High praise! Thank you, when I doubt myself comments like this are really encouraging.

Thank you!

I'm well!

I got the idea from a SEUS post. The powers are very useful. And writing her from a first person perspective was quite fun. It was an exercise in making her as passive as I could without making her too passive.

It was a great writing experience!

I know not about my most 'recently' created character instead, but instead I will speak of the protagonist of my WIP novel. [Working Title: Runological Attraction]

Yulia Soutore (pronunciation: So, Tour A?), Age 23

Yulia is a first-year student at the Runaria Runological and Alchemical Academy, one of the newer institutions of higher education for would-be runologists in the Kingdom of Falscythe. She attends to better understand herself and her immense innate ability for runology, especially that of the Wind element, though she also hopes to be able to find an opportunity for steady employment after graduation. She's an orphan whose mothers passed away in the opening salvos of the Fourth Demon-Human War 15 years prior, and has lived much of the intervening years as a nomad and a beggar, working odd jobs when able to earn her daily bread. As a result of her loss, she harbors deep sense of pacifism and struggles with a significant amount of trauma. On the surface, though, she's cheery, though also a bit of a ditzy airhead (pun very much intended).

Unfortunately, while she seeks a peaceful life alongside her lover and partner, the studiously astute Fire runologist Amari Blariot (Blair-ee-OTT), the machinations of war are turning and a new conflict is on the horizon, forcing her to confront her trauma, come to terms with a society that won't acknowledge or accept their relationship, and understand and accept her origins.

The words of her rival Cassandra ring in her ears: "An ideal without a blade to back it up is just a platitude." "Sometimes pacifism needs a champion to take up arms in the name of peace."

Currently it's quite the passion project that I've been pouring a lot of time and effort into; the first arc of the story clocked in at 74,000 words and I'm currently about 11,000 into the second arc. Very slow-paced, dialogue heavy, with a lot of slice-of-life along the way.

Billy sat down after receiving his friday beaten after school. As he was the new kid at Los Palmos High School and came from a very conservative catholic school, the rest of the students saw him as the “virgin boy” and disregarded him with brutality. He got thrown fish and bread at the cafeteria and had many of his rosary necklaces stolen or burnt in front of him.

Night fall and he is still sitting down alone in his room, holding the bible his step mom gave him. He opens a passage and read about the guardian angels. —“If everyone has one, then where is mine?”— Billy sobs. The boy remembers his father’s words “before sleeping always pray to your guardian angel”. Billy sighs and starts his prayer.

Once he finishes he complains — “But angels are bot the kind to solve problems, they only overlook the ones who suffer… amen”

-“Are you certain of the worthlessness of an angel?”

A mysterious voice came from from the darkness of under his bed. Billy kneels and looks for the origin of the voice. Shivers go down his spine

-“Looking in the dark for darkness itself, I see you are not one to sit with your arms cross, are you?”

The crucifix on Billy’s wall tilted sideways. His windows closed violently and the chair next to his desk turned around. The moving furniture made a terrible screeching sound on the floor. Billy look frightened. The chair finished turning… and his only friend, a Teddy bear with only one eye was sitting there, far away from the last place Billy left it. Billy walks towards it and picks it up. The room stays silent as he gets the toy closer to his face.

Billy breaths rapidly. His heart beats. The wind hits the windows. He feels cold. His fingers froze in place when he took the bear. His heart beats. He blinks once, twice. He can’t move. His eyes meet with the one of the bear.

-“You were looking for your guardian angel…”

His heart beats, faster. The teddy bear moves its head.

-“… how about a guardian demon?”

FIN

You mean the Evil Overlord List? (Beware, TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life.)

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“Are you a monster? ….. Yes…”

It’s amazing how flexible children’s reactions can be.

A Guiding Chill

~ It was a modest group. Frighteningly so. For as their numbers dwindled, so too did the sand fall ever faster from the hourglass encapsulating my existence. Chronos might very well be giddy in his throne, his Fates equally amused by the irony it would be to sever my Silver Cord.

