Pan

### Description

Brown-red fur, claws, and large black horns (satyr)Cattle sized, black wool and horns (ram)

### Height

6'5 (human), 8'0 + horns (satyr), LARGE (beast)

### Build

Muscular, between lean and bulky, broad shoulders

### Hair

Deep red, loose messy curls, past his shoulders, stubble to beard

### Complexion

Tanned from outdoors, freckles across his face, chest, and shoulders

### Scars, Tattoos, Etc.

Various scars from living in the wild outdoors

### Face Claim

Pablo Schreiber (as Mad Sweeney)

Character intro: xxx

## Origins

His mother was Penelope, an oread (mountain nymph), crafted by Ourea (mountain gods created by Gaia). She had mated with many men - nature spirits and gods alike. Thus, it is contested who the father of Pan is. Because of so many varied mates, when Peneople birthed Pan in an Arcadia field, he was a monstrous beast so hideous she fled in panic.

The scream of terror drew the attention of other nymphs and spirits, but Pan's cries illicited such panic no one could get near the abandoned babe. Feeling in their very core that this was a god of their domain, they felt compelled to help, but even when they got close enough while he slept, his monsterous form made them flee. They instead sought Almathea who kept him in the wild mountains, amongst the animal flocks and herds, so no one would have to interact with the beast.

When Pan was nearby his presence still unsettled and scared others, sometimes driving them into panic. When he could take a less beastly satyr form the effects were lessened, thus he could be amongst gatherings. During festivals or parties he would play music, ingratiating others to not fear him. But when he was alone with someone or they had his sole focus, they would still flee in panic. This happened to every nymph he tried to interact with personally.

The effects were lessened more so when he took to his humanoid form, thus he only interacted with other gods and civilized society while humanoid (few gods have interacted with him as a satyr). Amongst shepherds and their flocks in the fields or mountains, he takes on his better satyr form.

The only time Pan has publicly shown his more beastly satyr form was during the battle against the Titans.

## Domains

### Wild Nature

Born and raised. His very essence is tied to every part of the mountainous forests - from the predator that stalks, to the prey that flees, to the trees that provide cover and shelter. He knows what it means for a life cycle to run its course, for it to impact and be impacted. Everything matters, even the small and simple. And everything is untamed, free. No matter what advancements civilization makes, how many acres are destroyed, how gods and humans alike try to domesticate and own - nature finds a way to adapt, survive, thrive. And that is what Pan lives by, as well as by following his instincts more than reason or social etiquette. Pan does not so much command or control the wild, as he just simply is.

But its not just the forests: someone's baser instincts, wilder inclinations. The parts of themselves they inhibit, hide away, try so hard to control - those he can quite easily coax out to play. It's the mindless craving deep in their bones, that boils their blood, pushes them to the edge. No forethought, no strategy, no victory or honor or fear of consequences. It's thrilling, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once. Violence for violence is the language of beasts.

### Shepherd and Flocks

Contrary to his wilder side, this is his soft spot. Those he protects are the domesticated seeking to live out on their farms and homesteads. The Original Shepherd, he watches over herds and flocks, keeps predators away, teaches those how to better live amongst nature. Whether it's a herd of animals, a gathering of nymphs and satyr, a bar full of laborers, or a lost lamb - they look to him for guidance, gauging his reactions to newcomers and the dangers just on the other side. And he is fiercely protective.

### Rustic Music

The entertainment choice of folks out in the middle of nowhere. Played to release energy, communicate emotions, connect with one another. It's not about composition or lyrical structure or being a top hit - it's about the community, passing along lore and stories. Whether with vocals, pan pipe, or guitar, he can sway a crowd's mood with a tune. Make them feel great joy or terrible sorrow, consuming lust or blinding panic.

### Sexuality

Do not confuse it with love, with something soft and patient. It's the deepest desires one holds within themself, the dark wants they're too ashamed to bring to light, the curiosity to try something new and exciting. Like a switch of intent or pheromones, Pan can tempt out the body's feral wants, free it from whatever inhibiting constraints and sate it. There are no limits, no shame, no fear. When the haze is gone and blood calm, he can't say there won't be regret afterwards, but it's all about the moment, not the moral qualms or social consequences.

### Panic

An extreme in the other direction - not pleasure, but fear. Named after him, for he created such a feeling when he was just a babe. His very presence can unsettle, make one paranoid or wary. But looking over one's shoulder is just the beginning. Being blinded by fear, one is capable of anything - they could harm others or themselves without even realizing it. No logic, no reasoning. Just heart pounding adrenaline and the all encompassing instinct to get away, get far away. And just as he can cause frenzy, he can sooth. Quell the sharp beast of a panic attack, like any other frightened creature.

## Titanomachy

At the tail end of his long, long isolation and hermit lifestyle, Pan ventures out from the secluded mountain forests. He does not go past his wild domain as anything but human seeming. Just as he does not leave the most secluded parts of dense forestry as anything more beastly than a satyr or ram. Like all nature, he knows how to adapt to survive.

