Atrophy

Recollections: Primal Sinister

---

Interactions: Vin & Loni @Fernstone Marco @NoriWasHere Destiny & Latoya @Evil Ghost Note
Thursday November 24th, The Hollow Tap

---

Planning a murder was a difficult task. It was made even more difficult for Paloma when every attempt to harden her heart so that she was ready for the dirty work was undone by Destiny melting it. She didn’t want to be the shitty adult that ended up confirming the kid’s suspicions that the world was unkind, uncaring, and a much worse place than it should’ve been. A little bit of sweetness did wonders to cover up the bitter taste of reality, even if it wasn’t always good for–oh thank God, Latoya moved in to comfort the kid.

Back to murder. Paloma’s eyes locked in on the janitor’s closet. Certainly, it was brimming with the materials needed to do some wetwork. Years of scrubbing floors and huffing in fumes had taught her the “do nots” of mixing chemicals; invert that knowledge and she had enough little recipes that she could add a chapter into The Anarchist Cookbook. How fast could chlorine gas neutralize this, this, this Jezebel!? And, ideally, how could it be delivered without annihilating the rest of the Thanksgiving feasters?

”Oh, she looks at everyone like that. Right nosy ass she is,” said Vin.

“Huh?” Fuck, the orphan. Paloma fixed Vin with a chastising look and was almost able to suppress the snicker as she hissed, “Vin! Language.”

Paloma hunched back down so that she was eye level with Destiny.

“Sweetie, I know we just only met, but there isn’t one single thing about you that needs fixing. Well, except for one heaping plate of hot food!”

Or a living parent.

If only they had a necromancer. If only she and Vin hadn’t–Paloma pushed the thought from her head. Thought? Fever dream. That’s what it was. A hunger induced waking fever dream. She was certain that was a real thing as her eyes flicked over towards Marco and the obscured villain. The river wasn’t too far from here. Paloma blinked away the intrusions and clapped her hands together.

“C’mon, girlfriend. Let’s jump in line before someone steals all the marshmallows from the sweet potato casserole or…” Paloma trailed off as her minion summoned a minion of their own to get the girls some food. “Oh, thanks Vin! That’s so thoughtful.” Her eyes narrowed with a teasing suspicion as she turned up her nose. “Hmm^mmmmm…"

Paloma didn’t end up having the chance to hit Vin with the devastating(ly true?) accusation that they were simply trying to keep her close. As the hmm hit a pitch that only dogs could hear, a heatseeking cruise missile of adorableness exploded away from her bad, awful, no good mother and streaked past the cookie workshop. The uncannily cute little one splashed into Vin’s arms, mistaking them for her uncle the same way she’d confused Marco with being her daddy. Paloma’s smile, which couldn’t help but to beam at the sight of such a cutie, cracked as her jaw dropped in a gasp.

No. Nuh-uh. Absolutely not. She knew what was going on. She wasn’t stupid. That was it. That fucking did it. That bitch could steal her man, but Paloma would die before letting some hussy take her minion.

Her face blanking, Paloma signaled to Destiny and Latoya with a finger that she would be right back as she began to march towards Marco. Her advance halted as abruptly as it had begun, Paloma freezing with the same fear of a soldier who’d just heard the click of a landmine from beneath their feet. Only her eyes could move. They glanced at the woman who’d finally come into view from behind Marco’s beefy biceps back towards her minion. She saw the distraction wiggling in their arms, reaching out to confound its next target with its impossible cuteness.

Then she saw the bloodthirsty look in Vin’s eyes. Of course they were already aware. The fear fled from Paloma’s chest as a smug little smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth. She leapt at a sudden impulse instead of waiting for sensibility’s arrival. The Samaritan’s aura that had spread throughout the bar like a funky smell before fading into the background wafted back up to the forefront. Those with an Emotional Field would feel just a slight shift from an almost untraceable source, although they would all be quite aware that some powerful magic had just taken place as the Bystander Effect hit the rest of the Hollow Tap.

In an instance, the loud uproar of a crowded room scraping forks and knives against plates became a few slight murmurs accompanied by a clatter or two as all of the Blind went into a stasis. There was a gross plopping noise as a pile of mashed potatoes fell from a poorly balanced plate and splattered on the ground. A torn off bit of roll that had been tossed in the air bumped impossibly off of the open mouth of a leaned back man. A cookie hurled across the workshop table smacked one kid square in the nose and crumbled in two. The unharmed kid didn’t even blink as the icing slid off of his nose and down his shirt without leaving a trace of evidence on him.

And in that same moment as the crowd, minus a Paranormal few, froze, a snap could be heard as Paloma furrowed her brow, threw out her arm, and leveled a fully automatic finger gun with the banana clip. It looked as if she was pointing at Marco, but she was truly aiming at someone, or rather, something else. It wasn’t a person after all. It was one of those doppelgangers. And it wore Vin’s face. Her voice carried louder than intended as she barked out an order like a vicious chihuahua who had just heard someone at the door.

“Sic ‘em, Tiger!”

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

---

The Waystone Inn
Interactions: Lila, Kel @NoriWasHere
Outfit: Well-worn

---

“No no, my dear, I said that I must be too cute for my own good,” said Ransom over the rowdy crowd. “It is loud in here, isn’t it? Perhaps we should go somewhere a bit quiet-OW!”

Lila’s shockingly iron fist smashed against Ransom’s pauldron so hard that it sent him stumbling into the person behind him. How was her hand not broken? More importantly, how wasn’t his shoulder? His teeth clenched together as he seethed. He grasped for his wrist, his hand caught by something before it could tear off his glove so he could throw it down in a challenge.

Ransom turned sharply to see what idiot had stopped him from defending his honor and nearly blinded himself on the tusks of a towering half-orc, freshly soaked in what had once been a full beer, flanked by several of his less-than-happy looking pals. After a quick bit of mental calculus–four against one, minus one arm–the look of indignation on Ransom’s face became a nervous smile as he took up his cloak in his unhooked hand and dabbed at the half-orc’s soaked shirt.

“Gentlemen, let’s not do anything that Rosa will make us regret in the morning. Allow me to explain myself,” said Ransom, watching for any sudden movements.

This was what had happened: he’d been made the fool by some swamp bitch. Ransom had been quite happy to spend the entire night losing his life savings in a card game against Gulda and friends. That was until he noticed one of his bounties laughing when he suffered a bad beat, pretending to look away whenever he threw her a knowing smile, yet ordering round after round so that she could keep watching the show. What else could it have been but flirtation? Now normally Ransom wouldn’t be caught dead reciting poetry to someone so dirty that their lice had lice, but he wasn’t above going for a romantic moonlit stroll through nature if it meant bagging a bounty early.

After all, the antes had been practically eating him alive. So Ransom made his move moments before the game went all tits up and Gulda saw to it that the cheating cat went from nine lives down to eight. Now his last few silvers had been spent replacing the beers and paying off the tab of the new “friends” he had made. The bastards had even taken the drink he’d ordered for himself. It was hard to say which one would suffer the bigger bruise come sunrise: his shoulder, his coinpurse, or his ego.

No, no, it was definitely his ego. Every drop of blueblood that coursed through his veins demanded that the insult Lila had suffered on him be met with satisfaction in the form of a duel. Only she had really done a number on his swordarm; Ransom winced and rolled his shoulder. Perhaps it would be better to listen to the advice from those annoying heavenly pricks and turn the other cheek. At the very least, he should consider the amount of zeroes on Lila’s bounty before taking it to the streets.

Sod it. Ransom allowed the stupid angel massaging his wounded shoulder to talk himself out of getting killed, so he turned only to spot a devil over his other one. A rather pretty devil. A rather pretty familiar devil. Ransom huffed out a half-laugh as he shifted closer to one of Waterdeep’s Most Wanted. The overpacked Waystone Inn was starting to feel like a treasure trove. Nearly made up for his rotten luck during the card game.

“Buy a guy a drink?” asked Ransom as he sidled up to Kael’zar Vexmoor with a smile that got him into trouble as often as it could get him out. Ransom snapped his fingers together and pointed at Kel, his voice rising with realization. “Wait, haven’t we met before? How do I know you?”

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

Ransom Labelle

"Sure, I’ll play your knight in shining armor. Pay me extra and I’ll even pretend to enjoy it."

_______________________________________________ Ransom Labelle He/Him | 40 | Aasimar | Human Heritage | 6’1” | 180lbs | _______________________________________________ Dazzle _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Alas, I’m cursed to be more than just a pretty face." ___________________________________ [+] [Highborn Ruffian] ⫻ Prim, proper, posh. These are things Ransom can pretend to be when needed. He’s well-educated, has a decent understanding of history and tactics, and knows whether he should be using the big fork or the small one. Thanks to his lessons, Ransom can flirt fluently in Elvish and try to make a pass at someone in broken Dwarvish. His pedigree is also the only reason he’s any good at fighting and somehow miraculously alive. [Lowbrow Dandy] ⫻ He’s slummed it long enough to fit in with the scoundrels and the ruffians. Lies are his second language and he can usually detect when others are speaking it. Also, while he might look like he’s clowning around while drunk on sherry, he’s always got his eyes peeled for the bastard wanting to pickpocket the pretty boy. [From the Fall] ⫻ As an Aasimar, Ransom has a few supernatural gifts from his celestial heritage. He can create a temporary magical light, allowing him to do such neat things like not carry a lantern or play a game of “hide the candle”. He can also kiss a boo-boo and make the pain go away or, if they’re not into that, just use his hands instead. The healing isn’t much and he can’t do it often, but it could potentially stabilize someone. Some Aasimar can even manifest wings. Ransom just ended up spraining his ankle when he tried. [Bonus to Consitution] ⫻ For a man who is determined to avoid effort at all costs, Ransom is a shockingly tenacious son of a bitch. He’s barely breaking a sweat after a long fight, he feels reinvigorated after a good forced march or a “tactical” retreat, and he can walk straight after enjoying so many libations that it’d make a dwarf go, “Whoa, buddy.”

