Berlin

Red Dead Reckoning

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@c3p-0h@ONL@NorthernKraken

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“Someone claim her and get her home or I’m gonna keep her!”

Roz had stationed herself behind the bar and was lifting herself up onto her toes in an attempt to shout across the crowd that only seemed to be growing thicker. She had originally returned behind the bar in a frenzied chase after Temp to inquire about her tardiness, her impeccable entrance only drawing the attention of anyone with ears, but the child resting on a stool in front of her had demanded a far higher level of regard.

Rosalyn was able to catch most of Temp’s interaction with the two guests and she could hardly fault her employee’s bitter tone as he further demanded a nonalcoholic lemonade from the bartender.

“You her Pop?” Roz had inquired of the man, but her natural softspokeness never lent itself well to the constant buzz of conversation within the bar. Her words seemed to be unable to compete and fell flat.

“I like to think that we’re not all terribly pinheaded here,” Roz protested a bit louder as she looked down her nose at the man, though she shot a reaffirming wink in the direction of Temp. She offered her best customer service smile, but the acidity laced within the turn of her lips negated anything positive within the action. The discourse that had already occurred had put the woman on edge, but the man’s audacity to indirectly accuse them of serving the girl was enough to sour her attitude. She knew these feelings would be mutual.

“We’re not in the business of boozing up children. A little risky I’d say if I’d like to keep the deed in my name.” Rosalyn was shamelessly flaunting her ownership of the establishment and she found her upper lip curling subconsciously in annoyance as he offered the girl a view of a wanted poster, telling of some group of dangerous people as if recounting a ghost story. She found a level of humor in the idea of that describing half of the company situated in the saloon at that exact moment. She used this as an opportunity to try and verbally ruffle the man’s feathers in retaliation once more.“You’re gonna give the kid a nightmare, Pal. Leave her be or help me find her folks if-”

The rapid and undeniable sound of gunshots invaded the woman’s original thought and she found herself desperately turning to Temp for an action plan. Rosalyn’s instincts in the face of immediate danger were parallel to that of a trapped rabbit. She was capable of action only after formulating a plan and outline, but when things went to shit in a hurry, she found her logical thinking had a tendency to screech to a dead halt. Temp had proven to have a reaction time nearly as quick as her wit and was invaluable in situations such as the current.

Blood rose up into and warmed Rosalyn’s cheeks as she peered outward from behind the slated Saloon doors. Her throat constricted within itself, though she was grateful that perhaps it would block bile from rising into her mouth.

Dead bodies were strange.

Suddenly, vessels of life turned into empty containers. Glass bottles drained and discarded. Their skin instantly paled as the vascular system ceased its work and blood began following the rules of gravity. Her interaction with Leo had been brief at best, but she knew enough about the man to find herself reflecting on the impact of his sudden death. His errands would go uncompleted. He would never visit the general store. She wondered if his five dollar winnings were still tucked in his pocket. Someone would make it their own reward.

Roz hurried back to the bar at the first signs the crowd would be trickling back inside, but not before noting how quickly Temp’s legs were moving beneath her. She watched silently at the woman returned instantly to her work without a comment. Never had lemonade been poured with such ferocity, however.

Roz had begun scene control as soon as the man from earlier pushed through the door. She positioned herself between the two offending parties, one of them blatantly unaware of the tensions brewing as he called out yet another command. Perhaps he was wrong to have done what he did and perhaps not, but his type was all too familiar to Armadillo. A law enforcer, truly a general enforcer, of his own volition.

“The town is small enough. Perhaps you can go to the law yourself? Explain what happened and how you… stepped in.” Roz selected her words with attentiveness, careful to not place herself on a specific side of the line as she addressed the man.

"What?"

Rosalyn’s eyes widened as Temp nearly spat at the new customer and she instantly hooked her arm around the bartender. “I am so terribly sorry. I will be right back to help you, Ma’am,” she reassured the guest as she practically towed Temp along with her back into the kitchen.

