[Marsh]

Mark - these contests are always so fun! ♡

[trans]

res ♡

[Cyrano]

/

[elyx]

username: elyx
name: ‘bandit’
tell me about them:

seedy bars and gas soaked sleeves, motor oil and the roaring of the bike engines.

this isn’t how life was meant to turn out, but it’ll have to do for now.

teenage rebellion cultivated into adolescent restlessness, an inability to settle down. instead of reading the books they’re burning them, huddled around a gasoline fire in the moonlight. knowledge is power, but it isn’t freedom.

gone are the days of hopes of good grades and plans for a future career. it’s much more freeing to live each day as it comes, much more interesting to never know what each day has in store. much more lonely.
it’s freeing, but it’s lonely.
always travelling, you never truly have a home. a family.
but that’s the sacrifice for freedom. and freedom she had.

the early days of a freshly 18-year old dropout, taking on jobs if and when she could find them were gone. from lonely grubby tents and campfires to leather jackets and bikers.

it was the closest to family she’d have, but she was still alone. sure, it wasn’t exactly family per se, but there were a few constants in her time with them. mostly others just come and go, taking the part of the journey they please. but she was in it for the long haul. in for sharing beds in shoddy motels, sleeping under tarps against motorbikes in damp junkyards and scrap heaps.

it’s free, but it’s not safe. they’ve been lucky, but luck often runs out.

rowdy kids, spilled gasoline and molotov cocktails are never a good combination.

she woke up to the inferno, gasoline smoke burning her nostrils, her lungs, her eyes. she couldn’t see so she ran, lungs burning from the smoke and exertion, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

sirens. she ran but it wasn’t enough. she was taken first as a suspect, an accomplice then a victim.

her next few months were filled with photos of charred leather jackets and bike wrecks, indistinguishable from the scrap. survivors guilt.

teenage rebellion cultivated into adolescent restlessness, resulting in the inability to settle down, but too much fear to pursue her old lifestyle. burdened with constantly feeling misplaced and never finding anywhere she can call home.

burdened with regret.

she’d take it all back if she could.
in a heartbeat.

x x x
x x x
x x x

[SilentMelody]

Username: SilentMelody | Name: Psyche (short for Psychedelic) | Gender: transmale | Aesthetic: grasping colors

Psyche is a photographer, but not just any type of photographer. He captures the beauty of people and their everyday antics. For this moodboard, it shows that he believes that people's hands are very important. Hands are things that create and destroy, things that nurture and crush, things that are capable of good or bad.

[wwwitch]

username: wwwitch
name: Irestal
palatte
tell me about them:

He is the one who is most intimate with the history of the stars, can point out with eerie accuracy a single star in a infested sky and tell you it's complete story from the moment it burst into beginning, because he was there watching when it happened.

No one knows the age of the being untouched by time that wanders through their lands, with galaxies reflecting in his ocean blue eyes even in the middle of the brightest days. The jewerly that curls around him is tarnished from age, but still gleams and shines as if freshly polished.

They avoid him, their instincts warning them a great danger whenever they come near the creature that holds the shape of beauty but they know he truly isn't. At dusk they can see him, as if to greet the rising moon, and many have sworn to see the moon reflect in the expanse of his eyes as if they were the sky.

When he speaks a shiver runs down the spine of any near enough to hear him, but the bravest and most curious linger to listen to his words and the ancient wisdom that hangs from every syllable, even though most often his words are never in a language still alive today.

[cribunni]

aloe~ || Lavender || Demigirl



“I knew it was love, when I first noticed you, as you asked me about my favorite color. You wanted me to describe it vividly, and for some reason, I couldn’t find any words in my throat as I looked at your smile. I told you it was purple, light purple. You flashed your smile again, and I could only then think of the color of your cheeks. Or your eyes. I often find myself drawn to yellow. It is a vibrant color, and holds a warmth I’m not quite used to feeling in my chest. I think you’ve got a collection of yellow sweaters to make my blood stop in its tracks. Never have I seen someone look like the very sun that brings life to this planet. Maybe it’s not purple, maybe it’s a pastel yellow. After that day, you graced me with your presence several times. It was obvious that you wanted to start something. Of course, friendship is an alien concept to my dim mind, and silence seems to fit better into my vocal cords. So as I watched you speak into my hard, stone wall shell, I watched you slowly lose interest, too. Your aura turned from a bright yellow, to a cold blue. I can’t say that I blame you. I’ve been told more times than I can count, that I remind people of a mute. My tongue twists in hatred as sit silent. I cannot show people differently if I’m too scared to. So I write ‘mute’ in bold black letters across my forehead, as if to give everyone around me a warning. A forethought. I was once told “You reflect what you believe.” And if believing I am nothing more than a snide conversation about that ‘quiet girl’ in math class, than I guess I’m reflecting a battle field. A blood red battle field of short answers, and judgmental stares. Trust me, and don’t take this lightly, social anxiety is no joke. I am no mute, I have simply silenced my voice. What is the point of wasting oxygen when your words float through the ceiling, no gravity in their syllables. I could waste a colorless apology, but I know that I could never be brave enough to let my words float into your ears. I see things in colors. Each voice has its own unique hue, wether it be a light purple, or a pastel yellow. My voice is grey. It has collected years of dust from sitting on my shelf of failures. I know, it’s not fair that I have done this to you. And I wish I could tell you that you deserved better than that. I’ve noticed lately that your yellow has turned dark, and sluggish. You’re beginning to look like a wilting flower. My words would mean nothing to you, but when I first saw you, my color palette changed. My grey hues turned to beautiful purples, and yellows, and maroons. You are a piece of art, your face holds thousands of colors that I could not dream of painting. It’s none of my business wether the hard times are weighing you down, or drowning you, but let me tell you something; when you sink, it’s just your paint brush being cleaned.”

