED like pig’s guts in hard fingers - and yet he could not bring himself to deposit the child somewhere else. They were, after all, the only part of his beloved wife that he now had left. And so he kept them, in his hate-love - even if he had then desired something even darker: to throw them into the river in a sack with stones.
( A death in the iciness of the dead-Ukrainian winter that most viewed fit for DOGS. )
When one becomes deprived of something, adaptation occurs; so then did this happen to the small Nadiya as they grew on wobbly legs and confused, silent stares. Soon that confusion evened out into comprehension at the lack of physical affection given to them from father hands and brushing-brow. No time to mourn the loss they couldn’t understand when it was constantly pinpricked into their flesh as something they had caused. To gain control in a control-less kind of eternal situation turned into a necessity for them. What warmth and love they could have given to their father - instead, they transfigured it into a craft. At the age of five, walking in knit clothes and holding his hand ( and only on these outings; he didn’t want to lose what pieces of love he had left, and they did not wish to be completely alone ) - they saw an upright piano in the streets, a sign hanging upon its stand: FOR SALE, TUNED INSTRUMENT, TAKE AS FREE. Never before had they even seen such a grandiose object, but when someone walked past it, and brushed their hands against the chilled ivories ( everything is cold, always cold, it’s just so cold, and no humorous laughing warmth could fill it even when they laughed to themselves ) it triggered something. A recollection, a remembrance, a soft filtering-in of strings and keyboard and soaring melodies and swelling orchestra. Sleeping in a warm cocoon, darkness, light. Very sharp colours appeared before their eyes, evoked and tickled their untapped senses.
Never before had they asked for anything. But they pulled upon their father’s jacket and gave a jab with a forefinger, dancing on suddenly excited feet. A light still remained in their eyes, one that instilled into him a seemingly long-lost hope; ah, Maria used to look at him like that. And the two of them had the same colour in the irises, glimmering and heavenly and persuasive. He might harbour resentment, but he could not deny them this. ( Perhaps it was a stroke of angels above caressing his hair, whispering that there was something brilliant to Nadiya you must not squelch like pigs’ guts. ) It took pushing and misdirecting, but the upright piano meandered down the street with the father’s shoulder against it and the child’s skipping feet to blame for its approaching new home. It found it soon, tucked into the corner where a harp had once sat ( and then been broken in a depressive rage ), with a white doily cloth and a basket of flowers up upon its lid. Lessons began, personal tutoring sessions and harsh instructions; after a couple of crying sessions, instead they replaced this frustration with determination. And do not think that the relaxation in their father’s work-stressed, grief-stricken forehead escaped them; whenever they practised their assigned pieces, progressed onwards through repertoire and added more to their list of names, each time it was a flawless run-through, his spine curved more into the couch, sleep was given to him. And despite the chill instilled in their bones, still they craved the warmth that seemed so unattainable - until brief moments of reprieve like these.
( They were becoming beyond fit for the world beyond them now. )
As age began to transfigure them, the pressure upon their shoulders grew. Venturing into the world of music, the inspiration of the arts, the competitions and the learning of harder repertoire and the growing of a yawning cavern of a talent - it was no small feat, not for an adult, not for a teenager, and especially not for a freshly-nine-year-old child. The upright became a grand, the finances were added to, the riches soaring into the celestials with velveteen garment and the illustrious sensation of gold on their wrist ( all of it, cold, so cold ) - and instead of breaking down beneath it, instead they rose above. ( There was no warmth to be found, and so they would rise like the phoenix-downs and create their own with their prime success. ) Then the so fervent oppression of Ukraine bore down upon them, their opportunities running dry, and when another chance came, they were sworn to take it. They moved with their father and the piano by air to the prime reaping-grounds of the States, an illustrious new beginning and liberation to be tasted like caviar samples on every corner. They understood pressure; they knew what needed to be done in order to continuously survive. To balance an intense course of academia whilst continuing to accelerate as a budding international concert pianist was nothing to them. They were on top of the world; they were grappling with little more than those who dared to remain in the one-percentile of being better than them. ( Soon, no one would be left who was better, and they would reign supreme, with their observance and their nuances of humour and their very versatile attempts at becoming everything all at once. )
And then, at the so lacking-conservative age of nineteen, something snapped.
