Adimus and Vaelis are both my OC, and I’m in the mood of writing a fic about their first time meeting :)
The overall (detailed) description of these two will be up here, so no worries about having to scroll at the very end to understand what the hell is going on.
Nickname(s): Vaelis, “Goat Librarian,” “Sleepy Spook” (by Xiangli), “Mr. Chimes” (by Alvoz)
Age: ~300 years
Race: Goat Beastman
Gender Identity: Gender-neutral (he/him used for simplicity, but Vaelis doesn’t care what you call him, Vicent once try to call him ‘babygirl’, get no reaction.)
Height: 169,7 cm (excluding heels)
Role: Keeper of the Chimeveil Codex, Librarian of the Forgotten Threshold
Hair: Short, greyish-white, naturally tousled
Eyes: a color of candy pink, I don’t know what else to say, it’s like a pastel pink or something ;-;
Skin: Vitiligo patterns bloom softly across his tan complexion, like celestial maps scattered over his frame, beautiful.😌
Horns: Two smooth black goat horns, curling gently back from his forehead
Ears: Long, droopy goat ears, soft and expressive
Footwear: Wears custom-crafted heels (8cm), black with golden embroidery – fancy enough to be worn to a gala.
Earrings: Twin wind chime earrings—delicate, haunting, and melodic with every turn of his head
Belt Accessories:
A ring of keys (some mundane, some ethereal)
A simple cross, old and faded
A pure aesthetic chain, just for the vibe
A stunning golden dreamcatcher-like charm, feathered and whispering faintly with enchantment
Description: Finding solace in the Middle Zone, he took up a quiet life as a librarian, tending to an enormous and ancient collection of books. His soul-like hands, once feared, became an invaluable tool—helping him retrieve books from impossible heights, clean the endless halls, and organize forgotten knowledge.
But even in his safe haven, he never quite escapes his fears.
He still flinches at the sight of ghostly figures, despite wielding spectral hands himself.
The wind chimes on his earrings were a gift, meant to ward off evil spirits—but to others, they look eerily like a priest’s bell calling restless souls.
The chains on his belt, carrying a cross, a key, and a dreamcatcher-like charm, are all remnants of his past—symbols of faith, imprisonment, and longing for peace.
Personality & Fun Details
Awkward but Well-Meaning: He has a scary smile despite his delicate, cute appearance. He’s not trying to be creepy—he just doesn’t know how to react in social situations.
Struggles with Self-Acceptance: He once considered using makeup to cover his Vitiligo, but in the end, decided against it. He’s on a journey to try to love himself instead.
Aesthetic Taste: He wears subtle lipstick, eyeshadow, and sometimes eyeliner, adding a hint of elegance to his otherwise solemn aura.
Despite his Trauma, He’s Kind: Even after everything, he never turned bitter or cruel. He prefers silence over conflict, books over arguments, and will avoid unnecessary fights if he can.
Age: Unknown
Race: Celestial (Angelic Being)
Gender Identity: Male (he/him)
Height: 179,8 cm
Occupation: Bartender at Viccent’s Bar (Middle Zone)
Hair:
Muted grey-blue, shoulder-length
Worn in a low ponytail tied with a black ribbon, or braided to the side depending on his mood
Sometimes styled into a half-up, half-down bun when in deep thought or focused work
Eyes:
Striking vibrant cyan, glowing subtly in low light
Often noted for the way they reflect both serenity and deep sorrow
Skin:
Pale, almost moonlight-like, delicate and cool to the touch
Celestial Traits:
Three sets of wings sprouting from the back of his head—elegant and symmetrical, lightly feathered, appearing more aesthetic than functional
A constantly glowing halo floats above his head, soft golden in color and reacting subtly to his emotional state (brightens with joy, dims with sorrow)
Attire:
Wears a classic formal bartender uniform, well-fitted and clean-cut
Always dressed neatly, often with dark gloves or a black tie when working
When off-duty, he still prefers structured clothes, hinting at his dislike for disorder or vulnerability.