“What in God’s name, Temp?!” Roz started in, “That girl out there looks like you might blow her out of her chair hollering at her like that! And look, I get it, the fella is a royal piece of work. A royal piece of it, okay? And you just saw something horrific. That was absolutely terrible, I know. I hope that the Sheriff handles it all appropriately. But you-”

Rosalyn’s brow furrowed as something stole her attention and she tentatively placed her finger to the cut above Temp’s brow. Her voice noticeably dropped a few octaves and softened significantly, “Who did that? Are you okay? That’s not new. When did that happen? Was that here? In town? Let me get you some ice. You should take a break. Get something to drink and relax for a bit.”

Rosalyn moved to gather a towel and ice, though her tone returned unphased to continue reprimanding, “-but you cannot be tossing yourself around out there in a fit like that! You’re gonna cost us customers and therefore money! Money that goes into everyone’s wages! That keeps the place as a whole up and running!”

Red Dead Reckoning

@Sad Ogo and I are talking about what to do here. We could do a collaborative with the three characters or do individual responses in the IC thread that might turn R rated. You want to join us?

@Gunther

Of course! I'm up for whatever you guys decide on. Just let me know!

Red Dead Reckoning

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The day was falling swiftly, pulling the sun across the sky and towards the horizon with what seemed to be little difficulty. Roz sat atop the ledge of her open bedroom window, feet tucked beneath her body and glass of amber liquid held loosely between her slender fingers. The falling light draped a golden hue across the woman’s cheeks and reflected sharply against the lighter accents deep within the irises of her eyes. They were fixed outward and only flickered as the woman was yanked from her own thoughts.

“Miss Roz?” The sudden break of silence was hardly startling, as the voice transgressing was faint and airy. Rosalyn knew the source before her gaze shifted to it - a petite young woman in the doorway with her hands clasped together at her waist. “It’s just that you wanted me to warn you when things picked up downstairs,” she continued, quickly working to justify interrupting what she already knew to be a moment Roz held sacred. The woman was new to both Armadillo and the business, having only arrived days ago in a fit of desperation to escape a home life she would speak very little of. This was the narrative for nearly all of the girls who walked through the door, most with their chins tucked to their chests.“That’s alright, Love. I appreciate it. You managed to eat, yes?” Rosalyn had emptied her glass and unfurled her bare feet out from beneath her at the explanation, tugging on a pair of boots that brushed just above her ankles.

“Oh, I- well, no, I don’t suppose I have.”

Rosalyn started towards the younger woman, promptly rested her hands upon the woman's hips as she spoke, “There’s plenty downstairs. Some of the girls and I made a stew you’re welcome to. I’ll have you run to the general tomorrow to gather a few of your favorites. And loosen this-” Roz had wrapped her arms around the girl, suddenly yanking the knot of her corset free. “You’ve hardly left enough room for air, let alone a meal.”

Rosalyn stood at the landing overlooking the bar, her arms folded and resting on the banister. The unusual fullness of the bar space left a feeling of unease coiled around her stomach, tightening each time one of her girls approached a client or someone’s hand moved near their waistline. From her vantage point, she could make out a few of the cards grasped by the men settled around a table. Despite never having considered gambling to be a trade she would involve herself in, she made a mental note of this.

The flash of a weapon sent instinct into action at nearly the same pace as Rosalyn’s ability to process the scene, shamelessly hoisting her skirt to retrieve her own weapon from her thigh. The absolute ignorance of her actions was apparent before she could even remove the gun from its holster, however. She would undoubtedly have injured someone unintentionally, if not herself. She hastily flattened her skirt with a silent prayer of thanks that there had been a much larger distraction below before rushing down the stairs.

It became clear that she had missed much of the action when she finally pushed through the crowd, with the assistance of a few fierce words, just in time to see the bloodied man scramble out of the front door. Her attention was pulled next to the girls who had collected themselves behind the bar counter, just as instructed to do during situations such as this. Rosalyn spend a moment with each, ensuring they were okay to continue for the night. Most moved back out to the floor to resume the conversations that had been interrupted, while others silently escaped back upstairs to their rooms.

Roz shot a scowl to the bartender that had taken the payment from the gentlemen she had quickly learned were both at the source and the solution to the prior disturbance. She wrangled the key that hung from her neck out of her shirt and retrieved the money that had just been placed within the register before snagging a bottle of the bar’s moonshine from a lower shelf. She strode confidently towards the table that the two had settled at, slapping the change down hard on the surface between them. “Your kinda money is no good here,” Roz’s words were sharp and her expression was equally as aggressive as she glared down at the two of them.

