HADES, DISTRICT 7

gamemaker kelsier
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6,081 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Nov 16, 2024 2:50:27 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

HADES, DISTRICT 7 May 20, 2013 14:26:34 GMT -5

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Post by gamemaker kelsier on May 20, 2013 14:26:34 GMT -5

Name: HADES
Age: IMMORTAL ~~EIGHTEEN~~
Gender: Female
District/Area: Wanderer
Appearance:

Personality:

History:

Codeword: ODAIR
Comments/Other:

MY OH MY IS ELEGANT ACTUALLY MAKING A REAL GIRL WITH BOOBS AND STUFF GEE WILLIKERS

basically she is a ghost and she lives in the woods ~~because she wants to be dead deliberately.~~ because she's haunting yo.

Poetry used instead of lyrics, called Deliver by Robbie Blair.

Last Edit: Sept 14, 2013 8:40:14 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

gamemaker kelsier
Graphics

6,081 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Nov 16, 2024 2:50:27 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

HADES, DISTRICT 7 May 20, 2013 14:58:36 GMT -5

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Post by gamemaker kelsier on May 20, 2013 14:58:36 GMT -5

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“HELL HAS FROZEN OVER”
It still remembers you in withered gardens.

AGE . Do ghosts age?
GENDER . Female.
DISTRICT . District Seven.
OCCUPATION . Death.
SEXUALITY . Does not love.
TALKING . white
DOING . white
DEEP THOUGHT . Lavender
HEARING . white
OTHER . white

“WHEN I HID FROM THE HEAVY HEAT OF SPRING, SKULKING IN SHADOWS”
fearing that sunlight would scar my frosted flesh.

The primitive glow dashed off the bark on the surrounding trees, encircling the group as wary guardians. The fire burned low, and embers flew up, biting the air vengefully when one of the figures tossed a dry piece of wood onto it. Silence engulfed them, but for the crackling of the flames and the sounds of night life around them. It was ominous and felt tall, like they were ants in this darkness. "If we're going to have a camp fire, we ought to have a ghost story or two," one of them said finally.

Slowly, someone else shifted as if they had been immobile for a long time. Raising their head, they spoke in the voice of a child trying to appear brave, "Adelaide's right, t'otherwise, what's ther point?" Shadows moved in the woods just past the darkness, and it scared this one who never really had the chance to grow up, to the bone. However, foolishness ruled it's head, and false bravado made it tick. Something rustled deep in the density of the bushes.

With the silence on the point of disrepair, a third, who usually made the stories chimed in, "Warmth mostly," and this voice was dark, melodic, the perfect voice for a story about history and blood. The perfect voice to tell the story of her. The night waited in anticipation, bated breath to see if there would be a story tonight, or if the moment would pass and silence would come back to engulf them. The story waited too, wondering if it would be told tonight, because it had been said again and again, but never from the lips of one who had known the subject. "But alright," the speaker finally said, "I guess I'll start. It's one we used to tell in my old district, the one about the girl who was Death."

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ONCE .

“I KNOW I FRIGHTENED YOU”
I remember your soft lips wilting.

Upon a time, there was a girl. Her name is something lost to the ages, a truth so sweet and simple that no one would think to connect it to the wretch that wanders the District now. Never has there been one so foul since.They never found out what twisted her thoughts up into a cloth so thick with blood that none would come out. They call her Hades now, goddess of death. She deserves it they say, no they spit. They do not even know her, the girl who slips between the trees, silent and waiting. Those freakish long, white fingers rest so softly against the tree trunks it's like she isn't even there at all. They've argued that she isn't you know, they say that she doesn't make a sound because she can't between those trees. They say her spirit is a'wanderin, catterwallin thing. It wants to go to rest but it doesn't know how to get there.

But.

All that is just myth, rumour, legend.

The girl in question, lads, is nothing more than a girl. Yes, they say her eyes are red with blood. I assure you, they're the loveliest shade of violet I've ever seen. Flecks of Neptune live inside of them, I'm certain. When she smiles, they seem to light from within, when she is greiving, they go dark, a storm. Maybe that's where you got the idea of red from, she cries red tears. It's called Haemo something or other. She can't help it but they all hate her for it, see. The tears come out even when she's happy, red seeps down that pale as snow skin, scaring people. She's been chased off a street before, they all call her possessed. They say the devil himself lives in her and if you see her between the trees it means he's coming for you next. They call her Hades. They call her that because they can't remember that she used to be called something else, back when her house was tall and white as her skin. Back when she had a mama and a papa to love and protect her, no one noticed how 'evil' she was.

