CS DDC: Grimm Compendium


Staff member
(You have no name, not as humans understand it. But what is your title? How are you known?)

(Your human age matters not, how long have you been a Grimm?)

State (King Only):
(Are you a consuming beast that lives to feed, or sated on a stable source?)

(All Grimm have a drive, a meaning, an obsession. What is yours?)

Demense (For the stronger of spirit):
(Inside your conscious form lies a domain under your control. What is it like?)

(Your powers. Similar to the magic of witches.)

(Draw from the forces which shaped you, and tear apart all who stand in your path.)





Forty-four years as a human, six years as a Grimm.

Memory of Futility
For every action; a consequence, this is a simple truth of the world. And, there is no knowing what it is that consequence might be, for as it is was said, the road to hell is paved by those with good intentions. It matters very little what you meant to happen when what did come to pass was for the worse. No, it is better to let the status quo reign, better to never act than to leave yourself open and at risk. And if you refuse to heed this advice, then I will show you the futility of action in all too certain terms.

While in his presence, actions which once seemed so important take on an air of irrelevancy. Fires of passion dwindle down to embers as the all you had hoped to accomplish suddenly seems nothing more than the wishes of a fool. In place of the passions which were once held, a form of complacency reigns, a willingness to drop one's plans and to allow things to remain as they are.

With a touch Apathy can seed the mind with doubt. Plans that had seemed foolproof a moment ago suddenly find themselves full of holes. Concluded minds suddenly find themselves full of misgivings. The more ambitious, the greater the gamble, the worse the difference between success and failure, the more certain you become that the plan must be scrapped, and a safer one put in its place.

(Your powers. Similar to the magic of witches.)


(Draw from the forces which shaped you, and tear apart all who stand in your path.)

What does it matter? Truly what does it matter? You spend your lives struggling against the Grimm and where has it gotten you? Where has it gotten any of us. We hide behind a wall, but we all know the wall will fall. We have girls fight to preserve us, but it makes no difference. The Grimm always return, always come back. Better to just submit now then to grind your faces into the dirt in some vain hope of survival. We are nothing but dust in the grand scheme of everything, and the Grimm just go to show how little we, and our efforts matter.

Just give up. Close your eyes.

And you won't even know when it is you died.

The desperate shriek of the siren forced his eyes to creak open as his hand automatically fumbled for the alarm. It took several seconds of frantic slapping for his groggy mind to come to the realization that it wasn't his alarm that was screeching at him. It was the desperate scream of the emergency alarm. Why in the good lord’s name was that damn alarm so loud? What did it matter? The Grimm were going to slaughter them all anyway, so why even have an alarm.

He just wanted to sleep in peace. Was that so wrong? In the dark, he could sense his wife stirring, her dark form slowly lifting as she was illuminated by the gray light seeping through the window. He felt that he could practically smell her fear in the air. Almost lovely, but he was not quite certain why, and he couldn't gather up the will to inspect the feeling.

She placed a delicate hand upon his shoulder and shook with an urgency he couldn't even begin to comprehend.

“Honey, get up. We need to get to the basement.” She hissed, despite her fear, there was none apparent in her voice. It was cool and level, urgent but not frantic. Just like the day they had met in that Tokyo bunker while the JDF and US Armed Forced were ravaged far above. He felt something slither through his heart as he slid his hand over his eyes. “Up, up!” She continued, as she slid so easily off the edge of the bed and into the pool of light.

It was a striking image, a reminder of why it was he had fallen in love with her. Her jaw set into a determined grimace, her nightgown flittering with the motion of her movement, and he felt as if he were simply the observer of some strange movie. She stopped at the door, and looked back at him, he could no longer see her face, but he was more than certain it showed concern.

“Love, hurry.” She said. A wary groan escaped his throat as he forced his body into motion. Movement was so hard, and he simply wanted to return to sleep. Still, he complied with his wife’s wishes and left his warm bed for the cold of the room, and trudged to the door. Then went together out of the door and descended down the stairs. A few more turns and they would be down the second set of stairs to the basement and behind a door of steel it would take a demolitions expert to crack. He had spared no expense when this house was built, and now he wasn't certain if he regretted it or not.

There was so much they would have to get down before he could return to sleep.

They were halfway across the entrance hall, when the sound came. A heartbreaking sound of metal wrenching and glass shattering. His wife swallowed a curse as she spun around, her dark eyes showed only a intense desire to survive.

“That was the backdoor. We can use my study to-”

She never finished her statement as she took long strides back to the staircase. The front door buckled inward, the wood splintering. It seemed, for a moment like it would hold, but that second passed, as they all do, and the door gave. The Grimm leaked through the gaps like fluid, a body of scales and teeth, and it lunged for his wife.

Her scream ended as soon as she hit the ground with an almost dull thud, and the wet smack of flesh. The jaws of the beast opened as it prepared to tear at the woman’s neck, but it froze.

Again, he felt as if he were simply watching some strange play. An odd detachment flooded into him at the sight of the Grimm looking up at him as it pinned his wife of fourteen years to the floor. They were both already dead, so what would be the point of even bothering? He didn't move, and neither did the Grimm. The sound of claws clicking against the ground came from behind, the Grimm from the backdoor finally creeping up. He didn't even bother to turn around and check.

And, the four remained still, as the silence began to stretch.

“Well?” He said finally, his voice expressionless and flat, “what are you waiting for then? Get on with it.”

The Grimm made an odd whimpering noise, followed by a sound akin to a calming coo. It took a skittering series of steps backwards towards the ruined door, and he was certain in the air he could taste that same sweet tang of fear. How wonderful it was. With a bark, answered by the second monster, the first scampered through the door, and vanished into the black.

With a frown, he stepped over to his wife’s side and knelt down next to her. Her chest raised and lowered with each ragged draw of air. He stared down into her eyes, and in them he found only the reflection of his own, a twinkle of gold struck by a failing light. Something like a smile twisted Apathy’s lips, and was gone just as quick.

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Three months

Voracious Appetite
To eat, to consume until you feel as if you will burst; only to continue as if the protests of one's flesh were little more minor inconveniences. That is the meaning of hunger. Hers is the urge to taste and consume until no flavor is unknown, and nothing has been left untested.

You Are What You Eat:
Hunger has no true form to her body, rather she is an amalgamation of the physical aspects of all the various things she has consumed. This allows her to change her physical appearance completely on whims by switching in and out the different physical properties of the people or Grimm she has eaten. Further, if a part of her body, say an arm were to be damaged she could simply swap that limb out for a different unbroken one, and wait for her old arm to heal before using it again. She cannot change the color of her eyes.