Odd mood swings. An aggression that borderlines on a high note, one that captures their true competitive spirit, that ends in a boatload of cash being spent on frivolities ( luxuries to the rest of the fucking middle-class that they were not and no longer and never would be. ) Then, the rapid decline, the sudden downward swing, the feelings of worthlessness and the staring at the walls and the hard swallows and the nails digging moon-shape scars into the bases of their arm and wrist and palm and thigh and wherever sometimes those same nails, trimmed down and precious, could tear. Self preservation into self deprecation. The need for nicotine, alcohol, for substances Nadiya never had need of before, for the burn on the tongue, for the erasure of the memories which made them experience such worthlessness. It had been, truly, an accident when their vocalist, with whom they were to perform a much-anticipated recital at the mark of the end of the semester, entered the room at the wrong time. Entered when they had been very much attempting to regain control, panting into the neck of a bottle and furiously chopping at the vegetables on the cutting board. They had asked what was the matter; N O T H I N G came the short, fervent reply. A look misinterpreted. A swing of the knife. A hit on the curve of the shoulder, a gasp of surprise - nothing that couldn’t be dealt with immediately, and without the interference of hospital, but accompanied with a sudden gasp, a dropping of it, tearful apologies from someone who never dared to cry. Something was w r o n g with them. And to think - nothing had ever been wrong with them.
Their father blamed it on the pressure, said they needed to get themselves together. When they for once tried to speak up through their blurry mania and profess that sometimes their smiles were more than plastic, but breaking porcelain, that their thoughts shattered them and fought to gain superiority over them ( and to think nothing could be superior over them - except that very odd untameable instability within them ) - he brushed it away. The pressure, he said. What a waste, he said, anger in his brow. What a fucking waste, he repeated, and it didn’t help.
They found piece in Chopin. Chopin, Mozart, Rachmaninov - Mussorgsky. They played until their own fingers bled, finding no solace in what used to bring them such joy. But what did make them think ( calculating, observing as if detached ) - was the crimson staining their nails. The scars on themselves. That helped. Seeing blood helped. ( WHAT A FUCKING WASTE. ) No, they decided. No - he was the fucking waste. To think they loved him, and they tried so hard to love him for all of this time, but now that they were older ( and wiser here ), they saw there was nothing to do about it. Nothing they could do which would be good enough. They were the best. The best. They had to take care of their own. Taking care of their own translated into recognising when someone needed to die.
The knife didn’t miss that time. And it was no accident. It was quick, clean, business-like. It was necessary. Without the drilling of WORTHLESSNESS into their ear, they felt immensely better. There was nothing wrong with them; he had been the problem. And now, the problem was dead and gone and buried and no one even noticed he had gone missing. They were able to finish their schooling and continue with their career. And the vocalist who might have spoken up? Well, she died in a rather tragic accident. Fallen from her balcony, half-intoxicated, in the middle of the night. Depressing, for certain; unusual? Not in these unfortunate, decadent, lavish streets. Something had gotten to her, driven her to it; her pianist attended the funeral and played, just as she would have wanted. And the recital they were to perform together? Yes, that became a tribute concert - starring Nadiya. Things have a very lovely way of working out in one’s favour if one does not let themselves remain out of control.
( They had both received their due-deaths worthy of the DOGS they had been in life. )
Now, their family consists of those who are precisely as they are, people who understand them and still tend to challenge them. SOME members of their fold crease their brows with concern; make them press their fingers to their forehead; and some of the actions make them want to tear out their hair. But they are the calm in the midst of this rousing thunderstorm compared to the rest of them. One make their own luck, their own bloodline family, their own kills. To be so young and old simultaneously is the curse of the winter in their skeleton that rattles them into continuation, that makes them able to t h i n k clearly.
This isn’t fun to them. It’s business. Necessary, observant, clean business. And even the eyes of the shortest storms have their impending finishing touches of demolition to give.
INSPIRATION
Graphic: ( x ).
Favourite pieces to play [ and kill to ]: ( x ) ( x ) ( x ) ( x ) ( x ) ( x ) - this last one is the one they play when about to kill someone.
HEADCANONS:
Their method of killing is cold, precise, tactical. They are not above using supposedly ancient or out of date methods to slaughter. Poison is a particular favourite; knives because there is still something insanely personal on the matter. If they use a gun, it is a small one with a silencer; to make noise is to chance ruin.
They have undiagnosed bipolar disorder, which is also going untreated. However, this is not the root cause for their turning to killing; instead, it is a combination of the untreated mental illness and the instability of the household childhood’s home, as well as the pressure, the threats, and previously displayed sociopathic tendencies.
Despite their thoughts of humans being dogs a lot of the time, especially those who deserve to die, they adore actual dogs. They are currently the proud owner of a black Doberman named Yuri and are currently looking for a wolfhound to name Borys. Yuri acts as both calming companion and guard dog; she can always be seen outside the room or by her owner’s feet.
Their sense of street fashion and stage fashion is extremely different. For street fashion, they tend to opt for the things which make them inconspicuous - comfortable leggings, ragged boots ( designer-made, though ), disguised jewellery, dark colours. When performing, or when wanting to be noticed, they dress in a brilliant sixties-bombshell classic sense.
