#echo acres

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, ADELAIDE BISHOP

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Genderfluid, She/They

DATE OF BIRTH: October 17th, 1992

OCCUPATION: Private Investigator

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Emma Mackey

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Werewolf

WOLF CLASSIFICATION: Omega (Bitten)

PACK AFFILIATION: Non-member

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warning: Underaged drinking, Drug use, Family Death, Menstruation

Adelaide was a cliche and she hated it. Her entire fucking family was a cliche, in fact-- rich, Wall Street parents who cared more about making money than they did their own children; a youngest child who was spoiled and given whatever she wanted; the middle child who was more or less forgotten about, left to their own devices. And then there was Adelaide-- the eldest child, scrutinized, given too high expectations, and too many responsibilities. 

Once her younger siblings were born, it was her job to take care of them, despite the nannies and maids that were in and out of the house. It wasn’t like her parents were going to teach their children about the world, and the nannies sure weren’t paid to do that, either. Adelaide learned by experience-- she got into trouble at school, skipped classes, hung out with bad crowds. Drank at parties, took too many drugs, wasted her potential. She was the typical rebellious teenager, black leather jacket and all-- and people hated her for it. They didn’t understand why some rich girl from Darien was complaining about her life.

It didn’t matter to her, whether they understood or not. She didn’t need someone to understand, she needed someone to care. But no one ever did. She’d been a child, too, you know. She’d had to raise her siblings, which wasn’t an easy task when they were spoiled brats. She was the one who drove them to school and picked them back up; the one scraped them off the pavement if they went to a party and drank too much; the one who tried to comfort them when their hearts got broken; the one taught them about puberty and that bleeding once a month was normal for girls, Ronnie, stop crying, you’re not going to die. Could anyone really blame her for being resentful? To both her parents and her siblings? They didn’t understand how good they had it and Addie didn’t understand why all of this was put on her shoulders. She was a kid, too. All she’d wanted was to be a kid.

But Addie would never get to be a kid. In fact, she was still a kid when her parents kicked her out of the house. She’d embarrassed the family one too many times. This time, she’d shown up high on molly to a fancy dinner party with prospective clients and her father was not happy. Well, that was just fine with her. She didn’t want to live with those assholes anyway. Let them raise their own spoiled rotten kids. It was for the better she wasn’t with them anymore.

And it…sort of was. Addie moved out west and got a job as an electrician after attending a trade school for a year and getting her GED. Dropping out of high school didn’t exactly leave her with a lot of career choices, but she was good with her hands and surprisingly observant. Her employer had once told her she was a lot smarter than she looked, which she had no idea what he meant by that. Still, Addie had always been smart, she knew this, it was why all her teachers said she was “wasting her potential” as if they understood her situation at all. 

It was computers that really called to her, though. One of her friends back in Darien had taught her about programming, with the end goal of making her a hacker like him. Though she never ended up becoming a hacker, she’d picked up coding easily and breezed past his skill fast enough to make him mad at her and kick her out of his life. That was fine with her, she didn’t need anyone. The problem was that there was little room in a career like that for a homeless, highschool dropout. And so, she’d become an electrician instead. Not even close to what she wanted to do, but who cared? She could do that in her spare time.

And so Addie officially moved on from her old life and her old family. She did alright for herself-- maybe fixing old people’s outlet wiring because their house had been built in the 40’s and isn’t up to code wasn’t the most fulfilling thing ever, but hey, it paid the bills and kept her life cushy. Not buying the whole bar drinks or online binge shopping cushy, but cushy enough. 

Until one day, she got a call-- Ronnie was dead.

It was strange, Addie was both surprised and not at the same time-- Ronnie had always been reckless, carefree. She’d done whatever she wanted and gotten whatever she wanted, all her life. Of course she would have never learned any better. And it made sense that she’d someday get herself into trouble that was more than a few hundred dollar bills could solve. But that was her little sister, her baby sister. The one she’d practically raised, the one she’d had to leave behind. Ronnie was only in middle school when Addie left. She had to wonder if her sister even remembered her that well. 

She returned home, anyway. Nothing like losing one child to make someone realize that maybe they shouldn’t have been so cruel to their other child. They asked her to move back in with them, help them in this “trying time” as they called it, but Addie had a life back in Minnesota. Still, she agreed to stay for a few months while the family went through the funeral process. It was only when they were picking out a casket was Addie made aware that there wasn’t a body. They’d declared her little sister dead and there wasn’t even a body. That just didn’t seem right, there was something wrong here. None of it made sense to her. They hadn’t even looked? Hadn’t even tried? Just seen the blood and said “Yep, she’s dead”? 

Addie didn’t believe it. She’d alway had a hard time trusting authority, though. It was surprisingly easy to get her hands on the police files, since most of it was public now anyway. She poured over the files, read everything they’d collected, looked at all the evidence photos and decided that she was still right-- if there was no body, then they had no right to claim Ronnie was dead.

Of course, the police didn’t listen to her. And her parents weren’t supportive, either. They threatened to kick her out again until she so kindly reminded them that they’d asked her to stay. And it felt a little strange, Addie thought, how quickly her parents seemed to move on. It was less than a month before they were both back to work and a normal schedule as if nothing had happened, as if one of their children wasn’t missing and presumed dead. But Addie didn’t, couldn’t. When she couldn’t turn up any leads herself, she hired a private investigator. The guy was so impressed with her portfolio of the case and her intuition, he suggested she should look into getting a P.I. license herself. No diploma or degree needed. 