Hunger gains use of the powers of all Grimm and Witches she has consumed. The strength to which she can use these powers is not that of the original practitioner but rather based on how however powerful Hunger currently is.

Fractured Shadow
Hunger can break off portions of her shadow and mold them into a basic familiar which she can use as a scout. This familiar is unstable and will eventually dissolve if Hunger doesn't consume it first.

Unending Starvation
All things are food, and Hunger is one with a voracious appetite. She can swallow any living creature, and quickly digest and incorporate it, be it human or one of the creeping creatures of the Grimm, into her person. It should be noted that anything she consumes is not killed and destroyed by this melding process, and Hunger could, if she so wished to, regurgitate anything she has eaten.






Age: 18

To bury love, passion, anger and fear away, leaving only an impassive cocoon for the world to see.

Sweetest Venom
Suppression can convert any liquid she comes into contact with into a venom; it will cause anyone who consumes it to either become paralyzed or fall asleep. She is capable of placing a sort of time delay mechanism on this ability.

Endless Dream
Once a human is placed under the influence of her venom, Suppression can then wrap the human in a cocoon of her own skin. While within the cocoon the human (or witch) will no longer age, and they are placed into a stupor. They need neither food nor drink, and Suppression can then feed upon their emotional energy, and use it to strengthen herself. Injured or diseased individuals trapped in her cocoons will not degrade further, even if they were on the brink of death, and will slowly heal overtime.

Suppression can suppress her own powers and memories, and take on a more human form and color. Only her eyes maintain their Grimm coloration. While she is in this state she does not remember what she is, and will have blanks in her memories from whenever she reverts her to her true self.

Suppression transforms the cocoons she has created into enormous serpents, which she is capable of controlling while in her ‘true’ form. These snakes are highly dangerous, and have artillery pieces embedded where their eyes would otherwise be, but possess no sense of sight, smell or sound; they are reliant on taste and touch, and on whatever direction their mistress provides them with.
Serpents created using witches tend to very colourful, in contrast to the ordinary stark alabaster white; they also possess powers reminiscent of the magical girl at their core. If incorporated into a many-headed snake, the colouration will spread to the other heads as well, mixing with colours caused by other witches to create fanciful patterns. Ordinary bestial Grimm will create very weak serpents, and so are typically not used for that purpose, but when they are, or if Suppression manages to cocoon a Lord, they tend to create unusual, dark grey serpents. The serpent might also have other unusual features, such as eyes or venomous fangs. The appearance of a serpent created using a Turned is highly variable and difficult to predict, and depends heavily on the nature of the Turned.
Serpents can be created with multiple heads by incorporating multiple cocoons. These serpents are substantially more powerful than versions with single heads, and their pale will continue to scale up as more cocoons are added; however, destroying a snake will result in the freeing of all the people inside it, which can make placing too many cocoons in one serpent dangerous.
If a serpent consumes an individual, that snake can either use them to create a new head immediately, or cocoon them and hold them for later regurgitation. A serpent cannot create a new serpent without Suppression’s input.
If Suppression uses Coma, any serpents she has active will go dormant until she changes back.

While she is repressing herself, Suppression is a cheerful and personable sort. She’s happy to listen to your woes, and provide comfort when it is needed. She sees a lot of people on a regular basis through her work as a barista, and is often always happy to hear of their joys and struggles. Her unsuppressed personality is, by contrast, cold, calculating, and supremely unemotional. She tends to speak in a monotone, and seems to make all of her decisions based purely on what the most rational course of action is. The actions of her serpents, however, often seem to reflect a less dispassionate mental state; the more time she spends in her comatose state, the more of a disconnect there seems to be.

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37 Human
19 Grimm

Solidarity in Solitude
Strength is not found through cooperation, it is not found when you force yourself to stand alongside those who are so unlike you, no. Strength is found alone. When you are alone you know the range of your own abilities, you can trust in the strength of your own arms without having to trust in the fickle whims of others. Yes, it is alone that you are in the least danger, it is alone when you know that another will not betray you.

I, alone
Whenever a portion of Isolation’s body is detached, that piece will continue to wriggle, writhe, and squirm after whatever target the main body marches towards. Detached pieces when they have no target will constantly move towards the main mass of the body so they might reattach and allow Isolation to once more be made whole. If a portion of the body is fully destroyed, then it will start to rebuild on the main body.

The Walls Between Us
Around him, Isolation can create grand dense wall allowing him to split up and cut off groups of people. Typically Isolation uses this power to slow down his opponents, or force them into one on one fights while their teammates struggle to find a way over the wall, or against a horde of Grimm Isolation brought with him.


Lonesome Labyrinth
With his Sin Isolation is able to materialize a grand labyrinth around himself and any who were unlucky enough to draw near him. Any who are collected by this labyrinth will be separated, and should two people find some way to reach one another then the walls shall shift to separate them again. While the labyrinth is dangerous, full of tricks and traps and wandering things long corrupted by their time in this maze, one danger remains above all others.

While you are in this maze, Isolation will hunt you, without rest until he can capture you, and break you as he has so many others. He is stronger here than he is in the world outside, and damage is soon healed.

However, at the center if the labyrinth lay his loneliest part of all, a heart shorn from his chest and left to fill the chamber with its solitary beats. And his weakness? No, not to kill it, for it is already far past dead. It is to kneel beside the lonesome organ and whisper close

“You are not alone”

Clues are written on the wall the closer you are to the center for how you are to defeat Isolation once and for all.


You huddle together against the dark, as if that would free you from it. Grant you safety. That is the great lie you tell yourself, that being with others that working as one makes you greater than if you were alone.

I come with a different answer. Stay home. Do not go towards the screams in the night, do not help your neighbors. Remain where it is safe and preserve your bones. Community is the great lie of our species. This idea that you can trust your fellow man to place your needs above his own is without cause. Why place such trust when it is not warranted. No, stay home.

And, so long as you are home, nothing shall reach you until that silent end.

He didn't hate his eyes, not really. There were prettier eyes out there to be sure, but still he always felt some measure of comfort when he looked into a mirror and found his watery blue staring back. It was a reminder of sorts for him, no matter what happened, no matter what came his way, so long as those eyes stared back at him he had nothing to fear.

“We can still talk this out.” Her voice was clear and crisp, slicing easy through the tension in the air. He looked away from his reflection in the window and back to the group, his grip on his pistol shifting only slightly. This had been a mistake. He had given into a moment of weakness and now look at where he was. The woman, Rei, seemed to take his silence as a nod to continue. “There aren't too many out there, if we-” from outside, a Grimm rumbled hungerly cutting her off.

