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[CHAR] Priest & Hawthorne Investigations (Redux!) - Supernatural Urban Fantasy!
- Modern
- Fantasy
- Advanced
- Small Group
- GM Naril
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GM
Naril Tinker, builder, hacker, thief
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15 hrs ago
I can't believe I forgot to do this last night.
Here's my character:
And some important NPCs (This list will very likely expand with the story):
Here's my character:
Name: Morgan Blackwood
Gender: Female
Race/Species: Succubus, but it’s complicated. The company’s founders know exactly who and what she is, as well as where she came from, but some mysteries remain. Most others have figured it out, either through stories or firsthand experience, that she isn’t human, though only a handful of people she likes and trusts know more than that.
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): As a corporeal being, about 100 years. As a formless consciousness in a crushing, dark void, considerably longer. She appears to be in her early thirties.
Appearance: Slightly over average height, Morgan is definitely not the kind person who fades into the background. Not out of brashness or a sense of constantly being in the spotlight, but more that her body language suggests effortless, lazy, near-perfect confidence. She is built like a martial artist or professional dancer, every line dangerous and elegantly feminine. Her skin is fair rather than unhealthily pale, and she has a tumble of dark, wavy locks that she keeps tied into a loose ponytail, though some hangs down to frame her face. Morgan's features are striking, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, just short of being masculine and with a constant, mischievous tilt to her inviting, playful lips. Her eyes are deep, crystalline blue-green, glittering with intelligence and, deep within, slow promises of wicked sensuality. She moves with a predator’s perfect, captivating grace, and though she's capable of startlingly fast motion, she tends to move at a relaxed pace unless otherwise required. Morgan is, by any measure, attractive, but people tend to remember why differently. They do, however, agree that she's beautiful in the same way as a sword - captivating, but with the subtle menace of dark purpose. Her hands are strong and quick, with long fingers tipped with a perfect manicure. Of her handful of scars, the small one that cuts through her left eyebrow is the most visible, and she has no tattoos.
Morgan tends to dress in well-tailored suits with button-down shirts and cufflinks, though she often leaves one more button undone than propriety might require. Most of her shoes and boots have at least some kind of heel, though not so much that she's in danger of tottering off them to break her neck on the pavement. She doesn't wear a lot of jewelry, but she does have a pendant around her neck and several studs in each ear. She is deeply self-conscious about the fact that she needs reading glasses to see small print, but still carries a pair of round, brass-wire-rimmed spectacles with her in a jacket pocket.
It’s very difficult to see her shoulder holster, but she usually has one.
Personality: Morgan is pleasant, gregarious, more than a little bit of a smartass and has a wicked, playful sense of humour. She likes people, she likes their stories, and she likes the stories they think they aren't telling best of all. She tends to be direct and forthright, though rarely rude or blunt, and subtlety is not always something that she excels at. Despite that, there are things - particularly about herself - that she doesn't talk about, secrets she would prefer not to throw about with no regard to who's listening, and those subjects will meet with anything from polite rebuff to an occasional harsh word. She tends not to bend the truth too much, as Morgan is a terrible, terrible liar. Perhaps somewhat unusually, she has a well-developed sense of internal morality - Morgan very much knows the difference between right and wrong, and prefers to 'do the right thing,' though for more complicated reasons than simple schoolhouse lessons. She is fiercely loyal, though not blinded by those attachments, and is possessed of an iron-bound sense of willpower and self-control. Perhaps important for those endless stakeouts waiting for something to happen, Morgan is intelligent, not easily bored, an excellent conversationalist, and a rather good singer.
Finally, Morgan has the kind of rich, plummy, upper-crust British accent that you might associate with an expensive boarding-school education. The silken, wicked edge her words sometimes carry is likely not from the same place.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: In terms of supernatural abilities, Morgan has a powerful psychometric talent. In other words, by touching something, or in certain circumstances, someone, she can get a look at important moments in that thing's past as a kind of disjointed series of vignettes. These are not complete, "like she was there" recollections, but can provide invaluable information - at the expense of those things being imprinted, indelibly, in Morgan's memory. She can, in general, control when to use this talent - save in some specific circumstances.
Like many of her kind, Morgan is, at a very deep level, a kind of predator - one that hunts for a very particular kind of prey. She possesses a combination of pheromones and psychic weaponry to manipulate desire and arousal, though she rarely makes use of it anymore. When she does, though, the effect can be devastating - to the point of rendering whoever she has her attention on incapable of anything save involuntary orgasm. It isn’t manipulation or persuasion, it isn’t nice, and, since there are times when Morgan isn’t the kindest person in the world, the person on the other end can know exactly what’s going on, but be more or less incapable of stopping it. Provided, of course, that person is a more-or-less-average more-or-less mortal - there are certainly creatures that can rebuff her…”charm.” This kind of psychic hammer-blow is something she does not do often, as she doesn’t like the way it feels, and she doesn’t like the way it makes her feel about herself. She can’t turn off the psychic come-hither, not completely (She IS a succubus - she gets a lot of stares and come-ons at the bar, from most of the men and some of the women) so any creature that has psychic feelers or supernatural senses will probably be able to sense her, one way or another.
The reason that she doesn’t switch on the supernatural sexiness is complicated, and related to her psychometric abilities. The problem is that when the fun starts, that talent flares into brilliant clarity, which is also when her natural instincts to devour the soul, or life force, or whatever of the person she’s with becomes almost too much to ignore. The result is that she gets a crystalline, piercing look at who that person is, who they want to be, and who they wish they were in startling, clarion clarity and indelible detail. In other words, she’s certain that she will psychically maim, or kill, people she’s intimate with, and not only does she have a conscience about that, but she gets a brilliant, beautiful look at that person’s story, one that she can’t believe should end with her.
The result is that she goes through life in something like a permanent addict’s withdrawal - a deep, powerful craving that she knows could be sated by just taking one tiny action, but one she’s unwilling to perform. She has largely learned to wall the feelings away from her thoughts, but there are times, especially on the long and lonely Seattle nights…
While not supernaturally quick, Morgan does have a nearly-perfect sense of balance and grace, and she is considerably tougher than she looks. Not tough enough to survive a bullet to the head, but enough that it would take some considerable effort to kill her, and she heals fast. Not mutant-healing-factor fast, but faster than a human would under similar circumstances. Despite that, she is fiercely protective of her life, because she knows exactly what will happen to her if her body dies, and she has absolutely no interest in returning to that empty space behind the eyes of humanity.
She is, perhaps unsurprisingly, powerfully allergic to silver, and even alloys containing silver, to the point that she has to be rather careful around PHI’s preferred ammunition, or handle it with gloves. If that silver is, for example, something that's been handed down a family line or has been made holy by any number of means, much worse things will happen to her if she's hurt, or even has contact with it. This does not extend to holy symbols, holy words, or holy swords - unless they happen to be made of, have filigree made of, or contain silver. She stays away from Irish girls with claddagh rings for this very reason.
Background:
Morgan was used to surreptitious glances, barely-controlled stares and even seething scowls charged with hostility. Still, she had to admit that, perhaps this time, something beyond her natural charms brought that attention on. To begin with, none of the other patrons had come in with a long, shallow cut over one cheekbone, which still left bright red marks on the stolen napkin she pressed there. Pale skin showed through a constellation of tears and rips in her close-fitted suit, a few seams split. Dark char and scorch marks rimmed some of the more shredded areas, silk fibers frayed and bobbing as she moved. As Morgan walked, she favored one leg, her movement painful and hitched with every other step. Even her hands stood out, nails still shiny with the remnants of a manicure, fingers stained with unknowable grime, her slim, gold watch holding a shattered faceplate. Despite her appearance, the maitre d’ had withstood Morgan’s glare for only a handful of seconds before he decided that seating the woman would be less trouble than trying to throw her out. If he led her to the back of the restaurant, away not only from the windows but every other patron, then that was perfectly fine with her. She had done her best not to snarl her order to the waitress, but the poor girl seemed terrified all the same.
Half an hour later, Morgan sliced a piece off of the steak on her fine, bone-white plate and chewed with the careful, deliberate delicacy of someone who has recently been hit on the jaw. Swallowing, she took a deep breath and stuffed down the urge to pick the meat up with her hands and tear at the steaming flesh with her teeth; a hundred years and that instinct bore down with an almost physical need. Still, with the evening she’d had, a few old habits lurking beneath the surface couldn’t be that surprising. Her knife squeaked against the plate as she cut down again, bloody gravy leaking out of the expertly, if only barely, cooked dish in front of her.
“I see you started without me,” came a pleasant, smooth alto as a figure settled into the chair across from Morgan.
“Mm,” Morgan said, swallowing down a bite, “Don’t be like that. I ordered you a glass of wine. And don’t you dare make the ‘I-don’t-drink-vine” joke. You’re on your own from there.” She smirked, but with a deep tiredness behind the expression, her glittering eyes a little duller than usual. “You’re Hawthorne, then, I take it?”
“Ah,” the other woman said, taking an appraising look at Morgan’s bedraggled state. As Hawthorne tilted her head, a lock of hair fell across one bright green eye, an echo of Veronica Lake’s glamour. “Yes, quite. And you would be…ah, how to phrase this delicately-“
“The FBI’s pet monster?” Morgan interrupted, skewering an asparagus tip with her fork, holding it up with an uncertain expression before putting it in her mouth.
“I was going to say ‘an agent of the government,’ but I suppose that will do just as well.” A waitress arrived, carrying Hawthorne’s drink on a dark wooden tray. The pair watched, variously impressed, with the way she delivered it from tray to table without taking her eyes off a hole in Morgan’s jacket and shirt, one that showed a square inch of the slope of her left breast. Her fingers lingered on the glass for a long moment before she shook her head and pulled herself away, her expression slightly confused.
Morgan looked over at Hawthorne and waved her fork, swallowing the asparagus tip with a deeply suspicious shudder, “Let’s say that’s…no longer an operative statement.”
“Indeed?” Hawthorne replied as her long-fingered hands wrapped around the glass, cradling it as though it might break, “And are your previous employers…ah…aware of that?”
“I should imagine so,” Morgan sighed. She reached into her jacket and tossed a thin leather wallet onto the table. A small, round hole had been punched neatly through one flap, a coppery glint catching the low restaurant light through the puncture, “It was the way they shot me that gave me a clue. But the real hints were probably the car chase and the grenade.”
“Do you mind if I ask why your employers felt the need to make your evening so exciting?” Hawthorne said, her tone carefully neutral. She picked up the wallet and flipped the cover open. The badge inside, with its ornate border and the fact it omitted “Federal” from “Bureau of Investigation,” looked to be a relic from a bygone era. Just left of centre, the metal bowed inward around a sharp divot, the engraving distorted. Hawthorne turned the badge over and her fingers found a dent, the metal rippled and cracked. The bullet strike had missed the ID photo, and Morgan’s face looked out, an impish smirk on her face even there.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Morgan sliced another strip of steak away from the bone on her plate, “I did shoot the director of the Paranormal Intelligence Commission.” She looked sharply at Hawthorne, “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but the Bureau asked me to hunt down a vampire who was causing all kinds of trouble, and I found him in the middle of having a college basketball player as an after-dinner snack.”
“Ah,” Hawthorne replied, drawing the syllable out, “You know that bullets don’t stop-“
“I wasn’t trying to stop him, just get him away from that kid,” Morgan broke in, “Besides, I think he might have been about as old as…” She hesitated, “…you are. I couldn’t have stopped him if I wanted to. But,” Morgan studied the dripping piece of meat on her fork, “That meant he could get on his radio and call for help.”
Hawthorne took another drink of her wine, contemplative, “Hence this meeting.”
“Hence this meeting,” Morgan said, putting the bite in her mouth with a slow and almost exaggerated, care.
The older woman lifted her glass to a tiny pinprick of light, as though it might reveal something about the dark, rich liquid. She swirled it, a thoughtful look on her long and not unpleasant face, her bright eyes examining Morgan as she took another sip.
“I heard that you asked for my colleague when you called,” she said at length.
Morgan smirked, a glimmer of wickedness in her eye, “Yes, I did.”
“Can I ask why?” Hawthorne said, the ghost of a smile tugging at one side of her mouth.
“I wanted to see how good you were,” Morgan replied, setting her knife down. The bone in front of her could only have been cleaner if it had been given to a group of carrion beetles with obsessive-compulsive disorder. The pile of asparagus, other than the single spear she’d eaten, lay untouched.
“We do actually know what you are,” Hawthorne said, her rich voice low, “In the past, we’ve had…dealings with someone like you.”
Morgan grinned and leaned forward a little, crossing her arms beneath her chest on the tabletop, “Not like me,” she said, her voice a smooth, playful purr wrapped in wicked promises neither of them would keep.
“Do you have anything you want to collect?” Hawthorne said, the lopsided smile still on her face, “It’s a long flight.”
Morgan grin remained, “I’m already packed. I know how long it takes the Bureau to freeze assets, but I left them enough to feel good about themselves.”
“Then welcome to Priest & Hawthorne,” Hawthorne said, holding out her hand, “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Gender: Female
Race/Species: Succubus, but it’s complicated. The company’s founders know exactly who and what she is, as well as where she came from, but some mysteries remain. Most others have figured it out, either through stories or firsthand experience, that she isn’t human, though only a handful of people she likes and trusts know more than that.
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): As a corporeal being, about 100 years. As a formless consciousness in a crushing, dark void, considerably longer. She appears to be in her early thirties.