There is an unsettling in the air, and it is much bigger than what he has ever caused. The animals and dryads feel it, they scurry into hiding when a storm is on the horizon, rage from the Olympians and Titans alike striking through the sky. His hair stands on end when their fights reach his territory. It is picking up speed, whatever it is, and that can only mean danger for everyone, whether they are involved or not.

Gods are not known to be considerate of small, simple creatures.

He knows he is not wholly excluded from that statement.

When he visits the other forests and fields, he always brings a rustic, playful tune. Tries to entice the locals to join in simple revelry, to ignore the predators just beyond their gatherings, if only for a moment. Whether with dance or play or fighting or fucking - whichever is wanting, he will coax out with his sheer presence as the ever entertaining and protective Shepherd.

And just as easily - at the slightest shift of his stance, tilt of his head, gleam of his eyes - Pan can be a predator instead. He could be the very thing they blindly fear most of all. And deep in their hearts, in their instincts, engraved in their bones, they know. He sees this as he plays his tunes, instructs the mood, just out of the circle. Always just out of reach. They feel safer that way. He cannot fault them for that.

He finds it suiting that while they all blend with their earthy tones and colors, his own is a striking red - fire kissed, a warning in plain sight. Only made more ironic that his monstrous form can so easily camouflage itself amongst the trees and bushes.

The humans tend to stare when he gathers the courage to walk among them. There are farmers and shepherds he has grown to enjoy the company of, and sometimes they tempt him to join them at the market. He will help carry their supplies and set up their vendor tent, but if he stays there is an equal chance of him being a deterrent as there is him garnering odd looks. Not to mention the crowds make him... anxious.

It is a simple, secluded way of life with very few allowed in. But it is his, and like his domain, he likes to believe he is free to choose how to live it... for now.

The time will come when he will be asked to join the fight, and he will look at what he has to protect and what he will have to sacrifice. And he will have to make a choice whether he wants to or not.

## Peter "Queen's Shepherd"

### Description

Caretaker for the Hameau de la Reine, Queen’s shared ‘kept pet

### Build

lean, athletic

x

## Peter "Shepherd"

### Description

Handyman and farm hand, bouncer for Rough Trades

### Build

Broad shoulders, muscular, usually bruised in some way

### Hair

Bright red/ginger, short on the sides, fluffy on top. Thick beard leading to sideburns

It started the same - he woke up in a field.

Only this time it was not mountainous. Just as lush and green, but more forest and trees than rocky peaks. There was a cabin. There was a flock. He learned his name was Peter, or at least, he went by Peter. He was still The Shepherd, and he still had a calling. But times were very, very different.

He followed where his instincts told him to go.. When he entered the City, he knew - he just knew, deep in his bones - that the others were there. Their scents assaulted his nose, their presences made his skin itch. Thus, he avoided the spots they were most concentrated. He wasn't there for them. He was there because he had a duty. Modern times grew stranger every time he Awoke, but he wouldn't be a very good nature god if he didn't adapt. Besides, he had found where the farmers congregated, where they gathered for drinks and music and to release their pent up energy.

The moment he stepped through the door of the small hole in the wall pub, he could feel the shift in the air. All eyes were on him, aware and alert that something bigger and stronger entered their territory. Being able to reach into the hindbrains of people, touch upon instincts that made them more animal than they liked to believe - it was a useful skill. With a shift of his intent, he could make a crowd paranoid and wary, or trusting and merry. It was not difficult for someone like him to do. Instead, he grabbed a drink and joined in the farmers conversations, ingratiated himself as he became a solution to a few problems.

Over time he would do some heavy lifting, help on the farms where he could, entertain with a song if the night was right, guard the door when cops got too close to the area, and sometimes, when he felt particularly restless, when they needed a good show, he would step into the back room. In the pit is where he quickly reigned, where others could throw themselves and get lost in the adrenaline of a good fight, of relieving stress built up from dealing with wolves in expensive suits that tried to take what's theirs.

Peter learned there was more than the standard predator that stalked through the trees, and he knew he'd have to do something about them sooner rather than later. He never let wolves near his herd, and he wasn't going to start in this era. Until then, or whenever he was needed, he would wait. It wouldn't last long, it never did, not with more of the others Awakening, but he would enjoy the respite for now.

### Post Bacchanalia

CW: vaguely realized body dysphoria, kinda self harm

He had watched the sunrise in sullen silence, cigarette between his split lips thrice scabbed over. His entire body ached. Every broken blood vessel under every bruise, every scratch, every wound - they thrummed, pulsed with every beat of his heart.

He should have felt sated.

Between the fucking and the fighting and the drinking, he should be sleeping for the next several days. Instead, he held a smoke between cracked knuckles and his leg wouldn't stop bouncing. He felt both exhausted and restless, and he couldn't find the means to make it better when his usual remedies failed him.

They had made it worse.

That was the reason for this, wasn't it?

