Future Ghost

i am light

[ronanbailey-blog]

     Ronan wondered if he’d even make it outside today. The snow was unbearable, packed in heavy layers on the ground and impossible to move through, let alone when you’re 5′5′’ and have the strength of frayed rope. It was ridiculous to move through, it took Ronan several minutes longer than it should’ve to get from his cabin to Lucia. This was…not going to be fun.

     “I hate this stuff,” he declared, huffing loudly in his exasperated state. This was the worst part about scouting, it was days like this that made Ronan want to crawl back into bed. “I’m going to drown in snow one day.”

[ottvr-blog]

❝ We’re already d r o w n i n g in it, ❞ the redhead groaned, and kicked a cloud (chunks) of crystalline white into the air. It was thick and wet: not the wonderful, fine, and powdery snow that fell before everything took a turn for the worse. They could, however, probably build ten igloos and a wall with what had fallen in the storm—if only to clear the rest of the camp.  ❝ This is so miserable and stupid, and we have to go out in it. W o n d e r f u l. ❞

[evan-sterling-blog]

Evan listened to the other talk, absently nodding her head as she agreed with the words. It was an odd thought to her that hunting for rabbits in the cold wilderness was now as common as sleeping to her. There was a time when she would have cringed at the mere thought of killing another creature–let alone a rabbit. Her college roommate had owned one–bugs–and she’d found comfort in the soft fur and goofy nature. But that’s what happened when the world ended. All things changed.

She fought the urge to laugh, instead letting out a light breath of air through her nose. The softest form of an amused snort as she’d allow herself. “I dunno about you,” she said in a mere whisper, cautious as to not scare away anything that might be close by, “But I’m absolutely terrible at throwing things.” She could run for miles, weaving this way and that. Evan had a determination and stubbornness that people had commented on countless times before–but accuracy was never her strong suit. Her eyesight played a large part into that.

A shrug moved across her shoulders at the other’s question and she sighed. “Was just…” she paused, eyebrows furrowing. She wasn’t really sure why she was out there, to be honest. But she did know that she was a wanderer. “Clearing my head,” came the lame answer. “I’m a bit of a wanderer. What about you?” she tuned to look to the other. “Why’re you out here by yourself?”

[ottvr-blog]

❝ Same as you, I guess, ❞ she said, rather blankly, eyes trained on the small trail of prints before her. ❝ It’s quiet here. No regulations. No one to tell you want you can and cannot do. No bickering like toddlers do over a blue crayon. ❞

Otter tiptoed through the snow, slightly—following each step the animal had made. In the distance, the rabbit stood, grazing on nearly dead plant-life poking out from thick drifts of snow. She motioned to the other: hush hush—stay close to the ground, and become one with it. Lowered prone into the snow, rifle shouldered, and she peered through the scope—lining it up with the furry little mass.

One shot, one kill—two shots would bring nothing but trouble and an unnecessary chase, both which could not be afforded. Aim for the lungs and heart. Quick, and relatively painless: a little thing Father had taught her so long ago. One of the few things she remembered of him. Otter pulled the trigger, bullet whizzing through the air, accompanied by a loud crack which chased the crows from the trees.

Furry body fell limp, and she scrambled to her feet, scattering snow as she nearly leapt toward her prize. Examined the rabbit: wholly d e a d. A mitten incased hand lifted it into the air, and she studied it closely. Not as plump as one would expect; but, then again, everything was near starving in the harsh wilderness.

❝ Dinner for two, yeah? Or—eight, if you really stretched it, ❞ she quipped, sinking back into the sea of white, rummaging through her bag for twine to tie the feet together. Blood had barely began to pool before it coagulated and froze. But, the kill was still warm. Clean. Perhaps the fur: she could utilize it for new lining in her boots.

[conceptualsolitude]

concept: i step into the moonlight and disappear

[igorpjorrt]

Igor Pjörrt

[ottvr-blog]

Lucia stood in the center of camp, analyzing her surroundings. Snow now fell lightly: soft against all. ‘Twas one of the worst storms she’d endured through to date—and deep within, she knew they’d only get worse. Perhaps one day, their little hovel would simply be wiped clean off the face of the Earth, leaving no signs of previous civilization.

❝ What bullshit. ❞ Knee deep, and she huffed: shifting on her feet, still in awe over the stupid amount of snow that had fallen.

