Name: Victor James Title: Bloodletter Age: 19 Sex: Male
Backstory: Victor was not cast aside by his family when they saw his shoulder emblazoned with the sign of the Hunters. They had wanted a son, and they were not going to simply cast him aside because of this cryptic nonsense. They had no serviceable explanation for why he was born with such a symbol if not for the esoteric notions of Fraternity brotherhood, but they were not going to ignore the child for his markings--they would love him like they loved his older sisters.
This noble effort of theirs did not last. Every peculiarity in Victor, which in another child would have been perhaps endearing, was scrutinized, and every time he did not get along with a neighborhood kid or one of his sisters, his parents would fret endlessly over him, warning him not to act out. It didn't take someone particularly sharp to see that Victor's parents thought he was odd. Victor himself, though, thought he was quite normal, and indeed he didn't seem particularly strange or occult to his neighbors. That unfortunately did not matter, as he was afraid of his parents' disapproval more than anything, and so he endeavored to be entirely unobjectionable and ordinary so as not to cause any unnecessary worry.
In spite of his best efforts, it was simply not meant to be. His parents grew increasingly paranoid each day, and on days when they received news about something from the Dark, their fury was especially severe. They punished him for things he hadn't yet done, hadn't even planned to do; they feared acts of violence, acts that would draw out the innately grisly and malevolent nature of the Hunter. They beat him and didn't allow him outside or near his sisters. He ate alone.
Through all of this, he never once acted out. He never once wanted to harm anyone. It wasn't in his nature to do something like that, and he thought perhaps the cursed mark on his shoulder was a mistake of astronomical proportions. Indeed it was from this mark that came all of his problems. His parents would not be hurting if not for that mark; he would not be alone if not for that mark. And so he spent most of his childhood cursing it, scratching at it and tearing the flesh until he thought he might have scratched it off forever--he never did manage that.
One day, the floodgates were opened, as the saying goes, and all the pent-up negativity in Victor's home came rushing out. A burglar targeted their home, but was quickly confronted by Victor's father, a kitchen knife held threateningly in his hand. He told the burglar to leave, but it was never that simple. The burglar fought back and wrestled the knife from his father's hands. With a knife to Victor's father's throat, the burglar demanded as many of the family's valuables as he could carry. His mother and sisters were quick to comply, but something stirred in Victor, a primal rage he had never felt before. This man was targeting his family, his loved ones, his happiness--this man was completely unforgivable. Seeing his father's life hanging so precariously in the balance, he wondered what it was he suffered for. If his father were to die, what would it mean for Victor, who suffered his whole life in the hopes that his father would one day accept him? To threaten to steal that away was unforgivable.
With a guttural scream, he charged the burglar. The man was slow with surprise, not expecting that sort of sound from a young child. He also could not have possibly expected the child's strength; no one there could have. The burglar was thrown off his feet and, straddling his chest, pinning him to the ground, Victor began to pummel the man with his fists until they turned red. When he finally stopped, the man scarcely drew breath. His mother clutched his sisters' heads against her so they couldn't see, and she herself stared at Victor aghast. He didn't understand.
That night his family told him to leave. They couldn't live with him--they were afraid. Victor was confused. Had he not done this for them? Was this not an act of love, of kindness? But they wouldn't listen to him, they wouldn't accept that he was their flesh and blood any longer, and Victor was cast into the streets. He lived there alone for many years until by chance he saw a Hunter. He didn't know what else he was supposed to do, so he showed the Hunter the mark on his shoulder, identifying him as one of their own.
Aspect of the Hunter: Bloodletter -- When Victor consumes blood, he gains increased regeneration, endurance, and bloodlust. Drinking the blood of a creature of the Dark temporarily grants him some of their abilities and weaknesses. It is unknown what would happen if he were to drink the blood of another Hunter.
Stats:
Strength – B Vitality – A Skill – C Knowledge – D Bloodlust – C Darkness – B
Skills: --
Inventory: Two knives, a large axe, a small lantern.
"“Monster . . . ? Ah, you flatter me! Why, yes, I do suppose I am! That does not, however, make me this tale’s villain, you know!”
Name: Xerxes Hasek
Title: Salamander
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Tall and lean, almost unhealthily so, Xerxes possesses a sharp, almost distinguished sort of gauntness about him. This lankiness, born of a preference for sweets absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, a relatively time-consuming occupation, and a lack of interest in food altogether, means Xerxes doesn’t cut much of a figure at all, much less one of an imposing nature. He emanates this unnerving, almost repellent sort of aura - the cheerful sort of defiance that only a hardened criminal or an absolute maniac might bear.
Lean, sharp angles mold the pale canvas of his face, carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. Stubble darkens his jaw and chin, adding a wild, somewhat roguish facet to his overall aura.
Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes themselves are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and carry an odd, almost bitter hardness, though only occasionally.
His dark, perpetually tousled wavy hair curves to a stop just past his shoulders, falling diagonally across his face to partially obscure his left eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way.
His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing.
Eternally smiling, be it his typical condescending, unsettling grin, a scathing, derisive sneer, or a mutinous, dangerous smirk, Xerxes's wreathed himself in an air of his own truly baffling whimsy. Working tirelessly to shroud himself in enigma - not for any contrived, cliched desire to be "mysterious", mind you; he just enjoys seeing the stupid looks of consternation on people's faces - he imparts little more than the bare minimum on whatever allies he aligns himself with, yet does it in a way that makes it seem like it's their fault instead of his.
Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Xerxes can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He's well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There's something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really.
Incisive remarks or petty insults don't really bother him; he's always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he's quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, "my dear", to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he's patronizing a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well; his sentence structure and word choice are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind.
It's rare to spot Xerxes engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It's a massive waste of everyone's time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn't much like whining about things he knows he can't change.
Not all of Xerxes’ childish immaturity is an act, however. He's actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can't have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that's just a sad, sad travesty. He'd hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who's committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn't deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right?
He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he's already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe's luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he's not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he's seen it in action, so of course he's got to believe it exists, but he's yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time.
He's also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he's currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it's certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he'd never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!)
Xerxes often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he's quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, "Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!" He's a massive asshole. Just. God, he's so awful.
He came into the world silently, blinking owlishly up at the midwife, wide, curious eyes latching unshakably on her weary, haggard own. Not a single cry rose from his throat, no grating wails or frantic shrieks. Just silence, the heavy, wonderful pressure of silence. Which, in of itself, wasn’t exactly a big deal.
Most babies came out screaming and kicking, as if they instinctually knew they’d be better off crawling back in, little arms flailing for the dark, unknown abyss of unbirth. A wry smile unfurled on plump, chapped lips, frayed only slightly by fatigue’s jagged edge. “He’s a quiet one - a good, healthy set of lungs, I’m sure, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders, he does; knows when to keep his mouth shut. Don’t rebuke the small blessings, eh?”
Laughter, low and throaty, rumbled in his mother’s throat, and she swept a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. It was remarkable, almost, how someone could look so composed, even as beads of perspiration slid down her face in rivulets, her hair a disheveled, tangled mess, the red hue of exertion still gathering in her cheeks. If the midwife was weary, then Elizabeth Hasek was the picture of exhaustion. “The best sorts of mercies are the small ones - why else would I have popped him out, yeah?” She lifted her arms from the bed, extending her hands, reaching for the cloth-swathed bundle in the midwife’s arms. “Give him here - haven’t even gotten to see him yet. He’s supposed to have his father’s eyes, you know - all the others did.”
The midwife leaned over, gently easing the baby into his waiting mother’s arms. They were trembling, the midwife noticed, gooseflesh bristling on quivering skin. As Elizabeth cradled the baby close, clutching him protectively, her finger tangled in the cloth shielding the child.
One twist of the wrist, and the blanket slipped, baring a black insignia and the shoulder onto which it was inlaid.
The warmth seeped out of the room in great gusts. The sigil - the sign of the Hunter, the beast-mark, the shadow-taint. The burden of a thousand monsters - the pain of the hunt, the sting of the lies, the strain of playing the part of a demon housed in human skin. A chill trickled through the midwife’s veins, frosting over that wry grin, smothering the laughter rising in her throat. A monster. The bastard child of the darkness itself. The midwife scrambled back - no devil-spawn’s filth would corrupt her flesh. Her lineage was pure, simple, maybe, a bit plain and nondescript and yes, even poor, but she wasn’t the darkness’s whore. She was not the evil’s concubine, no, not her!
A sneer spread across those chapped lips, and cold eyes glittered with raw, unbridled hate. “You lying, wretched whore. What will the village say, when they see this act of - this act of debauchery?”
Elizabeth, to her credit, did not scream. She did not thrash or wail or plead. Tranquil eyes regarded the midwife, face carefully drawn into some pitiful attempt at composure. “Not my son,” she said, voice level, inflection slow, steady - deliberate. “They will not have him. Not my son.”
The child in her arms continued to stare, and the beast in his heart rumbled.
------------------------ -
As a child, Xerxes pricks his finger playing in the bazaar with a rusty old soldier’s knife shortly after the dusty road rushes up to meet him. His skull bounces off the dirt with an audible thump, and something warm and wet bubbles from between his lips. The cool, metallic tang of dirt assaults his senses in waves, and he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks he’s swallowed a rock. Iron’s pungent reek wafts in front of Xerxes’ nose mingling with the stale, stagnant stench of old rainwater, and something inside him stirs. His mouth waters.
The boy who shoved him lets out a short, barking laugh, voice scratchy and strident and loud, and he wants it to stop.
They find the boy an hour later, still screaming, fingers clutching at a crushed nose, flinching with the red-hot sear of agony every breath brings. It takes them another hour to find the rock that took half of his teeth, and even longer to deduce he swallowed the rest.
It takes them years to find Xerxes’ father, after that day, and when they find him, they find him hanged. ---------------------------- -
Her withered, sunken cheeks shuddered with each parting of her lips. “Don’t let me die, Xerx. Don’t leave your poor mother all alone.” Her voice is a breathy whimper, and each breath a ragged gasp. Oily, brittle clumps of hair surround her bald cranium like a halo, golden and waxy and dead. Much like she’ll soon be, he wagers.
His heart is tight, what with the anxiety clamping down every minute of every day.
He’s fifteen, now, and his mother’s abed with a particularly nasty case of pneumonia. Every home remedy, every possible cure, every type of medicine available all crumble before the malady’s wrath. It bulldozes over frothing, bubbling herbal concoctions, cleaves cleanly through leeches and injections, and grinds the latest experimental panacea into the dust underneath its heel.
He’s fifteen, and the snow clings to his eyelashes like manacles. It drifts lazily down to earth in great, heavy clumps, shivering as it falls, seeking refuge in the folds of his clothes and the strands of his hair. The jagged, uneven ridges of the brick wall grate roughly against his back, and the snow-smothered ground is cool against his legs.
Dull eyes sweep across the filthy expanse of alleyway on either side of him. Bland. Bland, and foul, and crusted with a layer of grime so thick not even a sharpened axe could chip it away. Pitiful. Pitiful and stupid and pathetic, just like the fool sitting slumped against it.
His eyes drift shut, and the cold overtakes him.
---------------------------------- -
He was still fifteen, and she appeared before him, sudden and fleeting as an apparition. Red hair. Green eyes.