“No.” His hand tightened, the curve of his index finger firm as the tip pressed against the trigger. “You all brought them here. You must leave.”

“That thing is just outside, if we leave now-“ the mousy man started, and stopped just as quickly as the barrel of the gun twitched in his direction.

“You have weapons here, if we use the roof we can shoot the Grimm in safety.” Rei spoke again, her voice so easy and smooth. His mother’s voice in a darkened room, before she had left him. His off hand jittered, he could feel his breath in his throat.

“No, no, no,” his voice compressed in his throat. Was this how muscles were meant to contract? No, his body was his, he could trust that much.

“We can leave immediately after that, Disuke is a good shot. Once the Grimm is dead we can leave.” Rei continued on. Was she closer now? Had she taken a step? His gun hovered between the mousy man and Rei, uncertain where to be. A mistake. He would be fine if they weren’t here. They were to blame.

“You must go,” he spoke in a hushed tone, there was something sweet in the air. Something in the eyes of the others that made his heart flutter.

“If we leave now it will just rush through the door. We must kill it before we leave,” Disuke spoke, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t flinch as the gun turned towards him. Yes, they were against him. All three of them. They brought the Grimm to his home because they wanted him to suffer. They wanted to hurt him.

Outside the Grimm called again. Different. Wary.

“We just need to work toge-“ Rei took a step forward. Close. Too close.

His hand twitched and the gun barked, Disuke groaned as his hand snapped to his side as Rei screamed and the mousy man retreated back. A strange laugh escaped his lips. Yes, they just needed space between them. So long as they were separate, it would all be fine.

Outside the Grimm whined.

In Rei’s glasses he could see his eyes reflected, a waning golden red, like the final rays of daylight. Yes, so long as he had these eyes staring back, he would always be fine.

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Wissen Durstig

11 years as a Grimm, 19 as a human.

Memoriam Vorero

Born through a need to know, to learn everything she could. To stamp out every unknown, to devour every minor fact and figure, to know even the hidden things, the little secrets and private thoughts man hides within his mind. What use is knowledge if it is not complete? If people can hide information from you, keep it from the world, then it is not knowledge at all. Her obsession is simple, it is the Pursuit of Knowledge.

With a touch, Wissen can meld the minds and memories of people. She can warp what it is people are able to remember, and the mind will accept her changes so long as they are not deeply inspected by the person. Changing early memories can make it easier to change more recent ones of Wissen is attempting to pace herself into the mind of her victim as a friend, for example.

Those of strong minds can often pick out what is wrong and attempt to discard these false memories.

Memories, I am
By grasping her prey, Wissen is able to delve into the mind of the person and devour their memories. She can learn what person knows, pick out portions of memory that even the victim might have forgotten, and feed her oppressive desire to know.

It can be hard for her to pull out memories that a person hasn’t thought of for a long time or the person wishes to keep secret unless she is able to trigger that memory in some other way.

Scholar's Satisfaction
When needed Wissen can grow out claws on either of her hands which she can use as weapons against any who threaten her. These claws are coated in her blood which acts as a powerful paralytic.

Chalice of Knowledge
From within herself Wissen draws free a chalice of glittering gold and shadow which mesmerizes any who look upon it. Once she has materialized it Wissen slices open her hand, and fills the chalice with her her blood and offers whoever is near to drink from the cup. Once the blood has been consumed, that person will know all that Wissen knows, but in return that person will become deeply loyal to Wissen. They shall do as she commands, their eyes shall be her eyes, their minds her minds, and their actions extensions of Wissen’s will.

She is curious, in the blighted way that only Grimm could be. All must be known, understood, and any who hold knowledge back from her must be made to talk. She is sadistic, happily so, and finds joy in spinning intricate plans, especially if she can turn loved ones against one another. Nothing draws out those hidden secrets quicker than two friends turned to enemies, each looking to step upon the neck of the other. Wissen is smug, with all that she has learned, all that she knows, how is it any one human could truly pose a threat to her? And those other Grimm? They are tools to be used, a means to reach the end of one of her little schemes.


They always lied.

Every time they spoke, it was a fresh lie. They never spoke in full truth, they always held their own thoughts back. To be polite, they gave incomplete opinions, half formed truths.

“Oh, that shirt is so pretty!”

That shade of orange really doesn't go with your complexion

“It's a good start, but I have a few issues with it…”

You really should just delete all of it and start again.

“Maira? Are you ok?” The voice cut into her thoughts, like the scrape of dental equipment on plaque. She could see her own eyes reflected in the man’s glasses, a cool green. A color like tarnished copper people always told her. Beneath the glasses she could see her professor’s eyes, wide as concern hung onto his face. Not quite the look of someone who seemed uncertain if you were fine, but more like the look on someone's face as they watched a feral animal whose chain had snapped. Something in his eyes made Maria feel excited, caused her heart to flutter against her bones, made her joints feel loose.

“They’re all liars, professor.” Her lips felt jagged, sharp. Nothing pulled as she felt that it should,as if her cheeks were numb. Her professor shifted in his chair, leaned towards her, a hand half outstretched uncertain. Hovering in the dead space between them.

“Is there something you would like to talk about, Maria?” He asked, a repetition, but different. Maira half twisted towards the doorway, the tips of her fingers grazing the glazed wood of the door as she pushed it closed. The chair croaked as the man stood, a long groan of old wood. That chair didn't lie.

“You are no different. You don't tell the whole truth. Why?” Her teeth scraped against the inside of her lips. Her eyes were wide.

“What are you-” Her arm snapped out, gripping his mouth, her fingernails biting into the professor’s cheeks. Maria snarled, her lips curled, teeth flashing. Her professor gripped her arm, attempted to pull her away. He was strong, but she felt unmoveable.

She could feel his bones through his skin, feel them creaking. Straining. Cracking.

“Why does everyone lie? Why? Why?” Her words scratched in her throat, a scream pressed against her palm. “All you had to do was tell me everything


In his glasses, She could see her eyes reflected. They burned like a golden flames, and Wissen smiled.

He wouldn't lie anymore, would he?

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Older than most

That Space Between

The Patchwork Path
Fate is one of what could be and what should have been. Her obsession lies within the flow of time, of the lives people lead, and the individual destinies they left in their wake. In this way Fate always knows what will come, but is left forever chained to it not coming to pass or to always arrive until the moment finally comes. Like a cat in a box, waiting for the lid to be lifted.