Appearance: Slightly over average height, Morgan is definitely not the kind person who fades into the background. Not out of brashness or a sense of constantly being in the spotlight, but more that her body language suggests effortless, lazy, near-perfect confidence. She is built like a martial artist or professional dancer, every line dangerous and elegantly feminine. Her skin is fair rather than unhealthily pale, and she has a tumble of dark, wavy locks that she keeps tied into a loose ponytail, though some hangs down to frame her face. Morgan's features are striking, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, just short of being masculine and with a constant, mischievous tilt to her inviting, playful lips. Her eyes are deep, crystalline blue-green, glittering with intelligence and, deep within, slow promises of wicked sensuality. She moves with a predator’s perfect, captivating grace, and though she's capable of startlingly fast motion, she tends to move at a relaxed pace unless otherwise required. Morgan is, by any measure, attractive, but people tend to remember why differently. They do, however, agree that she's beautiful in the same way as a sword - captivating, but with the subtle menace of dark purpose. Her hands are strong and quick, with long fingers tipped with a perfect manicure. Of her handful of scars, the small one that cuts through her left eyebrow is the most visible, and she has no tattoos.
Morgan tends to dress in well-tailored suits with button-down shirts and cufflinks, though she often leaves one more button undone than propriety might require. Most of her shoes and boots have at least some kind of heel, though not so much that she's in danger of tottering off them to break her neck on the pavement. She doesn't wear a lot of jewelry, but she does have a pendant around her neck and several studs in each ear. She is deeply self-conscious about the fact that she needs reading glasses to see small print, but still carries a pair of round, brass-wire-rimmed spectacles with her in a jacket pocket.
It’s very difficult to see her shoulder holster, but she usually has one.
Personality: Morgan is pleasant, gregarious, more than a little bit of a smartass and has a wicked, playful sense of humour. She likes people, she likes their stories, and she likes the stories they think they aren't telling best of all. She tends to be direct and forthright, though rarely rude or blunt, and subtlety is not always something that she excels at. Despite that, there are things - particularly about herself - that she doesn't talk about, secrets she would prefer not to throw about with no regard to who's listening, and those subjects will meet with anything from polite rebuff to an occasional harsh word. She tends not to bend the truth too much, as Morgan is a terrible, terrible liar. Perhaps somewhat unusually, she has a well-developed sense of internal morality - Morgan very much knows the difference between right and wrong, and prefers to 'do the right thing,' though for more complicated reasons than simple schoolhouse lessons. She is fiercely loyal, though not blinded by those attachments, and is possessed of an iron-bound sense of willpower and self-control. Perhaps important for those endless stakeouts waiting for something to happen, Morgan is intelligent, not easily bored, an excellent conversationalist, and a rather good singer.
Finally, Morgan has the kind of rich, plummy, upper-crust British accent that you might associate with an expensive boarding-school education. The silken, wicked edge her words sometimes carry is likely not from the same place.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: In terms of supernatural abilities, Morgan has a powerful psychometric talent. In other words, by touching something, or in certain circumstances, someone, she can get a look at important moments in that thing's past as a kind of disjointed series of vignettes. These are not complete, "like she was there" recollections, but can provide invaluable information - at the expense of those things being imprinted, indelibly, in Morgan's memory. She can, in general, control when to use this talent - save in some specific circumstances.
Like many of her kind, Morgan is, at a very deep level, a kind of predator - one that hunts for a very particular kind of prey. She possesses a combination of pheromones and psychic weaponry to manipulate desire and arousal, though she rarely makes use of it anymore. When she does, though, the effect can be devastating - to the point of rendering whoever she has her attention on incapable of anything save involuntary orgasm. It isn’t manipulation or persuasion, it isn’t nice, and, since there are times when Morgan isn’t the kindest person in the world, the person on the other end can know exactly what’s going on, but be more or less incapable of stopping it. Provided, of course, that person is a more-or-less-average more-or-less mortal - there are certainly creatures that can rebuff her…”charm.” This kind of psychic hammer-blow is something she does not do often, as she doesn’t like the way it feels, and she doesn’t like the way it makes her feel about herself. She can’t turn off the psychic come-hither, not completely (She IS a succubus - she gets a lot of stares and come-ons at the bar, from most of the men and some of the women) so any creature that has psychic feelers or supernatural senses will probably be able to sense her, one way or another.
The reason that she doesn’t switch on the supernatural sexiness is complicated, and related to her psychometric abilities. The problem is that when the fun starts, that talent flares into brilliant clarity, which is also when her natural instincts to devour the soul, or life force, or whatever of the person she’s with becomes almost too much to ignore. The result is that she gets a crystalline, piercing look at who that person is, who they want to be, and who they wish they were in startling, clarion clarity and indelible detail. In other words, she’s certain that she will psychically maim, or kill, people she’s intimate with, and not only does she have a conscience about that, but she gets a brilliant, beautiful look at that person’s story, one that she can’t believe should end with her.
The result is that she goes through life in something like a permanent addict’s withdrawal - a deep, powerful craving that she knows could be sated by just taking one tiny action, but one she’s unwilling to perform. She has largely learned to wall the feelings away from her thoughts, but there are times, especially on the long and lonely Seattle nights…
While not supernaturally quick, Morgan does have a nearly-perfect sense of balance and grace, and she is considerably tougher than she looks. Not tough enough to survive a bullet to the head, but enough that it would take some considerable effort to kill her, and she heals fast. Not mutant-healing-factor fast, but faster than a human would under similar circumstances. Despite that, she is fiercely protective of her life, because she knows exactly what will happen to her if her body dies, and she has absolutely no interest in returning to that empty space behind the eyes of humanity.
She is, perhaps unsurprisingly, powerfully allergic to silver, and even alloys containing silver, to the point that she has to be rather careful around PHI’s preferred ammunition, or handle it with gloves. If that silver is, for example, something that's been handed down a family line or has been made holy by any number of means, much worse things will happen to her if she's hurt, or even has contact with it. This does not extend to holy symbols, holy words, or holy swords - unless they happen to be made of, have filigree made of, or contain silver. She stays away from Irish girls with claddagh rings for this very reason.
Background:
Morgan was used to surreptitious glances, barely-controlled stares and even seething scowls charged with hostility. Still, she had to admit that, perhaps this time, something beyond her natural charms brought that attention on. To begin with, none of the other patrons had come in with a long, shallow cut over one cheekbone, which still left bright red marks on the stolen napkin she pressed there. Pale skin showed through a constellation of tears and rips in her close-fitted suit, a few seams split. Dark char and scorch marks rimmed some of the more shredded areas, silk fibers frayed and bobbing as she moved. As Morgan walked, she favored one leg, her movement painful and hitched with every other step. Even her hands stood out, nails still shiny with the remnants of a manicure, fingers stained with unknowable grime, her slim, gold watch holding a shattered faceplate. Despite her appearance, the maitre d’ had withstood Morgan’s glare for only a handful of seconds before he decided that seating the woman would be less trouble than trying to throw her out. If he led her to the back of the restaurant, away not only from the windows but every other patron, then that was perfectly fine with her. She had done her best not to snarl her order to the waitress, but the poor girl seemed terrified all the same.
Half an hour later, Morgan sliced a piece off of the steak on her fine, bone-white plate and chewed with the careful, deliberate delicacy of someone who has recently been hit on the jaw. Swallowing, she took a deep breath and stuffed down the urge to pick the meat up with her hands and tear at the steaming flesh with her teeth; a hundred years and that instinct bore down with an almost physical need. Still, with the evening she’d had, a few old habits lurking beneath the surface couldn’t be that surprising. Her knife squeaked against the plate as she cut down again, bloody gravy leaking out of the expertly, if only barely, cooked dish in front of her.
“I see you started without me,” came a pleasant, smooth alto as a figure settled into the chair across from Morgan.
“Mm,” Morgan said, swallowing down a bite, “Don’t be like that. I ordered you a glass of wine. And don’t you dare make the ‘I-don’t-drink-vine” joke. You’re on your own from there.” She smirked, but with a deep tiredness behind the expression, her glittering eyes a little duller than usual. “You’re Hawthorne, then, I take it?”
“Ah,” the other woman said, taking an appraising look at Morgan’s bedraggled state. As Hawthorne tilted her head, a lock of hair fell across one bright green eye, an echo of Veronica Lake’s glamour. “Yes, quite. And you would be…ah, how to phrase this delicately-“
“The FBI’s pet monster?” Morgan interrupted, skewering an asparagus tip with her fork, holding it up with an uncertain expression before putting it in her mouth.
“I was going to say ‘an agent of the government,’ but I suppose that will do just as well.” A waitress arrived, carrying Hawthorne’s drink on a dark wooden tray. The pair watched, variously impressed, with the way she delivered it from tray to table without taking her eyes off a hole in Morgan’s jacket and shirt, one that showed a square inch of the slope of her left breast. Her fingers lingered on the glass for a long moment before she shook her head and pulled herself away, her expression slightly confused.
Morgan looked over at Hawthorne and waved her fork, swallowing the asparagus tip with a deeply suspicious shudder, “Let’s say that’s…no longer an operative statement.”
“Indeed?” Hawthorne replied as her long-fingered hands wrapped around the glass, cradling it as though it might break, “And are your previous employers…ah…aware of that?”
“I should imagine so,” Morgan sighed. She reached into her jacket and tossed a thin leather wallet onto the table. A small, round hole had been punched neatly through one flap, a coppery glint catching the low restaurant light through the puncture, “It was the way they shot me that gave me a clue. But the real hints were probably the car chase and the grenade.”
“Do you mind if I ask why your employers felt the need to make your evening so exciting?” Hawthorne said, her tone carefully neutral. She picked up the wallet and flipped the cover open. The badge inside, with its ornate border and the fact it omitted “Federal” from “Bureau of Investigation,” looked to be a relic from a bygone era. Just left of centre, the metal bowed inward around a sharp divot, the engraving distorted. Hawthorne turned the badge over and her fingers found a dent, the metal rippled and cracked. The bullet strike had missed the ID photo, and Morgan’s face looked out, an impish smirk on her face even there.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Morgan sliced another strip of steak away from the bone on her plate, “I did shoot the director of the Paranormal Intelligence Commission.” She looked sharply at Hawthorne, “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but the Bureau asked me to hunt down a vampire who was causing all kinds of trouble, and I found him in the middle of having a college basketball player as an after-dinner snack.”
“Ah,” Hawthorne replied, drawing the syllable out, “You know that bullets don’t stop-“
“I wasn’t trying to stop him, just get him away from that kid,” Morgan broke in, “Besides, I think he might have been about as old as…” She hesitated, “…you are. I couldn’t have stopped him if I wanted to. But,” Morgan studied the dripping piece of meat on her fork, “That meant he could get on his radio and call for help.”
Hawthorne took another drink of her wine, contemplative, “Hence this meeting.”
“Hence this meeting,” Morgan said, putting the bite in her mouth with a slow and almost exaggerated, care.
The older woman lifted her glass to a tiny pinprick of light, as though it might reveal something about the dark, rich liquid. She swirled it, a thoughtful look on her long and not unpleasant face, her bright eyes examining Morgan as she took another sip.
“I heard that you asked for my colleague when you called,” she said at length.
Morgan smirked, a glimmer of wickedness in her eye, “Yes, I did.”
“Can I ask why?” Hawthorne said, the ghost of a smile tugging at one side of her mouth.
“I wanted to see how good you were,” Morgan replied, setting her knife down. The bone in front of her could only have been cleaner if it had been given to a group of carrion beetles with obsessive-compulsive disorder. The pile of asparagus, other than the single spear she’d eaten, lay untouched.
“We do actually know what you are,” Hawthorne said, her rich voice low, “In the past, we’ve had…dealings with someone like you.”
Morgan grinned and leaned forward a little, crossing her arms beneath her chest on the tabletop, “Not like me,” she said, her voice a smooth, playful purr wrapped in wicked promises neither of them would keep.
“Do you have anything you want to collect?” Hawthorne said, the lopsided smile still on her face, “It’s a long flight.”
Morgan grin remained, “I’m already packed. I know how long it takes the Bureau to freeze assets, but I left them enough to feel good about themselves.”
“Then welcome to Priest & Hawthorne,” Hawthorne said, holding out her hand, “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
And some important NPCs (This list will very likely expand with the story):
Samuel Priest - Co-founder of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. A slender man of medium height, he is not terribly imposing. He owns a collection of tailored vests, a bowler hat, and an improbable Cockney accent. He has dark hair, greying at the temples, and apparently always has. What, exactly, he does for the company isn’t immediately clear. He currently lives in Philadelphia.
Adelina Hawthorne - Co-founder of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. Motherly and pleasant, with chestnut hair and dimples, it’s hard to believe the stories about how dangerous she is. She oversees day-to-day operations for the company, from ordering the silver bullets to browbeating banks into delivering checks in envelopes made of leaves from a very specific oak tree in Waukegan, Illinois. She lives in Philadelphia.
Solomon (Sol) Tanner - Current head of the PHI office in Seattle. A bear of a man with a sleek but very thorough beard, intense eyes, and a voice like industrial machinery, he is deliberately pleasant, refined, and genteel. He has overseen operations at PHI in Seattle for twenty years, has a vast network of contacts, and nobody has ever seen him sleep. He lives in Seattle.
Shiloh Grey - Archivist and researcher at PHI. She is strong, statuesque, often quiet, but anything but mousy. Her glare has been known to even silence Sol, on the occasions when they’ve been at odds. Her hair is wolfs-mane grey, and her features have a timeless, though not necessarily youthful, beauty. She has forgotten more about the supernatural world than many others, even immortals, have ever known. Taking something out of the archives without asking might be a fairly terminal idea.