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Heaven sent." Ransom was already on the path of becoming a Neverwinter 10, which is a Waterdeep 8, before his revelation as an Aasimar. Now it would simply be impossible for Ransom to be anything but this pretty after his blueblood was given a divine infusion. The man appears largely human, fortunately lacking the more “alien” features certain celestials manifest, but certain characteristics give away his angelic inheritance. His blonde hair has a faint glow to it when it's exposed to sunlight, creating a halo like effect that lingers for a brief moment when he steps out of its glorious incandescence. Less obvious are the changes to Ransom’s blue eyes, which gradually lighten to a sky blue before darkening to a navy as the day passes. Also, no matter what he says to try and cover up a little bit of infidelity when he comes crawling home after being out all night, it is just glitter and his pale skin does not sparkle in the morning sun. He is built like a dancer, with surprising strength for someone who groans when he has to lift his own backpack. He looks young for his age, although that is just something from the guys above as Aasimar age slower and live longer than humans once they’ve reached maturity. Ransom is oddly unscarred for someone who claims and appears to be as seasoned of a combatant as he is, so it must be thanks to some magical healing or stretched stories. Ransom carries himself with a cool confidence, yet if one took a sniff they would catch the air of arrogance that only manifests around someone who comes from money. However, looking at the sorry state of the well-worn gear the Aasimar carries with him and it’s clear that he belongs with the crowd who also came out for copper drink night. His half-plate armor is well-polished but clearly battered, his blue cloak is fraying at the bottom and the dye there has become a brownish-gray after being choked by dirt for years, and his boots just seem a tad loose as if they were made to fit someone else. The way Ransom tends to elongate his words while speaking with his melodic voice clearly betrays him as coming from the upper crust, yet the things he says makes him sound like an absolute bitch.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Some people say I’m shallow. Is that a bad thing? Nobody ever accidentally drowns in a puddle unless they’re drunk."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Ransom hopes for a life of leisure. The sellsword route could one day make it a possibility but it’s just so much damn work. He much rather just wed and bed a princess. Preferably a beautiful elf so that there’ll be no threat of icky grays or wrinkles in his lifetime, but hell he’d settle for a barbaric chieftain if the bed’s cushy enough, the wine keeps flowing, and he doesn’t have to join in on any raids.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ He’ll say anything to get his way. Dogmas, morals, and beliefs exist to be exploited and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with doing so if it gets him ahead. People love hearing that they’re right, and Ransom loves people to believe that he’s on their side. Makes them so much more agreeable. It’s a win-win.

SECRETS ⫻ It doesn’t require that high of an insight check to realize that Ransom is largely superficial. The biggest surprise might be that while it’s undeniable that he’s a slippery, slimy scumbag, the man does have some basic decency. Very. Basic. Just because he’s selfish doesn’t make him heartless. He just doesn’t want a bunch of peasants pestering him when he’s trying to have a good time at the local tavern. Go get some stupid paladin and pray that they don’t smite the whole town because someone botches the sacrament.

Also, he’s not in Greyharrow for the work that he claims to be seeking. More on that later.

SEXUALITY ⫻ He’s no wizard, but Ransom’s been known to cast Knock on boots before. He ain’t a sorcerer, but he can make that Sorcerous Burst with his Thunderclap. He might not have a Wand of Magic Missiles in his pocket, but the mistake is understandable because if he can hit it, he’ll hit it.

FEARS ⫻ Oozes. Responsibility. Mages. Oozes is obvious, what if they got in his nose? Responsibility’s pretty clear, too. Life’s easier when the blame can be pointed somewhere else. Mages, now? That could be considered a bit irrational. Ransom knows that most mages are total little bitches who just wave their hands around, mutter some mumbojumbo, and catch a crossbow bolt to the chest before they can unleash their devastating “make the floor sticky” spell. But then some of them can turn invisible. Control minds. Scry on him when he’s in the john. A strong enough mage could even turn into an ooze. Then what?

Then he’s got a mage in his nose.

WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Unless there’s a bodacious princess hiding amongst the slackjawed and poxmarked locals then Ransom must only be in this shithole for work. Bodyguard duty, basement rat killing, caravan escorting, dungeon spelunking, whatever gig that comes with some coin up front he’s down to do. Allegedly, anyway. The truth is that Ransom came to town with his work already lined up for him: bounty work.

WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Beloved, surely, and anyone who says otherwise is just jealous! Okay, not quite. Ransom might be a recent arrival, but this isn’t his first time in Greyharrow. Most people fairly assume that he’s a foppish, playboy loudmouth who’s a bit of a dick but really not worth the price of the rug they’d use to stash his body in. Still, he’s a welcome sight at the Waystone Inn, celebrated for his carousing, his entertaining if largely fabricated stories, and his love for prop bets and gambling despite his nigh legendary bad luck with cards and dice. Outside of that he’s known to have a good swordhand and won’t let someone walk into the obvious pit trap just to get a bigger slice of the treasure.

EQUIPMENT ⫻ Ransom has a once elegant rapier that has long lost its luster, a dagger on his belt, and another in his boot. He also has a hand crossbow and will always claim to have at least twenty bolts despite what empirical evidence might say otherwise. He protects himself with some polished but battered half-plate armor, which is like plate armor but instead of getting full coverage he instead has some severe vulnerabilities that aren’t protected because he can’t afford to pay for it–just like in real life! He has a visored helm as well to protect the moneymaker or to serve as an uncomfortable but portable footrest. Ransom has a noticeable lack of practical equipment such as torches, flint, rope, emergency rations, backpacks, bedrolls, and so on because that’s for the help to carry.

FLAWS ⫻ No. He’s perfect*

_{*Wisdom is his dump stat. To say that Ransom is merely overconfident and prideful would be an insult. The man is hubris incarnate. He would’ve gotten himself killed in a duel years ago if he wasn’t so annoyingly good with a sword. He also has a mild case of a major gambling addiction and will lose all of his gold in a sure fire win if someone does not babysit him.}

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Ladies, if your jealous husband ever asks why his son is starting to glow, never answer him by saying that an angel put its spark in you. Ruins the marriage."

Originally the heir apparent to the noble Labelle family, Ransom was groomed for excellence. He was educated by the most brilliant tutors, trained by the finest of swordsmen, and taught etiquette by just an utterly–ugh–just the most annoying and snooty old halfling he’s ever met named Mrs. Marmsdale. Then at some point in his teens he started sparkling in places he hadn’t shined before and his dad got all mad at his mom. The court mage (who was an absolute prick) did some magic malarky and, well, one beheading, a second marriage, and a successful pregnancy later and suddenly Ransom was no longer the heir.

And it was such a relief!

Sure, at first Ransom was considering the absolute classic “blanket-in-the-crib” tech for reclaiming his birthright, but then he reconsidered. From what Ransom had been shown, running a fiefdom was actually totally awful. His dad’s entire day was just spent listening to dirty, stinky peasants complain about the dumbest of things–”ohhhh, it didn’t rain and now I can’t eat”, “ooooh, oooh, my money was stolen by this guy dressed all in black and now I can’t pay my taxes”, “oooh, oooh, ooooh, goblins murdered my whole family”–like, what a bunch of losers! Now Ransom could just be rich. Plus, he didn’t have to suffocate a baby and that little asshole could deal with all those annoying poors instead. What a sucker.

Then his uncle on his mother's side had to get involved, making some big hubbub about justice and holy vengeance and how his nephew was the rightful heir and for some reason a bunch of these stupid peasants also got all mad about it. Suddenly oops, there’s a succession crisis. Now, there are two ways to go about such a problem. The first is to go back to that blanket tech, but when the target’s not a baby but a manbaby that gets a bit tough. The second is a civil war, which typically aren’t very fun and/or chill. However, Ransom found the super secret third option that nobody told him about: just leave. Run away. Beat feet. Turns out with no other interested heir present there can’t be a succession crisis.

Problem solved.

He later heard whilst he was traipsing around as a sellsword that his uncle was also beheaded. After a few years of proper “adventuring” (which was mostly just drinking, gambling, and bedroom delving), a nearly broke Ransom made his grand return home. He was certain that everything had calmed down and if he couldn’t move back into his old room he could at the very least get some allowance. As it turns out, those goblins ended up actually being a much bigger problem than they had seemed, and the whole “family murder” thing was still very much their bag.

Ransom no longer had an allowance he could collect and the goblins had turned his old room into a shrine for some Nomog-Gewhatever, so it was back to adventuring. The only problem was that without having a pocket full of platinum to go along with his silverspoon it turned out that he had to actually give it a proper go this time. Any success Ransom had over the years was almost always immediately met with a setback–definitely none of them ever by his own fault ever, it was a surefire bet, he just got unlucky. Either way, he never quite made it.

When times got tough, and they got tough often, Ransom always found himself slunking back to Greyharrow. It’s hard to say what drew him to the place. Perhaps it’s because it’s one of the first towns he visited when he’d initially set out and he just liked the vibe. Perhaps it’s because he’s madly in love with Liliana Scratch despite (or because of) how much she freaks him out. Or maybe it’s because it’s a town full of big, beautiful bounties and once he’s established himself he can trick a group of them to go score some phony treasure just over in them ruins yonder and then have the crew of hirelings he’d posted up there beforehand make some rocks fall. Score all of those bounties in one easy, flawlessly planned go.

But then, boom, bang, space. Maybe he just isn’t unlucky; maybe he’s cursed. Either way the plan’s scrapped. And what about poor little hirelings outside of town. Did they get unmade in the reality warping whateverthefuck? Are they still in those ruins, freezing with their thumbs up their asses, thinking that they’ve been played? Does he care? Should he?

Eh.

At least he didn’t pay them up front.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"What are the odds that there’s a bounty office in Greyharrow?"

The estate Ransom grew up on was named Labelle Gardens. The goblins are still there. They’ve renamed it to Gobelle Gardens. It has become a goblin paradise. Mrs. Marmsdale still resides there and has taught them all how to be proper, real fancylike goblins.

_{FIGHTER
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"You can tell a lot about a man by his weapon of choice. Longbow? Coward. Polearm? Plebian. Greatsword? Overcompensating."

TYPE ⫻ Fighter (Battle Master)

FIGHTING STYLE ⫻ Ransom is a dexterious duelist, overwhelming his opponents with a flurry of quick thrusts, fancy footwork, and the occasional poor sportsmanship. He views a fight as much of a mental war as it is a physical one, trying to make his foes fumble while punishing their blunders with precision. Ransom would rather score a dozen wounds than gamble on a deathblow that would overextend himself; an infection or a slow bleed out kills a man just as well as a blade. Ransom is a southpaw, preferring to wield a rapier over other swords, and tends to fight with one hand open to allow for improvisation. He might pull out the occasional parrying dagger if he needs to fight defensively, but when steel is dancing Ransom prefers being the one who leads.