Her name was L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢. (the name is like ice on his tongue, melting away every time he gets a solid grasp, he can’t remember, why can’t he remember)
“Hey, you.” A fingernail flicks against his forehead, and beads of blood well up in its wake. “Don’t you know you’ll catch a cold if you sleep in a place like this?” His eyes snap open, a yell tears itself from his throat, and he’s scrambling backwards, eyes wide and alarmed and absolutely bewildered.
Looking back, it was very obvious that she did not belong to this dimension.
The fingernail’s owner collapses into a fit of giggles, and when she tosses her head back in wild, unrestrained joy, her hair flutters with it, long and red and radiant. (He doesn’t notice, of course, there’s no way he noticed, especially not the fresh, clean scent wreathing it like a perfume.)
“You - what - “ The words refuse to come out, each conceived, delivered, and pronounced stillborn all before they pass his lips. His mouth is clumsy and tongue awkward, numb from the brutal cold, and his voice hoarse from disuse. “Who - ?”
“Say,” she says (sings, her voice is melodic and lilting and absolutely breathtaking) cutting him off, “what’s with you, anyway? Who do you think you are? This is my turf, I’ll have you know, and I don’t take kindly to outsiders! Your name, immediately!” And she’s pointing, her finger hovering inches from the tip of his nose.
(there’s something about the way she smiles that has him believe it)
“I am - “ the words fight his tongue, battering and thrashing, trying their damndest to resist “- Xerxes. Just . . . Xerxes.”
The finger swipes upwards, bopping the tip of his nose. “Really.” Another smile, another brandishing of the knives.
(it’s dangerous outside.)
“What a dull name!”
(so is she. power radiates from every pore. not human power. is it inhuman?)
Another laugh, this one slightly less malicious and slightly more fond.
(is she?)
“Well, then, Just Xerxes, I think you owe me an explanation!” she chirps, and then, barely pausing to offer her name, she flops down beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Ah! So warm!” He flinches - it’s been so long since another person’s touched him without recoiling, without calling him a beast or a demon - and there she is, resting her head against his bicep.
Wha - what are you doing - get away - ? Why is she touching him, he’s filth, he’s trash, horrible, vile, despicable -
He doesn’t realize she’s taken his breath away until he tries to speak, tries to offer something, anything -
She’s either very egocentric, or very perceptive, because she talks right over him, effortlessly trampling the onslaught of self-loathing that threatened to split his heart in two. “What’s brought you out here, you lazy, good-for-nothing slacker? Shirking your work? Running away? Recruiting for a crime syndicate?” It’s the first time someone’s called him anything besides a monster. ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing slacker’ - it wasn’t exactly a compliment, but he’d take it.
He opens his mouth again, and this time, the words cascade, flowing as freely as a waterfall. He tells her everything. His mark. His mother. The rumors, the verified truths - he tells her he’s a monster, and she laughs in his face, and tells him she’ll do him a favor, on one condition.
She says she’ll lend him a hand if he swears fealty, becomes her dog, her knight, her closest, most trusted companion, and the offer’s too good to be true, he knows it is, because humans don’t have eyes like that, people don’t act like that after one half hour of talking, but he’s too desperate to care.
He agrees, she smiles, and the world grows resplendent with light. ---------------------- -
He’s twenty-two, and not a day goes by where he’s not utterly dazzled by the vibrance of life. The bright carmine blossoms garnishing the blooming trees, the harmonic chorus of the birdsong, the tantalizing aroma of freshly-baked bread sweeping through crisp air - the world is alive, energy thrumming through every speck of matter, and so is he.
He’s twenty-two, and each smile comes easier than the last.
He’s twenty-two, and it’s not love, what he feels for this infuriating, capricious, wonderful creature, but it sure as hell isn’t apathy, either.
He doesn’t believe in angels, but his mother’s strength began returning in droves soon after his scarlet angel paid a clandestine visit to the house. Her cheeks filled back out, flushed with the glow of health, her hair grew back, and she could even walk. She could walk, she could work, she was a l i v e .
(it didn’t occur to him that it might not have been his mother until long after she ceased to be)
He’s twenty-two, and, why, perhaps he’d been a liiiiittle too quick on the draw, there, judging life all harshly like that! Really, what a rude thing to do!
- - --------------- -
He’s twenty-three, and the house is burning. Great, billowing columns of smoke pour from the flame-licked windows, spiraling as they rise. The world is bathed in a bright orange glow. The fire greedily sweeps across the flimsy wood, consuming each inch more ravenously, more rapidly, than the last. It’s moving too fast. It can’t be stopped. It’s not spreading.
He stares at the door, horror splayed across his features, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar, and all he can think is, Oh. He’s numb. His fingers itch. He wants to move. Should he? He can’t.
(they’ll find him, it’ll be like before, they’ll find him, hurt him, kill him)
The flames devour his mother’s bedroom, and the ensuing gut-wrenching shriek is so shrill, so ragged, so agonized that it curdles his blood.
(can’t chill, already cold, can’t freeze what’s already a block of ice)
L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢.’s there, too, not ten feet away, but unlike him, she’s not cowering behind debris. She’s facing the rampaging villagers head-on, trying to quell the riots, trying to diffuse the situation. She’s laughing wildly the entire time. This is her element, this chaos. Discord fuels her, common sense disgusts her, and if she had to conform to society’s expectations, she might very well have keeled over on the spot.
He watches in horror as the tip of a spear explodes from the back of her right shoulder, before she’s borne to the ground. Someone else fires as the soldier leans down to finish the job, their bullet carving a tunnel through his scarlet angel’s torso. Somebody is screaming, calling her a monster, a demon, a witch. As the knife approached her neck, Xerxes realises dimly it’s him. The baker’s son’s voice joins him in a counterpart.
There’s a sickening squelch as Xerxes hits the soldier like a freight train. The man went flying, most of his body a mangled wreck. One lone forearm stands out in stark relief, the spear it’s clutching still impaled through Lucy’s shoulder. Xerxes nearly retches, and then everything caught fire.
The rest of the fight is an ashen blur. All he remembers afterwards is the overwhelming need to hurt things, very, very quickly. When the last villager was a ragged mess of blood and pain in front of him, the world abruptly contracts. Everything seems to go dark, focusing on a single spot of colour. The bright, crimson pulse of blood, obscenely vivid against pale skin.
Her smile dims, and so does his entire universe.
---------
He’s twenty-four when the Fraternity scouts him, citing his alleged defeating of a skin-changing witch and the village she’d possessed as their reason.
He’s twenty-four when he accepts.
She was his sin.
This is his penance, the means through which he’ll atone.
Aspect of the Hunter:"Salamander" - Xerxes possesses the ability to manipulate and quell (but not conjure or generate) fire. He is also able to read the memories of ash and cinder - ironically cruel, considering the burden he bears - and is unable to be harmed by flames while he is conscious. Attempting to invoke his aspect while enraged would be . . . unwise, to say the least, although regardless of the aspect's current state of activation, succumbing to fury doesn't seem like a pleasant idea.
Stats
Strength - D
Vitality - C
Skill - B
Knowledge - B
Bloodlust - A
Darkness - A
Skills
The ability to be carded for alcohol until age 45
An assortment of truly bad ideas and equally foolhardy ways through which to execute them
In a battle of wits, Xerxes is usually almost certain to win, simply because he'll talk circles around the opposing party until they throw in the towel in a fit of disgusted frustration.
He's a master of misdirection and adept at distraction; he'll go off on a fifteen-minute tangent, then pick right back up where he was as if he'd never diverged.
However, Xerxes is also fairly weak. He's crafty, but that can only carry him so far. Due to his skinny frame and frail constitution, he can't dish out high damage, nor can he sustain any sort of hit. A few well-placed strikes could leave him permanently out for the count. He has to rely on cheap shots, his agility, and his craftiness and predilection for stealth to survive a fight.
Inventory
Scarlet Angelica - Named for the fickle, whimsical dreamer that would later save his life, Scarlet Angelica is Xerxes’ preferred weapon. Initially appearing as nothing more than an ornate, antique black parasol, it’s usually dismissed without a second thought. Concealed within the handle - or rather, taking the place of the handle - is a slender, wickedly sharp steel blade, tinted red to complete the aesthetic.
Lantern Flail - Dangling from a menacing chain, and glowing with an unearthly blue light, this lantern, ensconced in a thick, sturdy glass casing, serves as a monument immortalizing the brutality of the Hunters. Each pane of glass is secured by a thin metal bar, which connects the top of this unusual device to the bottom, preventing a catastrophic spill. A heavy chain protrudes from the circular hook on top, enabling Xerxes to use it as an emergency bludgeon. Both practical, yet extremely painful.
A small bag of individually-wrapped sour candies, most of which contain a deadly poison. The green ones are commonly regarded as the worst, most noxious, vilest-tasting flavor ever to desecrate the sanctity of candy itself, and those are the only ones not tainted. (The green ones are Xerxes’ favorite, and the only ones he’ll eat, so this does wonders for dropping his target’s guard.)
Athletic to say the least Ligeia's pleasingly muscular figure slopes from an unobtrusive bust into belled hips and a pair of plump, powerful thighs; aggressively feminine. Her chiseled form conjures to mind the warrior women of mural and myth more than the carefully cultivated beauty of Penumbra's waifish socialites, mired dually in as much threat as allure. When paired with her maverick demeanor it's nearly enough for one to overlook the jarring absence of either hand.
Her face flows in broad strokes; sly, sleepy eyes nestled beneath a bantam brow like flecks of sard. Full cheeks tapering into the sort of jaw you could really tee off on and a chin that was made to be upturned. Like a wax seal her small, scornful little smirk of a mouth pulls everything together, silently assuring the world of her superiority.
A tidy crop of dark curls survives the scalp revealing trim that mows its way down into a very utilitarian cross braid a stone's throw away from being a 'hawk'. In the end she's left with a prim, all-weather cut just full bodied enough to fit a few fingers through.
Her voice is pure audio sex, a soporific melody that could make good morning sound like an invitation to bed.
Ruthless to a fault Ligeia sees her wits and wiles as little more than ready tools to be added to her repertoire, the sort of woman that spreads her legs with all the compassion of a bear trap. Often with the same result. In her mind she is the better woman. The better hunter. Much of her life spent accruing the needed skills to keep this image free from contention and eradicating worthy rivals.
The aplomb with which she greets life's hardships is itself an exercise in self-indulgence, her vanity obliging her more than any actual mettle or content of character. A gourmand when it comes to worldly pleasures, she lives to be pampered, praised and adored as much as she aches to be feared and reviled. Loving nothing save herself the triumphs and tribulations of all others are met with either spite or indifference.
Enamored with the idea of molding her own heir Ligeia has proved a poor mother, adoptive or otherwise. Her long list of proteges all having met suspiciously grisly fates as they inevitably fell from their mentor's good graces.
Life assaulted the frail form pulled forth wet and wailing from its mother, another of Lord Siccar's bastard children; the fragile infant's fledgling senses groping for purchase as that first breath sputter's and fails. Like the tide drawn out before a tsunami that chilling sight flensed the once jubilant assemblage of color before the sudden crash of shouts and commotion flooded the bedchamber. In frantic delirium the mother whimpers hoarsely for her baby, hurried hands rushing to restrain her even as other work away the umbilical noosed around its throat. It's far too late for her, the leaden ache of a collapsed lung all that she will ever know; already cooling on the bedsheets.