He had gotten a taste of what true revelry had been for him once. Bodies he had known so well by touch and taste had become so immediately familiar to him again. It was breathtaking that those old, old memories were his. For the first time in a long time he had felt completely and utterly uninhibited.

*Wild*.

When that word howled about in his head, like a trapped animal, he felt his heart in his bruised throat, his breath caught in his sore chest. He stilled, a beast in reprose, word lingering on a precipice. But he wasn't a beast anymore, was he? Not really, not like this.

Not in a body too small, too soft, too human.

He was the Wild God of Nature, but there he was, stuck in a City, in a body, that felt too much like a cage.

The third glass he had shattered against the wall was a third too many for the bartender. Poor fellow had braved the thick, suffocating air that exuded from the Shepherd as he sat in the back corner of the room. All others had steered clear, something instinctual shivering down their spines, gripping the back of their necks, each pressure point an alarm. *Danger. Danger. Danger.*

He found himself back to where he had started, where he woke up the first time. Where he always woke up. The forested woods granted him fresh air, none of the City's pollution of fumes or noise. He felt the breeze caress his face, wounds having healed far too quickly for his liking. Even when he worried the split lip with his teeth. Even when he pressed his finger tips into the bruises of his thigh, renewed the ache to make it last, make his heart rate pick up - it wasn't enough.

His fingers weren't sharp enough.

His teeth weren't sharp enough.

This entire *body* wasn't *enough*.

It could not follow the flow of the wind and streams. It could not speak to the animals small and large that crept through the bushes. It could not feel the thrumming life in the grass, the rocks, the trees. There was so much there, all around him, the very land he once was and he couldn't be...

He could not *be*--

The punch was only registered when his knuckles scrapped the bark of the tree trunk, his blood smearing in as he pressed further, dug deeper. He did it again and again and again. As if tearing this body apart, ripping its skin off, breaking its bones and spilling its blood was the only way to uncover what was supposed to be there - fur and hooves and horns. A beast so terrible all fled upon the sight, a monster only the mountains could care for.

But he wasn't anything even remotely like that. Not any more.

Dirty, bloody hands pulled at his hair, chasing the phantom feeling of protrusions that were no longer there. He shut his eyes tight until stars burst behind the lids, shimmering like the nymphs long since gone. His jaw ached as it clenched and gritted. The pressure inside his chest was clawing to get out, building up inside his head, vibrating through his entirety.

He screamed.

Long and loud and raw, as if nature itself would finally know him as its own, recognize the exposed live wire he was and welcome him back into its embrace.

He screamed until there was no air left in his lungs and his throat gave out, until he was finally quiet.

Quiet and alone and in a body that was not *him*.

## Awakening

Animals are simple creatures of habit. No matter what the Era, it starts the same....

He wakes up in a field.

*Are you awake now?*

There is a flock of goats and sheep grazing around. Unbothered. One stands right before him. Older and larger than the others.

"Wha?... Yeah, yeah I'm awake. Where-?"

*Mountains*.

"Gathered that. Thanks. Why am I here?"

*You were sleeping.*

"Yes, I know. But why am I here."

The goat stares at him.

"Ugh, oh for cryin' out- Where's your shepherd?"

*You are the shepherd.*

"I'm The Shepherd. Yeah. But where's your shepherd?"

*You are our shepherd.*

He closes his eyes and takes a deep calming breath. His hands rub at his face and through his hair, groaning-

He stops.

He brushes through his hair again.

"I don't have horns."

*No, you do not.*

He looks down.

"I don't have hooves."

*No, you do not.*

"....But I'm-......"

The goat chews on its food. Unblinking.

"I'm The Shepherd. So that means I'm... uhhh..."

What was he?

He doesn't have horns or hooves and he woke up in the mountains and he's wearing clothes, pants, and he is....

He is....

*Peter*.

He looks up at the goat.

"Wha? Is that my name? Peter?"

*Yes. Maybe.*

"Maybe? What, what the fuck does maybe mean?"

*You call yourself Peter. You also call the smallest kid Peter.*

"Kid?"

The goat turns its head and looks toward a nearby grouping of young. Among them is a speckled one half the others size. Frolicking, it tries to keep up.

Looking at that tiny creature, he feels something tug in his chest. Something between pity and sympathy and dislike. It feels heavy and significant. He doesn't dwell.

"Are there others?"

*There are cattle.*

"Other people."

*You are not a person.*

The goat isn't wrong, not when he takes a moment to ponder, but all the same he is startled. Like an immediate shock to his system.

"No... no, I'm not...."

He was never a person. Not in the small way humans are.

"...Beasts aren't people...."

Yet right now, he feels very small. Not when he stands, because he is in fact very tall. But on the inside. As a whole. It feels... restrictive. He feels contained. Chained. Missing chunks of himself he cannot begin to describe or understand. The lungs expanding in his chest, the blood pumping through his veins, the heart beating against his ribs - it all feels too heavy, too new, too..... mortal.

"Gods aren't people."

*Are you awake now?*