This world would have no need of me soon. No need for the Wraith that I am to ferry them across the Veil and into Elysium, or —more commonly— the Underworld.

A large part of me danced with the idea of ceasing for many a millenia, and yet as I come to face the possibility... well, it's much less romantic than I'd assumed it would be. Perhaps this is what mortals call fear, a term I have long known but could hardly empathize with.

I haven't a mirror, but I see my face in their own now: the surviving few with whom I've begun to feel a sense of kinship. An astounding 37 to be exact. All of them presently engaged in some manner of quiet panic as they idled on menial tasks or some other such method of distraction.

I drift past them as a cool shift in the air within their makeshift stronghold: an underground subway far enough from the epicenter of the long foretold outbreak of Undead that it offered some measure of safety. Its walls and, thanks to no small amount of resourcefulness or effort, fortifications were especially useful for keeping the "Walkers", as some of the mortals had taken to naming them, at bay.

Unease is never far, however, with the guttural moans echoing deep throughout the labyrinth of tunnels every so often. The mortals tell time this way now, knowing night has fallen when the din of ghouls is at its highest.

Many of them, the living that is, have made friends and whisper together in hushed, shaky tones. Amongst all the worries they share, the doomsaying, and despair ridden nightmares, I am warmed to find each mortal still yet harbors a wild hope to go on. To live.

I had last accompanied from their number a weathered old woman of 71, precisely 194 days ago, and not another soul since. For their hope was contagious. Rather, I've found myself to have adopted my own idle behaviors, such as staying the hand of the Nosoi; ancient spirits of plague, sickness, and disease. A bargain was struck, of course, and for now, they would settle for assisting in the expedited rot of the Undead.

I, on the otherhand, was better suited as a different sort of guide these days. While the mortals could neither see nor hear me, it was evident they could very much feel my presence. So whenever I wasn't privately repairing some form of barrier or causing a strategic cave-in to redirect or stop the Undead, I would use my presence to steer the mortals away from danger.

For a while, they merely assumed the Undead were always preceeded by dreaded cold air.

Pathfinder was the first to trust the ethereal cold that was my presence for what it was, and was so named by his peers for consistently leading them to safety and good fortune. Be it shelter, food, or safety whenever there was a need to venture out for supplies.

Death, ironically, became a cold comfort.

The old woman had been grandmother to this Pathfinder; a curiously driven and bright young man of 31, who likely sensed me more clearly ever since I'd recklessly tried to comfort him the day I claimed his last living relative. I might have known by his lack of usual reaction at the time, somehow overcome with truly taking in his simultaneously dignified and purely emotional way of mourning.

These moments are all the same, I had often thought, so trivial. After so very, very many, I had stopped watching, even caring. I do suppose my sudden urge to observe may have had something to do with the very real possibility that these moments were now numbered. Perhaps they always had been.

But, rather than jump, shiver, or even faint as anyone normally might do when touched by the hand of Death, he'd instead taken in a deep and steadying breath. If I'd been tangible, it might have been as though he'd relaxed beneath the cool feel of my pale hand upon his shoulder.

That moment had somehow emboldened me to help them. I felt it was a gesture of trust on his part, and somehow, it was endearing enough that I wanted to try.

By proxy, of course, I'd also be helping myself... but if my existence in this realm truly was meant to end, then I'd be damned if I didn't at least make that pompous bastard of a God Chronus wait. He always did hate waiting.

And so it was decided: I would stand against whatever came for the flock of mortals that I, along with this Pathfinder, would now shepherd.

Be it until the very final grain of sand. ~

—S. PhiaKey

Sometimes in these threads I feel like I'm trapped in that old South Park episode, you know?

"Pratchett did it! Pratchett did it!"

If it wasn't him it was usually Neil Gaiman. Or in this particular case, both, and if you've not read it you're in for such a treat.

