Majestic Space Duck
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- #57
- Joined:
- August 5, 2010
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[align=center]"Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the circus of the strange, the sideshow of the sinister and the theatre of the bizarre. Enter a realm of dark wonders to indulge your wickiest dreams. Or, if you dare, explore the shadows of your most diabolical nightmares." "Ghosts of the Midway" - Nox Arcana[/align]
Character Number: Sixth
Name: Jezebel Yanaan
Age: Thirty-three
Gender: Female
Sex: Female
Sexuality: Bisexual
Appearance:
[align=center]
 By Kia (DragonCipher) By Megs!![/align]- If you were asked to glance over a crowd of people and search for the murderer within, Jezebel might be the last person you’d pick. She would take pleasure in hearing this, too, for this is exactly what she wants. Her entire physical appearance is morphed around the idea to attract as little attention as possible. A tiny woman by the standards of most feminine fashion, Jezebel barely stands at the height of four feet and eleven inches. She is lithe, but not terribly skinny; agile, but lacking enormous muscle mass. Her build overall is entirely uninteresting like that of her father’s. Jezzy is not to be feared physically, but she doesn't have to be a towering giantess to get people to listen to her.
Her cold, slate-blue eyes, the color of lifeless steel beneath a crescent moon, do much of her talking for her; perhaps her only distinguishing features within a crowd. They lack true warmth and friendliness even if the rest of her body language is geared toward a compassionate display. The negative emotions, however, shine from them with deranged clarity, but the few who see these sides of her generally do not live past twilight. A soft mane of long hazelnut locks frames her sun-kissed features; modestly hiding the young woman’s face like a lady’s veil when she doesn’t wished to be looked at. Jezebel’s voice is sharp and alluring, hardened by years of living in the middle of a city surrounded on all sides by relentless desert and accented with an elegant twist of the Assarian tongue. She does not speak when her voice is not needed, but when she does the words unwind from her mouth as if a carefully orchestrated ballad of twisted lies. Deft, skilled hands move with her speech, accenting the young woman’s words with careful, expressive movements.
To further deter from the stereotypical serial killer, Jezebel wears simple clothing. Never anything flashy, her wardrobe consists mainly of black, tan, and other neutral colors. Most often times she can be seen wearing a desert shawl made of layers of light fabric draped across her petite body. Thin, foot-worn sandals adorn the bottom of her feet that clack against the ground she walks on. Though fashion is not her main goal, she doesn’t have a lot of money to adorn herself with extravagant fabrics. What little money she makes goes almost exclusively to the purchase of medicinal supplies, the majority even of that going to the much more expensive smuggled poisons and unusual herbs that are not easily found in the markets of Esam. Beneath her clothes lies a strap of bottles, tubes, tiny jars, and vials strapped across her stomach by a band. Aside from this fixture, her most treasured possession is her khopesh, an exotic type of sword she filched during her years groveling in Esam.
Personality: - Jezebel was once the picturesque vision of a farmer’s modest daughter; reserved polite, kind, and full of naivety for the world beyond her father’s doorstep. She is anything but guiltless now. Away from the bedside of her patients and vying eyes of the public Jezebel is hardly the overbearingly kind soul she makes herself to be. The cynical, sarcastic woman that she has transformed into is not seen by many, but it is always present, a writhing pessimistic wretch bent on manipulating everything to her heart’s content lurks behind a carefully hung veil of deceit. The need to control, the need to dominate over the weak that had once mocked her is like a drug high for her, just out of reach in the light of day but always and forever a target to be sought. She cannot physically overpower those in her way, and why should she exude brute force? No, she is far too cunning for such despicable methods. Her method is something much more…disturbing.
The svelte, cool voice that glides its way into beds of the sick and dying on arid desert winds may for all ears sound the comforting croon of a mother, the console of a concerned healer, or a whispered murmur of gentle encouragement, but the abysmal silence that trails in the wake of such uttered voices belies this young woman’s true purpose. She has a deep insecurity of being left alone for very long, also fearing that those who do stay around her will ultimately leave her in the long run. In order to counteract this, she surrounds herself with those who cannot physically leave her side unless she allows them to do so.