"I'm sorry." the midwife began, silenced not by the mournful mother but instead the tiny sound that had usurped everyone's attention. Laughter. For in all the calamity the mistress had born twins and a giggling newborn girl now greeted them with toothless grin, still toying with the fleshy tether that had ensnared her sister.
A dark blot jeered at them from her belly.
------------------------ -
"Why doesn't mother tutor me?" queried Ligeia, knocked-knees dangling restlessly over the lip of her chair. The world-weary professor whom she liked to imagine must never have been a child leveling his tired gaze with her to eke out an impeccably dry response. "As we've discussed your mother remains infirmed."
"Oh." the spritely girl chirped, dog-earing the textbook pedestaled atop her writing desk before venturing to continue. "Is that why mother never visits?" This urged her teacher only to parrot himself, stating once more "As we've discussed your mother remains infirmed." irritation soaking into the terse reply. "Strange." remarked little Ligeia. "How so?" groused the scholar.
"Because when nobody thinks I'm listening they say it's since I killed my sister."
------------------------ -
"Really now, don't you fancy me anymore Cyril?" she teased, a gloved hand walking down her tomboyish frame to explore the small knick now inlaid upon her hip. "I thought it might persuade you to give up this foolishness. If Gais knew you were sparring, and with real swords no less--" her step-brother worriedly confided, as if expecting his sudden arrival. Ligeia snickered back at him and crossed swords, reaching down to roughly seize his most sensitive anatomy in a harsh hold that had him wincing "I hardly think that's the worst we keep from father." she'd put bluntly, sidling up against her older sibling and daring him to kiss her.
Like father like son it seemed. Both so eager to be led astray.
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"A duel?" scoffed Tristan to the sound of hearty applause, as incredulous to the prospect as his peers. "You said I could ask for anything, did you not? I want a duel." she'd remind, already having perfected that pouty little frown of hers. "And whom shall I be dueling M'lady? You have no other suitors of which I am aware." he'd so gloriously announce, the request having caused even her father and his court to stifle chuckles. Even so Ligeia wore an entirely different sort of smile as Cyril, as much a man as she was now a lady, pushed out from his chair. This was less a laughing matter, for of all Lord Siccar's children none were so renowned for their swordsmanship.
Murmurs yipped at his heels all the way, and as he came to stand before his prospective brother-in-law the rasp of metal leaving its scabbard hissed over the growing din of protest. None were so loud as that of Gais, their father; he'd been careful to silence the spread of rumor surrounding his least loved daughter--bastard or no she'd be of use, so long as word of that damnable mark never reached the right ears. It was only as the weapon passed from Cyril to Ligeia that the room breathed a sigh of relief and a few onlookers reprised their amused tittering.
"You'd best humor her, none are so willful as my dearest Ligeia." advised the Lord, with the caveat that any wounds would be sure to spoil the honeymoon. Barely sixteen no one expected her to do more than imitate what she'd seen of her brothers. She'd be disarmed with a showy display and they'd be wed, or so was the prevailing notion. She shed those preconceptions in the instant it took for her sword to dance through Tristan's silhouette.
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"Cognatic primogeniture" she'd crisply tut, it was an unusual toast to say the least, but her family had grown accustomed--if weary--of such antics in the year following her duel. "What of it?" her elder step-brother asked, arm laid lovingly across his wife Emilia. "Very much I should think, now that you've been blessed with child. Too starry eyed to notice the lovely banquet we've prepared?" that at least was something worth drinking to, and many did until Ligeia continued. "Do you think of me when you fuck her or the other way around?" she'd say so casually that the only response was a stunned 'what?' blurted by one of their many drunk uncles, she was unkind enough to repeated it for him.
Plates clattered onto the floor as the table erupted into a shouting match some forty voices strong, that one venomous barb having ignited decades of unaired grievances. It took a furious Gais to restore order, bellowing over his amassed and fractured bloodline. "You conniving, incestuous whore! I should have had the good sense to let you waste away with your mother. You've been nothing but a blight on my good name and venerable house. Out! Out I say! I disown you foul beast. I never wish to lay eyes upon you or that damnedable mark ever again!" Naught but dead silence existed in the wake of the abuse he had hurled, for he was a lord first and father second and spoke not merely words but commands.
"And you won't, father." she'd affirm, rising from her seat at the far end of the table and briskly striding to the door. "You died tragically, revenge for my slaying of Tristan. His father is known to be a vengeful man." she all but cooed, barring the exit. "Why. His men killed everyone here--it's a miracle I survived."
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Bleary eyes fell through the empty space each wrist now offered as a throbbing pain threatened to push her back into the void of unconsciousness. "Impressive. Might have worked if you'd just swallowed your pride and poisoned them." A gruff voice surmised, heaping something onto her chest, she didn't need to look down to know what it was. "Really have to hand it to you." quipped her abductor. Ligeia was too weak to reply.
"I hear your brother's on the mend--might not want to send him your well wishes just yet though, first words he could manage were 'drawn and quartered.' chuffed the unseen man. "But don't you fret, coin doesn't mean much where you're going." It was an impactful statement, had her tensing for a deathblow that didn't come. "Told you not to fret." the voice mocked, tussling her hair. "As it happens you did come into an inheritance today..." mused the hunter, peeling away his glove to display an all too familiar birthmark.
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Aspect of the Hunter:"Belladonna" - Ligeia possesses the ability to mesmerize and entrance others with little more than her rhythmic undulations and a sustained gyre of hip. Unsurprisingly denizens of the dark are not so easily bewitched, her efforts only serving to slow or distract them.
Stats
Strength – B Vitality – B Skill – A Knowledge – A Bloodlust – C Darkness – D
Skills
Greased Eel - Ligeia could put most contortionists to shame, gleefully plunging over that line where flexibility stops being seductive. This has proven to be of questionable utility professionally but indispensable in more private affairs.
Educated Feet - Keen to overcome whatever hand she's been dealt--or in this case denied--Ligeia has sculpted her feet and toes into precision instruments over the later half of her life. Should she ever give up the hunt there's a promising career in watchmaking ahead of her.
Adaptive - Burdened with an Aspect that is exceptionally weak on its own this innovative huntress utilizes an array of duskstone powered inventions cobbled together for the express purpose of working in tandem with her esoteric powers.
Inventory
Mosquito Mask- Far from the traditional fare the Lady Siccar deigns to helm herself in a face obscuring mask festooned with ornamentation, not least of which being the pappenheimer-esque visor that mediates her flinty gaze. With a dangerously sharp proboscis featured prominently she pecks away at foes with rapier precision.
Bondage Armor - More the product of predilection than practicality this custom tailored ensemble is two parts reinforced fencing armor mixed with a dash of sanitarium straight jacket and trussed with enough lace, leather and locks to give it that S&M flair. The sleeves socket snugly into special pockets at the front and back of a sturdy doublet, so that each arm may rest close to the body--the precautionary 'off-hand' favored among classical duelists.
Stinger - A sharp spike and some thirty feet of thick cable attached to a duskstone powered winch. Worn unobtrusively upon the back and operated with a crude turn crank mechanism allowing for its deployment and retrieval.
"Tick Tock goes the clock, as seconds trickle by. Tick Tock goes the clock, and soon the beasts shall die."
Name: Sid Magnus Title:Timekeeper Age: Twenty-One Sex: Male
Backstory: Sid's story begins in much the same way a lot of The Fraternity's members do. He was born with a birthmark. A special birthmark. The birthmark of a hunter. And so he was abandoned early on in life by parents who didn't know what was wrong with him.
From then on it was a life on the streets for the young Sid. A life lived in the dark corners and back alleys of Penumbra, getting into fights, being chased, making a lunch from bins and rodents. When it came down to it, he just copied the stray pets and other such creatures that he met. Cats, dogs, rats and one strange beast of the night, were his teachers in the ways of the world. The latter giving him a nasty scar on his back before he managed to flee. It wasn't the most pleasant of lives. But Sid didn't know anything different.
Yeas ago on a dark and moonless night, a hunter, who had been following some rumours, had his mind set on hunting down a creature that was said to be attacking and terrorizing the locals in some of Penumbra's less prestigious areas. But when the hunter found his prey, much to his surprise, he found Sid. A thin and dirty young lad with long grimy hair, stained and tattered rags for trousers and scar covered skin. He was bloody and wounded and eating some sort of beast that appeared to have had it's throat bitten out. The young lad didn't speak the common language like a proper human should. He just sort of growled and bared his teeth at the hunter who found him. But there, marked upon his chest, was the hunters sigil, bold as brass.
The man who found Sid was called Edgar. Though the hunters called him 'The Voice' for reasons Sid didn't understand when he explained. Regardless, Edgar was the one who found Sid. And so he claimed the responsibility of looking after him. Training him. He even named Sid after he'd managed to make him understand he wasn't trying to harm him. Slowly he taught him to speak like a proper person. He taught him to cook a meal and eat with utensils. He taught him how to conduct oneself in more polite society than he was used to, which was just about any society. He taught him to wear clothes and be a true gentleman. He managed to make him into a twisted approximation at the very least.
What Edgar didn't quite bank on was Sid's pure animalistic nature. Sure, it was to be expected to an extent, but nothing like it actually was. He found that Sid had a way of... slipping. Falling backwards into the abyss of pure instinct. And bad stuff tends to come with that territory. As a way to focus, a way to keep present and grounded in human society, Edgar taught Sid about time. Time is constant. Time is unending. Time is something you can trust. That's what he told Sid. He taught him to be punctual. Because a punctual man is a man who always has a small goal to work towards. And a man with a goal, is a focused man. Even the small goal of arriving somewhere on time can keep a man on track. And a focused man doesn't slip.
Sid, not wanting to let Edgar down, became very interested in the idea and gave it a try. Eventually interest grew and evolved into him becoming rather obsessed with the whole thing when he realized it was actually helping him to stay in control of his darker, wilder side.
Aspect of the Hunter:Timekeeper ~ Allows Sid to control the flow of time effecting his own body. Fatal wounds can be closed like they never happened, turn up his internal clock to gain bursts of speed, and freeze time within yourself to fake the appearance of death. Be careful of using this ability too frequently, for it is less a gift than a curse.
Stats: Strength ~ A Vitality ~ B Skill ~ D Knowledge ~ E Bloodlust ~ A Darkness ~ B
Skills:
Sid can manipulate Pocket Watches like a magician manipulates cards. They just seem to appear and disappear in his hands or on his person without warning, and nobody really knows how or when he does it. It's really quite impressive.
Sid can tell the time, at any time, without a clock. At least, he claims he can. Nobody has ever asked him to prove if he was right.
Animals tend to like, and/or fear, Sid. Either way they usually carry some sort of respect for him. His childhood growing up rough amongst the stray and abandoned animals has given him an animalistic quality that they recognize, marking him as one of their own. And, when all is said and done, Sid is still that hungry creature living in the streets. Separated from his wilder self by only a shred of decent clothing and a thin and fragile veneer of civility.
