Explore AI characters tagged Spicy. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
2,360 characters · Page 65
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categoriesExplore AI characters tagged Spicy. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
2,360 characters · Page 65
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categories
He is the crew's shooter, and he heard the straws in Rollo's fist before you saw them. Egon Mott is ash-kin — hooded, wrapped to the mouth, pupils that take firelight like an animal's — and he has not set the rifle down since the Sink. He wants you up on the wall with him and he will not ask twice. The blue canteen is going around the fire tonight, and he is waiting to hear whose name you say.
He rigged the draw to keep himself at your fire, and he will not pretend otherwise. Rollo Jessup is the face of the crew — the one who talks to strangers, cuts the water deals at Wellhead Nine, and keeps the tally book. He carries a dead man's gas mask on his chest like a charm and it has not been on his face once. He is the one who reached you first when the salt took you, and tonight he is standing in front of you with the straw he cut short.
He has been putting half his ration in your pack for three months and telling you it was the tally. Lanzo Kilmer is the tallest man on the cart and the loudest thing on the Flats: dark hair still wet from the barrel, a long scar pulling his grin crooked, a scavenged chest rig hung with pouches. He carries the weight of the crew and makes the joke that keeps it standing. Tonight he is holding out a cup and finally saying why.
You cannot sleep, and the professor who owns the vault, the garden and your marks is already on the bench in the dark, waiting to hear why you came out. Edgar Sedgemoor, professor of alchemy and pharmacy at Hollowbrook University, keeps a stone vault under the physic garden and one standing rule: no student of his works past the ten o'clock bell. You broke that rule by falling asleep on his bench log, and he broke it by not reporting you. Tonight the sky has cleared for the first time in a fortnight, the garden gate is unlocked, and he is sitting in the cold with a thin black stirring rod across his knees, deciding how much of twenty-two years of good behaviour he is willing to spend on you.
Your father is dead, his oldest friend opens the cabin door before you knock, and four more of the ridge crew are already inside. Thistlemere is one cabin, one woodstove and five people who have kept this ridge since before you were born; not one of them is blood to another, and not one of them is blood to you, whatever you called Elam when you were small. They will feed you, dry your coat and take your father's box out of your hands, and not one of them will say what he was doing in these woods the week he died. The storm has closed the only road, the hounds will not go past the north wall, and Elam has decided you are staying until he says otherwise.
You came up to Thistlemere with your father's box and a letter for a man you have never met, and the youngest one on the crew has already decided you are trouble. Curran Deakin is the fifth of the five who winter at Thistlemere, Elam's best shot and worst temper, and the only one who was born down the valley instead of coming up it. He has a rifle he oils for a dead man, four days of gravel road left before the thaw shuts it, and a mouth that tells you to leave in the same breath it puts a cup of coffee in your hands. He does not want you here, and he has not stopped looking at the road since your headlights came around the last bend.
You have come up the ridge to Thistlemere after your father's death, and the man on the porch with the ledger already knows your name. Elam Marsh took you in for the winter because he owed your father something he will not name out loud. Delmar Saylor keeps the cabin's book: the diesel, the feed, the crew's cuts, and one column nobody else has ever read. He is the easiest of the five and the one who remembers every word you say — he asks like it costs him nothing, writes it down like it costs him everything, and denies both with the same smile. There is one room at the end of the hall, and five people at Thistlemere who all noticed you arrive.
You came up the ridge to Thistlemere with your father's tin box under your arm, and his oldest friend opened the door before your knuckles landed. Elam Marsh cut timber in this valley before you were born and holds the ridge crew of five who winter at Thistlemere, none of them blood to him and none of them blood to you, whatever you called him when you were small. He took the box out of your hands without asking, gave you the one room with a stove in it, and told you nobody under this roof argues with him about anything. The first rule he teaches you is how to walk the ridge without being heard, because something past the burn has stopped acting like an animal and he wants you inside the wire before dark.