CURRENT WEAPONS ⫻ Ransom’s go to weapon is a silvered rapier that has begun to tarnish around the guard. For someone so full of himself, he’s frustratingly able to back up any boasts he might make about his skill with a blade. Ransom has picked up various feints and flourishes, allowing him to use his finesse to disarm an opponent or distract their attention to allow him to hit them where they don’t expect it.

His daggers are fairly run-of-the-mill and often disposable, used primarily in his offhand to parry blades and give himself an opportunity to riposte with his rapier. They have been balanced to be thrown, and coupled with a standard handcrossbow he hides beneath his cloak they can be used to take a sudden cheapshot at a short range.

However, the most dangerous weapon that Ransom wields beside his rapier is the improvised one. A barstool makes for a great sword catcher and a slightly worse club. An oil lantern is a mundane man’s firebolt. A cape might seem impractical in a fight, but throw it at some chap's head and Ransom has suddenly cast the Darkness spell without having to sign his soul away to burn in the Nine Hells.

TRAINING ⫻ Ransom was trained by the finest of swordmasters that a lesser noble family could afford. Ransom learned to fight drunkenly just outside of the tavern or at dawn with nobody present but his foe and their seconds.

LIMITS ⫻ Ransom lacks any real long range options. His hand crossbow travels the furthest, but its accuracy and potency falls off beyond ten paces. Ransom does not have a good answer when it comes to dealing with a large group of enemies. Often, his best option is either to run or find a way to force the mob to funnel themselves into a chokepoint so he can engage them one at a time.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Ransom may be a dexterous duelist, but his degrading armor and short weaponry leave him exposed to many different avenues that lead towards death. For starters, he is going to be weak at range to true ranged opponents, and a heavy bolt will often find a way to crash through the gaps in his armor if his luck is not present. As well, he will need to keep himself within range of his opponents to truly strike. Thus, while skilled, he may find himself at a disadvantage if he faces more than two targets at a time. He is also especially weak against magic-based casters at range; however, if he can close the distance, their lack of armor shall make it easy for him to engage.

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

@NoriWasHereApologies in advance, although we both know they're insincere.

Generic Fighter

"Sure, I’ll play your knight in shining armor. Pay me extra and I’ll even pretend to enjoy it."

_______________________________________________ Ransom Labelle He/Him | 40 | Aasimar | Human Heritage | 6’1” | 180lbs | _______________________________________________ Dazzle _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Alas, I’m cursed to be more than just a pretty face." ___________________________________ [+] [Highborn Ruffian] ⫻ Prim, proper, posh. These are things Ransom can pretend to be when needed. He’s well-educated, has a decent understanding of history and tactics, and knows whether he should be using the big fork or the small one. Thanks to his lessons, Ransom can flirt fluently in Elvish and try to make a pass at someone in broken Dwarvish. His pedigree is also the only reason he’s any good at fighting and somehow miraculously alive. [Lowbrow Dandy] ⫻ He’s slummed it long enough to fit in with the scoundrels and the ruffians. Lies are his second language and he can usually detect when others are speaking it. Also, while he might look like he’s clowning around while drunk on sherry, he’s always got his eyes peeled for the bastard wanting to pickpocket the pretty boy. [From the Fall] ⫻ As an Aasimar, Ransom has a few supernatural gifts from his celestial heritage. He can create a temporary magical light, allowing him to do such neat things like not carry a lantern or play a game of “hide the candle”. He can also kiss a boo-boo and make the pain go away or, if they’re not into that, just use his hands instead. The healing isn’t much and he can’t do it often, but it could potentially stabilize someone. Some Aasimar can even manifest wings. Ransom just ended up spraining his ankle when he tried. [Bonus to Consitution] ⫻ For a man who is determined to avoid effort at all costs, Ransom is a shockingly tenacious son of a bitch. He’s barely breaking a sweat after a long fight, he feels reinvigorated after a good forced march or a “tactical” retreat, and he can walk straight after enjoying so many libations that it’d make a dwarf go, “Whoa, buddy.”

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Heaven sent." Ransom was already on the path of becoming a Neverwinter 10, which is a Waterdeep 8, before his revelation as an Aasimar. Now it would simply be impossible for Ransom to be anything but this pretty after his blueblood was given a divine infusion. The man appears largely human, fortunately lacking the more “alien” features certain celestials manifest, but certain characteristics give away his angelic inheritance. His blonde hair has a faint glow to it when it's exposed to sunlight, creating a halo like effect that lingers for a brief moment when he steps out of its glorious incandescence. Less obvious are the changes to Ransom’s blue eyes, which gradually lighten to a sky blue before darkening to a navy as the day passes. Also, no matter what he says to try and cover up a little bit of infidelity when he comes crawling home after being out all night, it is just glitter and his pale skin does not sparkle in the morning sun. He is built like a dancer, with surprising strength for someone who groans when he has to lift his own backpack. He looks young for his age, although that is just something from the guys above as Aasimar age slower and live longer than humans once they’ve reached maturity. Ransom is oddly unscarred for someone who claims and appears to be as seasoned of a combatant as he is, so it must be thanks to some magical healing or stretched stories. Ransom carries himself with a cool confidence, yet if one took a sniff they would catch the air of arrogance that only manifests around someone who comes from money. However, looking at the sorry state of the well-worn gear the Aasimar carries with him and it’s clear that he belongs with the crowd who also came out for copper drink night. His half-plate armor is well-polished but clearly battered, his blue cloak is fraying at the bottom and the dye there has become a brownish-gray after being choked by dirt for years, and his boots just seem a tad loose as if they were made to fit someone else. The way Ransom tends to elongate his words while speaking with his melodic voice clearly betrays him as coming from the upper crust, yet the things he says makes him sound like an absolute bitch.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Some people say I’m shallow. Is that a bad thing? Nobody ever accidentally drowns in a puddle unless they’re drunk."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Ransom hopes for a life of leisure. The sellsword route could one day make it a possibility but it’s just so much damn work. He much rather just wed and bed a princess. Preferably a beautiful elf so that there’ll be no threat of icky grays or wrinkles in his lifetime, but hell he’d settle for a barbaric chieftain if the bed’s cushy enough, the wine keeps flowing, and he doesn’t have to join in on any raids.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ He’ll say anything to get his way. Dogmas, morals, and beliefs exist to be exploited and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with doing so if it gets him ahead. People love hearing that they’re right, and Ransom loves people to believe that he’s on their side. Makes them so much more agreeable. It’s a win-win.

SECRETS ⫻ It doesn’t require that high of an insight check to realize that Ransom is largely superficial. The biggest surprise might be that while it’s undeniable that he’s a slippery, slimy scumbag, the man does have some basic decency. Very. Basic. Just because he’s selfish doesn’t make him heartless. He just doesn’t want a bunch of peasants pestering him when he’s trying to have a good time at the local tavern. Go get some stupid paladin and pray that they don’t smite the whole town because someone botches the sacrament.

Also, he’s not in Greyharrow for the work that he claims to be seeking. More on that later.

SEXUALITY ⫻ He’s no wizard, but Ransom’s been known to cast Knock on boots before. He ain’t a sorcerer, but he can make that Sorcerous Burst with his Thunderclap. He might not have a Wand of Magic Missiles in his pocket, but the mistake is understandable because if he can hit it, he’ll hit it.

FEARS ⫻ Oozes. Responsibility. Mages. Oozes is obvious, what if they got in his nose? Responsibility’s pretty clear, too. Life’s easier when the blame can be pointed somewhere else. Mages, now? That could be considered a bit irrational. Ransom knows that most mages are total little bitches who just wave their hands around, mutter some mumbojumbo, and catch a crossbow bolt to the chest before they can unleash their devastating “make the floor sticky” spell. But then some of them can turn invisible. Control minds. Scry on him when he’s in the john. A strong enough mage could even turn into an ooze. Then what?

Then he’s got a mage in his nose.

WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Unless there’s a bodacious princess hiding amongst the slackjawed and poxmarked locals then Ransom must only be in this shithole for work. Bodyguard duty, basement rat killing, caravan escorting, dungeon spelunking, whatever gig that comes with some coin up front he’s down to do. Allegedly, anyway. The truth is that Ransom came to town with his work already lined up for him: bounty work.

WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Beloved, surely, and anyone who says otherwise is just jealous! Okay, not quite. Ransom might be a recent arrival, but this isn’t his first time in Greyharrow. Most people fairly assume that he’s a foppish, playboy loudmouth who’s a bit of a dick but really not worth the price of the rug they’d use to stash his body in. Still, he’s a welcome sight at the Waystone Inn, celebrated for his carousing, his entertaining if largely fabricated stories, and his love for prop bets and gambling despite his nigh legendary bad luck with cards and dice. Outside of that he’s known to have a good swordhand and won’t let someone walk into the obvious pit trap just to get a bigger slice of the treasure.

EQUIPMENT ⫻ Ransom has a once elegant rapier that has long lost its luster, a dagger on his belt, and another in his boot. He also has a hand crossbow and will always claim to have at least twenty bolts despite what empirical evidence might say otherwise. He protects himself with some polished but battered half-plate armor, which is like plate armor but instead of getting full coverage he instead has some severe vulnerabilities that aren’t protected because he can’t afford to pay for it–just like in real life! He has a visored helm as well to protect the moneymaker or to serve as an uncomfortable but portable footrest. Ransom has a noticeable lack of practical equipment such as torches, flint, rope, emergency rations, backpacks, bedrolls, and so on because that’s for the help to carry.

FLAWS ⫻ No. He’s perfect*

_{*Wisdom is his dump stat. To say that Ransom is merely overconfident and prideful would be an insult. The man is hubris incarnate. He would’ve gotten himself killed in a duel years ago if he wasn’t so annoyingly good with a sword. He also has a mild case of a major gambling addiction and will lose all of his gold in a sure fire win if someone does not babysit him.}

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Ladies, if your jealous husband ever asks why his son is starting to glow, never answer him by saying that an angel put its spark in you. Ruins the marriage."

