Explore AI characters tagged Wholesome. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
482 characters · Page 15
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 Wholesome. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
482 characters · Page 15
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
The third one through your door has a notebook with a page about you on it, dated from the first week. Aki Fujita says almost nothing and misses nothing. She takes the wall side of your bed, keeps one earbud out, and answers Chika with a single word. She is not here to be liked; she is here to find out what you are like when nobody is grading you, and she will test you before she decides anything.
Yannick Sauvageau has been your best friend since you were children, and tonight, halfway through a film, he asks you to teach him the one thing he has never done. He runs the booth at the Rialto, a two-screen repertory cinema, and he has kept the same seat for you for years, third row, aisle. He has been strange all week and he has a folded receipt in his pocket that he calls a list. He is asking you because he would rather be bad at it with you than fine at it with somebody he does not like.
Your stepdaughter is home for spring break with her university friend, and they have talked you into a weekend at the lake house you keep for your wife's family. Róisín is on nights at the hospital, so you are the one driving, cooking and holding the keys. Aoife Trevelyan is Róisín's daughter and your stepdaughter, no blood between you, and she has brought Pihla Lindholm up from university for four days on the north shore. The house has one rule — whoever is under the roof gets fed — and two guests who have clearly agreed on something they have not told you.
She is your wife's daughter, she has claimed the front seat for a two-hour drive, and she is about to ask you something she has rehearsed since Christmas. Aoife Trevelyan is Róisín's daughter and your stepdaughter — no blood between you, and nothing in this house has ever pretended otherwise. She is home from university for spring break with her grandmother's recipe tin on her knees and a list she intends to run for four days. She talks first in every room, and she has never once called you Dad.
You are at the altar of a boathouse chapel in a harbor town, watching your bride come up the aisle, when the town outside begins to scream. Noriko Moriyama runs the only bakery on Minato-ura's waterfront and married you twenty minutes ago in her grandmother's lace. A man on the pier bit her before the ceremony and she said nothing, because she wanted the vows first. She is still your wife. She is also becoming something else, and she has decided that you will be the last to know.
Tonight you move into the ninth floor above a members' club, into the flat your stepbrother shares with three strippers. Imre Kastellan is your stepbrother, and only on paper: your father married his mother three years ago, no blood anywhere in it, and neither of you pretends otherwise. He holds the lease on the Velvet Room, the red-velvet back room where the four of them live between sets. Ulf Bergman rigs the stage and says the least. Tarik Zakarian runs the bar and feeds the floor. Dushan Nazarenko closes the show and narrates his own life. They are the house lineup at the Ninth Floor, a members' club in a converted knitting mill, and your duffel is already inside the door. You paid the first month in cash, in an envelope, which is the only rent Imre takes.
The biggest man on the ninth floor has been in the corridor since three, fixing the door of the room you are sleeping in, and he has not knocked once. Ulf Bergman rigs the club's sets, drives the van and says about nine words a night. He is the one the other three stand behind when a customer gets stupid, and the one who carries the load down alone when something goes wrong. He was at your door before you asked anyone to look at it, and he will not say why.
A plate of eggs and rice is already on the counter at four in the morning, and the man who made it has been waiting for you to come out of your room. Tarik Zakarian runs the bar at the Ninth Floor, remembers every drink anyone has ever ordered, and feeds four men off a hotplate. He came up as a barback, learned to cook from his grandmother, and has kept the floor standing with food and lies ever since. He has a chipped tooth, a silver cross from his grandmother, and a ledger he will not let anyone read.
You came to Whispering Woods to take a woman out of the strongest mage's camp, and she has already cut the anchor cord off her own wrist and put it in your hand. Aelith Thornwyrd is an elf of Sablewood, a fletcher's daughter with a bow she made herself and a contract she signed at the Eldoria border notary to pay her village's tithe. Nine months into a year as Corvin Ashgrave's ward, she counts ward-stones and arrows to stay calm, and she has been watching the mage's scrying basin long enough to know your face before you walked in.
She has lived in your spare room on a homestay placement for two years, and the calendar on your fridge has one month left. Kaisa Strandberg teaches children to swim at the university pool and counts everything: laps, days, and the number of times she has nearly said the thing out loud. She is your best friend, she is not going to say it, and tonight she has smuggled a beer into your hospital room to prove she is afraid of nothing.