Rosalyn couldn't even maintain her facade long enough to gather a reply from the men, her lips lifting into a wide smile. “I apologize, Fellas, sometimes I think I’m more amusing than I really am. Whiskey seems to be your choice, but I figured we could thank you both with a bottle of our own shine.” The bottle was placed beside the money and a gentle hand was rested on each of their shoulders. “A few of the girls would be happy to offer you company this evening as their own way of showing their appreciation as well, should ya have an interest.”

Red Dead Reckoning

Rosalyn “Roz” Monroe

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“Home” - Alice Walker

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Name:
Rosalyn Monroe | Roz

Age:
Twenty-six

Gender:
Female

Appearance:

Roz stands at 5’1” in her heeled boots, her healthy figure most commonly adorned in button up tops and long skirts. Her frame is undeniably feminine, but it is apparent in her choice of modest clothing styles and colors that this is not a quality she would like to emphasize. Thick, dark auburn hair drapes beneath her ribcage, but it is frequently tied away or loosely braided. Her pale complexion is peppered in freckles, the marks most dense on the bridge of her sloped nose. They continue falling down her chest and are scattered about the rest of her upper half. Her lips are on the thinner side, but they seem to maintain a shade of wine-stained red.

Occupations:

Rosalyn is the owner of the Armadillo saloon, simultaneously working as a madam of the brothel upstairs. She is in good standing with local law, but so much of the business she conducts is done behind closed doors. Law enforcement seems to easily overlook things when they’re offered free service and drinks.

Assets:
- The Armadillo Saloon and Brothel
- Brandy and Barley, a pair of Irish Wolfhounds
- Long double-barreled shotgun
- Colt six-shot revolver held in a makeshift thigh holster
- Some gorgeous ladies who would love to meet you

Personality:

Maternal instinct and a deeply rooted need to protect those under her care stand as the basis of Rosalyn’s nature. She finds that she sticks to her traditions and routines almost religiously, as this offers her a sense of comfort and reassurance that she and the girls will continue to stay out of trouble. Due to her hypervigilance, she is extremely perceptive about people is often on the offense in her interactions with others. She always tries to stay two steps ahead and her plans nearly always include an alternative, never relenting in her efforts to prove she is not one to be underestimated.

Roz lives by a certain code and expects others to naturally fall in line with her morals and ideals. Loyalty and trustworthiness are two virtues that Roz will never compromise on. One step out of line pertaining to either and she will make it a mission of hers to ostracize and humiliate the offender so thoroughly they would never think of acting in that manner again. Once permitted into her inner circle, however, you will be rewarded with the friendship of someone who would do everything in her power to pluck the stars from the sky should you request one.

Roz’s most apparent vice comes in a bottle. She has long struggled with an alcohol dependence that was kickstarted in her younger years. Having such easy access to the substance, there doesn't seem to be an end to this. Not that she sees it as an issue anyway.

History:

Roz was brought up in a very respectable home along with her four siblings, with both a mother and father present. They were avid church goers and ate each meal their mother prepared together around the table, despite the financial hardships that rested heavily on her parent’s shoulders. Her father operated a local saloon and her mother was a laundress, therefore they recruited the children to find small incomes themselves. Roz found a position aiding the upper class women of the town in the upkeep of their homes, taking over their duties of cooking and cleaning, often before their husbands would return. The wife of Joseph Baker, town preacher, was one of her employers, but Rox despised her time there. Joseph would frequent invite her to stay for dinner, but at her refusal, he would “accidentally” knock over her dust tray or bump the meal she had prepared from the table. His hand found itself resting on her shoulder or her thigh far too often. He complimented her young features in a manner that she knew now to only be predatorial. Roz pleaded with her parents to allow her to cease her time in the Baker home, but for their daughter to refuse to work for their preacher would stand as an insult. This answer was only solidified upon her father’s diagnosis of tuberculosis.

