2019 by Abi & Two. Proudly created with Wix.com

Aug 26

Iris Curran

0 comments

 

Full Name: Iris Amelia Curran

Age: 23

Birth date: February 13, 1996

Hometown: Bismarck, North Dakota

Sign: Aquarius

Race: Human

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Orientation: Heterosexual

 

 

Background:

 

• Born the surprise third child, and only daughter, to Erin and Alexander Curran.

• Developed a love of music that was encouraged by her elder brothers.

• Won the title of Miss North Dakota in 2015, and the scholarship that goes along with it.

• Enrolled in college, with dreams of someday becoming a prolific writer dancing before her. Has a special love for horror.

• Involved in a car accident that left best friend in a coma, and herself blind in left eye, and covered in scar tissue.

• Following accident, and months of recovery, dropped out of college.

• Desiring a fresh start, and complete break from her old life, moved out west and bounced from town to town. Recently bounced her way right into Wailing Rock.

 

Skills:

 

Cooking, Writing, Singing, Juggling.

 

Strengths:

 

Creative, Determined, Humor, Affability, Compassionate.

 

Weaknesses:

 

Extremely sensitive about scars, Stubborn, Impulsive, Impatient, Hates mirrors, Terrified of cars.

 

Bits and Pieces:

 

•Hasn't been in a car since coming home from the hospital.

•Generally pretty easygoing.

•Has an unhealthy love of puns, and dad jokes.

•Has never mastered any instrument, but is a decent singer.

•Is deeply fascinated by the idea of the paranormal and supernatural.

•Has submitted a few stories to online magazines.

 

 

Stories

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Posts
  • Thackery Claybourn heard the call of cosmos incarnate ... or so she imagined, her madness having descended to depths rarely seen but for the darkest cellars of asylums long-closed. The resonant, rousing cry of the earth itself from far across the sea summoned her to these moonlit shores of one Wailing Rock. Her footsteps sank into the shifting sands of timeless, tide-worn earth, sea creatures disturbed by each successive step in her plodding journey. Bubbles errupted from her clogged lungs, bursting on the surface not far above now as she drew nearer to her destined destination. The veiled head of an old, weary woman breached the surface, her one cloudy eye gazing around the cliffs while the light-house beam sweeps across them. Bubbles disturb the water of her half-submerged face and she strides onward, rising out of the water with a steady strength that betrays her apparent age. Confident steps take her onto solid land, soaked to the bone with sea water and skin like a shrivelled prune. In one hand, a hook, in the other, a crook, raising both to the full moon in a deep, rumbling roar that rises to a shriek. Her knees buckle beneath her and they thump into the sand, the rest following suit until she's prostrate before the fateful cliffs, making unnatural, unseemly sounds like a cat out of hell with a hairball stuck in her guts. She retches, she gags, she pukes and spasms as gob after gob of stringy seaweed erupts from her very lungs where she'd shoved it with ritual purpose. Now it flails from her mouth like salty tentacles, wriggling as the last few air-pockets pop and hiss their enchanted breath into the night. The drooling old woman suddenly seems every bit her age; gone was the strength that saw her across the sea bed. Lights in clifftop dwellings turn on here and there, but curiosity gives way to fear and indifference for the most part. T'was just a beast in heat, surely. Thackery Claybourn, Green Hag of Pendle Hill, had reached her final destination; the invigorating thought being all that kept her from passing out with exhaustion and magical fatigue. Certainly if not for the full moon's boon this would never have happened by her hand alone. Her arthritic head turns on a creaky old neck.... noticing the smaller island shimmering offshore. "Gamorrah's hairy balls.. I'm on the wrong cunting island" said the dear old lady, and promptly fell comatose in the soothing surf, which whispered promises of a pleasant death in her ear. Her sleeping mouth gaped like a fish out of water, wider and wider still... until a brown raggedy rat struggles out. Thackery manages two words, though they may be her last "Jenkins... Fetch..." Her vermin, familiar with the cryptic command, scuttles into town to lure a cat that lures a dog, in turn its owner to the cliff edge - where a woman lays dying on the beach. A bell was rung. Ropes were cast. A call went out for aid.
  • 》Name : Merry Morgan 》Alignment : Chaotic Neutral 》Age : 136 - Appears 26 》Race : Nature Spirit 》Orientation: Pansexual Merry has always been, though Merry hasn't always been Merry. For 136 years she has always been, and before that matters not, because she hadn't been then. When Merry first began, she wasn't a Merry. She wasn't an anything, a terribly confusing state to be in. But the harsh rattling of crows greeted her new being, and sang to her new ears, and she found she liked it. Harsh but lovely, this was decided, and then it had always been too. She had always been a crow from then. Before she wasn't, but before didn't matter because she hadn't been then. She was a crow now, was a crow always. Except when she wasn't, when she wasn't she was a woman, and she dubbed herself Merry, which she had always been from the first moment she was a woman. Merry is a kind crow, a kind woman, she's always been. Except when she isn't. One hand to cause the hurts, and one hand to soothe them. She provides a balm for aches even as she creates them. Merry is a canny crow, a canny woman, she'll tell anyone who asks her just so. Curiosity can lead to trouble, but answers usually follow. Answers and understanding go hand in hand. She'll tell anyone who asks that as well. Merry is a curious thing, has always been since her ears first listened and she first heard the crows. Since her eyes first opened and she saw a woman weeping. Since her lips first parted and she formed questioning words. A curious thing is she, and no curiosity can go ignored. As much as she watches, and teases, and plays, Merry is a very good listener as well. She'll tell anyone who asks her just so. She's always listened to a strange humming, a soft humming, a curious hum. She's always heard it, except when she didn't. A hum she heard and a hum she followed. A hum she chased, but a hum she didn't find. She did find an island though. A curious island with curious people and curious things, and Merry decided she'd been there forever. Except when she hadn't been.
  • Jsyn's spent the majority of his awareness of time, in the depths of the pacific oceans . The last decades up in the Alaska coast , Now he has trailed something along the ring of fire, coming further and further south . To the average eye, he worked a small commercial fishing trawler or was diving for sea urchins that clung and thrived along the sheer walls and canyons down in the frigid , black waters . Jsyn bears many traits that reflect his natures infinite ties to the Ocean , anti social and deeply distrusting of his own kind, females of the species even more so . Territorial , he started scouting out the rugged shore lines and below , for any dens or caves being un claimed by others . { tunes he has on high rotation on the boat }