Adelina Hawthorne - Co-founder of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. Motherly and pleasant, with chestnut hair and dimples, it’s hard to believe the stories about how dangerous she is. She oversees day-to-day operations for the company, from ordering the silver bullets to browbeating banks into delivering checks in envelopes made of leaves from a very specific oak tree in Waukegan, Illinois. She lives in Philadelphia.
Solomon (Sol) Tanner - Current head of the PHI office in Seattle. A bear of a man with a sleek but very thorough beard, intense eyes, and a voice like industrial machinery, he is deliberately pleasant, refined, and genteel. He has overseen operations at PHI in Seattle for twenty years, has a vast network of contacts, and nobody has ever seen him sleep. He lives in Seattle.
Shiloh Grey - Archivist and researcher at PHI. She is strong, statuesque, often quiet, but anything but mousy. Her glare has been known to even silence Sol, on the occasions when they’ve been at odds. Her hair is wolfs-mane grey, and her features have a timeless, though not necessarily youthful, beauty. She has forgotten more about the supernatural world than many others, even immortals, have ever known. Taking something out of the archives without asking might be a fairly terminal idea.
Austronaut
Member
Seen
3 yrs ago
Name: Emmaline Von Morganstern (Goes by Emma Stern)
Gender: Female
Race/Species: Human
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): 28
Appearance:
Emma is a tall Germanic woman with straw blond hair. She is pretty, although her high cheekbones and angular features seem to conspire to rob her of true beauty. She has a hiker’s lean trim build which bespeak many years of alpine life in her native Austria. Although her eyes are a piercing blue, they are usually kept behind the large glasses she wears to aid her with her reading.
Emma affects a stern masculine body language and takes pains to limit her femininity. Her hair is kept in a tight bun and her back rigid. She wears tailored suit of an academic cut when she is at work but is equally comfortable in sportswear when off duty or the situation demands it. Her taste in jewelry is her only divergence from strict propriety and she is almost always seen with bracelets and necklaces made of silver or polished copper.
Despite having lived in the United States for several years, and her best efforts, Emma has been unable to eradicate her crisp Austrian accent.
Personality:
Emma is first and foremost an academic and her scholarly career has been the primary influence on her personality. Competition with men and the institutionalized biases against women have encouraged her to do what she can to discount her sex. One of these tactics is to adopt the prim manners of a German Schoolteacher and her speech is frequently pedantic and over exact. Another is to keep her romantic side walled away beneath her professional demeanor.
Playing against these traits is a natural curiosity about the world and the people in it, which drives her closer to others the better to interrogate them. She has a dry and understated sense of humor and has even been known to laugh, though she tries to keep this under control due to her embarrassing tendency to snort when she does so.
In every situation Emma attempts to exude an aura of knowing control expected of a professor. Unfortunately the more uncontrolled a situation becomes, the closer this drives her to panic.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Hexen - At some point in the mysterious past Emmaline’s ancestors acquired certain powers, most notably the ability to manipulate the energies around them. The first Hexen discovered that these abilities passed from mother to daughter and each generation made its own contribution to the craft. For most of recorded history this has required covens of women to work together but with the onset of modern mathematics this has changed. Emmaline can do the traditional tricks, like draw heat from the air to create ice, or call up a wind by creating a pressure differential, but her true calling is in the realm of curses. Emmaline has a talent for altering probability, she can, if she puts her mind to it, ensure that a particular person has a run of unusual good luck, or she can curse someone so that Murphy's Law punishes them with a special viciousness. Unfortunately in both of these cases the luck has to even out somewhere, and for every miracle there is a corresponding tragedy.
In addition to, or in conjunction with, her occult powers Emmaline holds a PhD in Applied Mathematics and has lectured at several major universities.
Background:
Emmaline sat straight backed in her chair, primly sipping at the adequate wine before her. It was expensive, sure, but somehow Americans always seemed to conflate expense with quality. She peered down at a napkin on which she was carefully writing an equation with an ornate fountain pen. The ink spread out through the porous medium in unlovely blobs but it would serve her purpose.
Across from her sat a nervous young man with his awkward date. There was an aura about him that spoke to her, the nervous way he ran his fingers through his hair, the slight sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. He was about to have the worst night of his life. Unless she intervened of course.
Concentration fell away in shattered shards as someone cleared his throat in front of her. With a vexed hiss she looked up and pushed the glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. The man before her was of indeterminate years and he wore a suit that probably cost as much as she made in a year.
“Professor Von Morganstern, I hope I have not startled you?” he asked in a smooth, almost liquid alto. She forced her professional colleague smile to her lips, uncharacteristically reddened by lipstick.
“Of course not,” she lied sweetly, looking down at the menu to give her face time to smooth way the incipient frown.
“You are Mr…” she began but he nodded cutting her off.
“Yes from the Agency,” he concluded before she could speak his name. She clucked she clucked her tongue disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. He clearly didn’t fear her powers but he was demonstrating that he knew something about them by not speaking his name. The beginnings of a superior smile indicated that he had guessed what she was thinking. She glanced down at the formula on her napkin and then laid it face up on the expensive table cloth. Another sip of resinous wine. He slid into the seat across from her.
“I will be brief Professor Von Morganstern…” he began but it was her turn to hold up an interrupting hand.
“Professor Stern," she corrected, "I don’t go by my full name, also this isn’t a lecture you may call me Emma.” The clipped Austrian accent made the admonition seem harsher than she meant it. People weren’t always her thing. Screw it, served him right for showing off with her real name.
“I invited you here tonight because I want to offer you a job.” Emma sat back a little shocked. When she had received his letter employment was the furthest thing from her mind. It was rare to meet a man who knew about Hexen and rarer still for that meeting to end well.
“I already have a job mien Herr,” she began her english slipping, “As clearly you know by addressing me as Professor.” Her tone was defensive, a faint stirring of anger bubbled within her. He gave her an almost pittying look.
“Yes but I’m afraid that UCLA will decline your application for tenure, and there maybe little opportunity for you to earn it again. Faculty politicking I’m afraid.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic. Emmaline’s stomach plummeted, years of work and academic research for nothing. It was a given that his information was true, there was no lie in his voice and anyone who could discover she was a Hexen could penetrate the flimsy boundaries of University security with ease.
“There are few people with your particular talents in the United States,” he continued, his voice gentle and consoling. He waved away the waiter.
“We could use your more… ahem occult skills,” he concluded pushing a printed letter on expensive paper across the table to her. Fighting to keep her bottom lip from quivering with disappointment at losing her shot at tenure she mechanically scanned the document. When she reached the figure printed on it her eyebrows rose in spite of herself. The elegant man set back with a satisfied look on his face.
“With bonuses,” he added with a mischievous grin, lifting his glass of adequate wine to her. Reluctantly she lifted hers in tacit acceptance of his offer.
Across from her she saw the young man tense. With a hiss she sat down her wine and scribbled frantically on her napkin for a moment more closing the last few parenthesis, then sliced her thumb on a silver ring she wore on her ring finger, dribbling a drop of blood onto the paper with a muttered word. The boy stood up and drew a small box from his pocket before falling to one knee before his date. In the window behind him fireworks suddenly bursts, framing him and dazzling his intended as he knelt before her. Her moment of hesitation swept away by the fireworks, she cried her acceptance and rushed forward to hug him. In the background there was a mechanical pop as the buildings air conditioner coughed and died. Emmaline smiled, a few hours of discomfort for a lifetime of happiness. Fair trade. All the boy had needed was a bit of luck after all. The elegant man raised an appreciative eyebrow at her.
“I think you will make a fine addition to Priest and Hawthorne Professor Stern, a fine addition indeed.”
Gender: Female
Race/Species: Human
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): 28
Appearance:
Emma is a tall Germanic woman with straw blond hair. She is pretty, although her high cheekbones and angular features seem to conspire to rob her of true beauty. She has a hiker’s lean trim build which bespeak many years of alpine life in her native Austria. Although her eyes are a piercing blue, they are usually kept behind the large glasses she wears to aid her with her reading.
Emma affects a stern masculine body language and takes pains to limit her femininity. Her hair is kept in a tight bun and her back rigid. She wears tailored suit of an academic cut when she is at work but is equally comfortable in sportswear when off duty or the situation demands it. Her taste in jewelry is her only divergence from strict propriety and she is almost always seen with bracelets and necklaces made of silver or polished copper.
Despite having lived in the United States for several years, and her best efforts, Emma has been unable to eradicate her crisp Austrian accent.
Personality:
Emma is first and foremost an academic and her scholarly career has been the primary influence on her personality. Competition with men and the institutionalized biases against women have encouraged her to do what she can to discount her sex. One of these tactics is to adopt the prim manners of a German Schoolteacher and her speech is frequently pedantic and over exact. Another is to keep her romantic side walled away beneath her professional demeanor.
Playing against these traits is a natural curiosity about the world and the people in it, which drives her closer to others the better to interrogate them. She has a dry and understated sense of humor and has even been known to laugh, though she tries to keep this under control due to her embarrassing tendency to snort when she does so.
In every situation Emma attempts to exude an aura of knowing control expected of a professor. Unfortunately the more uncontrolled a situation becomes, the closer this drives her to panic.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Hexen - At some point in the mysterious past Emmaline’s ancestors acquired certain powers, most notably the ability to manipulate the energies around them. The first Hexen discovered that these abilities passed from mother to daughter and each generation made its own contribution to the craft. For most of recorded history this has required covens of women to work together but with the onset of modern mathematics this has changed. Emmaline can do the traditional tricks, like draw heat from the air to create ice, or call up a wind by creating a pressure differential, but her true calling is in the realm of curses. Emmaline has a talent for altering probability, she can, if she puts her mind to it, ensure that a particular person has a run of unusual good luck, or she can curse someone so that Murphy's Law punishes them with a special viciousness. Unfortunately in both of these cases the luck has to even out somewhere, and for every miracle there is a corresponding tragedy.
In addition to, or in conjunction with, her occult powers Emmaline holds a PhD in Applied Mathematics and has lectured at several major universities.
Background:
Emmaline sat straight backed in her chair, primly sipping at the adequate wine before her. It was expensive, sure, but somehow Americans always seemed to conflate expense with quality. She peered down at a napkin on which she was carefully writing an equation with an ornate fountain pen. The ink spread out through the porous medium in unlovely blobs but it would serve her purpose.
Across from her sat a nervous young man with his awkward date. There was an aura about him that spoke to her, the nervous way he ran his fingers through his hair, the slight sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. He was about to have the worst night of his life. Unless she intervened of course.
Concentration fell away in shattered shards as someone cleared his throat in front of her. With a vexed hiss she looked up and pushed the glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. The man before her was of indeterminate years and he wore a suit that probably cost as much as she made in a year.
“Professor Von Morganstern, I hope I have not startled you?” he asked in a smooth, almost liquid alto. She forced her professional colleague smile to her lips, uncharacteristically reddened by lipstick.
“Of course not,” she lied sweetly, looking down at the menu to give her face time to smooth way the incipient frown.
“You are Mr…” she began but he nodded cutting her off.
“Yes from the Agency,” he concluded before she could speak his name. She clucked she clucked her tongue disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. He clearly didn’t fear her powers but he was demonstrating that he knew something about them by not speaking his name. The beginnings of a superior smile indicated that he had guessed what she was thinking. She glanced down at the formula on her napkin and then laid it face up on the expensive table cloth. Another sip of resinous wine. He slid into the seat across from her.
“I will be brief Professor Von Morganstern…” he began but it was her turn to hold up an interrupting hand.
“Professor Stern," she corrected, "I don’t go by my full name, also this isn’t a lecture you may call me Emma.” The clipped Austrian accent made the admonition seem harsher than she meant it. People weren’t always her thing. Screw it, served him right for showing off with her real name.
“I invited you here tonight because I want to offer you a job.” Emma sat back a little shocked. When she had received his letter employment was the furthest thing from her mind. It was rare to meet a man who knew about Hexen and rarer still for that meeting to end well.
“I already have a job mien Herr,” she began her english slipping, “As clearly you know by addressing me as Professor.” Her tone was defensive, a faint stirring of anger bubbled within her. He gave her an almost pittying look.
“Yes but I’m afraid that UCLA will decline your application for tenure, and there maybe little opportunity for you to earn it again. Faculty politicking I’m afraid.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic. Emmaline’s stomach plummeted, years of work and academic research for nothing. It was a given that his information was true, there was no lie in his voice and anyone who could discover she was a Hexen could penetrate the flimsy boundaries of University security with ease.
“There are few people with your particular talents in the United States,” he continued, his voice gentle and consoling. He waved away the waiter.
“We could use your more… ahem occult skills,” he concluded pushing a printed letter on expensive paper across the table to her. Fighting to keep her bottom lip from quivering with disappointment at losing her shot at tenure she mechanically scanned the document. When she reached the figure printed on it her eyebrows rose in spite of herself. The elegant man set back with a satisfied look on his face.
“With bonuses,” he added with a mischievous grin, lifting his glass of adequate wine to her. Reluctantly she lifted hers in tacit acceptance of his offer.
Across from her she saw the young man tense. With a hiss she sat down her wine and scribbled frantically on her napkin for a moment more closing the last few parenthesis, then sliced her thumb on a silver ring she wore on her ring finger, dribbling a drop of blood onto the paper with a muttered word. The boy stood up and drew a small box from his pocket before falling to one knee before his date. In the window behind him fireworks suddenly bursts, framing him and dazzling his intended as he knelt before her. Her moment of hesitation swept away by the fireworks, she cried her acceptance and rushed forward to hug him. In the background there was a mechanical pop as the buildings air conditioner coughed and died. Emmaline smiled, a few hours of discomfort for a lifetime of happiness. Fair trade. All the boy had needed was a bit of luck after all. The elegant man raised an appreciative eyebrow at her.