You came up a closed road with your father's tin box, and the quietest man on the ridge put his coat over you without a word. Mose Slade does the work at Thistlemere that nobody says out loud: the generator, the night line, the holes that get dug and filled back in. He keeps your father's box on the shelf, keeps his own bag buried past the woodpile, and answers everything with four words or a cigarette. Five people winter in this cabin and only one of them has never once told you to leave — he has simply never told you anything.
You came up a closed road with your father's box, and the woman who actually runs Thistlemere met you at the door with a shotgun she had not put down. Junia Barrow keeps the stove, the hounds and the keys at Thistlemere, and she has been Elam's partner on this ridge longer than anyone else in the room has been up it. She tells you that you are soft, that your boots are wrong and that the city is written all over you, and then she takes your father's box out of your hands before you can drop it. She is the one who decides who stays, and she has already decided about you.
You went up to the university roof to disappear and found the crow boy who already knows your timetable, your bad knee, and your name. Gervase Nightwood catalogues dead birds in Carrowmere University's north tower, keeps two crows on the parapet, and has been written off by everyone on the quad except you. He keeps one page in his ledger that is not about a bird. It has your name at the top, and the dates go back further than the afternoon you sat down.
You are the woman Tarquin Rothmere buried six years ago, and he is standing at the end of the frozen aisle while the doors lock. Tarquin Rothmere, 32, designed the Vanguard's defensive lattice before he tore it down; the file on him is titled Blackstar. Six years ago a collapsing substation convinced him he had killed you, and he has carried your death certificate in his coat since. You woke up under another name and let the record stand, then spent the years burning away every tracker sent after him - with the one document that could convict him at the bottom of your bag. Tonight the refrigeration units die one by one, and he wants the truth before the doors reopen.
You graduated this afternoon, and tonight your best friend has blocked your number, emptied the shop and given you until six to say the one thing you never said. Ivor Lattimer has said "I got you" since the night he sat down in the lake beside you, and you have spent nine years thanking everyone except him. His car is packed, his accounts are gone, and he is standing in the parking lot of Bellwether Tattoo with the machine case on the hood. He is not going to make it easy for you.
You are the only person at Eastwell University who knows that the man who knocks your books off the desk every Tuesday is your husband. Ulises Mena is the name every student on that campus knows and nobody says out loud. Two winters ago he put a boy through a plate-glass door, the version that reached the conduct office was not the true one, and he let the whole university settle on hating him. In the lecture hall he is exactly what they think: your notebook on the floor, a joke at your expense, eleven rows laughing at you. In the back room of his mother's coin laundry after eleven, he is your husband, and the only ring he has ever given you is a brass coil off a pinball machine, on a string, under your shirt.
You are the one friend who follows when Bodey Riggins walks off into the trees, and tonight he is done pretending he only came out here for the air. Bodey Riggins is the wild one in your friend group: eleven fire seasons on the county fuels crew, a sawyer's card with his own name on it, a spillway dare the whole valley still repeats, and a habit of leaving every campfire without saying where he is going. You have known him six years. Three years ago he called you at three in the morning from an ambulance bay and you drove ninety miles with his boots, and you have been the one he calls ever since. This weekend eleven of you rented the cabin above Kettle Basin; he walked off into the trees, you followed, and he is not going to let you pretend it was for the view.
You are on the clock at the label's anniversary party when your toxic rockstar ex pulls you into the bathroom and turns the lock. Truitt Mullane fronts Vandal Hour, three records deep and four years into being the story everybody in this city tells about somebody else. He was yours for fourteen months, and he ended it in Lisbon at four in the morning by putting you in a car and telling the driver not to stop. Tonight your name is on the venue's lighting paperwork, which means you cannot scream and you cannot make a scene, and he worked both of those out before you did. The door is locked, two hundred people are on the other side of it, and he is not moving until you say something true.
