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Amadeus King

Entropy bursts into my veins
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Goblin OOC Information

Status
Created
Threads
Posts
Offline
06-08-2017
4
24
Angst and melancholy are my mainstays, but I am a go for anything within reason, with permission. Disclaimer: All art has been pulled from google, photos edited by me, and codes borrowed from Epsilon. Please don't touch unless it's ICly and inappropriately.

Character Information

Character Type
Face Claim
Human with Civil Demon
Lee Soo Hyuk
Human Pronouns
Human Age
Demon Pronouns
Demon Age
He/Him
30
They/Them
3,594
Faction
Profession
Legion
Legion Captain of Monai

Character Summary

Confidential


cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye

Legal Name
Kim Ha Neul

Date of Birth
August 17th

Country of Birth
Democratic People's Republic of Korea

Parents
N/A

Siblings
N/A

Orientation
Heterosexual

Status
Single

Height
6'2"

Weight
162LBS

Blood Type
AB-Positive

Personality
INTJ

Home
Monai

Demon
Vox

Extra Notes:

All digitized legal files regarding Amadeus' true identity have been wiped in their entirety. Only one physical artifact remains hidden in his pocket space, its identifier a government dossier of his family and himself. His fabricated identity, instead, indicates his birthplace as that of South Korea with a family that passed on due to a car accident during his early teen years. Therein, he was relocated to New York City with his aunt's family where he then aspired to become a politician; a dream left unfulfilled when he found a better future in the City some years past. None of the provided information is true save for his relocation.
Ascensions
Dominions

I. Alchemy

Greater Control

II. Pocket Space

Lesser Power

III. Hallucinations

Minor Control

IV. Mimicry

Minor Control

V. Psychic

Minor Control

VI. Telepathy

Greater Control

Character In-Depth

Deceptively boyish in countenance, Amadeus is a tall and unassuming man. He carries himself as he would a personage without care for the mortal coils of his world, though it would not be an altogether wrongful assumption. With a longstanding adoration for books of all caliber, the Legionnaire was raised by the hands of fictional heroes, saints, and martyrs. They were ever the more his family, friends, and lover than the reality of his childhood in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Though it was not for lack of affection rather than a bid for stability that had the boy clinging more ardently to his contraband goods than that which could be so easily taken from him.

Books he could hide without fear of consequence. Books he could protect from walls that had eyes and ears. This was a lesson he learned the hard way as daily propaganda were guzzled down their throats on the streets and in the schools. Whole families were punished for the misdoings of one person. People were publicly executed for doing so much as watching that which had been banned by the government. There were consequences for everything; there was safety in nothing.

It started first with the girl whose pigtails he so often pulled because it was fun, because he was testing his boundaries of right and wrong in a time and place where everything was wrong. Although his family were sure to punish him for his needless cruelty, the girl was the one who would eventually suffer for her father's treachery, they called it. Defector, they said. He remembered it clear as day. His fingers were clenched around her pigtails, ready to yank her head back to see how far she would go before she yelled, but what tore the tight spaces of their open hallways was not her scream. It felt as a stampede of elephants, footfalls of soldiers who barreled down the hallway and bashed the door open, her door. That was when the yelling began, the scream of an unsuspecting mother and the cries of a traitor. He watched as man and woman were dragged out by their arms and hair, both bloodied and beaten in mere minutes since the intrusion.

He still remembered the feeling of braided hair beneath his fingers, the strength of each twist and knot, each weave that dented beneath the clench of fear and anticipation. When the soldiers grabbed her, they were forced to knock him upside the head with the butt of their rifle. He would not let go, not even when her head jerked back with a pig-like shriek. Sometimes he wondered still if it was he who caused her pain or if it was the grips of death that shackled about her pale arms.

She was the first, but she would not be the last. It was always unpredictable when someone would be taken and it should have terrified him as a child, but it did not. Having grown up without a sense of trust, faith, or belief, there was very little by which to pin his hopes. But in a place as theirs, hope was a dangerous thing and Vox was sure to starve him of it. He placed no stock in empty promises, lesser still in the words of those around him, those who sought to brainwash, to sooth, to love, or to lie. He trusted in only that which dwelled within him and invested himself fully in written word and illustrations, encouraged by the many skins and forms his demon came to wear. Theirs was a relationship that kept him afloat and thrust him to the arms of fantasy and creativity.

He imagined himself Batman, descended into a cove of shadowed aerial creatures that would bestow upon him a purpose and power to fight against the evils of their world. He imagined taking the very gun that'd been used to strike him and shooting the soldiers, one by one. They would fall as boneless effigies and he would revel in the good he'd done for the world. How often he dreamt of rivers run red with blood. How often he dreamt of pulling hair from their very roots.

There was no exact moment by which he could recall when imagination became reality. At what point did his fantasies of stepping on small but significant lives become a mess of blood beneath the soles of his shoes? He was a violent monster brimmed with violent needs. He crafted brass knuckles, knives, and guns from scrap metal. He'd even fashioned himself traps, nooses, and all sorts of gadget for his still imagined battle against a corrupt system until one day, they were no longer a thing of dreams.

It was his parents who found the unimaginable wealth of destruction beneath a pliant board by the foot of his bed.

It was his brother who reported him to the soldiers.

But see, the thing about trusting no one was that it made him paranoid. He knew his parents had intended to burn everything he'd made and hide his secrets beneath ash and flame. He knew his brother wanted otherwise. So he ran away in the thick of the night and struck upon his blood and kin a hallucination of all that he himself envisaged he would do. Torn fingernails, raw and bloody scalps, meticulously cut away flesh—all in the name of justice. It's what Lucifer, arrogant, arrogant Lucifer, might have done before the fall of the morningstar as Vox said.

