Marker of: None. Marked by: Cellar Spider (throat) Mannerisms: Bratty and crude, tends to make jokes regardless of whether or not they're appropriate. (A coping mechanism, what?) He is impulsive, always handling or fidgeting with something or else he is uncomfortable staying still. Chews his lip. Has little to any shame. Would do anything for the right price. Dreams/Nightmares: Dreams of seclusion, being far away from shore, from people - out of earshot, possibly forgotten. The thick smell of smoke, of high licking flames on a familiar building. Broken glass and bloody palms, a blurred sense of reality and the utter feeling of total, incomprehensible loss.
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Fleshworker, a curved bone needle. Task: Modifies bodies, heals wounds, and perfects the flesh. Transformation:
☩ They can touch a wound and feel what needs to be mended or broken. Their fingers yearn to perfect blemishes and injuries. They feel compelled to fix, even against someone's will; they begin to deliberately cause injuries to others, just to be able to feel the rush of fixing them.
☩ Those they heal require constant upkeep and maintenance from the Fleshworker, lest their bodies fall apart in their absence.
☩ Their own body does not always feel right. Bones shift under their skin, their fingers move before they intend. Some nights, they wake up with new anatomy — extra ribs, organs that should not exist, new joints — but by morning, they are gone.
☩ The more they heal, the less human they feel. Their fingertips turn black at the edges, their veins shift beneath the skin, their pupils turn dark and empty.
☩ They feel every wound they heal. Each broken bone, each torn muscle, each tear. It festers and flares inside of them, absorbing their patients’ pain. Their skin begins to collect every scar, every slice, every scab like a living tapestry of the commune’s injuries. At night, they toss and turn, feeling every incision they made or pain they cured that day.
☩ Their repairs are too perfect or subtly wrong; healed bodies seem just slightly unnatural, too smooth, too strong, or uncanny in some way. Mended skin turns numb. Fingertips lose feeling. Bones become unbreakable or brittle.
☩ Their presence is soothing. Fear, pain, grief — all negative emotions fade when they are near, replaced by comfort and even elation.
[ SEPTEMBER 2025 - COMMUNE ]
Marker of: None.
Marked by: Cellar Spider (throat)
Mannerisms: Bratty and crude, tends to make jokes regardless of whether or not they're appropriate. (A coping mechanism, what?) He is impulsive, always handling or fidgeting with something or else he is uncomfortable staying still. Chews his lip. Has little to any shame. Would do anything for the right price.
Dreams/Nightmares: Dreams of seclusion, being far away from shore, from people - out of earshot, possibly forgotten. The thick smell of smoke, of high licking flames on a familiar building. Broken glass and bloody palms, a blurred sense of reality and the utter feeling of total, incomprehensible loss.
Fleshworker, a curved bone needle.
Task: Modifies bodies, heals wounds, and perfects the flesh.
Transformation:
☩ They can touch a wound and feel what needs to be mended or broken. Their fingers yearn to perfect blemishes and injuries. They feel compelled to fix, even against someone's will; they begin to deliberately cause injuries to others, just to be able to feel the rush of fixing them.
☩ Those they heal require constant upkeep and maintenance from the Fleshworker, lest their bodies fall apart in their absence.
☩ Their own body does not always feel right. Bones shift under their skin, their fingers move before they intend. Some nights, they wake up with new anatomy — extra ribs, organs that should not exist, new joints — but by morning, they are gone.
☩ The more they heal, the less human they feel. Their fingertips turn black at the edges, their veins shift beneath the skin, their pupils turn dark and empty.
☩ They feel every wound they heal. Each broken bone, each torn muscle, each tear. It festers and flares inside of them, absorbing their patients’ pain. Their skin begins to collect every scar, every slice, every scab like a living tapestry of the commune’s injuries. At night, they toss and turn, feeling every incision they made or pain they cured that day.
☩ Their repairs are too perfect or subtly wrong; healed bodies seem just slightly unnatural, too smooth, too strong, or uncanny in some way. Mended skin turns numb. Fingertips lose feeling. Bones become unbreakable or brittle.
☩ Their presence is soothing. Fear, pain, grief — all negative emotions fade when they are near, replaced by comfort and even elation.