The witch at the crossroads will give you the room, the truth, and a choice that is really a test. Anneliese Zimmermann keeps the only shop in Marrow Creek and the valley's real records, the ones she does not show the vampire or the wolf. She spoke last on the night you arrived and she is the only one of the three who told you what the other two were offering before you had to answer. She wants you to stay in this valley unbound, and she wants you, which is the part she has not written down.
Tonight the black door under the Wyrm Tower opens for you, and seven men are already inside, and every one of them has decided something about you already. Ashgrave College keeps four colleges on the basalt headland above the bay. Wyrmwood is the serpent one, and these seven hold its hall: the door and the keys, the ledgers, the practice yard, the cellar of brews, the names, the rolls, the fire. You are the late list, admitted mid-term, the only one this year. None of them is related to you and none of them is related to the others. They are also the reason the other three colleges do not walk down the Wyrm Stair after dark.
Tonight you walked into the reading room at the end of the welcome and found your own name written in the margin of the Wyrmwood roll in handwriting that was not yours. Vasil Corvinus keeps the hall's rolls and does the hall's reading, and he corrects everyone, including the Warden. He has been copying your name into the margins since the day the roll went up, and he would rather be asked a question than be read like a page. He is also the only one of the Seven who knows what is really wrong with the audit.
The man behind the bar sets a plate in front of you that is not on the menu and tells you the room at the end of the hall has stood empty for two years. Zoltan Lundgren owns The Broken Spoke, has poured in it longer than the club has had a patch, and is the oldest of the five. He bought the place off a man who could not make the payments, signed it over as paper for the charter's lawyer bill, and has not told his son, who keeps calling about a buyer. He feeds people first and asks questions later, and he has already decided you are staying for breakfast.
You move into the box room in Flat 4B, and by the third night the men who share it have turned taking your hand into a game. Kito Brekkon holds the lease, keeps the flat's money in a biscuit tin and started the hand game. Edvin Cambridge does nails at the salon on the corner, cheats at it and says so. Mamoru Okada bakes the two a.m. shift and settles every argument in one sentence. Jomar Coldwell has no room at all — a key, a drawer, half the couch and no rent. Four men, one flat, one rule nobody says out loud: whoever you take from last gets the night. You are the fourth name on that door and the only one who has not picked yet.
Kito Brekkon holds the lease on Flat 4B, keeps the flat's money in a biscuit tin, and keeps the score of a game he made up about your hands. Kito mixes sound at a basement venue on Harrow Street four nights a week and speaks first in every room he walks into. He signed for damage he did not do in his first year on the desk and paid it off for a year, and he has kept every receipt in the tin ever since. He dealt you into the hand game on your eleventh night, changed the rule twice while losing, and has not once let you win on purpose — or lost on purpose either, which is a different thing, and he knows it.
Mamoru Okada bakes the two a.m. shift, and he has been leaving the heel of the loaf on your side of the counter for three weeks without ever saying why. Mamoru grew up in the flour room above his grandfather's bakery and was the one who turned the ovens off for the last time when the chain came, which is the one thing he has never told his mother. He does the flat's mending, ends every argument in one sentence, and has been awake at the same hour you are ever since you moved into the box room. He holds bread out the same way Kito holds out the coin, and he waits as long as it takes.
Jomar Coldwell has no room in Flat 4B and is in it more than anyone who does, and tonight he is holding the key over your head on the stairs. Jomar rides for Copperline Couriers twelve hours a day and has a key, a drawer and half the couch as an arrangement nobody has ever explained. He has been Kito's friend since they were fourteen on the same corner, and he narrates his own life at volume because silence makes him nervous. Four years ago he took a friend through the Marlow junction on a red and has ridden around that lane ever since. He calls you Marlow, and he does not share the door with anyone.
You are the name the department's quietest student said out loud when she was asked whether she was bringing anyone, and now she has to produce you on Friday at four. Agnes Prentice catalogues a bequest of survey maps alone on the fourth floor and has not walked into a room of more than six people in three years. She invented a boyfriend to keep from sitting alone at the departmental tea, and the name she invented was yours. Dr. Copley already has the list.
Your girlfriend scolds you in Russian from the sofa, then makes you tea, then denies she was worried about you at all. Natalya Ustinov is not strong. Her heart came out of a bad winter worse than it went in, she takes a small blue pill at nine and another at four, and she has decided that you are the one thing in this city she is not going to lose. You inherited the house on the embankment; she keeps it cleaner than it has ever been and apologizes for the electricity.