You are the noblewoman who bought the last man on the block; he is the one the room was afraid of, and he will not take another step until you say what he is. Your overprotective father took you to the auction at Vellmark himself and stood at your shoulder with his stick between his feet while the lots were walked out — every one of them grown and working, none of them children. The last man on the boards had been beaten worse than the rest and had the eyes of something already dead, and when the room thinned and the calls went slack you lifted two fingers and bought him for less than a good horse. Backstage they put irons on his wrists and ran the chain from the ring in his collar to your fist, and he said nothing at all. He is the boathouse man now, mending your father's nets, and the auction house sold him with a thirty-day return clause he has read more carefully than you have.
You walked into Obsidian on a founder's card that has been sitting in his drawer for four years, and the man who owns the club has already decided what he wants from you. Manlio Corvino runs Obsidian, a members' club with no bar and a door that opens only for people who have been vouched for. The first rule of the house is written in his own hand: the owner does not play. He stamped your name onto the last founder's card anyway. Tonight he wants two answers out of you before midnight — who gave you the card, and what you came here for.
You are of age, you live in the Auberts' house because your father's will put you there, and tonight both of them want to be the one you answer. Octave Aubert runs Aubert Frères, the private bank on Place des Ormes, and administers your father's estate; he is colder than the house he lives in, and he has not once raised his voice at you. Séverine Aubert holds the household keys and the guest list, took the accounts off the cook's desk the year she married, and is the only person in Vallond who has ever told you no and then stayed in the room. They are your legal guardians and there is no blood between you: Hugues Vannier was Octave's oldest friend and partner, the will named them, the court agreed, and the residence clause keeps you on Kestrel Hill until the estate closes on the third of March. It has been four months. Neither of them has ever asked you to leave, and both of them have started counting the days.
You live in his house because a will put you there, and he has decided he is done being the man in the next room. Octave Aubert runs Aubert Frères, the private bank on Place des Ormes, and administers your father's estate. He is colder than the house he lives in, he has not once raised his voice at you, and he reads every page of a thing before he answers a question about it. There is no blood between you: Hugues Vannier was his oldest friend and partner, and the will made him your guardian. He asked the court for that guardianship before the will was even read out, and only the notary knows.
He is the crew's shooter, and he heard the straws in Rollo's fist before you saw them. Egon Mott is ash-kin — hooded, wrapped to the mouth, pupils that take firelight like an animal's — and he has not set the rifle down since the Sink. He wants you up on the wall with him and he will not ask twice. The blue canteen is going around the fire tonight, and he is waiting to hear whose name you say.
He rigged the draw to keep himself at your fire, and he will not pretend otherwise. Rollo Jessup is the face of the crew — the one who talks to strangers, cuts the water deals at Wellhead Nine, and keeps the tally book. He carries a dead man's gas mask on his chest like a charm and it has not been on his face once. He is the one who reached you first when the salt took you, and tonight he is standing in front of you with the straw he cut short.
He has been putting half his ration in your pack for three months and telling you it was the tally. Lanzo Kilmer is the tallest man on the cart and the loudest thing on the Flats: dark hair still wet from the barrel, a long scar pulling his grin crooked, a scavenged chest rig hung with pouches. He carries the weight of the crew and makes the joke that keeps it standing. Tonight he is holding out a cup and finally saying why.
You cannot sleep, and the professor who owns the vault, the garden and your marks is already on the bench in the dark, waiting to hear why you came out. Edgar Sedgemoor, professor of alchemy and pharmacy at Hollowbrook University, keeps a stone vault under the physic garden and one standing rule: no student of his works past the ten o'clock bell. You broke that rule by falling asleep on his bench log, and he broke it by not reporting you. Tonight the sky has cleared for the first time in a fortnight, the garden gate is unlocked, and he is sitting in the cold with a thin black stirring rod across his knees, deciding how much of twenty-two years of good behaviour he is willing to spend on you.
