<strong>Name:</strong>Muriel (Murr-EYE-ell)<br/><strong>Specification:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Age:</strong>Ancient (appearance when human is around 20)<br/><strong>Sex:</strong>Female when human<br/><br/>(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg142/ElectricBadger/angel1.jpg)(http://i43.tinypic.com/2vxlh13.jpg)(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg142/ElectricBadger/crow.jpg)<br/><br/><strong>Appearance:</strong>Muriel is the voice in the darkness.  She is most recognizable as a young, slim girl with pale skin, dark hair and pure white irises, sporting a pair of wings - which sometimes appear to be mere costume, and at other times move and stretch as though real.  She is fond of crosses and usually darker than her surroundings, even lost in silhouette, as though the light fails to touch her.    In another form, she appears as one of the many ravens that make Castle Hill their home; seldom recognized, she often uses this to silently observe.  Lastly and most dramatically, Muriel is the House itself; she sometimes steps away from a physical incarnation to the boards and railings and nails of the structure, where she manuevers those she has judged either to escape her fellows or be led towards them, opening and closing doors, flickering lights, even changing rooms from one glance to the next.  Here she is barely glimpsed as a shadow in windows and mirrors, or by the sound of fluttering wings.  When she manifests as an avatar some small portion of the house - a mirror, a chair, some junk in the attic - vanishes in turn.<br/><br/><strong>Personality:</strong>Muriel is a quiet observer and judge.  In conversation, she seems to invest every word with meaning, and has a tendency to impart terse commands - to run, hide, stand firm, be honest, or lie - any of which may lead to doom or salvation.  She is friendly, if not always in a way that sets others at ease.  Above all, Muriel is wracked with sadness; mourning for the entirety of the human condition.<br/><br/><strong>Background:</strong>In the Ancient Times, Muriel was among the proudest to be given the care of Humanity.  She, more than almost any Other, saw the light of Hope burning within them - the promise of love and perfection that even her own Host fell short of - and she became more fascinated with every new one she met.  She dedicated herself to them, nurtured them, protected them...and then watched them fall upon one another in a cannibalistic orgy of murder and destruction.  Every ill of the inhumanity of man tore at the fragile structure of her soul, took it to pieces and blackened her divinity until, faltering beneath her wounds, she Fell.<br/><br/>Much was burned away during her Fall.  Unfathomable power became a mere shadow of illusion and trickery, a mind which understood the pathways of God's reasoning could barely glimpse past reality, her memories of Ages became charred bits of ash blown away in the weakest breeze.  The gaps in her memory before a century ago are vast: periodic impressions or vignettes with little meaning or relevance, and all from the very limited viewpoint of her hill, where most sane people stayed away from.  Sometimes she forgets recent things as well: what happened a decade ago, or a year, or last week.  She certainly no longer possesses enough understanding to make much sense of any memories from before her Fall.<br/><br/>All that remained was the joy of Goodness and the horror of Evil.  She had no purpose.  For millenia she wept where she fell, bonding with the earth; she became less a person and more a place.  Then mortals drew near.  Some burned with white light, and she saved them - even from themselves - cured them and sent them on with blessings.  Others were pitted with black darkness, and these she fell upon with screams, tearing their hearts out and devouring them raw.<br/><br/>The centuries passed, and as she found a barest whisper of a purpose so too she found the most fragile sense of sanity.  Sometimes she would walk among them.  Others she simply Was, adapted to the Time: a cairn of rocks, a teepee of bleached animal skins, a hall of rotted logs, and finally a worn timber manor high on a hill; a shelter, and a promise and a warning to all who drew near.<br/><br/>When she met Others, similar and yet different, she found them without light or dark and so never judged them.  They were like the oaks or stones or wind: primal forces for whom right or wrong made no sense, they simply Were.  She greeted them, gave them leave of her rooms, and paid them little more attention - for more human were coming to her than ever before, and Muriel began to find each more fascinating than the last.<br/><br/>(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg142/ElectricBadger/angel1-1.jpg)(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg142/ElectricBadger/crow-1.jpg)(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg142/ElectricBadger/eureka_mansion-1.jpg)<br/><br/><strong>Notes:</strong>Muriel's nature certainly shouldn't imply I'm taking every action of the house, nor prevent others from using it: a great many things occur there subconsciously to her.  This is just a way of imparting the building with some more character, and explaining all the creepy supernatural things that make for a good Castle on a Hill.  However, please let me know if the House is damaged in your scene, as this will draw her attention.