Originally the heir apparent to the noble Labelle family, Ransom was groomed for excellence. He was educated by the most brilliant tutors, trained by the finest of swordsmen, and taught etiquette by just an utterly–ugh–just the most annoying and snooty old halfling he’s ever met named Mrs. Marmsdale. Then at some point in his teens he started sparkling in places he hadn’t shined before and his dad got all mad at his mom. The court mage (who was an absolute prick) did some magic malarky and, well, one beheading, a second marriage, and a successful pregnancy later and suddenly Ransom was no longer the heir.

And it was such a relief!

Sure, at first Ransom was considering the absolute classic “blanket-in-the-crib” tech for reclaiming his birthright, but then he reconsidered. From what Ransom had been shown, running a fiefdom was actually totally awful. His dad’s entire day was just spent listening to dirty, stinky peasants complain about the dumbest of things–”ohhhh, it didn’t rain and now I can’t eat”, “ooooh, oooh, my money was stolen by this guy dressed all in black and now I can’t pay my taxes”, “oooh, oooh, ooooh, goblins murdered my whole family”–like, what a bunch of losers! Now Ransom could just be rich. Plus, he didn’t have to suffocate a baby and that little asshole could deal with all those annoying poors instead. What a sucker.

Then his uncle on his mother's side had to get involved, making some big hubbub about justice and holy vengeance and how his nephew was the rightful heir and for some reason a bunch of these stupid peasants also got all mad about it. Suddenly oops, there’s a succession crisis. Now, there are two ways to go about such a problem. The first is to go back to that blanket tech, but when the target’s not a baby but a manbaby that gets a bit tough. The second is a civil war, which typically aren’t very fun and/or chill. However, Ransom found the super secret third option that nobody told him about: just leave. Run away. Beat feet. Turns out with no other interested heir present there can’t be a succession crisis.

Problem solved.

He later heard whilst he was traipsing around as a sellsword that his uncle was also beheaded. After a few years of proper “adventuring” (which was mostly just drinking, gambling, and bedroom delving), a nearly broke Ransom made his grand return home. He was certain that everything had calmed down and if he couldn’t move back into his old room he could at the very least get some allowance. As it turns out, those goblins ended up actually being a much bigger problem than they had seemed, and the whole “family murder” thing was still very much their bag.

Ransom no longer had an allowance he could collect and the goblins had turned his old room into a shrine for some Nomog-Gewhatever, so it was back to adventuring. The only problem was that without having a pocket full of platinum to go along with his silverspoon it turned out that he had to actually give it a proper go this time. Any success Ransom had over the years was almost always immediately met with a setback–definitely none of them ever by his own fault ever, it was a surefire bet, he just got unlucky. Either way, he never quite made it.

When times got tough, and they got tough often, Ransom always found himself slunking back to Greyharrow. It’s hard to say what drew him to the place. Perhaps it’s because it’s one of the first towns he visited when he’d initially set out and he just liked the vibe. Perhaps it’s because he’s madly in love with Liliana Scratch despite (or because of) how much she freaks him out. Or maybe it’s because it’s a town full of big, beautiful bounties and once he’s established himself he can trick a group of them to go score some phony treasure just over in them ruins yonder and then have the crew of hirelings he’d posted up there beforehand make some rocks fall. Score all of those bounties in one easy, flawlessly planned go.

But then, boom, bang, space. Maybe he just isn’t unlucky; maybe he’s cursed. Either way the plan’s scrapped. And what about poor little hirelings outside of town. Did they get unmade in the reality warping whateverthefuck? Are they still in those ruins, freezing with their thumbs up their asses, thinking that they’ve been played? Does he care? Should he?

Eh.

At least he didn’t pay them up front.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"What are the odds that there’s a bounty office in Greyharrow?"

The estate Ransom grew up on was named Labelle Gardens. The goblins are still there. They’ve renamed it to Gobelle Gardens. It has become a goblin paradise. Mrs. Marmsdale still resides there and has taught them all how to be proper, real fancylike goblins.

_{FIGHTER
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"You can tell a lot about a man by his weapon of choice. Longbow? Coward. Polearm? Plebian. Greatsword? Overcompensating."

TYPE ⫻ Fighter (Battle Master)

FIGHTING STYLE ⫻ Ransom is a dexterious duelist, overwhelming his opponents with a flurry of quick thrusts, fancy footwork, and the occasional poor sportsmanship. He views a fight as much of a mental war as it is a physical one, trying to make his foes fumble while punishing their blunders with precision. Ransom would rather score a dozen wounds than gamble on a deathblow that would overextend himself; an infection or a slow bleed out kills a man just as well as a blade. Ransom is a southpaw, preferring to wield a rapier over other swords, and tends to fight with one hand open to allow for improvisation. He might pull out the occasional parrying dagger if he needs to fight defensively, but when steel is dancing Ransom prefers being the one who leads.

CURRENT WEAPONS ⫻ Ransom’s go to weapon is a silvered rapier that has begun to tarnish around the guard. For someone so full of himself, he’s frustratingly able to back up any boasts he might make about his skill with a blade. Ransom has picked up various feints and flourishes, allowing him to use his finesse to disarm an opponent or distract their attention to allow him to hit them where they don’t expect it.

His daggers are fairly run-of-the-mill and often disposable, used primarily in his offhand to parry blades and give himself an opportunity to riposte with his rapier. They have been balanced to be thrown, and coupled with a standard handcrossbow he hides beneath his cloak they can be used to take a sudden cheapshot at a short range.

However, the most dangerous weapon that Ransom wields beside his rapier is the improvised one. A barstool makes for a great sword catcher and a slightly worse club. An oil lantern is a mundane man’s firebolt. A cape might seem impractical in a fight, but through it at some chaps’ head and Ransom has suddenly cast the Darkness spell without having to sign his soul away to burn in the Nine Hells.

TRAINING ⫻ Ransom was trained by the finest of swordmasters that a lesser noble family could afford. Ransom learned to fight drunkenly just outside of the tavern or at dawn with nobody present but his foe and their seconds.

LIMITS ⫻ Ransom lacks any real long range options. His hand crossbow travels the furthest, but its accuracy and potency falls off beyond ten paces. Ransom does not have a good answer when it comes to dealing with a large group of enemies. Often, his best option is either to run or find a way to force the mob to funnel themselves into a chokepoint so he can engage them one at a time.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)

Recollections: Primal Sinister

---

Interactions: Vin @Fernstone Marco @NoriWasHere Destiny & Latoya @Evil Ghost Note
Thursday November 24th, The Hollow Tap

---

Paloma cocked her head as Vin glowered at her for some strange, cryptic reason. They were so weird sometimes, always trying to beam some secret message into her head instead of just saying things outright. Paloma wrinkled her nose back at Vin. It wasn’t like she had asked anything uncouth. Oh, sure, perhaps she had implied some less-than-savory things, but all she had done was ask a young, alone, hungry child at a free community dinner for the underprivileged about–ooooh. Paloma's eyes filled with a mix of panic and sympathy as she looked down at Destiny, the poor girl silenced by the question.

“Or your grandmother?” asked Paloma, her voice breaking with diminished hope. “An older sister…_{or brother…or…}”

Shit. Paloma's childhood as a Southie hadn’t necessarily been all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, but in reflection she had been a luckier kid than most.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

A different kind of panic rippled through Paloma’s being. Of course now would be the time that Marco finally showed his stupid, sexy face. She needed him–his help, anyway, although she wasn’t going to pretend like the other thing wouldn’t be nice–but now was the worst moment for him to approach. She just couldn’t allow herself to suddenly ignore this girl, she thought whilst ignoring Destiny, missing the fork fly into the kid’s hand entirely as she stared at the fabric on Marco’s shirt straining to keep itself in one piece.

She raised a hand to give him a little flirty wave with her fingers, dropped all but one finger to indicate to Marco to wait for her, and felt herself pulled back as Vin stepped in front of her. A third wave of panic crashed over her, this one heavy with confusion. Paloma had no clue why this was happening, having missed the little girl readying herself with the fork to attack Paloma like she was a succulent Thanksgiving turkey. Some stuck gears broke free of their lust built rust and began to spin again, trying to unravel why Vin had stepped between Marco and–Paloma gave an audible gasp.

Ohmigod, jealousy! she thought, wishing that Gideon would open the goddamn door back up. She was starting to feel flush by the time Latoya had jumped in, introducing herself as Destiny’s friend.

“Paloma. Pleased to meetcha,” she said, reaching past Vin to offer Latoya a handshake, her face blanching in horror as she finally noticed a smear of mashed potatoes on her sleeve from when a cookiemaker had tugged on it and trying to recall if she had waved at Marco with this hand or the other.

She stuffed the concern down as Destiny lied about dropping her plate of food, her worry turning back towards the girl. Initially feeling a bit uncertain about Latoya’s claim to friendship, the suspicion was soon swept away as Destiny broke her heart.

“Why are you all... being soooo nice to me? People don’t just…do that…”

A genuine, unironic awww escaped from Paloma’s lips as her eyes welled up. She would’ve moved to scoop Destiny with her gross, potato soiled arms, but was beaten to the punch by Vin squatting down in front of the girl for a lil pep talk. Softie. Paloma put her hands behind her back and stepped around Vin so she could converse with Latoya, unaware that she would be creating a bit of a smokescreen that would hopefully prevent Destiny’s “friend” from overhearing what was starting to sound like a bit of a worrisome confessional that shouldn’t be dumped on a child just because they’d grabbed a fork before a plate.

“She didn’t drop her plate, actually. She still needs to eat. We were about to go through the line to get some food. I’d ask you to join us, but…,” Paloma gestured to Latoya’s plate. “Maybe you could just save us a seat?”

She glanced sideways at a blinding blur of speed that bumped into Marco.

“Unless you're feeling generous and wanna pass your plate onto Destiny. Poor thing was so hungry she already grabbed a fork. For a moment there it looked like she might eat me,” said Paloma with a laugh, the joy from her face faltering as she saw presumably the mother of the blur talking to Marco, her face obscured by his bulging biceps.

”Vin’s great with kids. She can watch Destiny if you want?” asked Paloma.