They are bilingual in Ukrainian and English, and they have learned university-level amounts of ancient Latin. At university, they studied Latin texts, ancient history, and other such things that wouldn’t interest the average student. To be intrigued in the lost arts had them gain favouritism amongst multiple professors - who would vouch for them if they were ever caught in anything.
( LOLA ) makes them want to snap people’s necks. Sometimes, she makes them want to snap her own neck for practising. However, instead, they retreat to their desk, where they proceed to work on writing piano compositions to be recorded and sold. Just because they live on this very formal estate with their secret-business doesn’t mean they stop their life’s career.
They are an extremely successful household name in Ukraine and now in the States. They are known for being reclusive about their personal life in interviews, which is accepted. Sometimes, this branch of fame puts others on edge - but they’ve proven time and time again that their non-blood family comes first, and somehow, they BALANCE it all. ( It’s the only way to stay sane. )
Their substance abuse has lessened, but not a considerable amount. When things become too stressful, it isn’t irregular to see them smoking half a carton of cigarettes in three hours. But the amount they drink is kept a secret; they make sure to purchase their own alcohol so that no one will notice any copious amounts being slurped from the cabinet.
They adore flowers. Arranging flowers, choosing flowers, sending flowers, the smell of them. A great philosopher once said, “These are the sort of things people ought to look at. Things without pretensions, satisfied to be merely themselves.” Looking at flowers just as Huxeley did brings them a comfort they didn’t know existed.
When killing someone, they take after famous predecessors and play classical music in the background to keep their mind cleared and their goal focused. One can always tell if they are about to go out and seek a target, predetermined or no, because the echoes of a certain piece on the 9ft piano in their quarters can be heard through all stories of the estate.
Despite their serious and observant demeanour, they make jokes and take care of their own, fretting silently and then vocalising their concerns. They turned themselves into the sort of a parent figure they wish they’d experienced in their adolescence, the one that they had taken away from themselves, removed like a tumour, to replace with their own improved take on it.
Nadiya has a tendency to speak a lot without revealing much about themselves; they make themselves relatable without getting personal. It’s a true talent. Their compelling nature and their ability to laugh off things with little excessiveness to the sound makes them a force to be reckoned with. ( They might not be the storm, but they can bring down hellfire. )
Congratulations Kate! You have been accepted as three Evan Astor with the face claim of Max Irons. You have twenty-four hours to submit your blog. Please read the accepted member checklist.
My attention never strayed when I was reading your bio. You writing is strong, sharp, and propulsive. I’m so intrigued by Evan and the possibility for future plots with him. His rage issues are definitely going to clash with other people in the house; I’m excited to see how things develop!
Under the cut is the application.
Content warnings: Abuse, murder, substance abuse
OUT OF CHARACTER
Name/Alias: Kate
Age: 21
Preferred Pronouns: She/Her
CHARACTER BASICS
Number: Three
Full Name: Evan Sigilis Astor
Gender Identity/Preferred Pronouns: He/Him/His
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual/Heteromantic
Date of Birth: October 30, 1989 ; 26; Scorpio
Face Claim: Max Irons
BIOGRAPHY
Evan Astor never liked words. He was a man of action, he was a man of music. He loved beautiful soft things and the way his mother’s heartbeat sounded against his little ear.
His childhood was easy – it was lovely, even. His mother taught him to play the piano, she taught him how to bury pieces of his soul into the keys. She taught him how to appreciate the long limbs of beautiful dancers – a former ballerina herself, she valued the art above all else – and how to spot the differences between grace and beauty. Beautiful things could lack grace, and grace could lack beauty. After all, his father was a graceful man. He was a handsome man. But he had never been beautiful. Alec Astor and Magdalena Astor were two very different creatures.
Lena Evelyn Astor – Flowers, by her maiden name, but no one can remember that now – was a porcelain doll. Her strength was conditional, but her fragility was constant. Her skin was creamy and her hair was soft and lightly curled, her lips were the color of coral, her eyes were the color of the forests surrounding their family estate. She was the image of virtue and broken hearts. She was seduced by her husband’s wit and brilliance, she did not know the monster that lurked behind his Southern charm.
Alec Sigilis Astor was a dagger from the start. His own parents had been second cousins, desperate to keep their inherited wealth. His eyes were black, his hair was black, his jaw was sharp and his teeth were too. His smile could cut, his bite could maim. He was the image of wealth and cruelty. He was seduced by his wife’s old money and her tender flesh, but she never loved him enough to fix his ailing mind. She never loved him enough to make him a good man, and he never forgave her for that.
(Now, together, they made something curious. Not curious in nature, perhaps, but curious by design. Their son shared his father’s sharp jaw, strong nose, sharp teeth – he shared his mother’s soft curls, long fingers, and sad green eyes. He was born with a broken heart, he was born with a silver spoon. Evan has yet to learn to reconcile the two – we will get to that later.)
To a child, the lives of their parents before they were parents make no difference – but for Evan Astor, the sins of his parents would determine what kind of man he would grow into.