Lavender signed the poem with a shaking paw, slipping it into the cream envelope. She stood and watched the girl laugh with her friends, digging through her locker. Lavender smiled lightly, a dreamy look dancing across her cheeks. The girl walked away, and Lav quickly loped across the hall, gingerly taking the envelope and preparing to slip it into the locker. She stared at her messy handwriting for a moment, her thoughts cut short by a gentle touch. Lav yelped, wipping her head around. Her wide eyes met a pair of smiling brown ones, the girl laughing at Lav’s expression.
“Hi Lavender. Were you.. wanting to give me that?” Lavender looked down at the poem, paws shaking. She felt her cheeks burn as she shoved the envelope into the girl’s paws.
“Yeah! Sorry.. I hope you like it!” Lavender smiled nervously, running into the lockers before turning the corner and rubbing her face. The girl watched Lav, grinning as she nervously walked away. She stood there under the hallway light, her face turning a bright red as she read the letter. The hallway around her exploded in color, and she rubbed the sleeve of her yellow shirt.

palette

[persona]

username: persona
name: adira
aesthetic: here
by yefeistyle under CC BY-NC-ND 2.5

╒════════════════════════════════╕
dear whoever reads this,
life is droning on, and i miss my family. it's unfortunate we're so far away from each other; the
loneliness is getting to me. if i could make one wish, it would be that the earth crumpled under
itself to make the distance shorter. my mother said father misses me greatly, and i can't imagine
what she feels. she never tells others her sorrows.

i guess the only good to come out of this is distancing myself from the stress of it all. ironically, if
you're reading this it means i did go back to my parents, and have abandoned this place for the
time being. please take good care if of it if you incline to use this as a resting area.

not even the stars, my greatest friend, can comfort me in the anxiety i feel with my father's
health. sometimes i wish i could re-invent myself and start over but i can't. all i can do it walk
this path fate has given me. pray for me, and my father.

best of health,
adira.
╘════════════════════════════════╛

Adira is no fancy empress or some high-ranking noble; she's never had those expensive clothes that shine in the moonlight or whatever poems they wax. Her mother worked to afford necessities, and her father stayed back to take care of Adira; it worked but it often meant long stretches of time without seeing her mother - an unfortunate evil. Because of this, Adira grew incredibly close to her father, and confides in him most of her troubles.

Whenever Adira fell into a flunk that seemed to have no fix, she'd go out to a pasture or empty field and lay on her back staring up at the stars. The eerie calmness and silence might've freaked someone else out, but it put her mind at ease. Her haven remained solely hers for a couple years until tensions rose in the town areas surrounding hers, and a small civil war broke out. Adira had been young, and didn't know for what - she still doesn't, but no longer cares anymore. War is a horrible act of humanity, and she has the scars to prove it.