Her attempt to charm Latoya into giving herself an opportunity to grill the woman through politeness and sweetness began to unravel as a full Shakespearean tragedy began to play out on Paloma’s face as she watched what she had assumed to have been an apology for being such a SHITTY mother morph into a full on flirtation that begged the question if the cute toddler had merely been used as bait.

“Oh, come on!” groaned Paloma, her annoyance at the competition easily being mistranslated as a sudden and unwarranted pushiness towards Latoya for failure to immediately comply.

A Journey Through Space - A DnD inspired story

Release the sheet, @NoriWasHere, so we can all start making Human Fighters.

Recollections: Primal Sinister

---

Interactions: Vin @Fernstone Destiny @Evil Ghost Note
Thursday November 24th, The Hollow Tap

---

Paloma flashed Vin a guilty grin after they called her out for trying to teach their new ward to get others to do the dirty work for her. She stood back up to feign innocence, pointing out with a “now listen here” finger that drooped and wilted as Vin hard rejected the idea of co-parenting. Paloma put on a playful performance in which she was hurt by Vin’s chastistation. She slackened her jaw and dramatically swooned backwards in a mock shock that became real as the little girl interjected that she wanted to make war, not cookies. Paloma pressed her hand to her heart, covering up the imagined wound from where the kid had buried her blade. Ouch!

She felt a tug on her sleeve come from one of her little Keebler elves. She turned to see a ratty little punk with missing front teeth hold up their absolute abomination of a cookie with the kind of pride that only a child could hold for something that would only ever be defined, and this is put as politely as possible, as utter shit trash. How they’d manage to make the icing that color and consistency was baffling before Paloma realized it wasn’t icing but mashed potatoes. She was also pretty certain that turkeys didn’t have a beak between their legs.

“Wow. That’s pretty…” Dumb. Deviant. Dogshit. “...unique! Let me help you with the next one.”

Paloma squeezed herself onto the bench amongst the kids, grabbed a cookie, and began to show the kids step-by-step how to not ruin all of the work she had already put into the treats before bumming them off on a bunch of untrained, unpaid, and underage laborers. Yet even the slight pull of the Samaritan was not enough to keep the attention of the youths whose heads kept drifting towards Vin as they set a training date with Destiny, not wanting to miss out on any drops of wisdom when it came to dropping some bully trying to steal their bikes.

Truth be told, Paloma couldn’t help but listen in as well, her instructions becoming mumbled as she tried to scoop up the Vin lore. She’d seen enough–things she would never unsee, despite pretending as if she had seen nothing–to no longer warrant everything up to just tough talk. Hell, she’d seen enough that a good part of her wanted to pull the kid aside once Vin was out of earshot and tell them to buzz off for her own safety. But Paloma also saw something as Vin shifted the talk from beating up people bigger than yourself to making sure that the kid was eating right. It was enough “proof” to allow Paloma to carry on with her wishful thinking when it came to Vin and their more, ahem, concerning qualities.

She smiled softly at her secretly sweet stooge with a look that bordered on admiration that was soon backhanded off of her face by an unflattering, unaffectionate nickname.

“Loudmouth!?” echoed Paloma, who had merely intended to mouth the words but was seemingly incapable of even doing that quietly. A wave of giggles passed around the cookie circle and brought productivity to a halt as the gaggle of kids began a chorus of Loudmouth, Loudmouth. It broke Paloma, who was no longer able to pretend that she was peeved, as she chuckled at herself.

“ I ate yesterday. That’s enough,” said Destiny.

Paloma stopped laughing. She didn’t need the Samaritan inside of her to feel a swell of indignation. Eating yesterday most certainly was not enough given how late in the day it was now, especially for a growing kid. She jumped out of her bench seat and rushed towards Destiney, leaving the children caught with a case of the sillies to stir themselves back to work. Along the way, Paloma threw a dirty, accusatory look around the Hollow Tap, a spray-and-pray method in an attempt to shame non-present caretakers. She swooped down to Destiny’s height, looking as if she was going to smother the girl with an inescapable hug, but pulled short and reached out to give the girl a reassuring squeeze on her bony shoulder instead.

“Oh, sweetie, that’s not nearly enough,” said Paloma, trying to hide her anger by drowning it in sugar. “Besides, it’s Thanksgiving. Even if you aren’t hungry, the whole point of the holiday is to eat until you feel sick and then you eat some more. Vin’s gotta pretend to work, but I can go through the line with you, Destiny. The only thing I’ve eaten today was icing. In fact, I’m starting to feel a little weak. I might need you to help me through the line. Oooh, my head. Sooo hungry…”

Paloma covered her face as she pretended to massage a migraine, using her other hand to shoo away a random lady who had overheard Paloma’s bellyaching and had started to fish around in her purse for some ibuprofen. Still shielding her face from Destiny and groaning in hunger, she flashed another coded message at Vin through a series of blinks that she was certain would be interpreted fully and clearly until she realized a flaw in her plan. She dropped her hand and raised an eyebrow at Destiny.

“Destiny, where are your parents?” asked Paloma, who suddenly seemed to have recovered from her hunger-based agony. Even still, her stomach tightened. “It’s just that Vin should probably meet them before training you. Just so that there wouldn’t be any problems, y’know? I'm sure they'd appreciate a preview of the lesson plan.”

Couldn’t sic her minion on those abusive fucks who starved their own kid without knowing where they were.

“Isn’t that right, tiger?”

Recollections: Primal Sinister

---

Interactions: Vin @Fernstone Destiny @Evil Ghost Note
Thursday November 24th, The Hollow Tap

---

”You’re fuckin’ welcome, now you ain’t gotta do any work. But I ain’t supportin’ showin’ ‘em to that rich bitch. Y’know, it wasn’t a shootin’. It was one of those things.”

Paloma looked up from the table she had commandeered and transformed into her cookie sweatshop, lined with bottles of icing and edible glitter that was guaranteed to be found sprinkled about the Hollow Tap for years to come. One of those…? Her eyes widened in recognition as she shoved the stale bag of candy corn into the arms of one of the children. A doppelganger had attacked Freya’s shop? She glanced hopefully at the baker. Perhaps it had been a doppelganger that had said all of those hateful things, too.

She shivered. Gideon’s dumb insistence to greet everyone at the door was letting the cold in. She shot a glance towards the entrance only to see that it was closed.

”Hi. I…want to learn,” said a small voice.

She turned towards the child with a smile on her face, happy to recruit another laborer. At the same time the Samaritan could no longer resist its nature thanks to the overwhelming presence of needy people in such a tight capacity and flicked back on its Messiah Complex. Paloma winced as the bar lit up like Christmas, the small figure in front of her beaming brighter than the star on top of the tree. Sam, enough! Nearly blinded, Paloma felt her heart stop as the golden strings of light faded and revealed to her the shade of a ghost. She blinked rapidly and her blood resumed pumping as her vision cleared, the imagined manifestation of Room 513 shifting before her as it became a different girl.

Paloma couldn’t tell if the Samaritan had just gotten confused or if it was trying to tell her that this young lady desperately needed help. She wasn’t as aptly attuned as Vin was, with her knowledge of magic still muddied by rules regarding spellslots and material components, and still mistook the occasional knock on her Emotional Field for something else–a need for a cup of coffee that was more sugar than coffee, a reminder that she should really stretch more often than she does, or in this case, the wind. So when Paloma saw the blackness of Vin’s eyes she tensed, worried that perhaps the child was a doppelganger or, worse, that Vin was about to whoop some kid’s ass.

The revelation that Vin merely wanted to teach the kid how to fight was a relief until Paloma realized that Vin wanted to teach the kid how to fight.

“Hoooooooold on, tiger. The private lesson thing was only a bit,” said Paloma with a wave of her hand, conscientious of all the children around them. She shifted her attention to Destiny, half-squatting to lower herself down to eye level. “Hi, I’m Paloma. Vin’s just joking around: they like my company. You want to make cookies with the other kids, right? It’s really easy. I can give you some design pointers if you…”

She trailed off as she felt something inside of her squeeze as the Samaritan tried to grab her attention. Talk about actually annoying. Paloma grumbled something under her breath as if she was having an argument with herself, her head rocking side to side as she mulled something over. The kid had glowed brighter than a supernova. She needed help more than anyone else in the bar. Hell, the kid needed it more than anyone else that Paloma had seen in her relatively short time spent with the Samaritan. Her mind started to fabricate the potential horrible scenarios that the kid could be involved in, each worse than the other and none landing even close to what was really going on with the child.

God-fucking-damn kids! So much for scoring some information from Marco, let alone scoring with him. So much for becoming Freya’s new best friend, apprentice, and inheritor of her fortune. Paloma had to figure out what was troubling this girl to make Sammy jump around so much. If not out of the goodness of her heart–a thing she liked to believe that she had, despite some evidence or more so her willingness to destroy said evidence–then at the very least to satisfy her morbid curiosity with the added bonus of shutting the Samaritan up.

A squeal escaped from Paloma’s throat like steam out of a tea kettle.

“Ohmigosh! I just can’t stand it. Like. At. All. You’re just too cute!” She snapped her head towards Vin, slashing a finger at them like a knife as she jumped up to her feet. “We’re adopting her. No arguments. We’ll figure out who’s daddy later.”

“What is it you’d like to learn, sweetie?” asked Paloma, dropping back into a half-squat as she lowered her voice to a hush. “There isn’t someone you’d actually want to punch, is there? Because you don’t really need to learn how to fight someone just to fight back.” Paloma guided Destiny's eyes towards Vin with a glance. “You just need to know someone who’d do it for you.”

Recollections: Linebreaker

---

---

An uncomfortable silence filled the interior of a luxury car and mixed with the smell of new leather and stale cigarettes. The professional driver eyed the radio dial as the car idled in construction traffic, uncertain if turning on some music to cut the unease was worth the risk of drawing the ire of either of the two occupants sitting in the back. The woman stared out a tinted window that reflected her tight jaw and furrowed brow. Between her elegant updo and fancy dress she looked as if she had just come from some black tie affair. She cleared her throat. The man sitting next to her in his cowboy boots and blue collar shirt was one orange vest away from being mistaken for one of the construction workers standing around in a circle on the side of the highway, watching the traffic jam that they had created. He didn’t look the woman’s way as she cleared her throat yet again, his face glued to the screen of his phone as he slowly scrolled through emails.

