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Portland, OR
No doubt you have been able to sense it. Maybe you don't quite know why you're here, but there's something different about this city. An ancient art is returning to this modern world: magic. Embrace it or reject it - the choice is yours.
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 walton, sloan a., 129|witch|cole sprouse
'love without reason, love without mercy, love without pride or shame...'
Pronouns: he/him/his



Name: sloan aramis walton

Nickname(s): n/a

Age: 129

Birthday: december 2nd

Gender: male

Pronouns: he/him/his

Species: spellcaster


Hometown: london

Occupation: unemployed

Rank: fugitive

Powers: representational magic


Alignment: lawful evil

Myers Briggs: entj


Sexual Orientation: heterosexual

Romantic Orientation: heterosexual

Relationship Status: married

Significant Other(s): cecily barnes-walton


  • arthur walton – father – deceased
  • elizabeth walton – mother – deceased
  • beckett walton – fraternal twin brother – vampire
  • emily walton – daughter – deceased
  • cecily barnes-walton – wife – incapacitated


present, pt. 1

The diner smelled of stale coffee, pancakes, and tobacco. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't pleasant either. Sloan Walton sat, taking another sip of orange juice as he heard out the council representative with a respectful air he was holding together by the power of java alone. Her message wasn't to his liking. They weren't making an offer, much as the young witch they'd sent insisted. This was a threat. An outright order to stop what he was doing. 'Or else'. But he wasn't interested in stopping. There was too much on the line.

Everything was on the line.

The warlock sighed, obviously aggravated, and took another drag. Blowing out slowly, his smoky breath adding to the unique scent in the place, Sloan adjusted his position to face the woman directly.

”That's all good and fine, Melanie. It's Melanie, right? Right. Listen, Melanie, I understand what the council is saying. I really do. They've said it time and time again over the last twelve years. 'Don't do that, Sloan.' 'We're going to have to punish you, Mr. Walton.' 'That kind of magic is forbidden, you little shit.' I've heard it all before. You're the sixth witch I've agreed to meet with to discuss what has turned out to be nothing more than an unchanging and uninteresting demand to the which I will not acquiesce. Please tell them that nothing has changed and that they shouldn't hold their breath for me to comply.”

Melanie was frustrated. Sloan simply shrugged. Standing now, he removed his wallet from the back pocket of his distressed skinny jeans and tossed a wad of money onto the table. Shooting the witch a clearly fake smile and a nod, he put out his cigarette and turned to leave.

”And ask Councilwoman Rhearn why she's wasting all of our time,” he added as he walked past her and toward the exit. He made no effort to turn around and look at the witch. ”She knows I won't even consider any of this arbitrary nonsense and it's obvious that none of them can locate me so, barring me turning myself in, none of what they're insisting upon is even enforceable.”

Once outside, he took a deep breath, pulled his jacket tighter against the cold, February air, and walked about a block before turning into the alleyway. Removing the strand of Melanie's hair that he'd magically nicked as he'd passed her, Sloan tied it deftly around a clay totem he'd had prepared in the pocket of his coat. The mage lazily chanted the familiar words, inhaled deeply, and then breathed the breath of life into his little statue. When the eyes glowed green, he knew there was no threat. Melanie was still seated in the restaurant, likely making some report to her superiors. The man scoffed.

'Superiors' indeed.

Witches so old and powerful that they had to send emissaries to deal with someone so young as himself. They pretended that it was out of near indifference, as if he wasn't important enough to be met by any of the actual members of the council. In reality, it was much less about the maintenance of any facade – they were scared. Terrified of what Sloan could do. The woman who'd taught him had made it clear that she'd never seen anything like it in all her centuries of life. When he'd left them, they'd panicked. But he wasn't concerned. If they thought they could kill him, they already would have tried. No, they were simply attempting to flex until he conceded, a pitiful attempt at intimidation that the man would have no more of. Soon enough, he'd remove them from power himself; until then, he needed to send the occasional message.

Sorry Melanie.


This isn't funny, Sloan.