This being said, Jezebel is a healer in her own right, a deceitful temptress trained in the art of curing by the ancient practices of Assaria. She has contorted her former beliefs and practices into something much more menacing and cruel. By combining the old and new ways of medicine, Jezzy disguises her ritualistic measures as untimely accidents. Jezebel fools her patients into thinking that what she does for them is the best thing, but is in all actuality the opposite; a murderous falsehood stained by the twisted tendrils to take advantage of a human’s weakest moments. A poultice for your heart troubles may just as well be laced with ground nightshade root to fake a heart attack as a bandage for an open wound would be carefully woven with various strains of smuggled Mycotic spores. Her trickery lulls them into a false security and before they can think that she had even done something wrong, they suddenly take an unexpected one-way trip to the afterlife.
She will appear at the doorstep of her next patient hours later, a quiet vesper shrouded in black with an inviting, deceptive smile shining bright in her murderous eyes.
Rank - Shield; Unaffiliated with a particular Shell
History: - The rich, rolling grasslands along the south-eastern ridge of the Zavan Plains was home to a cattle rancher, a man by the name of Feliks. Of Lihn heritage, he was not of poor breeding, but neither was he of noble blood. He was entirely uninteresting in physicality and personality and perhaps the only thing that made him stand out from his neighboring brethren was the enormous red and black titan that followed in his footsteps with motherly grace.
A quiet life was the only thing they ever wanted. Edelsteen, the bloodstone Earth, had bonded to him in the stands in a bizarre twist of fate, spinning him from a boring scholarly life into the very midst of a gruesome and terrible war that he had absolutely no drive to partake in. Almost as soon as they were able to, they simply left the Academy’s forces for a much more stoic life; uninterrupted and repetitious. While boring, it was what they desired. No one bothered them as they farmed for a living; no one forced upon them the ideals of murdering their brothers and sisters. They were happy, and they didn’t want it to change. But like all things within the grand scheme of life, their lives were forever bound to spin up-side down and inverted on an axis when they least expected it.
Across the drifting wind-swept sand dunes of Assaria appeared a ghostly caravan of nomadic gypsies. Offering them a decent place to stay for the night, they glided from their wagon into Felik’s shack of a house. He didn’t know what to make of the beautiful women, especially of one who seemed to be incapable of taking her hard, piercing gaze away from the back of his head. The nameless woman had no words to speak to him, nor did she need them to take advantage of the childlike man’s miserable, aloof resolve.
While her caravan left as quietly as it had arrived the within the fortnight, the woman chose to stay. She said nothing to him; not a single command or a request to ever leave her dark, sun-kissed lips. Naive, the innocent man counted himself blessed beyond measure, but little did he know that she wished beyond measure to be free of the tether that held her there. He was blind to the fact of what kept his woman grounded until she began to grow in size. Elated, terrified, and a blubbering mess of a person, he couldn’t have been more overjoyed at the new.
The gypsy woman gave birth to a little girl nine months later, to which she gave the name Jezebel. It was the first and last word that she would ever speak to Feliks, for two days later the woman disappeared again, as silently as she had slithered into his life. Overcome with grief, Feliks shrugged off most of his duties as a father. Save for feeding the baby, cleaning her, and making sure that she remained alive, he did almost nothing. Little Jezebel grew beneath the watchful gaze and discipline of her father’s mountain of a dragoness, the man himself too meek to stand up to her misbehavior and demands as a young toddler as his shock of abandonment began to ebb. Edelsteen stood in his place as guardian, for the most part, and taught the girl how to be a strong, independent person. Though she was barely of crawling age at this time, the Earth didn’t see any problem in starting early.
With the increasingly hostile advance of the Taint came several relocations of their family, cattle herd and all. Jezebel grew up much a nomad for the first twelve years of her life, never having a set home, never truly having a house to settle into before her father moved to avoid conflict. The evasion of confrontation eventually forced the trio into Assarian lands that had been overtaken by the Tainted legion. Grass was scare, and water was an even more precious commodity.