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mom told me to write to quell my boredom. i guess i will. hm. well, today we got ambushed downtown which was scary as one of dad's horror stories. i don't know where we're going but i guess it's far away. uhhhh. apparently dad knows someone who can take us in. that'll be cool; it's like a long sleepover except we're running for our lives not for fun. i got caught in the crossfire of some fighting and now i have a couple injuries which don't hurt as much as i thought they would. i don't look cool now but i will when they heal.
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isn't it crazy that we're literally fighting in some dumb skirmish that we're not even involved in? i never thought i'd touch weapons but here i am! my friends wouldn't last in this - i hope they're okay. the stars have become a great comfort to me - at least i can bring them wherever i go.
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diary entry #243
i think dad is sick. despite the fact we haven't moved houses in a couple years, dad's health hasn't gotten better. i want to stay naive and pretend he'll get better but i'm not a child anymore. i do see him tending to those freaking wounds he got in that war a while back, and i think they never really healed. i wouldn't doubt it. nothing like getting infections to destroy an immune system.
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entry whatever
this place has been stressing me right out of my wits, and i hate to admit, but i feel i'd be better off taking a break. i don't to leave my father, with him being chronically ill but i need to leave. maybe it's my presence or something, haha. i heard there was an opening or two in the guard-thing nearby for the government. now, i don't pay attention to that stuff at all but it might give better healthcare. imagine the benefits. if there are any let's be realistic here. don't tell anyone but i went and looked at it, and applied for it, i guess is the word. if i get through the application process i'll be making more than i am right now, and my parents won't worry as much. i hope the stars bless me tonight when i go stargazing, and i make it.
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Adira is forever grateful for getting the job: her father has better care, her mother doesn't have to spread herself so thin, and Adira can distance herself healthily and create a life for herself. This guard job is the reason she left her family, and is the reason she went back - this opportunity allowed herself to grow as a person, and let her decide her own personal values: she definitely wants her family by her side. If there's one constant that's always been there for her - it's the stars, and she could never wish for that to be replaced, even in another life.

[deerbroken]

┌────────────┐

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│

username: lavender towns
name: Apollo
aesthetic inspo: this?
image credits: x x

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└────────────┘

┌─────────────────────

tell me about them!:

Floating. The empty void around them is endless, but it brings a strange comfort as they idly reside in the middle, going nowhere. They could move, if they pleased, but it felt pointless; where would I go? Will there ever be anything for me to find?

A light shines ahead of them suddenly, and they make an attempt to swim to it. As they wade through the murky darkness, it feels as if they are getting further away, and desperation takes control of them, their arms flailing wildly as they push forward. The light reverses to engulf them, and without warning, their world goes white.

A field. They sit now in a grassy field, their vision hazy and their body weak. The blue sky above holds no clouds; they admire the view, but their brow quirks as they realize that despite the warm rays of sun touching the field before them, there is no sun. Instead, a black orb looms above, the edges tinted a deep red. Wisps of red and white flow around the form, and they feel a small rise of panic in their chest.

Is it an omen? I can’t quite tell.

The heavenly body is hard to look at, and each time their eyes fixate on it their head hurts. They avert their attention to the grass below them, grabbing the tufts of green vegetation between their paws. The reeds feel like plastic, but the smell they emit is authentic. Joy tingles up their spine as the scent of fresh grass fills their entire being, and they lean back, relaxed, taking in the gentle rays of the sun.

Perhaps the orb is the sun, in some odd form. Even after all this time hidden within their own psyche, they still can’t quite pick up every hint and implication their subconscious leaves for them. They feel their hair rustle in the gentle breeze, and they take a deep breath, before another state of panic registers.

I'm waking up again.

They feel the heave of their chest as they try to take another breath, but their world is encased in darkness. For a brief moment, they feel reality rushing in to greet them; the wind on their skin, the fur in their ears, the birds singing nearby. Before they can bring their eyes to open, however, they fall back into their slumber, their mind numbing as the feeling of their physical form fades completely.

Damn, they think, their body in an entirely new environment. They sit at a strange table, the world around them an odd shade of purple. Strange figures talk amongst themselves and pour each other cups of tea, and Apollo recognizes the narrative from a book they once read. As the strange silhouette adjacent to them offers some tea, they take it, smelling the clear liquid within the cup. It seems to be infused with orange. The guests at the table stare, and they take a small sip. The black figures go wild, applauding the kalon for whatever reason. They shake their head, continuing to drink from their cup as the figures go back to their own conversations.

The dream lasts for quite some time, their mind wandering absently as the world around them remains the same. It can be rare to have a long time within one dream, and they take the time to recount the information they still have with them.

My name is Apollo. I was born on earth, and I'm stuck now, wherever I am.

Occasionally they wake to hear voices of those around them, talking about simple things like the weather or their schedules. Before they can open their eyes they always return to their eternal sleep, the rush of empty blackness always returning when their consciousness fades.

It’s frustrating, but they’ve come to accept it.

As they refocus their attention, the scene has changed; the world around them is now much more colorful, with large flowers and strange, unearthly animals chattering to each other just behind the tree-line. The figures are now visible, their clothes outrageous in nature but their physical attributes quite human. The man serving tea waves to them, and they wave back, though they can’t help but look confused. They don’t understand.

More dreams come and go; it feels like days have passed, but they have no understanding of time anymore. It could be weeks, months, even years that they’ve been here; they can only remember their dreams now, the strange landscapes that surround them and fade all within what feels like minutes after generating. They tire of this world; they loathe the endless darkness, but they have no other recollection of reality. They only have this world, and the knowledge that none of it is real.

