🗡Luces resplandecen a través de los ventanales de imponentes arquitecturas, la naturaleza oscura reclama los lugares olvidados y la metrópolis parece rugir cada noche con más fuerza. ¿Has decidido en donde esperarás el final de los tiempos? La multitud de figuras en las sombras te guían hacia el Palacio Imperial, tierra prometida en donde el Príncipe de la Camarilla se complace en recibirte. A pesar de tu extraño parecido a TOM STURRIDGE y ser parte de los TOREADOR, eres más que bienvenido a la ciudad RYAN WELSH. Si las consecuencias no quieres pagar, deberás respetar cada una de las tradiciones y cuidar siempre tu espalda...
PSYCHE, la administración de Tierra de Nod se alegra de darte la bienvenida. A partir de este momento cuentas con 24 horas para realizar el envío de la cuenta de tu personaje. Cualquier consulta estamos a tu disposición. ¡Muchas gracias!
OOC
Nombre / Pseudónimo — Psyche
Pronombres — ella/elle
Edad — 32
Zona horaria / País — Chile -4 GMT
Triggers — Nada que venga a la mente en este momento
¿Estás de acuerdo que tu personaje continúe siendo utilizado por la administración como PNJ en caso de unfollow? — No, pero pueden matarlo si lo desean.
IC
Nombre — Ryan Welsh, conocido en el mundo artístico como Morpheus Nightingale
Faceclaim — Tom Sturridge
Pronombres — Él/Elle
Nacionalidad — Británico
Fecha de nacimiento — 7 de enero de 1950
Año en el que se convirtió en vampiro — 1981
Generación asignada — Decimotercera
Clan y secta — Cupo 4, clan toreador, parte de la Camarilla
Detallar el nivel que posee en cada disciplina —
auspex +2
celeridad +2
presencia 0
Personalidad—
sensible. pacífico. soñador.
susceptible a la crítica. pasivo. desconectado de la realidad
¿Quiénes eran antes de ser vampiros y qué mantienen de su antigua vida? —
Nacido en Londres, en de una familia de aristócratas en decadencia, Ryan es menor de tres hermanos y el único que jamás estuvo interesado en mantener el prestigio de su nombre. Su padre era hombre simple, un corredor de propiedades interesado sólo en el dinero y el estatus que el nombre de su mujer podía darle, pero su madre era toda una artista, una cantante de ópera que debido a problemas de salud había visto su carrera terminada tempranamente.
Por su parte, Ryan debió ser educado en casa, debido a que padecía hemofilia y cualquier corte o golpe podía terminar en una hemorragia fatal. A pesar de que la enfermedad retrasó el desarrollo de sus habilidades sociales le abrió un mundo de posibilidades que lo llevó a desarrollar gran potencial artístico, así como también un profundo interés por la mente humana y la psicología. Devoraba tanto libros sobre historia del arte como nuevos postulados sobre el inconsciente. Creía fervientemente que existía un vínculo sanador entre las emociones y el quehacer artístico y planeaba estudiar psicología para demostrarlo, pero la fragilidad de su cuerpo le provocó un intenso miedo de salir de su casa, en cual se vio incluso más acrecentado con la temprana muerte de su madre.
Recluido de la sociedad e intentando superar el duelo, Ryan volcó su vida a mejorar su arte. Pintó primero a su madre, para no olvidar su rostro, luego a sus hermanos, a las esposas de los mismos, a sus sobrinos. Las pinturas comenzaron a ganar interés dentro de los círculos que su familia frecuentaba. Comenzó a tener pedidos especiales: duques, condes y celebridades se sentaron en su estudio para ser inmortalizados. Su padre lo vio como un negocio rentable y por casi diez años pintó retratos en óleo que buscaban ser copia exaltada de la realidad, la forma en la que la gente quería verse a sí misma. Ganó mucho dinero, pero a medida que pasaban los años, sus pinturas comenzaron a volverse cada vez más simbólicas, buscando capturar el alma de la persona, su esencia. Volvió al inicio, entrando en un estado de trance al pintar, dejó que su mente inconsciente guiara su mano. Pintó a su madre nuevamente, no como la mostraban las fotos sino como él la recordaba, como la había sentido en vida. El resultado fue impresionante. Su padre lloró al verla, sus hermanos y sobrinos conversaban con el cuadro como si fuese una persona real… Las habladurías sobre la pintura llegaron a otros círculos, aquellos que se movían en el Ocultismo, muchos llegaron a pensar que el joven había atrapado el alma de su difunta madre en el cuadro, pero nadie pudo probar nada.
