#mc: intro

[justcounsel]

⸻ A FRESH FACE, A CHANGE OF FATE. damon graham came to town this year and is officially lost in the woods, knee-deep in the nightmare, face-to-face with the hunger. learn more about him right here.

can you feel it, DAMON GRAHAM? it’s starting again. something’s coming up the creek bed — and soon, there’ll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you’re not the running type. yeah, you’re too SUPPORTIVE and HYPOCRITICAL for that, aren’t you? just about what i’d expect from a HUMAN. so you’ve been in magnolia creek about THREE MONTHS now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you’re 28 years old and A THERAPIST. don’t think that’ll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you’ve got your SILVER TONGUE. that’s more than i can say for most. i’ve seen this cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it’ll end DIFFERENTLY? well. we’ll see. i’d love to be proven wrong in all this.

A CLOSER LOOK.

full name: damon christopher graham  //  otherwise known as: dr. graham  //  skeleton name: the path  //  fc: corteon moore  //  age: 28  //  gender and sexuality: cis man (he/him); bisexual/biromantic  //  species: human // occupation: clinical psychologist, or therapist, at hawthorne psychology (alongside the unflappable dr. venkatesh)  //  hometown: scottsdale, arizona  //  family: dad, mom, and three older brothers (he’s closest with bear, no. 3)  //  religion: agnostic  //  current residence: a little house he’s renting in pinewood; don’t ask him about what percentage of the appliances are broken  //  so why’s he in the group: developed a technique that, though tricky, blocks possession by the hunger

height: 6'  //  build: lean, not particularly athletic  //  ethnicity: african-american (and multiracial)  //  hair: extremely curly, extremely short, black  //  eyes: brown  //  tattoos, scars, piercings: none!  //  anything else: incorporates lots of gestures into his speech; puts a hand in his pocket and crosses his fingers when he needs the luck

core traits: interpersonal intuition, integrity, (latent!) anger  //  positives: principled, calm, convincing  //  negatives: moody, discouraged easily, tempted to play things safe  //  first impression: warm and steady, like a good cup of coffee. a hint of wisdom; a distance, too, maybe. it’s not obvious that he needs this—you—badly… though he always will.  //  once you know damon: fatigued in a way that’s actually emotional—he doubts himself deeply. less silver-tongued and more present (that’s the real magic); less cool-guy and more casually intense, by virtue of how he sees things.  //  alignment: currently rethinking what was once proudly lawful good  //  mbti: esfj - the consul (caring and social)  //  enneagram: 6w5 - the defender (trustworthy and cautious)

A SHORT BIO.

Damon grew up in Scottsdale, Arizona—and, until just three months ago, was unaware of the teeming enmity sealed beneath Magnolia Creek, Washington. No Halloween of 1990; no harbingers of evil; no destiny, fair or foul.

Apart from a few bumps in the road, Damon’s childhood and adolescence were… decent to him. Damon’s deal is that he’s skilled with people—persuasive, intuitive, insightful. So he basked in the warmth of that, along with the belief that good always wins and evil always falters.

He attended college at Berkeley (psych major) and earned a PhD in Clinical Psychology at Washington State. Adulthood… was not his favorite thing in the world, but he stuck to his guns (his values) and worked hard for their sake. He could’ve pushed himself out of his comfort zone… but Damon loves the familiar, and so the same advice he gave to his patients he easily ignored.

His faculty advisor at Washington State, Dr. Cano, came from Magnolia Creek! That was how it ended up on Damon’s radar—and why he eventually decided to do what she described as “difficult, vital work” there.

Things were weird as a new therapist in Magnolia Creek, but not too weird for Damon—for a while. Then came the possessions…

A good chunk of Damon’s patients started behaving oddly. Really oddly…

Drastically different personalities. Speaking in tongues. Looking at someone in the room Damon couldn’t see…

A revealing conversation with another Magmart customer clued Damon in, even as he began to suspect the reality on his own. Something—and the same damn entity every single time—was inside those patients.

Damon was frightened—and officially out of his comfort zone, with or without his say-so.

