The Outcasts // space idiots exploring the galaxy // Group RP // 5/5 {CLOSED}

((Hi everyone! Long time no see! Hope this is okay @blue_topaz, let me know if any changes need to be made))

Name: Caelon Hou’Delor

Age: 21

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Pansexual — Open (Interact at your own risk)

Species: Sominim Deanguis (Known as the Somi) — A species of humanoids with horns, fangs, mermaid/fin-like ears, eyes void of irises and pupils, webbed fingers and toes, and patchy scales.

Role: The Monarch (Prince)

Appearance: Caelon is around 5’7” with copper toned skin. Both his eyes, which are all one solid color, and his scales are a dark blue. Most of the time his scales are hidden underneath clothing, but there is a small patch of them around his left eye. His horns are like a ram’s and the same ebony black as his neatly styled hair. Two small fangs jut out from his lower lip, visible even when his mouth is closed.

Usual Attire: Although the royal colours are black and gold, Caelon can often be found in blue and gold to match his scales. He wears sweeping gaudy robes, dresses, and cloaks most of the time. He almost always has a full face of makeup, including winged eyeliner, blue glitter spread across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, and even oils to make the scales around his eye shine brighter.

Personality: Rambling nonsense, draping himself over furniture, and gliding aimlessly among the castle’s endless halls— The Mad Prince Caelon is a flamboyant and somewhat unpredictable figure. He’s known to be cruel, cold, and quite literally insane. However, this has yet to stop him from trying to seduce palace guards and anyone else who’s misfortune drags them across his path.

Backstory: As the second child of the royal family, ruling has always been out of the question. He was raised to be married off as a peace offering or prize when the time came. With his sister in line to be queen and just as corrupt as his parents, Caelon found himself increasingly lonely as he aged. After a tragic event occurred when Caelon was 15, even the servants of the castle rejected his presence. Isolated and alone with only verbal lashings and jaded whispers to accompany him, the few that know Caelon’s story will say he went mad within the castle and will never see the light outside it’s walls again.

(sorry, guys! went out with some friends but I'm home now, I promise I'll get my template up soon. I'm trying to gage the group dynamic before I fully develop my character so I can make sure they fit

Otter, I love him!! Ahhh I can already tell he's going to break my heart)

(she looks great!! tomorrow is Christmas eve so I'm not sure how often I'll be on, but I'll try my best. Also—@TiredOtter is now a mod here, she's 'in charge' [not quite the right word to use in an rp, but oh well] whenever I'm away)

Name: Vic / No. 68 (at the laboratory)

Age: 16

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Asexual and questioning his romantic orientation, not open for shipping

Species: He’s the offspring of two mutants who were the results of selective (forced) breeding between humans and an alien species called the Cryth. Cryth are a vaguely insect-like species vaguely resembling oversized moths, but Vic ended up inheriting far more human genes.

Role: Survivor

Appearance: Messy black curls, pupils dilated just enough to be unsettling, grey eyes tinged with lilac when hit by the light. Hollow cheeks and delicate features, thin lips, a straight nose. There’s something unnaturally sharp about the composition of his face, a starved quality to his impossibly scrawny figure. A rapid clicking noise in the back of his throat accompanies each word he speaks, usually unnoticeable but quite eerie in the dark—his Crythian roots seeping back in. He has long, slender fingers adept at pulling things apart and putting them back together, scars ringing his wrists and ankles, mangled shoulder blades where two shrivelled, useless wings once were. Yet more scars blemish his ashen skin (it’s not grey enough to be immediately noticeable but adds to his subtly inhuman appearance), marks from the constant injections of a syringe, clean cuts along his chest and stomach, and a tiny white slash across part of his top lip. Two small, feathery antennae are hidden by his thick hair.

Usual Attire: Muted shades of grey and purple, anything that is simple, unnoticeable, and easy to move in. He likes anything warm, thick, and with pockets (he’s always chilly) but usually goes barefoot or only in socks.