“I think you will make a fine addition to Priest and Hawthorne Professor Stern, a fine addition indeed.”
lady horatio
Member
Seen
9 mos ago
Name: Amanda Staten, but it’s likely that anyone she becomes friendly with at PHI would call her Mandy.
Gender: There is, in fact, a girl buried somewhere beneath all those sweaters.
Race/Species: Half-breed, poor thing. Amanda’s mother was a cait sidhe, a race of faerie cats with both human and feline forms. Mom had a fling with a human man, and a few months later, Amanda was born, the runt of the litter. Her human half is most definitely dominant. (More details in the traits and background sections.)
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): Amanda is recently turned twenty-five, but is often mistaken for younger. As faeries go, even as a half-blood, she’s still considered an adolescent by most standards.
Gender: There is, in fact, a girl buried somewhere beneath all those sweaters.
Race/Species: Half-breed, poor thing. Amanda’s mother was a cait sidhe, a race of faerie cats with both human and feline forms. Mom had a fling with a human man, and a few months later, Amanda was born, the runt of the litter. Her human half is most definitely dominant. (More details in the traits and background sections.)
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): Amanda is recently turned twenty-five, but is often mistaken for younger. As faeries go, even as a half-blood, she’s still considered an adolescent by most standards.
Lean and angular, Mandy clocks in at about five-five—neither terribly short nor terribly tall. Narrow wrists, a fondness for oversized clothing, and an absolute refusal to take up space conspire to give her a diminutive appearance, despite her middling height. Her long brown hair is very fine and easily mussed, falling in indecisive waves down to her waist. Her fair skin shows everything easily, from blushes to bruises, and her battle with under-eye circles is constant. Her eyes and ears—golden-green and subtly pointed, respectively—are the only real hints of her heritage, and they’re both things that even her limited grasp on glamour can usually hide.
Her aesthetic can best be described as “starving college student,” and she likes to be comfortable above all else, so dressing professionally can be a challenge. As in everything else, she tries. Without any proper role models to follow until recently, her concept of “business casual” is a work in progress (and sometimes difficult to master on her limited budget).
Her aesthetic can best be described as “starving college student,” and she likes to be comfortable above all else, so dressing professionally can be a challenge. As in everything else, she tries. Without any proper role models to follow until recently, her concept of “business casual” is a work in progress (and sometimes difficult to master on her limited budget).
If there’s an ounce of the stereotypical feline standoffishness in her genetic makeup, Mandy doesn’t know it—she’s less of a hardened alley cat and more that friendly stray that hangs around your back door until, somehow, you realize that you now have a cat. She can be skittish when presented with strangers or conflict, but she wants to like people, and once her affection’s been won, it’s hard to shake. The only time she’s the least bit grumpy is when she’s just been woken up; living on a human schedule takes its toll, and sleep deprivation leaves her disoriented and disgruntled.
Amanda is generally surrounded by an aura of comfortable chaos. She tends to be scatterbrained, though not specifically forgetful. Her files may be all over her desk, but she knows what’s in each one. She tries very hard to be organized for the sake of her teammates, but sometimes, she just works best when left to her own devices, as seen below.
Amanda is generally surrounded by an aura of comfortable chaos. She tends to be scatterbrained, though not specifically forgetful. Her files may be all over her desk, but she knows what’s in each one. She tries very hard to be organized for the sake of her teammates, but sometimes, she just works best when left to her own devices, as seen below.
Amanda is good at making connections, in more than one sense. Dump a pile of information in front of her, and Mandy will scatter it, rearranging things until “like” items are together, creating pairings that other people might not have thought of. Whether or not on the matter at hand, her mind is always working on something—and she has been known to dream up the answer to a problem during one of her midday naps. Focusing is sometimes difficult, but she battles this by always having a pen handy, so that she can jot down ideas as they come and set them aside for later.
With her open personality, it’s no surprise that Mandy is also good at making connections with people. She occasionally sticks her foot in her mouth, and her methods may grate on more linear thinkers, but she is always trying—her mixed reception in both the fey and human communities has made her eager to please. She puts people at their ease, largely because she is the least intimidating person you are likely to meet, especially in the world of the supernatural.
Her specialty in a fight, when she is forced to have one, is the ability to move fast and force her opponent to do most of the work. Most of her clumsy moments are due to distractedness; when she puts her whole focus on something, she’s naturally pretty agile. She also doesn’t fight completely fair, having been taught by some of the older kids growing up that it was better to play dirty now and live to feel bad about it later.
As far as “powers” go, Amanda’s are limited. Her night vision is not as good as that of her feline counterparts, but it’s better than a human’s. She doesn’t shift easily anymore; partial transformations are easier than full ones. Claws are still within her reach and are her first line of defense; they won’t do killer damage (unless she gets lucky and hits an artery), but they’ll definitely convince most attackers to let her go. Glamours are almost completely beyond her, but she has a knack for sensing ones that have been cast by someone else. Her dominant human blood means she has a much greater resistance to iron than the pureblood fey, but direct contact with it will still weaken and/or injure her.
Just like mundane cats, cait sidhe are crepuscular, most active at twilight and dawn and sleeping sporadically in between. Amanda is no different, but she’s determined not to let this interfere with her work, and so can sometimes be found napping in empty offices in the middle of the day, rather than going home.
With her open personality, it’s no surprise that Mandy is also good at making connections with people. She occasionally sticks her foot in her mouth, and her methods may grate on more linear thinkers, but she is always trying—her mixed reception in both the fey and human communities has made her eager to please. She puts people at their ease, largely because she is the least intimidating person you are likely to meet, especially in the world of the supernatural.
Her specialty in a fight, when she is forced to have one, is the ability to move fast and force her opponent to do most of the work. Most of her clumsy moments are due to distractedness; when she puts her whole focus on something, she’s naturally pretty agile. She also doesn’t fight completely fair, having been taught by some of the older kids growing up that it was better to play dirty now and live to feel bad about it later.
As far as “powers” go, Amanda’s are limited. Her night vision is not as good as that of her feline counterparts, but it’s better than a human’s. She doesn’t shift easily anymore; partial transformations are easier than full ones. Claws are still within her reach and are her first line of defense; they won’t do killer damage (unless she gets lucky and hits an artery), but they’ll definitely convince most attackers to let her go. Glamours are almost completely beyond her, but she has a knack for sensing ones that have been cast by someone else. Her dominant human blood means she has a much greater resistance to iron than the pureblood fey, but direct contact with it will still weaken and/or injure her.
Just like mundane cats, cait sidhe are crepuscular, most active at twilight and dawn and sleeping sporadically in between. Amanda is no different, but she’s determined not to let this interfere with her work, and so can sometimes be found napping in empty offices in the middle of the day, rather than going home.
In a comfortable leather chair in a small, carpeted office sat a skinny girl in a too-large sweater, not quite meeting the eye of the doctor seated across from her. She looked tired, as if she should be on her way to bed or had just been woken up, though she could not stop restlessly fidgeting with the familiar gold-embossed business card she held in her hands.
It was a nervous habit, the doctor had noticed. The card was already a little worn at the edges, showing signs of frequent handling, though he knew she’d received it less than a week before.
The doctor continued to study her—the subtly pointed ears that showed only when she pushed back fine brown hair from a shy, youthful face; the way she refused to occupy the whole chair, sitting with legs crossed and elbows pulled in. He’d volunteered to do this evaluation when her file was being passed around the department. Even without taking her heritage into account, it would have been interesting.
It wasn’t often that one of their old charity cases came knocking at their door; even rarer that she should do it almost twenty years after the fact.
But then, the girl had always been a little lost, hadn’t she? A glance at her file was enough to tell him that: a childhood spent in the company of other unwanted children and a rotation of overtaxed volunteers; five years at a community college, wandering through areas of study until she came out with enough credits for a cobbled-together humanities degree; a job as a research assistant that had mostly fallen into her lap. The latter had only lasted as long as it had taken her to find this place.
And then there was the thing she was least willing to talk about: a full-blooded mother who hadn’t known what to do with her half-blood daughter, and so, when the opportunity arose—in the form of one similar gold-embossed card—had given her up with guilty relief.
The doctor did not have the heart to bring this up directly, especially when they both knew the information was printed right in front of him. Priest & Hawthorne kept everything. Instead, he said, “There’s something I noticed here. Your name—” he tapped his pencil thoughtfully against the folder he held, “—is actually Amandine. But that’s not what you picked when you enrolled in school.”
She bristled, and his first thought was of a kitten baring its teeth—but then she tilted her chin, and her eyes caught the light. For the first time, there was something unsettling about the girl sitting across from him; for the first time, he got a sense of the uncanny, of something that was only mostly human.
“That’s not my name,” she said. Her voice was taut, but small, pulled tight over a pain she was used to ignoring. Her gold-green eyes were narrow, glinting in a way that human eyes shouldn't. “Nobody calls me that.”
Nobody but one person, and you haven’t seen her in nineteen years. It wasn’t hard to fill in the blanks.
Amanda Staten dropped her eyes, and with them, any sense of the otherworldly. She was once again just a girl, nervous and eager—almost desperate—to be liked. Quietly, she added, “Please.”
“Noted,” the doctor said evenly, and moved on to the next part of the interview.
It was a nervous habit, the doctor had noticed. The card was already a little worn at the edges, showing signs of frequent handling, though he knew she’d received it less than a week before.
The doctor continued to study her—the subtly pointed ears that showed only when she pushed back fine brown hair from a shy, youthful face; the way she refused to occupy the whole chair, sitting with legs crossed and elbows pulled in. He’d volunteered to do this evaluation when her file was being passed around the department. Even without taking her heritage into account, it would have been interesting.
It wasn’t often that one of their old charity cases came knocking at their door; even rarer that she should do it almost twenty years after the fact.
But then, the girl had always been a little lost, hadn’t she? A glance at her file was enough to tell him that: a childhood spent in the company of other unwanted children and a rotation of overtaxed volunteers; five years at a community college, wandering through areas of study until she came out with enough credits for a cobbled-together humanities degree; a job as a research assistant that had mostly fallen into her lap. The latter had only lasted as long as it had taken her to find this place.
And then there was the thing she was least willing to talk about: a full-blooded mother who hadn’t known what to do with her half-blood daughter, and so, when the opportunity arose—in the form of one similar gold-embossed card—had given her up with guilty relief.
The doctor did not have the heart to bring this up directly, especially when they both knew the information was printed right in front of him. Priest & Hawthorne kept everything. Instead, he said, “There’s something I noticed here. Your name—” he tapped his pencil thoughtfully against the folder he held, “—is actually Amandine. But that’s not what you picked when you enrolled in school.”
She bristled, and his first thought was of a kitten baring its teeth—but then she tilted her chin, and her eyes caught the light. For the first time, there was something unsettling about the girl sitting across from him; for the first time, he got a sense of the uncanny, of something that was only mostly human.
“That’s not my name,” she said. Her voice was taut, but small, pulled tight over a pain she was used to ignoring. Her gold-green eyes were narrow, glinting in a way that human eyes shouldn't. “Nobody calls me that.”
Nobody but one person, and you haven’t seen her in nineteen years. It wasn’t hard to fill in the blanks.
Amanda Staten dropped her eyes, and with them, any sense of the otherworldly. She was once again just a girl, nervous and eager—almost desperate—to be liked. Quietly, she added, “Please.”
“Noted,” the doctor said evenly, and moved on to the next part of the interview.
Mandy is reasonably fond of all of her coworkers at PHI, though still feeling a little out of place both as the "new kid" and as someone who isn't used to belonging.
Emma, Morgan, and Beth all intrigue her, both as strong women who seem very comfortable in their skins and as people who have three different kinds of magic in their blood. Emma's logical approach to things is both soothing and intimidating; Morgan's roll-with-the-punches attitude is something Mandy aspires to, while her sometimes obvious "otherness" makes Mandy tentatively see her as a bit of a kindred spirit. [More on Beth to go here soon; Fizzy and I are still discussing things in PMs!]
Mandy is fascinated as much by the fact that Jacob's a father as by his magical talents. He's probably been a frequent recipient of her anonymous coffee gifts, because he always seems so very tired.
Though she's new, Mandy's general feeling for the Priest & Hawthorne office is that it is something like home—these were the first people who wanted her, and so she sought them out when she finally could. Her theme ("Holding On and Letting Go," by Ross Copperman) is a good reflection of her feelings—about leaving her family behind, growing up in a sort of supernatural orphanage/halfway house, and finally finding PHI.
Emma, Morgan, and Beth all intrigue her, both as strong women who seem very comfortable in their skins and as people who have three different kinds of magic in their blood. Emma's logical approach to things is both soothing and intimidating; Morgan's roll-with-the-punches attitude is something Mandy aspires to, while her sometimes obvious "otherness" makes Mandy tentatively see her as a bit of a kindred spirit. [More on Beth to go here soon; Fizzy and I are still discussing things in PMs!]
Mandy is fascinated as much by the fact that Jacob's a father as by his magical talents. He's probably been a frequent recipient of her anonymous coffee gifts, because he always seems so very tired.
Though she's new, Mandy's general feeling for the Priest & Hawthorne office is that it is something like home—these were the first people who wanted her, and so she sought them out when she finally could. Her theme ("Holding On and Letting Go," by Ross Copperman) is a good reflection of her feelings—about leaving her family behind, growing up in a sort of supernatural orphanage/halfway house, and finally finding PHI.
Name: Jacob B. Mcalister
Gender: Male
Race/Species: Human
Age: 40
Appearance:
Because I'm terrible at describing hair.
