Can’t a girl get some peace and quiet after kicking ass all day? Some guy who looked like he lived underground his whole damn life sat down across from them and got handsy with Sabine. Right in front of Leah, no less. The audacity. Leah could hardly object to the way she noticed Sabine heat up a little. It was cute, and they did both have experience in a polycule. But then again, who the hell was this guy? Leah’s immediate judgement of him was that he felt like digging for gold. Her second judgement was that she shouldn’t be so damn harsh about someone she just encountered. Hell, maybe the guy just had excellent taste in women.
Leah leaned forward, resting her head on her hand. She turned her face in such a way that Chase couldn’t see past her voluminous hair. And she gave Sabine a smirk. Not a jealous look, or even an indignant one. Because she found it cute to see her get timid like that.
But then her face went slack as she saw a fucking disaster across from their table.
A table and its chairs flipped over, drinks went flying all over the damn place, and now everyone was eating concrete. And Danni and Eli looked like they were about to fucking from the pose she spotted them in.
”You know… I think they made this a private thing for a reason.”
Oh, god. Dancing. Leah could not see that going well.
Location: Court of Two Sisters Gear: Skills:
Marlena Evans was a cool and level-headed woman. She didn’t spare a passing thought to the chaos going on in the background. The only thing on her mind was the blonde girliepop she magnetized to. With a smirk, she accepted the phone and punched in a number. ”Came with everyone else on the plane, so I’m staying at the hotel for now. I’ll definitely be around, more out in this part of the city than indoors. I get out a lot, if you’re ever in the mood for hanging.” She handed it back to April with a wink.
She was feeling hungry. And not just for food. But food certainly sounded nice.
”Sounds like a dance party’s about to happen. How about I find a table and get something to eat, then we talk some more?” She offered.
During the early evening, as the snow fell and began to white out the horizon, a horse strode through. It was pretty quiet throughout this town as Grask rode along. A dingy place on the fringe of civilization, where few people went and even fewer stayed. Or so the stories went. The only interesting thing about it was that ominous tower in the distance. Having planned this route in advance, the Artificer knew that the structure was there. He hadn’t come here with the intent to tamper with a legend of the area. The aftermath of a meteor, in this place, with that on the horizon? Interesting as it was, Grask was just passing through.
Greyharrow was the only place between his place of work and a Coldrest, a colony far up into the mountains. They were better off than here, and their proximity to the sky gave access to unusual metals. Meteorites charged with energy from beyond the material sphere, shards of ice that first froze when the gods were said to walk the land, and, if one could believe the superstitions, a haunted platinum mine. They got a great deal of trade despite the location, largely through entities that had access to air travel or teleportation. Grask didn’t, so he had to leg it by horse.
And yet he still had another day of travel ahead of him. And it was getting damn cold. He knew it would. He was about an hour ahead of schedule, thanks to the weather being clear most of the day.
Grask paid a stablemaster to keep his horse for the night. And then the doors to the Waystone Inn flung open.
The lightly armored Artificer stepped inside. A wool cloak was draped over a leather cuirass, mostly hiding the hefty satchel slung across his chest. On his arm was a piece of armor with what appeared to be glass tubes filled with a purple substance. They glowed subtly enough one could miss in. And around his waist was a rather hefty-looking pistol. He looked the part of someone not from around here.
The Inn was awfully lively. The smell of foul alcohol hit his nose like a mallet, about as hard as he could imagine that Goliath hitting the floor. Something strong must have been on the menu. There were card games afoot, drunken fools all over the damned place, and music. Conventional wisdom back home was that Greyharrow was a depressing sight. Sometimes, people were wrong. Grask stepped around the throng of reveling drunkards and gamblers, and managed to find a path to the bar. The warmth from the fire was quite pleasant after a few hours on horseback.
Grask sat down and reached into a fold of his armor. He waved a bartender over and ignored the blatant seduction happening just beside him.
”Ale if you have it, beer if you don’t. And a bowl of goat stew, please.” He sat two gold coins, and five silver coins down. A pretty respectable tip to the cooks and bartender herself, since Grask wasn’t a stingy man. That, and he was hungry. In his experience, showing some generosity to those who cooked usually meant food was warmer by the time it was served. And he was more than happy to pay extra for some warm food right about now.
Location: Haven, Strange Academy Grimoire: Skills: Current Outfit
Rohan paid next to no mind to the varying reactions to his self-mutilation. To them, it might have been something of significance for one reason or another. But he didn't think much of it himself. It didn't hurt, there was no pain to be felt. It was just a material he offered. He wasn't thrilled that Finely seemed to take some quiet amusement in tasting his "blood." But, of course, he didn't make much of a fuss about that. If they wanted to end up like him, or like Namiki, that was their own damn business. But the little symbiote creature they were bound to? Oh, that was interesting.