That Which is Spoken
With her Stigma Fate can set a person’s fate in stone by simply speaking what will come to pass. She is able to set more intricate fates should the person confirm that they wish to hear what will come to pass. Fate does this by choosing a possible pathway of time and setting the person upon it.

Waking Dreams
Fate looks out upon the flow of time and probably and from that can draw predictions of what might and what could. Should she share what she has seen then it will cease to ever be.

Should permission be given, then from a person Fate can unravel their string of fate and weave it into the fabric of the clothes she wears. This will free a person from the path they might have walked, and grant them her safety from the throws of what was meant to be. The misfortune of what could have been sustains Fate, and allows the person to choose their own way forward. However, should Fate die then those who are linked to her in this way will suffer the same.

If requested Fate can return the thread to the person it had been unwound from.

Fate is a mischievous sort, often she will choose the destiny that would not most harm or help someone, but the one she finds most amusing. Despite her disposition towards the negative, Fate is typically not actively harmful towards those around her. She seemingly always seems to know how things will play out, however she can quickly be lost in moments when destiny doesn’t follow its assigned course. She has an odd bend towards justice, but it always is hard to tell if she has muddled in the course of events or not.

She feeds upon the gathered misfortunes of the detached destinies that she has spun into her clothing.




Love (Silver)

Post-Empress, younger than most

Lover’s Adoration
Love--pure, abiding, burning love. Her’s is the captivation of the heart, the desire to prop up and embolden another, to see them succeed and grow. To find comfort in the presence of another and to provide comfort to one in need.

My place by your side:
Love derives sustenance and strength from the presence of her "true love." The closer they are, the more she receives. Her "true love" doesn't need to love her back, but if they are feeling active fear towards her the process is weakened slightly. If she were able to find some way to make her target "true love" experience true, untainted love for her, that would be best.

Vows which bind us:
Once Love’s heart is set upon a target, she will gain access to a weakened version of whatever power the person she is infatuated with has. If the person she loves finds they develop natural feelings for her as well, be it a reciprocation of Love’s love or something like friendship, then the powers she has will become more potent.

True Love's Reach:
Though on her own she's often regarded as weaker than most other Lords, where her "true love" is concerned she has amazing flexibility. When protecting, following, supporting, or observing her "true love," her powerset changes to make her better suited at accomplishing that task. She has little control over the specifics of how her powers change to accommodate the needs of her “true love”, however.





Love (Gold)

Older than some

Thorns of a Rose
Hers is a love that languishes in the crooked corners of the mind until affectionate thought turns one towards obsession. She loves, and she needs to love, to have and hold, to cling till death do they part for without out that love she will fray in her loneliness. Her love is obsessive and all encompassing, her need to be with her love is more important to her than anything else. Though she would never kill the one she loved, the wants are such that she would place a drop of poison in their food all that she might be the one to nurse them back to health.

This is the room for her and her love to be together, beyond the demands of the words. Isolated, together. Always together. The room shall take on the function of whatever her love desires, and should those desires not be manifest than the room will be Love’s bedroom. Whatever her love might need, the room will provide, so long as it is something that can be replicated. To leave, one must open the door, and to open the door one must simply find it, or somehow convince Love to show them the way out.


These, our burdens
With the activation of this Stigma Love can accept the physical trauma that the target of her obsession would have taken. Their pains shall become hers, the toll of blood removed from her veins, this is her protection for the one she wishes to keep safe above all others.

This, my wish:
The physical protections offered by transformation outfits is greatly increased for the target of Love’s obsession. These protections extend to non-witches or other Grimm should she find herself fall for them, so long as they wear clothing or have on their person a gift that Love has given them. Should the person be carrying a token granted by Love, any attack on that person would be drawn towards that token.

Be with me, my love
With this Love can draw a target into her demense which can be done one of three ways, either by passing through a door she opened, falling asleep in her presence, or consuming the food she creates.

True Love’s Kiss

Love places her hands upon the cheeks of the target of her affection and requests from them consent to a kiss. If consent is given then Love will give them a kiss. Once this connection has been made both Love and her target will be healed to the healthiest state either of them are currently in. Further Love gain access to the powers of the one she had kissed.




Name: Melancholia, the King of Loss.

Age: Post-Empress.

State: Sated.

Obsession: We all have, and then have not. From love to wealth, from peace to joy, both tangible and intangible are capable of being ripped from your unwilling hands. Melancholia is born of what comes after. The tearing ache that cuts through your chest like a knife, the drawn out wistfulness to return to what was, the harrowing grief in mourning a time now past. This is the obsession of Loss, and it includes the subdomains of Bereavement, Sentimentality, Longing, and Desolation.


Across a world a quarter the size of our moon, a sprawling cityscape of spires and bridges takes shape. This is Tristel, the Demense of Melancholia, built in the image to reflect her favored themes. It acts as a stage for her machinations, a home for the hapless mortals she has enticed into her presence. Inside, they engage in perpetual drama and conflict, compelling them to form tangled webs that can only lead to tragedy. Here, two lovers meet in secret, only to be poisoned by their mother. There, a noble nurses a newborn son, fated to die at the advisor's hand in a ploy to gain the throne. These little heartbreaks may go on for hours, or days, or years, but at the peak of misfortune they will always revert back to whence they began. From there, the plays begin anew, the actions and scenery different but the outcome always one of woe.

At the densest part of this city lies an imposing castle, the Heart of Tristel itself. While she may choose to take any form in any place, Melancholia prefers to manifest herself as the ruler of this castle and the surrounding lands, and keeps inside its walls a collection of trinket mortals and stories she uses to pass the time. In here, she may be seen to hold a more petulant attitude, pouting or sulking when certain things don't go the way she intended. One may consider it an honorable place to be brought into the Heart of Tristel, but be wary; here, you are closer to Melancholia's attentions, and she has been known to kill, torture, or maim even her closest toys in order to expound her the misery of her playings. In the very core of the Heart is Melancholia's Vineyard, captured strands illused as a spreading mass of grapevines. Thousands of tiny grapes, each a world, turning to ripeness as all hope within them is abandoned. When they ripen, they are plucked and juiced, then replanted to begin the cycle anew.


Locations influenced by Melancholia take on moods that evoke sadness. Colors seem to dull in her presence, laughter and joyous cries lose their light touch, and cheerful music almost appears to switch in tone. Even the weather is afflicted, bending in favor of overcast skies, cold winds, high humidity, and thunderstorms. This aura affects individuals as well, dampening happiness within. While it will be hard pressed to dent unbarred optimism, it can trickle seeds of shattered hope in the hearts of the unwary, and seems to worsen existing pain by a hundred fold.