She's thin as a ghost anyway, turn her sideways and you just might lose her altogether. Maybe that's one of the reasons they all are afraid of her. Sometimes she'll slip behind a tree and stick her small frame under a hollow made from roots. Or maybe she'll lovingly climb into a good sized box into that alleyway you just glanced down. Our little ghost has a love of small spaces. She feels safest in the dark, where men and women all become shadowy ghosts and she can become just like the rest of us. Her hands, if covered with black work gloves do not glow in the night, deathly pale beacons. She attempts to hide among us, she does try so hard. She just wants to be around us, that's why she haunts us. Some take pity on this, they leave small offerings out to the District Ghost. It's become tradition over the past five years to leave her a slice of steak pie on the windowsill. They say it's her favourite meal.

During the day she wears a long cloak, the deepest black you ever saw. They all think it's for the effect of things, so that she can scare them all further. What they don't know is that the poor thing's skin reacts to the sun in the deadliest of ways. The District Ghost can't take it at all, see. It's something about that unnatural white tone to her skin, how everything about her is pure as snow. The hood covers her face completely, maybe she doesn't even have a face in the day they say it is gone, comes back with the moonshine. They all say that she's horrible and ruthless. They tell their kids that if you linger too long at night instead of going straight home, her jaw will open wide and she'll swallow you right up. They say she is Death himself, Hades in the shape of a girl.

They disposed of her name, a dangerous thing to do to a girl. They took it from her, found her unworthy of it when she needed the security of her name most. She held onto it herself, holds it carefully like a frightened mouse in the palm of her mind. It's assumed she knows and remembers it, in the least. One can't be sure. They also say she's born fresh each night, that she can't remember past injustices done to her because our ghost is so sweet it's frightening. If you were to lay a pie out for her, you'd wake up with an offering back on your step.

The offerings, were usually dead, although one time one of them might still have been twitching. On that particular account, I like to think that was a bit of over excitement o the teller's part. The animals that were waiting silent on the stoops the morning after were always laid out beautifully, looking like their chest might rise in breath once again at any given moment. This was where the rumours also began. For the tiny bit of meat you gave, she gave it back tenfold. How could she manage all that killing, all those dead birds and rabbits? She must be Death himself, calling the creature's souls to their death with one flick of her wrist. That's where the terror began. "What if she called us to death too," they all demanded at a District meeting.

"Yes," chimed in a voice from the crowd, "What if she does us all in, just like she did her family?"

A TIME .

“I DIDN'T WANT TO STEAL YOU”
but centuries of silence had numbed the tundra of my tongue.

She was born white as snow and barely breathing. Her skin was almost translucent when she finally emerged from the warmth of her mother. They say you could see her tiny heart beating beneath those tight little fists that were curled to her chest. It was to protect it, her mother liked to say, from all the hurting it would take. (It would take a lot.) They all thought the first pain came with birth because she was screaming as any babe would. What came with the screams however, were red rivers that sprung from her tightly shut eyes. At first no one noticed them, she was covered in blood anyway. Yet, when they wiped her off to hand the curious thing to her mother's outstretched arms, the blood came back. Thus, two of her oddities were revealed.

Her childhood was not normal. She was born the colour of a cloud, and she floated along like one, a fairy child. Pudgy little hands would grasp at anything that would come near, searching for warmth, for anything really. She just liked to hold onto things. White hair covered her little head in tufts, and her lips were pale pink, warm as milk. For all her oddities, she was a gorgeous little babe, born with eyes so brilliantly violet that they filled a room with altogether too much warmth. Her mother was a bookbinder and her father was a lumberjack. She grew up learning to love the smell of bookbinder's glue and the scent of a freshly cut pine tree.

As she grew, she learned things, inquisitive gaze landing on objects, voice asking for explanations, and her mother giving them. She wasn't allowed in the sun, the window's gaze was lava for a thing like her, so they boarded the windows up too. They didn't keep her locked up inside because of what she looked like, don't get me wrong. It was because of what she was. She'd gone out once for ten minutes and had found herself burnt for days. Her parents couldn't afford sunscreen, it was a luxury for the rich. The best they could offer her was the little umbrella that her mother had received from her own mother. It barely kept the sun out, but for the little girl it was a way out, freedom from the confines of her dark little house.

She'd huddle underneath the small sun umbrella, flitting from shade to shade, trying to catch a glimpse of the big yellow star in the sky. She saw the thing for the first time at four years old. It was beautiful, big, it made her eyes water. She cried the first time she saw the sun, blood streamed down her white cheeks, raining the ground, staining the yellow sundress she wore. Her mother was careful not to dress her in anything incredibly bright, the stains proved hard to get out.

She could not go to school, the risk was too much for the parents that loved their strange little daughter so much. Bad luck followed the little thing wherever she went. Birds fell from the sky apparently, when she went near. Bad luck followed her like a curse, causing pain to anyone close to her. When she was five years old, her father, and incredible force with an ax, drove it into his own foot. He'd needed surgery, his strength was so great that it near took his foot off. With a jovial grin, he'd decided to take up bookbinding with his wife instead. Yet, when her parents tried to sell the books they'd bound, no one would buy them. They claimed the beautifully bound things cursed by the devil they harbored beneath their roof.

