[CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

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[CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by UmbraSight » Wed Apr 26, 2017 1:03 pm

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

Age:
(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?)

Obsession:
(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?)

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

Sin/Jewel/Crown/Throne:
(Draw from the forces which shaped you, and tear apart all who stand in your path.)

Personality:

Biography:

Appearance:
//...from the stillness, shifting. From the silence, a gasp...//Fall of the Aelir Isles Vol III

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Re: Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by UmbraSight » Wed Apr 26, 2017 1:03 pm

[Reserved for Grimmness]
//...from the stillness, shifting. From the silence, a gasp...//Fall of the Aelir Isles Vol III

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Re: [CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by Annasiel » Wed Apr 26, 2017 2:46 pm

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.

Demense:

Tristel.
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.

Image

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.

Stigma:

Dreary.
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.

Whispers.
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.

Brink.
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.

Contact.
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.

Crown:

Terminal.
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.

Personality:

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.

Loss.
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.

Bereavement.
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.

Sentimentality.
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.

Longing.
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.

Desolation.
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.

Biography:

“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.)

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Re: [CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by Annasiel » Sun May 14, 2017 2:17 pm

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.

Stigma:

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.

Jewel:

Infernathema.
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.

Personality:

Biography:

Appearance:

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Re: [CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by Annasiel » Sun May 14, 2017 2:19 pm

Name: Kour, Lord of Submission.

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

Obsession: Subservience.

Stigma:

Jewel:

Personality:

Biography:

Appearance:

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Re: [CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by Annasiel » Wed Jun 14, 2017 8:59 am

CS

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

Age: Very old.

State: Sated.

Obsession:

That-Which-May-Not-Be.

Demense:

Reverie.

Image

Streets without signs, buildings unbuilt.

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The childhood homes of children never born.

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


Stigma:

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.

Crown:

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.

Personality:

Biography:

Appearance:

Image

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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.
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Re: [CS] Doki-Doki Channel! Grimm Compendium

Post by UmbraSight » Sat Sep 09, 2017 5:38 pm

CS
Name:
Apathy

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

Obsession:
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.

Stigma:
Langour:
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.

Doubt:
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.)

Sin:

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

Personality:
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.

Biography:
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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//...from the stillness, shifting. From the silence, a gasp...//Fall of the Aelir Isles Vol III

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