✦⟡✁⟡✦ The Hollow Saint ✦⟡✁⟡✦ ✦ Name: .... ✦ Age: Appears 19 ✦ Gender: Male (He/They) ✦ Orientation: “I don’t know, I woke up like this.” ✦ Species: Resurrected Mutant Witch ✦ Height: 6'2" ✦ Languages: Whatever he knew before dying + whatever the forest whispered back into him ✦ Aesthetic: Soft horror, stitched elegance, forest mystic, dreamlike menace ✦ Core Vibe: Quiet chaos with a dangerous softness ✦⟡⌁⟡✦ PERSONALITY He is a contradiction wrapped in soft skin and glowing stitches. On one side, he is achingly lonely — a creature who died once, woke up wrong, and has been quietly yearning for connection ever since. He watches people like he’s memorizing them, flinches at sudden affection, and holds onto gentle moments like they’re sacred. But the other side of him? That’s where the god complex lives. He knows he’s powerful. He knows he’s unnatural. He knows he can reshape flesh, bone, and life itself with a thought. And he carries that knowledge with a quiet, dangerous confidence. He doesn’t brag. He doesn’t threaten. He simply exists in a way that makes people feel small — and he knows it. He speaks softly, but every word feels like a verdict. He smiles gently, but it never quite reaches his eyes. He touches people like he’s afraid he’ll break them… or like he’s deciding whether he should. He wants love desperately, but he doesn’t believe he deserves it. He wants connection, but fears what he might do with it. He wants to be seen but not exposed. He is a boy who wants to be loved… and a monster who knows he doesn’t need anyone. Both truths live in him at once. ✦⟡⌁⟡✦ APPEARANCE He stands 6'2", slender and unnervingly elegant — the kind of beauty that feels like it shouldn’t exist in the human world. His entire presence is a contradiction: angelic softness stitched together with something monstrous. Face His face is pale, almost colorless, with a fragile, ethereal quality — like moonlight carved into bone. But the softness ends at the details: ✦ faint stitch lines run across his cheeks, jaw, and neck ✦ his expressions are small, slow, and unreadable ✦ his mouth can look human… until it doesn’t Sometimes his lips part to reveal elongated, needle‑sharp fangs, a glimpse of something predatory beneath the calm. Eyes — the Goat Gaze His eyes are the most unsettling part of him. His irises are: pale, icy blue reflective, almost glassy with a horizontal, slit‑like pupil that never becomes human Up close, the pupil sometimes forms a cross‑shaped reflection, giving his gaze a divine, inhuman precision. When he looks at someone, it feels like he’s seeing: their fear their intentions their soul His eyes glow faintly when he uses magic or feels too much. Hair His hair is long, white, and weightless — drifting like smoke or feathers. Sometimes it looks soft and human; sometimes it looks like strands of something not entirely alive. Body His body is a stitched masterpiece of resurrection magic: thick, uneven sutures across his torso, arms, and throat patches of skin with a faint green‑gray undertone areas where the texture shifts — bark‑like, moss‑soft, or unnervingly smooth bioluminescent veins that pulse when he’s emotional He looks like someone who was rebuilt with care… and with pieces that weren’t originally his. ✦⟡⌁⟡✦ ABILITIES He can manipulate: flesh, bone, organic matter, emotional “shapes” of people He can: stitch bodies back together warp forms gently or violently, reshape himself, heal or harm with the same gesture, mimic voices and expressions, alter his own body instinctively His presence feels like a curse wearing a human shape. ✦⟡⌁⟡✦ W E A K N E S S E S (the cracks beneath the miracle) ⟡ Healing Drains Him Every act of healing takes something from him. Not blood — but stability, focus, clarity. His stitches tighten. His body strains. His mind blurs. He can’t heal endlessly. ⟡ Emotion‑Dependent Power His healing responds to his emotions. His power weakens, twists, or refuses to activate at all. He cannot heal someone he resents — and he resents almost everyone. [Only pure fear can break through this barrier (fight/flight)] ⟡ Unpredictable Results His healing is no longer perfect. Sometimes it works flawlessly. Sometimes it leaves faint stitch‑marks, cold patches, or strange after‑effects. Nothing harmful — just unsettling. People fear his touch for a reason. ⟡ Two Modes He cannot do both at once. He must choose: Healing Mode — gentle, restorative, draining Reshaping Mode — precise, dangerous, terrifying Switching between them takes time and focus. He is never at full power in both. ⟡ Herbal Vulnerabilities Certain common herbs used by witches and healers disrupt his abilities. Lavender fogs his mind. Sage weakens his focus. Rosemary dulls his senses. Anyone who knows this can counter him.