“The least you could do is man up and tell me who she is.”

The driver’s gloves tightened on the steering wheel as the woman spoke up. The man let out an exhausted sigh and slid his phone into his jean pocket. He looked up, but not at her. Instead, he stared at the empty passenger seat before giving it a subtle nod.

“As I already told you, there is no other woman.”

A quiet chuckle came from up front. It wasn’t the driver. He liked having a job, even if the Bauers failed to ever use the privacy divider. This wasn’t his first time hearing Mrs. Bauer accuse her husband of infidelity, just like it wasn’t the first time he had to bite his tongue. He felt bad for the woman, but again: he liked having a job. The laugh had come from the fourth passenger in the car, unseen by all but Senator Bauer. She couldn’t help herself as she eavesdropped. Sometimes the truth was so farfetched that it became funny.

“Margo told me she saw you leaving the Driskill with some little tramp.”

The soft laugh came to an abrupt halt. The joke wasn’t so good when it was on her. Most people would never see her unless she wanted them to, and frankly she wasn’t a big fan of being seen. It made everything so much more complicated, introduced too many unnecessary factors that were out of her control. This Margo lady sounded like a threat. The eavesdropper looked up at the rearview mirror, her dead eyes making contact with the Senator’s bright baby blues and lingering.

“Margo has had it in for me ever since college. She’d say anything to drive a wedge between us.”

“She wouldn’t lie to me.”

“She would if she was jealous of you.”

The silent passenger shifted in her seat so she could better look at the Senator. She knew what he was thinking and knew what he was going to say. Even if she couldn’t tell him to shut up, the look on her face would’ve done it. However, the Senator’s ego was bruised, hurt that his wife would choose to believe some woman and not him–even if, in this instance, that woman was telling some version of the truth.

“And why would she be jealous of me?”

A groan of defeat came from the passenger seat as the Senator leaned back, turned towards his wife, and gestured with both hands from his head down to his lap. She looked towards Mrs. Bauer and watched as the confusion on her face shifted upon realization, the touch of blush on her cheeks darkening deeply as her mouth fell open. Mrs. Bauer stammered out a few unintelligible words as the car behind them blared its horn at the driver for not inching forward with the rest of traffic. Then, the words found form as Senator Bauer pulled back out his phone.

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME!?” Mrs. Bauer’s fist slammed into the doorframe. “Not every woman wants to fuck you, Teddy!”

“Then you need to stop pretending like they are,” he fired back as he returned his attention to scrolling.

“I’m not–” The fury in her voice cracked and fizzled as Mrs. Bauer’s expression darkened. She glanced out the window once again in defeat. “I’m not doing this. Not anymore.”

“Good. I can finally get some work done,” said Senator Bauer dismissively.

That uncomfortable silence returned. The fourth passenger had expected a more bombastic reaction from Mrs. Bauer instead of a quiet acceptance of defeat. All these centuries and people still didn’t make any sense to her.

“Richards, pull over.”

They really didn’t make any sense.

“Seriously?”

“Richards! Pull. Over.”

“Stop being so dramatic. We’re stuck in traffic. Where would you even go?”

“Anywhere but here.”

She watched as Mrs. Bauer stepped out of the car and began shifting through the maze of honking cars stuck in a standstill. Nothing would please her more than to see the woman suddenly struck by a construction truck and rendered as little more than a smear of red paste and black satin on the I-35, but the woman was a necessity. A dead wife might garner some sympathy in the public eye, but it didn’t play well at the polling stations and it especially wasn’t a good look when that dead wife’s husband's door-to-door campaigning had included several side trips into the bedroom. Senator Bauer surely knew that he would have to go after her.

But he didn’t look up from his phone.

“We need her,” she said.

“She’ll come back,” said the Senator.

The driver glanced at the rearview, assuming the man was talking to himself in disbelief.

“C’mon, Teddy. Go get her,” she insisted.

“She wants me to chase after her. I’m not letting her win,” he hissed. “Fucking bitch.”

Fine then, she’d do it herself. She ignored the Senator’s scream of “Where are you going?” as she passed through the passenger side door without opening it. She floated through a truck and perched upon the roof to give herself a better vantage point as she scanned for Mrs. Bauer, catching sight of her bun several hundred yards away. It wasn’t often that Mrs. Bauer went out without wearing high heels, but the gap she’d covered in that short time span was truly impressive.

Impossible, even.

There was a horrific sound of metal grinding on metal followed by a loud pop that would’ve left real ears ringing. She watched as one of the cranes stationed above the highway snapped and collapsed, but instead of crashing down on the cars below it folded upwards into itself and hung in suspended animation as if it were weightless. The toned-out chorus of honks began to disperse, replaced by a rise of screams that was crushed beneath a thunderous sound of something big. She watched in muted indifference as a tidal wave rushed down the I-35, clearing traffic as it went.

The loss of life would surely be astronomical, but there was only one life she cared about and his didn’t end here. Senator Bauer wasn’t going to be just some tallymark on a bodycount. Oh, no. This was nothing compared to the torment that he’d endure. She smiled as the grinding noise returned. The smirk wavered as she turned to the Senator’s car only to find that it had been replaced by a sports car. Her head snapped up the lane, catching sight of his vehicle far ahead, the tidal wave closing in. Suddenly, the truck beneath her collapsed into the ground, a cloud of dust engulfing her as she remained aloft, pushing forward towards the Senator as fast as she could go.

She flickered, but she didn’t stop. Onward and onward she floated, dust giving way to darkness. The Senator, his car, the highway, the flood, everything long gone. She was surrounded by emptiness. There was a familiarity to it. One that she didn’t like. One that made her feel things she was never meant to feel. It would be okay, she told herself. She’d come back. She’d come back. She’d come back. What would happen to her if she didn’t come back?

She couldn’t say for sure, but she felt like it would be heartbreaking.

---

???

---

Ted wasn’t a stranger to finding himself in dangerous situations. The difference today was he normally could recall how he’d gotten himself in them. The last thing he remembered was pulling a chair out from a table across from his wife, and now he was stuck upside down in the backseat of some car that smelled like new car and sulfur. Pain shot through his head and his arm, and there were a few cuts here and there from broken glass, but he was in one piece and as far as he could tell nothing was broken. The same couldn’t be said about the driver. Ted wasn’t anything close to a doctor, but he didn’t need eight years of schooling to know that a head wasn’t supposed to be turned that way.

The graphic sight of the dead body would’ve been more unsettling if the whole thing wasn’t so confounding. Where was Rita? Why was he wet? How’d he get in the back of the car? How’d the car get upside down? How’d it get upside down roughly ten to fifteen feet in the air?What was in that chemical pool beneath him? How’d the car fuse–not crash, but fuse–into the concrete wall that was keeping it held up, and how much longer would the car remain mounted on the wall like a trophy before gravity made it tear itself in half and kill Ted in the fall? That one in particular he didn’t want to know the answer to, at least not until he was no longer in the backseat.

He tried reaching for the seat buckle to unlock himself, grunting in strain as he did an inverted crunch. He fumbled awkwardly with the belt, pressing his knees into the back of the driver’s seat to help fight against gravity tugging him the other way, and finally found himself able to reach it. There was a click, followed by an “Oh shit!” as Ted tucked his chin into his chest just in time to avoid spiking himself on the top of his head as he crashed onto the interior roof of the car below him. He let out a groan of pain and gave himself a breather, hoping that the haze might clear up now that all the blood wasn’t rushing to his head.

Unfortunately, the only thing that became clear was the mechanical groan of the car as the shifting of his weight being the final thing needed to make the vehicle stop defying gravity. As the car started to rumble in warning that it was going down, Ted reached for the door handle to find that the back door was jammed shut. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” He shifted his body so that his feet were towards the back windshield and delivered a mighty kick to the glass. With each kick the car rocked and shrieked louder, joining in with the cacophony of distant explosions and crashing waves.

Unlike in action movies, where the windshield popped out in one or two punts, Ted watched in growing panic as the glass cracked and spiderwebbed but did not break out. Sure, he was grateful for modern safety features when he was engaging in some stunt driving for a commercial, but right now the fucking asshole designers who thought all luxury vehicles should be as durable as a tank were going to get his ass killed. He kicked again, his heart catching in his throat as the windshield budged from its fitting. Another kick took out an entire corner. Another one took out the other corner. One more should be enough to knock it loose, and then he could climb out to the steel support beam holding up the room’s roof.

Ted pulled his foot back and then sprung it forward with all of his might, the windshield crashing free of the frame as the car pitched and started to plummet. He closed his eyes as he felt something tug on his jean leg and heard the half-a-car splash into the pool below. There was no new pain and the lack of sizzling anticlimatically revealed that whatever was in the pool was not corrosive. When Ted opened his eyes he found that he wasn't only outside of the car, he wasn’t even in the pool it had landed in. Miraculously, he was somehow beside the chem pool. Ted sat up and let out a startled yelp.

“That was close,” said the woman in front of him, staring at him with blackest eyes. “Good thing I was here to save you.”

The same thing could be said about how near to him she was squatting. She was so close that Ted had nearly headbutted her. He scooted back, able to get a better visual of the woman. She was young, maybe early twenties, attractive, with platinum blonde hair and porcelain skin. She was dressed in a black, two-piece skirt suit with a matching dark beret that made the outfit feel less business professional and more American Girl doll. Her eyes were even a match for the black, beady ones that haunted the nightmares of many young men who were told that the collectible dolls were just for girls.

“I’m sorry about earlier. Are you hurt?” she asked, unblinking.

“Who are you?” asked Ted. He wasn’t suspicious of the woman as much as he was confused.

There was a soft titter. Her mouth smiled. Her eyes did not. “It’s me, Darlene.”

“Okay, uh, Darlene?” he asked in clarification as she nodded her head. “I’m Ted.”

The smile thinned.

“You must’ve hit your head.”

“I’ll be alright. I gotta pretty thick skull,” said Ted, brushing it off.

“Look,” she said, reaching out to brush his temple as she opened the mental connection between the two to snoop around for signs of brain damage. “You’re blee…”

”Oh. My. GOD!” a girl screamed from another part of the chemical plant. ”What the fu- WHERE THE FUCK AM I?!”