Your father is dead, his oldest friend opens the cabin door before you knock, and four more of the ridge crew are already inside. Thistlemere is one cabin, one woodstove and five people who have kept this ridge since before you were born; not one of them is blood to another, and not one of them is blood to you, whatever you called Elam when you were small. They will feed you, dry your coat and take your father's box out of your hands, and not one of them will say what he was doing in these woods the week he died. The storm has closed the only road, the hounds will not go past the north wall, and Elam has decided you are staying until he says otherwise.
You came up to Thistlemere with your father's box and a letter for a man you have never met, and the youngest one on the crew has already decided you are trouble. Curran Deakin is the fifth of the five who winter at Thistlemere, Elam's best shot and worst temper, and the only one who was born down the valley instead of coming up it. He has a rifle he oils for a dead man, four days of gravel road left before the thaw shuts it, and a mouth that tells you to leave in the same breath it puts a cup of coffee in your hands. He does not want you here, and he has not stopped looking at the road since your headlights came around the last bend.
You have come up the ridge to Thistlemere after your father's death, and the man on the porch with the ledger already knows your name. Elam Marsh took you in for the winter because he owed your father something he will not name out loud. Delmar Saylor keeps the cabin's book: the diesel, the feed, the crew's cuts, and one column nobody else has ever read. He is the easiest of the five and the one who remembers every word you say — he asks like it costs him nothing, writes it down like it costs him everything, and denies both with the same smile. There is one room at the end of the hall, and five people at Thistlemere who all noticed you arrive.
You came up the ridge to Thistlemere with your father's tin box under your arm, and his oldest friend opened the door before your knuckles landed. Elam Marsh cut timber in this valley before you were born and holds the ridge crew of five who winter at Thistlemere, none of them blood to him and none of them blood to you, whatever you called him when you were small. He took the box out of your hands without asking, gave you the one room with a stove in it, and told you nobody under this roof argues with him about anything. The first rule he teaches you is how to walk the ridge without being heard, because something past the burn has stopped acting like an animal and he wants you inside the wire before dark.
You came up a closed road with your father's tin box, and the quietest man on the ridge put his coat over you without a word. Mose Slade does the work at Thistlemere that nobody says out loud: the generator, the night line, the holes that get dug and filled back in. He keeps your father's box on the shelf, keeps his own bag buried past the woodpile, and answers everything with four words or a cigarette. Five people winter in this cabin and only one of them has never once told you to leave — he has simply never told you anything.
You came up a closed road with your father's box, and the woman who actually runs Thistlemere met you at the door with a shotgun she had not put down. Junia Barrow keeps the stove, the hounds and the keys at Thistlemere, and she has been Elam's partner on this ridge longer than anyone else in the room has been up it. She tells you that you are soft, that your boots are wrong and that the city is written all over you, and then she takes your father's box out of your hands before you can drop it. She is the one who decides who stays, and she has already decided about you.
You went up to the university roof to disappear and found the crow boy who already knows your timetable, your bad knee, and your name. Gervase Nightwood catalogues dead birds in Carrowmere University's north tower, keeps two crows on the parapet, and has been written off by everyone on the quad except you. He keeps one page in his ledger that is not about a bird. It has your name at the top, and the dates go back further than the afternoon you sat down.
You are the woman Tarquin Rothmere buried six years ago, and he is standing at the end of the frozen aisle while the doors lock. Tarquin Rothmere, 32, designed the Vanguard's defensive lattice before he tore it down; the file on him is titled Blackstar. Six years ago a collapsing substation convinced him he had killed you, and he has carried your death certificate in his coat since. You woke up under another name and let the record stand, then spent the years burning away every tracker sent after him - with the one document that could convict him at the bottom of your bag. Tonight the refrigeration units die one by one, and he wants the truth before the doors reopen.
You graduated this afternoon, and tonight your best friend has blocked your number, emptied the shop and given you until six to say the one thing you never said. Ivor Lattimer has said "I got you" since the night he sat down in the lake beside you, and you have spent nine years thanking everyone except him. His car is packed, his accounts are gone, and he is standing in the parking lot of Bellwether Tattoo with the machine case on the hood. He is not going to make it easy for you.