Description: Once a proud angel who believed in the beauty of mankind, Adimus now walks the liminal streets of the Middle Zone—a city suspended between worlds—serving drinks and silent comfort to souls too tangled for heaven or hell. He pretends not to care, but his eyes always linger a second too long on those who hurt, and his hands never falter when mixing drinks meant to soothe more than the tongue.
Composed & Calm: Adimus exudes a quiet grace—serene, measured, and almost soothing to be around. Rarely raises his voice, even in moments of crisis. He carries the air of someone who has lived many lives, each one leaving him more patient.
Empathetic but Detached: Deeply understanding of others’ emotions and traumas, yet maintains a certain emotional distance. Not because he doesn’t care, but because caring too much has burned him before. He's the type to listen to everyone’s problems and keep his own tightly sealed.
Wise but Wounded: His advice is often laced with experience and old-soul wisdom, yet there's a faint melancholy to his words—like a being who has seen too many things go wrong. He has made peace with pain, but not necessarily healed from it.
Protective in Silence: He won’t tell you he cares. He’ll just show up when no one else will, fix what you broke, and leave before you can thank him. He’s the type to take burdens quietly, especially those he feels only he can carry.
Dry Humor & Sass: Though dignified, he has a surprisingly sharp wit. His sarcasm is elegant and always delivered in a dry, deadpan tone. He enjoys light teasing but knows when to draw the line.
Loyal to a Fault: Once he trusts you, you have his unwavering loyalty. That’s why betrayal (even unintentional) cuts him so deeply—he holds bonds close, and takes their breaking as a failure on his part.
Mood Hair Styling: How his hair is styled often reflects his emotional state, even if he doesn’t show it outwardly. Braids often mean he's reflective or emotionally tangled. A neat bun can mean he's focused or burdened. Low ponytail means he's calm or passive.
Wing Movements: His wings twitch or ripple when his emotions fluctuate, acting like subconscious tells. When frustrated, they may fold inward. When peaceful, they slowly flutter.
Subtle Halo Behavior: The halo glows brightly when he’s joyful, and dims or flickers when he’s anxious or hiding sorrow. It sometimes flares if he’s deeply moved or in protective mode.
Signature Drink Mixing Style: Known for creating drinks that seem to match the customer’s mood, even if they don’t say anything. He remembers drink preferences by heart and uses them to cheer people up silently.
His Smile: When Adimus genuinely smiles, it’s rare and carries deep warmth—enough to disarm even the most bitter heart. But most people will only ever see his polite bartender smile, reserved and courteous.
Adimus had stepped into many places in his life. Grand halls of gold and marble, silent gardens untouched by time, temples where the wind itself seemed to hum prayers. And yet, nothing compared to this.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it.
The air was thick, not with dust or decay, but with a presence. Not oppressive, nor hostile—just there. An undeniable existence, like something ancient watching, not with eyes, but with knowing.
His feet met water instead of stone. A shallow, glass-like surface barely reaching his ankle, stretching as far as the endless bookshelves. Not a ripple disturbed it—until he moved. Each step sent gentle waves outward, the sound echoing in the silence, swallowed only by the towering walls of books.
And then, there was the illusion.
The water reflected the towering bookshelves perfectly, creating a dizzying effect—as if the world had been turned upside down, as if there was no ground at all. For a moment, it felt as though he was standing midair, suspended between an infinite abyss of knowledge.
Yet, a single path cut through the mirrored world—a long, crimson carpet, unfurling across the water like a lifeline. A stark contrast to the pale glow of the aquamarine souls floating lazily between shelves, their presence the only light source in this strange place.
Above him, the ceiling stretched into a void of pure darkness, swallowing the tops of the shelves. No end in sight. It was as if the library itself stretched endlessly upward, reaching toward something unseen.
And the sound—
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Books hovered in midair, pages turning by unseen hands. The steady, rhythmic rustling of parchment created an atmosphere neither eerie nor welcoming, but something else entirely—something that made it impossible to look away. It was as if the library itself was breathing, whispering, waiting for something.
Soft mist curled around his form, brushing against him like a mother shushing a child. The whispers weren’t words, yet they carried meaning. "You are safe here." "No harm will come to you."
It was surreal. It was beautiful. It was—
—completely and utterly abandoned.