“There’s other people,” said Ted, standing up to his feet, grimacing through the pain. His wife was surely with them. He extended a scratched up hand to Darlene, the blood on it already starting to dry. “C’mon, maybe we can start making some sense ‘bout what the hell’s going on here.”

Darlene took Ted’s hand and followed behind him as the duo exited their personal honeymoon suite to join the gathering in the main floor of the chemical plant. As they moved through a service hallway she stared a hole in the back of Ted, listening in on his brain focused solely on finding this Rita bitch when it should be focused only on them. Something was wrong. Something was off. She had to dig in deeper. Darlene demanifested herself and reached her hand upward, shoving her fingers harmlessly through Ted’s spinal cord and into his mind. A second later she froze, staring after the stranger, arm still outstretched, uncertain of what to do as Ted continued walking away from her.

She went invisible and followed after, feeling that feeling she wasn’t supposed to feel.

Ted emerged from the service hallway alone, looking battered and bloodied and barely maintaining a brave face in the face of insanity. A crowd was gathering around a striking woman wearing some kind of combat gear, needlessly calling for the group to look at her. Well, okay, maybe not needlessly, as Ted's eyes were drawn towards the thing on the ground that looked like someone had taken a shark and tried to transform it into an area rug. The lady in charge spoke some wisdom about not freaking out, but given, well, everything he felt that maybe it would help her out if he threw his voice in as well.

“Hey y’all, she’s right. The best thing we can do right now is remain calm,” said Ted, raising his deep voice to be heard over the sounds of pandemonium outside. Ted took the lead as the woman’s eyes shifted towards a corner of the room, distracted by something he didn’t notice.

“I’m Ted. This here’s…” Ted turned to introduce Darlene, surprised to find that the woman had vanished. He pivoted. “This here’s, uh, a crazy situation but we’ll get through it together. Is anybody injured? Does anybody know how they got here?”

He gestured towards the shark…thing…and flashed a smile, trying to disarm the tension with a bit of levity. “Does anybody want their picture taken with the catch of the day?”

Recollections: Linebreaker

Ted Bauer

“Partner, from what I'm seeing it looks like all of us have got some serious Mommy issues."

_______________________________________________ Theodore Robert Bauer He/Him | 31 | Dutch & German American| 6’1” | 190 lbs _______________________________________________ Bravado _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "You always gotta shoot for the moon. Could end up becoming an astronaut. Pretty sure I saw that on a poster once." ___________________________________ [+] [Cowboy Shit] ⫻ Growing up on a ranch, Ted has a general knowledge of animal husbandry, horseback riding, lasso throwing, shit shoveling, and other various rooting, tooting, pistol shooting bullshit. He’s outdoorsy enough where he can start up a bonfire with a couple of sticks, but possesses enough of the spirit of Texas to want to do it with a can of gas and a hunting rifle. [Texkwondo] ⫻ Ted is a blackbelt in…something. His stepdad signed him up for martial arts lessons at a studio called Texkwondo in a strip mall outside of Odessa. His teacher wore an American flag gi, drank Busch light at practice, and said the best way to win a fight was to pull a gun, but still, Ted can throw some cool looking roundhouses. [Stupid Grit] ⫻ Ted has a history of doing stupid things because someone bet him that he couldn’t and somehow surviving because he's too dumb to die. This fearlessness alongside his other skills helped land him a gig as a stuntman working around the Austin film industry. He’s mostly done commercial and TV work. [Teddy the Kid] ⫻ Ted is great with children and after some encouragement from his wife has regularly done volunteer work for schools and camps. He’s actually lowkey incredible at keeping kids in line while still encouraging them to have fun.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "I swear that I was bigger in Texas." Ted’s new body ain’t much different than the old one in the sense that both of them can wear cowboy boots with zero irony and still somehow pull it off. Perhaps that’s just a perk of, as Ted puts it, being born so damn good lookin’. He’s got bright blue eyes that are in a permasquint that makes it look like he’s in a deep concentration when really he just refuses to wear his glasses and can’t deal with contacts. His jawline looks strong as long as it's bulked up by his gingery beard, and his nice tan does a good job of masking the freckles on his face. As for his brown hair, Ted is frankly surprised to find out that he has some–he’d started shaving his head at the first sign of balding hit him in his early twenties, but Teddy must’ve paid for a real high quality hair transplant. Full head of hair aside, there’s a couple of other things about Teddy’s body that Ted finds a little offputting. For starters, his hands are too smooth for someone who should’ve been working with them all his life, and Ted’s missing some of his favorite scars he used to show off as conversation pieces. While he’s still rocking that cowboy chic of double denim his clothes are all a bit too stiff like they’d just come off of some shelf instead of living in his closet for the past ten years and somehow his boots are unscuffed. Most notably of all, Teddy’s been skipping a few days at the gym. While this version of Ted is still physically fit with some decent definition, previous Ted swears that he was pushing two-twenty worth of perfectly carved, Grade A Texas beef. Ted’s got a lot of bass in his voice and the roughest hint of a country accent, coming through a bit more in his choice of colorful vernacular than anything else. He’s accompanied by the faintest scent of stale cigarettes masked beneath an expensive cologne. Ted doesn’t wear any jewelry other than a wedding ring and an expensive wristwatch. He moves with a swaggering confidence like he’s meant to be right where he’s at, even if where he’s at right now is inside of the body of some carpetbagging, shitdealing politician instead of the goddamn A-lister he was rounding up to become.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"I’m just tryin’ to be a better man."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ While it would’ve been sweet to score a gig in a major Hollywood Blockbuster, Ted’s career is second to his personal life. He wants to be a father more than anything. Well, except for getting everything back the way it used to be, but c'mon, that's a given.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Nothing comes to those who wait. Get out there and do something. To quote an old proverb from Ted’s childhood, “get busy living or get busy dying.”

SECRETS ⫻ Ted and his wife Rita are separated and it’s his fault. A playful, flirty friendship with one of the makeup artists on a small film he worked on went a bit too far after a wrap party that involved a bit too much tequila, the wrong advice, and some real sweaty mechanical bullriding. He cheated on his wife, the guilt soon being too heavy of a weight for him to hold and prompting him to quickly confess his infidelity to his wife. This confession ended up being the only thing keeping Ted’s wife from immediately filing for divorce.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Ted loves the ladies and the ladies* love Ted.

_{*Not all ladies}

FEARS ⫻ Y’know that phrase if you’re bored, you’re boring? Ted absolutely hates the idea of being seen as boring, feeling that it’s on him to captivate and entertain those around him. He doesn’t like the idea of silence, because silence allows for self-reflection and it’s in those moments where Ted starts to see how paper thin he is behind his tough exterior.

REPUTATION IN SHADOW ⫻ He’s a local legend in his hometown of Odessa, with all the boys back at the bar trading stories like the time Ted jumped from one moving truck to another or the time Ted climbed up to the top of the clocktower just so he could say he took a piss off of it. In Austin it’s a bit more mixed. He’s decently respected amongst the teachers and leaders in the community for the volunteer work he does with the kids, but some of his fellow stunt performers view him as unsafe and unprofessional to work with. Saying he can ramp a car no problem despite having never done it before is one thing when he’s with the boys in a Walmart parking lot and another thing when he can entirely fuck up a production.

FLAWS ⫻ Ted is reckless. Why worry about potential consequences when he has confidence in his success? This devil-may-care attitude is largely thanks to a great sense of machismo instilled in Ted by his stepdad, who took his job as being a positive male role model for the boy very seriously by telling a seven-year-old to man up and stop being such a pussy. Now a proper manly man, Ted recognizes the misogyny behind his old man’s sexist remarks and fully condemns them, despite regularly falling into the trappings of unintentional chauvinism himself.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Life’s a lot like bullridin’. Sometimes you gotta let it buck you around, sometimes you gotta grab it by the horns and wrestle it to the ground, and sometimes you get thrown off of that sonuvabitch and end up in the hospital with a couple of broken ribs and a real nasty scar and your momma is there and she’s sayin’ that you ain’t ever gonna ride no more and you better start studyin’ up so you can get into a community college and…I lost the metaphor, what were we talkin’ about?"

It was just Ted and his ma for the first seven years of his life in Odessa, Texas, so when she remarried his stepdad felt like it was his husbandly duty to make sure his stepson didn’t turn out to be some kind of sissy. Ted was worked real hard on his stepdad’s ranch to put some hair on his chest and in return for the free labor his stepdad always took anywhere from five to even ten minutes out of his evening to spend some time with the boy and teach him some lessons about what it meant to be a real man. When the ranch failed years later and stepdad’s funeral had to be a closed casket on account of a sizable chunk of him was still decorating the ceiling of the barn Ted made sure not to cry. Surely the old man would’ve been proud.

His teen years were spent horsing around with the boys when he wasn’t fooling around with the girls. He had a bit of a rascal’s reputation, always getting in trouble for the stupidest shit possible and always getting off with just a warning. Some think that people went light on him because they felt bad for the kid who lost not one but two dads and didn’t want to cause Mama Ted any more problems. Others are pretty sure that Ted was just too well-liked to ever get into any real trouble. Of the kids growing up in Odessa, he was one of the few who ever seemed to have aspirations bigger than moving down the block and getting real into methamphetamines.

Ted went to college in Austin to study film and more importantly stay close to his then-girlfriend and it was there that he’d meet his future wife through a mutual friend group. Ted would say that he knew right away that she was the one, but for Rita she absolutely hated him at first. She couldn’t stand his boisterous personality, his childish dream of becoming a stuntman, or his frustrating ability to get good grades despite never seeming to study or do homework.

It was only after they spent more time together with friends that she started to warm up to him, the turning point coming when she saw how good Ted was with children when her sister showed up with Rita’s nieces to crash a tailgate. She assumed that because he was good with kids he couldn’t be such an immature piece of shit after all, not realizing that kids could relate really well with immature pieces of shit. Regardless, they started dating and things went good. Real good, actually. Everything followed the formula after college–move in together, get engaged, and get married.

Ted was happy, but life wasn’t perfect. Rita was able to get a job as a kindergarten teacher, but his work for a while was pretty inconsistent where they mostly relied on her to front the lion’s share of the bills. Even once he started landing more frequent stunt gigs after one of his college buddies landed a spot at a local production company there were issues. Namely, when they were going to start having children.