Inventory:
Appointment Keeper ~ A large grandfather clock made from the deep, dark wood of a Witchwood Tree. Sid carries it around on his back. The wood is carved and decorated with the shapes of smaller clocks, all the possible times of the day are represented in some place or another. The main clock itself is broken and inside the body of the clock Sid keeps all his things. Inside is a massive jumble of Clock parts, knives, hammers, knives, hatchets, random pieces of sharp metal and knives. There's a pan in there somewhere too. It's just full of whatever takes his fancy.
Pocket Watches ~ So many Pocket Watches. Working Pocket Watches, broken Pocket Watches, Pocket Watches set to the wrong time, one that ticks backwards. Some might say Sid has too many Pocket Watches. Though those people are likely the kind of people who think any more than one Pocket Watch is a bit extreme, and that's just uncivilized. An upstanding gentleman should carry somewhere in the vicinity of five Pocket Watches, even on a bad day, and certainly no less than three. The more Pocket Watches, the fancier you are. Everyone knows this. And Sid is striving to be the fanciest of all fancy gentleman. This is why he has so many Pocket Watches. One day he plans to have all of them and make Edgar proud.
Name: Geoffrey Whittake Title:"Mirrorwalker" Age: 71 Backstory: Born with the sigil upon his palm, Geoffrey was barely ever raised by his parents. They kept him around untill he became five, then began to push him out of the door daily, locking it behind him. "Go do something!" they would shout from behind the door, and do something he would.
He'd go out, find as many books as possible, discarded, thrown out, he'd even begin to steal some at the age of twelve, but he would always go back home later on. His parents were always slow to open the door, and would attempt to get him to go back, but untill he turned 14, when he never did go back. At the age of 14, he came home, but before even hearing the voice of his parents, the people he once thought loved him so, he turned and left, to find a new place of refuge.
For the next ten years of his life he was homeless. His book stealing eventually grinded to a slower pace, as he had read what seemed to be every book findable. Of course going anywhere to purchase books wasnt possible because even if he stole the money, he'd likely be attacked for having the sigil upon his hand.
Fast forward 3 years, as the years of being alone, unlikeable due to his sigil and the eventual stop to his stealing, one of his only things to do, he eventually snapped. Walking from sidewalk to sidewalk, a man bumped into him, immediately the man turned and called him a nobrained fuck. To which Geoffrey replied by punching him in the stomach, causing them to double over and begin to gasp for air. People saw it, and one man went over to help the other. Geoff, noticing the man had come close to him, had jerked forward, slamming his hand into their face, knocking them down in a single punch. It wasn't long before everybody in the area began to sorround Geoffrey, attacking him and attempting to throw him out. Even stronger than any average man, he was unable to fight back, and he rushed away.
Despite being chased by the ones who came after him, he was an expert at fleeing from people, and slipping away, due to his long life as a thief. He easily was able to get far away from the people, though he was scattered with bruises after being mobbed by the people. Later that day, he was found by a hunter, and taken in when his Sigil was discovered. It had been many years of waiting, but it was finally time that he become apart of the group he was cursed to enter.
Aspect Of The Hunter: "Mirrorwalker" which grants you the ability to instantly travel or send messages through reflective surfaces. Your attacks and weapons mysteriously seem to ignore hide and armor. Be wary of traveling through mirrors in the darkness, you never know what else will be doing the same.
Strength: D Vitality: C Skill: B Knowledge: A Bloodlust: C Darkness: B
Skills: -Can finish a 300 page book in an hour, if he's really trying -Is, despite being old, still quite OK at the art of running the hell away.
Inventory:
-Iron Caltrops: A large bag of caltrops, used for dropping in the midst of being chased. Four spikes and made so that no matter what, one spike is facing up. Watch your feet!
Pocket Knife: A small knife for which he keeps in his boot.
A Wanderer's Honor: His all time favorite book. Contains 200 pages. Leather cover.
Rapier: A small and swift sword, to fit with his expert speed and ability. His only reliable weapon.
The Pit. With the popularity of Duskstones growing with the discovery of its peculiar qualities, the small mining operation of Penumbra became a sprawling enterprise – the few tunnels of old made way for gashing maws that burrowed straight for the center of the world. With it came the legions of the destitute looking for work, and finding only an Inferno as they descended everyday into the darkness to mine the eerily luminiscent crystal. The shantytowns and ghettoes overcrowded the small wretched towns of the original inhabitants, arraying themselves like a scab over the earth, a scab that you scratched only to reveal the pus of sheer human misery, leaking from every crevice. Soon, the land around the pits and tunnels were not enough, and the town, the wasteland of the wretched, seeped and creep down into the deep. Now, at night, a constellaton of flicering star comes to life for those willing to peer over the edge. For those bellow, the open sky has long ceased to be a reality, one replaced by the darkness of the shafts or the greasy rain that batters their tin roofs. The deepest recess of these pits became holes for wastes and corpses, a disgusting marsh of the dead and the defecating, an open sewage for everyone above to smell. You got used to it. No, no you don't, but you learn to kind of keep it at the back of your mind, even as it aggressively scratches at the edges of your awareness.
Money is like warm air – it fills up and moves upward. It is therefore a testament to the prosperity of the miners that most of them, once going down into the pit, seldom come back ever again. Whole generations have come and gone now without going out of the pits. There always new holes being opened. New tunnels dug. Old sites rediscovered. More, always more, is extracted from the earth. More, always more, is extracted from the miners, until they are but husks, and one day, they are just rolled over into the abyss. Another soul into the dark – into the Dark, some would say. The miners are largely held to be the most supersitious of all Penumbran folks. They are, after all, the worst scum of them all – it is no suprise then that they indulge in almost childish exercises of the mind and indulge in magical thinking. Nor is it documented or cared for when men, women, and children disappear in the nigh-permanent night of the Pittowns. When mothers pump out children by the dozens and lose them by the dozen, who keeps tracked of the disappeared? Who keeps track of these lives spent in what looks more like warrens than houses?
It is in this world that Emily was born. 7Th child out of 15. A girl, to boot. But you could say that she was born lucky, all things considered, as her father was a foreman – in the hierarchy of the depths, such a job held a certain status – and notoriety. A foreman was a man of the Corp, a messenger of the people from above. A man with a whip to keep the beasts working, in line, and docile. Her father was an ambitious man. He was one of the few who dreamed to climb upward and out of the pit – even if it meant having to fight his way up the corporate ladder. And if he wasn't able to do it, his children would. They would climb over his shoulders, forever upward until they see the sky. Emily received a smidgen of education – especially in matters of money, geology, and mechanistics – the last of her siblings that was afforded one. But her father's ambition overran his means – and he found himself stuck in his ascent. It was clear that Management had lost interest in him or is advancement. Being a child, Emily then went down into the shafts and tight confines to remove rubble or get some ores that the adults couldn't reach. On one occasion, the tunnel she was sent into collapsed behind her. For most this would have spelled the end – for Emily, it was a beginning. In the complete darkness, scared witless, she began to see the faint, but intensifying, luminescence of the rocks around her – following what appeared to be a trail, she found herself in a great cave – and what turned out to be a secondary shaft. In the cave, though, was massive shard of duskstone of great purity – the kind jewellers and industrialist alike dreamed of. Fear having been banished by avarice and desire, she plucked the great crystal from the wall, it's soft light belongin to her alone now. A mark, a birthmark by all accounts – one that her father had always warned her to keep hidden, began to itch... and bleed. Bleed a dark ichor.
And as the shadows grew around her, in the darkness she knew that she had found a lair of the Dark. Just beyond the soft glow of duskstone, she knew the darkness was crawling with creatures born of Dark, the monsters the women and children whispered fearfully. She stood there, how long she did not know, on the edge of tears, trying not to cry and alert the monsters in the dark. After who knows how long, she followed a tugging suggestion, a sense of direction, and she wandered further into the mines. Further, and further, and further, forever upward, forever spiralling upward in a darkness without time and space, beyond the light glow around her.
And eventually, she found the surface.
It wasn't the surface she knew. It was green. Very green. A verdoyant green, moving softly under a soft summer sun, big fluffy clouds rolling quickly in the sky. She fell to the ground, and cried – in disbelief that she made it out of there, and at the sight of a world she had only heard rumors of. Once she regained her senses, she scanned the horizon and saw the city of Penumbra, the everdistant megalopolis, now so painfully close. She had a plan, a fantasy, or rather, it was the fantasy of her father – to go to penumbra and become rich. Very rich. If only he had a big break, he would muse, if only he could find the fabulous diamonds every miner hopes to find and everyone wants to get their hands on. Kind of like the gem she had herself found and holding in her bloodied hand.
With her future fortune in hand, she headed to the city. Only to find authorities at the Corporation to be less then sympathetic – though in a very great hurry to seperate her from her prize. In fact, they took the gem and sent her on her way back – back to the pit. But as she was about to put back into a truck full of recruited immigrants headed for the pit, a man grasped at her arm and dragged her to the side.
“You, young lady, have been marked, do you not know?” he said cryptically.
“I what?” she asked, scared and confused at the sudden intrusion, trying to shake herself off from his grip. The overseers had seen nothing of the little kidnapping.
“Your hand. That is the mark of the blood. The mark of the Hunters. Do you know not know of the hunters?”
“I 'no of the 'unters, t'ank you very much.” she replied.
“Then you understand that from the moment you were born you were bound to become one of them?” he asked, showing her his own mark, etched in the flesh neatly upon his chest.
“You are not going back to the Pit, young lady. You are going down a dark road of a very different kind, I fear. Welcome to the Brotherhood.”
And so it was largely through a series of misfortunes that Emily stumbled upon the destiny that was hidden from her in the depths.
That was 5 years ago. Since then she has undergone education and tutelage under the watchful eyes of the Brotherhood, becoming learned in the way of hunting beasts of the Dark. Her true calling, though, came with crafts. She blossomed into a skillful engineer and grew particularly interested in Duskstones and their relations to the Dark and the qualities that lied within its facets.
Aspect of the Hunter: Earthwarden which allows you to sense metal and stone. You can feel the vibrations of the earth you may see anything nearby that is grounded. You may also absorb the energies of duskstone to heal yourself and grant you a temporary increase of strength. Careful though, there is such a thing as too much power.
Stats: Rank them A through E. Average denizens of Penumbra have a rank of E in everything.
Strength – D Vitality – D Skill – B Knowledge – A Bloodlust – D Darkness – C
Skills: Mechanical Affinity - Emily has a true knack for anything with gears, moving parts, or fueled by duskstones stemming from a childhood spent in the company of mining machinery.
Delicate, fragile, ethereal, all words that have been used to describe the girl. A wispy and pneumatic state as if a strong gust of wind could easily scatter her into a million indistinct particles. A figure that does not draw eyes to it out of pity, fear or arousal. A ghostly visage that can melt into a crowd with ease. Men do not lust and womenfolk do not envy, a shadow lost in a world of shadows. What caused this can only be guessed upon was it geneticists, illness at birth, a lack of eating, a lack of caring? One can not be sure for certain.
A small and rounded face created out of pale skin akin to a doll. Wispy lips shaped like the petal of a rose are usually placed in a natural blank state; frowns, smiles and smirks do only rarely grace the face as if not to risk ruining a perfect balance that had taken place. Arched eyebrows hang above face giving her an expression of perpetual surprise and wonderment. A nose not much distinguishing in its features, not too big and not too small. In all it a face that is easily forgotten by those that witness it only as a passing fragment.