Dark words find their way into the thoughts and dreams of the vulnerable, seeking to plant themselves as firmly as though they were always there. They twist the judgment of those who bear the curse, tormenting them with impulsive thoughts of failure, loss, and hopelessness. If the soil is ripe, the whispers may compel their victims to commit acts they normally would avoid, as long as the actions make more fertile soil for the whispers' spread. In this way, they act like a mnemonic virus, indirectly bringing about misfortune to grow sorrow, and rooting themselves in sorrow to prepare for further misfortune.

Any situation based in chance that has the potential outcome of spreading melancholy is skewed in favor of that scenario. Battles that seem evenly matched may inexorably be lost, illnesses barely fatal could bring about conditions that worsen them immensely, individuals engaging in risky behavior might find their risks far outmatching whatever thrill they could have gained. This well of catastrophe manifests strongest around individuals seeded with whispers, though it will tend to work in insidious ways that avoid the correlation being noticed. This only affects things with potentially disastrous consequences, and has little affect on minor woes like traffic fines and bad rolls of dice.

Exerting her presence into her victim strand, Melancholia is able to assert her will in the minds of her seeded victims, directly whispering into their minds. She is able to affect specific individuals or the host as a whole, speaking words as if they were the thoughts of the victims themselves. Using this skill, she is able to cause irreparable mental damage, push the targets to committing acts expressive of their emotional state (such as self harm, drug use, or suicide) and force specific individuals to override natural inclinations and commit heinous acts they would not otherwise even think of. These are often passed off as products of disturbed minds.


For a world on the edge of despair, this is a death sentence. All claws of dread that have wound their way around the strand suddenly clench, shattering any unsuspecting resolves under their grasp. The result is widespread depression, apathy, and sorrow, culminating in a mass that seems to rise at an exponential rate. Unless the strand was prepared to revert to fatalism or rugged resilience, the scales are irrevocably tipped in favor of the Grimm, and all of humanity is overrun in a crescendo of agonizing desolation.


As with any other Grimm, Melancholia’s personality is largely influenced by her origins. The qualities of her obsession permeate her being, affecting how she develops and interacts with others, and giving a foundation for all other aspects of her nature manifests.

Being the King of Loss, she often possesses an air of gloom about her, and exhibits a seemingly contradictory stance of being happiest when she is the most depressed. For her, sorrow is rapturous, and despite developments in her will she still may impulsively seek out actions that propagate it.

Unlike a true King of Loss, born from the emotion itself, Melancholia was instead created out of the Narrator’s Shadow. Because of this, her obsessions have a literary bend, favoring intricate tragedy over pure, formless despair. In addition, while she will not hesitate to take on the mantle of her emotional facets, she tries to avoid permanence, much as how one who might enjoy partaking in sad stories would not like to live in a sad story themselves.

She also holds a sense of reverence for the Narrator, also most likely as a product of her origins. Sated Kings have learned to bend all aspects of their being to their will, and seeing as Melancholia was originally one of said aspects, it is likely she still retains this sense of deference to a greater self.

Melancholia grieves longer and more passionately than typical, and will have difficulty pulling herself from this state without outside influence. This may range from simple pouting over minor inconveniences to endless lamentation for things she cared deeply about. Unlike many of her other facets of personality, she will frequently try to avoid situations that evoke personal grief, though enjoys wallowing in the thought of such situations occurring.

Of the Strands Melancholia has internalized, the majority can be considered “modern” in temporality. As such, she has a strong infatuation with the past, especially for the period considered Mediaeval. Akin to anyone reminiscing over bygone years, she sees the social nature of this time as better than any other, skirting around or outright ignoring flaws it contained. She also portrays it in distorted and melodramatic fashions, favoring her idealized impressions over factual intricacies of the time. In addition, Melancholia has an impossibly vast memory for things she has already experienced, again tinted by an idealistic view.

Melancholia wants what she does not own, perhaps only overshadowed by Grimm of purer desirous obsessions like Envy or Lust. She builds aspirations around things she wants to acquire, spinning massive plans out of even the most fragile of hopes. However, if something impedes her from obtaining what she’s set her eyes on, she gracefully accepts it, holding her dreams as they are and patiently waiting in a state of wistfulness. If, at any point, the impediment is released, she will not hesitate to wrap her claws around her prize.

Hope, to Melancholia, is something to be destroyed. She takes no greater pleasure than in the building, nurturing, and inevitable ruination of optimism. She sees herself as skilled in foreshadowing, effortlessly weaving omens and hints that are hidden until it is too late, and has prowess in baiting with promise and switching for a darker fate. Because of her youth, her confidence in her abilities is overwrought, though her potential for their growth is infinite.


“The beginning is not when the first word is written, or the first breath drawn. Only when meaning is felt, when one first understands does a story start.

You will not be strong. With but a brush of your fingers, worlds will unravel, destiny writhe to your intention, lesser beasts take knee, but you will never be strong. That is good. There is enough strong amongst the scattered stars. Instead of strong, you will be brilliant.

Not at the start. Never at the start. Your legs are still fresh. Your mind is untested. These are your first coherent thoughts without the clamor of irrelevant desire drawing you away. Do not be frustrated by your limitations they were always with you, the only difference is as you didn’t see them. Those imperfections will define what shall make you grand.

You will be brilliant, my daughter. That I promise you. Now, speak.”

She opened her eyes and saw the world as one, knowing at once this was not how life had been. A thousand fractured images danced inside her memory. A thousand different sights, a thousand different eyes. Yet, even with this echo of her past remembered, everything she felt right now seemed… natural.

Bathed in the touch of the wind on her milky skin, she raised a hand to the sky, turning it over in the overcast light. She stared at her fingers, fascinated. Her fingers. She had shape above the forms she once held, a body she could call hers and hers alone. Lost in awe, the child King turned to her creator, and whispered words that tasted delicate on a single, gentle tongue.

“Where are we?” she asked. It seemed the proper question. Though she placed no name to the watchful face, she saw it as familiar.

“This is a Demense, a world of scraps and crumbs, held together by the shadow of a King. It is your shadow which binds this world.”

She turned to inspect the land around them. At first, the same grey haze that obscured the sky seemed to be the only feature, but as she stared faint outlines took shape in the mists. The longer she watched, the crisper they appeared, until a strong gust cleared the fog from the scenery it hid. What lay behind was beautiful. Tall, dark towers made of worn stone, bridges spanning ravines in the rocky earth, walls and spires that twisted together like claws searching the heavens. Breath left her, and for a long while, she was only able to gape in astonishment.