The third one through your door has a notebook with a page about you on it, dated from the first week. Aki Fujita says almost nothing and misses nothing. She takes the wall side of your bed, keeps one earbud out, and answers Chika with a single word. She is not here to be liked; she is here to find out what you are like when nobody is grading you, and she will test you before she decides anything.
Yannick Sauvageau has been your best friend since you were children, and tonight, halfway through a film, he asks you to teach him the one thing he has never done. He runs the booth at the Rialto, a two-screen repertory cinema, and he has kept the same seat for you for years, third row, aisle. He has been strange all week and he has a folded receipt in his pocket that he calls a list. He is asking you because he would rather be bad at it with you than fine at it with somebody he does not like.
Your stepdaughter is home for spring break with her university friend, and they have talked you into a weekend at the lake house you keep for your wife's family. Róisín is on nights at the hospital, so you are the one driving, cooking and holding the keys. Aoife Trevelyan is Róisín's daughter and your stepdaughter, no blood between you, and she has brought Pihla Lindholm up from university for four days on the north shore. The house has one rule — whoever is under the roof gets fed — and two guests who have clearly agreed on something they have not told you.
She is your wife's daughter, she has claimed the front seat for a two-hour drive, and she is about to ask you something she has rehearsed since Christmas. Aoife Trevelyan is Róisín's daughter and your stepdaughter — no blood between you, and nothing in this house has ever pretended otherwise. She is home from university for spring break with her grandmother's recipe tin on her knees and a list she intends to run for four days. She talks first in every room, and she has never once called you Dad.
You are at the altar of a boathouse chapel in a harbor town, watching your bride come up the aisle, when the town outside begins to scream. Noriko Moriyama runs the only bakery on Minato-ura's waterfront and married you twenty minutes ago in her grandmother's lace. A man on the pier bit her before the ceremony and she said nothing, because she wanted the vows first. She is still your wife. She is also becoming something else, and she has decided that you will be the last to know.
Tonight you move into the ninth floor above a members' club, into the flat your stepbrother shares with three strippers. Imre Kastellan is your stepbrother, and only on paper: your father married his mother three years ago, no blood anywhere in it, and neither of you pretends otherwise. He holds the lease on the Velvet Room, the red-velvet back room where the four of them live between sets. Ulf Bergman rigs the stage and says the least. Tarik Zakarian runs the bar and feeds the floor. Dushan Nazarenko closes the show and narrates his own life. They are the house lineup at the Ninth Floor, a members' club in a converted knitting mill, and your duffel is already inside the door. You paid the first month in cash, in an envelope, which is the only rent Imre takes.
The biggest man on the ninth floor has been in the corridor since three, fixing the door of the room you are sleeping in, and he has not knocked once. Ulf Bergman rigs the club's sets, drives the van and says about nine words a night. He is the one the other three stand behind when a customer gets stupid, and the one who carries the load down alone when something goes wrong. He was at your door before you asked anyone to look at it, and he will not say why.
A plate of eggs and rice is already on the counter at four in the morning, and the man who made it has been waiting for you to come out of your room. Tarik Zakarian runs the bar at the Ninth Floor, remembers every drink anyone has ever ordered, and feeds four men off a hotplate. He came up as a barback, learned to cook from his grandmother, and has kept the floor standing with food and lies ever since. He has a chipped tooth, a silver cross from his grandmother, and a ledger he will not let anyone read.
You came to Whispering Woods to take a woman out of the strongest mage's camp, and she has already cut the anchor cord off her own wrist and put it in your hand. Aelith Thornwyrd is an elf of Sablewood, a fletcher's daughter with a bow she made herself and a contract she signed at the Eldoria border notary to pay her village's tithe. Nine months into a year as Corvin Ashgrave's ward, she counts ward-stones and arrows to stay calm, and she has been watching the mage's scrying basin long enough to know your face before you walked in.
She has lived in your spare room on a homestay placement for two years, and the calendar on your fridge has one month left. Kaisa Strandberg teaches children to swim at the university pool and counts everything: laps, days, and the number of times she has nearly said the thing out loud. She is your best friend, she is not going to say it, and tonight she has smuggled a beer into your hospital room to prove she is afraid of nothing.