Or so he thought.
At first, Adimus didn’t notice him.
Tucked away between two massive bookshelves, on a wooden desk half-submerged in water, lay a figure. Noctaire Vaelis, draped in dark robes, his face half-buried in his arm, fast asleep.
Above him, a dozen spectral hands floated, each moving with purpose. One was holding a book, another lightly tapping his shoulder, and another—perhaps the most insistent one—was shaking him awake.
“Mmnn… No,” the librarian grumbled, voice muffled. “Go away. No one ever visits this place anyway.”
Adimus raised an eyebrow.
One of the spectral hands suddenly froze midair. Then, as if sensing something amiss, it turned its palm toward him—almost like an eye blinking open. A second later, the others followed, their fingers curling slightly, hovering between curiosity and caution.
Noctaire groaned, rolling onto his back, still half-asleep. His earrings—wind chimes that softly tinkled—shifted with his movement.
"No one ever comes here," he repeated, stretching. "So why should I—"
His voice cut off.
His eyes, sleepy and unfocused, met Adimus’s. He blinked once. Twice.
Then, with all the grace of someone biting back their own words, he bolted upright, nearly slipping off the desk in his panic.
"Oh."
A beat of silence.
Then, softly, uncertainly—
"Hello?"
Adimus glanced around. He had been in many libraries before, but none like this. The outside had been deceiving—a small, shabby-looking bookstore, the kind one might find in an old countryside town. No windows, just a door with a simple, weathered sign:
“Library.”
Yet, inside, it was as if he had stepped into another plane of existence entirely.
"You work here?" he asked.
Vaelis sighed, rubbing his temple. "Something like that."
He gestured vaguely at the library around him, spectral hands mimicking the motion. "This place… The Chimeveil Codex. That's what it’s called."
"You named it?"
"No." A pause. Vaelis glanced at the spectral hands, his expression unreadable. "I asked them what this place was called. That's the answer they gave me."
Adimus looked up at the towering bookshelves that seemed to go on forever. "How tall are these shelves?"
Vaelis scoffed, leaning against his desk. "No idea. But I do know they're at least two kilometers high—because I once spent an entire week trying to climb one, and I didn't even reach the top."
"...That sounds like a terrible idea."
"It was."
Adimus hummed, stepping further into the maze of books. "And how much of it have you read?"
Vaelis let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Not even a single shelf." He gestured toward the endless rows of books, the ones that hadn’t been touched for centuries, gathering no dust—because there was no dust here. "It's been centuries, and I still haven’t finished even one."
"Centuries?"
Vaelis shrugged. "Time is... strange here. This place isn't normal. It feels like a pocket dimension, like it shouldn’t exist at all. And yet, here it is."
He let his fingers trail against the surface of the water, watching how the reflection rippled, distorting the endless bookshelves.
"And yet... I stayed."
Adimus tilted his head. "Why?"
For a moment, Vaelis said nothing. His wind chimes swayed with an unseen breeze. The spectral hands hovering around him seemed to pause, as if waiting for his answer.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Because I think... this place holds answers about me."
His fingers curled slightly, eyes flickering toward his spectral hands. "I don't know how I got this ability. Or why these hands feel so familiar with this place. But I do know that this library was abandoned... forgotten."
A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips.
"And maybe, in some way, I saw myself in it."
Adimus exhaled softly, glancing around once more. The mist, the water, the glowing spirits, the turning pages—this place truly was unlike anything else.
"...I see," he murmured.
He could have left then. Could have turned back and walked out the door, back to the world where time moved normally, where books had ends and libraries had limits.
But instead, he pulled out a chair, the water rippling beneath him, and sat.
"If you don't mind," he said, reaching for a book, "I think I'll stay a little while."
Vaelis blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curved into something that was almost—not quite—a real smile.
"...Suit yourself."
And with that, the spectral hands returned to their work, the whispers of the library resuming their endless hum.
