[CHAR] Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]
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AmongHeroes ♤ LOST ♤
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♤ MALE INCUBUS DEMON // 175 YEARS OF AGE ♤
As a demon of desire, Atticus is able to change his appearance on a whim, though he prefers to maintain a likeness of a dapper Irishman with a full beard. He cannot control his eye color, which is a deep crimson. His human build is slim but athletic, and he stands about six feet tall. Across his arms, shoulders, and back is a massive tattoo depicting an epic battle between angels and demons. The tattoo itself has magical properties, and the image shifts depending on his mood or disposition. In rare occasions when he’s been particularly happy, the tattoo has been known to depict the angels and demons at peace, partying and sharing drinks like old friends.
In his demonic form, Atticus grows marginally in size, his skin becomes an inky black color, curling horns like that of a rams sprout from his forehead, and he grows large bat-like wings and a long, reptilian, prehensile tail.
POWERS & TRAITS // ♤
Atticus’ main power comes from his ability for magical persuasion. When he desires, he can use his voice to compel an individual to do just about anything, even when the action is to their detriment. His other prominent power stems from his demonic nature, which lends him the ability to take massive amounts of physical abuse before his tangible body “dies.” If this occurs, Atticus soul would merely return to hell, and he would have the opportunity to return to the world via another means.
His lesser abilities come from his natural thirst for knowledge, and his love of ancient history. He is a well-read demon, and has a weakness for old texts and classic literature.
BACKGROUND // ♤
Atticus is the progeny of a succubus and an Irish immigrant. He was born into the world in 1842, during the Atlantic crossing to America. His first true memory was that of his mother devouring the soul of his unsuspecting father in a New York sewer, and her subsequently deserting him in the Irish slum of the Five Points. Though he was only weeks old when he was abandoned, he appeared to be a mature toddler, and he was taken in by one of the many Catholic orphanages in the area.
It became quickly apparent to the nuns and priests that Atticus was no average boy. After several instances where he mysteriously influenced the actions of the other orphans, the clergy became convinced that he was possessed. During the next several years, Atticus was subjected to innumerable exorcism attempts, and moved all across New York as the religious leaders in the area were dumbfounded by their continual failure in healing the demonic boy’s evil flaws. Wholly terrified and confused by his supernatural nature, and the continual abuse from his caretakers, Atticus escaped the clutches of the church in 1847.
Though only five years of age, his body had matured to that of a young adults, and his mind had far surpassed even that. He adapted quickly to the reality of his powers, and he was soon making a comfortable living stealing, extorting, and black mailing his way through New York’s underbelly. It was also during this formative period of his youth that he discovered his strong desire and ability to seduce women. It was through these traits, and exhaustive research, that Atticus at last was able to glean the truth about his demonic nature.
Following the eruption of America into civil war, Atticus joined the 69th New York Infantry Brigade, a unit made up of Irish immigrants that would fight with distinction throughout the war. His inexplicable ability to avoid injury during each of the Fighting 69th’s harrowing battles did not go unnoticed, and eventually the scrutiny of the Union brass grew strong enough that Atticus at last abandoned his unit at the Battle of Chancellorsville in 1863. From that point, Atticus roamed the South, further quenching his thirst for knowledge, while at the same time searching for a means to give his incredible life some meaning.
It was in Charlotte, South Carolina, that Atticus at last found what would define his existence to the present day. At a local saloon he met with a strange man with a thick English accent, a bowler hat, and a full beard that turned out to be none other than the famed werewolf, Reginald Hoyle. Seeing the drive and inherent ability in the young demon, Hoyle offered Atticus a job with his company, and Atticus was quick to accept. Through the following months, Hoyle personally introduced Atticus to the intricacies of the Veiled World, and the shadowy work of the Bain & Hoyle Company.
Atticus took to his newfound life with alacrity, and after many years of field work, he soon found himself rising through the ranks of the company until at last he was offered the position of Director of Operations for B&H’s Boston Branch Office. He served in that capacity since the early 1950’s until after the recent events of the thwarted Ragnarok three years ago.
Since that time, Atticus has been on indefinite paid sabbatical from B&H, with his current whereabouts unknown.
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Clumsywordsmith
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14 days ago
-Name: Nestor Grimsley
-Gender: Male
-Type: Demonspawn (Human cohabiting body with a Demon's Soul.)
-Appearance: It would be difficult to tell his age; no longer a young man, yet by no means middle aged either. A coarse growth of stubble across his lean jaw; high cheekbones and a well positioned nose give him an almost aristocratic appearance, one furthered still by the almost perpetual scowl in his brow – as if his resting face were always in a bit of a grim frown. His hair is dark, and rather long – tied back and out of his eyes. But it is his eyes that are the most striking. An ethereal shade of brilliant blue that seem almost to burn in their intensity.
-Age: Apparent: Mid 30s Actual: Roughly six centuries, though his retrievable memory only extends to half that length.
-Powers/Traits: On the human side, Nestor is both an accomplished swordsman and an excellent marksman. As Nestor shares a bond with the soul of an Ice Demoness, his powers follow suit: everything from forming an icy, protective shell to causing storms of icy lighting. The drawback being that power requires the consumption of souls, and with each soul consumed he continues further down his descent into madness.
-Background:
-Gender: Male
-Type: Demonspawn (Human cohabiting body with a Demon's Soul.)
-Appearance: It would be difficult to tell his age; no longer a young man, yet by no means middle aged either. A coarse growth of stubble across his lean jaw; high cheekbones and a well positioned nose give him an almost aristocratic appearance, one furthered still by the almost perpetual scowl in his brow – as if his resting face were always in a bit of a grim frown. His hair is dark, and rather long – tied back and out of his eyes. But it is his eyes that are the most striking. An ethereal shade of brilliant blue that seem almost to burn in their intensity.
-Age: Apparent: Mid 30s Actual: Roughly six centuries, though his retrievable memory only extends to half that length.
-Powers/Traits: On the human side, Nestor is both an accomplished swordsman and an excellent marksman. As Nestor shares a bond with the soul of an Ice Demoness, his powers follow suit: everything from forming an icy, protective shell to causing storms of icy lighting. The drawback being that power requires the consumption of souls, and with each soul consumed he continues further down his descent into madness.
-Background:
What then of these demonspawn? Who and what were they? I do not believe we know ourselves, and if any did, most would doubtless keep it to themselves. Enough to say that each is consumed with the insatiable burning of a demon's soul, and yet left with the mind and body of a man; it is said we might live for an eternity, though few are those who live more than a lifetime without being wholly consumed by their own inner self and thus – in the end – devouring themselves to break free of their humanity.
Of those that survive, and somehow find balance upon the precarious brink between the two halves, it could hardly be said that they ever live a life of comfort or are given a moment's peace. The desire to feed might undo even the youngest of vampires, and how much more so a creature who finds itself twisted to the point of consuming its own soul?
Nestor Grimsley, as with most of the company's more 'unstable' operatives, tends to work on the basis of a subcontractor with a per-job contract arrangement, and the mutual understanding that his services – while beyond adequate and backed fully with a curriculum vitae that extends for several centuries – will be called upon only when absolutely necessary. While he remains one of the few demonspawn who has managed (apparently) to stave off the constant gnawing of his demonic soul for nearly as long as the company itself has been around, such assets are considered at best a usable tool for especially difficult (or clandestine) jobs, and at worst a recipe for a multinational shit-storm and mass grave cover-up should things go really wrong. Thus, perhaps an asset best kept off the books. Somewhere Nestor would prefer to remain.