So that’s what she did. For over a year, she studied under the man and together they tracked down lead after lead, until Addie was standing outside of a hole-in-the-wall club in Brushwick. It wasn’t hard to see that this place was different from most other clubs. The vibes were totally off. She probably should’ve waited for back up, but Addie was impatient and she’d been looking for this lead for a year. Concrete proof of Ronnie existing after her death date. She only had to show the picture she had of Ronnie once before a drunk, scrawny guy elbowed his friend and said, “Isn’t that Cain’s bitch?” And maybe Addie flew off the handle a little too quickly, demanding to know where her sister was, who this Cain was, what had happened, why there’d been so much blood. A fight broke out quickly in the already tense bar. Someone was yelling to lock the door, to get the tranq gun. Addie kicked a man hard enough in the jaw that she swore he had fangs and fur for a moment. He even bit her, snarling, before she managed to rush out of the bar, clutching her now bleeding arm. The bartender appeared at the doorway and Addie wondered if he was going to kill her or call the police, but all he said was, “Go to Lunar Cove. Whatever it is you’re looking for is probably there.”

Addie stumbled back to her hotel room and collapsed onto the bed. She was sure someone was going to follow her here and kill her. Honestly, she didn’t think she’d mind. Still, she was confused and exhausted, and so she closed her eyes and wondered if she’d see tomorrow, almost sure she wouldn’t. And then she’d woken up the next morning, head throbbing, arm burning from an untreated bite wound, but alive. 

Whatever was happening to her, and whatever had happened to her sister, wasn’t normal. And so Addie decided she would go to Lunar Cove,whatever that was, because she was more than sure whatever was there wasn’t normal, either.

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, RIO TAVÁREZ

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Woman, She/Her 

DATE OF BIRTH: December 20th, 1995 

OCCUPATION: Curator at Art in Motion and Forger 

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Priscilla Quintana 

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Vampire 

CLAN POSITION: Member 

AGE AT TRANSFORMATION: 27 

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warnings: Physical and Emotional Abuse, Death, Parental Neglect

The Tavarez dynasty stood like a monolith, a looming shadow over Rio all her life. Spanning generations, her family had accumulated wealth and prestige in the human world, dominating any industry they entered. Their hands touched everything - resources in coal and oil, financial markets, business acquisition, technology development. An empire. What the world they dominated did not know was the magic that fueled their industry. Magic had been in the Tavarez family longer than the wealth had, and it fueled them. Generation after generation, magic was used to bolster their advancement. The family cared little for physical talents, there was always use for someone who could manipulate an element, but the mental magics were favoured, and exploited. White collar crime fueled their empire, fraud, bribery, insider trading, Ponzi schemes. Whatever would get their family ahead.

Their father, Luis, became patriarch of the family at a young age, far earlier than he should have after the untimely death of his father, but he was thriving, he continued to build the wealth and prestige that his family was built upon, but it was not enough, never enough. Luis wanted more, always, the world itself would not have been enough. So he forced the world to bend to him. Their family had always used their magic to be less than fair in their business dealings with human companies, but Luis increased this, causing their empire to thrive. 

This was the world Rio and Santiago were born into, the highest of luxuries, a world that you could not buy your way into, only born. From the outside it was picture perfect, they were the beautiful children of seemingly doting parents that loved them above all. However, it was a gilded cage. They attended the best schools, lived in luxury homes, had everything a child could dream of - but in return they had to be perfect. Not perfect in the ordinary sense, they had to be above reproach in their father’s eyes, look the part, smile just right, be silent unless spoken to, and if they were allowed to speak, they had to say the perfect thing. If they were not the right kind of perfect they would risk their father’s wrath. They never knew what form it would take. They were not children to him, they were merely extensions of himself and the image he wanted to portray to the world. 

Their mother was no better. She had no love for her children, they were merely her duty. The tradeoff for Luis funding her lifestyle was giving him children and cementing the Tavarez legacy for another generation. They would see her sparingly, whenever a photograph needed to be taken, or Luis had a business meeting with someone particularly family focused. They were a family in pictures only.

As soon as Rio and Santiago were each old enough, they were forced to participate, abusing their magic for their fathers benefit. Santiago, the elder and the heir, was first, pulled into Luis’s web, followed shortly by Rio. Santiago tried to protect his sister as much as he could, shield her from the shadier of their father’s activities, but it was no use, she had a natural talent that their father noticed. As they grew, Santiago grew more and more anxious about the effect their father was having on Rio, terrified that she would end up like him. He knew that he would always be the heir, the one to inherit it all, but could also see the hunger in their fathers eyes when he looked at Rio. 

So he did what he had to, he squirreled away funds, employing all the tricks their father forced on him, to try and give Rio a ticket out of the cage. 

She learnt about his plans the day he handed her a plane ticket and a bag of clothes. She was shuffled away in the middle of the night. Santiago prayed he could keep their father occupied, away from their father, away from whatever plans their father had for Rio. 

She ended up in New York with nothing but the cash in her wallet and the clothes in her bag. So she did what she was raised to do, trained to do, she bent the world to her will. Like father, like daughter. She started by using her magic for a price, raising spirits or tracking people - using everything at her disposal to make something for herself. It was not long before she started fencing supernatural wares, then fencing forgeries of paintings. Then came the cheques and bank bonds, forged with a deft hand. Forgery was where she found herself, anything you needed, she could make and fake. It had been a party trick her father enjoyed, the fake masterpieces she painted, and a trick he had exploited with her uncanny ability to forge signatures. Now, it was her life, and she used it to carve herself a little bit of a life. 

For a time life was somewhat good, she was building herself something of a family with the Selvi sisters, she had someone she might be able to love, it was starting to work. 

Then the man fell through her wall like it was water, clutching at his side as blood poured from a wound. He was oddly familiar, she had seen him in passing growing up, someone that had always been around, but never directly in contact with her and Santiago despite their similar ages. Now that she could get a good look at him the resemblance was uncanny. The slope of his brow, the sharp jawline. He looked like Santiago, he looked like her. He didn’t need to tell her that he was her brother, or her half brother, she could see it the moment she saw him. He looked uncannily like her brother, it was almost eerie, but his eyes matched hers perfectly. 

She tried desperately to stop the bleeding, all while she questioned her brother, Javier. Trying to figure out what had happened to him, why he was bleeding out in her living room. He told her about their father, about the work he had to do for him, and about Santiago. He said that their brother was gone, that their father’s work had taken its toll on him.