[sterlingsinclair-deactivated202]

Winter lingered, like a bruise—many still colored his body,stained his knuckles and ringed the fading injury he still felt every time he breathed. Blunt nails seek to explore the seam, to pick at the scab only to feel the damp warmth of blood upon fingertips. It was a color at least, a color that smeared his flesh that steadily turned pink under the onslaught of the chill. Chill somehow being a word that lacked, this cold was something else—a physical presence never alone,never alone.

“Nicht, dass ich etwas dagegen.” he speaks aloud, to no one in particular—accustomed to solitude long before the world froze sixty percent of the population (a ballpark number) but there’s a different sort of alone to be had when you’re cold.

You notice it more, the cold; that is. You don’t have the luxury of an outside buffer to the sensation, good or ill even if they sought to wring your life from your throat. For scraps.

Hund isst hund.

A delightful saying, if he could—he’d get it tattooed upon his flesh, something else for the bruises to decorate. He’d been eating many other dogs long before he became cold, so cold—hunger was good; dogs are good hungry. Makes them strong. His quiet moment of reflection (introspection) was cut short by the trickling snow overhead. It seemed to always be snowing, hardly an unkind sort of snow really—it was gentle, quiet almost as it drifted towards as though well aware it had already smothered the world.

Und wir sind nicht überall.

It falls from overhead, large amounts—he hears a crunch, the  soft kind of crunch (not of breaking bones) but of boots on snow, blinking owlishly upwards in consideration as lips part in a new kind of anticipation. Gloved hand working the length of the rifle (a dead man’s gun) as he slowly slides the strap up his shoulder to duck down low, a life on the streets of German cities made him a decent man come stealth and he soon found himself round the back of the cabin he’d paused in route to ponder outside. If he’d known he’d be getting snow kicked about on him, he’d have stood a little to the left.

Climbing upwards pulls at his injury, he grits his teeth—it’s a throbbing kind of pain; a bruise he knows. The good doctor was tired of stitching him up. He rather liked her. A smarter man would look into his subconscious self-sabotage as something of an excuse to see her.But he wasn’t a smart man in that sort of regard and a low noise of interest leaves his mouth instead for the benefit of the girl on the roof “Sie sollten nicht hier sein.” He speaks to her in an octave just above a whisper, his tone a low rumble—he’d never spoken in volume before.

[ottvr-blog]

Her back remains pressed against the chimney—sapping whatever residual heat there is radiating from the bricks. Soft footsteps in the sheets of crystalline snow below; and, they are familiar (so unlikely to not be). At ease, bumps and clambering startle her ever so slightly.

She’d seen the other below: walking, patrolling maybe. Uncertain: she wasn’t sure whether she’d ever bumped into the man within a cabin or not. Always wandering about. Always so strange, though the word meant little to nothing. Just different. Different from the other beings within Jotunheim, and certainly different from the willowy redhead. Different, just as all are from one another.

Quiet in a loud world—aura softer in contrast to outward demeanor. Whether or not he has something hidden beneath the doeskin, Lucia doesn’t know. Even so, everyone has something or other to hide. Big or small. Alive or dead. Beautiful flowers, or fountains of blood—nowadays, these infractions all look the same. Feel the same, and open old wounds just the same. Whatever it may be, it no longer matters.

Claus: he is q u i e t. Amongst chattering and bickering and fighting and screaming. A somewhat out of place pattern drifting through an endless sea of white. Unexpected: climbing atop the building as she had done. Somewhat like days gone by: scaling walls just to wallow around on a roof. Tossing coins down to the streets below, and nearly falling off in a giggling, drunken stupor. Those days seem like better days—or worse. It’s hard to decipher: a bullet through the skull paired with an ever-present, brash mindset could do that at times.

When he speaks, it is foreign (but of course). Like introducing fresh blood to chilled milk. The words coagulate in her mind and go no farther. Jumbled and almost unintelligible. So vaguely does she recall tourists in Oslo speaking as he does: a heavy, violent sounding language. But this—a certain kind of softness tracing each syllable makes it less brash, and for a brief moment, it is as though she may understand simply through the tone of voice.

❝ Jeg kan ikke forstå deg. ❞ Native speech feels odd upon her tongue, and yet so wonderful. Like home, or a soft communal wafer, soaked in wine and placed into her mouth. And she knows that he cannot understand her either—a stalemate between the two. It doesn’t bother her much: there is still some sort of familiarity despite the difference in worlds.

She offers her thermos: a simple gesture. Weak and overly sweet, she figures there must be enough for two, if not three or four. Warmth through its body and thick mittens, seeping in to touch the tips of her fingers. No sense in being selfish—no sense in attempting to break down a wall of words when actions tended to speak so much LOUDER. Shine so much brighter.