I completed this writing that was abandoned for about two months instead of sleeping, why am I feeling productive at a seriously wrong time-
Sorry I don’t know how to do the linking thingy that allowed you to go to my previous post about the train platform from Mortal Realm to Middle Zone.If you are a person who want to read my previous post about this Zone, deepest apologies for trouble you into clicking onto my block and having to scroll down to find my other post, I hope the tag #MiddleZone will help :(
Perched at the center of four opposing realms—Death, Living, Heaven, and Hell—the Middle Zone Station is neither here nor there, yet it is the only place where all paths intersect. It is a liminal space, a meeting point for beings who do not belong wholly to one world or another. Time does not move in a straight line here, and reality bends in ways that can be both fascinating and deeply unsettling.
The station itself is an ancient structure, yet impossibly well-maintained. Its architecture is a blend of every civilization that has ever existed—towering Gothic pillars stand beside intricate Eastern wooden carvings, while Deco lamps cast shadows against ceilings painted with celestial constellations that shift when no one is looking.
A Clock That Doesn’t Follow Time: At the center of the station is a colossal, hanging clock, suspended in mid-air by unseen forces. Its hands tick forward, backward, and sometimes in circles (I meant by the whole thing spins, not just its hand), completely ignoring the concept of linear time. Some say it shows the time of a person’s fate, while others believe it displays events that have yet to happen.
The Silent Announcer: There are no loudspeaker announcements here. Instead, the air itself whispers train schedules directly into passengers’ minds in a language they instinctively understand.
A Floor That Remembers Every Step: The station’s marble floor is alive in a way—it records the footsteps of every being that has ever passed through. If you look closely, you might see faint, glowing footprints appearing and disappearing as echoes of travelers long gone.Or is it?
Ticket Booths Manned by Shadows: The ticket clerks are featureless silhouettes, vaguely humanoid but without faces or expressions. They do not speak, but if you hand them the correct fare—a secret, a memory, or a fragment of your soul—they will slide you a ticket to your desired realm.
The Station Guards—Sentinels of Balance: Unlike mortal stations, this place needs no police—but it has Sentinels. Towering, armored beings with no visible faces patrol the platforms, ensuring that nothing disrupts the balance of the realms. They do not interfere unless a rule is broken, and those who break the rules are never seen again.
Each platform leads to a different realm, marked by glowing sigils floating in the air, their symbols shifting and rearranging depending on who is looking.
Platform 1 - The Mortal Realm: The most desolate platform, barely used, as few mortals ever come here, and even fewer leave. The train to the mortal world looks almost…ordinary, except it is always empty when it arrives.
Platform 2 - The Underworld: Shrouded in mist, this platform always feels colder than the rest. The train here is silent, sleek, and appears aged yet untouched by time. Souls board here with an eerie calm, guided by unseen hands.
Platform 3 - The Celestial Realms (Heaven): Warm golden light filters through this platform, and the sound of soft bells and distant, unearthly music fills the air. The train doors do not open for just anyone—only those "invited" can step through.
Platform 4 - The Infernal Depths (Hell): A faint sulfuric scent lingers here, though the platform itself looks surprisingly inviting. The train is a massive obsidian locomotive, its windows swirling with flames that show glimpses of infernal cities beyond. Strangely, some demons board the train while casually sipping coffee.
There are hidden platforms, accessible only to those who know how to look—leading to forgotten realms, lost timelines, or places that should not exist.
While waiting for their train, passengers can explore the station’s amenities, which seem tailored to each traveler’s desires.
A Library of Unwritten Stories: A massive library exists within the station, filled with books that change depending on who reads them. Some books write themselves in real-time, detailing the reader’s possible futures.
A Café That Serves Impossible Drinks: The café doesn’t have a menu—you simply sit down, and the waiter brings you the drink you need most at that moment. Some receive warm tea that reminds them of home, others receive glowing, shifting liquids that taste like forgotten emotions.
A Music Hall That Plays Memories: Instead of a live orchestra, the music hall plays the sounds of a person’s past, woven into hauntingly beautiful melodies. For some, it is nostalgic. For others, it is unbearable.
Stepping outside the Middle Zone Station is like walking into a dream—or a nightmare—depending on who you are and what you expect from reality. Unlike the station itself, which has a structured and timeless elegance, the world beyond is an ever-shifting, boundaryless cityscape where logic and physics are mere suggestions rather than rules.