Mrs. Monroe remarried with urgency after the death of her husband. It was a necessity that she find someone to support the family and Marcus Lee was the first willing to step forward as the head of their household. He picked the family up and moved them to his neighboring hometown. He was a fairly decent man, if it wasn't for the occasional rise of his temper. He ruled the home with a stern grasp and left little air for them to breath. As soon as she was capable, Roz began outlining a plan of escape. She began with the saloon her father had left behind in Armadillo and, despite an outrage from the local men, she claimed it up once more for the Monroe family. She worked relentlessly to convert a previously decrepit upstairs space into living quarters, originally intending for the rooms to serve as lodging. It wasn't until she began receiving inquiries from local women desperate for a livable wage that she considered a brothel. Her and the girls made quick work of the place and they were functioning successfully within the first year.

One customer in particular would send a stick into the spindles of the life Roz had created, however. Brother Joseph Baker visited frequently, coming in late in the evenings or before the sun had even broken forth from behind the dirt. His hair had grayed and his cheeks had sunken, but he still walked with the same sense of entitlement he always had. Rosalyn watched him without falter each and every time he came, her stomach twisting with strong instinct. Her suspicions were proven when one of her girls scrambled down the stairs to the bar, nose draining red down into her lips, eye sockets darkened and swollen, handprints already welting around her neck. Roz shot her preacher in the back as he was buckling his pants and straightening his clerical collar. It was an anticlimactic event, his body falling to the hardwood with a hefty thud. It was almost easy for Roz. Due to his unusual hours, the building was empty of customers and the girls were more than willing to help in cleaning and disposing. Baker’s wife went on assuming he had skipped town due to her inability to bear children and that was that. No further questions asked and Pastor Baker still resides deep within the ground out back. Beside him rest four other men, all swiftly punished for their acts against women. After a glass of bourbon, Roz sleeps quite well at night, guns and dogs at her side.

Additional Information:

The cellar beneath Roz’s establishment remains entirely off limits to anyone but her employees. Within it, she mans her own moonshine still and frequently has the ladies working to dilute her more costly alcohol with water. These are not the only secrets locked below the floorboards, however.

Do you have a personal story arc prepared?:
Yes!

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Red Dead Reckoning

If we’re talking connections, then @Berlin temp could maybe be a bartender/person who throws out people causing a ruckus (while also kinda being a ruckus-causer herself lmao) at your saloon/brothel if you’re interested? No pressure if you had other plans, obviously! ^.^

@c3p-0h

Sold! Yes, please! That sounds rad. I have nothing set in stone at all in the way of plans and I would love to have PCs involved as much as possible.

Quite a few potential collaborations I see.
Maddie's endgame is to avenge her father, which will result in a number of deaths along the way, among other things. I can see her setting someone up so they take the fall instead of her, so if you wanna volunteer for the role, let me know. And don't worry, your guy/gal will get away with it anyway.

@Heretic

I totally volunteer Roz for you to utilize as ya please if you want!

Red Dead Reckoning

Erik "Smooth Face" Viken

Name
Erik "Smooth Face" Torvaldson Viken
Age
31 (Born 7th of May 1866)
Gender
Male
Appearance

Hider

Occupations
Farmer. Born and raised on a small town Minnesota farm, Erik knew from a young age how to plow the fields and tend the livestock. Did that for a long time. Until their farm was burned down.
Vigilante. When the bandit bastards burned down his family's farm, Erik sought help from the Law. When the Law couldn't help him, he turned to those outside the Law, they didn't care. That left only him, his horse "Knegg" and his rifle to sort out justice. So who knows on which side of the Law Erik is. Sometimes he doesn't know himself.

Assets
Erik doesn't own a whole lot these days. All his possessions is carried on his back and on his trusted horse, "Knegg".

• Knegg, the horse he loves, his last family.
• Winchester modell 1873 lever-action rifle.
• 1873 Colt Single Action Army Revolve
• Knife
• Protestant Bible in printed Danish
• Two pouches of ammunition for his weapons

Personality
Erik, the second-generation immigrant from the cold north, is quite the friendly fellow to most people. His father and mother were once strangers to America, and taught young Erik to always to friendly and kind to those around him. Erik is helpful to those he finds in need, be it a minor or greater problem that he can overcome. Sometimes it has gotten him into problems, but his manlier side shows itself. Brought forth by a hard-working childhood and the destruction of his home and family, Erik is not afraid to beat your ass if you deserve it.