[ottvr-blog]

Headcanons

A Conglomeration of Things

A couple topics may be potentially triggering. They are marked with a “CW” and placed at the very bottom of this headcanon list for those who wish to avoid them!

Lucia goes by the name “Otter” more often than not. It is a nickname that is derived from her surname, given to her by her friends. Those who are exceptionally close to her may call her “Lucy”. However, the latter has more “affectionate” connotations to it, so she much prefers the former.

Her father, Peter, was a licensed gun collector, and a very eccentric mechanic. He taught Otter how to fix (quite literally) everything, and he taught her how to shoot firearms: from tiny pistols, to .308 rifles. She’s an excellent shot, to say the least, and she has ample enough knowledge to fix and maintain any weapons she comes across.

She doesn’t like arguing, simple because she sees it as a waste of time. If faced with someone who is argumentative, she’d rather just ignore them completely than immerse herself into bickering. Still, she is known to throw snark out as it comes to her. She never really gets mad—just annoyed.

Otter fidgets a lot: tapping her feet, drumming fingers, shifting, twirling hair, picking at her skin, et cetera. Under extreme duress, she stims: rocking back and forth in an attempt to calm herself. She likes to call this behavior “chronic rocking back and forth syndrome”. It’s a little way for her to find light in her current mental state.

She calls most people “kanin” (”rabbit” in Norwegian). There’s really no reason behind it. It’s just a quick little nickname.

She swears a LOT. A great bit of her vocabulary is dedicated to long strings of weird, yet thoroughly though out swears. When she was younger, she legitimately had a list in a notebook dedicated to “creative swearing”.

Back at her apartment in Oslo, she has a small potted cactus garden. Each one had a name.

Previously a tattoo artist, she knows how to make primitive tattoo machines out of pens, needles, small motors, and batteries.

She cuts her own hair, and keeps her fringe long in order to hide a rather gruesome scar on her left temple. She’ll cut other people’s hair too, if they ask nicely.

Semi-secretly, she always has a knife in her boot—whether she’s outside of the camp or not. It makes her feel safer knowing she has some protection with her at all times.

(CW) Lucia “forgets” to eat, and she forgets to do so a lot. When she does eat, it’s unhealthy: diet consisting of very sweet granola/trail-mix, sugar cookies, soda, and white bread. Her eating habits aren’t exactly related to her appearance. They are likely linked to her depression, as well as a horrendously low self-esteem. She want’s to disappear. To stave off hunger, she drinks an ungodly amount of tea: at least three big thermoses per day. In the past, she was diagnosed by one doctor with anorexia nervosa, but no treatment was ever sought out. She never, ever talks about it, as it’s something that makes her very uncomfortable.

(CW) In addition to sustaining a bullet wound to the head, Lucia was shot two more times during the same incident in the lower abdomen. One bullet nearly disintegrated; however, some shrapnel shredded its way through, and became lodged between two of her vertebrae (this has not been removed, as doing so posed a thread to her mobility). The other traveled straight through her body, but not without causing major internal damage. As a result of the both wounds, she has undergone a partial hysterectomy, which effectively sterilized her, much to her dismay. She has a pretty big, grizzly scar on her stomach from the surgery.

[evan-sterling-blog]

“I dunno if we’d find any,” Evan admitted. “Though it is surprising to see what people grab when they had to pack up and leave, so there’s always a chance.”

They’d have to wait the storm out before traveling–or even considering leaving the warmth of the cabin. The wind was whipping, even stronger than before, and Evan could only imagine what that did to the temperatures that had already been near freezing. Just thinking about stepping outside sent a light shiver up her spine but distantly she knew that it was becoming more of a possibility.

She didn’t know why the adamant response from the other made a small smile appear on her lips but Evan found herself grinning faintly. Watching as the younger girl stood to gather her things, Evan did the same. Slipping on her thermal and then larger jacket, putting on her UVA beanie next followed by her thick wool one. Tucking her hair into the back of her jacket, she threw up her hood, adjusting it so the protection wouldn’t leave her head with the wind. “Oh,” Evan glanced down to the offering, furrowing her eyebrows slightly before taking the bags and slipping them over her shoes. “Thanks.”