She believed him, of course she did, here he was, her brother, dying in her arms. 

And then he too was gone, limp and lifeless. 

Grief overtook her like a tidal wave, the loss of both brothers, the one she loved and the one she never had the chance to. The wave swept her up, crashing over her. She didn’t turn her mind towards all of the other people she loved that could be swept up in her magic, the other people that could die, she could only see Javier. It was not a conscious choice, it was the only choice, her magic flooded from her and she raised Javier from the dead and the green eyes of her half brother opened, green eyes that matched hers. 

Javier left that night, claiming he was trying to protect her, that he would need to return to Mexico, back to their father. He said everything right, said all the things Santiago would say in that situation. He didn’t want to draw his attention to her, he didn’t want her to know where she was, and now that she had done dark magic, he didn’t want him to have that leverage over her. She genuinely believed it, every word he said. 

Despite what Javier had said, she traveled back to Mexico City, to the place she had sworn she would never return, to bid her farewells to Santiago, devastated that she hadn’t been able to when he had died. To her horror she discovered that Santiago had been alive when Javier appeared in her apartment and that he was now dead, having died the same night she had brought Javier back. She went to Javier, hoping to get him away from their father as Santiago had done for her, only for the other shoe to drop. 

Javier had been raised on stories of his sister, the ruthless image their father had of her. Javier had pictured her just like he was, a weapon of their fathers ambition, a kindred spirit. Javier wanted her back in the fold, he wanted the weapon of their fathers stories. He claimed he wanted a sister, he wanted the two of them to be their own little family, just as her and Santiago had been. 

Their father was none the wiser, he knew that Javier was in New York, he had always known where Rio was and had mentioned this to Javier, but he didn't know that Javier had intended to go to her. Javier explained to her that his original plan was to approach her, figuring he could talk her into coming back with him, but then he saw her. He had seen her with the Selvi sisters, and the small life she had managed to build for herself. He knew it wouldn’t be enough, so he decided to force her hand. 

He had orchestrated it all, figuring that if she did dark magic she would be easy to blackmail. He could force her to come home with him, and he hoped that one day she would want to stay on her own. Getting rid of Santiago was a happy coincidence, a burden that Javier wouldn’t have to deal with thanks to Rio. When Luis had found out about Santiago’s death he had apparently just shrugged, not particularly caring as he still had Jaiver and Rio, or so Javier claimed. 

Ever her father’s daughter, ever the blade he had welded her into, she made a decision that night. 

It was not a difficult decision to turn into a vampire, she loved her magic, but she hated Javier and their father more. The rage was blinding, more blinding than her grief had been. She would die, and Javier tethered to her, would die with her, never to return. Their father’s disinterest in Santiago’s death would be punished. 

Afterall, she was the child of Luis Tavarez, the ends justified the means. 

With no one left in the world, bar a few friends in a secret town of supernatural’s, it seemed as though there was nowhere else she could go but Lunar Cove, the one place her father would never set foot in. 

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, DEVRIM SELVI

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Man, He/Him

DATE OF BIRTH: May 5th, 1992

OCCUPATION: Dentist at Bright Bite

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Furkan Andıç

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Human

COALITION POSITION: Member

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warnings: Arrest, Missing Person, Adoption, Rockslide, Death, TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) 

In 1992, on May 5th, in Ankara, Turkey, Bulut and Hadiye Selvi welcomed their first and only child. Although they would try for more in the years after, Devrim Selvi wouldn’t have any siblings. Painfully shy as a young boy, the Selvis worried for their son. When Devrim was three years old his parents moved to New York City. Bulut’s brother Berk had a young daughter about Devrim’s age, and the Selvi family agreed it would be good to raise their children together.

In the states, Bulut continued to work as a dentist while Hadiye taught at a public school. Devrim remained shy, but it became less of an issue with his little cousin, Dilan, around. She did a lot of the talking on his behalf. While the children were different, they got along well because of it. Living different lifestyles, unaware of how the other Selvi’s afforded their luxurious means, Devrim and Dilan attended different schools in the city. Once in highschool, Devrim was selected to attend Bronx Science; a stem school for mathematics and science.  It was there he thrived, truly coming out of his shell for the first time. When his aunt and uncle were arrested and Dilan disappeared, Devrim’s social progress took a hit. His parents searched for her for years, hoping to adopt and care for their teenage niece, but without success. 

While living in a major metropolitan area, Devrim’s parents liked to take their family vacations in nature. It’s what fostered Devrim’s love for science and nature at a young age. The Selvi family spent a few weeks every summer camping in the mountains or on a lake, even after Devrim graduated from high school. At nineteen years old, on the family’s annual camping expedition, Devrim and his father were caught in a rockslide. Bulut did not survive, and Devrim was lucky to be alive.

Following the accident, Devrim was diagnosed with a TBI and had to overcome many physical and mental challenges on his healing journey. He was forced to drop out of school to focus on his recovery. Devrim underwent extensive physical therapy after his accident. During which time he realized he wanted to work in the medical field. After he was on the mend, his mother left the United States to return to their home of Ankara, Turkey to live with her sisters. 

In spite of his struggles, Devrim eventually continued to pursue an education and earned his bachelors in biology before attending dental school. An endeavor he decided upon to honor his late father’s memory. After dental school, he began a residency in oral surgery out in California. His mother was proud. She told him his father would have been, too. All Devrim could do was believe her, because his father was gone and couldn't tell his son he was himself. There would be no Selvi and Son dental office, and he’d always carry the responsibility for that. 

During the second year of his residency the private investigator he’d personally hired to search for Dilan after his parents stopped found her. Ironically, she was living not far from where they grew up in some part of Rhode Island he’d never heard of. A single letter, addressed to one Dilan Selvi of Lunar Cove, Rhode Island, would change Devrim’s life forever.