Outwardly, his face was just blank. Entirely indifferent to the threat that it had just issued. But on the inside, he pondered grabbing something flammable and giving the wretched, pitiful thing a lesson in thermodynamics. Or perhaps he'd find out whether Dysphoria shared Finley's aversion to iron and steel. If that were the case, maybe he'd butcher them like meat and use the remains for something useful. It'd be easy, he could even use its corpse to tie a knot and strangle that fae long enough to-
"My mistake, Dysphoria." He grinned in a most placating way. It wasn't a warm smile.
"I'll be careful. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, now would we?"
He stared them both down for whole seconds, before breaking eye contact.
"A heart makes sense with what we've got. I'll work on a top-left chamber, and I'll use pine since it's flexible. A few thin pieces should be able to flex enough for a pulse. I'm ready to get started."
Magitech Support ⫻ Like a pit fighter conditioning their body to react to the unknown a certain way, Grask has taught himself to intuit all manners of machinery. From flintlocks and cannons to airships and automatons, even if it's something he's never seen before, there is always a process someone followed. There is always a way to reverse engineer a device, and if anyone can find it, it's Grask.
Diplomatic Approach ⫻ Being a runt among his own kind, Grask learned quickly when it came to talking things through with others. He's had to interface with a lot of people from differing backgrounds since he was a kid. Grask, therefore, has an easy time talking his way into making someone look past aggression or misunderstandings.
Gunslinger ⫻ Grask knows his way around firearms, for obvious reasons. They're his seminal work as an Artificer, and he spends about as much time around them as wizards spend around their wands. If you need a hole placed in something just right, from a considerable distance, he's your guy.
Medic Multiclass ⫻ Sometimes, a gun explodes. Sometimes, a metamagic array goes the wrong way. Sometimes, the impudent son of a duke thinks he's an Artificer and nearly blows his leg off. Grask has learned plenty of first aid over the years, studying it not only to better understand how weapons hurt different people uniquely, but also to patch up accidents.
Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "No, I don’t breathe acid."
Grask is bigger than most humans, yet uncharacteristically short for a Dragonborn. His scales are a bloody red, sporting various patches that seem to be tarnished and brown from damage. Compared to most people who don't share his heritage, he's a big guy. It shows in his muscle, but other Dragonborn would consider him a lightweight. One would assume by his style of dress that he was a shopkeeper or a baker, given how plain his attire tends to be. Simple wool shirts, simple boots, nothing extravagant. His horns sweep backwards behind his head in a curve, going to dull points that show the occasional crack from years ago.
Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "This may be complicated, but that doesn’t make it difficult."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Grask wants to further his skills as an artificer. He's accomplished much so far, but the next step in his career is to pursuit an expertise in the field of Battle Smithing, the creating of autonomous beings that perform tasks on behalf of a master. He hopes to merge the principles of one field with his own, and make breakthroughs to build what others before him could not.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Success must be earned. It must be taken from the jaws of defeat, and one must be smart in how they do so. Grask earned his place in life through blood, sweat, and tears. There was no luck in it, he worked for what he has.
SECRETS ⫻ The methods which he uses to develop his unique bullets is something Grask guards jealously. There are many people out there who would love the ability to create unique enchantments for their armies that don't require a whole new cannon, from royalty to mercenary companies near and far. It put him on the map, and he's not about to let someone else figure it out to snub him. Also, Grask lacks the ability to breathe fire like other red Dragonborn. It’s embarrassing, so he doesn’t talk about it.
SEXUALITY ⫻ Pansexual
FEARS ⫻ Failure. Indignant, shameful, ruinous failure. Grask has something to prove, and gods help him, he will.
WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Grask was working on new research to advance his craft when the tower erupted. He had stopped in Greyharrow to rest and was planning to be on his way afterwards. But now, he's stranded alongside everyone else.
WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Grask just got here hours ago, he doesn't know any of you.
EQUIPMENT ⫻ Grask always carries his artifice gear with him wherever he goes, as well as some basic essentials for travel; A flask, his toolkit, some lightweight leather armor, and note-taking implements. He also carries a variety of raw materials with him wherever he goes, such as small slivers of the astral monsters that wash up on Greyharrow or any precious rocks that someone finds.
FLAWS ⫻ Pride drives Grask's ambitions. The easiest way to make him do something big and daunting is to say that he can't. It's what led him to become an Artillerist, it's what drove him to make a journey for new materials in the dead of winter, and it's what keeps him going. But it has also led him to some reckless decisions, either out of desperation or pure spite against the odds.
Backstory ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "They called me a madman."