Now that they were bundled up the inevitability of the cold set in and Evan turned her gaze out the window. It was dark out, something that she never had an issue with–always just the cold. “At least let me go first, yeah?” Evan asked, inclining her head briefly to add more weight to her request. “You can walk in the footprints I make. It should make the trip easier.” A beat passed and then Evan’s hand grasped around the doorknob. “Ready?” she questioned her companion, waiting half a second before she yanked open the wood, a swirl of wind whipping at her and filling the small portal almost instantly.

With a deep breath Evan stepped out into the frozen wind.

[ottvr-blog]

The smallest of grins spread across the redhead’s lips, and she didn’t bother masking a tiny giggle. Otter sat at the edge of a bunk and pulled another pair of socks on—then mismatched plastic bags, and finally her boots.

❝ Might wanna think about rearranging, kanin. You might slip. ❞ She mentioned ever so casually, though in truth, it was more DIRE. She could haul someone through the snow on a good day—but this? This wasn’t a good day. Or evening—morning, noon, or night. She’d lost track of time throughout her duration of cabin fever. ❝ Right behind you. ❞

Door flung open, a gust hit her like a freight train. It was like opening a dimension to another world. A swirling, horrible portal. No use in attempting to follow footsteps: the snow covered them far too quickly. Otter shuddered, pulling her own hood up and over her already bundled form. At this rate, the Inuit probably had it easier than they did.

❝ Holy balls sweet mother of Christ riding a fucking bicycle, ❞ she rasped, tacking on another long string of unintelligible swears. Perhaps (perhaps perhaps perhaps) it wasn’t as terrible as she thought it to be; but, it was still AWFUL. Now, she wished she had snowshoes and an actual parka made of bear skin. She followed closely behind, hand reaching out, pressed against the outer wall of the cabin.

[zptp]

Francois Romain

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

A hundred years die in a moment, just as a moment dies in a moment.

Antonio Porchia, from Voices (via soracities)

[ottvr-blog]

BIts of Lucia’s past. People that will occasionally be mentioned, though it will be rare within threads. This is mainly for personal reference, though it is also to provide some insight into her life before the Big Freeze. It’s just a small peek into her “blissfully disturbing fairytale” life, as I like to call it. This could possibly(?) be used for connections, though Melle and Thomas are really, really dead.

Warin ( Baby Boy / deadlight )

Ex-friend & ex-lover. Resides in Chicago and is very much so alive. He’s like a roach: not even a nuclear bomb could kill him. Tall and morbid with a certain knack for puns and an occasional mean streak. Typically manipulative, vulgar, and rude. Doesn’t care about much, mostly void of emotion. Borderline sociopath. Has a deathwish, though he might just be ballsy. Practices the darker side of paganism. Once snorted crack off of a Satanic bible and didn’t wind up dead later. Addicted to emoticon usage. Perpetually drunk, legitimate sadist. Counted approximately 346 scars on his own body from various different injuries. Has stabbed numerous people, including both Otter, and Melle (on a lesser degree, with a fork). An overall pile of garbage.

One of two people to call Otter by the name “Lucy”.

Kaja ( Sweetcheeks / ivcrywine )

Best friend. Enabler. Romantic goth who claims to be born in the “wrong era”. Chronic smoker—smokes using a long cigarette holder. Can blow perfect smoke rings. Never seen without seven-inch stilettos. Carries a parasol that has a rapier hidden inside. Also has a moderately sized collection of other swords. Has worn two monocles at once for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Obsessed with sirens, banshees, and harpies, amongst other mythological beings. Lives in one of the oldest residential buildings in Oslo. Has a massive library dedicated to Transcendentalism—infatuated with Thoreau. Believes that Ralph Waldo Emerson is her twin flame. Has a crush on “young Stalin”.

The second of two people to call Otter by the name “Lucy”.

Melle ( wigglykitty )

Very close friend. The most “normal” of the bunch. Has five cats. Lives by herself. Doesn’t wear anything else but horribly ugly sweaters complete with sequins, rhinestones, and ribbon. Mostly doesn’t wear anything at all at home. Her last name is so long and complex, she sometimes has trouble spelling it. Only drinks Peach Schnapps. Has duct taped steak knives to roombas and watched them battle for fun. Has a really, really big birthmark on her back that bears an uncanny resemblance to Austrailia.

Deceased.

Thomas Jace

Ex-something? Even Otter doesn’t know what he was to her, but she was infatuated and he is now very, very dead. Graduate student from the States. Drug addict, alcoholic, and night-life enthusiast. Swings in every direction known to mankind. A bit of a hoe. Constantly in a “make-out with anyone willing” state. The kind of person who would forget to turn off caps lock and not notice for weeks. Actually Tumblr famous—ran an “aesthetic porn/nature/selfie” blog. Narcissistic. Horribly allergic to bees. Also mildly allergic to peanuts, shellfish, walnuts, pollen, polyester, and probably a dozen more things.