I know you think that I deserve this. Perhaps I do. Maybe it's true that I didn't always treat you as well as I should've growing up. Life was tough for you, no question. But it wasn't my fault you were sick all the time. It wasn't my fault that dad didn't treat you right. And anyway, you were always mom's favorite. Should I destroy your life for that? You act like you're the only one with any right to be mad...


We both know you're the one who killed her.

Yeah, that's right. I fuckin' said it. And you can end me or you can hex me into eternity, but you'll still have to live with what you did to our mother, Sloan. And I don't wanna hear about how you didn't know what you were doing. No one fucking cares that you weren't trained at the time. Dad was right. Magic is evil. I trie-, no, we tried to help you. We wanted to steer you away from it. Iolanthe was wrong to abandon you, no doubt, but it was worse that she opened your channels to magic in the first place.

I don't know why I'm wasting my breath. I can't run from them forever. Get me out of here or kill me. I'm your brother, not one of your fucking dolls.

Don't play with me, Sloan.

You'll regret it.

present, pt. 2

What he did was not complicated – not to him, anyway. 'Representational magic' was a fairly self-explanatory term. Sloan's gift was that of tying the very essence and energy of living creatures to non-living objects which then 'represented' them in the spectral plane.

Mentally running through the steps of his plan, Sloan made his way back to his apartment at a steady pace. He was a man who walked with purpose. Always. No minute wasted was a minute worth living. She was waiting. After all these years, he knew she was still waiting. It killed him.

Arriving at the outer door, he glanced down the street in both directions until he was satisfied that no one had followed him. The warlock was not paranoid, but the type of caution he employed lived in paranoia's neighborhood. One did not survive in the community after doing what he'd done without remaining vigilant. He was meticulous in every aspect of his life, covering his tracks as carefully as he made them. Each move was agonizingly thought out, every moment of his day considered with the utmost attention to detail. Sloan had goals that he would not abandon for anything. He could not fail. Not again.

Whispering the incantation, he waved his hand before the doorknob which loudly clicked. The witch pushed the door open revealing a very different sight than any other tenant witnessed upon entering the building. A spacious loft the size of the entire complex opened up before him and once the door slammed behind him he was home. It was an incredibly nice place beneath all the clutter. Sloan's dedication to precision in all other facets of his life meant that his living space suffered. He'd never been tidy anyway; all the living space he needed was between his ears. It mattered that he had somewhere to hide, somewhere his work could go unnoticed until unveiled.

He tossed his jacket atop the pile of old grimoires he'd left on his couch; the Englishman had studied them all week. The reputation of the witches who'd compiled these spellbooks never seemed to matter; what he did was unique and thus what he'd done, the mistake he'd made was likewise undocumented. But there was always an answer with magic. Loopholes existed, but laws were laws. Once Sloan could figure out how to reverse his error, all would be well. Not that he could do that with the council threatening to breathe a little harder down his neck. He smirked at the thought, removing the totem he'd just created earlier from his pocket.

They never learned. How many bright, young witches would need to be sacrificed before they took him seriously? He hated having to do this to them. But until he was given the freedom to seek what he wanted, they'd need to know that he'd do anything to attain it.

”Alright then, Melanie,” he mused to himself, placing her clay representation in the center of the circle prepared on his coffee table, ”What's say we make our way back to headquarters?”

Placing his hands on the outside lines of the spell, Sloan took a deep breath and began to chant. He could feel the hold over his victim activate immediately and guided her with his every word, a wicked pied piper who played but one song. It was a boring song, but it always worked.

He had Cecily to thank for that.


Sloan, my baby, my best boy, you grow stronger each day.

It is hard for you to see, my son, but you will soon be free. Your body is weak, your frame sickly. You have seen this as a great disadvantage, an injustice that has estranged you from your father and led you to resent your own brother. But, my love, it has made you powerful. Your mind is open, imagination having been your only playground. Books have been your closest companions, but they have filled your soul with a depth and an ardor for learning that Beckett could never even begin to fathom. I see you watch him riding horses and playing cricket with your father, jealousy rampant in your eyes. It is my joy to spend time with you and encourage you to further the great abilities you can employ in the absence of your health.