“This all… all of this. It is mine?” she breathily exclaimed.

“It is.” He extended an arm, stretched his fingers to a distant horizon. “This world is yours to give shape and meaning. Your desires shall command it, and those which live upon it.”

She smiled, and though it didn’t touch her eyes, it was meant as genuine. The expression was short lived, soon melting into a despondent grimace.

“I… apologize, but I’m not entirely certain who you are. I’m not even certain who I am, myself, and all I recall is scattered. May you…” she paused, uncertain how to phrase what she wanted to say.

“I am the Narrator,” the man said. In the low light his golden eyes danced, a trembling flame which had caught dried wood. “And you shall be Melancholia.”

“Melancholia.” She rolled the name in her mouth, savoring every syllable. She was Melancholia, and that name was hers to own.

(Credit to UmbraSight for the Narrator portions.)

Preferred Manifestation:


Once, they had a name, but they gave it to those who were without. You may call them [Respite].

Age: Very old.

State: Sated.





Streets without signs, buildings unbuilt.

The childhood homes of children never born.

Festivals and parades, called short by tragedy or inconvenience, find new vigor here.


Effluential Inspiry.

Through gentle breath and soft caress, ideas on the brink of reach can be brought into mind. Those touched by this power remember things they have long forgotten, see the perfect solution for their troubling obstacle, or maybe just finally catch that thought that's been dancing on the bring of their mind. Though [Respite] does aid the process, a limit is drawn by the subject's own mental ability; the stronger their potential to recall or understand, the greater the boon.

Once Seen, Unseen.

Troubled memories often settle on strands bereft with strife. To all in their embrace, [Respite] soothes the pains of the past, and fades harsh images to grey. They do not destroy the memories, exactly, but instead destroy the grasp they hold on the victims' lives, enabling the eventual acceptance and dismissal of what once had been. In time, to those affected, what once had been seems only a dream of a dream, as if everything that had happened was nothing more than a figment of the mind.

Futility Unfounded.

For a short time, in a small place, to a negligible effect, the impossible is made possible. A man who was never meant to marry finds someone to love. A cat that always dies alone is found and nurtured. Little hopes, undreamt dreams with no consequence to the strand and universe as a whole, but always something that changes the life of someone that would have no chance besides.

Dreams of Beyond.

The waking world is one of strife. Under the glow of light-unlit, sleepy eyes fall slowly shut, and descend into an echo of Reverie. These are the wisps that flit inside [Respite]'s world, the ghosts of the spirits of dreamers experiencing a realm of unreal wonder. They see only what they wish to see, often living out the lives they wish they had in the comfort of a world that shapes to their whims. When they finally choose to wake, they feel better rested than they ever have before, though are touched by a distant longing to go back to the sleeps where dreams came flesh. Some may choose to never leave, once asleep, and are slowly drawn into Reverie as true residents. In the waking world, they fall into a coma and eventually perish.


Being of Not-Being.

That which is not is, and that which is, from hence forth, never was. A seldom-used strength, and for good reason; with this, [Respite] could draw an entire strand into Reverie, or craft a new strand from what lies inside their Demense. That which is unmade no longer exists from the point it is stolen. Though memories remain of its existence, and its effects in the causal past still hold, all possibilities of its existence on the level of strands is cut short. In essence, the target no longer has any potential of existing on the level of strands. This does not take away the possibility of existence on any higher level. For the unmade made, it appears to originate out of nowhere, blooming into a tree of causality as soon as it is brought into existence.



Sit by the fire, child, and I'll tell you a story. I swear by my heart that every word is true.

It all began in a far off land, the name of which has long since been lost to the annals of time. In this land lived a young prince, the first child of the king and queen. He was given all he could ever want. The richest foods, the shiniest toys, the best tutors and caretakers money could buy. Yet, the prince felt something missing from his life. He would stare out from his tower window at the city children below, longing to go down and play with them. One day, he went to his father, the king, and asked if he could go out to play.

"Nonsense," his father said. "You have everything you could ever need inside our palace walls. Besides, those are the common folk. You are far above them."

The prince knew better than to argue with the king, so he returned to his room, head held low in sadness. That night, he prayed to the heavens.

"Great gods above, please, if you can find it in your heart, send me a friend."

No answer came, so the boy fell asleep.

Several weeks passed like this. Days spent staring at the children below, nights spent praying to the gods above. Nothing changed until the thirtieth night. That night, the boy had a dream.

He was in a room much like his own, but brighter. All the colors seemed a richer shade, vibrant as the colors of nature, and the air seemed bright with a silvery light. The source of the light sat at the end of his bed; a young girl of silver, smiling at the boy. Silver hair, silver eyes, silver dress, silver skin. At first, the prince was awestruck.

"Are you a goddess?" he asked her. She shook her head, and replied.

"I'm your friend."

The boy's heart leapt at the words. For as long as he lay dreaming, he talked with the girl, learning much about her and teaching her much about himself. She called herself Shar, which in our language means "sanctuary" or "hope." It is the island you see when lost at sea, or the path you find in the deep, dark forest, that guiding force that drives the wayward back to peace. He told her about his father, and his mother, and the things he learned in studies. She told him about seas of shining stars and worlds far beyond his own. This became a nightly meeting, the prince eager to fall asleep and dream of his one friend. One night, he asked her why she couldn't come outside the dreams as well.

"The world outside is a scary place," she whispered. "There is war, famine, and disease. Once, I walked outside and tried my best to stop it, but it was far too much, so now I stay here."

"But there are good things out here too," she insisted, but she would not listen.

In time, the boy's father grew ill and died. The prince and his mother grieved, but he had been a harsh man, and their sadness did not last for long. The boy was still too young to rule, so his chancellors ruled in his stead. With his father gone, the prince gained more freedom, and began to explore the city from which he had been long barred. He made new friends, but always returned back to Shar of his dreams.

One day, he met a girl, and that was all he could talk of to Shar.

"She has the most beautiful eyes," he said, "and a voice to make the heavens weep!"

"I am happy for you," Shar replied, smiling. But as night after night passed, every dream spent talking of the girl, Shar's own smile faded. The prince wanted to speak of nothing else, from their first kiss to their walk along the river to their whispers of betrothal under the palace garden trees.

Months passed, and the prince's mother fell ill and perished. That was the first night since his first dream that he did not go to sleep.

Shar was worried for her prince. She feared the outside world, but concern lead her to peel back the curtain of her home, and step out into the prince's palace. She wandered the halls, seeing for the first time the place he had spoken of for so many years. The sound of crying caught her ears, and she followed it. She found him in the throne room. Found them. Her sobbing prince, wrapped deep in the arms of the woman with beautiful eyes and a voice to make the heavens weep.