Though he does, admittedly, wield a respectable bit of power in the case of need, Nestor prefers to present his strengths as an academic and general renaissance man of the 21st century; a glorified jack-of-all-trades, though perhaps that would be a term best used behind his back. And out of earshot. A sane, civilized and cultured demonspawn is still a demonspawn, after all.
Of those that survive, and somehow find balance upon the precarious brink between the two halves, it could hardly be said that they ever live a life of comfort or are given a moment's peace. The desire to feed might undo even the youngest of vampires, and how much more so a creature who finds itself twisted to the point of consuming its own soul?
Nestor Grimsley, as with most of the company's more 'unstable' operatives, tends to work on the basis of a subcontractor with a per-job contract arrangement, and the mutual understanding that his services – while beyond adequate and backed fully with a curriculum vitae that extends for several centuries – will be called upon only when absolutely necessary. While he remains one of the few demonspawn who has managed (apparently) to stave off the constant gnawing of his demonic soul for nearly as long as the company itself has been around, such assets are considered at best a usable tool for especially difficult (or clandestine) jobs, and at worst a recipe for a multinational shit-storm and mass grave cover-up should things go really wrong. Thus, perhaps an asset best kept off the books. Somewhere Nestor would prefer to remain.
Though he does, admittedly, wield a respectable bit of power in the case of need, Nestor prefers to present his strengths as an academic and general renaissance man of the 21st century; a glorified jack-of-all-trades, though perhaps that would be a term best used behind his back. And out of earshot. A sane, civilized and cultured demonspawn is still a demonspawn, after all.
The sound of each footstep resounded with a hollow click through the vast extent of the nave; the steady progression of the rapture and apocalypse flanked me upon either side – eyes, human and inhuman alike, glaring down upon me with the same judgmental stare. I paid care to my steps, though found my stride wandering ever further to the left with each passing aisle. The warm red and glowing amber of some poorly-informed artist's conception of hell seemed rather to beckon, a far cry from the cold blues and greens and painfully brilliant whites that stalked my passage to the right. But my eyes did not waver, bent rather upon the dancing spots and splotches of coulour all in a play before my feet, the two combining into a bewildering kaleidoscope of such confusion that it would have taken a lifetime to determine where one might end and the other begin.
A lifetime. And now I have had several. But still my steps carry me onward, toward the only one being that still drew breath in that godforsaken place. Aside from him, we were alone.
“And so you blaspheme even now, and in such a place as this?” The voice came rolling through the pillared expanse in a soft baritone; as much a question as a statement. But there was no hint of anger, only the sad regret of one who has waited a great many years for only the worst of fates.
“Forgive me, father – my thoughts betray me...” the second speaker might have continued, but the older man cut him off almost at once – though again, in the same quiet voice.
“Forgive you? No, my son; forgiveness for you is a task that is best left to God, and when that day comes your years in full might finally be numbered.” His features, as he turned about to confront the slow approach, very much matched the voice: soft and round, yet old with the wisdom of years hidden deep within eyes that still saw clearly, the depth and breadth of life still vibrant in his tone.
The approaching man kept his head bowed; little might be made out of his features save for a head of dark brown – almost black – hair, pulled taut and trailing a little ways past his neck. His head was bare, and the remainder of his dress was equally as dull. Blacks and browns and greys all that might be visible; the better part of a thin scabbard protruded from beneath the low hem of his riding cloak. He wore no spurs, only a pair of polished boots rubbed to such a sheen that it might have been suspected they had never once encountered a stirrup iron.
“And even that...” the priest continued, breaking the silence – for priest he clearly was, though his dress too was quite plain; contrasting blacks and whites and nothing more – “is doubtful indeed, save what atonement you can seek of your own. Both for what was, and what is, and what is surely yet to come.” With these last words he gazed levelly into the eyes of his adversary, something akin almost to defiance flashing briefly within.
He looked at me then, and it was a gaze that pierced my very soul; I felt the urge to claw at my throat, to pull and pry away the talons that seemed to have latched to my neck, to my innards, to my legs as they dragged me down... down... down to join them in an untold depth below. I forced myself onwards. One step. Two steps.
“Fire, brimstone, sulphur and death!” The priest raised both hands now, the light in his eyes flashing to a real and true glow of their own, stabbing outward and arcing to meet the silent man's downcast gaze.
But now I finally glanced up. Met his gaze. Saw the pity entwined with anger, the rage lost somewhere in a sea of love, the overwhelming conviction... it burned... but I kept forward. Step by burning step, until it felt that the very tiles upon which I walked had become a fiery lake, the air ash and each breath a jagged pain.
“I... am.... sorry...” The words seemed to choke in my mouth of their own accord, even as I struggled to stretch forth my left hand. He did not resist. Not physically, at least. Not as any other man may have, but in the very moment that my fingers wrapped about his throat, and I felt my nails dig down into the soft flesh and the hanging jowls press and shift as I lifted....
All vanished in a swirling eddy of colour and light, the figures from the windows seeming to come into life and charge, rushing with a great shout upon us from all sides. We stood there together, a moment passed. An hour. An age. And meanwhile all below us the raging torrent of war passed by, seething masses and swarms of lives throwing themselves upon one another with reckless abandon. Even here, so far above the plain as to see the land curve and vanish into obscurity at the furthest reaches of the naked eye, I still might hear the clash and clamour of death and bloodshed below.
My hand was still tight about his neck, and my soul I felt welling up within me in a great onrushing that I knew I could never contain... yet he spoke. Spoke to me one last time, though the words now were withered, the voice fading as the life seeped from his mortal form.
“Perhaps, in the end, what you seek will be found... though you may try to devour yourself a score of times hence, still... I have done what I can, and what will be will be, though not in a way either might have foretold.”
“Goodbye, old man.”
“It is your only hope, and my last hope, and her final wish.”
“I will not fail you again...”
And then it was lost. Trailing away into a spiral, lost in some chink of my mind that I have forgotten. And I was filled, filled with the glorious and insatiable spite and hunger and overwhelming cold. Such a cold! Such a hunger! It gnawed upon my belly as though I had been picking upon naught but the shriveled bones of the dead since birth. I relished it. The strength, the hunger. I would enjoy this one... slowly... I thought, even as I began to unhinge my jaw.
Suddenly, my eyes flashed open. I gave a start and a cry, jumping up in a panic as I found myself staring into the empty whites of the dead priest's eyes. Then, in that very instant it seemed, the weight of all I had been running from for so long came crashing down upon my shoulders with the crushing finality of the insurmountable. I shuddered, coughed, sobbed... and then, finally, for the second time in just one lifetime, found myself wracked with tears.
A lifetime. And now I have had several. But still my steps carry me onward, toward the only one being that still drew breath in that godforsaken place. Aside from him, we were alone.
“And so you blaspheme even now, and in such a place as this?” The voice came rolling through the pillared expanse in a soft baritone; as much a question as a statement. But there was no hint of anger, only the sad regret of one who has waited a great many years for only the worst of fates.
“Forgive me, father – my thoughts betray me...” the second speaker might have continued, but the older man cut him off almost at once – though again, in the same quiet voice.
“Forgive you? No, my son; forgiveness for you is a task that is best left to God, and when that day comes your years in full might finally be numbered.” His features, as he turned about to confront the slow approach, very much matched the voice: soft and round, yet old with the wisdom of years hidden deep within eyes that still saw clearly, the depth and breadth of life still vibrant in his tone.
