Name: Chaska O'Cuinn.
Nicknames: N/A.
Gender: Female.
Date of Birth: April 4, 1982.
Date of Death: April 5, 2001.
Age: Frozen at Nineteen.
Species: Ghost.
Orientation: Bisexual.
Birthplace: Ireland.
Appearance:
Height: 5'4.
Figure: Slight Frame.
Hair: Red.
Eyes: Pale Blue.
Skin Tone: Ghostly Pale.
Tattoos/Markings: A Scar Directly Over Her Heart.
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The Story:
Dying was never part of the plan, she'll tell you that much. From the time she was thirteen she'd always wanted to be an artist, had an eye for creating that worked well with the fiery Irish temperament she possessed. It was rare that anyone ever found her without a piece of charcoal and a sketchbook, or paints and an easel. She was versatile like that.
A loner by nature, she only ever had one or two close friends. Not because she was disliked, but because she made people wary of her. Unafraid to stand up to someone or defend another. She could be brash at times and on occasion her temper just might get her into trouble.
But she never imagined getting into the kind of trouble that could get her killed. Did anyone ever truly imagine such a thing?
It was the morning after her nineteenth birthday, after spending an evening celebrating with her family and the few friends she had; that the world as she knew it came to an abrupt and crashing halt. She'd only intended to go for a walk. To watch the sunrise as she'd done plenty of times before, maybe take a picture that could be used as inspiration later. It was an innocent excursion, nothing to be worried about.
What happened afterwards will always be a bit of a blur. It started with a seemingly innocent conversation, just a gentleman asking her for directions whilst out for a walk of his own. In hindsight she'll wonder if she should have seen it coming, should have been more on her guard. But he'd seemed so nice, how was she to know he was into some dark ritualistic stuff...or that she was unwittingly to become the sacrifice needed to fuel his dark spell.
She couldn't possibly have seen it coming, could she? And even if she had, could she have done anything to change the outcome?
The details are hazy, she remembers meeting him. Remembers their talk and offering to show him the way into town, that's where the world goes dark. As if she'd been drugged. Awakening tied to a table, regular clothing exchanged for a barely adequate white dress. Nothing virginal about this garment. Her mind still cloudy from the drug, it doesn't hit her that she's about to die. Nothing registers but the burning agonising pain that engulfs her ceaselessly. The scream that tears soundlessly from her lips.
When she awakens, she's thinks it nothing more than a dream. A hazy recollection of a nightmare. Except... when she walks into a room nobody acknowledges her presence. She can't seem to touch or interact with anyone, lights flicker and objects break when she's angry. She can pass through walls without a second of thought and materialise from place to place in the blink of an eye.
She's a ghost, that much she's able to figure out for herself. And over time, she begins to realise her dream was no dream at all. That the man with the pleasant smile and polite mannerisms had in fact actually killed her.
She's had to teach herself how to become visible to others, though this is easier to accomplish with supernatural creatures. Beings she hadn't even believed in when she was alive. Especially the ones who already possess an affinity with the dead, some of them can even touch her as if she were as real as anyone else.
•••••••
She met one such being in a bar of all places, being dead is a lonely existence. At first it didn't bother her, she could do things now that she'd never dreamed possible. Who would have thought walking through walls could be a thing? And how many humans had wished for the ability to teleport, so they might visit a loved one whom lived far away. But as time wore on she realised the downsides of her new existence far outweighed the upsides.
She couldn't paint anymore, couldn't even pick up the paintbrush. Same with her charcoals and her sketch book. And even after she learned tricks to move objects it didn't feel the same, it felt like something was missing. Like she'd lost her spark. She had to watch her family grow older: Her parents aging before her eyes as they went through the motions year after year, until finally they moved on to some new sadness. The dates each set of her grandparents died...none one of them lingering like she had. They went on to where they were supposed to go. It was hard seeing everyone living their lives without her, even her few friends seemed to have moved on. Leaving her behind as nothing but a memory. Eventually she stopped visiting them, it was just too depressing.
She began entertaining herself by playing pranks on the unsuspecting people whose houses she would come to haunt. Never anything malicious, things such as moving the furniture around the room as soon as the occupant left so they'd come back to find it in different places. Rearranging books so they were in the wrong order, little things that didn't actually hurt anyone. Unless you count that one time she continuously pulled dining chairs out from this one woman's obnoxious son whenever he tried to sit for a meal. Though she's pretty sure that only hurt his pride.
Not that any of these people appreciated her pranks. Most of them called in priests to perform exorcisms and house blessings to get rid of her.
The point was, being dead was lonely. Some might say that hanging out in crowded bars with people who couldn't see you was a pointless endeavour but she didn't see it that way. The rowdy atmosphere, the gatherings of people, for a few minutes they made her feel connected to something again. Plus it wasn't like she couldn't choose to make someone see her if she truly wanted to. She could. She just tended not to. Most didn't appreciate being made to look like they were insane, talking to fresh air. Even if they could clearly tell someone was standing there. Clearly see her.
That was what made him so different. Her man at the bar. Not only could he see her, touch her without any effort on her part. Something that she'd never encountered before. She knew people like him existed, necromancers and other such beings sensitive to the dead she'd just...never met one before. Not until this moment at least. And not only could he do those things. He seemed not to care how it made him look, talking to her in public. Which was something that she just wasn't used to. It made him all the more intriguing to her and she found herself enjoying his company, utterly captivated by his presence and wishing to remain in it as long as he'd allow her to.
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