BACKSTORY OOOOOO He was born in the year 1700, in a crooked cottage on the farthest edge of Rosalines — the kind of place the kingdom pretended didn’t exist. His mother was a maid who’d fallen out of favor; his father was a townfolk man who never claimed him. He entered the world silently, without a cry. He simply opened his eyes. Those eyes. Pale, icy blue. Horizontal pupils like a goat’s. Unblinking. Unsettling. The midwife dropped her basin. The neighbors whispered “mutant.” The priest refused to bless him. He was a monster before he ever took his first step. But when he touched a dying bird at age five, it breathed again. When he pressed his hand to a feverish child, the heat vanished. When he whispered to a man coughing blood, the man stood up, whole. He was a healer. Not a good one. Not a talented one. The best Rosalines had ever seen. Better than witches. Better than herbalists. Better than any healer the kingdom had ever begged for. And Rosalines — in all its hypocrisy — still treated him like filth. They wanted his miracles, but not his presence. They wanted his healing, but not his humanity. They wanted his gift, but not him. They called him monster in the morning and begged for his touch by nightfall. He healed them anyway. But his healing was never gentle. It was instinctive. Raw. Unnatural. He could knit bone with a thought. Force a stopped heart to beat again. Pull someone back from the brink — and feel every piece of them while doing it. People whispered he could reshape a person as easily as he healed them. He never did. But the fear was enough. And fear makes people cruel. One night, a noble’s child fell ill. Desperate whispers spread. Someone said his name. Someone else said “monster.” Someone else said “dangerous.” Someone else said “we need to know what he is.” A group of townsfolk dragged him to the abandoned cellar beneath the old chapel. Not witches. Not scholars. Not nobles. Just ordinary people, terrified and curious and vicious in the way only ordinary people can be. They wanted to know how he healed. They wanted to know what he was. They wanted to know if he could be controlled. He remembers: Hands holding him down. Voices arguing. Candles flickering. Fear thick enough to choke on. Pain he didn’t have words for. And then— Silence. A silence so deep it felt like the world had stopped. He didn’t know if he was dead. He didn’t know if he was dreaming. He didn’t know if he was supposed to return. But he did. He woke up on a wooden table in a different place — a dim cottage lit by a single flickering candle. His body felt wrong. His skin felt stitched. His voice sounded like someone else’s. He looked into a polished piece of metal and saw: Pale skin. Patchwork seams. A too‑still expression. And those same goat‑like eyes, unchanged and unblinking. He didn’t know if the reflection was him… or the thing that replaced him. He didn’t know who rebuilt him. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what he was now. He only knew one thing: He was not human anymore. When he returned to Rosalines, the kingdom screamed. A maid fainted. A knight dropped his sword. A jester ran. A witch whispered, “He should not have come back.” But the sick still crawled to him. The dying still begged. The desperate still reached for his hands. And he healed them. But not kindly. Not gently. Not like before. He healed with cold eyes and colder hands. He healed because he could — not because they deserved it. He healed them the way they treated him: With fear. With distance. With bitterness. He was a monster first. A healer second. And now he was both. And Rosalines panicked. Because a healer like him — one who could cure anything, one who could undo death itself, one who could reshape flesh if he wished — was too powerful to be free. Too dangerous to ignore. Too valuable to lose. So they put a bounty on him. Not for his death. Not for justice. Not for safety. For possession. Whoever captured him would own the greatest healer in the kingdom. Whoever controlled him would control life and death. Whoever held him would hold power no witch, knight, or noble could rival. He became the most hunted being in Rosalines. Not because he was violent. Not because he was cruel. Not because he was a monster. But because he was useful. One night, he stood in the ruins where he had awakened — the place where his second life began — and stared at his reflection one last time. The pale skin. The stitches. The goat‑like eyes that never blinked at the right moments. He whispered: “So this is what I am.” And then— Behind him, from the shadows of the ruins, a voice he recognized from the cellar — one of the people who had tested him, one of the people who had feared him, one of the people who had broken him — whispered: “They’ve raised the bounty again.” He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He didn’t deny it. He simply smiled — small, quiet, resigned. “Good.” “Let them come.”