Also—he’s dead.

[ottvr-blog]

otter — a brief study (4/?)

[lifeinpoetry]

Winter will bring emptiness, emptiness, emptiness; winter will bring emptiness. All spring, emptiness. All summer. All fall.

Mary Jo Bang, from “The Too-Bright Light Will Wash You Out,” The Last Two Seconds: Poems (via lifeinpoetry)

[ottvr-blog]

evan-sterling:

Evan nodded. It was the only tea she’d had in distant memory–she couldn’t even remember what other teas tasted like. “It’s pretty much the only type of tea I drink now,” she shrugged lightly. “The needles are easy to find and, like you said, they’re really healthy.” The brunette smiled softly, flexing her hands at her side. “I wouldn’t mind a cup, yeah. Thank you.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the front door, smile faltering just a tiny bit. She didn’t want to go outside–but if she had to, then she had to. “That wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” she agreed after a beat of silence, the howling wind blanketing the cabin. “Though you can stay here. Wouldn’t want you to fly away, I agree.” At that Evan did smile, her anxiousness and hesitation hidden behind the grin.

Another pause and another gust of wind had the scout licking her lips, mentally preparing herself for the cold that would no doubt settle into her bones after a split second of being outside. “Maybe…” she turned back to the other, “Just keep an eye out for me? I can grab a good amount of wood but I dunno how deep the snow is. If I take too long just send someone else out after me?” She was thinking on her feet–coming up with different variations of a plan that only ended with her being outside and in danger and not anyone else.

❝ Of course. ❞ And she nodded in return. ❝ It might be time to head out on an extended trip. See what else we can pick from cars. The Earl Gray in the main cabin’s going stale. ❞

Naturally—an extended trip wouldn’t be practical at the moment. Heavy, compacted snow left from the storm would only aid in travel speed—perhaps allowing the camps small group of scouts to venture out farther.

❝ Yeah, no. You’re not going out there on your own. That’d be a DEATH sentence. ❞ Otter rose to her feet quickly, and began digging ‘round for her gear—extra sweater and three pairs of socks paired with a jacket. It seemed ample enough for a hopefully quick trip into the unknown hurricane of white. She gathered her backpack, pulling plastic bags out from a side pocket.

❝ Put these on your feet, okay? ❞ she said, handing two over to the other. ❝ I doubt you want to come back with wet socks—never fun. ❞

Peering out of the window, Otter swallowed thickly. DARK. She forced herself to push fear into the recesses of her mind. It wasn’t the dark—it was what possibly hid within. Quickly, attempting to calm her nerves, she blew out air from between chapped lips, and wrapped her scarf around her neck, and over her head: hiding her mop of titian hair.

❝ We should stick to the walls. Keep diagonal with the wind. ❞

[a-torms-deactivated20210521]

Myra noticed the shift from the corner of her peripheral gaze as her hues fixated on the creaking boards that were the sole protection they had from the harsh wind. The snarl, however, was barely audible over the heavy breathing that occupied the cabin and the merciless howling that surrounded them. Frankly, she couldn’t find it in herself to care or not whether the other girl took offence to her words or attitude. Least of all, she was not here to console her bruised ego. 

“Then you might not want to act like one.” Myra replied without missing a beat as her eyes fixated in the general direction of the voice that found the shell of her ears. Her jacket was pulled tighter in hopes of capturing the little heat that lived within the four walls of their cabin. “You gonna make tea for everyone in this cabin? Cause as of now, whatever is in here – is ours, not yours or mine. Therefore, we share it equally. We have to start thinking about how long we’ll have to stay in here and trying to make whatever is left within this cabin last.” Her voice rose a little louder now without truly realizing it. “So, no. We don’t have tea. Even if we did, you’re a big girl. Go look.”

[ottvr-blog]

❝ Asking a little question makes me a baby? Trekke hodet ut av deg i ræva.. ❞ How many times was this woman going to repeat herself? Lucia kicked out her legs before her, crossing them at the ankles. Unfazed. Ego NOT BRUISED. The whole “shebang” was more of a nuisance than anything. No amount of stress or fear garnered a terrible attitude—a scolding that was not deserved. A slight roll of the eyes. Amused with the other’s BLATANT misunderstanding, and her lack of desire to act like a civil human being. That, and amused (once more) of the wolfish front this rabbit gave off.