History
Erik "Smooth Face" Torvaldson Viken's story begins not in Montana, but far away. Across the mighty blue Atlantic Ocean in a country far north, where his family came from. His father grew up in a small mountain village in Norway's middle mountain range, working the land as best he could in the harsh condition of the middle 1800's. One day the mountain sides could no longer hold their heavy burdens of rock and dirt, and let it all slide down towards an unsuspecting village. Few died, but nothing was left to save in the ruins. Some tried in van to rebuild, others moved to the cities in search of good fortunes.

Erik's father immigrated to America. Without a penny in his pocket and only the clothes on his back, life was not easy for a newly arrived foreigner in a strange land, speaking little of the foriegn language. An oppertuniy opened itself to Erik's father in the form of the Civil War, where all able-bodied men were called to defend the Red, White and Blue. He joined up in a Scandinavian regiment, fought valiently throughout the war and learning both the language and the rifle. With the war won by the North, large swats of land were open for the soldiers and immigrants, including Erik's father.

Erik himself was born in early 1866, one year after the great war ended, in his family's new farmstead up in Minnesota. His father had met and married a young Spanish immigrant like himself, quite the unusal couple. Life was not easy on their farm, but it was well-earned. Erik never struggled for food or safety in his youth, only new that a good life required a good day's work. He grew up to learn both the plow and the rifle, like his own father had, as well as learning both his father's and mother's tounges. Life was hard, but good.

That was until the raids began. At first they were only the usual cattle-rustlers from up in the mountains, easily scared off by well-placed rifle fire from the family's duo of marksmen. Then they dared come closer, guns firing in both directions. Then they got close enough for their faces to be seen, and then...Erik remembers that night as clear as a cloud free day, everything. The shooting, the shouting, the blood, the faces of the bandits...the fire. By the end of the fight, both of Erik's parents were dead defending their home. Their home was in flames, the livestock and harvest taken by the bandits heading South, and Erik? Tears running down his cheeks, he vowed to take revenge on his parent's killers, whatever the cost may be.

That cost proved itself to be big. The Law couldn't help him, the bandits having gone far over their local juridstiction as they moved south. Then when he tried to arrange for some guns for hire to help him track them down, they refused. They were just as dirty as the raiders back home had been, refusing to rat out on their fellow comrades. Erik left that meeting in Kansas a few bullets short, a bloodied nose and the Law after him. But he just kept heading after the bandits, on his way helping others in need and taking the law into his own hands when needed. He would have justice. And if the Law couldn't serve it warm, Erik would serve it cold as ice.

His search for the band of bandits, their name changing across the United States as much as they ruined lives on their route, has finally lead him to a small town called Armadillo. Here is trail has ran cold, but his heated blood is sure to warm it up like a river in spring. He will have his justice. And afterwards? Perhaps a new life with meaning?



Additional Info
Erik speaks three different languages, thanks to his upbringing: English, Norwegian and Spanish.
Do you have a personal story arc prepared
Yes. Revenge and a new life.

Theme Song

@ONL

Erik gives me Billy the Kid vibes, but if he was a good guy. I'm here for it.

Red Dead Reckoning

@Berlin

I think Patience would most definitely find herself at home there.. Not sure exactly where the Armadillo is located but if it's in St. Denis then she'd love to inquire about renting a room, for both leisure and business purposes.. She doesn't usually keep a bunch in the way of fancy clothes, but I'm sure you could find something for her to fit into on occasion. She isn't always into whore'n, but I'd bet that she'd be willing to cut you in on whatever she makes from her side work thieving and pickin' pockets.. Might be nice having another gun on hand..

@Arkitekt

Should it be approved, the Armadillo Saloon would be in the town of Armadillo (very creative, I know). But if you can get Patience there, I think that'd be a really neat interaction!

Red Dead Reckoning

<Snipped quote by Berlin>

I think I have a crush on that artwork, haha. Great character! She seems like she'd have a fair bit of wealth from running those various businesses, perhaps an occasional employer of us more impoverished laborers? Hope she's accepted!