Rarely a conversationalist, when Devrim reunited with Dilan he had a million questions. Her answers only sparked even more. It was a struggle for his rational mind to understand that the supernatural existed. Vampires, Werewolves, Witches, and Fae. His cousin was a subtype of the latter. A pixie, a changeling, swapped with the human Dilan Selvi at birth. It never, not once, changed how Devrim saw Dilan. They were family, whether by blood or not. A certainty that made it easier, with time, to accept that everything he knew about the natural world had changed.

After completing his residency, Devrim decided to move to Lunar Cove, Rhode Island. While he had no memory of the magical, fantastical, supernatural he’d experienced within the town’s borders, Devrim knew all he needed to know about his new home. Dilan Selvi lived there. His cousin who spoke for him when he’d yet to find his voice, who he had searched for for years, finally found. She was his family, and there was nothing more important to Devrim than that.

Devrim was offered a job at a dentist office in town, as well as PRN work at the local hospital. In time, he adapted to the unique needs of his supernatural patients. Acclimated but still amazed by the magic of Lunar Cove's townspeople. Devrim’s fascination led him to begin his own research about the biology of the supernatural. His work consumes most of his time. What he doesn’t spend working or with family, Devrim spends in his cabin, deep within Echo Acres.  A hike from town, but he prefers the solitude. Despite his accident, the avid outdoorsmen never lost his love for nature and finds the woods particularly peaceful. The morning of each full moon he puts out blankets and coffee for the wolves that call it home, too. 

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, WILHELMINA FITZ

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Woman, She/Her

DATE OF BIRTH: February 14th, 1999

OCCUPATION: Late Night DJ at Siren’s Sounds

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Anya Taylor Joy

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Fae

SUBCATEGORY: Siren

REGENERATED: No

FAE COURT POSITION: High Fae

AGE THEY APPEAR: 25

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warnings: Bad parenting, parental abuse, violence

Wilhelmina "Billie" Fitz doesn't remember her mother's face. She couldn't pick her out of a lineup if she tried. Alys, who Billie's father, Eric, had called "a free spirit" with no small amount of chagrin in his tone, was in and out of Billie's life for the first few years before she just disappeared like vapor. It was okay, though, because Billie's dad stayed, and her dad loved her, and her dad wanted her to be just like him: a hunter of supernatural beings. Her childhood was filled with extensive travel and training, the two of them moving across Europe to take jobs and occasionally meet with other hunters. None of it was easy, and there are marks from that lifestyle all over her body, even still, but they are a testament to her growth, her training, her dedication to the cause of those like them. 

Except that Billie wasn't really like them. She started having strange dreams from a young age, dreams full of water and song. She was uncomfortable with her father's job, though such feelings were ridiculous and quickly trained out of her. What they were doing was right. they were helping humanity. The only problem was that Billie wasn't human. With the change of puberty came other, more horrifying and unexpected changes. The wings were bad, but at least they were controllable. The tail, however, was an issue, along with the other abilities that made her eyes glow and the weather change to be as stormy as her moods.

She was thirteen when her dad found out. There was no escaping the cup of water that she spilled on herself, nowhere to run when her body changed. She wondered, in that moment, if he thought about killing her. He certainly hesitated, a stormy look of his own crossing his features. The first thing he did was blame her mother for this, stating that there had always been something about her, something wrong. She must have been the reason Billie was like this. She must have been the monster. Billie wasn't sure, but she wasn't going to argue, not when she felt more vulnerable in that moment than she ever had. Her dad was in control. He was always in control, and he made a decision to let her live.

Billie was a monster, her father told her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Some fluke in her genetics made her into the very thing she hated, but that didn't mean that she had to behave like a monster. She could strive to be human. She could strive to be good. Her very nature might make her inherently wrong, but it could be used to their advantage. Her dad told her, then, that she would now be able to lure other supernaturals into a sense of comfort before their death. After all, many didn't expect to be hunted by their own kind. 

Fae were the easiest, lured into a false sense of security by the presence of another. They were also the hardest for Billie, but her father encouraged, both positively and negatively, her to get over her biological weaknesses and perform her duties. She became familiar with iron, with its burns with the weight of it in her hands. She used her blood to tempt vampires into alleys and empty areas. She learned how to wield silver, vervain, lobelia, wolfsbane. Billie grew into a deadly hunter, a true monster, and she hated it. It was supposed to be right. She hated that it didn't feel right.

It became harder as she got older. She had her slip ups, her moments of hesitation, her experiences with weakness. Billie's own body made her uncomfortable, her very being driving a wedge between what she had been taught was right and what she could sometimes see before her. She wanted to believe her father, and she was grateful to be alive, grateful that he saw worth in what she was even if they both hated it, but sometimes what they were doing didn't seem justified by the concept of the "greater good." Billie was never argumentative. She didn't fight back, but even she chafed under the weight of some of their hunts, and her father took notice. One night, in a moment of stress, she called down weather, called thunder and lightning, nearly striking him on accident. It was the only time she'd turned her magic against him, and it wouldn't be tolerated.

To call it a fight would be to give Billie more credit than she was due. She didn't even try to fight back, not when her father called her a monster, not when he pulled out an iron knife, not even when he stabbed her. She should have fought back; perhaps he would have respected that more. Instead, he called her weak, out of control, in need of proper discipline. He'd been too lenient all these years, he said. He should have done more. Maybe she was no different than all the others of her kind. 

Her kind, which wasn't human, which would never be human. Her father didn't offer her comfort or first aid; he just left her to handle it herself, expecting that she'd come back to him eventually, as she always did. But... she didn't. Instead, Billie left the hotel they'd been staying at in Brighton and walked into the sea without looking back. She spent a few weeks beneath the waves, trying to figure out what to do with her life. She could go back; it wouldn't been enjoyable, not at first, but very little in Billie's life had been enjoyable. At least she would still have a place, however poorly she fit within it. It didn't feel right to go back, though.