Still, they protected their daughter, the mother pushed her behind her long skirt, hiding her from everyone else. They tried to hide her from the world but it proved difficult. One year, a couple went missing in the woods near their house, one of the neighbor families. The District blamed them, claiming their daughter had eaten them alive, they could see the blood staining her yellow sundress. She was six years old the first time she was blamed for a death, and the blaming has never really stopped since then. They called her responsible for her own parents after all. Arguably, it's ridiculous that a little girl could cause a house fire when she was meant to be sound asleep.

People will always blame the sole survivor, as if it is their own fault for surviving. My advice is, never survive anything, if you do, no one will ever let you live with the fact. A nine year old girl had set out in the middle of the night to watch the moon rise, eyes glistening red with tears from the stars high above. She'd gone to a little field behind her house to watch the rising of the sun, hoping she could catch it before her mother brought her back inside to hide her from it.

Yet, when the looked into the sky that early morning, the sun wasn't rising but the world was lit up, heat warming her. It had to be the sun. When she turned around, her home was engulfed, her parents inside. Within seconds, the heat became unbearable and she slipped into the woods to hid under a mass of roots, afraid of the heat. The sun had been meant to stay in teh sky, not go to her house for a visit.

When she wasn't found in the wreckage, and she wasn't found at the scene of the crime, the girl was found guilty. She was finally labelled a monster at ten years old when a boy had pushed her to the ground and she'd slashed at him with a hunting knife. It had caused red to blossom across his chest. It was something they could pin her for. They did do that, they wanted to take her away for it. They were afraid of her, convinced that she was intent on taking them all to the other side. She ran into the woods, and vanished almost instantly. She'd squirreled into a small hole that she knew, and they couldn't find her, perplexed. They stared above them, branches poking out but holding no freak of nature. They didn't think to look below them, where roots grew in masses and were easy hiding places for the small.

The young boy, angered at being beat out by a girl, would not give up the search. After he recovered, he searched night and day for the devil, convinced that she had to be taken into custody or he would kill her. She knew that he would not give up. So, she devised a plan for him, to catch him unawares. he wanted to apologize, so frightened, she made for him what she liked best. Carefully, she made him a hole in the ground, and dug up flowers to places inside it. She laid rocks down to add stability and warmth to it. If it was sunny, the rocks would be heated by the sun, she assumed. She laid long grass in it, hoping to make it comfortable for him.

Hope, transforming her small face, she waited at the treeline for him to appear like he did every night. Nerves swum through her, and when he finally appeared, his face was rage. He carried a scar across his chest that would never go away. So when he saw her, he began to sprint. In fear, she ran as well, trying to lead him to the hole she'd dug for him, so he might feel safe too. Reaching it, she leapt over it, knowing it was there. When he reached it, he did not and fell in. All was quiet, there weren't even birds in the silence. When she looked down into the hole, the boy was dead, head smashed by a rock.

Fear and sorrow taking her over, she cried great hiccuping sobs for her parents and the boy in the hole. Blood dripped from her eyes and landed in spots on the little boy that was dead. The little girl fled the scene, a trail of spattering drops following her. When the Districters found the boy and the blood, they thought her dead and gone too, there was too much blood for just one boy. Some of them swear to this day that they found her little slip of a body, achingly as lovely as any moon. They say that she's buried in an unmarked grave on the tree line.

They held a funeral for the boy and said good riddance to the little devil, glad that she was vanquished. The little boy became the hero, the girl evil and terrible. It was only three years later that they saw her form again between the trees, wide, violet eyes feral and foreboding. It was her ghost, they say, angry, wanting revenge. They labelled her Hades, the keeper of the dead. She did keep the dead after all, how else would one explain the fresh flowers that littered the graves in the District every new week? How could they explain the figure they'd seen drifting along the headstones, eyes resolute, skin white as snow?

How could they explain the dried drops of blood on the grave of the boy?

ANYTHING ELSE ?

OUT OF CHARACTER .

FACE CLAIM .

NASTYA KUMAROVA • HADES

OTHER CHARACTERS ?

Click.

I, ELEGANT .
LOL FINALLY FINISHED THIS, STARTED THE WIP IN MAY AND LOOKIE HERE, DONE IN SEPTEMBER.

CODEWORD . odair[/blockquote][/justify]

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Last Edit: Sept 14, 2013 17:25:57 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

gamemaker kelsier Graphics 6,081 POSTS Pronouns: they/them last seen Nov 16, 2024 2:50:27 GMT -5 “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck	HADES, DISTRICT 7 Sept 14, 2013 8:34:31 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gamemaker kelsier on Sept 14, 2013 8:34:31 GMT -5 Wow so I did the thing? She is dooooone, and Cass has dibs please. c:
	compendium / avriel clown car / pietro 2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

cass Retired Staff 4,822 POSTS last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5	HADES, DISTRICT 7 Sept 14, 2013 20:40:45 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by cass on Sept 14, 2013 20:40:45 GMT -5 Perfect. <333 [/size]