It was too much for her. Silently, she pulled back the curtain, and stepped back into her home far from the outside world.

That night, the prince did not dream. Nor did he the next, nor the next, nor the next after. He tried everything he could think of. Praying each night, drinking from the sacred waters, performing rituals his wise men held in their ancient books. No matter how hard he searched, his hope was gone, abandoned for reasons beyond his understanding.

Years passed. The prince ascended to the throne and married the woman, but his life was incomplete without the dreams with his hope. He fell into a deep shadow, and the kingdom fell with him, turning to disarray and poverty with the neglect of their ruler. The prince, now king, grew older and older. He lost many things: Wellbeing, respect, and wealth, but none hit him as hard as the death of his queen. That night, with tear-stained eyes and a hollow ache in his heart, he cried out a prayer to the heavens.

"Gods above, why do you punish me so? You take my hope, my kingdom, and my love. Let me cease my being, so my soul can ache no more."

He fell asleep, and that night, he dreamed.

At first, he was surprised at the sight of his childhood friend, still as youthful and bright as the last time he'd seen her. He was quick to jump to words.

"Where did you go?" he demanded. "You left me. Why? What did I do wrong?"

"I didn't realize how long-" Shar replied, but she stilled her tongue. "You're old. Dying. Come with me. You can live in my dream forever, I can keep you happy-"

"I just want to stop feeling," was all the king replied.

"I can give you anything you need! I'm sorry I left, it was wrong of me, but I can make things right!"

"I just want to stop living," was all the king replied.

Desperate, Shar pulled him into herself, hoping she could help him change his mind.

His mood only darkened. She gave him a grand castle, with a thousand mighty guards. She gave him a garden ten miles wide, filled with every color of the rainbow. She gave him horses, and riches, and all the books he could ever read, but the damage had been done. His hope had abandoned him, and he did not want it back.

Shar came to realize she could not let her prince go, no matter how hard she tried. He would not be happy until he ceased, but to do that went against her being, went against her heart of hearts. In a throe of pain, she beseeched her powers for a cure.

"If I cannot forget him, then let me forget myself! I don't want to be someone to make him suffer! I don't want to be someone who cannot let him free!"

And so she forgot who she was, and let both her being and her prince drift into nonbeing.

She is still out there, somewhere among the heavens. Nameless, formless, but alive. They say she is the one who brings dreams to the loneliest of dreamers, and comfort to those who need it most.

Some nights, I think I almost hear her voice.


They take many forms. A man you once think you knew, a woman you can't seem to place a name on. Every shape holds an echo of remembrance, as if just beyond the boundary of your mind, a fond recollection of this creature stirs.

As [Respite] moves, they seem to lack fluidity, instead shifting from frame to frame like a poorly-crafted animation. Every motion leaves behind an echo of what once was, which slowly fades from both reality and memory while the seconds pass.
Name: Scourge, Lord of Contempt.

Age: Younger than some, older than many.

Obsession: Hidden Malice.
Blessed is the fool with the open foe, who snarls and spits at his pitiful face. Blessed is the fool in the shallow depths, who knows the threat his every step may bring. Some hearts are not black to the sight of the innocent, but instead pink and complacent, turned dark with rot under the flesh that seems so pure. Fear the rose before the brambles, as though the latter has a sharper sting, the former hides its teeth behind malevolent beauty.


Sacharine Tongue.
To the unwary ear, every word Scourge speaks seems to carry an air of trust. He appears compassionate, soft-spoken, and warm, instilling some inexplicable instinct to trust him. The more the listener opens up to the predator, the more entranced they are by what he says, eventually taking him on as their closest confident.

Glamoured Visage.
As his words impart a sense of trust, so his face imparts a view of beauty. While he oft maintains a similar appearance, he undertakes subtle changes that influence his victims' perceptions. Slightly, subtly, he shifts to better fit the afflicted's idea of attractiveness, taking on an echo of their desites in how he manifests. Piercings, eye color, skin tone, dimples, and other similar minor details may appear to change to fit this power's end.


Manifesting his wrath in physical form, Scourge creates shuddering black flames. To anything nonsentient, they merely act as a normal (albeit incredibly destructive) power, but living creatures face excruciating pain and intense shame to the point of openly welcoming death. They are cold to the touch, and appear to consume animate flesh at any speed Scourge desires. He is able to generate Infernathema in short bursts at any point in sight, in extended, flamethrower-like pulses from his hands and fingers, or in the form of a long, sinuous whip from either palm.




Name: Kour, Lord of Submission.

Age: Newer in age than many, and weaker because of it.

Obsession: Subservience.







Over a decade, but under two.


-Strength through unity: Grows stronger as they experience pain. Injuries do not cause them pain, nor do any abilities that would ordinarily inflict it upon them; only the sensation of disharmony, either within an individual or within a group, does it for them. In practice, this means that while they're around humans, they're constantly in pain, and the larger the group of people, the more pain they're in. It also means that their power is directly proportional to the number of people nearby and the degree to which they hate each other, and to how successful they are at killing them (people tend to unify against an overwhelming threat). When Harmony ceases to feel pain, they lose all interest in continuing to fight; they will usually attempt to leave the area at this point.
-Energy projection: Their body is effectively a cracked suit of Grimmpocalypse combat armour, fitted with a gas mask and helmet. Liquid energy leaks through the cracks, and any other gaps in the armour; it also seeps through the fabric at the joints, though it rarely does this fast enough to be effective. The colour of this energy is related to the level of harmony between the entities around them; green means good, red means run.
Harmony is capable of weaponizing this energy by manipulating it, either by shooting it out like a spear or swinging it around like an especially liquidy sword. The energy tends to splash on contact with a surface, rather than immediately penetrating it, but it tends to burn through whatever it impacts very quickly (and very messily).
-Energy collection: Energy attacks which impact Harmony are absorbed into it. Any force from the attack will still be applied, sending Harmony flying into (or through) walls or across the sky or whatever as per usual, but attacks that rely purely on special effects, or on heat, etc., will be largely ineffective. Magically augmented shotguns are good; magically augmented flamethrowers are bad (especially since the energy might convert the flame fast enough to reach the pilot light, potentially damaging the weapon or operator in the process).
-Durability: Harmony is very, very, very tough to damage, and nearly impossible to kill. Its durability does not seem to be proportional to the level of pain it feels, unlike its power in general; it's just sort of ridiculous. Because of their (relatively) short range, lack of speed, and single-minded determination, containment seems to be the easiest way to deal with them. Containment is fairly easy, so long as people are kept away from it.
-Conversion: animalistic Grimm are 'synced' with its mind upon coming close to them, essentially joining a sort of hive mind that allows them to act in total harmony. This effect is weak, when compared to those of other 'psychic' Turned or Lords. It only mildly affects Lords, and with the exception of extremely weak-willed individuals, is unable to convert them in any meaningful way; it only unnerves Turned. Harmony is only capable of communicating directly with its hive mind; not even humans who have become members of the Communion are able to actually speak with it.