But he had to try—for these people’s sake. He had to disrupt the possession…

After major trial and error, Damon developed a mental/verbal technique to eject the hunger that sometimes worked!

As he helped more and more people with it, he eventually helped the right person (or the wrong one, depending on how “healthy” his consequent involvement with the main cast might be).

From a slayer line, this man wanted Damon to teach the technique to the people who really needed it—the ones in the middle of the action.

Fresh off the events of the first group thread… your muses also needed a semi-expert in resisting possession…

Now Damon’s morals bind him to the cause… while his humanity, and the fact that this crowd doesn’t respond to him like everyone else, shake him to the very core.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

I currently have a random man introducing Damon to the main cast. Do you know this man?

Man details - from a slayer line, self-aware enough to recognize he needs therapy (this may exclude your muse’s relations)

SUPERNATURAL WHIZ — Your muse knows, whether through experience or private study, a lot about what’s in play right now. They’re either more than happy to clue Damon in… or think he should work for his place here.

SPARKS — Damon honest to God can’t tell if this tension is romantic, hateful, or something even wilder.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER — Your muse is a tender heart, too. A sweet, simple connection.

I REALLY HATE YOU BRO — This is not the “SPARKS” connection because Damon can be one hundred percent confident: this person hates him!

PARTNERS IN CRIME — Damon and your muse work together, whether that’s mulling over strategy, helping out the group, or taking care of personal problems.

TO LISTEN — Finally, your muse has someone they can talk to.

WHAT’S NORMAL NOW — Damon and your muse are trying to keep a firm hold of the good little things in life, even as the hunger demands otherwise. I envision this connection making good use of the LOCATIONS page!

SO FASCINATING — Damon thinks your muse is so unimaginably cool. He’s trying to learn more about their past, their world, their personality; they… well, that’s up to you.

ODDS AND ENDS.

THEMES TO BE EXPLORED ⸻ light versus shadow (the second is made from the first); great cost; how to become a winner; how does “love conquer all”; imperfection; the reason people enjoy the horror genre; ego death; and spring after winter.

AESTHETIC ⸻ new shoes, the game “Marco Polo”, foreshadowing, breakfast buffets, any kind of anniversary, climbing a rock wall, putting your foot on the gas pedal, unbroken promises, a reassuring smile, the ten of diamonds.

Pinterest board

Spotify playlist

LOOKING FOR MORE?

Read Damon’s complete app right here.

[enhaloes]

✧ THE BEACON. ZHOU YIRAN. CIS MALE. HE/HIM. ⸻ can you feel it, XINGYU “XANDER” FEI? it’s starting again. something’s coming up the creek bed — and soon, there’ll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you’re not the running type. yeah, you’re too STEADFAST and SELF-SACRIFICING for that, aren’t you? just about what i’d expect from a HUMAN. so you’ve been in magnolia creek about TWENTY YEARS now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you’re 26 years old and A PEDIATRIC NURSE. don’t think that’ll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you’ve got your BASEBALL BAT. that’s more than i can say for most. i’ve seen this cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it’ll end DIFFERENTLY? well. we’ll see. i’d love to be proven wrong in all this. ( HYUN. 24. SHE/HER. GMT+9. )

>> read more.

[heartfled]

you cannot disown what is yours. flung out, there is always the return, the reckoning, the revenge, perhaps the reconciliation. there is always the return. and the wound will take you there. it is a blood-trail ... full dossier.

[epitaphed]

✧ THE GRAVE. COURTNEY EATON. NON-BINARY. SHE/THEY. ─── can you feel it, LORETTA LOWE? it’s starting again. something’s coming up the creek bed — and soon, there’ll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you’re not the running type. yeah, you’re too LUMINARY and ABRASIVE for that, aren’t you? just about what i’d expect from a WITCH. so you’ve been in magnolia creek about YOUR WHOLE LIFE now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you’re TWENTY NINE years old and AN ANTIQUE STORE CLERK. don’t think that’ll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you’ve got your FIRE POKER. that’s more than i can say for most. i’ve seen this cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it’ll end THE SAME? well. we’ll see. i’d love to be proven wrong in all this.