The angel looked expectantly at a bipedal leopard creature with four dirty-white horns.

Flauros gawked at him. "What?! Do you know what you're asking of me?"

The demon pointed a claw at his computer screen, and a long list of names. "Just today, I've gotten a thousand new prisoners and just four candidates for Heaven. And you want me to let it pile up for years?"

Cassiel looked uneasy. "I know I ask much, but I have to go to one of the Milky Way worlds for three years."

Flauros looked unimpressed. "What, Earth for another Supernatural marathon? Is that show really that good?"

Cassiel rolled his eyes. "You did not have to make that joke, Flauros. But no, it is the new planet Tarlon. Michael has tasked me with studying it for a while. In the meantime, my charge needs another guardian."

"What, the one with the birds?" Flauros wondered. "Eh, none of my business. My answer is no, I'm too busy. Can't you ask one of the other angels? Don't you have some kid who needs the practice?"

"I honestly would rather go to you," Cassiel replied. "None of them are ready to be guardians yet."

"So rather than train your apprentices, you want to have me do a job I'm even less ready for," Flauros said, dryly. "Are you desperate to hang out, or do you think it's a great idea?"

"Honestly, yes," Cassiel admitted. "I do not really have much free time or respect up in Heaven. I have gone on thirty missions this century alone."

Holy shit... wow

My character is John, an everyman-type character who is working through the five stages of grief.

Stage 1: Denial John carries around his dad's urn as he goes through his regular, normal daily activities. Stage 2: Anger John gets into a fight with his sister, etc... all the while working on refinishing an antique desk that's been handed down in the family, and that Stage 5: Acceptance John finally completes.

John's adopted but doesn't know it and has to process and reconcile that as part of the grief process.

BTW - I'm new here, but old and softspoken IRL. I use writing to help me 'find my voice.'

An unnamed antagonist in the second phase of my Titans fanfic (cheap plug 😁https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/zxizmp/mf_teen_titans_2090_pt_1/)

Thank you for reading! And for your awesome prompt!

That was wonderful, good job.

I was starting to like this kid. I could see why Taziroth wanted to make sure she was covered, and why she thought I'd make a decent substitute guardian. The kid had a *creative* sense of justice, though she could use a little more common sense sometimes.

After last week's laxative brownies, the neighborhood bully was chasing Leah with murderous intent. I edited reality just enough to put an old gopher hole where the bigger girl was just about to step, and watched in satisfaction as she wrenched her ankle, and stopped the chase to howl. My charge paused her flight just long enough to taunt the bully and laugh, then she continued to dart away to her own yard.

Leah climbed the fence, then hopped from the top to the platform of her treehouse. She was getting better, this time I didn't have to nudge her aim at all for her to land safely. The cozy little treehouse was mostly full of the tools of her self-appointed trade. Stink bombs, rubber dog doo, smoke bombs, a wide selection of joy buzzers, and so on, all sorted by a complicated metric of price, quality, function, and strength. Little Leah was quite the artisan of chaos.

She filled her pockets with a choice selection, then jumped down from the treehouse, scorning the ladder in her haste to get on with her self-appointed mission. I nudged an inconvenient rock aside, so she didn't bobble the landing too badly. I was pretty sure she was heading towards the convenience store that usually tried to short-change kids who came in buying snacks, and I heartily approved.

I'm pretty sure a proper guardian angel was supposed to lead their charge towards the path of righteousness, not mischief. But if that's what Taz wanted, why in the h**ven did she pick *me* for the job? No, I think she knew exactly what she was doing. After all, this kind of rough justice was exactly the proper province of Hell. I grinned, and followed after my racing charge.

"Absolutely not."

"It's for a good cause," Remiel, the angel of hope, pleads.

"Like that's a good argument. Real convincing." You pick at your claws, dislodging a bit of Steve from underneath. Lobbyists were the worst, always leaving oily stains on your robes no matter how much you thought you managed to flay off prior. Apparently, it was grease all the way down.