When Lena met Alec, she was engaged to his business partner. She was old money – like the rest of their circle – but she held a certain mystery. The granddaughter of a Russian oligarch, her heart held the old-world machinations that new American money lacked. To Alec, she was everything he had ever wanted in a woman. She was the opposite of his mother – who had been cold and unaffectionate for all of Alec’s life. He believed that – if she could only love him enough – she could awake something within him, something he knew was broken. The very things he knew he lacked. Compassion. Empathy. Guilt. So he stole her away, like the prize that she was, and made her his.
The first few months were pure bliss, he showered her with gifts and affection and the promises that they might be, could be, should be in love.
The years that followed were pure hell.
Mental illness cannot be cured with love, but Alec refused to admit it. He blamed his wife for her failings as a lover. He shamed her, he beat her, he wore her to the bones. His business partner (and Lena’s first love), Graham, became her only solace, and offered her a loving hand – a distraction. Several months after taking up with Graham, she discovered she was pregnant. But with whose child?
Throughout her pregnancy, she prayed that it would be Graham’s son. She prayed that she would be spared from being the mother of little monster, a pure devil. When Evan was born, she ignored his obvious parentage and loved him as she had loved his imagined father. She loved him with all the hatred she bore his true father.
And Alec loved his son as well – as an extension of himself.
Or at least, he did.
When he discovered that Lena had her doubts about Evan’s legitimacy, he decided to do the only thing he could do to spare his pride. He killed his wife and with her, snuffed all doubts that Evan Astor was, in fact, an Astor. But that didn’t mean he could love a creature that might not be his own.
Alec’s resentment towards Lena was focused onto her son – the boy that shared her soft curls and big green eyes.
Soon after Lena’s murder, Evan was sent away to boarding school where he made himself into a living Dionysus. He threw lavish parties and did expensive cocaine and fucked beautiful people. He discovered new things about himself – he discovered that he shared his mother’s flair for the dramatic, and his father’s lack of empathy. But he did not lack emotion. Oh, no no. He felt it too deeply. It consumed him. His hatred towards his father – his mother’s murderer and his own abuser – became all consuming.
At seventeen – too young to drink, too young to vote, too young to marry – Evan found his revenge. After returning home for Christmas – a rather violent tradition for the Astor men – Evan strangled his father in his study. Hours later, Evan called to report his father’s apparent suicide: GRIEF HAD CONSUMED HIM, HE COULD NOT LIVE WITHOUT HIS MAGDALENA.
With both parents dead, Evan found himself the sole heir to his family fortune and the youngest CEO in the Astor Oil Company’s history – of course, he held the title only in name. The young playboy was voted out of a controlling stake in the business years ago, but he could not be voted out of the money – an old clause in the business’ charter promised him a lifetime of profits off of the deeds of more deserving men.
HEADCANONS
Evan was engaged to a woman named Nerissa White, but killed her in a fit of rage. Her death is the only one he regrets.
Evan is a functioning addict: both a coke fiend and an alcoholic.
When possible, he only kills men. If he had a therapist, they might say the root cause of his obsession was due to abuse at his father’s hand and a more than obvious Oedipal complex.
Evan speaks Russian and French as fluently as he speaks English, as his mother used both as a secret way of communication when she was still alive.
His dream is to kill Graham Avery – his mother’s lover – because he stood by while his mother was abused for nearly a decade.
Evan loses his cool more often than he would like to admit. His rage is a blizzard, his heart is so cold that it burns.
Sorry everyone, today’s been a bit weird so I haven’t been able to do acceptances yet. I am closing the submit now and I will do acceptances as soon as possible. Thanks for your patience!
Due to the multitude of character changes, the current prompt has been slowed down considerably. I know it’s been a while since it dropped, and in the collaborative nature of this roleplay, I wanted to give the members a chance to choose.
Like this post if you would like to discontinue the prompt. If you do not like this post, I will set a new deadline for game submissions, after which we will vote and move on.
If you have any questions (or suggestions for new prompts!), please let me know.
As always, these are just random ideas, and are not at all required for your application/interpretation!
Takes things very personally and love love loves getting revenge on enemies in elaborate or surprising ways
Tough, an accomplished fighter despite aristocratic background
Tends to drink and party as a coping mechanism. Not that interested in going out with the others until something bad happens; then they’ll drink the night away
Terrible at expressing feelings, has never said “I love you” to a romantic interest
Hates using technology, is always the one to answer texts a week later than everyone else.
Surprisingly artistic; can sculpt, paint and draw (and enjoys them in that order)
Actually not a very good liar, always has to have another member of the eight to help them talk their way out of nasty situations
Clean, modern sense of style. Very minimalist and well put-together at all times.
These are just a few ideas. Hope these help!Admin Av