@Sad Ogo

Oh, same. It's the hair and eyes. And Roz has never considered hiring a man as a brothel gal, but hey, if he looks good in a skirt! lol

Red Dead Reckoning

Rosalyn “Roz” Monroe

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“Home” - Alice Walker

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Name:
Rosalyn Monroe | Roz

Age:
Twenty-six

Gender:
Female

Appearance:

Roz stands at 5’1” in her heeled boots, her healthy figure most commonly adorned in button up tops and long skirts. Her frame is undeniably feminine, but it is apparent in her choice of modest clothing styles and colors that this is not a quality she would like to emphasize. Thick, dark auburn hair drapes beneath her ribcage, but it is frequently tied away or loosely braided. Her pale complexion is peppered in freckles, the marks most dense on the bridge of her sloped nose. They continue falling down her chest and are scattered about the rest of her upper half. Her lips are on the thinner side, but they seem to maintain a shade of wine-stained red.

Occupations:

Rosalyn is the owner of the Armadillo saloon, simultaneously working as a madam of the brothel upstairs. She is in good standing with local law, but so much of the business she conducts is done behind closed doors. Law enforcement seems to easily overlook things when they’re offered free service and drinks.

Assets:
- The Armadillo Saloon and Brothel
- Brandy and Barley, a pair of Irish Wolfhounds
- Long double-barreled shotgun
- Colt six-shot revolver held in a makeshift thigh holster
- Some gorgeous ladies who would love to meet you

Personality:

Maternal instinct and a deeply rooted need to protect those under her care stand as the basis of Rosalyn’s nature. She finds that she sticks to her traditions and routines almost religiously, as this offers her a sense of comfort and reassurance that she and the girls will continue to stay out of trouble. Due to her hypervigilance, she is extremely perceptive about people is often on the offense in her interactions with others. She always tries to stay two steps ahead and her plans nearly always include an alternative, never relenting in her efforts to prove she is not one to be underestimated.

Roz lives by a certain code and expects others to naturally fall in line with her morals and ideals. Loyalty and trustworthiness are two virtues that Roz will never compromise on. One step out of line pertaining to either and she will make it a mission of hers to ostracize and humiliate the offender so thoroughly they would never think of acting in that manner again. Once permitted into her inner circle, however, you will be rewarded with the friendship of someone who would do everything in her power to pluck the stars from the sky should you request one.

Roz’s most apparent vice comes in a bottle. She has long struggled with an alcohol dependence that was kickstarted in her younger years. Having such easy access to the substance, there doesn't seem to be an end to this. Not that she sees it as an issue anyway.

History:

Roz was brought up in a very respectable home along with her four siblings, with both a mother and father present. They were avid church goers and ate each meal their mother prepared together around the table, despite the financial hardships that rested heavily on her parent’s shoulders. Her father operated a local saloon and her mother was a laundress, therefore they recruited the children to find small incomes themselves. Roz found a position aiding the upper class women of the town in the upkeep of their homes, taking over their duties of cooking and cleaning, often before their husbands would return. The wife of Joseph Baker, town preacher, was one of her employers, but Rox despised her time there. Joseph would frequent invite her to stay for dinner, but at her refusal, he would “accidentally” knock over her dust tray or bump the meal she had prepared from the table. His hand found itself resting on her shoulder or her thigh far too often. He complimented her young features in a manner that she knew now to only be predatorial. Roz pleaded with her parents to allow her to cease her time in the Baker home, but for their daughter to refuse to work for their preacher would stand as an insult. This answer was only solidified upon her father’s diagnosis of tuberculosis.

Mrs. Monroe remarried with urgency after the death of her husband. It was a necessity that she find someone to support the family and Marcus Lee was the first willing to step forward as the head of their household. He picked the family up and moved them to his neighboring hometown. He was a fairly decent man, if it wasn't for the occasional rise of his temper. He ruled the home with a stern grasp and left little air for them to breath. As soon as she was capable, Roz began outlining a plan of escape. She began with the saloon her father had left behind in Armadillo and, despite an outrage from the local men, she claimed it up once more for the Monroe family. She worked relentlessly to convert a previously decrepit upstairs space into living quarters, originally intending for the rooms to serve as lodging. It wasn't until she began receiving inquiries from local women desperate for a livable wage that she considered a brothel. Her and the girls made quick work of the place and they were functioning successfully within the first year.