Ever the optimist, Remiel continues to make their case, "It's only for a few years. Eighty tops."

"Get Moroni to do it. I'm busy."

"After that cock-up in the Americas? Not a chance. Moron's on probation."

Oh it had been funny at the time, tempting your less-intelligent feathery brethren to sin, but now it is affecting you personally, and that is simply unacceptable.

"Uriel then?" There has to be someone else. Anyone, really. Protection detail is beneath you. Ever since Eden dried up, there was always a sword-wielding thug or two itching to do some light smiting for the greater good.

"They asked for you by name, Ramiel."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"The humans mispronounced your name, and you know it!" You glare into the middle distance, hoping Remiel can feel the heat of it on the back of his third head.

Remiel. Ramiel. It was a common mistake. If only the Big Guy had spared a couple ounces of creativity after making the heavens and the earth to name his creations instead of delegating the task to a literal infant. Adam had been lazy or perhaps he lacked the attention span. (After all, he only had the single brain, the one set of eyes.) Perhaps you should be glad you hadn't been named something truly hideous like Phlegm, Moist, or even Dennis.

Unfortunately, Remiel doesn't budge. "They asked, and He saw fit to grant their boon."

"Like I care-"

"Lucifer agreed."

Well.

Fuck.

So this isn’t exactly a request.

"Okay fine," you relent, "but if I'm stuck doing this, there are going to be conditions."

"Of course."

"I have full control over my charge. You make me his guardian angel; no one in heaven gets a say in how I manage my business."

"Fair enough," Remiel agrees.

"I mean it. Full control."

There's a pause. "He gets eighty years, Ramiel."

"Oh, he'll make it to eighty." Can't say the same about everyone else around him.

"His name is-"

"Ladybug," you insist. "I don't care what they named him. I'm calling him Ladybug."

"...Right."

You roll out the life-map, the tendrils of serendipity, happenstance, and luck intertwined with those of others (both good and less so) stretching before your Ladybug in a vague miasma of possibility.

"Now. Let's get started."

Hmm... Uh... What I have written in here it would be:

Norges Ylta, wow he is packing quite a haul of contempt for the one who sent him down to hell and for denizens of hell. Just because he was going to be declared the master of arms. Well, for the better but, also bad. Apex realm of chaos definitely honed him into a one lean and mean killing machine. Now, with the agreement with lord Verzalyn.

He is going to finally see home again but, of course. It is going to involve him adopting entirely different names and at all costs avoid killing angels. When I said master of arms, trust me. Norges knows every one of them even if his long sword is pet weapon. Despite saying initially no to main story's main characters request to train this.

While he is going by the name Sergon Varamal but, the innkeeper says that the man is reminding this of somebody from the city fairly far away from the inn they are staying at. Who was studying and training to become a master of arms. After listening secretly the main character's muttering and alcohol influenced story then witnessing a brawl.

Between the other people under the influence of alcohol. He finally intervenes and agrees to train the main character once this has recovered being knocked out by him and when alcohol has burned out from main character's digestive system. He is a demon in magical disguise. You would be surprised of the very human soul he still has though.

Last character I have written in private:

Jan Hurshem, born, bred and raised to be a scout of the Five Shields order. Energetic, dutiful, dedicated, resilient, notably socially awkward due to the training from early age and village he is born is quite small despite it still dutiful formal and polite, humble and acutely perceptive due to the training but, part of it is actually natural to him.

Rolar Hurshem, Jan's grandfather. Taught his grandson everything the boy currently knows but, kept secret something he was ordered to share but, didn't. Jan and another character are tasked to investigate shrine of nature guardian's odd behavior that is affecting kingdom's wildlife. Rolar is most proud of his grandson's personal combat style.

Involving short spear, dagger and a short sword using his mildly unnatural swiftness, speed and reaction speed, while training provides him adequate strength when situation requires. Making him a deadly duelist when need be although his priority is being a scout.