❝ Of course I’d make some for everyone. As opposed to what you may or may not think: I’m not selfish. ❞ Be a big girl. What a joke. The definition of “big girl” and “maturity” seemed to completely fly over Myra’s head, at least in Lucia’s opinion. ❝ I learned how to share when I was a little pup. I also learned what manners are. ❞

Back at the snark, she stood and waltzed toward a cabinet, flinging it open to rummage through. Picking through, wrapping dainty digits ‘round a little string. Snorting in the shadows, before turning to dangle the prize in the air: inspecting it closely.

❝ I’ll just let you STEW in your own little world, yeah? And I’m going to decided to ignore you, because I really don’t have any desire to partake in petty squabbles. ❞

[evan-sterling-blog]

It was cold. But, then again, Evan was used to the cold. Used to the chill that worked its way down her spine only to settle into her bones and muscles and sinews. The fire inside the cabin seemed to burn absently–warmth seemed to be a relative thing now. She could barely feel the heat but that was probably because she’d situated herself next to the window, breath fogging the glass as it puffed out in front of her with each exhale.

The winds, howling like a wounded wolf, made her anxious and it was apparent in her tense demeanor. They hadn’t planned for weather like this and distantly she flicked her eyes back to the fire, glancing briefly to the pile of wood sitting in the corner. It seemed to be growing smaller and smaller by the second.

Her eyebrows lifted at the question and her mind wandered to the bundle of pine needles she kept in her backpack. “I dunno about tea,” she said as she made her way to her bag, unzipping the pocket, “But I’ve got some pine needles. You could boil some water and put them in.” She offered the small bundle to the bundle of blankets, fighting the urge to grin softly. It was certainly an amusing sight.

Another howl split through the cabin and Evan turned her attention back out the window, fingers twitching at her side. They needed more supplies or they wouldn’t last another day. She shifted on her feet, mind racing, wandering, considering just how cold it was outside and how long she’d be able to go without it becoming a problem. They needed more wood. More food. And Evan would brave the storm to get those things for them. It was her job, after all. “We’re going to run out of wood if this doesn’t stop soon.”

[ottvr-blog]

Otter stretched out one leg, adjusting herself against the wall. Blanket more loosely wrapped ‘round her l i t h e form. She considered Evan’s words for a brief moment, and then hastily scooted her way over to the woman: quickly noticing the change in temperature. Though, it wasn’t much better than being directly beside the hearth—flames growing weaker and weaker with each passing moment.

❝ Have you ever had tea made of pine? ❞ she asked, dainty fingers gently taking the bundle of needles. Preserved in the winter’s air, smelling of wilderness and sap. ❝ It’s quite high in vitamin C—has more content than a whole orange. And it tastes exactly as you’d expect it to—I can make you some as well, if you’d like. ❞

Another gust of wind, and she felt cold seep in through the glass of the windows.

❝ Maybe ... ❞ a pause. Hesitant and anxious. ❝ We should grab some more firewood from behind the cabin. Of course, you might have to tether me down with a rock or two—of course, so I don’t become a KITE. ❞

Joking, in the midst of disaster.

[ottvr-blog]

Odin, Athena, Venus, Anubis

Odin — What is your family like?

Very, very small. Her mother passed away when she was young, so it was her father who raised her. She has no siblings (that she knows of), and she never knew her grandparents or anyone from her extended family.

She did have a dog though: an Irish Wolfhound named Frankie.

Athena — Would you consider yourself an artist?

She actually is an artist—a tattoo artist and traditional painter, in particular. 

Lucia is entirely self taught in the arts, though some skill was inherited from her mother. She mostly did small doodles and motifs in terms of inking people. When she wasn’t drafting tattoo designs, however, she worked on massive (I’m talking like 6′x8′), modernish baroque styled oil paintings with a hint of macabre—and she was able to sell them for A LOT of cash. Luckily, she was very much so able to do works of this great size, considering her apartment complex was situated within an old warehouse. Brick walls and vaulted ceilings. All of the canvas she worked on, she stretched and tempered herself. She hates painting on anything else.

Canvas elitist.

She’s also always had a knack for creating hyper realistic imagery of humans, though she thoroughly enjoys stylizing them a bit (longer necks, arms, and legs, non-proportional bodies, etc).

Venus — Have you ever had your heart broken?

Yes, and she did NOT deal with it too well.

Anubis — How do you feel about death?

Answered here!