Billie didn't think she could go back. So she left her life behind and kept going, eventually making it across the pond without any identification or direction. As time passed, she started to believe that her father would likely kill her if she ever went back. All the same, she still loved him, still wanted him to love her, as futile as such a desire began to feel. She'd hope he might still love her all the same, but hope is a funny thing, a trifling thing.

The ocean wasn't a place that Billie wanted to spend an extended amount of time, as uncomfortable as she was with it. She drifted for a time, staying along the coasts of New England before eventually stumbling into the town of Lunar Cove in 2021, a few weeks after running from her father. The air felt different there, and, while Billie balked at the thought of being near so many other supernaturals, it was a good enough place to blend in.

She spent a year working the graveyard shift at Siren Sounds Radio, tending to fill the dead-of-night hours with classical music and showtunes. She found a little cottage to rent on the outskirts of town in Echo Acres, near the river, and minded her own business by staying as far away from supernatural politics as she could. It was a struggle, trying to unlearn everything that she'd been raised with, and she struggled with it, even if she tried to hide that. She just wanted peace. Of course, that didn't stop her from getting falsely accused of a crime and punished by the Council and Coalition. Billie eventually stopped putting off what she'd been dreading, joining the Fae Court and attempting to contribute to the town. She wanted to be better. She wanted to be good. Of course, her past is still out there, waiting to be uncovered and come back to haunt her. Or hunt her.

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, ASTRID HOLLOWAY

GENDER/PRONOUNS: CIS Female, She/Her

DATE OF BIRTH: March 3rd, 1980

OCCUPATION: Farmer

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Katheryn Winnick

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Werewolf

WOLF CLASSIFICATION: Beta (Bitten)

PACK AFFILIATION: Non-member

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warnings: Parental Death

Astrid was born in Lunar Cove, and grew up on her family farm. From a young age she was put to work, doing chores before and after school. The farm had been in the family for generations, and as the only Holloway child, she was expected to one day take over. However, when Astrid hit her teenage years, she rebelled, spending as much time away from the farm as possible, insisting that she didn't want anything to do with the farm, imploring her parents just to sell it.

She knew about the uniqueness of the town she grew up in, but it never really interested her other than doing stupid things with other human kids, like cutting their hands in the woods at night to see if a vampire would turn up.

At eighteen, she decided that she couldn't put up with the expectations from her parents any longer, packing her bag and leaving two days after graduation. Astrid knew that she'd forget key details about Lunar Cove as soon as she hit the boundary, but she didn't really care, wanting to explore more than the town where she'd grown up.

She'd gotten as far as Louisiana before the most ironic thing happened. After living safely among the supernatural in Lunar Cove for eighteen years, Astrid found herself bitten by a werewolf. Because the rest of the world didn't live by the same treaty. With the bite, her memories of Lunar Cove returned, but she still wasn't willing to go back. She survived on her own for several years, affiliating with a few other werewolves here and there, but mostly taking care of herself.

Astrid was mostly a drifter, however that all changed when she got a call to say that her parents had both been killed in a car accident. While she'd never wanted to inherit the family farm, she'd still kept in contact with her parents over the years, always calling on birthdays and holidays. She was devastated to hear of their passing, returning to town at age twenty-nine. She soon learned that her parents had indeed left her the farm, though in their will they had given her permission to sell it if she wished. However, Astrid found that she just couldn't do it, the homestead holding too many memories of her parents.

So Astrid found herself suddenly in charge of the nearly one hundred hectare farm. She remembered a lot from when she was a child, but the current farmhand helped her figure out a lot of what needed to be done, the schedule that the farm ran on.

And so the farm became Astrid's life, the life she'd always said she never wanted. Yet she thrived, in her own way. Being a werewolf had its benefits, Astrid doing a few laps of the farm to keep any livestock predators at bay. She mostly retreats when the farm opens to visitors, like the Halloween pumpkin patch and hay rides, but still honors those traditions. 

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, LARA SANTIAGO ACOSTA

GENDER/PRONOUNS: CIS Woman, She/Her

DATE OF BIRTH: June 13th, 1845

OCCUPATION: Ranchhand at Holloway Farm, Riding Instructor at W.H. Equestrian Center

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Adria Arjona

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Werewolf

WOLF CLASSIFICATION: Beta (Bitten)

PACK AFFILIATION: Non-member

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warning: Period typical sexism, horseback riding death, animal (werewolf) attack

Once, the west was wild. If you remember nothing else, then you best remember that. Lara Eugenia Santiago Acosta was born in 1865 to two human parents in Guatemala City, Guatemala. She had no way of knowing it, but hers would be the last life of a fae who had been around for centuries. But, to Lara, that didn’t matter. That was nothing but dreams, fairytale. The truth was bigger than that. The truth was wild. Lara’s family left Guatemala, eventually settling in the northern lands of Mexico, near the border. Lara’s father became a vaquero, a cowboy, coming home from long trips with tales of life on the range. He made it seem romantic, like a dream. From a young age, Lara decided she wanted that life. 

It was a hard life for a man. It was an even harder one for a woman. Lara had to fight for her respect. Lord, did she fight for it. She woke up every morning, fighting her mamá, fighting the men who didn’t think her good enough, fighting the damn horses who seemed to find her unsettling. But she didn’t back down from a fight. Lara Santiago Acosta earned the respect of her peers through blood, sweat, and tears. On the backs of bucking bronco, she’d grin wide, teeth coated in blood from falling off and getting back up again, and again, and again. She earned that respect. She always knew that she would; she’d seen it in her dreams.

But just as quickly as she’d earned that respect, she lost it. Some things were bound to happen. She’d had a dream about it; a trail growing too thin, a horse slipping off the edge, taking the rider with it. She’d warned them all that they should find another route, but, even with her well-earned respect, there were so few who wished to listen to a little woman. The boy was just that: a boy, careless and young, not much younger than her at the time. The hill was steep, the rocks were loose, and his horse lost his footing, sending them both down the side. He didn’t scream, but Lara did, loud and wailing, a shock to the system. It was not right. It was not human. All the horses except Lara’s own bolted out of fear, their riders not much better. As the only one left around, she found the boy as he breathed his last breath, and it felt like she breathed her first. She was changed, different. She got him onto her horse alone. 