⁰¹ˑ appearance. ⁰²ˑ musings. ⁰³ˑ threads. ⁰⁴ˑ pinterest.

full name. loretta jean lowe. nickname(s). lolo, rhett, all of which they don't mind. age. twenty9. birthdate. january 21st. gender. non-binary. pronouns. she/her/hers + they/them/theirs. orientation. bisexual, biromantic. species. witch. ethnicity. maōri, chinese, white. hometown. magnolia creek, wa. currently living. magnolia creek, wa, near the outskirts of town in the attic of one of one of their coven members. education level. high school graduate, hoping to go to mortuary school, but has yet to scrape up enough money to do so. religion. initially raised christian, now pagan. spoken language(s). english, very basic latin only for ritual purposes. occupation. full-time antique store clerk and stocker. traits. luminary, abrasive, withdrawn, crass, dedicated, loyal, justice-oriented.

faceclaim. courtney eaton. height. 5ft 11in. eye color. brown. hair color. black. handedness. ambidextrous, but primarily writes with left. piercing(s). multiple ear piercings that they never take out, left ear inspo, right ear inspo. tattoo(s). none yet.

parents. david lowe (unknown status, abandoned), leona lowe née li (unknown status, abandoned), a rolling roster of foster parents. sibling(s). none. significant other(s). none. other family members. violette 'lettie' devaux (cousin). other(s) of note. beatrice dewitte (former mentor, deceased), coven members (adoptive family).

abilities.

death perception: the smell of rot is undeniable. it’s a similar olfactory sensation to how decay smells once it has set in, long after the soul has left and the vacant vessel of someone who once was is now slowly returning to the earth. only, you can still smell it as they still walk this earth, as their heart still beats, and as their lungs fill with air. it’s your form of a ticking time bomb, handle with care. you shoulder this burden of knowledge, knowing that once death has made their mark, their timeline is inescapable, and there are no negotiations for when someone is planned to cross. it smells sweet to you, sickeningly so, curling the edges of your nostrils once a shallow breeze carries even the faintest whiff of such. over-ripened peach, molasses, spoiled milk, grass, and ichor — that’s what it smells like to you. you smell it everywhere these days; grocery stores, gas stations, movie theaters, parks — death follows, and soon will the rot.

osteomancy: a very new ability they’ve only started to learn. unlike their cousin, visions do not come naturally to them, nor does divination. it was with their abilities that loretta decided to seek out a fellow member of the coven who specializes in divination. tarot, mediumship, tea leaves — none of it seemed to work. it was only when bones were in play did it finally feel like a conversation, rather than a struggle to reap answers from something, or someone. at this point in time, it’s still weak, producing vague metaphors that they can’t guarantee to completely have a grasp on, but it is there, and it is being tended to.

─── read the application. / read the skeleton.

extended info.

since they could remember, loretta has been part of the foster system, passed through the same handful of eligible parents since she was twelve. prior to that, they were living within 'group homes for parentless youth,' or whatever the legal jargon was at the time. basically, the modern-day equivalent of an orphanage or boarding home.

their abilities manifested gradually, beginning at the age of fifteen. initially, it was physical, presenting itself as health issues such as constant migraines, upset stomach, and being more injury-prone. they felt attuned to more, sensitive to things they hadn't been prior, noticing signs and coincidences that felt much too routine to actually be coincidence. prayer actually seemed to come true, more so than it did before. but, it didn't take long for them to realize it was more so manifestation, their own power, than leaving their fate to god.

she did not begin practicing until found by the coven at age sixteen. she accidentally stumbled upon one of their rituals, taking place in the late hours of the night on the field of grass next to the town's main cemetery. they were out as escape, trying to find solace after an explosive fight between herself and their foster parents at the time, trying to find some respite. only, she found their forever home instead.

beatrice was the first to officially welcome her into the coven. she'd only hung out with them before, entering her home as nothing more than someone extending open doors to a kid in need, one who needed guidance and training with these newfound abilities on top of the pre-existing need for a stable home.