Personality: Very skittish, very shy, and very closed off. He means well, and though he takes a long time to trust others, he’s extremely attached to the select few he loves. He prefers not to interact directly with all but his closest companions, will only speak when absolutely necessary, and communicates through little gestures (making the others breakfast before they wake up but disappearing before they do, sneaking funny little robotic creations into their rooms, dusting their portholes. Tough to get close to. If he’s confronted about his past or something that upsets him, he’ll basically shut down and step away. Definitely not an optimist, the world has never been kind enough for that, sees everything through a very analytical lense.

Backstory: A few generations ago, a few Cryth were captured alongside a handful of humans for a series of torturous, government-approved experiments. The aim was to selectively breed the two species and see if the most positive aspects of both could be combined. The experiments eventually resulted in Vic’s grandparents and parents, but something went wrong when the scientists tried to go further. Vic was the only fourth-generation mutant who survived (but was born with shrivelled wings and a couple other mutations), and was subjected to inhumane, painful tests and attempts to alter his inner workings for most of his life. He ended up in Delos at the age of thirteen when a series of events led the scientists to deem him to be a danger to society and a potential leak of their confidential information.

(the form for the security droid character is coming soon)

((he and saral would be great quiet time buddies. just chilling together when they need a break from the loud personalities around them))

(they would! Vic’s gonna love her~)

Name: Echo

Age: Was built roughly five or six months before the crew broke out of Delos

Gender: Female

Model/Type: A line of extremely sophisticated security droids developed to guard Delos

Role: Droid

Appearance: A little dented after three years on the run, but in relatively good shape, all things considered. Made of a white, reflective material, has a vaguely humanoid shape and a grey screen for a face. Lights of varying colours will shape her eyes and occasionally lines of script. Her overall figure is a bit like a cross between this: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/403705554096358578/ and this: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/700450548272751250/ (minus the plants). She’s weaponized, but only uses those settings when the ship is under attack.

Usual Attire: She wears an apron when cleaning up or cooking. The crew gifted her a strand of pearls one time, and she wears them whenever she can.

Personality: A sweetheart, takes care of anyone aboard the ship. Though she’s the kindest robot the crew has ever met, she’s already killed for them and would readily do it again. A very logical outlook on life (naturally, she’s an android) and is still struggling to interpret and handle her own emotions.

Backstory: Was created to guard Delos, but was more interested in taking care of the prisoners than keeping them in line. She was on her way to be scrapped when the crew of The Outcast saved her.

(here she is! sorry her template is a little bit messy)

(happy christmas eve to any here who celebrate! I'm not sure if I can get the starter up today but I'll try. Any questions before we begin?)

(Fine here, though I'll be spotty.)

(hello everyone, sorry the starter has taken me so long! I've been trying to polish it but I've kind of given up at this point, so… here's a kind of messy version)

It was always cold aboard The Outcast. Though its polished white interior was covered in a motley assortment of carpets and quilts, though each window and porthole was tightly sealed against the frigid expanse beyond, though Vic buried himself in the thickest blankets and sweaters, the absence of his friends had torn a gaping hole in the ship. Any warmth had long since trickled away.

Vic tugged the sleeves of his massive sweater over his hands, pulling both knees up to his chest. His current perch, a magnetically suspended seat near The Outcast’s command centre, was far too close to a holographic diagram (their… plans) for his liking. He shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at it. Past his closed eyelids, beyond the massive window in front of him, worlds sped by, stars streaked out behind them. He hardly dared to breathe as their little craft shot through the dark.

He hadn’t always hated it here. But he’d spent a month living with two vacant bedrooms on either side of his, and it was tearing him apart. He couldn’t bear it—no more midnight conversations through the hidden vents in their walls or whispered, giggly lullabies. So he had continued to tidy the rooms of their fallen—straightening Maxym’s figurines, wiping the dust from Jade’s crystalline lamp, charging their telescreens. Caring for two spaces that would never be occupied by his friends again.

