//-Loving you was lethal (𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙)-\\
HUMAN NAME: Mylo TRUE NAME (UNSPOKEN): Mortis GENDER: Male OUTWARD AGE/BIRTHDAY: Twenty-five, 11th June TRUE AGE: Unknown OCCUPATION: Necromancer RACE/NATIONALITY: Wytch, Nekrós-Mortal (“Nem”)/British BIRTHPLACE: Blackley Woods, Shademarsh, England SEXUALITY: Homosexual HEIGHT: 5'6" (170cm) MASS/BUILD: 128 lbs (58kg), v. slender HAIR: V. Dark brown, lightly shaved on both sides EYES: Moss (natural), murky-grey (when using powers), dark-grey with swirls of gold (consumed) FEATURES: Both ears pierced four times. Large mark of his coven identifier in the centre of his chest. Born with a Wytch mark (left hand) and Nekrós-Mortal mark (right hand). Blackened hands and lightning-style black marks over body (when using powers/consumed), ref: [x][x][x] ➥LORE
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏
The actions of two had disastrous consequences for the many.
In Shademarsh, England, humans and wytches lived alongside each other in mutual agreement. Centuries of hatred, stemmed from the wytch trials, was settled in a council; the prospect of living and working together peacefully were signed by both sides. The future was now. The wytches were allowed to be apart of society – under one condition, however. No romantic relationship must form between a human and a wytch. For a time, Shademarsh blossomed with the treaty; harmony had finally been restored, and both sides prospered from each other. Humans provided the hospitality and custom, whilst wytches offered various magical services. Friendships were formed over the years, but the condition weighed heavily on the minds of young ones. In particular, the thoughts of two secret lovers.
Within the depths of Shademarsh, the Wytch-hunters waited. It was illegal to kill a wytch under the treaty, but they were patient. Hailing from a long line of Wytch-hunters, their ancestors once leading the trials, the act of hunting was in their blood. They needed a reason again. The discovery of the lovers would be their excuse. On the 9th July, 1990, the two were forcibly separated. Whilst the human was allowed to integrate back into society, the wytch was placed in solitary confinement for an “indefinite amount of time”. It was clear that there was still a divide between the sides, and tensions grew within the community.
Two days later, a number of humans suddenly fell ill. Within twenty-four hours, they were dead. The fatalities were small to begin with. By the end of the week, nearly half of Shademarsh’s human population perished. Panic ensued and an investigation began, though the community had already made their decision about who was to blame. In the end, they were correct. They quickly discovered that the wytch in confinement had killed those monitoring him, before using a hex to poison the main water supply in revenge for the unjust separation. His actions reflected on the masses. The Wytch-hunters no longer waited.
The wytches had no choice but to flee. They were prepared, however. Despite signing the treaty, doubt still nestled in their minds; they knew this day would come, sooner or later. Centuries of hatred was not simply erased by signing on the dotted line. Some were grateful for the chance at the time, but others wondered what had changed? Their doubts proved true when the harmony was violently broken by the Wytch-hunters; a name they hadn’t heard in centuries until the sight of flames chased them away from Shademarsh. Some were too slow to escape the clutches of the Wytch-hunters, but the remainder survived by hiding out in the forest. It was here that the wytches set their plan, The Great Sleep , into motion – their lives resting in the hands of their youngest necromancer.
He had spent the past few years in Shademarsh providing comfort to the bereaved. Having the ability to interact and communicate with the dead had its benefits, but he promised to never raise them. Humans weren’t quite prepared to witness that yet. There were some who tried to persuade him, but he refused; it would cause too many complications. Too many people would request the same treatment, and he vowed to never let it get that far. The Great Sleep, however, would change that. There was one ability that he kept safe, locked away, and forgotten in the very confines of his person. Not only could he raise the dead, but he could extract the soul of a living person and store it. It allowed him to temporarily kill them, before bringing them back to life by releasing their soul and directing it back to its host. He called this the “Juliet Effect.“
Hundreds of empty graves lined the forest floor, but only half were filled. A distressing loss for the wytch community. One by one, the young boy guided his brothers and sisters to their resting places. They agreed that fifty years would be enough to let the heat die down before they woke up. He briefly wondered what would become of his life during those fifty years. Some thanked him, whilst others took his hands and requested that they never be woken up. They couldn’t handle the future. He understood. Besides their covered graves, he buried the ornate boxes containing their souls, ready to be unearthed when the time came.
With that, The Great Sleep had begun.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐘𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓 (𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆)
Shademarsh, England. 1995.
”Do you feel loved?“ he whispered, words missed by those around him but not by the masked boy. He purposely directed them at him. Despite his position on the ground, knees digging into the forest floor painfully, his skin prickled with the heat radiating from the torches held aloft by his captors. Hundreds of hateful eyes surrounded him, reds and yellows reflected off them; they appeared almost demonic. Otherworldly. There was only one of those here, however. “Will you still be loved after this?” he spoke this time, voice wavering. He wanted to sound strong, but his heart ached. The masked boy only stared down at him – through him, the connection lost. It was no longer there. What they once had whittled down to this, and it was gone. He soon realised that, as he watched the masked boy walk away, it was never there to begin with. The sounds of his brothers and sisters screaming in the background, burning in their coffins, had him crying out in anguish until his throat became sore, eyes never leaving the back of the masked boy.