loss and death no longer became synonymous with beatrice's teaching. part of loretta knew this; all of those who have left have been alive. it was, admittedly, scary at first. being part of a small community, one wrought with the effects of death, the taboo nature of it was peddled to every magnolia creek resident.

only, until it didn't — beatrice's own death, reasons still unknown, kept from loretta by the direction of higher coven members. without answers, they were only bound together by death, grief manifesting into devotion in hopes that their favor within death's eyes would save beatrice's soul from damnation, so that the rot may be gentle upon her.

years of training, marred with blood, sweat, and tears, all of it culminated into a new loretta, something that made everything different down to each synapse — their posture, eyes that were now able to hold a gaze, and a newfound temper that felt relentless, a caged animal now on a rampage, righting the wrongs they have felt.

leading up to halloween, the usual scent of magnolia creek heightened — the rot became more pungent, inescapable to loretta. she didn't know it then, that no one else could smell it but them, not until the coven hurriedly called a meeting following the events of that fateful autumn night. something would be coming, or something is already here — they could only prepare. loretta only knows when it's much too late, when death had already provided its sentence.

headcanons.

it's been years since that halloween night, and loretta has grown into their powers, able to control the side effects provided to them by death perception while practicing osteomancy in order to potentially know before death has already done their bidding.

they are not nearly as volatile, but more so protective, leaning into their darkness under a more dignified, worn-in manner, especially now that they feel protective over their cousin, a newcomer to town.

she takes care of a black cat named lilith, originally a stray that they found in their backyard.

very bad staring problem that tends to get them in trouble, and always has. it's this big, unblinking stare that is only out of curiosity.

[desbvndar]

✧ THE BLADE. DANNY RAMIREZ. CIS MAN. HE/HIM. ⸻ can you feel it, CAMILO DELGADO? it’s starting again. something’s coming up the creek bed — and soon, there’ll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you’re not the running type. yeah, you’re too DISCIPLINED and AGGRIEVED for that, aren’t you? just about what i’d expect from a WEREWOLF. so you’ve been in magnolia creek about ONE MONTH now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you’re 31 years old and A CARETAKER AT GOD’S ACRE. don’t think that’ll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you’ve got your CROSS BOW. that’s more than i can say for most. i’ve seen this cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it’ll end THE SAME? well. we’ll see. i’d love to be proven wrong in all this.

the change takes something every time. memories. names. faces. the person you were eroding cycle by cycle until only the beast remains. what have you already lost, and what are you most afraid of losing next?

he lets the question linger in front of him, tangible enough that he could press his thumb into it until the pressure turns numbing. given enough time, it might turn into something easier to discard. it doesn’t.

“i already got shunned by my family,” he says, voice detached and even, like he’s describing something that happened to someone else first and only learned the shape of later. “gradually— like i stopped belonging before anyone thought to tell me. but i must’ve always known, buried deep beneath my denial. that’s probably the only part of me that’s still tethered to my soul, if i even have one.” he snorts lightly, gaze unfocused and drifting, like he can see a version of a life still lingering just out of frame.

“then i lost the purpose that came with my family. that was worse. it wasn’t taken, it just stopped fitting me. like a bow that doesn’t belong in its own hands anymore.” his jaw tightens slightly, believing the admission cost him something. they raised him to think of purpose as holy, a calling clean enough to build a whole life around.

“i want to believe control is something you can earn if you do everything right. if you follow every step, if you don’t slip.” he continues, choosing his words carefully. “i can’t lose the part of me that still knows how to hold a line. i have structure, repetition. i still know there’s supposed to be a shape underneath all of this. something that makes sense if i hold it long enough.”

his mouth twitches, almost not quite a smile, but it doesn’t soften anything. in a glimpse, he still looks like someone standing motionless in front of a door he used to be allowed to open. “if that goes,” he adds quietly, and goes very still at the thought, “then there’s nothing left to come back to.”

the beast is not separate from you. it is you, or part of you, or what you’re becoming. have you ever let it take over willingly? what did that feel like? and is there a part of you that wanted to stay there?