The approaching man kept his head bowed; little might be made out of his features save for a head of dark brown – almost black – hair, pulled taut and trailing a little ways past his neck. His head was bare, and the remainder of his dress was equally as dull. Blacks and browns and greys all that might be visible; the better part of a thin scabbard protruded from beneath the low hem of his riding cloak. He wore no spurs, only a pair of polished boots rubbed to such a sheen that it might have been suspected they had never once encountered a stirrup iron.
“And even that...” the priest continued, breaking the silence – for priest he clearly was, though his dress too was quite plain; contrasting blacks and whites and nothing more – “is doubtful indeed, save what atonement you can seek of your own. Both for what was, and what is, and what is surely yet to come.” With these last words he gazed levelly into the eyes of his adversary, something akin almost to defiance flashing briefly within.
He looked at me then, and it was a gaze that pierced my very soul; I felt the urge to claw at my throat, to pull and pry away the talons that seemed to have latched to my neck, to my innards, to my legs as they dragged me down... down... down to join them in an untold depth below. I forced myself onwards. One step. Two steps.
“Fire, brimstone, sulphur and death!” The priest raised both hands now, the light in his eyes flashing to a real and true glow of their own, stabbing outward and arcing to meet the silent man's downcast gaze.
But now I finally glanced up. Met his gaze. Saw the pity entwined with anger, the rage lost somewhere in a sea of love, the overwhelming conviction... it burned... but I kept forward. Step by burning step, until it felt that the very tiles upon which I walked had become a fiery lake, the air ash and each breath a jagged pain.
“I... am.... sorry...” The words seemed to choke in my mouth of their own accord, even as I struggled to stretch forth my left hand. He did not resist. Not physically, at least. Not as any other man may have, but in the very moment that my fingers wrapped about his throat, and I felt my nails dig down into the soft flesh and the hanging jowls press and shift as I lifted....
All vanished in a swirling eddy of colour and light, the figures from the windows seeming to come into life and charge, rushing with a great shout upon us from all sides. We stood there together, a moment passed. An hour. An age. And meanwhile all below us the raging torrent of war passed by, seething masses and swarms of lives throwing themselves upon one another with reckless abandon. Even here, so far above the plain as to see the land curve and vanish into obscurity at the furthest reaches of the naked eye, I still might hear the clash and clamour of death and bloodshed below.
My hand was still tight about his neck, and my soul I felt welling up within me in a great onrushing that I knew I could never contain... yet he spoke. Spoke to me one last time, though the words now were withered, the voice fading as the life seeped from his mortal form.
“Perhaps, in the end, what you seek will be found... though you may try to devour yourself a score of times hence, still... I have done what I can, and what will be will be, though not in a way either might have foretold.”
“Goodbye, old man.”
“It is your only hope, and my last hope, and her final wish.”
“I will not fail you again...”
And then it was lost. Trailing away into a spiral, lost in some chink of my mind that I have forgotten. And I was filled, filled with the glorious and insatiable spite and hunger and overwhelming cold. Such a cold! Such a hunger! It gnawed upon my belly as though I had been picking upon naught but the shriveled bones of the dead since birth. I relished it. The strength, the hunger. I would enjoy this one... slowly... I thought, even as I began to unhinge my jaw.
Suddenly, my eyes flashed open. I gave a start and a cry, jumping up in a panic as I found myself staring into the empty whites of the dead priest's eyes. Then, in that very instant it seemed, the weight of all I had been running from for so long came crashing down upon my shoulders with the crushing finality of the insurmountable. I shuddered, coughed, sobbed... and then, finally, for the second time in just one lifetime, found myself wracked with tears.
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Hour Error A Visitor of Strange Hours
Member
Seen
7 yrs ago
Sal the Conjurer
Name: Sally "Sal" Lou
Gender: Female
Type: Human, with a hint of extra-planar blood.
Appearance: Sal stands just below average height, and possess the physique of an unexpectedly active wizard. She enjoys swimming and when not spending an evening on the job, she's never far from a dance floor. Her skin is pale, and together with her features serves to obfuscate her origins, and cloak in her mystery. A fact that she takes great pleasure in, and does nothing to resolve. She keeps her hair shoulder length, and dyed a dark purple bordering on midnight blue, with a single long braid wrapped in red silk reaching to the top of her chest. Sal has meticulously maintained eyebrows, and her amber eyes are framed by tasteful, if vaguely Gothic, use of eye shadow and eye liner.
Restless by nature, the conjurer exudes brash confidence and unwavering curiosity, untempered by age, in equal measure.
Sal is modest dresser, favoring black jeans, black t-shirts, canvas sneakers, and at most a warm sweater, unless the weather or the occasion demands differently. She is rarely found outside without an antique silk and gingham umbrella. Framed with beautiful cherry wood, adorned with silver, and possessing an alarmingly sharp tip in the same metallic material the umbrella protects it's bearer from the elements and unwelcome strangers, although Sal would never admit as much.
Age: Sal is in her early twenties, and looks like it.
Powers/Traits: Sal is a mostly-human hedge mage focused on the magical schools of mysticism and conjuration. Following an LSD-fueled journey through the Astral Plane, she has acquired an army of tiny, vaguely monstrous, rowdy, and drunken creatures that generally follow her commands. The creatures are led by a warlord, Gir the Mighty, and appear to be on the cusp of establishing a proper, if exceedingly violent, miniature society. They have yet to fully master fire, but the diminutive creatures have made excellent progress in regards to animal husbandry, and they have managed to train a small number of rats and pigeons to serve as their trusty steeds.
Background:
"You could have been so much more," Richard said with a slow shake of his head. He was disappointed. He always was. Working for Bain & Hoyle was slumming it as far as the slightly older wizard was concerned. Proper wizards didn't need to debase themselves, they didn't need to sell their services to the highest bidder, and they certainly didn't need to work as a gloried errand girl.
"Sure, but then I'd have ended up like you," Sal said, taking a lazy drag from what remained of the cigarette she held between her fingertips. She'd quit for the better part of a week, but visits from her brother left precious little resolve left to fight off the nicotine devil that perpetually gnawed at her soul. It was fine. It wasn't a problem. She wasn't some mundane mortal. She'd cast so many protective spells that the greatest danger the carcinogenic cigarette still offered was the yellow stains that it would leave on her finger tips. Still, she felt guilty, at least a bit. She'd promised.
"A famous wizard?"
"A miserable person, a right proper c—."
"Ugh. For once, can you show a bit of class?"
"Nah, we can't all be high class wizards that graduated from some fancy arcane university and made friends with the big-wigs of the veiled world," Sal quipped. "We're not all that insufferable."
"You could have gone, you chose not to."
"It wasn't my scene. Magic shouldn't work that way. It's not about a bunch of formal rules and silly theories, it's a feeling, it's about finding something out for yourself," Sal mused losing herself in the glass of whiskey that she was still nursing.
"Do you always have to be such a bohemian? I swear, you're the definition of a magical hipster," Richard countered, chuckling at his own joke.
"I love annoying you too much to change, dear brother," Sal happily replied, withdrawing another cigarette from the packet that she had tossed on the table minutes earlier, and lighting another cigarette with well-practiced ease. Savoring the sweet, sweet nicotine kiss that enveloped her good feels, Sal did her best to pretend her brother wasn't there. They'd had this conversation before, it was a familiar dance. Her brother would mention that her parents were worried. He'd offer to use some of his connections. He'd offer her a job, after a nice vacation of course. She'd say no, of course. Just like she had done every other time. And just like she would do every other time in the future. She wasn't going back, not now, not ever. There was too much to see, too many planes to explore, and too much to discover.