I pray that you will have the patience to withstand your father's disappointment and to overcome your brother's petty bullying, and hope that my love for you has been and will continue to be an adequate shield from those pains. I crossed into the valley of the shadow of death to bring you into this world and I would so wander once more, willingly, if I could see you reborn from the ashes of your circumstances. You are my everything. My light, my life, my joy. I would have you be strong, but most importantly I would have you be yourself and love yourself as I love you.

Chin up, Sloan.

Your time is coming.

I feel it.

present, pt. 3

Halfway there.

The warlock ascertained his target's position, about halfway to her destination now, and sighed with relief. The anxiety was typical for him, but probably unwarranted. Once he had an active golem, its subject very rarely moved out of the scope of his control. The bright, red strand of hair that he'd tied around the clay doll was intact, its eyes still glowing green. Sloan smiled. All according to plan. Her steps were constant, her mind flowing in a natural state – the younger witch was entirely unaware of the hold he had over her.

Holding the golem in place and half-breathing out a stability spell until he was positive it would stay, Sloan left his circle and made his way to the kitchen where he ignored the same, huge stack of unwashed dishes, sight and smell, and fished a container of Easy Mac out of the cupboard. Following the instructions, the brunet haphazardly assembled his meal, tossed it into the microwave, and programmed the necessary time and heat level. The buzz of the machine helped to fade some of the louder voices in his head, a reprieve that he knew he didn't deserve.

She's waiting.

He didn't need the reminder. Every day and every night, every moment of his existence reminded him of his wife. The night that had taken his wife, his child, and his mentor from him remained, unsurprisingly, the worst of his life. It had been a fairly normal night at home. Sloan had brought home a big pizza, as was their Friday tradition, and had opened the door to find a group of witches, all cowardly hidden in hoods, surrounding his Cecily who was sobbing and clinging to their daughter, Emily whose clothes were bloody. Immediately springing into action, the warlock had pulled his available totems from his pocket and killed four of them before the councilwoman who had trained him removed the hood from her head. She'd thrown his weapons from his hand with a flick of her fingers before informing him that his departure from the coven had been seen as a crime. Since he'd tried to hide, the council had grown suspicious of his actions and had decided to precipitate any potential threat.

Sloan scoffed. He was no threat. Well, he hadn't been. Not then. He'd been a man in love who simply wanted to raise a family. To see his daughter into adulthood, to grow into old age with his wife – a fellow witch and a fellow student of Councilwoman Rhearn's. Cecily had been the great equalizer for Sloan. She was a gift from the universe that, for him, had made up for every perceived slight he'd experienced. Every harsh word from his father's lips, every deriding laugh from his brother's chest, and every moment of suffering he'd experienced as a sickly young man before magic had cured him of most of his ills. Other than his mother, Cecily Stone had been the only mercy that life had ever granted him. He hadn't needed power, he hadn't needed wealth, and no admiration of any group of practicers of the craft could have amounted to the love and affection with which his wife had showered him on the regular. But the council had seen the loss of his power as too great of a risk and punished him for falling out of line on the back of some bullshit conspiracy theory.

Needless to say, Sloan had lost it. Pulling his trump card from his jacket pocket, he'd removed the golem that he'd made in secret of councilwoman Rhearn herself. Using her magic to kill the rest of the sent witches, he banished her from his presence with a message to her peers: he was coming for them. He'd subdued the attack, made his intentions on their lives clear, and had revealed that she would be under his control, should he choose to exercise it. But it was a loss.

Cecily had collapsed as soon as Rhearn was gone. Sloan rushed to her side, cradling her head as she kept repeating through her tears and blood loss that they'd killed their baby. Emily was dead. He didn't even dare look at her for fear of losing his wits for the task at hand: he'd lost his daughter, but he would not lose his wife. The man had pulled the small, glass orb from the necklace that he wore and began to chant. It was a special golem, fashioned by Cecily and filled with her own blood as a sign of her complete faith in her husband. Some good that trust had been. In trying to send her into a place without time to freeze her wounds, he'd mixed up incantations and made her completely disappear.