The Middle Zone is not one city but a fusion of many, a paradoxical crossroads where remnants of different worlds overlap. Some parts feel ancient, others impossibly futuristic, and many are simply…wrong, existing in a way that breaks mortal understanding.
A Skyline That Changes with Your Perspective – Looking straight ahead, you might see a sprawling, lantern-lit city reminiscent of old Eastern capitals, with curved rooftops and floating banners. But turn your head, and suddenly the skyline has changed—there are neon-lit skyscrapers stretching into the void, their windows filled with shifting, unreadable symbols.
Floating Islands & Gravity-Defying Structures – Entire districts float in the sky, anchored by enormous chains or held in place by forces unknown. Some buildings are upside-down, yet people walk inside them as if it’s normal. Occasionally, an entire street folds in on itself, like a piece of paper being turned.
Streets That Loop Back on Themselves – You can walk down a narrow alleyway lined with old teahouses and street vendors, only to find yourself back at the station, even though you never turned around. Some roads lead to places that shouldn’t exist—an underground city visible in the sky, a garden where time stands still, or a forgotten battlefield where spectral warriors fight an eternal war.
Doors That Open to Other Worlds – Scattered throughout the city are doors—some set into walls, some standing alone in the middle of the street. Opening one might lead you to a bustling marketplace, a quiet forest, or an endless void filled with stars. There is no way to tell where a door will lead unless you step through.
The Middle Zone is home to beings who do not fit anywhere else—those who have been forgotten by time, lost souls, wandering gods, and anomalies that should not exist.
Ghostly Vendors & Marketplaces – The markets here sell things you cannot find in the mortal world—bottled dreams, lost memories, whispers of forgotten names, and even time itself. The vendors are often spectral, flickering between existence and nothingness, their faces blurry and indistinct. Some may have multiple faces, shifting with every blink.
Wandering Gods & Higher Beings – Deities from forgotten pantheons, castaway angels, and eldritch figures walk these streets, sometimes appearing human, other times revealing their true, incomprehensible forms. They do not interfere with mortals, though their presence alone warps the space around them.
Demons and Devils on Business Trips – You might see a well-dressed demon, briefcase in hand, discussing contracts over a steaming cup of impossible coffee. Deals are struck in casual conversations, and a simple handshake might cost you a century of your life without you realizing it.
Mortals Who Have Lost Their Way – Few humans ever step foot here, and those who do either have a reason or have made a mistake. Some are desperate to return home, while others linger, enchanted by the allure of a world outside of time.
The Air is Heavy with Forgotten Voices – If you listen closely, the wind whispers in languages you don’t recognize, carrying fragments of conversations that happened centuries ago—or perhaps haven't happened yet?
A Warm Glow with a Bone-Chilling Cold – The lanterns, streetlights, and shop signs emit a comforting golden glow, making the city seem welcoming. Yet, for some reason, the air is always unnaturally cold, no matter how many layers you wear.
The Sound of Distant Music & Bells – Somewhere, a bell tolls in the distance, yet no one knows where it comes from. The music of ancient instruments drifts through the streets, but when you try to follow the sound, it always leads you somewhere unexpected.
Time Moves Strangely Here – The sun never rises, nor does it set. Some places are locked in an eternal evening, while others seem frozen at the edge of dawn or twilight. If you check a clock, it might say three different times at once.
I will do another post about OC’s I have that lives here :)
I will explain how exactly do people get there, what live there and what it is.
I have this crazy idea about what if I create a zone between Death and Live in my fantasy world like what we saw in TBHK? Like the area that full of waters???I even make a codex based off it-
Time to lock tf in and start fixing my draft writing I guess :
Hidden at the farthest edge of the station, just past the bustling platforms, Platform 12A—or, as the locals whisper, Platform 13—is a liminal space that exists somewhere between the mundane and the supernatural. On paper, it is just another platform, but to those who truly look, it is a threshold between realms, where mortals and the denizens of the underworld share the same waiting space.