Contemplating the whiskey that she sipped from a dirty enough glass, Sal could not help but notice that Richard watched the small creatures that she had brought with her with palatable disgust, and an ugly sneer on his lips. He was never very good with new people, much less inhuman creatures, she remembered sadly. He was far too conventional. A magical yuppie, a financial district wizard, through and through. Pure torture. Sal had to bury her laughter in her drink as her brother pulled his hand away with a sudden jolt. One of the creatures had moved closer to examine the glass of wine that the wizard had ordered but left untouched.
"Should they really be here?" he fumed. "This isn't some zoo, you know."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry. The bartender is a troll, this is place that uninitiated mortals do not wander into, not even by accident," Sal asserted, ignoring the implication that her new friends had no place in the dive bar. She resented the very idea. What was a dive bar if didn't welcome a tribe of extraplaner monsters, tiny as they were, past it's warded doors? Standards had no place in fine establishments like Gruzgob's Bar and Restaurant. After all, if cockroaches were tolerated, if not openly welcomed, then Sal's new friends deserved at least to be treated like particularly rowdy and dangerous customers.
"Mmm, I don't know," Sal honestly answered, blowing a cloud of smoke in front of her. "Not entirely. I found them. Didn't have time to ask too many question."
"You found them?"
"Yes," Sal grumbled. "That's what I said."
"Where did you find them?"
"No idea," Sal answered apathetically as she carefully handed, Gir, Gir the Mighty as he preferred to be called, what remained of her whiskey. The glass was nearly as tall as he was, but it didn't appear to slow him down. Sal had quickly learned that the warlord and his followers were very amendable to all forms of alcohol-based diplomacy. It was best to keep them drinking. Otherwise they had a nasty habit of finding troublesome activities to occupy their attentions.
"How do you bring creatures into the Material Plane and forget where you found them?!"
"I can't be certain, at least not entirely, but I think it was the two tabs of magically infused LSD I took before I hopped dimensions that did it."
"You what—"
"I had no idea that the acid would be that strong. Last time, they weren't half as potent. Well, whatever," Sal concluded philosophically, waving a hand in the air as kaleidoscope memories of the psychedelic drip rushed over her. "As it turns out, extraplanar travel is much harder when you are completely blasted out of your mind..."
"You're a child."
"You're just jealous, bet you haven't even crossed the planes, yet, Mr. I'm-A-Proper-Fucking-Wizard," Sal jeered. She wasn't going to be lectured by some schoolboy wizard, not this time.
"Of course not, as you know extraplanar travels is heavily restricted," Richard scoffed, sulking. Sal could sense that the advantage had shifted, and she smiled. With the grin still teasing at the edge of her mouth, she watched as one of the small creatures throw a sharpened toothpick it had fashioned into a spear into a cockroach that had crawled onto the bar counter-top. The tiny monster shouted out a battle cry as it pounced on the languishing insect that was impaled against the wood. Sal couldn't help but laugh at the spectacle, and was happy to see that her unwelcome companion recoiled with disgust at the violent scene unfolding on the countertop.
"What vile monsters."
"I think they're cute," Sal countered. "You're paying right?" She asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into Richard's face as she stood without waiting and headed towards the door. She'd had enough of sibling bonding. The tiny extraplaner monsters scrambled after her.
"Wait!"
Sal didn't stop, and once Gir and his followers had made it outside, she let the door shut loudly behind. Alone with the tribe of monsters, a smile played briefly across her lips as she strode down the dark and empty street.
Despite her good mood, she had a terrible, certain feeling that she'd receive a text from Atticus any moment now, asking her to come in to the office, telling her there was work to be done.
She hated working.
It was too bad that she still had the month's rent to pay.
"Sure, but then I'd have ended up like you," Sal said, taking a lazy drag from what remained of the cigarette she held between her fingertips. She'd quit for the better part of a week, but visits from her brother left precious little resolve left to fight off the nicotine devil that perpetually gnawed at her soul. It was fine. It wasn't a problem. She wasn't some mundane mortal. She'd cast so many protective spells that the greatest danger the carcinogenic cigarette still offered was the yellow stains that it would leave on her finger tips. Still, she felt guilty, at least a bit. She'd promised.
"A famous wizard?"
"A miserable person, a right proper c—."
"Ugh. For once, can you show a bit of class?"
"Nah, we can't all be high class wizards that graduated from some fancy arcane university and made friends with the big-wigs of the veiled world," Sal quipped. "We're not all that insufferable."
"You could have gone, you chose not to."
"It wasn't my scene. Magic shouldn't work that way. It's not about a bunch of formal rules and silly theories, it's a feeling, it's about finding something out for yourself," Sal mused losing herself in the glass of whiskey that she was still nursing.
"Do you always have to be such a bohemian? I swear, you're the definition of a magical hipster," Richard countered, chuckling at his own joke.
"I love annoying you too much to change, dear brother," Sal happily replied, withdrawing another cigarette from the packet that she had tossed on the table minutes earlier, and lighting another cigarette with well-practiced ease. Savoring the sweet, sweet nicotine kiss that enveloped her good feels, Sal did her best to pretend her brother wasn't there. They'd had this conversation before, it was a familiar dance. Her brother would mention that her parents were worried. He'd offer to use some of his connections. He'd offer her a job, after a nice vacation of course. She'd say no, of course. Just like she had done every other time. And just like she would do every other time in the future. She wasn't going back, not now, not ever. There was too much to see, too many planes to explore, and too much to discover.
Contemplating the whiskey that she sipped from a dirty enough glass, Sal could not help but notice that Richard watched the small creatures that she had brought with her with palatable disgust, and an ugly sneer on his lips. He was never very good with new people, much less inhuman creatures, she remembered sadly. He was far too conventional. A magical yuppie, a financial district wizard, through and through. Pure torture. Sal had to bury her laughter in her drink as her brother pulled his hand away with a sudden jolt. One of the creatures had moved closer to examine the glass of wine that the wizard had ordered but left untouched.
"Should they really be here?" he fumed. "This isn't some zoo, you know."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry. The bartender is a troll, this is place that uninitiated mortals do not wander into, not even by accident," Sal asserted, ignoring the implication that her new friends had no place in the dive bar. She resented the very idea. What was a dive bar if didn't welcome a tribe of extraplaner monsters, tiny as they were, past it's warded doors? Standards had no place in fine establishments like Gruzgob's Bar and Restaurant. After all, if cockroaches were tolerated, if not openly welcomed, then Sal's new friends deserved at least to be treated like particularly rowdy and dangerous customers.
"Mmm, I don't know," Sal honestly answered, blowing a cloud of smoke in front of her. "Not entirely. I found them. Didn't have time to ask too many question."
"You found them?"
"Yes," Sal grumbled. "That's what I said."
"Where did you find them?"
"No idea," Sal answered apathetically as she carefully handed, Gir, Gir the Mighty as he preferred to be called, what remained of her whiskey. The glass was nearly as tall as he was, but it didn't appear to slow him down. Sal had quickly learned that the warlord and his followers were very amendable to all forms of alcohol-based diplomacy. It was best to keep them drinking. Otherwise they had a nasty habit of finding troublesome activities to occupy their attentions.
"How do you bring creatures into the Material Plane and forget where you found them?!"
"I can't be certain, at least not entirely, but I think it was the two tabs of magically infused LSD I took before I hopped dimensions that did it."
"You what—"
"I had no idea that the acid would be that strong. Last time, they weren't half as potent. Well, whatever," Sal concluded philosophically, waving a hand in the air as kaleidoscope memories of the psychedelic drip rushed over her. "As it turns out, extraplanar travel is much harder when you are completely blasted out of your mind..."
"You're a child."