A Disruption had buried itself beneath a sand dune to hide its pitch, gnarled hide. It all but exploded into action with a deafening sonic boom and the contortion of gravity beneath its behemoth body as the Earth passed it from a distance, caught completely unaware. Edelsteen was barreled over at once, pummeled by the black beast into direct combat. Jezebel and Feliks, flung from Edelsteen’s shoulders from the blow to the Earth’s side, landing in a near-by dune. Jezebel emerged intact, her father was not as lucky; his neck snapped in a bad landing, killing him instantly. She fought in vain, for the lack of training left her almost blind-sided as she fought for her life. The bloodstone dragoness managed to tear out the Tainted’s throat, but, not before the Disruption had mauled her internal organs with blasts of sound beyond repair. The valiant dragoness died with an earth-shaking scream as her heart burst.
Alone, grief-stricken, and abandoned for yet the second time in her short line, the young girl wandered endlessly. Terrified of another tainted attack beyond comprehension, she forced herself to move on to find safety. She was blind to grasp the concept that she was most likely dead walking in the middle of such a god-forsaken desert with nothing around for miles, but she didn’t particularly care. The land was strange, unfamiliar; she had no idea where she was headed, nor did it matter much. She could have died right then and there, her heart stopped, and she would have welcomed it with open arms. Her feet led themselves forward, endlessly, until she collapsed from severe dehydration inside a wondrously crafted mirage in the form of a white-washed oasis city.
When Jezebel woke again, she was lying on the side of a busy, dust-filled street on a heap of canvas with nothing but a jar of water beside her left thigh to keep her company. The shouting, conversations, commands, and whispers around her were of an intelligible language. Assaria, somewhere, she guessed, but where she was within the great dessert country she had no idea. Had the mirage been real? She couldn’t really have beenthat lucky… She was too terrified to leave this place, this wondrous stronghold of protected land, for fear of being attacked again. Standing up, the shocked girl began to wander around the bustling allies, corridors, and streets, trying to get a handle of the winding streets and shops.
The beginning of her new life was hardly anything that she would have expected. Jezebel struggled severely to acclimate to a life in Esam, becoming little more than a homeless street rat, taking on odd jobs, but never managing to gain an upper hand on poverty. The language was cold, alien, different; the people distant, unwelcoming of the outsider from the East, offering little to no comfort for a girl who had just lost her entire way of life. The lack of acceptance and warmth from human contact turned Jezebel cold, though she often didn’t show it. However, she was not without intellectual gain in her struggle for life. Her time between messenger relays, thievery, maid work, and shepherding minuscule herds of livestock beasts, she learned perhaps her most valuable asset to date, the art of manipulation. Whether through means of fake, cheery kindness, twisting the truth, or plain, vile deception, Jezebel became quite acclimated in the ways of redirecting events into something beneficial for her and her alone. Though most often times her attempts at gleaning bread, water, shelter, and other necessary foundations of life were of little triumph, she didn’t die; that, at least, she could safely call a victory.
As if bent into submission by her unrelenting cling to continued existence, the Gods themselves seemed to reward her for her hardships in the form of a feeble old man two years after the initial rebirth of her disheveled life. He was old, tired, and war-ridden, barely able to hold himself upright without the use of a cane, but he was the first genuinely kind soul that reached out to Jezebel for the first time in many, many months…if a bit violently at first. The elderly man’s name was Joerrna, an experienced medic trained in the old ritualistic ways of ancient Assyria and he came into her life in a rather brutal fashion.
While delivering a message for a jeweler, she managed to be run over by an Arabian-drawn carriage, breaking her leg and suffering a concussion. She utterly blacked out with no recollection of the incident, only to reawaken in a dark, smoky, alien room in bowels of a neighboring building. With a bitter, grudging grimace, Joerrna hobbled over her broken, bruise-riddled body and muttered incomprehensible words that seemed better suited for a deeply spiritual gathering than a medic’s beside word of encouragement. Great Celestial Tailfeathers, what was he doing? She panicked, bucking, kicking and screaming despite the pain she caused herself, only to be hit across the face the by man’s cane and successfully knocked back unconscious.
Jezebel awakened later the next morning, in more pain than she had ever remembered receiving, her leg in a makeshift cast and head heavily bandaged with the old man from before sitting across from her and a smile on his grizzled, bearded face. However, the screams of rage or insults that he expected to come from the young foreigner did not burst forth; quite the opposite, really. In a rapid bout of pleading, Jezebel all but threw herself at his feet, begging for a change to learn from him. He was old, right? He needed an apprentice! He didn’t seem to have one, now did he? Of course not, otherwise they’d be right here, right now, beside him! Here was her chance! She had no idea what she was getting herself into, but there weren’t very many options available to her, was there? Cackling for the first time in ages, Joerrna relented and took the desperate young stranger under his wing. What had he to lose?