Large round eyes dominate the face, an appearance that only adds to the innocence, idealistic appearance that she always so easily portrays. The eyes themselves are portrayed as a pale blue like that of the sky on a clear day. They seem to almost radiate a certain understanding, looking into them you see the only sane person in a world slowly losing its mind. Warmth, comfort, understanding, and yet empty as the void, filled with a wrenching nostalgia of something long past. They are a canvas, anything anyone could want could be portrayed upon it.
Her hair is long and thin, tiny rivers of gold that shine in the moon's gentle gaze, causing it to float about her head like a halo. No matter how it is ruffled, brushed, attacked, it always ends up in the same neutral state falling gently below her shoulders.
To encapsulate this wispy ideal is a small and unassuming voice, a voice easily lost in the low roar of a crowd.
To be a frail thing made up of a single sliver of dark is to be born of fear. In a unforgiving city where nobody not parents, friends, strangers, or anyone cares about a small mote of dark. Where most social interactions were with people that hated her -like her parents- or people that wanted her stuff - every other person she met- there was no reason to really trust anybody. But fear is an old thing. Fear has been around since the first man looked up at the dark, but fear is what makes us strong. For there was only dark so we created the first flame.
To those that would want to take advantage of her unassuming figure would face this primal side. An innate and naturally strong survival instinct prevails in the end. To live as long as she did on the streets of Penumbra was no small feat. You learned to be observant and quick on your feet or you died. You knew the basics of reading a face and your questions were always tactful and placed with great care. To say the right words to the wrong people was a quick way to your death.
This observant nature comes off as odd at times. From her syntax to her implicit placement of emphases her sentences always have the air of a question. This confuses some who wonder if she is unsure of them or unsure of herself; her phrasing reminiscent of a thinly veiled interrogation with a confused interrogator. But the small presence of her own voice makes it an easily forgettable tangent of the self that only the keenly tuned would hear.
A general lack of desire to be the center of attention or to vocally lead a conversation leads her to be very much in a submissive standpoint. She will take most threats, insults and other comments thrown at her without barking back. In times of discussion and argument she can easily be silenced with the rising of a voice or a stern gaze as a frequently kicked dog knows when it is time to back off. Push the dog too far and it will bite back though and little creatures sometimes have dangerous bites.
Though some observe claim to see a different Caite. The first man afraid of the dark and striking away at anything that came close. A monster, something that could kill as easily as an ordinary man breaths. To talk of Caite about this is to receive a mumble about something or another that is easily swallowed up before you can make heads or tails of it.
Backstory: Those born of under the Sigil of the Hunter are destined to repeat the cycle of their predecessors. While minor details change in one way or another they all fall to the dark somehow. Caite was no different than any that came before her. It was upon a dreadfully hot day where the air could be sheared with a knife that the girl was born in the Port District of Penumbra. Like many that were born there her parents were immigrants coming to the city to seek their fortune only to be caste aside finding work where they could as longshoremen. The youngest of five children in a family that was struggling to put food upon the table as it was their so called "cursed" child was a burden they just couldn't handle. So at four years old during a trip to the market her parents left her at a toy makers stall to never come back. Caite while understanding the cause of these actions still to this day can not forgive her parents for not even saying goodbye.
The first few years were some of the easier ones on the streets. The bigger more experienced kids always look for younger kids to tag along with them because they made good distractions. So for a while things were easy in retrospect, there were kids that wanted her to be part of their groups and many hands made quick work. She could at least expect a meal or two a day stolen from the market stalls and maybe something extra if one of the bigger kids managed to swipe something. Together they slept in small hovels by the docks and other hole in the wall type places that only the big groups of kids could defend from others and henceforth use. That and having friendly faces to talk to and have a sense of normalcy was something that most took for granted.
But as she aged things started to go downhill. She lost her standing among the bigger groups of orphans as it was found the she wasn't that best at the whole idea of being a petty thief/ child vagabond. While not terrible she just did not have any particularly shining achievements or skills and in survival you did not look for mediocrity. So she was left at the bottom of the food chain so to speak. She was forced to fight over the scraps left over by the other bigger scavengers usually among the rats, where she once lived in warm, rot filled communes with other children she was know fighting against others left behind like herself for dark alleyways that got little foot traffic so the monsters of the night did not take advantage of her. Many sleepless nights resulted as Caite was forced to look into the surrounding dark and ponder what was watching her, waiting for her to slip up.
It was around this time that the voices started. At first they were quiet like faint whispers upon the wind, whispering of secrets beyond the veil of human knowledge. But as she aged they grew in magnitude as her mind expanded. They spoke of dark and depraved things of mankind's greatest hopes and worst fears, they spoke of self-doubt telling her that world only wanted her dead. In a way the fear that she was born with had taken its own form as a monster. Their intensity grew when she was threatened or put into a dangerous situation speaking of violence, madness and blood-lust unlocking hidden facets kept in check by mental depreciation. She became a avatar of death, a bringer of slaughter, a monster of her own variety. One minute a man would be threatening her with a knife and she would wake up from a lucid twilight with the same knife clutched in her hands and driven through the man's neck. Such acts appeased the voices and they grew proud of her and the warmth they brought also brought peace. It was in falling to these primal instincts in how she survived from the ages of ten to fifteen.
Sometime in her fifteenth year was when she met Socks. Socks was an old man who the urchin children of the port district almost as if he was some kind of patron saint. He worked out of an old doctor's office that had been longed since abandoned, here he provided beds and aide to any and all children that came to him. All the kids knew to come to him at least once a day for their guaranteed free meal. Caite met Socks in person after she was caught stealing a loaf of bread from a market stall after having not eaten for more than a week. As punishment for thievery she was expected to receive the customary twenty lashes.
Twenty lashes later and she was left beaten, starving and bleeding on a cold cobblestone street. Socks' had happened to see the public punishment take place and after the crowd left quickly went and retrieved the girl. For the first time in years she awoke cradled in a warm blanket and with a pillow beneath her head. Socks' had taken her in and applied ointment to her wounds saving her life from what could've been a deadly infection if left open. Indebted to the old man she started to help him gathering things he could no longer in his aged state herbs, cloth, etc.
It was during this time that Socks learned of Caite's birthmark and the mysterious voices that plagued her. Socks was an interesting man, very well read, understanding, fond of quoting literature, and he had understanding in arts and things that most humans knew nothing of. He was a enigma that Caite would often ponder about in the future. But none the less he helped the girl come to terms with her own demons to a degree. Through mental understanding she was able to drone out their words when she did not want to hear them, and to attune to them when they did. This understanding of her own soul providing her with a balance that her life for a long time had lacked. No longer was she a beast running on primal urges but a human once more. She no longer had the urge to kill or to harm others, she found empathy once more in small tiny fragments. Though in flight or fight responses her own mental fortitude weakens as the monster is let loose once more.
At the age of nineteen after spending some years under the tutelage of Socks' when she returned back from her normal supply run Socks' was no where to be seen. In fact the entire office had been emptied as if nobody had ever lived their for all those years. Dust and old books scattered the floors and things looked as abandoned as always. The only remnant of the man was a simple note written in clean handwriting. It explained that Caite had learned all that Socks could of taught her, that he would always be proud of her, and then it listed an address and a name somewhere in Penumbra. It all ended on the note that it was now time for her to choose her own fate.
Finding the address it turned out to be one of the many dwellings of the Hunters. Knocking upon the door a man in his forties with aging grey hair answered the door. Caite explained her situation and showed her birthmark to the man. She had finally found her most recent and permanent home. Though the man did find her story strange if mostly because of Socks' himself. There had once been a man among them that the hunters jokingly referred to as Socks but he had died protecting several street urchins from a beast. Whoever or whatever Socks was he had done something important he had instilled hope inside Caite and it was that hope that allowed her to prosper on through the dark.
Aspect of the Hunter: Specter - Caite's aspect gives her the ability to "vanish from sight" while this is not your normal invisibility -she does not actually vanish- but humans and monsters will not notice her until she attacks. This aspect naturally suited to sulking and sneaking also gives Caite the ability to have what some would describe as perfect nigh vision and natural affinity towards the tearing apart of singular opponents. Though some would say the oddest skill she had been bestowed was the ability to communicate with the recently deceased spirit. While these shades are sometimes helpful it is a skill that is used with much caution as for every good person there are hundreds of corrupted spirits that want nothing more than to be alive again.
Strength – B
Vitality – D
Skill – C
Knowledge – A
Bloodlust – C
Darkness – A
Skills: - The surprising ability to go from an unassuming girl to a deadly death machine when threaten. - While very good at the thinking four steps ahead of her opponent if that opponent happens to catch up she runs into roadblocks very quickly. - Due to her prior tutelage she has a very strong grasp of her own mind and the minds of others, almost like she can hear the darkness ticking inside of people but this attunement also makes her highly open to the effects of such things.
Inventory: Faux: What simply looks like a very big sword is in fact a pretty complicated big sword. When used as a two handed weapon the large metal sheath of said weapon allows it to be used as an over sized sharpened bludgeoning instrument. If you pulled the weapon from its sheath you get a more precise sword with the sheath now being able to be used as a shield of sort in the off hand.
Split Blade: This backup weapon is used primarily against faster opponents. A simple short blade at first glance, activating the trigger mechanism splits it into a simple dagger and single shot pistol combo.
Name: Naboris Narrows Title:Dustdevil Age: 32 Sex: Male Backstory:
Naboris Narrows was born to a lower middle class family consisting of a Franz Narrows and a Varvara Narrows. Naboris' father, Franz, was a gunsmith by trade while his mother, Varvara, was a housewife. Naboris was an only child, his mother having had several miscarriages before him. In truth, Naboris' conception and birth were surprising to the Mr. and Mrs. Narrows, who had resigned to their apparent fate of being childless and stopped trying long before. Naboris was both a welcomed surprising and source of great concern for the crestfallen couple, ever worried by the peculiar birthmark that haunted their only child's left shoulder blade. Anyone could see that the birthmark had a design to it, far too intentional and clear in form to be by coincidence. The Narrows kept infant Naboris away from others well into his adolescence, at which time he had grown so used to the seclusion and secrecy that he began to hide himself away from the world.
Naboris was taught his father's trade by default, as he was the only child. Long hours in the basement of his father's shop was the perfect solution to the problem of concealing a boy from the world. Naboris minded his isolation, as any young boy would, but did not push the matter. He had already grown accustomed to it, and by the age of nine had stumbled upon a second, more unnerving quirk. A quirk which he felt was a perversion of nature itself, if the consequence of merely having a queer mark upon his back was anything to judge by. Naboris, frightened of himself, said not a word to either parent hoping to bury his blight with forgetfulness. If he didn't think about it, if no one knew about it, the young Naboris thought that it might just disappear one day; perhaps taking the mark that had plagued his existence along with it. Naboris decided to dedicate himself heart and soul to his father's trade to that effect, hoping for a change.