A middle aged man that appears perpetually tired and somewhat disheveled, Jacob stands in at 6'2", putting him typically several inches taller than the majority of others. Jacob has a sinewy build and broad shoulders, but is neither bulky nor lanky. His dark brown hair is short and out of the way, with the odd streak of gray and somehow manages to appear neat, yet casually unkempt at the same time; and his chin sports a stubble that is likely several days old. His eyes are a sharp gray, his piercing gaze analytical and critical but belie a lurking sadness. His facial features are strong and defined, and his mouth is often pressed into a thin line. His strong facial features and build would lead one to believe that in his heyday, many would consider Jacob fairly attractive, though years of work and being a single father have clearly taken its toll.
Most of Jacob's wardrobe consists of well fitting, slim suits, mostly black and gray often with a monochrome tie. The vast majority of Jacob's footwear are leather dress shoes, clean and professional enough to wear with his suits, but comfortable enough to walk or do activity in for days on end. Jacob wears a leather shoulder holster over his shirt, and typically makes no effort to hide it. On his left hand Jacob wears a silver wristwatch, along with a golden wedding band on his ring finger. He keeps a picture of his daughter in his wallet.
Personality:
A serious man with a strong work ethic, Jacob often has a no-nonsense demeanor and is typically impervious to the jokes and wisecracks made by his coworkers. Only rarely willing to crack a grin for his close compatriots, Jacob is for the most part incredibly blunt and to the point, though not confrontational. Strong willed, and somewhat hard-headed, Jacob never starts something without finishing it- even if it takes him hours, days, or even weeks. Despite his callous attitude, its fairly plain to see Jacob is honest and well-meaning, and uses his work ethic to cover up an inner sadness. Jaded, and somewhat cynical, despite possessing a well developed moral compass, Jacob will often ignore morality and act in what he believes are in the best interest of himself and his compatriots.
Generally slow to trust those around him that he isn't well acquainted with, Jacob is skeptical of most strangers, and is a firm believer of "If it seems to good to be true, it is". He takes almost everything with a grain of salt, and rarely accepts things at face value. Jacob is for the most part calm and patient, and requires a fair amount of goading to lose his cool. As a part of his fatherly instincts, Jacob is extremely protective of his daughter, and will often react aggressively when something involving her well-being seems to be threatened. As a result of his wife's murder, Jacob is extremely distrusting of vampires, and is quicker to aggression when one is involved.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Jacob possesses an innate magical talent, and has the ability to cast simple charms and telekinetically move smaller objects, such as books, pens, wallets, and coins. He has yet to bother pursuing further mastery of his magical talent, too busy with work and family to take the time to focus on practicing magic.
While by no means an Olympic athlete, Jacob is no slouch. In good shape for someone his age, Jacob possesses a mental and physical fortitude capable of taking a considerable beating and can hold his own in most situations that are physically taxing, from lifting and moving objects, to chasing down suspects and even fist fights. While not a brawler, Jacob knows his way around a street fight and can be a formidable foe when provoked. Though not a marksman, Jacob is well versed in operating firearms and firearm safety, and can be a decent shot with his sidearm or even a shotgun or rifle.
Jacob is a smoker, and smokes several cigarettes a day. Despite his good shape, and regular workout habits, its clear that the years of smoking have taken a toll on his overall stamina. Jacob has also been starting to develop a drinking habit, and has begun using cigarettes and alcohol as a vice.
Street savvy and smart, Jacob knows his way around Seattle, and does especially well at night, when most decent folk have called it a night- his stature and attitude often give the seedy types pause. As an investigator, Jacob is capable of many tasks, from surveillance, to opening doors that aren't meant to be opened, and even a bit of interrogation. As a single parent, Jacob is also fairly adept in common household skills, he knows his way around the kitchen, and can grill a mean steak.
Background:
Born and raised in Seattle, Jacob Mcalister was born the oldest son to the Seattle police officer, and a doctor. His childhood was not one of major note, he went to public school, got relatively good grades, got into a few scraps, and eventually went to a University to study Criminal Justice. He graduated from his university when he was 22 and got a job with the Seattle police department as a police detective. He met the woman of his dreams shortly afterwards, and got married at the age of 28. 4 years later, his daughter was born. The family lived a rather mundane life, with a small house in the suburbs, plain and quiet, but happy.
Throughout most of his adult life, Jacob had always been aware of the occult, and would technically consider himself a part of it, having discovered his own magical talents shortly after he got married. Only bothering to make a shallow delve into the realm and idea of magic, Jacob for the most part decided to leave well enough alone and kept the paranormal and occult separate from his everyday life, not out of fear, put out of plain disinterest. His wife had never been particularly fond of the occult and paranormal, so the family never bothered to explore it.
At least not until 3 years after his daughter was born.
One late night, as Jacob was returning home from a long night at the police department, he found the front door to his house unlocked and ajar. Rushing to into his home, Jacob found the house a mess, with signs of obvious struggle. In the living room, he found his wife dead, attacked by something with sharp claws, and with what appeared to be an oversized snake bite on the back of her neck. When Jacob called for emergency services, he was surprised to find that it was not EMT's that showed up, but rather a trio of suited individuals from Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. They explained to him that his wife's murder was a result of a powerful vampire gone rampant, and that the investigators had been spending the better part of last year searching for him. Unable to track the vampire, the investigators begrudgingly left the scene, leaving Jacob with a business card in case he came up with any more information.
Jacob spent the next few months providing information to PHI on any paranormal-esque information he found while working at with the Seattle Police Department, from the occasional vague clue, to direct persons of interest. As a detective himself, Jacob often knew what kind of information the PHI were looking for, and did his best to oblige. In one of his interactions with PHI, one of their investigators jokingly mentioned that Jacob could try working for them some time. A few days later, Jacob put in his two weeks at the Seattle Police Department.
A two weeks later, none other than Jacob Mcalister showed up at the front door of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations, resume in hand.
Jacob has spent the last 5 years of his life working with Priest & Hawthorne investigations, with a surprisingly impressive track record of closed cases, though there are several that never seem to close. Similar to working with the SPD, his job with PHI is more or less the same, the only difference being the inclusion of the occult and paranormal. In his spare time, Jacob still looks for clues regarding the vampire that killed his wife, which still has yet to be tracked down.
Jacob now lives in a small apartment along the outer edge of Pioneer square with his 8 year old daughter. Despite having a daughter, he spends relatively little time at home- most of his waking hours are spent at work or on the job, often leaving his daughter at home to fend for herself.
Gender: Male
Race/Species: Human
Age: 40
Appearance:
Because I'm terrible at describing hair.
A middle aged man that appears perpetually tired and somewhat disheveled, Jacob stands in at 6'2", putting him typically several inches taller than the majority of others. Jacob has a sinewy build and broad shoulders, but is neither bulky nor lanky. His dark brown hair is short and out of the way, with the odd streak of gray and somehow manages to appear neat, yet casually unkempt at the same time; and his chin sports a stubble that is likely several days old. His eyes are a sharp gray, his piercing gaze analytical and critical but belie a lurking sadness. His facial features are strong and defined, and his mouth is often pressed into a thin line. His strong facial features and build would lead one to believe that in his heyday, many would consider Jacob fairly attractive, though years of work and being a single father have clearly taken its toll.
Most of Jacob's wardrobe consists of well fitting, slim suits, mostly black and gray often with a monochrome tie. The vast majority of Jacob's footwear are leather dress shoes, clean and professional enough to wear with his suits, but comfortable enough to walk or do activity in for days on end. Jacob wears a leather shoulder holster over his shirt, and typically makes no effort to hide it. On his left hand Jacob wears a silver wristwatch, along with a golden wedding band on his ring finger. He keeps a picture of his daughter in his wallet.
Personality:
A serious man with a strong work ethic, Jacob often has a no-nonsense demeanor and is typically impervious to the jokes and wisecracks made by his coworkers. Only rarely willing to crack a grin for his close compatriots, Jacob is for the most part incredibly blunt and to the point, though not confrontational. Strong willed, and somewhat hard-headed, Jacob never starts something without finishing it- even if it takes him hours, days, or even weeks. Despite his callous attitude, its fairly plain to see Jacob is honest and well-meaning, and uses his work ethic to cover up an inner sadness. Jaded, and somewhat cynical, despite possessing a well developed moral compass, Jacob will often ignore morality and act in what he believes are in the best interest of himself and his compatriots.
Generally slow to trust those around him that he isn't well acquainted with, Jacob is skeptical of most strangers, and is a firm believer of "If it seems to good to be true, it is". He takes almost everything with a grain of salt, and rarely accepts things at face value. Jacob is for the most part calm and patient, and requires a fair amount of goading to lose his cool. As a part of his fatherly instincts, Jacob is extremely protective of his daughter, and will often react aggressively when something involving her well-being seems to be threatened. As a result of his wife's murder, Jacob is extremely distrusting of vampires, and is quicker to aggression when one is involved.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Jacob possesses an innate magical talent, and has the ability to cast simple charms and telekinetically move smaller objects, such as books, pens, wallets, and coins. He has yet to bother pursuing further mastery of his magical talent, too busy with work and family to take the time to focus on practicing magic.
While by no means an Olympic athlete, Jacob is no slouch. In good shape for someone his age, Jacob possesses a mental and physical fortitude capable of taking a considerable beating and can hold his own in most situations that are physically taxing, from lifting and moving objects, to chasing down suspects and even fist fights. While not a brawler, Jacob knows his way around a street fight and can be a formidable foe when provoked. Though not a marksman, Jacob is well versed in operating firearms and firearm safety, and can be a decent shot with his sidearm or even a shotgun or rifle.
Jacob is a smoker, and smokes several cigarettes a day. Despite his good shape, and regular workout habits, its clear that the years of smoking have taken a toll on his overall stamina. Jacob has also been starting to develop a drinking habit, and has begun using cigarettes and alcohol as a vice.
Street savvy and smart, Jacob knows his way around Seattle, and does especially well at night, when most decent folk have called it a night- his stature and attitude often give the seedy types pause. As an investigator, Jacob is capable of many tasks, from surveillance, to opening doors that aren't meant to be opened, and even a bit of interrogation. As a single parent, Jacob is also fairly adept in common household skills, he knows his way around the kitchen, and can grill a mean steak.
Background:
Born and raised in Seattle, Jacob Mcalister was born the oldest son to the Seattle police officer, and a doctor. His childhood was not one of major note, he went to public school, got relatively good grades, got into a few scraps, and eventually went to a University to study Criminal Justice. He graduated from his university when he was 22 and got a job with the Seattle police department as a police detective. He met the woman of his dreams shortly afterwards, and got married at the age of 28. 4 years later, his daughter was born. The family lived a rather mundane life, with a small house in the suburbs, plain and quiet, but happy.
Throughout most of his adult life, Jacob had always been aware of the occult, and would technically consider himself a part of it, having discovered his own magical talents shortly after he got married. Only bothering to make a shallow delve into the realm and idea of magic, Jacob for the most part decided to leave well enough alone and kept the paranormal and occult separate from his everyday life, not out of fear, put out of plain disinterest. His wife had never been particularly fond of the occult and paranormal, so the family never bothered to explore it.
At least not until 3 years after his daughter was born.
One late night, as Jacob was returning home from a long night at the police department, he found the front door to his house unlocked and ajar. Rushing to into his home, Jacob found the house a mess, with signs of obvious struggle. In the living room, he found his wife dead, attacked by something with sharp claws, and with what appeared to be an oversized snake bite on the back of her neck. When Jacob called for emergency services, he was surprised to find that it was not EMT's that showed up, but rather a trio of suited individuals from Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. They explained to him that his wife's murder was a result of a powerful vampire gone rampant, and that the investigators had been spending the better part of last year searching for him. Unable to track the vampire, the investigators begrudgingly left the scene, leaving Jacob with a business card in case he came up with any more information.
Jacob spent the next few months providing information to PHI on any paranormal-esque information he found while working at with the Seattle Police Department, from the occasional vague clue, to direct persons of interest. As a detective himself, Jacob often knew what kind of information the PHI were looking for, and did his best to oblige. In one of his interactions with PHI, one of their investigators jokingly mentioned that Jacob could try working for them some time. A few days later, Jacob put in his two weeks at the Seattle Police Department.
A two weeks later, none other than Jacob Mcalister showed up at the front door of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations, resume in hand.
Jacob has spent the last 5 years of his life working with Priest & Hawthorne investigations, with a surprisingly impressive track record of closed cases, though there are several that never seem to close. Similar to working with the SPD, his job with PHI is more or less the same, the only difference being the inclusion of the occult and paranormal. In his spare time, Jacob still looks for clues regarding the vampire that killed his wife, which still has yet to be tracked down.
Jacob now lives in a small apartment along the outer edge of Pioneer square with his 8 year old daughter. Despite having a daughter, he spends relatively little time at home- most of his waking hours are spent at work or on the job, often leaving his daughter at home to fend for herself.
Habibi359 from Uranus
Member
Seen
3 yrs ago
Name: Robert Miller jr. Or just Rob.
Gender: Male.
Race: Human
Age: He's 46, though the graying hair and wrinkles make him look over his fifties.
Appearance: Robert miller jr. is 5 feet 11 inches tall and weights 182 pounds. His hair is a mixture of dark and grey with tad more of former, short and if not messy, definitely not combed nor specially maintained. He doesn't keep beard but doesn't shave it daily, so there's stubble. His eyes are greenish between two heavy eyelids and small bags under the eyes, making him look constantly tired. Lips are thin and mouth isn't particularly wide. His face could have been cut from wood, with strong, wide jaw, slim cheeks, roman nose and high cheekbones. But his skin in forehead and cheeks starts to show wrinkles and aging.