The ride back to the campsite with the rest of the men was long, quiet. It was dark, and they created her with torches, weapons at the ready. Lara was told she was maldita, cursed. A curse upon their entire group. Some even called her La Siguanaba, saying her face turned into that of a horse and that she killed the boy with fear. She was a monster, a devil.  She was to leave the boy’s body and never return. Her father would not look at her. She was lucky; at least she was not being killed for being something unnatural. Instead, at sixteen, Lara was sent out into the world on her own, nothing but the clothes on her back and a horse that would not leave her side. That was how it was for years. She kept making her way north, into the United States of America. Less united, at the time, as they were entering their own squabbles. 

Lara learned that it was death that called to her and death that she called for. In the midst of a war, where they were people, there was death, so Lara resigned herself to solitude. It was fine; she liked being alone, regardless. She traveled about, and she learned more about her condition in the process. Death. Visions of the future. The screams. All of them were a part of her life that she learned to control. It was not dissimilar to learning how to ride a horse. It just took practice, time. Even the wings grew to be something that Lara controlled with ease. Sometimes, in her hermitage, a stranger would stumble upon her. She dealt with them accordingly. Most were wanderers like her, in search of company. She provided them with that. Others, though, came with ill intent for a young woman in the wilderness. Lara’s scream meant death. She showed them that truth.

The war ended, but the west was still wild, and it was the west that Lara would make her home for over a hundred years. In her twenties, she really settled into herself, eventually running into another like her and learning what she was called. Fae. Banshee. A harbinger of death. She felt comfortable in the company of others but not true society, so Lara went back to what she was good at: the west needed vaqueros. They needed folk to ride their horses, tend their livestock. Lara was quick to prove herself to be as capable a hand as any man. And she did so for decades. She’d stay at a ranch for a few years before moving onto the next, travelling through the western United States. She had a fondness for Texas, but there was no denying the beauty of California, of Colorado, of Wyoming. As technology advanced and time marched on, the world changed, but Lara stayed mostly the same. Her years were spent in relative peace, working as a ranch hand wherever she was needed. And she was a damn fine one, too. She had more experience with horses than grown men that appeared decades her senior, and her premonitions allowed her to predict where and when to move the herds in accordance with the weather. Life was simple, but it was good. 

The west grew less wild. Men and women moved in, taming it, turning barren landscapes into bustling cities. Lara was a relic of the past, a wild thing that was still clinging on. Even if she still had work, it just didn’t feel the same. She didn’t feel the same. She was in between jobs when she decided to take an extended camping trip. It wasn’t the same as her years alone in the wilderness. Now, she had a truck, a camper, electricity to keep her and her horse comfortable. She could go into town and grab a beer with a stranger, a doctor just travelling through. She could chat with him about the past, reminisce on days she shouldn’t even be aware of. And he would listen. She would say, I miss feeling wild. The world’s gone tame. I think it’s taming me, too. And he would reply. I’m not tame. You don’t have to be tamed. She asked him to show her how, and he said, one day, he would. She laughed, thinking it sounded foolish. There wasn’t much she thought he could show her, but she humored him, and she asked his name. He said, Damien Blake.

He showed her what he meant on the next full moon. He arrived at her camp, a great white wolf with the most horrible red eyes. Familiar eyes, even with the change in hue. It had been some years since she’d encountered a werewolf. She attempted reason; she thought herself safe when he simply watched her. Werewolves had no taste for fae blood. She should have been okay. There was no way to prepare for him biting her. She’d kicked him in the jaw, but it was too late, and he fled off into the night, leaving her reeling. There was something wrong, inside of her, something that changed immediately with the bite. The next day, he found her, now a man once more, and he explained himself: she wanted to feel wild again. He wanted to know what happened when a fae was bitten. Together, they would learn. 

The first few months were the worst. She was no longer fae. Lara did not know what she was. She’d lost her connection to death, but she’d gained something new, something that bred resentment. No more premonitions. No more screams. Her body had begun to age again, and her wings were gone. She was wild, and that was not a good thing. The moon did not need to call for her for Lara to end up shifted, waking up covered in blood. She was luckiest when it was merely livestock. Her horse grew to fear her, sensing that she was more predator than person. Lara had to relearn what she loved. She grew to resent that, too. Joining Damien’s pack was not a desire but a necessity for control. Much like before, she had to fight for respect, and she had to relearn being a person, being Lara Santiago Acosta. But she did. Lara became Damien’s second in command because she had more lived experience than any other wolf in the pack. She listened to his desires, his hopes, his dreams. He was a lonely child reaching for things he couldn’t truly attain; growing up with nothing made him reach for everything and resent anything he couldn’t have. She stayed because there needed to be some sort of structure. 

In the end, it didn’t matter. There was no stopping Damien from going after what he wanted, and Lara grew tired of trying. She was with his pack for five years. She didn’t think she could handle five more. So she left. Lara, like most supernaturals in the know, had heard of Lunar Cove for years, but she’d never been particularly interested in going. But Damien would be headed that way, soon, and someone should warn them. She didn’t really know what he planned; he hadn’t trusted her properly in over a year, and she’d long been replaced as his second by someone who catered to his whims. Lara was simply tired of it. She was tired of most things. She just wanted to get back to her life, her work, and if she couldn’t return to what she had, then she supposed she’d settle for a shadow of it. She packed up her truck and her horse, and she moved on to greener pastures.