In the span of five years, the young woman rose from a poor, terrified youth struggling for survival in a foreign country completely unknown to her to a moderately successful, proud, and strong physician’s apprentice. The medic flourished in her work, learning both the language of healers and of her adoptive country’s curious tongue. She caught on quickly in the ancient medicines of old, combining the old ways with the new and adding her own little twists into her practices. However, after a time Joerrna began to notice something…a bit odd. He first noticed it during the passing of little girl from Typhoid Fever. Casualties, while a natural thing, were unfortunately commonplace in the lives of the less fortunate, where common medicine and treatment for better known diseases was of less availability than that of the upper-class nobles.
The gentle grey eyes of his protege fluttered with a deranged satisfaction while her hands felt the last feeble death throes leave the child’s fever-plagued body. Joerrna only just picked up on the strange light before it had suddenly vanished from her gaze. It was a barely noticeable thing, but, surely, it had there…hadn’t it? It concerned him deeply for many nights, and when he tried to confront her about it, he was only met with a depressing grimace and a shake of her head in dismissal. How could she take delight in an accident that caused the death of a child, a girl who had never gotten to experience life for even a fraction of what it was? She had reasoned. Joerrna took her words for fact like a fly baited with honey. He couldn't have been more blind.
A much more sinister seed had planted in her brain, forged and birthed from the innate desire to surround herself with the sick and dying so that they could not leave her side unless she deemed it so. The lack of control she had had in her early life, the abandonment, the deaths, the crippling loneliness grew a sinister mind, twisted and gnarled beneath the surface of a modest young woman’s kind face. The need for dominance, complete and utter command over the lives of those who required her help the most was an all-consuming need. Jezebel couldn’t ignore it and, truth be told, she didn’t really want to.
Joerrna vanished the next day, his memory carried away by the very winds that enveloped him for his entire life. No one knew of his whereabouts, nor would they ever come to be enlightened with such knowledge. Perhaps he had been kidnapped? Died of old age in a ditch? Maybe…or, Gods forbid, a Tainted had taken him outside of the city’s walls in the night? Murdered, no, would anyone do that to a helpless old man? The apprentice offered only sobbed exclamations of confusion to any that asked and pretended to search for him, but she alone knew it would be a fruitless, wasted search. Jezebel took up his practice on her own with but a false, depressed grimace across her features for the loss of her mentor.
The sands of time were ticking traitorously against her; some day, someone she came across within the capitol would discover her for who she was. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, there were intelligent people, cunning people who would figure out her patterns. She would have to move on from Esam, but to what end? To what greater course of action could she embark on? The idea came to her in a bout of nostalgia; her father had been a rider of the Bloodstone Earth…perhaps his genes ran stronger in her veins than that of her disgraceful mother? It would be a miraculous answer to her problem if she became a rider; she’d be blessed with power, a beast of her own to do her bidding, and the opportunity to grow the cultivated seeds of quiet tyranny that she so longed to bloom.
The Sekkaians would never accept her for her darker tendencies, much less consider her for Impression should they ever find out what her true motives were within the realm of medicine. However, the Taint, in all their twisted, brutal, and murderously grotesque glory was a different matter entirely. While she never expected them to welcome her with open arms, they, of course, would surely be tolerant, if not supportive, of her for what she truly was. To become a rider for their legion became a small flicker of a possibility. There was only one problem in obtaining it. The fear of death, the terror of following into the same fate as her father still remained, lingering and vile forever in the peripherals of her thoughts. One day she would have to leave the city, but when that horrific step forward would come, she could only speculate.
Pet(s): - Female Cerberi, Nephthys; Bought in Esam as pup. She's used for hunting and guarding, mostly. Her fur is a mixture of pitch black and snow white in the pattern of an Alaskan Malamute.