Each memory brought him nothing but pain, but he clung to them like lifelines. It was impossible to forget Max and Jadie, anyways—they were everywhere. Their scents still lingered over every room and piece of furniture. Their belongings were scattered in every place he looked. And their voices—stars, he missed their voices—were programmed into The Outcast’s systems.

“Decreasing speed as we approach the Imperial Belt.” An automated voice pulled Vic from his thoughts. “Three hours before we arrive at Syxille, the selected destination.”

He reached for a can he’d set aside (one of Echo’s sugary concoctions) and took a sip, knuckles white around the silvery cylinder. With every minute, the miles between the ship and Syxille fell away. Which meant they had almost reached Ennet. Which meant his former friend the traitor would die soon, if everything went according to plan.

Vic inhaled shakily. The thought shook him to the core.

(I'm assuming Zanna and Saral are also aboard the ship, since they're headed to the city where they've tracked the traitor that sold them out and got their two friends killed. I've named one of the fallen 'Jade' [nicknamed Jadie] with @crocssant-is-a-baddas-bitch-queen's help, and the other Maxym because it was the first vaguely masculine name that popped into my head. Charlotte is in prison right now, I'm guessing? And Caelon is somewhere in her general vicinity, so the two could end up interacting before the ship arrives in Syxille)

The past month had given Zanna had been hard. She said she was fine when everyone could see the bags growing underneath her eyes and the hollowness her once lively figure held. In reality, Zanna had been devasted and she wasn't one to let her emotions get to her or now to even bother showing them to others.

So the past month they had spent working on repairs on the ship anything that might need fixing or could be improved with the parts the crew had. A month gave her too much time and everything had been done. So they had gone and rechecked. Then checked again. She hadn't been sleeping in her own room because it felt too close to everyone and the ones they had all lost and instead slept in the common quarters. At the moment they were in the common area doing yet another check up on their arm prosthetic.

She looked up and could almost feel Jade and Max there, and it brought the memories back with them. They shook their head and kept on working on the arm giving it the fine-tuning it didn't need.

It was so quiet. The halls of the ship echoed each of Saral's uneven footsteps, the same way they did at night. But it wasn't night time, and Saral wasn't sneaking about the ship in search of a map she had left in the mess hall, or to grab a snack for a long night of reading. It was just quiet. Empty, and quiet. She couldn't remember the last time it had been quiet like this, even at night. There were always other sounds, someone shifting in their sleep, a snore, the sound of shallow and even breathing. Sleeping sounds, sounds she had learned meant home.

And now they were gone. Saral could hear Vic's breathing, shaky and quiet, in the silence. Zanna was off somewhere, and if she had been closer to her, she would have heard her breathing. But none of it sounded the same. It sounded surreal, like the hazy sounds in a dream that your mind tricked you into thinking were real. While they were real, and she knew that, they still didn't feel real.

Nothing about this felt real.

Jadie was gone. And Saral knew it was her fault. She was supposed to be the one who noticed things, the one who spotted danger before it reached them. But danger had lived with them, become one of them. Ate with them and laughed with them, become their friend. All while Saral didn't notice.

Maybe it was stupid to blame herself, but she couldn't help it. She had gotten so many people killed and hurt in her lifetime. And now, the people that mattered the most, the ones she couldn't live without, were either dead, or broken. Maybe death would be preferable to this.

Saral inhaled deeply, coming to a stop in the middle of the hallway. She looked up to the lights along the wall, watching them flicker, and wanted nothing more than to curl up and cry. Jadie, Maxym, both of them were dead. Her friend, and her girlfriend. But that was why she couldn't give into that cold and empty quiet around her. Because they needed to be avenged, and she couldn't do that while letting herself shatter into a million pieces.

"Sar?" Vic's thin voice echoed through the space, punctuated by a series of clicks from the back of his mangled throat. Though his muddled lineage hadn't gifted him with much, his nose was as strong as any Cryth's, and his friend's familiar scent was immediately distinguishable among the others that permeated The Outcast.