Rob wears dress shirts with plain-colored vests and woolen trousers with mild colors, kept up by a belt with silver buckle. His shoes are made from brown or black leather, somewhat maintained but seen wearing. He has three sets of silver cuff links; two looking like half of a marble and third flat square with rose carving. Outside he dons either his long grey trench coat or a simple brown jacket and grey fedora. His holster is on the right side, containing usually his top break revolver (IOF .32 Revolver).
Personality: Robert is a calm, tired and bit melancholic man who enjoys greatly his job at PHI. He has seen and experienced enough before and after encountering the Paranormal the first time that he's not too surprised by anything cases bring in front of him.
Robert lived three decades without encountering anything supernatural anywhere but children stories, and his first encounter wasn't a pleasant one. Hence he's still generally uncomfortable with magic or supernatural being, though degree of discomfort (or distrust) is case dependent. At times the paranormal side is even useful, as long as it's in check.
On cases he's calm, dedicated and dislikes goofing around. And while experienced a lot, at time cases can get personal to him especially when paranormal involved is risking lives of natural world people. Twitch at his lips or clutching his fists before relaxing and especially lack of tiredness tell more than enough when cases go from ordinary to a crusade. And when he's serious, he works on the case like a locomotive to get it closed.
Out of cases or on breaks Rob enjoys conversations while sitting laid back in his chair and activity to relax his mind before next case or continuing his current one. For Robert a relaxed mind without too much trouble is an effective tool.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
He has spent four years in marine corps, where he was taught the art of shooting things with variety of weapons. He wields his handguns professionally and he is accurate with rifles, all way up to 200 yards. With sniper rifle he can shoot to targets 500 yards away in right conditions. He has decent hand-to-hand capabilities (krav maga, judo, boxing) and he still keeps himself fit to be prepared just in case.
He has contacts in and out of law due to his years as a County Detective and few towards paranormal activity after decade working with PHI. Robert's sources might prove useful to gain artifacts, books, information or equipment for a case at hand.
Robert has a knack for surveillance and inspection. He tails people in and out of cities, he does surveillance from safe distance, he asks around for information related to people involved in the cases and if needed, he will bug the apartments or put a tracer under a car. When it comes to people, it's "Job for Rob".
Work as County Detective has given him experience in forensics. An important side product from the art of finding people.
Background
Gender: Male.
Race: Human
Age: He's 46, though the graying hair and wrinkles make him look over his fifties.
Appearance: Robert miller jr. is 5 feet 11 inches tall and weights 182 pounds. His hair is a mixture of dark and grey with tad more of former, short and if not messy, definitely not combed nor specially maintained. He doesn't keep beard but doesn't shave it daily, so there's stubble. His eyes are greenish between two heavy eyelids and small bags under the eyes, making him look constantly tired. Lips are thin and mouth isn't particularly wide. His face could have been cut from wood, with strong, wide jaw, slim cheeks, roman nose and high cheekbones. But his skin in forehead and cheeks starts to show wrinkles and aging.
Rob wears dress shirts with plain-colored vests and woolen trousers with mild colors, kept up by a belt with silver buckle. His shoes are made from brown or black leather, somewhat maintained but seen wearing. He has three sets of silver cuff links; two looking like half of a marble and third flat square with rose carving. Outside he dons either his long grey trench coat or a simple brown jacket and grey fedora. His holster is on the right side, containing usually his top break revolver (IOF .32 Revolver).
Personality: Robert is a calm, tired and bit melancholic man who enjoys greatly his job at PHI. He has seen and experienced enough before and after encountering the Paranormal the first time that he's not too surprised by anything cases bring in front of him.
Robert lived three decades without encountering anything supernatural anywhere but children stories, and his first encounter wasn't a pleasant one. Hence he's still generally uncomfortable with magic or supernatural being, though degree of discomfort (or distrust) is case dependent. At times the paranormal side is even useful, as long as it's in check.
On cases he's calm, dedicated and dislikes goofing around. And while experienced a lot, at time cases can get personal to him especially when paranormal involved is risking lives of natural world people. Twitch at his lips or clutching his fists before relaxing and especially lack of tiredness tell more than enough when cases go from ordinary to a crusade. And when he's serious, he works on the case like a locomotive to get it closed.
Out of cases or on breaks Rob enjoys conversations while sitting laid back in his chair and activity to relax his mind before next case or continuing his current one. For Robert a relaxed mind without too much trouble is an effective tool.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
He has spent four years in marine corps, where he was taught the art of shooting things with variety of weapons. He wields his handguns professionally and he is accurate with rifles, all way up to 200 yards. With sniper rifle he can shoot to targets 500 yards away in right conditions. He has decent hand-to-hand capabilities (krav maga, judo, boxing) and he still keeps himself fit to be prepared just in case.
He has contacts in and out of law due to his years as a County Detective and few towards paranormal activity after decade working with PHI. Robert's sources might prove useful to gain artifacts, books, information or equipment for a case at hand.
Robert has a knack for surveillance and inspection. He tails people in and out of cities, he does surveillance from safe distance, he asks around for information related to people involved in the cases and if needed, he will bug the apartments or put a tracer under a car. When it comes to people, it's "Job for Rob".
Work as County Detective has given him experience in forensics. An important side product from the art of finding people.
Background
Agent Crane: "...And it's on. Let's begin. Date is September 14th, 1992. Clock is...
Agent Summers: "14.20. Or 22 if you need it specific"
*Mug clings up at table*"
Agent Crane: "Place is Mattawa. Person interrogated-"
R. Miller: "Questioned."
Agent Crane: "-Is Robert Miller. Former questioning with the victims-"
Agent Summers: "Cultists."
R. Miller: "Lunatics"
Agent Crane: "... Cultists, both injured and imprisoned, revealed that the one being inter..."
R. Miller: *Clears his throat*
Agent Crane: "Questioned, Robert Miller, first set the apartment on fire. During the chaos he assaulted the place with AK-47..."
R. Miller: "What? No, MPK5."
Agent Summers: "Christ's sake, Winchester for what I care"
Agent Crane: "MPK5, then. Mr. Miller, this is more than enough of serious offence to put you behind bars for decades. You're lucky nobody died, though another victim was close. The way I see it, there are only two op-"
R. Miller: "Mrs. Crane. Way I see it is you need information and I need information. You are far from Feds and both of us know the nature of what we're tailing. So let's cut to the chase."
Agent Summers: "No, Robert, this doesn't work like that. You're the one questioned and we're the professionals who finish the job."
R. Miller: "Which explains your lack of absence and wandering around until I made racket here. But I'm happy to see more experienced men finally sitting in the same table with me. So we either cooperate or you spend more time finding that demon."
Agent Crane: "...Few questions first. How much you know about our target, mr. Miller?"
R. Miller: "It's a demon. Hates silver and dislikes salt. Wanders from town to town, forms cults to make their evil deeds. Ends with sacrifice, and then moves to another place."
Agent Summers: "And how you know this? Home study on exorcism 101?"
R. Miller: "I am a county detective. I encountered that damned creature with another case, in Minnesota. It's been eleven months now. Girl missing, a priest was suspected for doing this. Following leads from him I eventually found their hideout. I expected three cult followers and a girl, but that... Thing was something I wasn't expecting. Hell, didn't even know such beings existed. It shook off my bullets as I fired. Threw me around like bag of cans."
Agent Crane: "You escaped, however."
R. Miller: "Barely. With the girl, who is traumatized for life as far as I know. Last bullet I shot hit it's eyes and distracted him for moment. We ran until I stopped the first car I met, pointed my revolver to the poor driver. But I escaped."
Agent Summers: "So man saves the girl, is praised, gets raise an lives happily ever after. Expect you're here in Mattawa, tailing the demon. How you did find it?"
R. Miller: "I started by interrogating that priest. Harshly, I got suspended. But I got enough information. First I figured out it's movements here, found some of his lunatics. I finally found pattern that demon follows. Go to next town, spread word with it's worshippers or by itself. Then he makes a miracle or two. Form a cult, get sacrifices."
Agent Crane: "And you also figured out it's weaknesses."
R. Miller: "It was hard to get facts. Priests and rabbis were talking to me like a troubled man trying to tell his problems in metaphors. We all got demons... Finally I met some old Native Indian shaman who told me at least something, but I was in a hurry as my lead was getting away. I quickly bought these here - real silver. Worked wonders against that demon, better than my .38. And I got rock salt too, worked like acid. It figured I was too much of trouble and made it's escape. Seems fire didn't bother it. Pity my weapons weren't enough to kill that thing."
Agent Summers: "Of course not. This demon needs to be banished. Didn't the Indian tell you that?"
R. Miller: "He was too drunk to tell me more details I could understand. I... Applied what I figured out."
Agent Crane: "And do you have any clues about the demon's whereabouts?"
R. Miller: "I have."
Agent Crane: " ...But?"
R. Miller: I'll be coming with you. This being is cunning and it knows I'm tailing it. It'll stay in another town, laying low and sending out cultists to do it's bidding in secrecy. But I'm better than it thinks. I already know a cultist, he's being followed by a friend."
Agent Summers: "Pal from old job?"
R. Miller: "Comrade from Marine corps. Served with me for three years. He knows his stuff."
Agent Summers: "Right...So you show the way and we deal with the banishing, is that what you're suggesting?"
R. Miller: "Whatever will defeat the fouled thing."
Agent Crane: "Mr. Miller, as long as you don't come in our way, I find these terms acceptable."
R. Miller: "Call me Robert."
Agent Summers: "14.20. Or 22 if you need it specific"
*Mug clings up at table*"
Agent Crane: "Place is Mattawa. Person interrogated-"
R. Miller: "Questioned."
Agent Crane: "-Is Robert Miller. Former questioning with the victims-"
Agent Summers: "Cultists."
R. Miller: "Lunatics"
Agent Crane: "... Cultists, both injured and imprisoned, revealed that the one being inter..."
R. Miller: *Clears his throat*
Agent Crane: "Questioned, Robert Miller, first set the apartment on fire. During the chaos he assaulted the place with AK-47..."
R. Miller: "What? No, MPK5."
Agent Summers: "Christ's sake, Winchester for what I care"
Agent Crane: "MPK5, then. Mr. Miller, this is more than enough of serious offence to put you behind bars for decades. You're lucky nobody died, though another victim was close. The way I see it, there are only two op-"
R. Miller: "Mrs. Crane. Way I see it is you need information and I need information. You are far from Feds and both of us know the nature of what we're tailing. So let's cut to the chase."
Agent Summers: "No, Robert, this doesn't work like that. You're the one questioned and we're the professionals who finish the job."
R. Miller: "Which explains your lack of absence and wandering around until I made racket here. But I'm happy to see more experienced men finally sitting in the same table with me. So we either cooperate or you spend more time finding that demon."
Agent Crane: "...Few questions first. How much you know about our target, mr. Miller?"
R. Miller: "It's a demon. Hates silver and dislikes salt. Wanders from town to town, forms cults to make their evil deeds. Ends with sacrifice, and then moves to another place."
Agent Summers: "And how you know this? Home study on exorcism 101?"
R. Miller: "I am a county detective. I encountered that damned creature with another case, in Minnesota. It's been eleven months now. Girl missing, a priest was suspected for doing this. Following leads from him I eventually found their hideout. I expected three cult followers and a girl, but that... Thing was something I wasn't expecting. Hell, didn't even know such beings existed. It shook off my bullets as I fired. Threw me around like bag of cans."
Agent Crane: "You escaped, however."
R. Miller: "Barely. With the girl, who is traumatized for life as far as I know. Last bullet I shot hit it's eyes and distracted him for moment. We ran until I stopped the first car I met, pointed my revolver to the poor driver. But I escaped."
Agent Summers: "So man saves the girl, is praised, gets raise an lives happily ever after. Expect you're here in Mattawa, tailing the demon. How you did find it?"
R. Miller: "I started by interrogating that priest. Harshly, I got suspended. But I got enough information. First I figured out it's movements here, found some of his lunatics. I finally found pattern that demon follows. Go to next town, spread word with it's worshippers or by itself. Then he makes a miracle or two. Form a cult, get sacrifices."
Agent Crane: "And you also figured out it's weaknesses."
R. Miller: "It was hard to get facts. Priests and rabbis were talking to me like a troubled man trying to tell his problems in metaphors. We all got demons... Finally I met some old Native Indian shaman who told me at least something, but I was in a hurry as my lead was getting away. I quickly bought these here - real silver. Worked wonders against that demon, better than my .38. And I got rock salt too, worked like acid. It figured I was too much of trouble and made it's escape. Seems fire didn't bother it. Pity my weapons weren't enough to kill that thing."
Agent Summers: "Of course not. This demon needs to be banished. Didn't the Indian tell you that?"
R. Miller: "He was too drunk to tell me more details I could understand. I... Applied what I figured out."
Agent Crane: "And do you have any clues about the demon's whereabouts?"
R. Miller: "I have."
Agent Crane: " ...But?"
R. Miller: I'll be coming with you. This being is cunning and it knows I'm tailing it. It'll stay in another town, laying low and sending out cultists to do it's bidding in secrecy. But I'm better than it thinks. I already know a cultist, he's being followed by a friend."
Agent Summers: "Pal from old job?"
R. Miller: "Comrade from Marine corps. Served with me for three years. He knows his stuff."
Agent Summers: "Right...So you show the way and we deal with the banishing, is that what you're suggesting?"
R. Miller: "Whatever will defeat the fouled thing."
Agent Crane: "Mr. Miller, as long as you don't come in our way, I find these terms acceptable."