These are respective categories last characters I have made so far, although, I have a long list of characters collectively from my writings.

The halls of ice quivered as the demon laughed, a low tone of bass rattling stone and bone alike.

It paused, for a moment, as the figure looked to the other, before bursting into laughter again, harder than before. The booming laughter echoed through the twisting halls, overcoming the wails of the damned and the gnashing of teeth.

I am being serious, Ahpuch, the other spoke, their soft voice piercing through all noise. I require your help.

The laughter died swiftly, as the named demon stared down the speaker. And you shall not receive it. I remember what you did, Azrael. I know what you have done. The demon leaned forward, revealing a scarred wound. The only reason I do not strike you down here and now is the promise we had, back before the Fall.

Then for the sake of that promise, then. I ask of you, please.

Ahpuch gave a snort. Even if I were so keen to rekindle our prior friendship, as I said: I know what you have done. I will not shield you from Father's wrath.

Ahpuch, please--

No. Ahpuch leaned forward again, staring down the diminutive figure. You broke the Laws, Azrael. You struck down a demon in cold blood. Further, you have tempted many of my kin to their demise. Purposefully.

Then you know how desperate I am to come to you for help.

Ahpuch looked to Azrael, the two staring each other down for some time. Ahpuch gave a grim smile, stating, Then I suppose you will expect my high demands?

Indeed.

Ahpuch nodded, then thought. The demon finally decided on their demands, proclaiming them to the angel.

Then I would demand of you, your power. I would demand of you, your strength. I would demand of you, your domain over death. Give me these, and I will take on your role. I will take on your responsibilities. I will even take on your ward.

Demands made, the demon stood, extending a hand to the angel. A symbol formed in flame upon Ahpuch's hand, enveloping it the chains of contract. Azrael paused for a moment, before taking in a deep breath, and clasping the hand. The flame spread to his hand, searing the symbol in, scars forming as chains wrapped around his arm.

I accept your terms.

As the words were finished, Azrael gave a grimace of pain as the powers he held we lost, strength draining from his body. His divine glow lessened, until the only remnants of his being an angel were the dim halo above his head and wings upon his back.

Ahpuch, contract completed, inhaled the divine power, relishing in the unique flavor of its feeling. So long, it had been, since he had held such power.

Ah, I had missed this. Starting from now, as promised, I shall take on your role, your responsibilities, and ward.

Before Azrael could respond, Ahpuch lurched forward, using his newfound power to move at a speed the powerless angel could not match. The clawed hand found it's way cleanly through skin and bone to grasp around the angel's heart.

Wha--!

Azrael could not finish the sentence, as he coughed up blood. Ahpuch made his decree, as the divine power demanded.

Azrael, for your infractions upon the Laws of Father, He has deemed it fit for your destruction. Ne'er again shall ye serve Him, and ne'er shall you serve the whims of Hell.

The demon then kissed the angel once upon each cheek upon his face, telling him earnestly,

Goodbye, my old friend.

Then heart was torn asunder from body, as Azrael stumbled back, grasping at the hole in his chest. The angel reached out, unable to speak through the choking blood, as the beating heart slowed. The life continued to drain, the shock permeating on his face, as the beating came to a stop, before the body followed, falling still upon the ice.

Ahpuch watched the entire process, watching with a mixture of glee and sadness. While Azrael had done them wrong, he had been a good friend, once. Ahpuch decided it would only be right to keep some reminders of his friend. The demon reached down, ripping the halo and wings from their places, grafting them to his own being. They then ripped open their own ribcage, placing the angel's heart next to their own, grafting in into their body. Reminders taken, and power absorbed, them on looked away from the decaying body to the above Earth and Heaven, giving a smile.

Now then, let us meet this ward you have left me, Azrael.

Sorry, it said it wasn’t working

Phesteaus blinked his four eyes slowly at the creature. It couldn’t see him of course, but he heard its heartbeat slow from it’s fluttering pace. Phesteaus was never human, but even hell has cable these days. Human spawn were not supposed to sleep on a concrete floor. They were not supposed to be bruised. They were not supposed to become more afraid when the light turned on.