Fue allí que el primer ser de la noche tocó a su puerta. Resultó ser una recién nacida de Lasombra que, aún buscando una forma de verse a sí misma tras su conversión, pidió ser retratada como él la veía. El resultado fue nuevamente sorprendente. La joven, hermosa y adorable, no tenía nada que ver con el seductor monstruo en la pintura. La cara era la misma, sin lugar a dudas, pero la mirada fría y la sangre en su ropa la hacían ver como una asesina, sonriente ante la idea de terminar con su próxima víctima.
Ryan no sabía qué hacer, había dejado que su inconsciente le mostrara la realidad y eso había hecho. Su clienta no pareció molestarse e incluso agradeció su sinceridad… Pronto, ella se convirtió sólo en la primera de muchos vástagos capturados por su método poco ortodoxo de pintar.
¿Qué sabe sobre quien los convirtió en vampiros? —
Su conversión fue una cosa que se salió de control. Quién lo mató fue una de las muchas personas que quisieron ser retratadas por él pero luego que Ryan le mostrara su verdadero rostro, lleno de codicia y odio, el vástago se molestó y terminó mordiéndolo. Agonizó durante días por la herida en su cuello, la cual se cerraba y se abría nuevamente debido a su hemofilia. Tras una semana de tormento, sin embargo, una de sus primeras modelos, una vástago toreador que admiraba su talento le ofreció la oportunidad de convertirse en inmortal, la cual aceptó inmediatamente.
En el abrazo, Ryan encontró la libertad que siempre había ansiado, sin miedo a la muerte se convirtió en un viajero incansable que no para en un solo lugar por mucho tiempo.
Curiosidades —
La mayor parte de su trabajo temprano ha sido confiscado por la Camarilla pues en muchos casos es notorio que sus modelos no eran humanos. Una vez que se dió cuenta que este tipo de arte jamás llegaría a las masas, dejó de pintar y esculpir rostros a menos de que se lo pidan explícitamente.
Para evitar mayor escrutinio por parte de la Camarilla de Londres se mueve constantemente por el mundo, aún sigue publicando su arte en internet, bajo distintos seudónimos, pero hoy en día ha dejado mayoritariamente de lado los retratos y se dedica a retratar el cielo nocturno en todo su esplendor.
Es un Sandman, sólo bebe de personas dormidas, pues una parte de él cree que la sangre de una persona conectada a su inconsciente le entrega mayor inspiración.
{Yaya DaCosta, 35, female, she/her} || SELA MUSA is a mutant with the ability of STONE TOUCH. They’ve been in New York for EIGHT YEARS where they spend most of their time as AN UNDERGROUND "ART" DEALER. When I think of them, I think of PUDDLES IN A BACK ALLEY; MARBLE COLLUMNS LEFT IN RUIN; EMPTY BOTTLES OF WINE; WEIGHTED BLANKETS IN PLACE OF REAL PHYSICAL CONNECTION *brotherhood affiliated
Sela was born to Idara and Milton Musa on September 23th, 1962 in Seattle, Washington. Her parents, wanting to give their precious little girl a good, clean upbringing, left their jobs working for corporate America and moved to a small town in Montana when Sela was just a few months old. Looking for the classic simple life, the newlyweds bought a dozen acres and a decent sized heard of cattle and started their dream ranch.
While her parents worked the ranch, Sela lived the life every little girl dreamed of; She had two horses, a buckskin quarter horse named Peanut Butter and a bay morgan named Tootsie-Roll, that she rode daily as she explored not just the property she lived on, but the beautiful forests and mountains that surrounded them. Their community was tightknit- and her family was very involved in every town event. Whether it was participating in school bake sales or the Fourth of July bonfire festival, or Sela and her mother winning the annual mother/daughter pony pageant- the Musa’s were always there.
At least, that’s what she told herself every night in order to fall asleep in the cold, somehow always itchy bed in the foster homes and halfway houses where she actually grew up.
See, while Sela knows that her mother’s name was Idara Musa, she has no idea who her father is. Or was. All she knew- all she still knows- is that her mother gave birth to her in Seattle on August 24th, 1962. And that on August 25th, 1962, she was left in a basket on the steps of a church with the clothes she was wearing, a worn baby blanket, and a birth certificate. She bounced around between foster homes and group houses ever since.
Up until 1972, that is.
She’d only turned ten about a month before- a birthday that had been largely ignored by the staff that ran the group home that she’d been in for the last year and a half. This had been her least favorite ‘home’ yet; It was run by a small organization that cared more about the money the government gave them than the conditions that the children were kept in. Sure, the houses were clean- thanks to the dozen kids that lived there- and always had the bare minimum needed to pass a visit from social services. But the bare minimum often meant mealy food, lukewarm baths, and thin and scratchy blankets. And a lack of proper supervision, which lead to a rampant bullying problem. As was the case one hot, September day.