He broke into a cough. For each genetic advantage there seemed to be five anatomical failures—the ridged nubs that lined his throat, for one. If he'd been born Cryth and not a weak, sickly mutant, they would have served as the base of a proboscis. But they served no purpose except to cause him pain now that he'd been born human.

Well—mostly human.

Vic took another sip of his sugary drink, ignoring the sting that arose as it went down.

Saral squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, before continuing down the hallway, her knee aching. When she reached the doorway Vic's voice had come from, she peaked in, lifting her hand in a half wave that felt just a bit less lack luster than her smile.

"Hey, Vic. What's going on?" It was kind of a stupid question, and she knew that. But it was better than asking 'how are you?'. Carefully, she stepped into the room, leaning back against the wall to give her knee a bit of reprieve. She was a bit confused, half of her wanting to excuse herself and hide away in her quarters with her maps. But this was Vic, and that other part of her knew that she needed company, and that he did too. That being alone wasn't going to help either of them.

Vic could tell she didn’t want to be here, but he cleared his throat anyways.

“On the counter.” He had to try three times to get the simple phrase out—the first two resulted in nothing but a jumbled sequence of whirring clicks. There was no need to elaborate, she was used to his odd ways by now. If Saral passed by the kitchen, she’d see a gift waiting for her beside the coldbox. A miniature blend of herbs in a capsule (her favourites) and a chipped mug beside it, full of simmering sweetened water.

In other words, tea for his grieving friend.

Saral furrowed her brow in confusion, following the directions to the counter. Her knee was obviously bugging her, thanks to the pacing and lack of rest since the…incident. But she made it there anyway. Her lips turned up in a tiny and soft smile, at the sight of the mug and herbs.

She only really drank tea if it was horribly sweet. It was much more preferable, as opposed to the sludge of bitter leaves and more water than tea that she'd grown up drinking. That wasn't really her grandmother's fault, but still. And Vic always knew the best blends to satisfy that sweet tooth. "You didn't have to, you know. Not that I'm not absolutely ecstatic to have some of your famous tea." She said softly, turning to smile at him. The smile carried that weariness it had since their friends had died, but at least it wasn't as fake as it had been those first few weeks. "You want anything, while I'm up?"

Silky hair, polished fangs, full lips, shimmering scales.

Caelon admired the stranger reflected in the smooth silicone columns. He slipped through the hallways like a ghost, barefoot, yet still in a sweeping gown, makeup and glitter hiding the bags beneath his eyes.

“To be or not to be my dear, Dallic? What would you suggest?” At the sound of his name, the guard blocking the entrance to the dungeons shifted his gaze over. His silence was a response all on its own. Dress dragging lazily on the floor behind him, Caelon crept forward. The scales on the bottom of his right heel clicking against the tile.

“My prince.” With a short head bow the guard was once again silent. It was obvious why— always the same. The same, the same, the same.

“I don’t bite.” The prince gnashes his teeth, snarling once again. Dallic remained stoic, much to Caelon’s frustration. “Let me pass— I wish to lament.”

“As you wish.” The man stepped aside, allowing Caelon to continue his drunken waltz towards the stairs. Misguided footsteps falling out of place. As he reached the edge part of him hesitated for a brief moment.

“If I ought to pitch myself down, Dallic, would you miss me?” His voice shriveled like a wilted flower. The darkness, there was so much of it now, rising up from the darkened dungeons and teasing at the edges of his vision.

The guard’s silence said everything. It was always the same.

The same.
The same.
The same.

Cold from the inside out, Caelon began to tread down the stairs, descending into the vast darkness ahead.

Vic wouldn’t meet her eyes. His unnaturally sharp features remained impassive, locking Saral out. He had followed her through the hall and into the kitchen on bare feet, scarcely making a sound as he passed over mismatched carpets and scattered pillows alike.

“New cast. On your bed,” he told her instead of answering. A simple padded device from Tethys B, the last inhabited moon they’d visited, to support her faulty joint.