He'd tried for months to rectify the error on his own to no avail. Wherever Cecily was, however, she was alive. The glass golem he wore as a charm on the leather cord around his neck told him so. As long as she lived, Sloan would feel her energy as he did now, rubbing the trinket between his fingers.

The microwave beeped, his meal finished, and he marveled at how quickly memories could pass through his mind. His very worst moment could and did flash through his awareness in instants with an ease that belied how cruel the universe could be. It had given him everything he could wish for, only to take it away. Perhaps it had been karma for what his brother Beckett had always called the murder of their mother – Sloan's powers had manifested rather violently when they'd first come into being. He tried not to blame himself for that, particularly since he had actively decided to kill his father. Intent mattered. If it was karmic retribution after all, it was more likely for the fact that, likely out of spite for the aforementioned accusation, he had trapped Beckett in a known nest of vampires at sunset one evening and never turned back to help. He had done truly awful things, but nothing compared to what he was going to do.

Right now...

Melanie was reporting to the council. He could feel councilwoman Rhearn's energy in the tattoo that tied all of his representative golem's magic to him everywhere he went. The mark had reached the target. Returning to his circle with Easy Mac in hand, Sloan chewed and swallowed down the large spoonful he'd just put in his mouth and chanted the necessary words. He couldn't know exactly what the scene had been like, but as the light in Melanie's golem's eyes faded, the girl definitely dead, he could only hope that some of her face had ended up on the councilwoman Le Fay.

Taking another bite of his dinner, Sloan removed his cell phone from his pocket and called Ophelie.

”Hey, call me as soon as you get this message,” he commanded, voice even but insistent, ”I've just sent another message so the council's lackeys will be out and about. Best to come back now and hide.”

Pulling his phone from his ear, his finger hovered over the button that would end the call before he put the microphone back up to his mouth and added, ”And bring some pizza. It's Friday.”


Sloan, my love, I do not know if you can hear me.

It has been six years since we were separated and I feel in each moment a microcosm of eternity. I am not alone, but the beings that surround me are frightening to say the least. Not out of any fear of harm, of course; I can take care of myself. Indeed, it is not what they can do, but the what they have become. Time here passes with no indication that anything has changed. Something about being trapped has led many of them to become the very worst of themselves. I meditate frequently, helping myself recenter on reality, but I often wonder how long that will last.

I miss you, Sloan.

I miss holding your hand, feeling the touch of your skin against mine. I miss your voice and the way my name sounds in it. Your smile frames the happiest moments of my life. The way we play, the way we laugh, the way we love...it's all still here. It keeps me aright, keeps me sane.

I hope in some way that you know that. I know you blame yourself, love. It is your way. But know that I am working as tirelessly as you to escape. There is nothing I prize more than the tiny corner of my heart where lives the hope that we shall meet again.

There is a mirror here, the one fixture in what otherwise feels like an endless expanse of colorless nothingness. In the looking glass, we may look out into other planes of existence, including the world we both call home. I see you frequently, your efforts proof enough to me that your penitence is real. You made a mistake, baby. It happens. Magic is not easy and it is not always predictable. All of the experimental, radical spellcraft we attempted was just inviting such a failure. We learned much, but not humility. We were great, we are great, but we were arrogant. It cost us everything.

And still all is not lost.

I love you, Sloan - now more than ever.

I forgive you.

Can you forgive yourself?

Face Claim: cole sprouse

Alias: rex

Age: 26

Timezone: mountain

Contact: pm/skype/discord/seance

Mature Themes: your call

Other Characters: zophiel, shylock apostolos, wyatt hawthorne

sloan walton
Magic doesn’t come from talent. It comes from pain.
Pronouns: She/Her/Hers
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accepted welcome to MY SOUL TO KEEP

Damn you. Just, ughhh. You and the beautiful apps and heart wrenching characters.

I cannot wait for the havoc he will wreak.....

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