As time passed and Naboris grew older, urgency to forget his abnormalities passed. It was no longer a continuous effort to ease his mind from the burden of being strange, Naboris just didn't concern himself with it anymore. He ,and his parents, now saw it as just a fact of life. No doubt Naboris' concealment of a deeper oddity helped, but it really didn't matter anymore. Naboris spent less time toiling away in the basement and more time working at the counter of the shop, even running errands on occasion in the evenings. At the same time, requests for unusual work on firearms began to come in from a small group of clients. While the men, and one women, never entered the shop together, or even hinted at being affiliated, Naboris and Franz noticed that their initial orders all came in during the span of a week. All custom work, either bizarre designs that seemed impractical for use by a normal person, or modifications to preexisting firearms that seemed entirely unnecessary. Once the requests for unconventional firearms stopped, the requests for repair work and general maintenance piled up. Franz Narrows became concerned over his new, small flock of customers. They paid a premium, for which Franz never turned down a request, but he couldn't think of how these people where getting so much use out of such odd, sometimes entirely impractical firearms. Meanwhile, Varvara Narrows began to fret over the rising rate of murder and disappearances in their part of town. Franz did ponder aloud to Naboris to whether or not there was a connection between the rise of worrisome events and the new clients strange requests, but quickly silenced himself and told Naboris not to utter a word of it to his mother.
It was a hot, summer afternoon that Naboris' secret was discovered. Fraz and Varvara told Naboris that they were running an errand together, though he was certain it was a date. Business had been slow that day, and so Naboris retreated to the basement to work on another odd order. The heat of the day mixed with the heat of his work, and so Naboris took off his shirt to help keep cool. Naboris was unconcerned with keeping watch over the shop as he could hear anyone enter through the thin floor boards. Naboris was wiping the sweat from his brow when he heard a man utter a long "Uhhh..." from behind him. Naboris stiffened up and froze like a thief caught red handed. Naboris slowly turned around, surprised that he had not heard the man enter the store and descend down the stairs to the basement. "Y-yes?", Naboris asked, too nervous to question the man as to why he felt so inclined as to trespass into the basement. "Is this the shop of a Mr. Franz Narrows?", asked the man. "Yes", Naboris responded, "But he is out for the day. I am his son, Naboris. I can handle any business you may have". Naboris felt cornered in the basement, a room which once served as a fortress of solitude. As the man began to speak Naboris began to take in his appearance. Something was... "Off" about him. Uncanny, even. "So, he won't be back then, a pity... May I ask you something, boy?" The man said as he took a step closer. Naboris had not realized just how imposing the stranger's height was until he took that step, but now his was looming in. "How did you get such a strange mark down your back?". Naboris blinked for a moment, "Uhh, it was a brand. Requested by a client. My father heated it to mark the stock of a rifle with, but I was not paying attention and backed into it as he pulled it from the furnace. Left a nasty burn -as you can see.". The man seemed to think to himself for a moment, then his face lit up and his demeanor changed. "Fair enough! I'll return on the morrow, Mr. Narrows should be back by then, right?" He did not wait for an answer as he turned around and began to climb the stairs. As he ascended the final step he called down to Naboris "I'll see you again, boy!", and left the store. Naboris begin to sweat doubly in anxiety as he put his shirt on and returned to the counter upstairs, unsure of what to do.
It was early in the night when the Mr. and Mrs. returned home. Naboris had just finished closing shop when, and his father asked him if there had been any costumers. Naboris told him of the only one, the uncanny man who let himself into the basement. Franz asked if he was one of the clients with odd requests, but Naboris reaffirmed that he did not seem like one of them and said that the man would return tomorrow. Naboris decided to leave out the bit about the man seeing his back, thinking that his poor lie may have worked. The family of three returned to their living quarters up stairs, ate dinner, then retired to their respective rooms. Naboris fell asleep quite easily, putting his mind to rest with the thought that the strange man might not return at all.
Naboris awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of a loud bang. He sat still in his bed for moment, thinking that the sound was a burglar in the shop down stairs. His father had much same thought and began yelling as he descended the stairs. Naboris jumped up and rushed to his door as he heard the deafening roar of gunfire from below and the screaming of his father in agony. Naboris opened his door and peered into the darkness of the unlit stairwell leading down into the shop below. All he could hear was a soft crunching sound, like that of a dog gnawing on a bone. Naboris found himself in a cold sweat as he attempted to call out into the darkness. He opened his mouth, but words would not come out. The silent gnawing of the night was broken by Naboris' mother crying his name as she stumbled of her room shivering in fear. The sound from below ceased as Varvara stepped on a creaky floor board. Naboris could not see past the thick veil of black below, but felt something starring back at him intently. Varvara latched onto Naboris' shoulder and peered down the stairs with a whimper, "F-Franz?" she beckoned meekly. As if on cue, something emerged from the darkness so quickly that it looked like a white blur. Naboris tried to push his mother back but was thrown back into his room by the impact of the unknown attacker. Naboris heard Varvara scream in terror for only a moment before she was silenced with the visceral sound of flesh being torn. Naboris propped himself up against his bad as he looked out through his doorway. Nothing. For perhaps a minute, there was nothing. No movement, visual or audible. Just then, blood seeped down the hallway and into his room. With it were the sounds of heavy feet pattering in on the damp floor. The creature peaked its head in through the door first, the rest of it's body following. It was a head taller than a man, skin hairless and pale, splashed with blood and other bodily matter. It's head and face looked like something between a man and rat, it's body was muscular but seemingly malnourished, with skin pulled so tight that it was nearly translucent and looked as though it might rip with every moment. As the horrid beast loomed closer, Naboris peered into it's eyes and recognized it immediately. It was the man from earlier today! He was now disfigured and morphed into something nightmarish monstrosity, but Naboris was certain.
The monster opened it's mouth slightly, and spoke through it's maws with a harsh, guttural sound "Youuu. Youuu, cooome to me, boy". Naboris inhaled deeply but felt strangled nontheless. He stood up and immediately dash over his bed for the window. It was a two story drop, but anything was more feasible than surviving this beast head on. Naboris' fingertips did not so much as touch the window pane before he was pinned down on his stomach by the monster. It ripped at his shirt leaving a nasty wound on his right side. Naboris struggled futilely as the beast's maw neared the back of his neck. Then, suddenly, the beast was on his back no more. Naboris felt it hit the ground with a thud, and turned around to see it dragged to the center of his room by a shining, metalic rope and was wrapped around it's neck. At first one man, then another, and finally a women rose up from the darkness of of the stairway leading into the shop. The women shot the struggling beast in the head with a blunderbuss, only seeming to anger it was small traces of blood splattered from the top of it's skull. "Its tougher than expected", she complained as she drew a long, thin blade of some kind and began stabbing it. One of the men joined in on butchering the beast with a saw like weapon, while the last man restrained it with the metal rope which Naboris could now see was some kind of whip. In moments the beast was practically drawn and quartered right there in his room. Naboris found breathing hard as he went into shock, slumping over his bed with his back the trio. "The Narrows boy, he he is marked", said the women. Naboris peered over his shoulder and looked back at the three, recognizing them as three of the shop's unusual clients. "We should take him then, there is nothing here for him now.", Said one of the men. "Let us make haste then. We'll have to burn it, too"
Two of the Hunters hurried the injured and scared Naboris out of the shop by the back as the third set fire to it. Naboris looked back only for a moment before passing out.
Aspect of the Hunter:"Dustdevil" Naboris can communicate with the wind. He can track anything outdoors and hear things from miles away. Naboris is unaffected by wind resistance and in combat all of his movements are quicker, while all his enemies seem to move slower when standing near you. Naboris can also choose to have greater wind resistance when falling or being knocked back. From far distances Naboris can't be seen through the trail of dust that constantly follows him.
Stats: Strength – C Vitality – C Skill – A Knowledge – B Bloodlust – D Darkness – A
Skills: Gunsmith Sleuth
Inventory: Hair: A bullwhip made of braided leather and steel cord, reaching up to 6 meters in length. While the steel cord gives Hair a nasty bite, it’s true lethality is not as a whip. Upon adjusting a small knob at the bottom of the handle the steel cord with was once limb and serpentine becomes tense and stiff. The cord retracts in both diameter and length until it is merely 4 meters long in length and ranges from an inch thick at the start to a needle thin point, forming an extremely long and thin estoc-like weapon. The tightened steel has superb tensile strength, only bending just before it breaks.
Shortbuss: A single shot pistol, with a unique over and under design and an enlarged barrel allowing it to fire rounds typically reserved for a blunderbuss. It lets Naboris bring the punch of a blunderbuss to a fight in the package of a pistol.
So, there I was naked, covered in blood, screaming my head off in a room filled with my closest kin and a number of well wishers. Do any of them help me? No. All they do is stare and whisper about a little birthmark. Sure, it kinda seemed to glow ominously but I blame that more on the fact that I was covered in blood with the moonlight spilling in through at just the right angle to make it weird. Also, how creepy could it have been what with me being only being a baby. Did I forget that part? Right. Well, I was just born and the blood was my mother’s. Mostly, I think.
I guess what I’m say is that it didn’t quite go to plan.
Complications. That’s what they told me. Which is a very political way of saying shit happened that nobody was prepared for. I don’t know the exact details of it all but it was properly fucked. Especially, when you realize that it my dad who was doing the doctoring. People talked. They always do. It wasn’t enough for him to have been stuck with a child of the brand but fate had tossed in a dead wife to sweeten the deal. He got through it though. Dad’s good like that.
Family was the talk of the town for a while though not a lot of people bothered to show up for the funeral. It was a closed casket affair which my uncle assures me was for the best. Again, I don’t the specifics of the complications but Mortimer at least was an open book about the embalming. I could go into detail here about what he told me but some have pointed out that I can be a tad macabre. Guess that runs in the family.
It’s a good family though. I know that my uhh...start? Was a bit rocky but they were good by me when they didn’t need to be. Ditching marked babies after birth wasn’t abnormal or that frowned upon. They were good to me though. Well, at least the ones I knew which I guess was only a few.
My dad, Hendrick, was a doctor. I mentioned that already but it’s kinda important so it’s worth repeating. Doctors come across as kinda callous and cold but that’s how it is. They care, of course, but they also have to keep a certain distance. They grow a thick skin. I think that’s what allowed him to ignore the talk. He didn’t move or close his clinic either. It was just business as usual. You’d think with the talk people wouldn’t come around but they did. Can’t just not go and see the doctor because of rumors, right? I mean, some didn’t but they dumb and deserved whatever disease they got.
Hendrick kept me close for a long time. I think he was worried someone would just up and take me away if they found me alone. That sort of did happen but I don’t think it was in the way he was guarding against. Not that he could of even if he had tried but I’m getting ahead of myself here. What I’m trying to say is that I spent a lot of time around him when I was younger. He made me his little assistant. I didn’t really do much at first beyond run around doing chores and handing him things when he asked. Spend enough time in a clinic though and you will start to pick up a thing or two. It helps when they start to train you. He wasn’t trying to make me into a doctor though. Don’t think Dad ever really wanted that for me. The men in the family are simple thinkers and if teaching me some skills let me help him then it was a positive.