The demon had excellent hearing. There were many humans in this building. A swarm of them were in a large open space, bustling about and packing something. Little worker bees. More voices in another area of the building, laughing and cursing and complaining about how they were going to get what they were owed, one way or another. Phesteaus focused on them. They were responsible for his charge’s predicament.

The demon stepped back into the darkness, merging with the shadows on the wall. His shadow oozed out of the room and onto the ceiling. Fluorescent lights flickered and burst as he neared them. The building revealed itself to be a warehouse. The scent of the busy bees below were a mild distraction and he discarded them from his mind for now. He had the scent of the ones with the foulest souls. He would visit them later.

The voices grew louder as Phesteaus approached the heavy metal door that separated him from his quarry. The foul stench of rotting souls made the demon grin, thin cracked lips spreading over hundreds of sharp teeth.

Perhaps this is why the favor was called in, Phesteaus mused. The angel never did like getting his hands dirty.

When he opened the door the lights in the room burst with a shower of sparks. The humans cursed and grabbed their phones, illuminating the monster as it shifted back from the shadows. He towered over the humans, knees and back bent to fit in the room. When they began to shout and fire their weapons, a membrane slid over his eyes and Phesteaus shot forward towards the closest human. Soon enough the curses and gunfire turned into screams and the crunching of bone and flesh.

The workers below were gone, scared away by whatever was happening to their employers. The demon was pleased with how his turn as a guardian was going. It wasn’t until he opened the door to the room holding the child that he realized he hadn’t turn incorporeal again.

The child was crying, shaking in a corner of the room. Phesteaus blinked his eyes slowly at the child again and crooked a finger in their direction.

Come little mortal, they can not harm you ever again.

The child just kept crying. The demon tilted his head in thought, and then smiled - teeth covered this time. His form began to twist and shrink, fur growing from the molten cracks on his skin. Falling forward as his limbs contorted and his hands and feet turned to paws.

A black cat stretched where the demon once stood. He padded over to the shocked child and climbed into their lap. The child’s hands automatically went to the cat’s fur and began to pet him softly.

Come child, it is time for you to go home.

The child shakily stood, clutching the cat to their chest.

“Are you a monster?” The child whispered.

Yes, child. I eat monsters that prey on children. Are you a monster?

“No, mister.”

I could tell. You have a kind, young soul. You need not worry child, you are safe from me.

“Okay.” The child hesitated before looking into the cat’s yellow eyes and asking “can I go home now? I really want my mommy and daddy.”

Yes child. Close your eyes.

The child’s eyes closed and the cat’s eyes glowed as the shadows in the room enveloped the child and the cat. When the shadows unwrapped themselves from the pair they were on a sidewalk, outside of an apartment complex. The demon told the child to open their eyes and the child gaped and spun to look at their surroundings.

“Momma! Momma!” The child shouted and cried, still holding the cat as they began running up the exterior apartment stairs. A door opened up and a disheveled pair of adults ran out. The group hugged and cried and Phesteaus wiggled free and to the ground. It was very sweet and sappy and the demon was tempted to cough up a hair ball in protest.

Still, a few years as a guardian to this child wouldn’t be too bad, and there was plenty of corruption on the surface to entertain himself with. Phesteaus was going to enjoy his time on earth and perhaps investigate this “TSA” he’d heard so much about. Best favor repayment ever.

(Long time lurker, first time writer so I hope this is alright! Also, couldn’t remember how to bold so just imagine it where you think it should be.)

I wanted to know if I was repeating or favoring any names. Possibly I am in the throwaway characters. There were too many to catalogue. Oddly, my most used name was Martinez, which I used twice, both scifi, but at least a century apart.

I need to add more info about the main characters, and the races (particularly aliens). I have two totally different races from the same place, but it's okay because I only listed the star, so they could be from different planets there.