"You're just jealous, bet you haven't even crossed the planes, yet, Mr. I'm-A-Proper-Fucking-Wizard," Sal jeered. She wasn't going to be lectured by some schoolboy wizard, not this time.
"Of course not, as you know extraplanar travels is heavily restricted," Richard scoffed, sulking. Sal could sense that the advantage had shifted, and she smiled. With the grin still teasing at the edge of her mouth, she watched as one of the small creatures throw a sharpened toothpick it had fashioned into a spear into a cockroach that had crawled onto the bar counter-top. The tiny monster shouted out a battle cry as it pounced on the languishing insect that was impaled against the wood. Sal couldn't help but laugh at the spectacle, and was happy to see that her unwelcome companion recoiled with disgust at the violent scene unfolding on the countertop.
"What vile monsters."
"I think they're cute," Sal countered. "You're paying right?" She asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into Richard's face as she stood without waiting and headed towards the door. She'd had enough of sibling bonding. The tiny extraplaner monsters scrambled after her.
"Wait!"
Sal didn't stop, and once Gir and his followers had made it outside, she let the door shut loudly behind. Alone with the tribe of monsters, a smile played briefly across her lips as she strode down the dark and empty street.
Despite her good mood, she had a terrible, certain feeling that she'd receive a text from Atticus any moment now, asking her to come in to the office, telling her there was work to be done.
She hated working.
It was too bad that she still had the month's rent to pay.
1x Like
ElRey814 Simulated Consciousness
Member
Seen
8 yrs ago
-Name: Ahanu “Ravenous One”
-Gender: Male
-Type: Wendigo
-Appearance: Ahanu, the man, is a specimen to behold, exuding a rigid confidence and carrying a body grown in the bountiful times before European settlers had any notion of North America. He is well toned by the rigors of his past life, days spent as a tracker and hunter for his tribe, but his skin is cold and oddly clammy. Still, there are few who wouldn’t feel intimidated by his stature, nearly a head taller than most adult men, with a sturdy, broad shouldered build. Ahanu is undoubtedly a handsome man, with chiseled features and glossy waist-length hair. In truth, he is a man trapped in time, the hollow look in his coal colored eyes and the somber turn of his mouth silently relate a deep pain which seems to hound him everywhere he goes.
The beast that resides within, however, is another matter entirely. The Wendigo, often referred to by the man it inhabits as “Ravenous One,” is a rotten mountain of frozen, fungus ridden carcass, well-over double the size of his human form, and weighing nearly as much as a small car. Stout limbs expand rapidly and the audible crack of bone and sinew can be heard as the skin peels away to reveal cloven hooves and gnarled, clawed hands disproportionately large for his form.
Flowing locks grow mane-like, spreading from the crest of his head to the tip of a shaggy tail in stringy and matted clumps. A massive pair of antlers, sizable enough to give even the biggest bull moose a run for its money sprout from his head, as the skin of his face sloughs off to reveal an animalistic skull to match. The horrifying visage comes complete with wicked looking teeth that can crush bone to powder and a long, undulating tongue which hangs sloppily from his mouth.
A true horror to behold, and not one many have seen and lived to tell of.
-Age: Ahanu has lived over 400 years at this point, but as a man looks to be in his late 20s or early 30s.
-Powers/Traits: In the days before being claimed by the Wendigo, Ahanu had been his tribe’s most prolific hunter. A man of incredible endurance, uncanny stealth and overall fitness, with a keen sense for tracking prey and a disconcerting ability to notice minute details others would generally miss. In those days it was said he had been born under the blessing of the Great Mother, and now, inhabited by Ravenous One, those traits (as well as his sense of smell) have been amplified ten-fold. The monster emanates an aura of frigid cold, and is completely immune to effects of inclimate weather or cold magic, though it detests flame.
Ahanu retains a modicum of that physical power as a man, and is still the skilled tracker he was in his past life. It is only in his true form he becomes an inescapable force, a relentless, indomitable nightmare that can uncannily move through dense brush or deep snow virtually silently despite his size.
However, it is not a transformation to be taken lightly, for not only does it leave Ahanu’s body in a decrepit and temporarily ruined state upon reverting to human form, but so too does the Ravenous One seek to constantly gnaw away at Ahanu’s humanity. With each transformation he feels his grip loosen on the man he was, and seeks to be. The monster within yearns to manifest itself permanently & it is a constant struggle to overcome the insatiable hunger which torments his every waking moment.
-Background: The son of a chieftain, Ahanu had a happy, healthy upbringing and quickly showed his talents for hunting, fishing, and fighting, much as his father did.
His life was full. He grew. He had a family. He had his tribe.
The storm changed all that.
It began with unseasonal rains in mid-summer, which turned to torrential floods as the weather chilled. Game became scarce, the rivers began to freeze and the crop withered and died. Ahanu, now a respected member of his tribal council, urged his people to make the difficult decision to move to high ground, into a series of caves carved into the Purcell Mountains of present day Canada. The hope was to hold out until spring, and seek other lands once the storm cleared.
This would prove to be the undoing of not only Ahanu, but his entire tribe.
As the weather worsened, the heavy snowfall would begin to close them in, and in a panic to avoid being buried, his people would trigger an avalanche that would entomb those that weren’t killed outright by the slide.
Trapped in nearly complete darkness, things quickly became desperate, as what little food they had gathered was quickly eaten as they sought to dig their way out. Soon, the weakest survivors began to shiver violently, the damp and cold a constant companion without a source to build a proper fire. Then, one by one, they began to die.
As one of the largest and strongest of his tribe, Ahanu worked tirelessly to free them from their icy prison, but to no avail. With the howling winds of the storm still swirling outside, his once proud people dwindled to a handful. Ahanu quickly found himself placing his partner, and their children with the rest of the fallen.
The voice began soon after. A hollow drone that echoed within their minds like a swarm of angry insects. It urged them to do terrible things, unthinkable things. It whispered to them in the suffocating blackness of the frozen caves, driving them mad.
Ahanu claims, or perhaps chooses, to not remember who first suggested they eat those who had already fallen. But eat they did, a malevolent hunger quickly took them, the buzzing voice egging them on. The few remaining gorged themselves until they had reduced every available corpse to little more than skeletal scraps, at which point they cracked them across stone and sucked the marrow from the bones. When the flesh ran out, they turned on each other, caring for little other than to placate the insatiable appetite which had overtaken each of them.
Spring would eventually arrive, the snow would melt, & the caverns exposed to the sun's touch once again after many long months. Only Ahanu would emerge, hanging on to his humanity by a thread. The monstrous essence which resided in the caves now bound to his very being.
The Ravenous One fought through his resolve easily in those days, leaving a path of violence and death in his wake as he fought to reign in the terrible darkness. Ahanu sought to end his suffering, to take his own life, but the beast would not allow death to take its avatar. Each time he tried, he would awake in a foreign location, broken but still very much alive, and the process would begin anew. With every body consumed by the entity, it grew stronger, fighting to take permanent hold.
Ahanu would navigate the Americas for several lifetimes, the Ravenous One an unwanted companion, wandering aimlessly to seek a cure for his condition. Undergoing arduous rituals and punishing spirit quests across the continents, he slowly, painfully untangled his soul from the seeking roots of the beast. This delicate separation would grant Ahanu some semblance of relief, but it was no cure. Ravenous One always emerged again, poking and testing for any sign of weakness, any slip of resolve. It seemed eventually the hunger always became too great.
Bain & Hoyle would catch wind of Ravenous One as they expanded their operation to the new world, quietly catching and imprisoning the monster through the use of arcane traps. The organization would quickly discover the plight of the man trapped, bound to the beast, and an agreement was made.