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The Dragon

By Tox By Bueshang of deviantArt By Banshee :: By Me :: By Me [/align]
Name: Carcinoma
Age: Nine
Gender: Male
Element: Influenza
Appearance: - A testament to his breed's festering filth and horrific benchmark abilities, Carcinoma is a fine example of an Influenza. Plasma-filled pustules, riddled with the nightmares that only a deranged medic could fully come to appreciate, blotch his fragile skin with soft, rosy pinks and pale blues. Viruses, prions, bacteria, and even parasitic bodies inhabit the biological ooze within, releasing their horrific cargo of pestilence when touched roughly in a sickening burst. Carcinoma's body is thin and appears emaciated, with thin hips, ribs, and skull more prominent beneath the sagging, putrid skin than what one might expect of a young Taintling. Bulging orange eyes stare out with malicious glee above great, green-pink baggy sockets, set far enough into his narrow, grotesque skull that come off as perpetually hollowed. A pair a dark grey recurving ram horns jut out of the back of his head, curling and twisting to a fine point on either side of his lower jaw. A crest, mottled with bright orange pigments at the outer extremities, runs the length of his forehead and neck before disappearing, only to crop up again above his hips like a great, decaying fan.
Lean muscles hide beneath the yellow-green pus colored hide, giving the appearance of a dainty, fragile creature. His wings are relatively short in comparison to his body but also wide, allowing him to hover and flit about with great ease and maneuverability. Orange pigments mottle the undersides of his sails as well. He lacks the bulk of titanous beast and often struggles with brute force, but he doesn't have to be strong. At the tip of Carcinoma's tail rests a festering bulb, wherein a large, retractable hypodermic needle slips in and out of view at will. It is grey in color and incredibly sharp, able to puncture and inject genetic or horrific concoctions of modified life. An additional mutated pair of forelimbs, less than half the size of his true legs, protrude from his lower chest. The five digits are extremely dextrous and, like that of his tail needle, are used for macabre experiments. The small, grey talons are very sharp due to his Razor sire's genetics and are, in a sense, true miniature scalpels.
Most Influenzas specialize in a specific type of disease-causing pathogens to manifest and grow either within their own bodies or cultivate it in some other manner. Carcinoma is no exception. He prefers to work with lethal diseases, like most of his breed, but in particular slow terminal ailments. The most favored pathogens in his arsenal include rabiesvirus, prions (CWD/Kuru), Ebolavirus, and cancerous agents. However, in certain circumstances, he may use the fast-acting Clostridium botulinum exotoxin to quickly snuff out a patient's life via the nervous system.
Personality: - Formal, Dispassionate, Sadistic
Carcinoma is a right gentleman under public scrutiny. He's a formal bastard, conducting his affairs with a level of dignity and poise that rivals the most seasoned of baccalaureates of Lihn's inner circle. He keeps a calm demeanor, hardly shifting to emotional distress under the influence of aggravation tactics. Words fall upon deaf ears, only to be returned with ire and cunning toward the utterer's weak points. He's a debater in fine arts of arguing, and no matter how much one tries to ruffle his exterior, he won't be budged.
Behind closed doors, however, Carcinoma is horrific nightmare. He's the ringleader of his own demented circus, a mad macabre of horror that inhabits the most lucid dreams of the tormented. He favors the production and development of slow-acting but lethal diseases, the type that torture the infected over a span of a few weeks and slowly drive them insane with agony and psychological terror. Rabies, in particular, is a choice favorite of his, along with chronic wasting diseases by prions, tuberculosis, cancers, and various neurological pathogens.