“once, i let it take over. but it wasn’t a choice, it was survival.” survival narrowed into brutal simplicity: what was in front of him, what could be chased, what could be dragged down and made to stop fighting. the beast had no use for shame, and that was part of the horror. it got its teeth into everything that had been festering in him since the night he was thrown out—the humiliation, the bitterness, the anger—and worried it down to a rawness sharp enough to hunt with. he had spent his life being shaped to kill what he had become, and now the wolf turned his own rage inside out and wore it like skin.

“there’s a difference between losing control and realizing control was never really yours to begin with.” his fingers flex once at his side, involuntary, like they remember more than he does. he hates that, hates that his body is beginning to keep secrets from him, storing them somewhere his mind can no longer reach. 

“i didn’t want to come back.” the admission settles heavily on his tongue. “nothing was waiting for me except the same life that had already cast me out. but when i stayed too long, it didn’t feel like relief anymore. it felt like forgetting.” forgetting is quieter than grief; it asks less of him. “and i already know what forgetting takes from you.” his eyes catch, fixed on his own reflection like he’s waiting for it to bare its teeth first. “i don’t trust anything that makes me quiet.”

what are you willing to sacrifice to end this? and what would you refuse, no matter the cost, no matter who asked?

“everything else seems negotiable these days.” that’s the fucked up truth, isn’t it? he’s already cut the list down to bone. “my life, my body, whatever’s left of my name.” sacrifice was always easier for him to understand than mercy; they taught him early how to put a body on the altar and call it duty. “if ending this means i don’t make it back, fine. i stopped expecting to.” he doesn’t mean the words to sound noble, and they don’t. 

his grip tightens around one of the bolts set against his crossbow until the fletching bends out of shape beneath his hand, and only then does he force his fingers to loosen. beyond the window, his gaze settles on the tree line where the forest slips into darkness. somewhere out there, packs run together. one heartbeat carried across a dozen bodies. one wound answered by another. camilo understands the appeal better than he’ll ever admit. but the very thought of giving himself over to a pack feels like a second mauling, the living erasure of whatever is still his.

“i was born into one thing that told me who i belonged to. i won’t die inside another.” the words land with the force of something long decided. sometimes he wonders if it would be easier to stop resisting it and let himself become one voice among many, to stop carrying the weight of every decision alone. for a second, the idea almost passes for relief, and he hates it immediately. “if someone asks me to join a pack because it’s the only way…” he shakes his head once. “i’d rather die unfulfilled than spend another lifetime forgetting where i end and something else begins.”

headcanons.

his crossbow is a family heirloom, the weapon he was meant to use once he became a slayer. the same weapon he trained with ever since he was strong enough to carry its weight is now the only inheritance he has left of the life that was supposed to be his. camilo doesn’t need it anymore, not really, the beast inside him has more than enough power to keep an enemy at bay. and yet he keeps using it, something about the choice feels like defiance, as if he’s saying you took everything else from me, but you can’t take this.

camilo’s family viewed the slayer gene as a gift from god. that belief did not make them gentler. if anything, it made them crueler, because they came to see his body less as his own and more as a vessel for divine purpose. he was raised accordingly: not like a child, but like a weapon still waiting to be sanctified. by the time he was old enough to understand what was being asked of him, that outlook had already turned him into something close to a child soldier, shaped by discipline and endurance. and when the slayer gene failed to awaken on its own, his parents convinced themselves it only needed pressure, almost killing him on three separate occasions. camilo was too young to remember the first attempt. the second, still haunts him. they locked him inside an abandoned structure at the edge of town and told themselves terror would succeed where patience had failed, that if the blood in him was truly blessed it would wake under threat. it didn’t. camilo survived the fire only because someone pulled him out before the flames finished what devotion had started… the third was the woods. by seventeen, camilo was old enough to understand exactly what was being done to him, which only made it worse. they left him at an old clearing deep in the woods, where the trees were heavy with rusted charms, animal bones, and symbols half-swallowed by the earth. the family called it a trial of faith— if the slayer blood truly lived within him, it would lead him safely home by morning. if it didn't… then perhaps god had already made his decision. instead, something found him in the dark and bit him before morning. in a single night, he became the very thing they feared most. and then came the cruelest part of all: after engineering the very circumstances that put him there, they cast him out for what he became.

pinterest.