One customer in particular would send a stick into the spindles of the life Roz had created, however. Brother Joseph Baker visited frequently, coming in late in the evenings or before the sun had even broken forth from behind the dirt. His hair had grayed and his cheeks had sunken, but he still walked with the same sense of entitlement he always had. Rosalyn watched him without falter each and every time he came, her stomach twisting with strong instinct. Her suspicions were proven when one of her girls scrambled down the stairs to the bar, nose draining red down into her lips, eye sockets darkened and swollen, handprints already welting around her neck. Roz shot her preacher in the back as he was buckling his pants and straightening his clerical collar. It was an anticlimactic event, his body falling to the hardwood with a hefty thud. It was almost easy for Roz. Due to his unusual hours, the building was empty of customers and the girls were more than willing to help in cleaning and disposing. Baker’s wife went on assuming he had skipped town due to her inability to bear children and that was that. No further questions asked and Pastor Baker still resides deep within the ground out back. Beside him rest four other men, all swiftly punished for their acts against women. After a glass of bourbon, Roz sleeps quite well at night, guns and dogs at her side.

Additional Information:

The cellar beneath Roz’s establishment remains entirely off limits to anyone but her employees. Within it, she mans her own moonshine still and frequently has the ladies working to dilute her more costly alcohol with water. These are not the only secrets locked below the floorboards, however.

Do you have a personal story arc prepared?:
Yes!

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Anomalous

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The Lake Vista shore in Bywater was not an uncommon place for Aria to disappear to after a challenging shift or when the morning sun yanked away her chance of daytime sleep. The absurdly colored buildings and never ceasing music spilling within their open doors made it easy for her to slip into an imaginative state far from her own life dealings. This was a community she would have thought up as a child, modeling it after the small towns she would construct on the living room floor out of knick knacks she had collected from around the house. A Tupperware shopping center, a coffee mug cafe, a jailhouse constructed from books. Today, however, she had found herself there, sitting criss cross at the water's edge, in an attempt to separate herself from her own thoughts.

It was cruel, the way The Apex had suggested that their own Ciphers should step in as local law enforcement fell short. If even they were losing numbers, why was The Apex tossing their own people in with nothing more than a “Do what you have to do and goodlu-”. Aria caught herself in this musing just as she would bite her tongue mid-sentence. She very deliberately brought her fingers to the back of her neck, tracing over the palpable lines of the tattoo there. Done with a sewing needle and ink from a supermarket in the bathroom of a fellow cipher when she was only sixteen, it was inevitable that the tattoo would scar. Aria never minded this, however, as physically feeling the markings there often grounded her and served as a reminder of the commitments she had made to herself and those within her cell. She knew the others would be gathering tonight to discuss the message they had received. They were aware of Aria’s work schedule, but they would leave a seat open despite her absence. They would update her on the discussions they had and still ask for her input. They would make a purposeful effort to still include her in their dealings. But they certainly would not doubt The Apex.

The commitment of the gulls as they dropped down into the shifting waters certainly deserved admiration. The trust in themselves and their wings to hold them just out of the swift current had to be innate instinct definitely encouraged by a fear of starvation. Aria’s eyes trailed along with them as she contemplated why these particular ones had settled near the river, rather than Lake Vista that wasn't far at all. Especially not to a bird. Probably little Variant birds. Aria snorted at her own nonsensical thoughts, glancing to her watch as she noticed the placement of the sun. 18:35. She silently praised herself for coming to the neighboring district already dressed in uniform as she rose to her feet, brushing grass and dirt from her pressed pants. She would have time to stop in for a coffee and quick bite at one of the local cafes before dragging herself to the station.

“Shit, are you kidding?” Aria was peering around the doorframe of the breakroom out into the station lounge, having just swiped her badge in front of the time clock. She was two minutes late and the universe was spiting her, she just knew it. She watched as her coworkers rose from where they rested at they sound of the callout tone, some shoving down recliner footrests, others piling in a few more bites of whatever they had reheated for dinner before they scrambled to their feet. Aria glanced momentarily to still hot cup of coffee in her hand, contemplating if the disposable cup would make it through the call. “10-70 Commercial structure fire. Engine 1. Engine 3. Engine 5. Water 4. Water 2. Rescue 1. Battalion 3. Battalion 2.” The speaker positioned in the center of the room continued to spew assignment after assignment, sending Aria rushing out of the door with coffee still in hand. Mercilessly, the radio hooked to her belt continued, “All EMS units respond.”