Ahanu, now shackled by a series of protective wards, was left to live out his days in an isolated cabin in the remotest reaches of his native Canada. The beast was unable to manifest, though it chattered still, and the hunger remained. Ahanu himself was largely forgotten by the agency, suffering in stoic silence, reserved to his fate, and haunted by his past.
That is, until the events of Ragnarok. With B&H’s ranks decimated by such powerful villains, the decision was made to ‘recruit’ characters like Ahanu to help bolster the ranks and give Bain & Hoyle more muscle to level the playing field should another threat rear its ugly head.
In return, Bain & Hoyle have perhaps foolishly promised to free Ahanu from the Ravenous One once and for all, though it’s not a promise they are entirely sure they can follow through on.
There is a current of fear underlying Ahanu’s continued involvement with Bain & Hoyle. He is mostly considered an asset to the company, both as a tracker of supernatural game and a juggernaut against larger foes, however, The Ravenous One is a very destructive weapon. His manifestation can swing the pendulum of victory in either direction very quickly, and Ahanu insists Bain & Hoyle’s tether on Ravenous One is not strong enough to last, though few are listening.
Those in charge of such decisions are far more concerned with what Ahanu and his little friend might do if they find out they’re leading him on.
Ahanu is not keen to this dirty little secret, but tensions between the two are slowly mounting.
-Gender: Male
-Type: Wendigo
-Appearance: Ahanu, the man, is a specimen to behold, exuding a rigid confidence and carrying a body grown in the bountiful times before European settlers had any notion of North America. He is well toned by the rigors of his past life, days spent as a tracker and hunter for his tribe, but his skin is cold and oddly clammy. Still, there are few who wouldn’t feel intimidated by his stature, nearly a head taller than most adult men, with a sturdy, broad shouldered build. Ahanu is undoubtedly a handsome man, with chiseled features and glossy waist-length hair. In truth, he is a man trapped in time, the hollow look in his coal colored eyes and the somber turn of his mouth silently relate a deep pain which seems to hound him everywhere he goes.
The beast that resides within, however, is another matter entirely. The Wendigo, often referred to by the man it inhabits as “Ravenous One,” is a rotten mountain of frozen, fungus ridden carcass, well-over double the size of his human form, and weighing nearly as much as a small car. Stout limbs expand rapidly and the audible crack of bone and sinew can be heard as the skin peels away to reveal cloven hooves and gnarled, clawed hands disproportionately large for his form.
Flowing locks grow mane-like, spreading from the crest of his head to the tip of a shaggy tail in stringy and matted clumps. A massive pair of antlers, sizable enough to give even the biggest bull moose a run for its money sprout from his head, as the skin of his face sloughs off to reveal an animalistic skull to match. The horrifying visage comes complete with wicked looking teeth that can crush bone to powder and a long, undulating tongue which hangs sloppily from his mouth.
A true horror to behold, and not one many have seen and lived to tell of.
-Age: Ahanu has lived over 400 years at this point, but as a man looks to be in his late 20s or early 30s.
-Powers/Traits: In the days before being claimed by the Wendigo, Ahanu had been his tribe’s most prolific hunter. A man of incredible endurance, uncanny stealth and overall fitness, with a keen sense for tracking prey and a disconcerting ability to notice minute details others would generally miss. In those days it was said he had been born under the blessing of the Great Mother, and now, inhabited by Ravenous One, those traits (as well as his sense of smell) have been amplified ten-fold. The monster emanates an aura of frigid cold, and is completely immune to effects of inclimate weather or cold magic, though it detests flame.
Ahanu retains a modicum of that physical power as a man, and is still the skilled tracker he was in his past life. It is only in his true form he becomes an inescapable force, a relentless, indomitable nightmare that can uncannily move through dense brush or deep snow virtually silently despite his size.
However, it is not a transformation to be taken lightly, for not only does it leave Ahanu’s body in a decrepit and temporarily ruined state upon reverting to human form, but so too does the Ravenous One seek to constantly gnaw away at Ahanu’s humanity. With each transformation he feels his grip loosen on the man he was, and seeks to be. The monster within yearns to manifest itself permanently & it is a constant struggle to overcome the insatiable hunger which torments his every waking moment.
-Background: The son of a chieftain, Ahanu had a happy, healthy upbringing and quickly showed his talents for hunting, fishing, and fighting, much as his father did.
His life was full. He grew. He had a family. He had his tribe.
The storm changed all that.
It began with unseasonal rains in mid-summer, which turned to torrential floods as the weather chilled. Game became scarce, the rivers began to freeze and the crop withered and died. Ahanu, now a respected member of his tribal council, urged his people to make the difficult decision to move to high ground, into a series of caves carved into the Purcell Mountains of present day Canada. The hope was to hold out until spring, and seek other lands once the storm cleared.
This would prove to be the undoing of not only Ahanu, but his entire tribe.
As the weather worsened, the heavy snowfall would begin to close them in, and in a panic to avoid being buried, his people would trigger an avalanche that would entomb those that weren’t killed outright by the slide.
Trapped in nearly complete darkness, things quickly became desperate, as what little food they had gathered was quickly eaten as they sought to dig their way out. Soon, the weakest survivors began to shiver violently, the damp and cold a constant companion without a source to build a proper fire. Then, one by one, they began to die.
As one of the largest and strongest of his tribe, Ahanu worked tirelessly to free them from their icy prison, but to no avail. With the howling winds of the storm still swirling outside, his once proud people dwindled to a handful. Ahanu quickly found himself placing his partner, and their children with the rest of the fallen.
The voice began soon after. A hollow drone that echoed within their minds like a swarm of angry insects. It urged them to do terrible things, unthinkable things. It whispered to them in the suffocating blackness of the frozen caves, driving them mad.
Ahanu claims, or perhaps chooses, to not remember who first suggested they eat those who had already fallen. But eat they did, a malevolent hunger quickly took them, the buzzing voice egging them on. The few remaining gorged themselves until they had reduced every available corpse to little more than skeletal scraps, at which point they cracked them across stone and sucked the marrow from the bones. When the flesh ran out, they turned on each other, caring for little other than to placate the insatiable appetite which had overtaken each of them.
Spring would eventually arrive, the snow would melt, & the caverns exposed to the sun's touch once again after many long months. Only Ahanu would emerge, hanging on to his humanity by a thread. The monstrous essence which resided in the caves now bound to his very being.
The Ravenous One fought through his resolve easily in those days, leaving a path of violence and death in his wake as he fought to reign in the terrible darkness. Ahanu sought to end his suffering, to take his own life, but the beast would not allow death to take its avatar. Each time he tried, he would awake in a foreign location, broken but still very much alive, and the process would begin anew. With every body consumed by the entity, it grew stronger, fighting to take permanent hold.
Ahanu would navigate the Americas for several lifetimes, the Ravenous One an unwanted companion, wandering aimlessly to seek a cure for his condition. Undergoing arduous rituals and punishing spirit quests across the continents, he slowly, painfully untangled his soul from the seeking roots of the beast. This delicate separation would grant Ahanu some semblance of relief, but it was no cure. Ravenous One always emerged again, poking and testing for any sign of weakness, any slip of resolve. It seemed eventually the hunger always became too great.
Bain & Hoyle would catch wind of Ravenous One as they expanded their operation to the new world, quietly catching and imprisoning the monster through the use of arcane traps. The organization would quickly discover the plight of the man trapped, bound to the beast, and an agreement was made.