Herself and a couple of the other smaller, younger kids were cornered in one of the bedrooms by the current leader of the band of bullies. Sela no longer remembers the boy’s name- not his real name, anyway. But she remembers the fear she’d felt at the prospect of another beating from the boy and group of hooligans. Fear that had been reflected in the kids who’d been rounded up with her. She remembers the way he laughed when he threw a fake punch and they’d all flinched. How smug he’d looked right before the fists started colliding with faces still lined with baby fat. How her own hands had come up to try to stop him.
Then she remembers how that smug look melted into something of pained horror, as his skin turned dark grey and gritty under her own hands. The lackies ran, the other victims screamed and edged away from her. She screamed and tried to round the now stone child- his fists still balled up in the air, mouth twisted in fright for all eternity.
Shaking, she made it past the statue, only to almost run into the most prude, meanest of the staff. She remembers the older woman yelling out in shock, the other two kids pointing at her. Then the wrinkled woman started yelling at her, accusing her, grabbed her hard by her bare arm-
Then the screaming stopped. And she was stuck in the cold grasp of another statue. This one with perfectly carved stone winkles, and downward turned open mouth.
The panic started kicking in then. She didn’t know what was happening, what she was doing. And now she was stuck, forced to face whatever the hell she’d done. Her free hand reached for something- anything- that she could use to get her out of the statue’s grasp, and found a baseball bat that a lacky had dropped. Sela grabbed it and brought it up, slamming it as hard as she could into the stone wrist. After a couple of hits, the thumb crumbled away and she managed to slide free. The young girl grabbed her emergency go-bag and ran. She didn’t look back.
For a long while she wandered, learning what she had to do to prevent more accidents. She began wearing gloves and long sleeves and pants all of the time. Avoided the bigger camps of vagrants. As a transient child and teenager, she was treated just as well as she had been at the group home. Some gave her scraps of food, a scratchy blanket. Some tormented her, showed their disgust. Most ignored her. Very few knew that she was really different. Not human. And the ones that found out threatened her enough that she’d had to take measures to make sure she stayed safe.
Eventually, she made her way to California. And her life changed.
Sela found her niche amongst the wild and unhinged, party loving rockstars and socialites of California’s upper-class. She started selling her statues, at first under the guise of a middlewoman, a private and exclusive seller for the mysterious master sculptor, Medusa. She’d spread her own legend, create her own supply and demand chains in dimly lit private rooms and rooftop parties, with no handshakes. It satisfied her for a few years, made her enough money for an apartment in LA and all the food she could want.
And when the President made his announcement, she took her chance. After finding out most of them were mutants themselves, or at least knew their place around them, she exposed herself to her private clients. Told them just enough of the truth to trigger their need of one-of-a-kind collections and bragging rights. A replica, normal sized statue of David whom she’s pretty sure was actually named David before he’d said the wrong thing to her. Or the Aphrodite that she’d presented draped in real silk, some human woman that had called a man and child with moon white eyes freaks.
She started charging more and her clients happily paid. One of her best was the first to make a request for a.. commissioned piece. There was a loan shark that had tried to blackmail the millionaire for a debt his daughter owed. The proposed mark was a slimy, rat-faced, lowlife of a human. The kind of sleaze that you’d only ever go as a last resort, and only because he liked to lurk around the dumpsters behind actual loan sharks. In short- Sela had no qualms with ridding the world of him and his copious amounts of hair gel. For the right price. That first commission got her two-hundred-thousand dollars, and invites to secret clubs and parties that only opened more and more doors for her.
Things stayed like that for a while. The parties and sun and backroom deals. But then she grew bored, stagnant. So she finally took the offer of her best client and moved her brand across the country- to New York. Where she found others like her, who knew the superiority of mutantkind over man, and actively did something about the injustices their kind were tormented with. It was a no brainer when she officially joined. She helps fund the brotherhood’s needs, and has a few longstanding, free commissions available whenever they need one.
TO RESTART ———— it all feels the same. it always has. the same few things, over & over. no variety, no progress. you feel like you’ve messed up somewhere, & you can’t figure out where. you’ve been walking down this road for so long, it feels like years. it also feels like a few hours, maybe only a day. it was supposed to lead somewhere, someday. it was supposed to be promising, but all you’ve reached is a dead end. you wonder if you took a wrong turn along the way. you sit down, wishing to restart, & maybe not take this path at all. this has happened yesterday, it’s happened today, it’s happened tomorrow. it feels never ending. instead, maybe retracing your steps will help. this isn’t the end for you, there’s still many roads to go down, it’s just that this particular one wasn’t the one for you. you want to restart with a blank slate, but would that really be the best idea ? WHO WOULD YOU BE WITHOUT THE MISTAKES, & PROGRESS YOU’VE MADE SO FAR ?