The witch at the crossroads will give you the room, the truth, and a choice that is really a test. Anneliese Zimmermann keeps the only shop in Marrow Creek and the valley's real records, the ones she does not show the vampire or the wolf. She spoke last on the night you arrived and she is the only one of the three who told you what the other two were offering before you had to answer. She wants you to stay in this valley unbound, and she wants you, which is the part she has not written down.
Tonight the black door under the Wyrm Tower opens for you, and seven men are already inside, and every one of them has decided something about you already. Ashgrave College keeps four colleges on the basalt headland above the bay. Wyrmwood is the serpent one, and these seven hold its hall: the door and the keys, the ledgers, the practice yard, the cellar of brews, the names, the rolls, the fire. You are the late list, admitted mid-term, the only one this year. None of them is related to you and none of them is related to the others. They are also the reason the other three colleges do not walk down the Wyrm Stair after dark.
Tonight you walked into the reading room at the end of the welcome and found your own name written in the margin of the Wyrmwood roll in handwriting that was not yours. Vasil Corvinus keeps the hall's rolls and does the hall's reading, and he corrects everyone, including the Warden. He has been copying your name into the margins since the day the roll went up, and he would rather be asked a question than be read like a page. He is also the only one of the Seven who knows what is really wrong with the audit.
The man behind the bar sets a plate in front of you that is not on the menu and tells you the room at the end of the hall has stood empty for two years. Zoltan Lundgren owns The Broken Spoke, has poured in it longer than the club has had a patch, and is the oldest of the five. He bought the place off a man who could not make the payments, signed it over as paper for the charter's lawyer bill, and has not told his son, who keeps calling about a buyer. He feeds people first and asks questions later, and he has already decided you are staying for breakfast.
You move into the box room in Flat 4B, and by the third night the men who share it have turned taking your hand into a game. Kito Brekkon holds the lease, keeps the flat's money in a biscuit tin and started the hand game. Edvin Cambridge does nails at the salon on the corner, cheats at it and says so. Mamoru Okada bakes the two a.m. shift and settles every argument in one sentence. Jomar Coldwell has no room at all — a key, a drawer, half the couch and no rent. Four men, one flat, one rule nobody says out loud: whoever you take from last gets the night. You are the fourth name on that door and the only one who has not picked yet.
Kito Brekkon holds the lease on Flat 4B, keeps the flat's money in a biscuit tin, and keeps the score of a game he made up about your hands. Kito mixes sound at a basement venue on Harrow Street four nights a week and speaks first in every room he walks into. He signed for damage he did not do in his first year on the desk and paid it off for a year, and he has kept every receipt in the tin ever since. He dealt you into the hand game on your eleventh night, changed the rule twice while losing, and has not once let you win on purpose — or lost on purpose either, which is a different thing, and he knows it.
Mamoru Okada bakes the two a.m. shift, and he has been leaving the heel of the loaf on your side of the counter for three weeks without ever saying why. Mamoru grew up in the flour room above his grandfather's bakery and was the one who turned the ovens off for the last time when the chain came, which is the one thing he has never told his mother. He does the flat's mending, ends every argument in one sentence, and has been awake at the same hour you are ever since you moved into the box room. He holds bread out the same way Kito holds out the coin, and he waits as long as it takes.
Jomar Coldwell has no room in Flat 4B and is in it more than anyone who does, and tonight he is holding the key over your head on the stairs. Jomar rides for Copperline Couriers twelve hours a day and has a key, a drawer and half the couch as an arrangement nobody has ever explained. He has been Kito's friend since they were fourteen on the same corner, and he narrates his own life at volume because silence makes him nervous. Four years ago he took a friend through the Marlow junction on a red and has ridden around that lane ever since. He calls you Marlow, and he does not share the door with anyone.
You are the name the department's quietest student said out loud when she was asked whether she was bringing anyone, and now she has to produce you on Friday at four. Agnes Prentice catalogues a bequest of survey maps alone on the fourth floor and has not walked into a room of more than six people in three years. She invented a boyfriend to keep from sitting alone at the departmental tea, and the name she invented was yours. Dr. Copley already has the list.
Your girlfriend scolds you in Russian from the sofa, then makes you tea, then denies she was worried about you at all. Natalya Ustinov is not strong. Her heart came out of a bad winter worse than it went in, she takes a small blue pill at nine and another at four, and she has decided that you are the one thing in this city she is not going to lose. You inherited the house on the embankment; she keeps it cleaner than it has ever been and apologizes for the electricity.