Ahanu, now shackled by a series of protective wards, was left to live out his days in an isolated cabin in the remotest reaches of his native Canada. The beast was unable to manifest, though it chattered still, and the hunger remained. Ahanu himself was largely forgotten by the agency, suffering in stoic silence, reserved to his fate, and haunted by his past.
That is, until the events of Ragnarok. With B&H’s ranks decimated by such powerful villains, the decision was made to ‘recruit’ characters like Ahanu to help bolster the ranks and give Bain & Hoyle more muscle to level the playing field should another threat rear its ugly head.
In return, Bain & Hoyle have perhaps foolishly promised to free Ahanu from the Ravenous One once and for all, though it’s not a promise they are entirely sure they can follow through on.
There is a current of fear underlying Ahanu’s continued involvement with Bain & Hoyle. He is mostly considered an asset to the company, both as a tracker of supernatural game and a juggernaut against larger foes, however, The Ravenous One is a very destructive weapon. His manifestation can swing the pendulum of victory in either direction very quickly, and Ahanu insists Bain & Hoyle’s tether on Ravenous One is not strong enough to last, though few are listening.
Those in charge of such decisions are far more concerned with what Ahanu and his little friend might do if they find out they’re leading him on.
Ahanu is not keen to this dirty little secret, but tensions between the two are slowly mounting.
2x Like
DELETED087367
Banned
Seen
3 mos ago
Deleted
3x Like
Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
Member
Seen
0-24 hrs ago
♚
esper'yhn barghest.
f e i b l a c k c l a w.
 __________________________ | 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞. ◆ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐠. ◆ 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 : 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟎𝟎 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐥𝐝. ████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████ ❝𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒅𝒐𝒈. ; 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕 ; 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒄𝒌 ; 𝒑𝒂𝒅𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒕 ; 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒆 ; 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒎.❞ ______________________________________________________________________________ First spotted in 1577 at the church of Bungay in Suffolk. -- apparition, ghost, shapeshifter, hellhound, reaper, guardian of the crossroads -- ______________________________________________________________________________ If ever should you come across one of these fabled apparitions within the gloom of the night, look not into their eyes that are aglow in spectral white or demented hellfire, these are the glimpses of deadened things prowling about in the shadows on the rattling chains of the dead. And should one ever cross your path, turn away at their presence, for fables tell of those who perish one year, six months, three days, two hours and one minute to the day they see such a horrid thing. Standing betwixt glamoured constructs and guarding ancient pathways and ley-lines festooned in acclaimed magics and forlorn souls lost wondering and held to the world; the Crossroads of reality and veiled existence. Black dogs are storied through watered down tales and lore, so often that their origins are muddled between Celtic, and Germanic elements of various cultures, but a constant remains they are famed as a portent of Death and ill wanted. They herald omens of change, death, illness and misfortune to mortality. Such follows their wake even into the Underworld wherein many are christened as Guardians; some told of would-be reapers that sing a funeral tole on the winds of the dead souls that call for their dues. In whichever fable is held to a token of truth, it varies upon the tale told and the whispers uttered of their creation and conception. Secrets and lies are afforded in spades to the protection of self and life, uttered by either man or canine. Electrical storms rampant on a too-silent night will foretell a cruel malevolence that bears fang and claw on any victim, usually upon a moonless cycle where the shadows impart briefly to allow black dogs to roam free without the tethers of their once upon masters and would be keepers. ████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████ |  ___________________________ |
𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.
A mortal countenance struggles to contain a wailing beast within flesh and bone, the soul warped profoundly within tendrils of history and painted within leagues of misfortune, dread, and wrath. A glamour shrouds thick upon lithesome shoulders and delicate ministrations; slumberous, almost cumbersome and fog-minded actions that inspire fragile misconceptions. Beneath the wavering forgery rests snarling words and fangs stained with perpetual taint and rouge undertones, and claws that curl in anger and bleed heavy around mortal fingers that ache in their quivering intent. Whether one comes to view phosphorescent eyes that glow madly within the gloom or hooded pools that are reminiscent of soil, it's little concern, for in either stance it is impossible to veil the truth of the soul within such visions. With a name stricken from records and forbade to be spoken of aloud -- for such a tongue heralds lightning and shadow -- and forms that beget caution in either skin, Fei is the sole representative of misconstrued hounds that often patrol the Crossroads and predetermine misfortune in either realm.
Alternative in dress and mannerisms, Fei is heavily adorned in ink; spawning over the length of her body in faded lines and thick patterns; scrawling penmanship displayed upon her torso and looped around her thighs; illustrations of demonic portraits over her spine and breast and skull winged insects and snarling canines betwixt them. Liken to the fur of the beast in the night, ebony tresses fall thickly down her nape, curled against her backside with minimal upkeep required, as such is usually fastened lopsided into a chaotic twist on her crown. In par with her truer form, her mortal facade remains at a constant, adaptive only slight to the wiles of time endured, her general ambiance conditioned to interchanging fashions despite the eternal glow that rests within her eyes. Slivers of moonlight will reflect off of her stare, glistening an ethereal white usually within the depressing gloom of night where a growl glides against her usual whispers.
Fei's truer form -- as either fur or flesh is a direct profile -- is several lengths tall and long, dwarfing common canines with a mouth riddled obscenely with bone should she pry open her jowls. Ink like fur wisps lazily within an unseen wind unless effectively glamoured, wherein mortal and untrained eyes witness an uncommonly large dog lurking through the alley ways and vanishing into shadow.
Alternative in dress and mannerisms, Fei is heavily adorned in ink; spawning over the length of her body in faded lines and thick patterns; scrawling penmanship displayed upon her torso and looped around her thighs; illustrations of demonic portraits over her spine and breast and skull winged insects and snarling canines betwixt them. Liken to the fur of the beast in the night, ebony tresses fall thickly down her nape, curled against her backside with minimal upkeep required, as such is usually fastened lopsided into a chaotic twist on her crown. In par with her truer form, her mortal facade remains at a constant, adaptive only slight to the wiles of time endured, her general ambiance conditioned to interchanging fashions despite the eternal glow that rests within her eyes. Slivers of moonlight will reflect off of her stare, glistening an ethereal white usually within the depressing gloom of night where a growl glides against her usual whispers.
Fei's truer form -- as either fur or flesh is a direct profile -- is several lengths tall and long, dwarfing common canines with a mouth riddled obscenely with bone should she pry open her jowls. Ink like fur wisps lazily within an unseen wind unless effectively glamoured, wherein mortal and untrained eyes witness an uncommonly large dog lurking through the alley ways and vanishing into shadow.
𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 / 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔
A chilling quiver down the breadth of one's spine foretells immediate misfortune, these victims stricken with the illness of not knowing of what may come to pass. This is a universal infliction Fei is infamous for under the guise of her bestial counterpart, coupled with a cursed bark that coils thick in the air and writhing, and a baying howl that sounds eternally within the minds of those close to Death. Her capabilities are subdued when bound in flesh, though her effect is no less ominous by touch and glances alone. Black dogs, as Guardians of the Crossroad or prowlers of cursed grounds, are substantially strong and agile, fleeting among the dark and known to leap to and fro, taunting, never quite attacking but never fleeing from those that would do them harm. As if baiting them to their ends until the sun rises. Malevolent inclinations have been described in the years past, and those are told to bear a bite of burning pain or frigid agony, the sensation marking their prey for all the years to come so long as they live.
Let it be noted that one cannot be turned into a grim, but that they are simply born. Unlike their lunar compelled cousins, black dogs are not the product of curses and rage, though it is still unclear of how they come to be.