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, IGNACIO MENDOZA LAURENT

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Male, He/Him

DATE OF BIRTH: July 12th, 1997

OCCUPATION: Apiarist

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Hugo Diego Garcia

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Fae

SUBCATEGORY: Pixie

FAE COURT POSITION: Member

AGE THEY APPEAR: 27

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warnings: Insects, Bullying, Violence

Not hunched, but arched, curved, elegantly sculpted—like the stone columns of the surrounding cloister—he extended a well-poised hand from his robe, the fabric billowing around his thin wrist, and bent his frame forward to pull a slice of honeycomb from the crevice where the colony had carved it. It glistened in the sun, catching the light in hues of brilliant amber and gold. The bees hummed, pulsing at this unwelcome presence. But untrained as he was, he was not stung.

How perfect a shape, how divine, he thought, as divine as the strange force that guided this odd, perfect extraction that day—grace, onlookers would say, not luck. But it was, of course, luck, a grand conspiring of fortune, the universe itself directing him, given his nature, and leaving him unscathed.

A brief account of this incident remains preserved today, known by a handful of medieval scholars but otherwise lost to obscurity, in the written archives of a certain Spanish monk. A short passage details the arrival of a teenage novice from a noble family, a novice, who, after observing for only a few silent minutes, could tend to the monastery’s hives with unearned expertise. The bees would not sting him; he never disturbed those most easily rattled. And his presence, then, given the need for beeswax in the manufacturing of religious candles, proved welcome. But the novice would vanish from history beyond this record, perhaps folding into a life of uneventful humility.

Two centuries later, an Italian merchant would detail in his own logs an ongoing demand for a certain honey produced in Provence, the harvesting of which typically destroyed the colony. But this particular beekeeper’s good fortune, which, in some ways, seemed to extend to the insects themselves, allowed surprising numbers to survive and thus provide a steady stream of commerce. History had given this beekeeper no name.

There was a name, however, in written records from the activities of La Société Centrale d'Apiculture in the late nineteenth century. There was another name recorded decades later in the diaries of an American socialite, who, on her regular holidays to Europe, attended parties with a quaint, young mead maker, of all things—a novelty in and of himself—a man who looked so utterly pleased to have important people drinking his drink that the taster felt euphoric to even be doing so—overcome with an almost supernatural sensation of joy.

By the time Ignacio Mendoza Laurent was born in Paris to a pair of human parents in the summer of 1995, he had already led very many lives—lives preserved in scattered bits, lost, for his own sake, across history but bound by a common, amber-colored firmament.

Perhaps the mead maker had remembered, in some vague way, the beekeeper. Perhaps the beekeeper had remembered the monk. And perhaps Ignacio himself had remembered them all too, in his own distant way, a pang of familiarity, when, during a visit in his youth, he saw the hives at the Jardin du Luxembourg. Standing there among the flora, he studied a 19th-century etching of an apiary class on an informative panel, ran a finger along the back of his very own head.

He was a quiet, honest boy and his parents’ only child. Studious, reflective, and at times, lonely, the young Ignacio forged an early interest in art through his mother, who worked in the offices of the Opéra Bastille, which, of course, had fewer phantoms. But despite a relatively happy childhood, Ignacio found himself a somewhat easy target for bullies, not hitting a proper growth spurt until his early teenage years.

It was during this time that the boy took up, quite seriously, martial arts, particularly boxing, as a means of defending himself. New abilities in mimicry allowed him an early foundation on which he could build, and with genuine, diligent practice, he was able to make great strides.

But other changes were happening as well, changes for which the boy could not quite account. While he had played the violin since childhood, he suddenly found himself able to well-replicate others’ more masterful performances as if by magic, as though he were a late-blooming prodigy.

He tended to win games of chance, leading to a small scandal when he more or less swept a series of charity raffles one spring. On a particular Friday the 13, he brushed by a builder outside the apartment in which he lived and witnessed an entire block of scaffolding come tumbling to the ground. Certain metals suddenly gave him “dermatitis.” Incidents like this, though, were easy to ignore. Life, on the whole, was good.

But Ignacio did not know what he was or who he wanted to be. His trainer at the gym would have molded him into a professional fighter. His mother would have perhaps fashioned him a musician. But as a young man, looking ahead to university, Ignacio found himself on a date at the Jardin du Luxembourg, buying honey at the garden's orangery during the autumn exhibition.

That sense of striking familiarity returned to him, a flashback to a life he had once walked along these same shaded paths more than a century ago. It called to him. And making a decision to answer, he enrolled in training with La Société Centrale d'Apiculture.

Busking or pursuing small string ensemble gigs at weddings at the like, Ignacio worked while taking theoretical courses from January through March, learning anatomy, physiology, the basics of swarming, and the like. He moved on to practical study from March to September, right up to the harvest. Ignacio then took an additional year of training at the Parc Georges-Brassens apiary before attending university to earn a more complete four-year degree in agriculture, which he finished early with prior training.

From there, Ignacio found employment with an organization that operates 350 urban hives across Paris, including those at the Opéra Bastille, around which he had grown up. Life, then, this life, a reflection of all those lives that came before it, was steady. There was work. There was family. There was even occasional romance. But this peaceful existence crumbled in 2022.

With the resurgence of hunters across the globe, Ignacio found himself, quite literally, in crosshairs, having perhaps flown too close to the sun by working so foolishly in the same vocation every iteration of him had ever worked. Climbing up to a rooftop to tend to his hives early one morning, Ignacio found an envelope taped there. It contained a print of a black and white photograph dated 1864. And despite the age, despite the clothing, despite the facial hair, he could see that it was him. Quite impossibly, the photo was of him.

Two armed assailants emerged, and while Ignacio was able to put up a valiant fight on his own, owing this burst of strength largely to his youth as a brawler, he soon found himself cornered on the building’s edge. His nature, however, unknown at this point, saved him. Luck. The wings, for the very first time, burst from his back, translucent, shimmering, beelike, and he took to the skies, convinced, really, he had been stung by a radioactive insect and thus developed superpowers.

Invisibility came next, accidentally, perhaps springing from this new, fearfully desperate urge to remain hidden. And while he did not know what was happening, why he had been targeted, Ignacio Mendoza Laurent effectively went missing, vanishing from work and home for several weeks.