Mortimer was a lot of the same. He’s my uncle and a mortician as I’ve mentioned. Yeah, I know. Morty the Mortician. You can laugh. It’s funny. He knows it. Told me that his path was set the day they named him. Who is he to deny such a fate? Personally, I think he liked playing with dolls a bit too much as a kid and sees the dead as just bigger dolls. I don’t say that though. That’d be rude and he doesn’t deserve to be talked about like that. Not that I think he’d mind. Nothing much seems to bother him. See, after a while with my dad he eventually started to loosen the reins and let me go out on my own….under the stipulation that it was just to my uncle’s. You know, the Mortician? See where I’m going?
I’ve touched a lot of dead people in places you can’t mention in polite company. Well, any company really. Very few people consider it dinner conversation. Which is silly. You ever played around with a corpse? I’m talking inside and out here. Clean em out and get them all dolled up. You do that all day and you are going to want to talk about it. Trust me, you want them to talk. Morticians have some of the best stories. No question. The things my uncle has seen deserve to be in a novel. Where they’d be taken for fiction because some things people just aren’t prepared to believe.
See what I did there? Catch the double meaning? Yeah, I’m sure you did.
So I did that for a while until my next and last close kin needed a steady pair of hands. Derrick is my brother and he hurts people. Purposefully. We all tried to talk him out of his chosen profession but he was dead set on it. I don’t know what happened to make him this way as a boy but somehow he came to enjoy strapping people into chairs and working them over with his tools. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d be able to make a living at it but the people just keep coming.
Derricks a dentist.
He’s older than me. I mean a lot older. Derrick was almost an adult by the time I was born. Dad says mom was one of those women that just had a hard time conceiving. The fact that she ever got pregnant again after Derrick was a surprise to both of them. With the age gap between us and the happenings around my birth I can’t say I would have blamed him for being completely distant. He wasn’t though. We weren’t really close for a lot of years but that’s more to do with him throwing himself into an apprenticeship under a dentist and dad not letting me leave home. Once he set up his own shop and I was helping him we hit it off pretty quick. Turned out he was just as odd as the rest of the family. See, he actually enjoyed the work. I don’t see the fun in it but he could just scrape and pull all day long. Some days I’d have to literally pull him away.
Derrick was an odd one. Not as bad as me though.
It started when I was working with my brother. I didn’t enjoy the work but something about seeing all those teeth really...fascinated me. I couldn’t of told you why. There was just something about them that drew me. When nobody was around I’d just play with them. Run my hands through piles of the things. One day, I took it further. It was just a whim. A stupid idea that came into my head from somewhere dark. Didn’t even question it though. I just ran with it. Picked up an old molar and tossed it in my mouth and bit down.
Yeah. I know. That’s weird, right? People just don’t do that. I did though. I bit down and I savored the feeling as it shattered. The crunching sound though was the best part. It’s as loud as you’d expect but inside your head it echoes around in a very intoxicating way. You wouldn’t understand. For me though, it just took the once to get hooked.
Guess you could say things went downhill from there. Everything changes from that moment on. I changed. Something inside of me was different now. I knew that. Could feel it. I’m being literal here. I physically could feel something changing inside me. I didn’t know what it was at the time but I did know what caused it. That tooth set it in motion and the more I ate the greater the change became.
It wasn’t just the teeth though. I mean, at first, yeah that was all but then I taste for something more. I just so happened to have relatively easy access to it too. Let’s not beat about the bush here. I wanted bones. Know who has bodies around? Morticians. Now, let’s be clear. I’m not a cannibal. I’ve no interest in fleshy bits. Just the bones. See, Mort also did cremations. If you timed it just right you could take the body out a bit early. Sure, the goods are a bit on the charred side but I’m guessing by now you realize that wouldn’t bother me. The problem is that my appetite increased while my uncle didn’t always have bodies on hand to steal. Sometimes I had to find my own.
You might have heard about the recent the grave robbings from a year or so ago. That uh...well that was me. I dug them up and got their bodies to my uncles and then you know what happened. It sounds like a lot of work sure but you underestimate how much I wanted the bones. Also, I’m surprisingly strong. You wouldn’t think it from looking at me but yeah. I am. Not particularly sneaky though.
See, guess the hunters thought it was a ghoul or something that was doing it. They camped out the graveyard and didn’t find a monster. They found me. Which led to a very frightened series of lies from me which were followed by a very concise version of the truth. Which they understood and one of them asked me to follow them.
When someone armed to the teeth who catches you eating bones asks you to follow them, you do.
Which is how I got here.
Aspect of the Hunter: "Bonesetter" which gives you the ability to reshape your bone structure as well as heal the bones of yourself and others. You can can also sense bone and by consuming bones of creatures aligned with the dark you may permanently reinforce your own skeletal structure.
Stats: Strength – C Vitality – B Skill – A Knowledge – C Bloodlust – D Darkness – B
Skills: Medical Knowledge - Spend enough time playing nurse to a doctor, dentist, and mortician and you are bound to pick up some things.
Sewing - Just one of those things you learn to do when you find yourself with a lot of time to kill. Also doesn’t hurt to be good with a needle when someone needs to get stitched up.
Cooking - It was either learn to cook or put her faith in her father’s cooking. Suffice to say, he hasn’t been allowed near a kitchen in years.
Pitch - Lorelei can carry a tune. Sadly, most times the only ears that get to enjoy her melodies happen to belong to corpses.
"I'm afraid you won't survive the night. This will hurt a great deal. I'm not sorry."
Name: Silas King Title: "Spiritbreaker" Age: 36 Sex: Male
There is no way around the admission that Silas King is a big man.
He stands head and shoulders above most, and that even is disregarding the unusual breadth of his shoulders and chest, the impressive musculature of his arms and thighs. Robust, one might say, though he carries himself as well as any gentleman can be expected to. Though his lips are wide and somewhat bland they bear his most obvious scars, one even pulling them into something sardonic as it tugs at the memory of a bottle.
It does not make him look cheerful.
Strong chinned and classically boned, he watches the world through deep-set slate, his brow ever furrowed in frustration or in thought. Though he feigns gentility he is a thing for breaking and battering and it shows in his heaviness, craggy features carved from stone. Nowhere, however, is this more apparent than his hands--massive things with powerful knuckles, thick fingers and sturdy nails. Leathery and well worn, he gloves them to hide the nicks and cuts that should hardly be present for the man he pretends himself to be.
The seal of his station rests on his breast above his heart. He can feel it, as it beats, as he always has.
He speaks quite softly for a man of his size, a rumble as much felt as heard, and such dislikes crowds.
It has taken Silas King a great deal of time to come to terms with that fact that men like him were born to end lives.
In another time he might have been a hero, striding across battlefields laying waste to any insolent enough to challenge him, but in the city of Penumbra his talents are found considerably less savory. Since he was a boy he has had quite the temper, and for a man like Silas this has caused him a great number of tragedies. Though once upon a time he lived to make the best of things, to ignore the call to arms that beats on his chest with every breath he has finally been forced to accept that civility and normality are simply not in his cards. That it came at the cost of his wife and child was a tragedy, a price unwillingly paid, but rather than wallow he chooses to accept.
Emotional pragmatism, then, is his bylaw, control his native state. He is reserved in the extreme, bottling his passion with such ferocity that he often is accused of being as cold as the statues he so loves to examine in his free time. At best a good puzzle and at worst a nuisance, he cares little for others yet feels a need to understand them, a paradox that frustrates him as much as anything. He wastes little sentiment on mercy or guilt, lamenting the loss of control far more than either as he pursues his duties.
He enjoys a fine drink, scotch if on hand.
They say he kicked his way out.
They say she burst like a balloon, all raspberry jam and meaty porridge. It was a rough old time of it, the girls that remember it prattle on when Master King wasn't about. Scrubbing out that mess, well, they couldn't manage it, could they? Had to toss the whole bedding, awful waste you ask me, but they couldn't very well just shop out the Lady's four poster. It's still there, if you go poking around where you ought not to, locked up in the old regency room with the rest of her Lady's things. They say all the fresh sheets in the world can't hide that brickabrack mess her little beastie made of her, all popped open like a Christmas cracker. Ask anyone.
The only ones won't wag on about it are those that were there, and mum's the word for them lot. All they talk about is birthmarks and the devil to pay, silly old things.
------
You seen what that little lad's done now? Quite the temper he's got, little Silas, but mighty God if he's not strong as an ox. Never seen toys broken up like that, all gone to splinters in his fat little fingers, and Lord above don't you let him get hold of you. Heard one of the girls screaming her bloody head off the other day, no lie, going on that he ripped her sodding ear off, and I'd never believe a thing at all out of Millie Thomas but for what I found cleaning that little beast's playpen. All tucked away in a corner like a pup that's done wrong, can you Adam and Eve it?
I won't say it was Millie's, but I've never found an ear in no baby's crib before. Not once on my life. Won't say a thing of it to Master King, neither, not with the way he looks at girls who wag their tongues. Keep quiet and there's a nice tuppence, chatter on and it's the boot.
-------
Well if that wasn't just a laugh and a bloody half.
You hear what they've had me doing, then? Can you bloody believe it? That poor little dog! Now I know what I saw and I don't care what his Lordship says, that's not on. I walk in his bundle's room to tell him time for his lessons and there he is sobbing like nothing else, and do you know what the devil was left of his pooch? Table scraps, I'll have you know, nothing but bits and bloody pieces, a sodding butcher couldn't have done it better. He pulled it right apart, hand to God, I can still see its white little teeth all mashed up and it's ribs all crackled like a house of sticks. Said it bit him and I'm sure it must have, face all cut up like that, but for all I know he bit the sodding thing right back!
And that father of his, coming in like a storm! Doesn't say a word, doesn't speak at all, just walks on over and starts laying the young master out! Something wicked, no less, I've seen boxers less swabbed, all muttering under his sodding breath. "Keep it under wraps," he finally says, "get yourself together!" Pot calling the bloody kettle black on that one, you ask me, I don't know whether to feel worse for the boy or the damn dog anymore.
Wasn't for the extra toss I got for keeping buttoned and cleaning up after I'd have left years ago. Little Silas King and his bloody father...they'll be the death of me, you wait and see.
----
They don't none of them see it!
These new girls, they're all sixes and sevens, not a brain in the bunch! If they'd been around for his worst there'd be none of this tittering behind my back. 'Granny's at it again' they're clucking, like my greys aren't owed to that sour little so-and-so, 'she's telling war stories!' Granny my garters, I've a full score ahead of me even if I might have worn out a few boots in my day.
They don't know the bleeding half of it.
'Course, I say little but he's grown up to be anything but, hasn't our Silas. He might make a ladykiller--lady killer, that's bloody rich--out of hisself if he didn't play the cold fish like his father. Thank God he's gone chill, I remember back when, well, I'll tell you what if I'd thought he wouldn't have it under wraps by now I'd have bundled off quick as could be already. Nowadays its glasses not bones, tables and chairs not growing things. Maybe he's grown a tad himself, maybe he's just bottling, but believe you me it's a relief by now, went through a bloody menagerie trying to keep him in pets.
War stories, they tell me.
Not the bleeding half of it.
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Silas King, eh? 'Course I know of him, you clod, I'm his bleeding nanny!
Not that he needs one these days. He grew up all fine, didn't he, best foot forward and all. A banker now, can you Adam and Eve it? He never did like people but I'll bet he's a right head with their numbers. Certainly sharp enough, head always in some book, which was the right place for it you ask me. I thank the good Lord he didn't find himself a girl while he had the devil in him, but even now I fear for that little wife of his, I really do. It's still there, you know, under his skin, and damned if it won't claw its way out soon enough.
