Guess what? MouringShade and Tyltalis have started a collab! We will be taking OCs for it, but there are a couple rules. First, send the OC through PM. Second, only one OC per person...until maybe later on.

Disclaimer: We do not own Pokemon; we are only borrowing the franchise/characters for story use.

X-X

"Day of wrath, that day of burning,
Seer and Sybil speak concerning,
All the world to ashes turning

All aghast then Death shall shiver
And great Nature's frame shall quiver,
When the graves their dead deliver."

xxxxxxx

April 25, Year the Second

I do not live in a world you would understand. It is made from broken wings and fear. It is cracked up the center. I will make it better. You don't understand. Their deaths make the air easier to breathe. If you could take away a toxin from your people, wouldn't you?

Wouldn't you?

xxxxxxx

January 31, Year the First
(Prologue to The Betrayal)

The world turned and broke, green-blue shatters spiraling into space. In front of my eyes, a monster like no other. Death is far too good for him. It is a small service; humanity will thank me.

Soon.

xxxxxxx

February 16, Year the First
(The Betrayal and the Start of The War)

Blood.

Blood and silence.

He is dead on the floor, his sick figure smashed against hardwood. I smile at the corpse and walk away, lithe red footsteps ink-stick-clicking against the floor. Blood in a bath, rhythm in red. I've let him slowly beat his way into oblivion.

Oh what horrors I've achieved.

Oh how happy I will be.

xxxxxxx

February 17

The office was empty. Getting in was a trick as easy as breathing. The blood has been cleaned up. The rug has been replaced. The papers have been burned. You would never know. It is beautiful. It is mine.

Paulo strides in, all shaky uncertainty. He knows who I am. He knows who used to own this place. Paulo is uncertain that I will let him live. Paulo was the man's favorite. The man is dead now and Paulo thinks he will be dead soon too. Maybe Paulo is right.

I laugh. Doesn't he know the way of business? The office will suit me fine. It is large and it reminds me of the reality of the world: you must kill before the universe kills you.

"Sir?" Paulo calls, his voice quivering like a captured angel. Poor Paulo.

"Sir, we all think you are more than qualified to be our leader…but…but…should you be using this room? After all, he was an Afflicted," he suggests, his disgust at the word razor-blade sharp, his body shivering with his distrust. He does not like being in here. An Afflicted died in here, his blood like leaves, tumbling red against the sun.

"Paulo," I say, laughing, rifling through what is now my desk, "What a silly superstition. We've long since learned how to clean up Afflicted blood. Don't be ridiculous." I smile at him, brushing my black hair from my eyes. He relaxes. He is safe, he thinks. I am not going it kill him. He smiles back, all crooked yellow teeth and nervous sycophancy.

The bullet runs silver through his head, and new blood explodes in a glorious firework. Red like rivers, running wonders over walls. The look on his face is so surprised, I almost feel pity. It was not Paulo's fault he was my old master's favorite. It was not his fault that Paulo was prone to rages and cruelty. It is not Paulo's fault that the Afflicted took half of his family. It was not his fault that he had become a twisted shell of a man.

It is an easy trick, stepping over his body. Pausing, I pull the slim device out of his pocket. It is an Afflicted device, meant to check the blood for the progression of the disease. Maybe Paulo has confiscated it from someone. Maybe he thought it would be fun to have one. Maybe he used it on himself. Poor Paulo. Soon everyone will know that he was Afflicted too. No one will question my actions. No one will question me ever again.

Closing the door behind me, I smile to the guard, throwing him the spoils of my crime.

How silly the man looks, fumbling with a heart.

xxxxxxx

March 3, Year the First

You open your eyes, staring at your shiny black shoes, feeling your blonde hair tumble in front of your eyes. The sky reflects your dress, a sick, wanting grey. Next to you, your pink suitcase leans on its charcoal wheels, waiting for movement. It is light and nearly empty. You have next to nothing, and most of what you do have you are leaving behind.

In your hand is a red and white ball, cold against your palm. You are staring at it when the long black car rolls up, all metal muscle. You slip the ball back into your pocket, hoping no one noticed the sheen that would betray your friend.

A man steps out, plump and red, dabbing at his bald head with a tattered dull orange handkerchief, panting as he waddles towards you. You know who it is, and you duck your head. Behind you is the stone steps back into your house. Back into your life. Back into the past.

He impatiently takes your suitcase, throwing it into the back seat, gesturing at the open door, wobbling back into the driver's seat. He turns over his shoulder, flashing you an uncertain smile, as if he remembered he was supposed to greet you.

"Jane," He begins, voice thick, smoky, "I'm so glad you called us." His voice falls into a whisper, and you think he smells like the ocean and sweat. You think you could put up with him. He seems almost nice. He is promising something better than death. The steps in front of your house are empty now. No one is there to see you off. The brown, towering building is equally as empty, all boarded windows and broken doors.

"Now then." He pants, as if your negligence in answering has put him off slightly, "To the orphanage, I guess." He is driving, then, taking you to where you will not be hunted, where you cannot be caught in an alley, where your body is safe from a sharp blade running against your neck. He is taking you away from the tattered remains of a happy life. He is taking away from bodies and blood.

You do not look back.

X-X

Here is the OC Form. Only one OC each, and please send it through PM. Else we can't take your character and that would be sad. :(

Name: First and last.

Gender:

Age: 12-18, please.

Physical Features: This should include hair color/style/length, eye color, height, skin tone, body type and any distinctive qualities, such as scars or tattoos.

Clothing: The orphans have few possessions, and their clothing is probably donations/hand-me-downs. This doesn't mean they don't like a certain style, though. Maybe your character used her belt and some safety pins to make the ugly, overly large shirt into a pretty dress.

Affliction: An Affliction is basically a curse/power your character has. Don't make it too amazing like shapeshifting. You may have one affliction. Only one. Of course, we will decide on the negatives that come with it. You decide on the power...

Personality: Give at least seven sentences. It should reflect upon their Affliction as well. Most fire types are not going to be cool and free-flowing. Make sure to give at least two weaknesses – for example, a fear or an over-protective streak. And a talent other than an Affliction – writing, language, ect.

Family: Those that raised them, affected them. Even though they are alone now, at one point they had parents.

History: Include hometown and how they grew up. While the world is pretty dark, there must be some good memories as well. Include how they became
Afflicted (the virus is transmittable through blood or tears. Children of the Afflicted have a more substantial immune response to the Affliction, so the exposure must be more than normal) and how they used to be before the Affliction.

Pokemon: This is rare because pokemon are thought to spread the disease. Not only that, but the orphanage likes to take things. Include the history of the pokemon, their moveset (up to four), and their personality. You may have up to three. No legendary, obviously, and a shiny pokemon is pretty much unheard of. No one-hit wonders, either. In three-level evolutions, the highest should be in its second evolution.

Other: Their favorite band, their favorite color, whatever.

Please remember we cannot receive your character unless it is sent through a personal message.

Poem taken from Dies Irae by Abraham Coles

Thank you for reading.