[splinteredsaffron]

RUN FAST FOR YOUR MOTHER, RUN FAST FOR YOUR FATHER / RUN FOR YOUR CHILDREN AND YOUR SISTERS AND BROTHERS

LEAVE ALL YOUR LOVE AND YOUR LONGING BEHIND / YOU CAN'T CARRY IT WITH YOU IF YOU WANT TO SURVIVE

✧ THE SPLINTER. CHASE SUI WONDERS. CIS WOMAN. SHE/HER.⸻ can you feel it, SAFFRON? it’s starting again. something’s coming up the creek bed — and soon, there’ll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you’re not the running type. yeah, you’re too LIVELY and RECKLESS for that, aren’t you? just about what i’d expect from a WEREWOLF. so you’ve been in magnolia creek about FIVE YEARS now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you’re UNKNOWN (AROUND TWENTY-SEVEN) years old and WORK WHEREVER WILL TAKE YOU. don’t think that’ll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you’ve got your CLAWS AND TEETH. that’s more than i can say for most. i’ve seen this cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it’ll end THE SAME? well. we’ll see. i’d love to be proven wrong in all this. ( KIARA. 25. SHE/THEY. GMT+10. )

SKELETON. APP. PINTEREST. PLAYLIST.

[und3ads]

𓉸ྀི THE HOLLOW. HAVANA ROSE LIU. CIS WOMAN. SHE/HER ⸻ can you feel it, MARGOT LONG? it's starting again. something's coming up the creek bed — and soon, there'll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you're not the running type. yeah, you're too VULNERABLE and ODD for that, aren't you? just about what i'd expect from a GHOST. so you've been in magnolia creek about HER WHOLE LIFE now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you're THIRTY-ONE (PHYSICALLY TWENTY-FIVE) years old and UNEMPLOYED  +  GHOST ACTIVITIES. don't think that'll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you've got your ROCK (PULLED FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE CREEK). that's more than i can say for most. i've seen this cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it'll end DIFFERENTLY? well. we'll see. i'd love to be proven wrong in all this.

google doc. board. introspection. dynamics. tunes. skeleton.

[pyreburn]

LILY PRYDE as the pyre.

you are all bluster & torrent, a firestorm with skin. your eyes are the color of dark woodsmoke, always burning, and your fists are always clenched so tight that your nails bite furious crescent moons into your palms. girl, that rage deep within your core that burns as hot as hellfire, it'll consume you if you let it — and sometimes, in your darkest moments, you think you just might. / here's what they don't tell you about fire: it can warm as well as burn. beneath your bravado & burning rage, your love & devotion blazes as fierce as your fury — perhaps even fiercer. oh, it hurts to burn this much. it hurts to care. it hurts to hold so much flame beneath your skin. your once-bleeding heart has become this shriveled, furious little thing, wasting away in the blistering sun. / sometimes you wish you could just tear your chest from your body, just so you could stop this unrelenting aching. oh, sometimes you think, if you could, you'd sharpen your heart into a gleaming, serrated knife, make yourself so razor-edged that no one could touch you again without piercing themselves — it's better to cut than be cut. / phoenix fire burns within you, bringing destruction and rebirth — how many times have you died and been reborn again? girl, you are death-touched, death-starved, death-enamored, death-sick. in your dreams, you build coffins with the dead, and you wake up with this gnawing ache you can't shake. / you're burning & you will burn out, and sometimes you wonder what you'll be in the end. will there be anything left of the girl you were before grief carved you hollow? before the fight made you resilient & strong? will you ever learn how to put down the sword, to stop burning yourself at the stake of your own convictions? oh, girl, will you ever give up the flame? pinboard + web weaving + playlists [ lily a-side / lily b-side / the prydes ].

🔥READ HER BIOGRAPHY.