R. Miller: "Call me Robert."
Jacob and Robert were sitting in the old Ford Thunderbird. It was 2 am and Robert was getting bored at this stakeout. He was inspecting what the bottle of Coke's ingredients were. Meanwhile, Jacob was staring idly across the windshield at the front door of the house a bit further down the street.
"At every stakeout this is usually the part where I doubt our source was right." Rob said, putting the bottle down.
"It all depends on who the source is, I suppose." Jacob shrugged, "Some are more reliable than others."
"This came from Sol. God knows where he got it. Though he's one of the few I truly trust at the place" Rob said, letting out a small sigh.
"Knowing Sol, we probably wouldn't believe him even if he told us where he got his info from." Jacob replied with a shrug, as he reached over and grabbed at a french fry from a container of rapidly cooling fast food on the car's dash.
"Heh heh...." Robert chuckled as he grabbed again his bottle. "At times his list of contacts do surprise. "
"Yeah, remember that werewolf case last month? The one that Sol called both of us in for?" Jacob asked as he pulled a cigarette from the pack that he had left leaning against the gear shift.
"Oh god, that mess." Rob said, took a sip from his coke and shook his head. " What about it?" He continued, tossing his sight at Jacob.
"I asked Sol about it afterwards, apparently the tip off we got for his location? The one that we thought was bogus until the last minute? Came from a gnome, of all creatures." he half-spoke, as he lit his cigarette, his speech slightly impeded by the stick hanging out of his mouth.
"Noo... Really? Tell me next it's the Leprechaun and I'll never buy Irish Pale again. Seriously, a gnome?" Robert said. He overacted his surprise a bit, though gnome wasn't a thing he had expected.
"No, the Leprechaun was the bank case," Jacob replied, referring to an investigation the team did regarding a bank heist the previous year. "This is why I don't ask Sol about his sources anymore." he said as he exhaled a short stream of smoke out the window.
Robert was about to drink some more coke before he saw movement at the door. "Speaking of sources, this one seems to be alright." He said, hastily put the cork back on and threw the bottle on the floor.
"Yeah, I see him." Jacob replied as he threw the half smoked cigarette out the window. The man was fumbling with something in his hand, he was obviously trying to get into the house, which meant the two found their guy. Pulling his pistol out of its shoulder holster, Jacob checked his magazine to ensure it was loaded with PHI's silver bullets and slid the magazine back in. "Lets go chat him up." he said as he placed the pistol back into its holster.
"Let's." Robert said, as he and Jacob simultaneously exited the Ford Thunderbird and closed the doors.
"At every stakeout this is usually the part where I doubt our source was right." Rob said, putting the bottle down.
"It all depends on who the source is, I suppose." Jacob shrugged, "Some are more reliable than others."
"This came from Sol. God knows where he got it. Though he's one of the few I truly trust at the place" Rob said, letting out a small sigh.
"Knowing Sol, we probably wouldn't believe him even if he told us where he got his info from." Jacob replied with a shrug, as he reached over and grabbed at a french fry from a container of rapidly cooling fast food on the car's dash.
"Heh heh...." Robert chuckled as he grabbed again his bottle. "At times his list of contacts do surprise. "
"Yeah, remember that werewolf case last month? The one that Sol called both of us in for?" Jacob asked as he pulled a cigarette from the pack that he had left leaning against the gear shift.
"Oh god, that mess." Rob said, took a sip from his coke and shook his head. " What about it?" He continued, tossing his sight at Jacob.
"I asked Sol about it afterwards, apparently the tip off we got for his location? The one that we thought was bogus until the last minute? Came from a gnome, of all creatures." he half-spoke, as he lit his cigarette, his speech slightly impeded by the stick hanging out of his mouth.
"Noo... Really? Tell me next it's the Leprechaun and I'll never buy Irish Pale again. Seriously, a gnome?" Robert said. He overacted his surprise a bit, though gnome wasn't a thing he had expected.
"No, the Leprechaun was the bank case," Jacob replied, referring to an investigation the team did regarding a bank heist the previous year. "This is why I don't ask Sol about his sources anymore." he said as he exhaled a short stream of smoke out the window.
Robert was about to drink some more coke before he saw movement at the door. "Speaking of sources, this one seems to be alright." He said, hastily put the cork back on and threw the bottle on the floor.
"Yeah, I see him." Jacob replied as he threw the half smoked cigarette out the window. The man was fumbling with something in his hand, he was obviously trying to get into the house, which meant the two found their guy. Pulling his pistol out of its shoulder holster, Jacob checked his magazine to ensure it was loaded with PHI's silver bullets and slid the magazine back in. "Lets go chat him up." he said as he placed the pistol back into its holster.
"Let's." Robert said, as he and Jacob simultaneously exited the Ford Thunderbird and closed the doors.
1x Like
Name: Beth (Elizabeth) Buchannan
Gender: Female
Race/Species: Human
Age: 27
Appearance: Beth has a tall, willowy frame, her hair is usually styled in a bun however reached the small of her back when released, with an auburn – coppery colour, which frames her dark, chocolate brown eyes. Her Celtic heritage has left her with pale skin that tends to burn with the merest hint of sunlight, so Seattle's weather suits her rather fine. Usually only wears minimal makeup and accessories, her most consistent item being a small silver bracelet in the style of intertwining vines.
Personality: Beth has a upfront, blunt and dry style of speech that leave many thinking she is rather serious or harsh. However she is quite a warm, easy-going personality that is often accompanied by a light quip or two - there is no situation too awkward where she believes a well-timed humorous remark can break the tension. She is often proven wrong in this assumption but refuses to give up.
Sometimes appears to have a questionable morality - however, Beth would consider herself moral enough but holds herself to a different set of standards than others. As her work contains much in the way of blood, sacrifices of small animals and various other magicks of the more darker nature she is much less perturbed by body parts, death and the more questionable side of the Occult than most. Beth believes, however, that her Coven's rules and teachings of these matters are more complicated and nuanced about such topics and that most people have simply dismissed it all as "creepy."
Methodical by nature, Beth takes her abilities seriously, believing herself to be the inheritor of a rich history of magical lore. She therefore loathes much of the modern or New-Age Wicca and associated movements and those that express such interests usually receive the sharper side of her tongue.
However, with those that are genuinely interested in her Craft she is eager to share and could talk for hours about the different grades of charcoal you can use for drawing a magic circle and the various effects it has - she has yet to find anyone willing to endure that offer, alas.
A romantic at heart, she is quite eager for a boyfriend and subsequently is much more sociable than one would expect from a Coven witch. She is a frequent of many bars and parties, both paranormal and not, and is known to enjoy her alcohol very much which has resulted in a few fragile mornings in P&H where loud noises and bright sunlight are not her friends.
Being a relative new foreigner in a different country, she does sometimes view American habits a little funnily or grow wistful for her homeland - however in general enjoys her new country immensely, feeling it still evokes the sense of wonder and novelty she had always imagined from the movies of the Golden Age of Cinema she adored as a child.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
As the descendent of of the Old Covens, Beth has inherited a legacy of generations of Witches knowledge and is quite the competent Witch. Witchcraft, however, is a tree with many branches, some more twisted than others. Beth's magic is of the old school, of blood and ritual. If you come to her wanting to discuss the healing properties of aquamarine quartz and your Guardian Angel be prepared to be faced with barely restrained contempt.
Therefore Beth is skilled in the more subtle, darker aspects of the arcane - curse breaking, exorcism, summoning the dead and summoning or forcefully banishing demons. However these require time, preparation and ingredients, some of them not easy or pleasant to get (Eye of newt and toe of frog can be the least of your worries.)
On the fly, if Beth can cut herself she can work some rudimentary blood magic, however at most it can only give access to some of her lower abilities and even then it can be unpredictable. Due to moving in some unsavoury circles prior to P&H, she does have a rather good amount of contacts amongst the "Other Side", although they may not all necessarily be pleased to see her.
Outwith the realm of the Occult, however, Beth's talents are limited. She is resourceful and good at utilising the environment and people around her to some advantage, however don't ask her to take down a hit squad or hack into the pentagon - it ain't going to happen.
Often carries a small bag of essentials to her Craft - containing a knife, some chalk, some common herbs and pure sea salt. Allows her to work simple spells on site without the need for going back and forth with everyday ingredients.
Background:
It was one of those bars. Most people would walk right past it, nondescript and sandwiched amongst the closed shops and abandoned apartments - that was the point. Its patrons valued their privacy, they weren't here to make chit-chat or for the excellent appetisers, (Apart from the Vampires, few placed sold warm blood these days,) it was the knowledge that they would not be disturbed regardless of the scaliness of their skin, the number of horns they had or their dietary preference.
Beth sat at the bar, nursing a gin and tonic (although the dribble of tonic that had been applied barely qualified it for cocktail status) as she waited for Vince. She watched Lou, the barman, wipe down the work surface of the bar with a rag that, at best, could only be described asmarginally dirtier than whatever mess he was attempting to clean. Still, he made a mean Sidecar and he was never too pushy with the tab, so Beth didn't contemplate it too deeply.
"Hey there," Vince said as he sat down and she gave him a small, half smile as she downed her drink. Vince had been ... well he had been a mistake but she supposed the technical term was her boyfriend a few years ago. She had recently moved to the States and he had been one of the few humans she had met that already knew of the Secret World, a few drinks and some questionable decisions that night had left Beth with a headache and his number. A couple of years later they had broken up - although more accurately she had thrown all his possessions out her window as she screamed a chain of profanities at him. "Looking for a good time?" He teased as he removed his jacket.
"Oh definitely," She said with a small smirk, her Scottish accent still discernible even after all these years here. "However I suppose I'll take to you in the meantime, seeing as you made the trouble to call me."
"How was the Coven in New England?" Vince asked, ordering a drink as he made himself comfortable.
"I lasted a week," Beth replied, staring mournfully at the dregs of her G&T and debating the wisdom of getting another, "However I'm not sure if it was the thought of having to eat another bowl of soya beans or attempt to commune with the Great Earth Mother that eventually drove me off. Hard to say."
"It's been four years, Beth," Vince said, sipping his beer, "You still haven't found a Coven for you, ever thought about heading back home?"
"Constantly," Came her wistful reply, "But once Mags died we had no Elders left. Lilly had just got married, with only me and Mhari left it was dying. I thought coming here I could take some of the Old Ways with me, preserve something of our legacy but ..."
Beth let the sentence die in the air, too disheartened to continue. "Still, better than that Vampire Commune you checked out, huh?" Vince said.
"Definitely less soy beans," Beth laughed.
"Here," Vince said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket, "The reason I called. They approached me a while ago, but it's not my thing Beth. You’re always looking for somewhere where your Coven's magic can be celebrated, it might not be a bad start."
Beth raised her eyebrow, looking down at the smart, well designed business card pushed onto her hand, a firm's name emblazoned on the front:
Priest and Hawthorne Investigations.
Secret:
Scene Prompt:
Relationships prompt:
Gender: Female
Race/Species: Human
Age: 27
Appearance: Beth has a tall, willowy frame, her hair is usually styled in a bun however reached the small of her back when released, with an auburn – coppery colour, which frames her dark, chocolate brown eyes. Her Celtic heritage has left her with pale skin that tends to burn with the merest hint of sunlight, so Seattle's weather suits her rather fine. Usually only wears minimal makeup and accessories, her most consistent item being a small silver bracelet in the style of intertwining vines.
Personality: Beth has a upfront, blunt and dry style of speech that leave many thinking she is rather serious or harsh. However she is quite a warm, easy-going personality that is often accompanied by a light quip or two - there is no situation too awkward where she believes a well-timed humorous remark can break the tension. She is often proven wrong in this assumption but refuses to give up.
Sometimes appears to have a questionable morality - however, Beth would consider herself moral enough but holds herself to a different set of standards than others. As her work contains much in the way of blood, sacrifices of small animals and various other magicks of the more darker nature she is much less perturbed by body parts, death and the more questionable side of the Occult than most. Beth believes, however, that her Coven's rules and teachings of these matters are more complicated and nuanced about such topics and that most people have simply dismissed it all as "creepy."
Methodical by nature, Beth takes her abilities seriously, believing herself to be the inheritor of a rich history of magical lore. She therefore loathes much of the modern or New-Age Wicca and associated movements and those that express such interests usually receive the sharper side of her tongue.
However, with those that are genuinely interested in her Craft she is eager to share and could talk for hours about the different grades of charcoal you can use for drawing a magic circle and the various effects it has - she has yet to find anyone willing to endure that offer, alas.
A romantic at heart, she is quite eager for a boyfriend and subsequently is much more sociable than one would expect from a Coven witch. She is a frequent of many bars and parties, both paranormal and not, and is known to enjoy her alcohol very much which has resulted in a few fragile mornings in P&H where loud noises and bright sunlight are not her friends.
Being a relative new foreigner in a different country, she does sometimes view American habits a little funnily or grow wistful for her homeland - however in general enjoys her new country immensely, feeling it still evokes the sense of wonder and novelty she had always imagined from the movies of the Golden Age of Cinema she adored as a child.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
As the descendent of of the Old Covens, Beth has inherited a legacy of generations of Witches knowledge and is quite the competent Witch. Witchcraft, however, is a tree with many branches, some more twisted than others. Beth's magic is of the old school, of blood and ritual. If you come to her wanting to discuss the healing properties of aquamarine quartz and your Guardian Angel be prepared to be faced with barely restrained contempt.
Therefore Beth is skilled in the more subtle, darker aspects of the arcane - curse breaking, exorcism, summoning the dead and summoning or forcefully banishing demons. However these require time, preparation and ingredients, some of them not easy or pleasant to get (Eye of newt and toe of frog can be the least of your worries.)