[align=center]Hatching Scene[/align]
- Quote:
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Like a titan of wars long past, the mother stayed rooted in her spot and refusing to budge even under her own monstrous weight. Slowly her great eye swivveled upon in the sunken socket within her skull, more fluid weeping out from the corners of the lids like a pungant sickness that refused to leave her body. From above small droplets fell down to the candidates and assembled dragons; both the moisture from the muck itself and the slavering rivers that pooled down from his curtained lips dribbled down onto the scene below as she tilted her head in just the smallest of fractions to watch. The candidates were arriving in the droves now, some small, some somaller. They were but ants to her great bulk, but she knew their significance to this particular hatching, how valuable each and everyone of them could have been. Within the humans she saw the beginnings of their new army, and in reply to that thought a sound wilder than thunder and deeper than an earthquake eased out from her sagging and bulging throat, the flesh quivering like a sack of gelatin before it stilled. Slowly, the hand that had yet to come down from being suspended above wavered, her paw with the claws so curled and gnarled reopened again, shards falling like glittering rain down below. Verris, Hiawris, , Jezebel, Chel, Ganja and Desriya all had the soft thudding splatter of the crystal falling before their feet, the black stones glittering eerily in the gloomy will-o-whisps that layered the forest around them and brightened the zone beneath the mother's wings. However, it was one egg that seemed that it did not want to wait. actions spurred by the fact that it's holding place had been jostled so easily and a claw was tapping on his shell from the outside. Like waking a cornered animal from an uneasy slumber, the small egg twitched at the touch to it's putrid and rather tiny shell. The actions were jerking, twisting and turning and leaving the 'face' of the egg to stare back in a crooked manner at it's father, Viscer. If anything, the actions seemed almost indignant and stayed quiet for a long moment to let the message ring loud and clear before the motions started picking up speed again. Yet the tap had a plus side besides the annoyance to the hatchling captive within the small shell. The razor's claws were sharp, as customary to his breed, and even the small tap against the softened and leathery shell had left a small pip of light that oozed out a rather infectious looking mix of pus green and coagulated blood red. For a moment it seemed as if the razor had punctured the child within by the fluid spewing out, but that was mercifully not the case. Instead the fluid started to gush out as the hatchling tore at the hole with two separate pairs of forelimbs, the small claws adorning his tiny feet were already sharp thanks to his sire's genetics, but it was not the claws that put the final blow to his shell. No, it was a stinger adorned to a bulbous tail that sliced the egg clean open with the precision of a surgeons' scalpel, allowing the hatchling to step out from his wet egg and onto the festering next of the man he had been placed in. The influenza let a sleazy grin slide up onto his features as his sagging eyes twisted in their skull, head turning as a low chuckle came out from his tiny throat. He was the smallest hatchling there and he knew it, but he was also one of the most deadly, and likewise knew that fact, so fearlessly coiled like a feline on his nest with his back to his sire as he surveyed the lot before him. "My my my," he purred out, voice already promising to be quite deep as he would age, his smaller forearms spreading like a grand chairman as he surveyed. "Seems that everything has just begun!" The influenza finished as he picked himself up with a steady laugh, his eyes half lidded as he slowly chose to weave out from his nest, light enough to simply walk over the muck and not sink as he wove into the candidates. "Tsk tsk, such an unruly lot," he sighed to himself, tilting his head before slowly eying up one crystal in particular as it lay on the ground for it's owner to be picked up. He slowly turning to walk over to the girl whom it belonged to, grinning at her garb and at the match simply made in nothing but perfection. "You, however, do show a lot of promise, I must confess my dear." He purred to Jezebel, slowly approaching her before throwing out his wings like the ringleader he was, all eyes on him in that moment and him absolutely soaking in the attention. "I am Carcinoma," his words accentuated by a stooping bow before he hopped back to his feet, clawing his way up Jezebel's pants and onto her shoulder, long tail coiling around her neck with the stinger tucked away for the moment. "And we...We shall be great, you know, we shall have the world and more, don't you agree?" Carcinoma slowly chuckled out before growing dark, his eyes narrowing into slits as his mouth peeled back over white needle sharp teeth. "And I do pity anyone that stands in our way." He finished, flicking the stinger on his small bulged tail out, waving it threateningly as his eyes roved over the crowd before him and his human. [align=center] Influenza Egg
 Carcinoma Male (Rosemary Guildemain x Razor Viscer) Formal, Dispassionate, Sadistic Jezebel, 22, female (SemperMemor)[/align]
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Parents Rosemary Guildemain x Razor Viscer
Siblings
Female Metal (Copper) Alloy Female Razor Rouge
Female Metal (Iron) Amalgam Male Metal (Steel) Huojin Female Forest Scabia
Children By Injection (Air Kadrim x Ruin Yuurei) Female Influenza Anaphylaxis[/align]
By Influenza Anaphylaxis (genetic manipulation) Male Influenza Ambylomma
Username: Semp
Contact: PM
Yourself: Quack How did you find Sekkai? I followed a link to the original Sekkai through KaiserFlames of deviantArt, stalked the site for a little while, and returned a year later to find that it had been given a revival. I followed the link to this site and, well, here I am today. c:
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