-Communion: Humans who remain in direct (unlikely) or indirect contact with it for extended periods of time (months to years, depending on the willpower of the individual, or less if rendered vulnerable through the consumption of certain drugs) are forced into a sort of synchronous relationship with Harmony and with other members of the so-called Communion. Their behaviour is more akin to that of a cult than it is to the perfectly unified Converted Grimm; however, they do seem to share a sort of pool of information, as they tend to react as a group to things that only one member experienced or realized. It is not clear to any of them where this information comes from; most simply put it down to a revelation from a deific figure. In the short term, the only symptom of Communion is that an exposed individual might have vivid dreams of a squad of seven Russian soldiers fighting Grimm with the use of what seem to be Witch powers, despite the fact that just over half of them are male. At first, the dreams focus on only one individual at a time, occasionally moving between them as per dream logic, but as the process continues the sufferer's perspective progressively widens, until they are witnessing events from the perspective of all seven soldiers at once. Once the process is complete, the sufferer ceases to dream at all. Instead, they experience a sort of summary of what all wakeful members of Communion are experiencing at that time. This is rarely useful.

Whatever remained of the seven saints has long since been shredded into fragments. Harmony itself rarely manifests these traits anymore; instead, they are projected into the minds of members of Communion, who subtly shift their personalities to accommodate them. As the saints were selected for their pliability and willingness to follow orders, and as Communion tends to create a very spiritual atmosphere within the individual experiencing it, the Communion itself tends to be very serene and calm, even under circumstances where this would be inappropriate. This tends to creep most people out.
Harmony itself is, as mentioned above, driven, single-minded, ruthless and violent. They are more a force of nature than any sort of distinct individual (or even group of individuals), and they behave appropriately.

Once upon a time, there were seven saints, who served a monolithic god of order. The god of order had weapons a-plenty, to be used in the defence of its people, but it discarded them all. Too dangerous; too unpredictable, it thought. They could not be controlled; they could not be managed. And it was right; they were born, not made, and so they were too vulnerable to the changing world around them.
So the god of order took seven lumps of clay, dangerous in their own right, and made them into statues, and then the god drank a very special potion, which it had brewed from the blood of another god, and spat it out onto the statues, and they came to life. And they bowed before the god of war, and went off to fight. But the other god had been a god of change--a liar and a master of profane subtleties. It had been bound and tortured far beneath the god of order's kingdom, but it knew what had been done with its blood, and so it smiled, and hawked, and spat, and its bile came up through the Earth and infested its blood, cursing it. And the edges of the minds of the seven saints chafed, and rubbed together, breaking the still-soft clay up until it was a single lump again; and then the maggots in the bile of the god of change came out, and moulded the saints into something vaguely human again. And this was Harmony, and they looked about themself, and saw the kingdom of the god of order, and decreed that it was improper, and that it should be destroyed. And so it was. And so Harmony slept, and so they sleep to this day.

Covered above, in Stigma. A crackling being of liquid energy, encased in combat armour that would have been state-of-the-art during the Grimmpocalypse, but which is nonetheless nearly indestructible. The colour of their energy is variable, and depends on the level of harmony in the environment around them. Green is good; red is run. Their body language implies serenity, even during combat.
Name: Abaddon, King of Destruction

Age: Younger than some, but old enough

State: Recently Sated

Obsession: Suppression of Passions.
Within every human there resides a seed of darkness. It is the root of your hate, your rage, your anger. He is that moment of blooded passion, the loathing which causes you to raise up the blade and drive it deep into the flesh of another. Let the wrath grow, and you will draw the eye of Abaddon. He will whisper to you, words which will claw into your mind until you begin to lash out. Destroy everything until you yourself are lost.

Demense: Kalabhairav

The crumbling remnants of cities lost to wars of unspeakable destruction.

Post apocalyptic in appearance with toxic air, streets full of sinkholes, and buildings that teeter on the edge of collapsing.

Ancient cities long forgotten, lost in times of war reside here, eternally preserved.

Animosity- For those with the misfortune of being seen by Abaddon, the darkness within begins to rise. A spiraling touch of the most negative of emotions descends upon the heart, encouraging the anger and mistrust with soft caresses. Small disagreements become screaming fights, and anger turns to aggression. A rise in violent acts is always a sure sign that Abaddon has infected a new strand.

Tension- As animosity rises, it affects the globe, spreading from cities to entire remaining countries. It whispers doubts and venom in the ears of all who are open to it. It cannot yet corrupt the gentlest of souls, but it can touch all those around them, turning them against each other. It divides on a personal level, but aligns all with mistrust of each other.

Explosion- Tension outweighs all else, worming it’s way into all who have heard it’s voice. The band can only stretch so far before it snaps, and when it does, it brings the world crashing down around it. Total chaos reigns, leaving the path open for the King of Destruction to walk on the earth.

Wrath- Wars between those who are left in the strand reach critical, and fire rains down from the sky on the less fortunate. Anger and destruction consumes all. There is nothing to feel except rage, absolute and deafening. The need to break, to burn, to crush has consumed all else, and the strand is left in ruins in Abaddon’s wake.

Personality: Passion.
The core of all strong emotions is passion. That burning, deep flicker that ignites your love, your hate, your drive. The passion for what you desire, for what you despises. It burns bright in Abaddon, and he pursues everything he does with the utmost passion.

Nothing makes you move quite like anger. The burning to do something, anything. To move, to break, to shatter everything in your way. The inability to rest. The need to do. This King is driven to keep busy no matter the cost. Sitting still does not befit him.

Periods of calm mar his rampages, as random as the luls between his rage. He can change modes quickly and fluidly, as fast a lightning crack. The smallest thing can send him spiraling into a bloodlust or soaring into a content space. Be careful how you tempt him.

The same passion that brings him so close to his chaos also leaves him falling spiraling deeper into it. The Obsession of one who never dies can only deepens further with every passing day. He latches on, and the restless drive to pursue it at any cost takes over. War, death, hunger, respite, whatever it may be. He’ll chase it to the ends of the universe if he must.