The Wytch-hunters had tricked him by using the greatest spell of all; love. He had fallen for it, hanging on every word that the boy he loved accepted him for being a wytch. He never once suspected that he was being trapped by a Wytch-hunter, not when his fellow hunter held him at knife-point. They threatened to kill him if he refused to divulge the location of the wytches. But he was clever – so he had thought. Two could play at this game. He guided them through the forest under the guise of taking them to the location, but instead, he settled for a spell that was meant to confuse them. It wasn’t until he watched the trees around him spin that he realised they had countered it. In their hands, wytch bottles were clutched. They were prepared this time.
It was here, stood in front of the wytchs’ graves, forty-five years too early, that the necromancer suffered his first heartbreak. “Raise them,“ the Wytch-hunters hissed, “raise them all or he dies.” Nausea crawled up his throat at the decision. If he refused, his lover would die. They would keep him alive, however; he was needed to raise the wytches. He felt numb as he revealed the graves one-by-one, serene faces staring up at him through glass coffins, unearthing the ornate boxes by digging into the earth with his shaking hands. A pained noise had him turning to see the Wytch-hunter cutting into his lover – not enough to kill him, not yet. He wasted no time in beginning The Great Awakening.
Blinking eyes greeted the necromancer as he stared into the first coffin, watching as more and more wytches woke up. Perplexity crossed their features, until they began smiling at the sight of their young brother; he had done it. He was successful. His own smile was forlorn, and it was soon wiped away as a Wytch-hunter grabbed his hair sharply and dragged him across the forest floor. Everything changed in that moment. They were immediately surrounded by hundreds of Wytch-hunters, the scene all too familiar. He was forced down onto his knees, watching as the hunters descended onto the coffins. But his focus was elsewhere now. His attention was on the masked boy in front of him. His lover, accepting a lit torch.
He was one of them. He had been one of them all along, and the necromancer bitterly hoped that he still felt loved after this.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏
The Great Awakening marked the end of peace between humans and wytches. There was loss of life on both sides, but some managed to fight back and escape – scattering themselves across the British Isles and even extending as far as America. In his anguish, Mortis ended up killing his lover, removing his heart, and storing it in a lead and silver heart-shaped case. His heart wasn’t going to be the only one to break. This he carries with him everywhere.
Mortis wandered the forests of Shademarsh for a time, alone. He traveled through nearby areas, such as Redmere and Coldbridge – even becoming a folklore at one point. Children whispered about the Wytch in the Woods, proved by the various marks he left behind. He carved sigils into trees, scratched them onto the side of houses, and burned them against grass. It was a reminder to the Wytch-hunters that they hadn’t won.
Mortis changed his name to Mylo upon reaching the city of Woodbourne, knowing that he needed to fit in. The name he took from the sign outside a coffee house, ”Mylo’s. Comfort in every cup!“ He liked it, and now it was his. The turn of the millennium, in all its explosive glory, was the start of a new life for Mylo. Shademarsh was far behind him, though the guilt of The Great Awakening often weighs heavily on him.
Standoffish at times, it does take a while for Mylo to warm up to somebody; he has trouble trusting people nowadays. Once he places his trust in somebody, however, the necromancer displays a kind nature. Having been shunned by his own kind, Mylo often keeps to himself – though he will strike up a conversation with those willing to listen. Knowing that the Wytch-hunters could be anywhere, the necromancer tries his best to disguise himself as human. It can be difficult when the Mark of a Wytch is on the back of his left hand, and his Nekrós-Mortal mark is on the right. Make-up often does the trick, however.
➥POWERS/ABILITIES: Necromancy; raising or resurrecting the dead. “Juliet Effect”; extracting and storing souls for later reuniting with its host. Communication/mediumship with spirits (including invocation). Immortality. Teleportation. Telekinesis. Conjuration. Divination. Reality warping (rarely used due to its negative effects; only in an emergency). Mind control/hypnosis/persuasion (again, rarely used. He refuses to manipulate people). Mild telepathy (enough to uncover memories, but telepathy is strongest in female Wytches). Auramancy (reading auras). Transference (able to temporarily transfer/share his abilities with another individual, human or otherwise). Spell casting. Hexes/curses. Potion brewing. Healing (himself and others). Flight/levitation. Weather control (during high emotion, like upset or anger, thunder and lightning is often the default type of weather. The severity depends on how stressful the situation is.) Psychometry (obtaining information of past events about a person or object). Astral projection. Nature control. Pain infliction/body control (only on Wytch-hunters). Crossing over (able to enter the spirit realm and limbo).
➥RESTRICTIONS/WEAKNESSES: Destructive. Energy draining. Emotionally consuming. Fire. Iron. Wytch deflecting sigils (done correctly, they can prevent him from entering a building/place). Wytch bottles (done correctly, it can counter or deflect his manipulation abilities).