Fei herself possess all the agility of her birth rite in either form, and her senses keen and sharp, wicked and graceful with only the slightest of mortal hindrances found when she forgoes shifting into a shuck. Stories utter the pattern of lightning storms among the oldest of dogs and strongest of the blood. Fabricated dressings and embellishments tell of Fei being clairvoyant and burdened by slight premonitions in her long life, a cursed blessing from her past. Such truths though have not been tested, and remain hidden, for the better.
Let it be noted that one cannot be turned into a grim, but that they are simply born. Unlike their lunar compelled cousins, black dogs are not the product of curses and rage, though it is still unclear of how they come to be.
Fei herself possess all the agility of her birth rite in either form, and her senses keen and sharp, wicked and graceful with only the slightest of mortal hindrances found when she forgoes shifting into a shuck. Stories utter the pattern of lightning storms among the oldest of dogs and strongest of the blood. Fabricated dressings and embellishments tell of Fei being clairvoyant and burdened by slight premonitions in her long life, a cursed blessing from her past. Such truths though have not been tested, and remain hidden, for the better.
𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅
Past will dictate the summoning of a hellish creature festooned with death as a trinket of yellow-marrow and heavy jowls on cries of woe and sheer misery. Thus with this guise and rouse of inhumane birth, canines of demented misfortune and fate prowl under shadow and ruin with an incarnation of Evil cantering eagerly within their shells and banked heavy on their claws. Fei's birth was twisted and malformed, better part of an eerie beginning that saw the babe born from a black dog in the corner of an abandoned church, a curse -- an abomination -- and such a slur rested on the breaths of those that witnessed. In the following years since the appearance of the black shuck during the 1500's in Suffolk, many had feared the appearance of black canines in their towns and homes. Thus churches had taken to burying them -- alive -- within their grounds to ward off the wrathful hound from appearing in the grave yards, feasting on those recently lain. Such was done years after, under the pretenses of protection, and remains to this day in some countries, thus the term church grim was coined when places of worship adopted this practice as well.
Fei's memory effectively wanes after her birth, muddled and dark, spiteful and bridled with doom whenever she reflects and broods, such could be curse of her own birth and existence, but she claims to be unknowing either way. It such is the truth, however, it is difficult to discern.
However many stories follow her wake and those of her kith and kin, most damning, though such are often warped under folklore and myth. Such pertain to the following of a squire known as Richard Cabell whom sold his soul to a black shuck on a moonless night, said to be in exchange for their power in the hunt of his enemies and lords. In his passing, black hounds surrounded his chambers and feasted upon his remains.
To this day, many are said to lurk around his burial chambers.
Across England many ill wanted dogs suddenly appeared around this time, haunting after mortals and striking fear within their hearts and minds, christening their appearances as omens of death and decay.
Some speculated that, even though one of the first hounds publicly seen -- with glowing eyes of hellfire -- was two hundred years after the Black Death crisis, that such a creature stood high above burial grounds, dragging the souls of the dead on bloodied chains and to their final deaths.
Many black dogs appear through the world and time, some of these Fei, and some not. She haunted the gibbets of many slain souls, and howled their curses, she stalked the gallows of time, took souls with her on her travels, feasted on such remains in daily wanderings until gorged on life. She saw witches rise, and saw innocence fall, saw wars come and go and kings crowned upon hills of bone and blood. Cities and empires came to be under the rule of mighty lords and rulers, each rising upon the death of another and standing upon the corpses of the fallen. Fei was an eternal specter, an apparition that flitted through time and tale; a ghost, a spirit, a manifestation of eternity that howled songs to the moon on every eve since her birth.
Fei never quite rose to her mortal givings until the early 1800's -- such a form was lost to her in time, despite her initial birth, almost over two hundred years later -- and here she forsake her name and adopted the moniker of Blackclaw. Uttering the calling of her birth, Esper'yhn Barghest was met with illness and thundering clouds, established by what she believes to be her Father and Mother's might and inheritance. She avoided many like her and those not, a loner in the midst of a crowd and never committed to one place for long, finding bonds and chains to a place ill favoring. Though she had adopted a mortal display, she never found that niche that would make her seemingly human in the eyes of the Veiled World, or any other world for that matter.
But, when a man of blood and another almost similar to her but not quite the same approached the near feral dog in the blanket of night fall, where there was lightning and hell collaborating into one as she howled; raged, hungered, a beast crying into the night under the pretense of lacking control over something inside her -- Fei fell, for the first time. Since her, as one would claim, submission, Fei has been in service and employment of the Bain & Hoyle Company for such a time, often excusing herself on various leagues of absence over the years. Some speculate she returns often to the church in which she was born, lingering among her origins as it were, growling in answer to any inquires that she's simply looking for something -- someone. However, liken to the black dog she is, Fei is loyal at least, one of her defining canine traits ingrained heavily despite the Death she reeks of.
Fei's memory effectively wanes after her birth, muddled and dark, spiteful and bridled with doom whenever she reflects and broods, such could be curse of her own birth and existence, but she claims to be unknowing either way. It such is the truth, however, it is difficult to discern.
However many stories follow her wake and those of her kith and kin, most damning, though such are often warped under folklore and myth. Such pertain to the following of a squire known as Richard Cabell whom sold his soul to a black shuck on a moonless night, said to be in exchange for their power in the hunt of his enemies and lords. In his passing, black hounds surrounded his chambers and feasted upon his remains.
To this day, many are said to lurk around his burial chambers.
Across England many ill wanted dogs suddenly appeared around this time, haunting after mortals and striking fear within their hearts and minds, christening their appearances as omens of death and decay.
Some speculated that, even though one of the first hounds publicly seen -- with glowing eyes of hellfire -- was two hundred years after the Black Death crisis, that such a creature stood high above burial grounds, dragging the souls of the dead on bloodied chains and to their final deaths.
Many black dogs appear through the world and time, some of these Fei, and some not. She haunted the gibbets of many slain souls, and howled their curses, she stalked the gallows of time, took souls with her on her travels, feasted on such remains in daily wanderings until gorged on life. She saw witches rise, and saw innocence fall, saw wars come and go and kings crowned upon hills of bone and blood. Cities and empires came to be under the rule of mighty lords and rulers, each rising upon the death of another and standing upon the corpses of the fallen. Fei was an eternal specter, an apparition that flitted through time and tale; a ghost, a spirit, a manifestation of eternity that howled songs to the moon on every eve since her birth.
Fei never quite rose to her mortal givings until the early 1800's -- such a form was lost to her in time, despite her initial birth, almost over two hundred years later -- and here she forsake her name and adopted the moniker of Blackclaw. Uttering the calling of her birth, Esper'yhn Barghest was met with illness and thundering clouds, established by what she believes to be her Father and Mother's might and inheritance. She avoided many like her and those not, a loner in the midst of a crowd and never committed to one place for long, finding bonds and chains to a place ill favoring. Though she had adopted a mortal display, she never found that niche that would make her seemingly human in the eyes of the Veiled World, or any other world for that matter.
But, when a man of blood and another almost similar to her but not quite the same approached the near feral dog in the blanket of night fall, where there was lightning and hell collaborating into one as she howled; raged, hungered, a beast crying into the night under the pretense of lacking control over something inside her -- Fei fell, for the first time. Since her, as one would claim, submission, Fei has been in service and employment of the Bain & Hoyle Company for such a time, often excusing herself on various leagues of absence over the years. Some speculate she returns often to the church in which she was born, lingering among her origins as it were, growling in answer to any inquires that she's simply looking for something -- someone. However, liken to the black dog she is, Fei is loyal at least, one of her defining canine traits ingrained heavily despite the Death she reeks of.
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