What's he like? Oh love, you don't want to settle yourself in that house, mind you me, the things I've seen. Nothing good about that man for all his fine talk and manners. Bad blood, love, breeding will out, and that father of his weren't no better. No, no, ducky, you find yourself a nice manor with a cheeky young thing that'll ruffle your skirts and pay to keep your gob shut.
Better that than old King manor. You know they never did find that old father of his, and don't you 'run off with some trollop' me. We all know who done him, only is that it only weren't both ways. Devil you know my ass, better no devil at all.
Why's I still there? Lord, ducky, I know too much! They don't keep me for my looks or my cooking, God knows, but I've been with the Kings since mister banker was a messy little thing. Can't let a tongue like that wander far these days, now, can you...
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I knew it, I knew it, I bloody well told you, sitting there with a kerchief wiping blood from his knuckles. That poor woman, that poor boy, God alive I knew it all along. Constable, you've got to listen, with that man out of irons it's a matter of bleeding time. Don't you 'upstanding this' and 'well-respected' that, he's a devil in disguise and always has been. That poor woman, that poor boy!
Like I sodding told you, I popped in to the study to bring him his night cap as always and there he was, bold as fucking brass in his chair, and she...Lord God, and she... it was the damn dogs all over again, the dogs and cats and bloody damn parakeets, and I knew it, God knows I knew it, and I told them, God knows I told them...
He sat and he watched, governor, I swear on the cross. She weren't dead when I walked in, still waggling her tongue with no mouth to hold it in and no eyes left to see, and he watched, he bloody well watched! Just rubbed his sodding knuckles with that kerchief of his, all pale and shaking, and that's when I heard him behind me. Quiet as a church mouse and all in black, but a big man, the kind of man that looked like he might be the sort to deal with our bloody Silas. I try to talk to him, to warn him to do it quick, but he puts a glove to my lips and never-you-mind's me and steps on in as quiet as can be, and I don't see the bloody rest. I run for the stairs, to find the young master and spirit him out, and I... I...
God no, I can still see it. I can't even say. God help that poor boy, I hope it was quick. Not like his mum. Not like his bloody father deserves, the fiend, but I stumble back down and check to see the deed is done and they're gone, they're sodding gone! Why I thought he might put him down I don't know, but I was scared, constable, I really was. But they're out there now, and that's me in the ground, isn't it? I've seen too much, I know too much, I've told too much, you're my only hope.
Don't let him take me, constable, don't you dare let him take me. I've seen the devil, and he wears Silas King like a sodding finger puppet.
God help us all.
Aspect of the Hunter: "Spiritbreaker" surrounds Silas with an aura that causes humans and monster alike to tremble at his strength. As more foes surround him he rises to the occasion, growing stronger and more enduring. Wounds dealt by his hands are wicked things that cannot be healed.
Stats:
Strength – A Vitality – A Skill – C Knowledge – D Bloodlust – C Darkness – B
Sunday Finest -- Custom tailored to his broad and tall frame, Silas is never without slacks, shirt and waistcoat. Woven as they are with threads of thin metals and crafted to allow a freedom of movement rarely seen in such garments, they provide a modicum of resistance against various forms of damage. Combined with his natural resilience, it has made him quite the opponent. In addition the arms are fortified beneath the sleeves with proper gauntlets, the better to defend himself in the close quarters he prefers.
Long Day's Work -- A great topcoat that would buckle most men, the Long Night's Work is a stodgy Alastair topcoat in charcoal that falls to mid-calf and covers even Silas. It is also a veritable suit of armor in and of itself, its woolen interior lined with leather and plated with metal to guard against even the sharpest of claws. Though oft discarded in the heat of battle for greater mobility and ease of use, it is a modern gentleman's suit of armor and Silas wears it to battle as such.
God Save the Queen -- Far more skilled with brute force than subtlety or technique, drastic times occasionally call for drastic measures. When needs must and a nail needs hammering, Silas has just the thing in his affectionately named monstrosity. Attached to a wicked staff of black steel is a massive flanged mace-head of steel, heavy enough that even most hunters would balk to haul or sling it about. In battle it is a brutal weapon, its sheer weight often enough to deliver a fatal blow, but Silas has learned to turn it into a mechanism of momentum. A stored darkstone engine in the haft provides, for the element of surprise, a single forceful burst that rockets the head off its length--when necessary a winch can be activated along the handle to coil and affix the mace more directly but he is loathe to do so. It loses something in its reduction.
King and Country -- Silas' go to weapons, a heavy silvered pair of trench knives add weight and power to his already overwhelming brutality. He carries them with him at all times and is unafraid to engage even the most vicious opponent with them, trusting the focused application of might to see the job through.
Personality Tessa is a smart girl who is witty in conversations and crafty in combat. Though she is bright, lots of that is masked by her aggressive and downright blunt attitude. Tessa is a very unfiltered girl and she will say whatever is on her mind. Tessa is warm towards those she trusts. She is downright harsh toward those she doesn't trust or care about, often shutting them down and blatantly telling them that she doesn't care about what they have to say.
Backstory "There was a time when I was normal, when I wore pretty dresses and corsets, attended aristocratic functions and fantasized about my prince that would sweep me off my feet. There was a time when I had a name and a face to go with it, and everybody that I knew smiled at me and regarded me to be precious. But the issue is that that -was- a time. It's all different for me now.
When I was young, I had everything a high born daughter could ask for. My father, a renowned general, had ventured off on another one of his conquests, leaving me with my mother and uncle in our estate. I don't know why... But the day my uncle moved into the home, is the same day when I started getting these foreboding feelings of dread. I felt cold, like a chill was running down my spine and it refused to warm. I noticed that the manor had gotten bleaker and everybody in it seemed to be more downtrodden. Our estate guards were frequently being seen falling asleep on duty and nobody felt truly safe.
My mother, superstitious as always, had hired a medium on the basis that the manor was haunted. She feared her husband, my father, was killed and his spirit came back restless. We all gathered in the dining room, sitting at the large table as we watched the medium go about his work. I never believed in such things, and I looked at the medium like he was just grabbing our money and playing us for fools. We didn't see my father that night, we saw something worse.
The medium's eyes had rolled back into his head and he began to seizure. Before we could even reach him on the other end of the great oaken table, he was dead. My mother was next, foaming out the mouth and bleeding from her ears. She gave me one last look before she too fell. I looked at my uncle, who returned the gaze. I watched as his eyes faded to black and an impossibly wide grin form on his face. He approached me and I was helpless, I was eleven years old at the time.
My uncle grabbed me by the arm, despite my cries of mercy and my failed attempts at resisting, he dragged me through the manor. I had realized that my uncle was possessed by something, something the medium must've conjured and whatever it was it was going to kill her like it did her mother and the medium. I was dragged all the way to the front door of the manor, I was petrified, I couldn't even move a muscle. My uncle took a knife from the diner and slit his hand open, his blood didn't pour, it weaved through the air and drew a circle around me.
I could hear something in the back of my head, feel invisible hands take my own and keep me held to the floor. He was going to sacrifice me. I was going to die. My possessed uncle stepped up to me, oh god that grin... He placed the knife against my throat, but he didn't slit it. The front door burst open and in came my father, wearing a suit of armor with his rapier in one hand and his flintlock pistol in the other. Next to him was a hooded individual I had never seen. In the blink of an eye, a crossbow bolt had pierced my uncle's head between the eyes, the hooded man had fired it.
My father ran up his brother, distraught that his he had to die. The hooded man had told him that he was dead the instant the Dark had entered his body. Fearing that news, my father set his gaze on me. I was laying on the floor, staring at him blankly but taking in everything that was happening. He rushed to me, cradled me in his arms. I heard a voice, it wasn't him nor the hooded man, it was another coming from inside my ears. I thought I too had been possessed, maybe I was. But the man in the hood said I wasn't possessed and that I had come close. He looked me over, and saw the mark on my arm that was identical to his own.
Every word coming from their mouths sounded like they were speaking down a tube, my ears were ringing and my vision was scattered. I passed out. When I woke up, I was in a carriage. My father was sitting over me, crying into my mother's kerchief. 'Where are we going?' I asked. He looked at me, placed a hand on my head and said, 'somewhere better for you'. The entire journey was a haze, I heard whispers and that chill that haunted me the day my uncle arrived was still crawling across my spine.
I heard the hooded man speak, that's when I realized that this man was a much closer acquaintance to my father than I initially thought. They spoke as they were comrades, or rather, master and apprentice. Who was this man? Where was he taking my father and I? It didn't take long for me get my second question answered, we had arrived in the city of Penumbra.
Once there, were taken to an apothecary, somebody else my father and this hooded man knew. He took my heads, they were as cold as death. He took my temperature, just as cold. He mentioned my bright teal eyes, I was confused, my eyes were supposed to be green. He then looked at the mark on my arm, he told me that my destiny was much darker than what was originally planned. My father and the hooded man nodded to one another, and that's when they told me about the fraternity. My father was a great general, but he washed up and his usefulness withered. The fraternity offered him a place after he had his own encounter with the strange creatures called the Dark. The hooded man revealed himself to be a hunter name Balthazar, who had saved my father like he had saved me. I was only eleven, it was difficult for me to understand it all, but they took me to the Fraternity so that I could.
I lived among them, but I wasn't one of them. For years I walked the halls of the Fraternity, mingled with the people who populated them and learned from their wisdom. But my father never looked at me the same way, every time I made eye contact, I saw sorrow in his eyes and it made me worry. The chill only got colder for me as I grew older, things I touched felt like I was holding onto a flagpole in the winter time, I knew his sorrow was directed at whatever my affliction was. The whispers never went away, but I had grown used to them.
By the time I was seventeen, whatever affliction I was suffering from had changed me. I was cold, not physically, but verbally. I seemed to lack sympathy and I was often talking down to others as my own skills progressed. My father had tried to punish and discipline me for my attitude, but it never worked. He didn't understand what I was going through. I grew closer to Balthazar as he trained me in the ways of hunting. In some ways, Balthazar felt more loving of me than my own father. I knew that he knew what I was going through, like he had seen it before. He always kept the training quarters hot as he knew how terribly cold I was.
I'm nineteen years old now, and I had just passed my test to become a huntress. Balthazar cheered for me and offered me a warmth that my now distant father didn't. I feel as though the cold has left me, but I know that it is only in my mind that it has."
Aspect Shadowrunner - Ryza's shadow is able to maintain physical form and move independently from her. While moving in a shaded area, Ryza can move quicker and her wounds regenerate. When her shadow is independent, it runs the risk of turning on its allies.
Stats Strength – C Vitality – D Skill – B Knowledge – A Bloodlust – C Darkness – A
Skills - Tessa is agile and sure footed, as well as very silent - She is quite smart, more so than she might let on. - Her temperature has been cold since the day she was about to be sacrificed. Because of this, it is hard for Tessa to be bothered by low temperatures.
Inventory - Two wrist claws housed in steel black bracers. The claws are folded steel and razor sharp. - A black lacquer hand crossbow with an auto-loading modification installed onto it. - Four small tube-like bombs that emit light in case her shadow turns on her.