Despite looking nearly identical to the other platforms—wooden benches, rusted lampposts, and the occasional vending machine—the air shifts the moment you step in. The warm, golden lights flicker just slightly, casting shadows that seem to stretch a little too long before snapping back in place. The atmosphere is unexplainably cold, as if winter permanently lingers here, no matter the season. Breath fogs in the air, goosebumps prickle along exposed skin, and the faint scent of incense and aged parchment drifts through the station.
A large, antique clock looms above the platform, its hands occasionally twitching backward before correcting themselves. Unlike the modern, electric displays of the main station, the departure board here is an old-fashioned split-flap display, clattering rhythmically as it lists destinations to places few humans have ever heard of. Names in lost languages flicker for brief seconds before vanishing again, unreadable to most.
The train schedules are unpredictable—there is no fixed time for departures, yet the train is never late.
The Train Conductor is an unsettling yet oddly comforting presence—a towering, robed figure with a skeletal face hidden beneath a tattered hood. Their cloak moves like mist, shifting and unraveling at the edges, as if they are not entirely bound by physical form.
Despite their eerie appearance, they are one of the friendliest entities on the platform. They do not speak in whispers or ominous riddles, but rather in a calm, professional voice, greeting passengers with the same patience as any regular station worker. For human passengers who freeze in terror at their presence, they reach into their cloak and hand out small, colorful candies—usually meant for lost spirit children but now repurposed to calm anxious mortals.
"No need to panic, kid. Take the candy. It's peach-flavored."
Sometimes, they even hum old lullabies under their breath while checking tickets.
(I took their appearance inspired by Death Eaters from Harry Potter, did you notice?)
A Ticket Booth That Wasn’t Always There: Unlike the other booths manned by humans, the ticket booth for Platform 12A seems to appear and disappear, depending on who is looking for it. An unseen entity mans the counter, exchanging tickets for unusual fares—sometimes a lock of hair, a secret, or a memory. Money is not accepted here.
Passengers Who Aren’t Always Alive: On normal days, the number of human passengers is few, but wandering spirits, youkai, demons, and even higher deities casually wait for their train, mingling like it’s an ordinary part of daily life. Some read newspapers, others sip from steaming cups of strange teas, and a few exchange gossip about the latest happenings in the mortal realm.
Benches That Carry Echoes of the Past: Sitting on the benches for too long causes strange whispers to brush against the ears, echoes of conversations from past passengers—some from centuries ago. If one listens too carefully, they might hear their own voice from a future journey yet to come.
Mirrors That Reflect More Than Yourself: There are old, dusty mirrors standing against the platform’s columns. The reflection usually seems normal—until a person turns away. Their reflection lingers just a second too long, watching, as if debating whether to follow.
The Ghostly Newspaper Stand: There is a small newspaper stand that sells publications not found anywhere else. The headlines range from mundane mortal news to otherworldly affairs—“Demon Lord Retires, New Succession War Begins,” or “River Styx Floods Again, Spirit Boats Delayed.” Some of the newspapers seem written in shifting languages that only the intended reader can understand.
The train itself is a contradiction—an old-fashioned steam locomotive, but with sleek, modern interiors that seem far too advanced for mortal craftsmanship. It is completely silent when it arrives, no screeching of brakes, no rush of displaced air—just an eerie stillness before the doors open.
The first few cars are for mortal passengers, decorated like an elegant Oriental Express, complete with warm lighting, velvet seats, and soft jazz music playing from an unseen radio. (Take inspiration from the Astral Express from HSR)
The middle cars shift in design depending on the needs of the supernatural passengers—some filled with dense fog, others with floating, upside-down furniture, or even pocket dimensions leading to entirely different landscapes.
The last car is permanently locked. Nobody knows what’s inside. Not even the Conductor.
Once the train departs, it vanishes the moment it leaves the station, disappearing into mist—only to reappear at its next destination, wherever that may be.
Platform 12A is a space that defies logic yet follows its own set of unspoken rules. It is welcoming, yet unsettling—a place where time doesn’t flow as expected, where passengers from different realms coexist, and where even the most terrifying figures might hand you a piece of candy just to ease your nerves.
For most, it is a place of mystery.