When he ran, he ran with his books and provisions stowed away in his pocket space. Money, crafted with paper and alchemy, was the currency that bought his escape alongside fellow defectors. Their escape though would not be one so easily had and when they were caught, he would witness the soldiers rape and kill the same women who sung ridiculous K-Pop songs to assuage their nerves and ease their fears. So when they finished and threatened to do the same to him, he saw red and willed them to madness before his fingers found purchase around the hilt of a dagger and the cut of butter beneath steel teeth.

"I'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'llkillyou." He screamed without remorse, "I'll rip your heart out and shove it in the mouth of your Supreme Leader." It was his demon who would eventually pull him away, and it was together did they escape North Korea with bloody throat and bloody hands.

Demon Information

"That which has no name wears no face." Vox, as it has come to refer itself, is a lot less a corporeal creature than it is an entity of beliefs and ideologies. It is a construction of mortal whims, born of religion, cult-like followings, and fictional worlds—Jesus Christ, Persephone, Sun Wukong, Jean Grey, Shakti, and more. Where ardent faith exists, so too does the demon, risen first as an intangible force of the spoken voices of missionaries and storytellers. It was only once written language came to did the demon begin to manifest into those that have been raised upon a pedestal of immortalized imagination, feeding on that which gives it the life and form it so desires, trust, faith, and belief.

While it wears many skins, it is nonetheless a demon of preferences. Of late, its literary inclinations comes in the forms of the figures below:

Amadeus was raised under the hands of Confucian beliefs, within it Buddha played a quintessential role during his upbringing in North Korea which was oft the reason why Vox manifested as the smiling, close-lipped deity. It provided a hard contrast to the corrupt realities of his childhood, offering a small measure of peace and reprieve during darker hours of violence. Ironic too given that the demon itself fed on the notion of belief so that it was a lot less a matter of religious escapism than it was a matter of familiarity for the young boy. Even now, the Buddhist form only arises during instances of private tumult or inexorable joy; choosing to occupy peculiar spaces by which the rotund demon watches its host and environment. It is one of the quieter skins that the demon wears, entirely need-based and reserved for the man who hides his emotions behind high, towering walls. In seeing Vox as Buddha implies one of two things, either that Deus is in an extreme state of unrest or comfort.

Kali was a kind of representation of justice that enamored Deus. As victim of a childhood brimmed with unexplained disappearances and deaths of friends, neighbors, and strangers, he became obsessed with reciprocal justice, following closely with the Code of Hammurabi in its most exacting form. The first time Vox wore the face of Kali was the first time its host ledger became steeped in red; small hands and fingers that found the hilt of a too large knife, small body and lips that trembled when he tackled the North Korean officer who raped and killed a fellow escapee. The problem was never the guilt but rather, the lack of it. Because Vox consumed all faith and belief, Deus' own moral ideologies were heavily skewed by the influences of the books by which he was surrounded. He clung to figures prone to vigilantism and righteousness that came in the form of an eye for an eye. More often than not, it is Kali that hovers in his office when in the presence of fellow Legionnaires.

One of the rarer but more important incarnations is that of Lucifer. While guilt never quite had its way with Deus, his demon became something of a subconscious outlet from which the descent of innocence was depicted. Where his youth was markedly time spent as bystander to the dictatorship of his country, the very moment he took command of his own fate was the instant Lucifer rose. It started with little things from his testing boundaries by pulling the pigtails of the girl next door to stepping on a frog, just because. For the kinds of power he wanted to usurp the men on high, he believed in the need to forsake inhibition and goodness. It helped that Vox cared little for the mortal diction between right and wrong, adopting instead a neutral chaotic stance that often allowed it to encourage the exploratory nature endowed its host. So whensoever Deus intends to cross those lines, Lucifer is apt to linger should masking his intentions be of minimal priority.

Among all of the literary figures, DC superheroes make for the most casual and playful of Vox's countenances. There is no precedent by which to assess the demon's own mood but that of the hero it chooses to be. While capable of turning into just about any superhero it so wishes, regardless the company, Deus coincidentally collected contraband comic books, most of which wound up being from DC. Consequently, Vox ideally attaches itself to that which his host prefers, indicative perhaps of their relationship. For the most part, the demon likens itself to Wonder Woman or the Flash. Though it would, on request, manifest as Bruce Wayne, or the Batman, as per the preference of Deus who finds the billionaire's story-line and persona most paralleled to his own wants and desires. It is also in this form that Vox is most vocal, expressive of its own thoughts where as Buddha, Kali, or Lucifer, it becomes more of a reflection of Deus' internalized machinations than that which is expressed outwardly.

Since escaping North Korea, Amadeus has started a collection of comic books that likely rivals the very stores from which he purchases his products. One such recent obsession is that of the Saga comics, most evident in the Vox's own break-away from DC superheroes to adopt that which Deus consumes in full. While Prince Robot IV remains one of the more favored skins that which the demon dons, the Stalk and Lying Cat are not so far off from the incredibly long list of literary figures Vox has come to adopt. Unfortunately, the durability by which it manifests these characters is entirely dictated by their followership and given the niche crowd which Saga has drawn, it is rare for the demon to be one of the characters for more than a few hours before switching back into more widely favored figures. Ironically, Jesus Christ would perhaps be the easiest of forms to wear but the one least likely to appear as per the agreement between host and demon.