He was eventually contacted by another Faerie, also in hiding, an individual who recognized his photograph on the news, not from this life, but from a past one. They told Ignacio the truth of his nature, introduced him to secrets he may have never known. And they told him of a safe haven across the ocean.

Ignacio left for the United States only under the suggestion that his parents would be found and threatened. His contact was meant to meet him in Lunar Cove but has not yet appeared. He fears the worst but joined the Court in search of safety. 

Still, for the past two years, he himself has operated a small, successful apiary in Echo Acres. Even-tempered, cordial, and wise beyond his years, he is a frequent face at the Farmers Market, but also has working relationships with several businesses across town providing luxury bee products, including honey, short-run skin and hair cosmetics, and the occasional run of mead.

He rather singlehandedly restored Lunar Cove’s honeybee population following the scourge of Kyle Kane, and while he is forging a life in this place, Ignacio seems haunted still by all that he has abandoned beyond. Perhaps this existence is just the latest footnote in an ancient thread soon to be snipped.

[lunarcovehq]

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, ODELIA OXENDINE

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Transgender Woman, She/Her

DATE OF BIRTH: July 31, 2000

OCCUPATION: Exotic Dancer at Sinners and Online Student

RESIDENCY: Echo Acres

FACECLAIM: Nicole Maines

IF I DIE YOUNG

SPECIES: Witch

INHERENT ABILITIES: Astral Projection, Shield Construction, & Eidetic Memory

COVEN POSITION: Member

COVEN ABILITY: Telekinesis

LAY ME DOWN IN A BED OF ROSES

Trigger Warnings: Transphobia, Internalized Transphobia, Homophobia, Parental Death, Domestic/Child Abuse

Bexley had never wanted magic. All she’d ever wanted was a normal life, but life isn’t fair and Bex’s life was anything but normal. She didn’t just act wrong or feel wrong or do everything wrong– Bex was born wrong. Born in the wrong body, with the wrong parents, the wrong name and the wrong abilities. That’s what she was told all her life. She was wrong and she was bad. All she wanted was to be good. But that was such a hard thing to accomplish when Bexley had her entire life set in stone before she was even born, as the last heir to a fortune and a family that valued money and power over all else. In the end, Bexley was a square peg trying to be fit into a round hole– she would never be good enough for her parents and for the life they laid out for her, try as they might.

The first problem? Bexley was born with a male’s body, but Bexley surely wasn’t a boy. She was a girl and she’d said as much since she could first talk. She’d told her parents, begged them, asked them why she was different– and when they finally realized this wasn’t going to go away, they relented and pulled her from her current schooling and decided to start her life anew. They changed her birth name to Odelia Bexley Oxendine and paid handsomely to keep it hush. To hide her away and pretend their child was normal. No one could know what she really was, she had to hide away from everyone now. And each step out of line was just more punishment. More bruises and broken bones. They never left scars, not physical ones. And for a long time, Bex was compliant.

She was sent off to private boarding schools, and had nannies at home, and tutors during the summer. She went to summer schools to learn how to be a proper woman and a good wife, and she was given lessons about how to carry on the family legacy and what it meant to be an Oxendine, one of the biggest Banking families on the East coast. And what it meant for her life. Each step planned out and plotted like a graph or a novel. A list she had to abide by or lose everything. She was raised to act a certain way and be a certain way, and the one problem with it all? Bexley wanted to be different. In fact, she felt it deep inside of her that she was different-- she just didn’t know how.

She found out, though, just how different she was the day she turned sixteen. Hormone blockers had done their job really well, delaying her transition into puberty. But once she started hormone replacement therapy, the entire family got a shock. Bexley had magic. She felt it the moment she woke up and it flowed through her veins like electricity. Suddenly every memory of her life flashed before her eyes like a movie, playing out before her. Purple light flowed from her fingers and made shapes and walls in front of her, trapping her in her room. Her parents screamed and yelled until Bex couldn’t take it anymore and she began to scream and yell back. Whatever was happening to her, they’d lied to her her entire life. They’d told her if she was just good and she just listened then she would be loved. But they lied to her and that rage that she’d been hiding inside of herself for so long exploded. 

And so did her magic. 

It happened in an instant. She was screaming at her mother on the other side of a hazy, lilac wall. Her father was close behind. Bex put her hands to the wall and pushed– and in the next moment it had sailed through her mother, her father, hit the back wall and exploded. Glass shattered, lamps flew from their tables, pictures fell from the walls. Blood poured from her parents’ faces, eyes and ears and noses. Mouths. They collapsed to the ground and in the next moment, silence. It was clear even without checking-- she had killed them. And Bex didn’t know what to do. She packed a bag and she ran. She’d killed her parents and she was only fifteen years old and all she could do was run.

And for years, all she did was run. From city to city, place to place. She had no money, no belongings, no home. She drifted and she stole and she slept behind dumpsters. She used her magic to trick people out of their food, their money, their hotel room. It made her feel sick. Prone to panic attacks and anxiety, she had no skills as a worker. She couldn’t find a job or make any money or be anywhere stable. The only job that didn’t ask questions found her when she was alone, on the street corner, panhandling for money. She was so pretty, the man said, he knew a place she could work that wouldn’t ask anything of her except to stand up on stage and look pretty. And Bex was so tired and so hungry and so cold, so she said yes. 

And it turned out she was really good at it, even if she sometimes felt her eyes drifting to the women in the room and not the men. But no one noticed or no one cared, and so she kept doing it and she kept hiding her magic and her true self and she kept drifting from town to town, until one day she overheard someone mention a place called Lunar Cove. A place for people like her. A place for those with magic and no other place to go. A place to call home.

Maybe even a place to live a normal life.

But after two years, Bex found that Lunar Cove might not be the safe haven she’d hoped it to be. Still, she’d found a home there, and people who loved her and who she loved back. She had even joined the Coven and was working on controlling her magic. Now, all she could hope was that her past would never catch back up to her.