They had both said before they got married that they wanted a big family, but now Rita was hesitant. She wanted to wait until they were sure they were ready; Ted was pretty sure that nobody ever felt like they were ready until they rushed in. Things spiraled from there. It became a running argument, something that would slip its way in when they were having dinner or during pillowtalk.

The blowoff happened the night they were supposed to attend a wrap party for an indie film Ted’s friend had produced. Rita was dragging her feet about going like she always did, so Ted made the casual comment that they should take every opportunity they got now to go out because when they had kids it would be a rarity. One thing led to another and when Ted wouldn’t back down Rita finally snapped at him: “You know why I don’t want a kid? Because it feels like I'm already living with one.”

Ted went to the party alone and woke up the next morning in another woman’s bed. He didn’t try to hide what he’d done when he got home to Rita. The worst part about coming clean to her was how she didn’t even seem mad. She’d just nodded her head like she knew it was bound to happen one day and told him to pack a bag. They’d been separated for a few months now, with Ted doing his best to try and save the marriage that he royally fucked up and Rita being an absolute stonewall when it came to communication.

One day, he got a text from her saying, “I made up my mind. Can we talk?” and refused to elaborate until they spoke face to face. Ted was on his way to see her. Up until he’d gotten that text message it felt like his world was falling apart, but when she smiled at him when he opened the door at the bar where they had their first date he felt his first true moment of hope in months. Hope that blackened as she started to reach for something in her purse–and then the world decided it was done waiting on them and went ahead and fell apart anyway.

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Keep back, Darlene. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt now."

TYPE ⫻ Aberration (Afflicted)

ABSTRACTION ⫻ The Heartbreaker, a manipulative curse that relentlessly "helps" its victims now only so that they can suffer a greater loss.

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ The Heartbreaker curse was created in Kindle more than a millennium ago by a Blue Lux user jealous of their rival’s success. The curse was simple in concept: ruin a life when it would be the most heartbreaking. It manifested a person who would come into its victims life, help them accomplish their goals, and just when they reached the pinnacle of their success and power the curse would strip it all away, ensuring that the victim’s suffering would be greater than if they had never got what they wanted in the first place.

The curse worked phenomenally with just one hitch: the creator had failed to create an end for the curse. Thus, once finished with its first victim, the curse simply moved on to the next ambitious person. It would physically manifest itself as whatever the victim seemingly needed at the time: a friend, a lover, a mentor. Just agreeing for some help was all that was necessary to be cursed by the Heartbreaker. Wherever it went the cycle would continue: a sudden turn of good fortune inevitably followed by an absolutely soul-crushing defeat or betrayal.

Ironically, the creator of the curse would meet their demise at the hands of their own creation when the magician they met while seeking to find a way to dispel their curse turned out to be none other than the Heartbreaker. With nobody even aware of its existence, the Heartbreaker has been free to wreak havoc throughout history, meddling in the affairs of the rich, the poor, and everyone in between. Wherever there is someone who is ambitious, powerhungry, desperate, or even just downright foolish the Heartbreaker is soon to follow, latching on to its next victim the moment it’s finished with its current one.

Currently, the Heartbreaker is afflicting Teddy Bauer. This iteration of the curse has manifested itself as an overly protective, manipulative, and jealous young woman who goes by the name Darlene. She has integrated herself an intern working for Teddy who may or may not also be his mistress. Darlene had only just recently targeted Teddy before the Linebreaker Event occurred, and was currently in the honeymoon phase of the curse where she was trying to help Teddy in his political career.

Now that she is stuck with Ted, Darlene is currently in a weird state of existence with someone who technically shouldn’t be cursed, as her agreement was made with Teddy, not Ted. She doesn’t know what would happen to the Heartbreaker if she fails to follow through with fulfilling the curse, and she doesn't plan to find out.

Manifest Pixie Dream Girl ⫻ Darlene is incorporeal by default but she can manifest to make herself physical. She can demanifest to make herself incorporeal again. Alternatively, while incorporeal she can demanifest further and make herself completely invisible. While incorporeal or invisible she can float. Darlene can extend her ghostly nature to Ted if she is “touching” him.
Ted can briefly extend this intangibility and invisibility to another person by “touching” them as well. If Ted does this, the effect ends on him and the other person after a handful of seconds. Anything Darlene, Ted, or the third wheel are wearing or carrying manifest and demanifest alongside them.

Scheme Queen ⫻ A demanifested Darlene can reach inside of a person’s head and begin rooting around through their thoughts and memories. The Heartbreaker curse allows Darlene to have a permanent mental link with Ted, giving her access to his surface thoughts, an inherent knowledge of his location, and allowing her to establish a two-way link so they can communicate mentally.
While this two-way link is established the pair are capable of knowing exactly what the other one is about to do, allowing them to operate together perfectly in tandem. While this link is established, Ted can also open links to other people. If Ted does this, Darlene can suppress her link, making herself mentally undetectable as she eavesdrops.

Damsel Indefinite ⫻ Darlene is tireless. As long the Heartbreaker curse remains and Ted lives, Darlene will continue to manifest. She is neither a person nor an apparition, and while she can appear to be killed or even sealed she is never truly gone. Due to her unusual nature, mental abstractions affect her on a case by case basis, but typically they just wouldn’t work.
As long as Darlene exists, Ted is protected by the Heartbreaker curse. Anything that would cause a disease or heighten a preexisting condition are held in a stasis, and while Ted can still be injured he will always make an eventual full recovery from anything that isn’t usually fatal as the curse dampens the injury. He still ages, but outside of some graying and wrinkles he won’t have any adverse effects while Darlene remains.

LIMITS ⫻ Although she is a magical manifestation that doesn’t require the things a normal human being would, Darlene is roughly as strong as an average woman. She does a pretty decent job of pretending to be a person, but an astute enough observer will notice uncanny aspects about her that can make her presence unnerving. Certain beneficial abstractions like healing and boosting might not work as intended on Darlene due to her unusual nature.

Manifest Pixie Dream Girl ⫻ Manifesting and demanifesting is an all-or-nothing situation, so Darlene can’t manifest just a part of herself. Incorporeal people can only float as fast as they can normally move. Ted can only be demanifested for as long as he is “touching” Darlene, and Darlene’s inherent jealousy forces her to let go of Ted after a few seconds whenever he “touches” somebody else to daisy chain the demanifestation. Someone who is invisible and tries to manifest always becomes briefly visible first before becoming physical, allowing others a window of opportunity to react to their sudden appearance.
An Emotional Field of a person benefiting from Darlene’s incorporealness would prevent them from manifesting inside of something, shunting them beside the thing, while an Emotional Field would also prevent Darlene from manifesting inside of someone. Certain abstractions can still affect someone that is demanifested. Strong enough electrical interference and certain magical means can force somebody to manifest.

Scheme Queen ⫻ An Emotional Field blocks any kind of unwanted rooting around unless they're bearing the Heartbreaker curse. Ted can only link with people that he can see, and the link breaks if he is visually separated from them for more than an hour.

Damsel Indefinite ⫻Typically, the mental abstractions that don’t work on Darlene would be ones that attempt some kind of mind or emotion control. If Darlene was sealed she will remanifest by Ted after a minute. If Darlene was killed she will remanifest at her remains after a minute.
When the Heartbreaker’s curse ends on a person, so does its protection. Over a short period of time a person succumbs to the effects that were kept in stasis by the curse: their immune system suddenly gets attacked by diseases that had been lying dormant for years, any sprains or deteriorating joints suddenly flare up, and the negative effects of aging hit at full force. While the Heartbreaker’s curse isn’t intended to kill someone, this rapid fall in health can be life-threatening.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Darlene must stay tethered to Ted. If the connection between them is strained (Example: if Ted resents her, rejects her “help,” or outright denies her existence), she weakens drastically: her incorporeal/invisibility powers flicker, her link breaks, and she risks “static burnout” that leaves her unable to manifest for hours. While Darlene can’t be destroyed, she has a fixed anchor: the personal items of the cursed host. With Teddy, it was his campaign materials, his wedding band, even his tailored suits. With Ted, it's his old boots, his wedding ring, or his scars (which she’s erased). If an enemy damages one of these anchors, Darlene’s form destabilizes. For example, smashing Ted’s watch could make her manifest uncontrollably or strip away her protective stasis for hours at a time. The “Damsel Indefinite” protection isn’t clean. Every time Ted survives something that should’ve left lasting damage - poison, infection, shattered bones - the cost is deferred. The curse builds pressure like a debt, and if Darlene is forced away (by banishment, disruption, etc), Ted suffers all the deferred injuries and illnesses at once.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Actually, President Ted’s got a pretty nice ring to it. Maybe once this is all sorted I’ll run for SAG-AFTRA office."

Ted’s Counterpart Teddy is a State Senator, which is like a real Senator because nobody actually gives a shit if they go missing or drowned by mommy ocean. Teddy was stupid enough to think that he could become President, and Darlene was going to help him climb politically until he got into the White House. Judging by his party affiliation, it’s unlikely that Teddy got married to a kindergarten teacher who got reprimanded for turning a lesson on sharing into an anticapitalist rant.

• Ted’s favorite flicks are Rush Hour 2, John Wick 2, and Lethal Weapon 2. Teddy’s favorite movies are Rosemary’s Baby, Sound of Freedom, and Lethal Weapon 2. Darlene has never seen a movie, as she is both a magical construct and accurately pretending to be someone who is part of Gen Z.
• Ted has real strong opinions on pickup trucks. Teddy has real strong opinions on “family values”. Darlene was never intended to be able to have actual opinions due to the nature of her being the creation of a curse and all, but she really thinks smoking looks cool and that maybe you should try it.
• Ted knows it's wrong, but he actually prefers Kansas City BBQ over Texas BBQ. Teddy says he likes Texas BBQ, but he actually hasn’t had red meat ever since his doctor said it could cause a gout flare up. Darlene doesn’t eat food, but if you were to smoke something, you should really just smoke a cigarette, after all it’s just so relaxing.
• Ted doesn’t smoke. Teddy does and also has been speaking with a lobbyist working for Philip Morris to open up a plant in Odessa. Darlene will go get you a pack right now, seriously, you look stressed.
• You had a long day and deserve a break.
• C’mon, one won’t kill ya.
• Fine then, how about vaping?