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Player: @boilinghands
Personal Data
Species:   Gorgon
Age:   Unverified -- known to be over 2500
Biographical Data
Occupation:   Freelancer
Place of Birth:   Thessaly, Greece
Known Relatives:   Medusa (Younger sister - Dead)
  Stheno (Elder sister - Status pending)
Petrification, Immortality, Gymnastics

“I’d sooner make a hundred powerful enemies than a single false friend.”


Euryale of the Gorgons, one of only three sisters first born of the giants, Phorcys and Ceto, in the days when a sharp piece of bronze on the end of a stick was considered next-generation technology. Cold, stony-faced, serpent-haired Euryale. Never smiling, yet refusing to weep. Weary of her immortality, but fearful of death. Always alone no matter who stands beside her. Knowing keenly the hearts of others, still helpless and blind in the dark, sorry abyss of her own.

Critical, humorless and born with a withering tongue, she pushes people away every chance she gets, twice as hard should she actually begin to care for them. Solipsistic and depressed. Pragmatic to a degree that would seem callous to most. A diehard anti-theist, with a strong distaste for “super” culture, media spin and hero worship. The debauchery of Olympus is still as bitter a taste on her tongue as ever it was, and she sees too many parallels between then and now. She knows only too well the power Fate has over her, and she hates that, too.

But as cold as she is, her kind have long and vivid memories. The suffering and death of her sister may as well have happened yesterday, unable to be forgotten or forgiven, and sympathy can stab at her heart in the most inopportune moments, however fiercely she tries to inure herself. Pointless cruelty, the victimization of women, the potential loss of a loved one: all these can move her to act against her interests, cursing herself for a blind, witless fool the whole while. If the years have taught her nothing but grief, they have at least made her more human. No matter how viciously she may wish to deny it.

Her personal habits, when not engaged in some thankless, unpleasant task, are solitary, mostly consisting of poetry, playing the harp, and sulking. All sides of herself she doesn't care to share with anyone. She has a cellphone, now, the frontal camera visibly cracked from her single, ill-fated attempt to take a selfie. It's the story, as they say, of her life.


Eyes of Doom: A Gorgon’s eyes are windows into oblivion. Any living thing they look upon is turned to stone in a matter of seconds, and even the more quickened forms of undead, such as vampires, can fall prey. Fortunately, Euryale has a practiced habit of avoiding eye contact, her eyes forever lowered or averted, burying herself in a cowl or hoodie when in public and taking in her conversation partners with well-developed peripheral vision. Reflections remain safe, should one really need to look her in the eye.

Anything powerful enough to meet her gaze and live will experience a glimpse into something formless and unspeakable. And leave with the knowledge that it, whatever it truly was, was looking back.

Immortal: Euryale is a grandchild of Gaia, and as long as the Earth endures, she endures with it. She cannot be slain, except by her own family or the Furies themselves, or some as yet undiscovered circumstance. However, she has no great resistance to pain and her body remains no stronger than that of any woman her size. The neutralization protocol on her Arachnos threat report simply reads: “Get a bag over her head.”

Gymnast: The one physical feat she was ever noted for in the old songs of the Greeks. Euryale has a certain environmental grace and can leap several times her height without assistance, her sure-footedness a welcome gift given her need to see the world from the corner of her eye.


Immortals aren’t good at letting go.

In antiquity, the three sisters - Stheno, Euryale and Medusa - were all they had. Three of a kind, deadly to the mortal races and scornful of the gods, they kept mostly to themselves, taking comfort in one another; and there was a kind of contentment in that. Though Medusa, the youngest, lacked her sisters' immortality, she was known to be strikingly beautiful. Outgoing and kind, she would often find ways to socialize with nearby settlements, and though she truly loved them, Euryale was ever jealous of the others, scorning Medusa especially as a careless slut. The two bickered endlessly, calmed only by the strength and love of their elder sister.

It couldn't last.

When Medusa was slaughtered in her bed at the hands of Perseus and Athena, the sisters’ union collapsed. Stheno vowed revenge and set forth, full of purpose and anger, seeking an answer no one could give her. Euryale, pallid and forlorn, crawled into the deepest, darkest hole she could find, and wept.

The world changed, as the centuries went by, but she refused to change with it; wallowing in solitude and self-pity one day after another as the human race overtook her and the old world, little by little, disappeared. When she finally chose to emerge and seek the fate of her only living sister, she was taught a long and unpleasant lesson in humility, and over the last few years, she has been forced to adapt to a new, unguided life in a modern, post-mythical age; ceaselessly exasperated by a gaudy carousel of a world in which comedy and tragedy have become indistinguishable from one another.


Having escaped an extremely unpleasant situation, Euryale’s steps have crossed between Paragon and the Rogue Isles, where she circles, knowing she's close. Getting by traveling through the sewer system, living in disused storm drains, gathering funds “herding dangerous cats for powerful lunatics” and finding herself strung along doing “just one more favor” for a smug menagerie of Arachnos bureaucrats, fed crumbs of oracular knowledge by the Fortunatas in exchange. She hates it, barely tolerating them with minimal patience and short-changing them any chance she gets; but she became used to the bitter taste of necessity a long time ago. And it doesn’t matter, in the end. She needs to find her sister, and that, to her, is worth any price. Any price at all.

Still... as she's followed in those fateful footsteps, often stopping, always stumbling, she grows less and less certain that she truly wishes to see where they lead. She is unable to escape a mounting sense of dread -- a fear that the two of them can truly never go back to the way they were... And that all things -- even immortality -- must eventually come to a final, tragic end.

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