This was his way. Few words, many gestures, no thanks accepted. “We’re—Syxille. Almost there. Where is Zanna?”

Saral nodded, sighing softly as she picked up the mug. Holding it in both hands to enjoy the warmth, she thought about that for a moment. I've got to find some way to thank him that he'll accept. "Last I heard, movement wise, they were working. In the common area. Do you want me to go with?" She tilted her head questioningly, taking a sip from the mug. "If not, just…let me know how you think she's doing. I'm worried about her." Always worried about others before acknowledging that she, herself, was barely holding herself together.

Zanna was still working away now lost in the mindless work of making sure everything worked. All the finger joints moved fine. The power source was still had years before it would peter out. There was nothing wrong with the arm yet Zanna kept working in hopes something would appear. Once nothing offered itself she reattached the arm to its base which also went on flawlessly before moving onto her leg. It was the same deal. Check the joints, check the power source, see if anything. Absolutely anything wasn't working.

Vic pulled himself onto the counter and perched there like an oversized bird. The diaphanous ends of his sash trailed down from his waist, snaking between the various utensils and appliances that surrounded him.

Too close, too close, too close. She was too close, her body too warm, her scent carrying enough traces of Jadie's that bile rose to his throat. Gunshots echoed in his memory, which, in turn, came rushing forth in a tidal wave. It crashed through every meticulously built wall, stripping his previously neutral expression bare.

Max's blood. Jadie's blood. So much blood. Vic flinched away, trembling.

But he surprised them both once the moment past. For the first time that day, he raised his oversized eyes to Saral's. And, brushing a dark curl from his forehead, he lifted a finger to prod at her shoulder. No explanations were necessary, his silently conveyed message was clear enough.

And what about you, Saral?

(hey @ShadeStar would you like me to send Echo in Zanna's direction?)

(That would be cool.)

Zanna was still working away now lost in the mindless work of making sure everything worked. All the finger joints moved fine. The power source was still had years before it would peter out. There was nothing wrong with the arm yet Zanna kept working in hopes something would appear. Once nothing offered itself she reattached the arm to its base which also went on flawlessly before moving onto her leg. It was the same deal. Check the joints, check the power source, see if anything. Absolutely anything wasn't working.

Though she was a being of wires and circuitry, the little droid liked to think she could accurately measure the mood of her crewmates. Ever since the catastrophe (she preferred to refer to it as just that, too much elaboration could call the file up from her memory drive. The first time she had accidentally triggered the recollection, Echo's systems had shut down for nearly half an hour) morale had been disastrously low. She was concerned for the ragtag inhabitants of the little ship—she was concerned for her friends.

"Zanna?" This particular friend had been in The Outcast's common room for over an hour now. Echo steered herself over to Zanna's side. "Are you in need of my Comfort and Cuddles setting?"

The addition to her wide array of abilities and 'modes' (Destroy, Defend, Attack, Guard, Escort, Domestic, and Passive) had been Maxym's idea. But… oh, dear. It was never a good idea to dwell on him, was it?

Saral watched Vic carefully, taking a small half-step back when he flinched away from her. She didn't blame him. It was hard, being around the others. Even for her. More than just her usual needed breaks when on a ship full of boisterous people. Everything was a reminder, of their friends, the people they'd come to view as family, and the betrayal that had left all of them shattered completely.

When he questioningly nudged her shoulder, she only held his gaze for a few moments longer before her own dropped to her tea. She shifted the mug into one hand, the other coming up to tug the cord out from under her shirt. Her fingers wrapped around the ring hanging there, it's match sitting in a box under her pillow. Promise rings. "I'm doing fine." She said quietly, her smile wavering before dropping completely. "I miss them. And I miss her-so much. But I have to keep going, for both of them. Enough about me. I want to know how you're doing." She couldn't even scratch the surface of her own feelings before turning to those of her friends, needing something else to focus on. Something else to fix.