They feel their physical form again, their arm being touched by another kalon, and their consciousness snaps back to reality. They can’t see, but they can feel that they’re moving, the sound of wheels and footsteps beneath them.

Where am I going? What’s going on?

Silence resumes once they reach their destination, though they feel cuffs going around their arms, and small circular objects attached to their forehead. Their mind goes blank again, but there are no dreams this time; they feel nothing. There is only darkness ahead of them.

A sudden jolt wakes them up, their body tensing and eyes opening instinctively. As they come to from their endless slumber, their mind races, the room around them far too bright. They think to move their hands, and they do, surprisingly, gripping the air around them.

“I…”

“Don’t talk yet,” a soft voice tells them, and they recognize a figure standing over them. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” The figure laughs a little, and Apollo offers a half-heartedly smile in return, their mind delighting in the realization that the action is something they’re capable of doing. The other kalon helps them up, and the two walk across the tile floor, Apollo’s legs wobbly like that of a newborn deer. “That’s it,” the stranger coos, allowing Apollo to rest on a chair while they dig through a locker and give the newly awakened kalon a uniform.

Apollo can’t quite understand, but they comply to the best of their ability, putting on the sleek jumpsuit. They stare at their hands while the other kalon talks. They pick up on their voice occasionally, but their focus is on themselves; they’re back in the real world. They’re really, truly back.

“Excuse me,” they interrupt, looking up at the other person. “Could you pinch me?”

They laugh, but nod in understanding as they give Apollo a little pinch on the forearm. They wince, but as the feeling of pain resonates they can’t help but smile.

“Thank you,” they mumble, their paws clasping together. “I just had to be sure.”

“I understand,” the other kalon replies, offering another smile. “You’ll feel normal in no time."

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[sylveonsweetie987]

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username: sylveonsweetie987
name: Gloria Galoris

tell me about them!:
You find a small, battered diary in an old tenement from many years ago... whoever owned this is surely dead. Marked on the front cover is the name "Gloria." Inside the front cover, it reads, "If found, please return to Gloria Galoris at Littlehill Farm." You decide to skim the entries.

Diary Entry #1.
Its my tenth birthday and Daddy got me this diary! He taght me how to to spell diary to, which is cool becase I didn't now how to spell it before! I'm so happy and I'll write in here evry day!

After this point there are a few more entries, then a few years seem to have passed where the diary was neglected, based on the lack of spelling mistakes in the next entries...

Diary Entry #8.
Hard times have come upon my family. Daddy is really sick and can't work the farm. Mom and Brother surely can't make enough money by themselves. I'm scared... maybe that's why I picked this diary back up. Maybe it will comfort me.

Diary Entry #263.
After a long year- I think- of sickness, Dad died from what we think was the tuberculosis. I really don't know what I'm going to do. I feel as if a dark cloud has descended upon my family. Do we even matter in the big sceme of things? I feel lost, like there's no point...

Diary Entry #381.
Today I convinced Mom that I should be allowed to leave and go try to make us some money. I'm heading to the big city! I think I might try to get a job in one of the music clubs.

Diary Entry #406.
Today I arrived in the city. It wasn't too hard to find a club looking for a singer, and I have a lovely voice. I hope they want me! But if not, I'm not too sure where I'm staying...

Diary Entry #408.
THEY ACCEPTED ME! $2 A NIGHT JUST TO SING! THIS IS AMAZING! AND THEY'LL HOUSE ME IN AN APARTMENT ABOVE AS WELL! I CAN"T BELIEVE IT!

Diary Entry #624.
I can't believe it- my manager just promoted me to the star act of the show! I will have to send the news to Mother and Lewis posthaste. I can't believe how much money I am making here- Mother and Lewis are surely doing well! I do miss them, sometimes, though...

Diary Entry #853.
After the stock market crash and the prohibition laws, things have been very bad. I don't make more than 20 cents a night, and that's big money nowadays. I remember when I was making $10 a night... those were good days. We've been going on. hiding our wine from the policemen who raid us every month or so- but times are so hard...

(Diary Entry # not written, but it is the 889th entry)
I write this in haste- the policemen caught us. this is my last chance to write before they take us all away in handcuffs. mom, lewis,I love you. whoever finds this, please return it to the farm outside of Littlehill. tell them it's Gloria's, if they're still alive...

Downcast by Gloria's unhappy tale, you set the weathered red diary down. You feel like you knew this deceased kalon as a friend, though she certainly died long before you or even your parents were born. You realize you can faintly hear a warm soprano voice humming some lovely old-timey tune with a bit of a swing beat to it. A notion pops into your head that maybe she isn't so dead as you thought... you dismiss it. Clearly, that's just a flight of fancy... right?