On the fly, if Beth can cut herself she can work some rudimentary blood magic, however at most it can only give access to some of her lower abilities and even then it can be unpredictable. Due to moving in some unsavoury circles prior to P&H, she does have a rather good amount of contacts amongst the "Other Side", although they may not all necessarily be pleased to see her.
Outwith the realm of the Occult, however, Beth's talents are limited. She is resourceful and good at utilising the environment and people around her to some advantage, however don't ask her to take down a hit squad or hack into the pentagon - it ain't going to happen.
Often carries a small bag of essentials to her Craft - containing a knife, some chalk, some common herbs and pure sea salt. Allows her to work simple spells on site without the need for going back and forth with everyday ingredients.
Background:
It was one of those bars. Most people would walk right past it, nondescript and sandwiched amongst the closed shops and abandoned apartments - that was the point. Its patrons valued their privacy, they weren't here to make chit-chat or for the excellent appetisers, (Apart from the Vampires, few placed sold warm blood these days,) it was the knowledge that they would not be disturbed regardless of the scaliness of their skin, the number of horns they had or their dietary preference.
Beth sat at the bar, nursing a gin and tonic (although the dribble of tonic that had been applied barely qualified it for cocktail status) as she waited for Vince. She watched Lou, the barman, wipe down the work surface of the bar with a rag that, at best, could only be described asmarginally dirtier than whatever mess he was attempting to clean. Still, he made a mean Sidecar and he was never too pushy with the tab, so Beth didn't contemplate it too deeply.
"Hey there," Vince said as he sat down and she gave him a small, half smile as she downed her drink. Vince had been ... well he had been a mistake but she supposed the technical term was her boyfriend a few years ago. She had recently moved to the States and he had been one of the few humans she had met that already knew of the Secret World, a few drinks and some questionable decisions that night had left Beth with a headache and his number. A couple of years later they had broken up - although more accurately she had thrown all his possessions out her window as she screamed a chain of profanities at him. "Looking for a good time?" He teased as he removed his jacket.
"Oh definitely," She said with a small smirk, her Scottish accent still discernible even after all these years here. "However I suppose I'll take to you in the meantime, seeing as you made the trouble to call me."
"How was the Coven in New England?" Vince asked, ordering a drink as he made himself comfortable.
"I lasted a week," Beth replied, staring mournfully at the dregs of her G&T and debating the wisdom of getting another, "However I'm not sure if it was the thought of having to eat another bowl of soya beans or attempt to commune with the Great Earth Mother that eventually drove me off. Hard to say."
"It's been four years, Beth," Vince said, sipping his beer, "You still haven't found a Coven for you, ever thought about heading back home?"
"Constantly," Came her wistful reply, "But once Mags died we had no Elders left. Lilly had just got married, with only me and Mhari left it was dying. I thought coming here I could take some of the Old Ways with me, preserve something of our legacy but ..."
Beth let the sentence die in the air, too disheartened to continue. "Still, better than that Vampire Commune you checked out, huh?" Vince said.
"Definitely less soy beans," Beth laughed.
"Here," Vince said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket, "The reason I called. They approached me a while ago, but it's not my thing Beth. You’re always looking for somewhere where your Coven's magic can be celebrated, it might not be a bad start."
Beth raised her eyebrow, looking down at the smart, well designed business card pushed onto her hand, a firm's name emblazoned on the front:
Priest and Hawthorne Investigations.
Secret:
Scene Prompt:
Beth was in awe as another drink floated over by the waiter and a couple of Martinis were placed on their table – “complimentary from the gentlemen across the room, ladies.” They were in one of the most exclusive bars in Seattle and had walked in and gotten the best table without saying anything. Beth hadn’t even opened her purse – they had barely been seated when the drinks had started flying from the men in the room.
It wasn’t even as if Morgan was doing anything in particular – it was the way the room changed so subtly when she entered. It was as if it was no longer a public space – it was Morgan’s bar and everybody here was grateful she had let them join her for the evening. It wasn’t even as if she was exerting any of her talents at the disposal of a Succubus, Beth was certain she would sense it if she was – it was seemingly just effortless, the very way Morgan filled the space around her was provocative.
“I need to go drinking with you more often,” Beth said, absentmindedly masticating her olive on a stick, before sipping the drink appreciatively, “All the other demons I met were not nearly this fun.”
“Oh my dear,” Morgan said, running her fingers through the fine, perfect strands of her ebony hair in such a way that some of the men watching (and they were watching) bite their lips hard, “The few things out there that are anything like me.”
“Although fairness, the only demons I’ve ever met were trying to kill me or break free of their bonds, so I suppose it’s not a fair comparison,” She continued as her Martini became more and more of an empty glass in need of a refill. “Although,” she mused, casting Morgan a strange look, “It’s weird that your still here … I mean whoever summoned you couldn’t give you this much freedom, yet once the contracts broken even the most determined spirit can’t maintain their shape and place in reality this long …”
“I really wouldn’t know, the theory of all that is much more your area of expertise.” Came the reply, perfectly pleasant yet Beth couldn’t miss the bite that was there – signalling clearly, don’t push it.
She looked away, wondering if she had broken some form of etiquette amongst demons. It wasn’t like she socialised with them much - bit of a first for her really. Yet it bugged her – Demons didn’t belong in this world. Literally. Summoning Magic was difficult work, the laws of reality had to be altered to give the demon a form, place and point of existence within it. Beth avoided it when she could – it was reliant of contracts and bargains and Demons were notorious for finding loopholes. Banishing them was more her forte.
“What about that one?” She asked to change the subject, nodding to a handsome, refined looking man with fair hair.
“Gay” Morgan said with an amused smile.
“Oh … what about him?”
“Hmm, let’s say not as endowed as that Rolex on his wrist would want us to think.”
“Him?” Beth asked, casting a suspicious glance sideward.
“Into some pretty weird stuff, how comfortable do you find latex?”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?” Beth said, the corners of her lips lifting in a supressed laugh.
“You know me so well, my dear,” came the reply, accompanied by the pair of women’s laughter and the chinking of glass.
It wasn’t even as if Morgan was doing anything in particular – it was the way the room changed so subtly when she entered. It was as if it was no longer a public space – it was Morgan’s bar and everybody here was grateful she had let them join her for the evening. It wasn’t even as if she was exerting any of her talents at the disposal of a Succubus, Beth was certain she would sense it if she was – it was seemingly just effortless, the very way Morgan filled the space around her was provocative.
“I need to go drinking with you more often,” Beth said, absentmindedly masticating her olive on a stick, before sipping the drink appreciatively, “All the other demons I met were not nearly this fun.”
“Oh my dear,” Morgan said, running her fingers through the fine, perfect strands of her ebony hair in such a way that some of the men watching (and they were watching) bite their lips hard, “The few things out there that are anything like me.”
“Although fairness, the only demons I’ve ever met were trying to kill me or break free of their bonds, so I suppose it’s not a fair comparison,” She continued as her Martini became more and more of an empty glass in need of a refill. “Although,” she mused, casting Morgan a strange look, “It’s weird that your still here … I mean whoever summoned you couldn’t give you this much freedom, yet once the contracts broken even the most determined spirit can’t maintain their shape and place in reality this long …”
“I really wouldn’t know, the theory of all that is much more your area of expertise.” Came the reply, perfectly pleasant yet Beth couldn’t miss the bite that was there – signalling clearly, don’t push it.
She looked away, wondering if she had broken some form of etiquette amongst demons. It wasn’t like she socialised with them much - bit of a first for her really. Yet it bugged her – Demons didn’t belong in this world. Literally. Summoning Magic was difficult work, the laws of reality had to be altered to give the demon a form, place and point of existence within it. Beth avoided it when she could – it was reliant of contracts and bargains and Demons were notorious for finding loopholes. Banishing them was more her forte.
“What about that one?” She asked to change the subject, nodding to a handsome, refined looking man with fair hair.
“Gay” Morgan said with an amused smile.
“Oh … what about him?”
“Hmm, let’s say not as endowed as that Rolex on his wrist would want us to think.”
“Him?” Beth asked, casting a suspicious glance sideward.
“Into some pretty weird stuff, how comfortable do you find latex?”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?” Beth said, the corners of her lips lifting in a supressed laugh.
“You know me so well, my dear,” came the reply, accompanied by the pair of women’s laughter and the chinking of glass.
Relationships prompt:
Robert Miller Jr.
"Rob had initially been very welcoming to Beth when she first joined, however, when her magical talents and interests became apparent it caused Rob to hold back.
Beth and Rob have never really seen eye to eye - nothing has ever gotten out of hand, but Beth's questionable forays into some of the darker magics has caused a friction between them, due to the older man's distrust of the occult.
When working together they are professional and polite - in a very deliberate manner, almost clinical with the lack of chitchat. When Beth's Craft is required, she prefers to do it out of Rob’s way - who can barely bring himself to mention it, although sometimes out of mischief she can lay it on quite thick. Many have wondered what would happen if they were forced to work together."
Dr. Emma Stern-Hexen
"Beth is intrigued by her fellow Witch but finds her branch of magic rather dry and has little interest in learning it. Sometimes gets into heated debates about the nature of magic - Beth strongly advocating for traditional approaches and the limitations of applying modern science and theories to the art, whereas the Professor sees Beth's unwillingness to adapt her magic to academic theory and rigor as a weakness and failing.
Their relationship could not be described as strained, however, having their European origins as a common point, although Beth has been known at times to put of an exaggerated German accent when irritated (i.e e.g "Ja mein Führerin!" They also have one of their few mutual agreeing points on Magic - a withering, scornful attempt for the New Age Wicca.
Jacob B. McAllister
Beth has a lot of time for Jacob, feeling sympathetic for his past and family situation and occasionly offers her services as a babysitter. Is itching to try and get him to expand on his magical potential, yet hasn't found the right time to bring it up, although she doubts her own brand of magic would suit him she would enjoy helping him find his path."
Amanda Staten
Beth was nonchalantly eating a bag of peanuts as she flicked through the thick, aged grimoire that was nestled between her knees - seemingly absorbed in her work. The office was quiet, with most of the team out investigating claims of a Troll that had seemingly made a home in Aurora Bridge. Yet once Mandy got up to use the bathroom, Beth's eyes flickered up from the pages of her tome, watching with interest as she passed the threshold of the door. Lifting a small recording device to her lips, the Scottish Witch whispered, "Subject does not seem hindered by presence of horseshoe over door. Will try tomorrow, with blessed iron."
- Beth and Mandy have moved from a wary distance into the beginnings of a friendship. Beth recognised the aura of Mandy as something reminiscent of the Seelie and Unseelie, although had no clue as to what Mandy could be. Wary, the Blood Witch tried some surreptitious tests to unveil the true nature of Mandy - as Beth's Coven have always had uneasy relations with the Sidhe. Mandy not appreciating such intrusions reacted defensively, however as the two have come to see the harmlessness of their respective positions they have grown closer, with Mandy's interest in Beth's magic a bonding point.
"Rob had initially been very welcoming to Beth when she first joined, however, when her magical talents and interests became apparent it caused Rob to hold back.
Beth and Rob have never really seen eye to eye - nothing has ever gotten out of hand, but Beth's questionable forays into some of the darker magics has caused a friction between them, due to the older man's distrust of the occult.
When working together they are professional and polite - in a very deliberate manner, almost clinical with the lack of chitchat. When Beth's Craft is required, she prefers to do it out of Rob’s way - who can barely bring himself to mention it, although sometimes out of mischief she can lay it on quite thick. Many have wondered what would happen if they were forced to work together."
Dr. Emma Stern-Hexen
"Beth is intrigued by her fellow Witch but finds her branch of magic rather dry and has little interest in learning it. Sometimes gets into heated debates about the nature of magic - Beth strongly advocating for traditional approaches and the limitations of applying modern science and theories to the art, whereas the Professor sees Beth's unwillingness to adapt her magic to academic theory and rigor as a weakness and failing.
Their relationship could not be described as strained, however, having their European origins as a common point, although Beth has been known at times to put of an exaggerated German accent when irritated (i.e e.g "Ja mein Führerin!" They also have one of their few mutual agreeing points on Magic - a withering, scornful attempt for the New Age Wicca.
Jacob B. McAllister
Beth has a lot of time for Jacob, feeling sympathetic for his past and family situation and occasionly offers her services as a babysitter. Is itching to try and get him to expand on his magical potential, yet hasn't found the right time to bring it up, although she doubts her own brand of magic would suit him she would enjoy helping him find his path."
Amanda Staten
Beth was nonchalantly eating a bag of peanuts as she flicked through the thick, aged grimoire that was nestled between her knees - seemingly absorbed in her work. The office was quiet, with most of the team out investigating claims of a Troll that had seemingly made a home in Aurora Bridge. Yet once Mandy got up to use the bathroom, Beth's eyes flickered up from the pages of her tome, watching with interest as she passed the threshold of the door. Lifting a small recording device to her lips, the Scottish Witch whispered, "Subject does not seem hindered by presence of horseshoe over door. Will try tomorrow, with blessed iron."
- Beth and Mandy have moved from a wary distance into the beginnings of a friendship. Beth recognised the aura of Mandy as something reminiscent of the Seelie and Unseelie, although had no clue as to what Mandy could be. Wary, the Blood Witch tried some surreptitious tests to unveil the true nature of Mandy - as Beth's Coven have always had uneasy relations with the Sidhe. Mandy not appreciating such intrusions reacted defensively, however as the two have come to see the harmlessness of their respective positions they have grown closer, with Mandy's interest in Beth's magic a bonding point.
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