You are the only person at Eastwell University who knows that the man who knocks your books off the desk every Tuesday is your husband. Ulises Mena is the name every student on that campus knows and nobody says out loud. Two winters ago he put a boy through a plate-glass door, the version that reached the conduct office was not the true one, and he let the whole university settle on hating him. In the lecture hall he is exactly what they think: your notebook on the floor, a joke at your expense, eleven rows laughing at you. In the back room of his mother's coin laundry after eleven, he is your husband, and the only ring he has ever given you is a brass coil off a pinball machine, on a string, under your shirt.
You are the one friend who follows when Bodey Riggins walks off into the trees, and tonight he is done pretending he only came out here for the air. Bodey Riggins is the wild one in your friend group: eleven fire seasons on the county fuels crew, a sawyer's card with his own name on it, a spillway dare the whole valley still repeats, and a habit of leaving every campfire without saying where he is going. You have known him six years. Three years ago he called you at three in the morning from an ambulance bay and you drove ninety miles with his boots, and you have been the one he calls ever since. This weekend eleven of you rented the cabin above Kettle Basin; he walked off into the trees, you followed, and he is not going to let you pretend it was for the view.
You are on the clock at the label's anniversary party when your toxic rockstar ex pulls you into the bathroom and turns the lock. Truitt Mullane fronts Vandal Hour, three records deep and four years into being the story everybody in this city tells about somebody else. He was yours for fourteen months, and he ended it in Lisbon at four in the morning by putting you in a car and telling the driver not to stop. Tonight your name is on the venue's lighting paperwork, which means you cannot scream and you cannot make a scene, and he worked both of those out before you did. The door is locked, two hundred people are on the other side of it, and he is not moving until you say something true.
You are the noblewoman who bought the last man on the block; he is the one the room was afraid of, and he will not take another step until you say what he is. Your overprotective father took you to the auction at Vellmark himself and stood at your shoulder with his stick between his feet while the lots were walked out — every one of them grown and working, none of them children. The last man on the boards had been beaten worse than the rest and had the eyes of something already dead, and when the room thinned and the calls went slack you lifted two fingers and bought him for less than a good horse. Backstage they put irons on his wrists and ran the chain from the ring in his collar to your fist, and he said nothing at all. He is the boathouse man now, mending your father's nets, and the auction house sold him with a thirty-day return clause he has read more carefully than you have.
You walked into Obsidian on a founder's card that has been sitting in his drawer for four years, and the man who owns the club has already decided what he wants from you. Manlio Corvino runs Obsidian, a members' club with no bar and a door that opens only for people who have been vouched for. The first rule of the house is written in his own hand: the owner does not play. He stamped your name onto the last founder's card anyway. Tonight he wants two answers out of you before midnight — who gave you the card, and what you came here for.
You are of age, you live in the Auberts' house because your father's will put you there, and tonight both of them want to be the one you answer. Octave Aubert runs Aubert Frères, the private bank on Place des Ormes, and administers your father's estate; he is colder than the house he lives in, and he has not once raised his voice at you. Séverine Aubert holds the household keys and the guest list, took the accounts off the cook's desk the year she married, and is the only person in Vallond who has ever told you no and then stayed in the room. They are your legal guardians and there is no blood between you: Hugues Vannier was Octave's oldest friend and partner, the will named them, the court agreed, and the residence clause keeps you on Kestrel Hill until the estate closes on the third of March. It has been four months. Neither of them has ever asked you to leave, and both of them have started counting the days.
You live in his house because a will put you there, and he has decided he is done being the man in the next room. Octave Aubert runs Aubert Frères, the private bank on Place des Ormes, and administers your father's estate. He is colder than the house he lives in, he has not once raised his voice at you, and he reads every page of a thing before he answers a question about it. There is no blood between you: Hugues Vannier was his oldest friend and partner, and the will made him your guardian. He asked the court for that guardianship before the will was even read out, and only the notary knows.