Grask was born near the kingdom of Fellwyn, among a clan of Dragonborn who lived in the wilderness. They hunted their food and lived off of what nature provided, and so every day was a day filled with work and hard labor. They lived in mountains rife with monstrous beasts of all shapes and sizes, it was dangerous to stray far from home. His father was a blacksmith, his mother was a hunter, and each of his three older siblings were more useful than him in their own ways. Grask was the fourth child, and as if fate had a sense of humor, he was shorter and weaker than them. Not as tall, not as stout, not as capable of stoking flame as his red Dragonborn father. It was a miracle he even survived his first winter, his brothers used to joke his heart wouldn't beat of its own accord until he was a day old.
He eventually got healthy enough, as he grew older, that he could keep up with everyone. But he was always the underachiever. Grask was never the best bowman, never the best healer or gardener. The older generations of his community were often more disappointed in him than proud. There were arguments over dinner, lectures every day about how he had to pull his own weight. One of his brothers once told him he wasn't ever wanted.
One day, he got tired of it. So he grabbed his things and left in the dead of night. He set out for Tulerros, the capital city of Fellwyn, when he was barely a teenager by human standards. With some gold that he'd scraped together, Grask found a place to stay and decided he'd learn to make things. Kingdoms all over the world were making breakthroughs in technology, and there just happened to be an enclave of Artificers in the city. So he offered himself up to them as an apprentice. It wasn't glamorous, or even very informative. For a whole year, the most he did was read books in a library and handle logistical work. It kept him fed, though. And eventually, his master concluded Grask was competent enough at intellectual endeavors that he'd be able to grasp the craft.
And grasp it he did.
Within two years of study, he cultivated an incredible understanding of weapons, the classical schools of magic and machinery. The young Dragonborn threw himself at it relentlessly, going days without sleep and burning himself more than a few times to master a given subject. He even built a few devices without the oversight of his seniors. In time, he was whipped into the shape of a competent Artificer, no longer an apprentice but an equal among the older members of the enclave. But time wasn't kind to all of them, for as Grask grew up, they grew old.
Veltavi the Alchemist retired at the age of 142. Rozaru Brightwind of Grimhall was called home by an old friend. And Grask's teacher, Brathzeon, passed from the world to meet his creator. The surviving masters had, before their departure, made the decision to put Grask in charge of the workshop. Each of them had their own apprentices, but of them, only Grask intended to stay in Tulerros. They had other dreams, their own adventures and prospects. One by one, they eventually struck out on their own under Grask's temporary guidance. Until eventually, at an age when most human would almost be considered young adults, he had the place to himself.
Other ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "They were wrong."
Anyyyything else?
Class ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "That’s a nice fireball you have, there. Here’s mine..."
TYPE ⫻ Artificer / Artilierist
MAGIC ⫻ Grask doesn’t cast spells with a wand or a tome. Rather, he channels magical principles into machinery to create tools that can consistently perform the same “spell” over and over again. His inventions can, with some training, be used by anyone regardless of magical skill. And with the right materials and tools, Grask can build something to match just about any spell a traditional caster can perform. Every time, with mechanical precision.
CURRENT TOOLS ⫻
ARCANE AMMUNITION Grask’s iconic work is the ammunition he creates. Using special components, metals and small-scale spellwork, he can create ammunition that delivers an effect from a distance. The process is flexible enough to encompass various effects, which only need to be learned by Grask before he can copy them.
FLAME ⫻ Produces a 5ft explosion of heat on contact with a surface. Most effective against undead and unarmored targets.
PSIONIC ⫻ Shot carries psychic energy that sends targets flying backwards as if hit by a charging bull. Great for making space.
SHATTER ⫻ Emits a focused shockwave that fractures the surface it strikes. Ideal for breaking through armor or fortified barriers.
MANABLASTER ⫻ A large, hefty pistol with a break-action loading mechanism. The gun is designed to accept a wide variety of ammunition, and due to the size of the ammo, it only holds one shot at a time.
SOTERIAN GAUNTLET ⫻ A metal brace lined with mechanical components. The gauntlet produces a barrier of magical energy, in the shape of a five foot square, that can reflect a few attacks before crumbling. These barriers are stationary, and fixed in place when created.
LIMITS ⫻ Grask requires specific materials for his work, and the materials currently found in Greyharrow are of an impure quality. What he can find in the city isn't worthless, and can be used, but they aren't perfect. As such, until better quality components can be found, his power is limited.
WEAKNESSES ⫻WEAKNESSES ⫻ Grask’s devices will work profusely normal in normal situations, however, they will experience a complete disruption to their ability in certain situations. When magic behaves unpredictably, such as wild magic zones, if there is planar interference, or if he honestly expletives a strong emotional surge his inventions will suffer a partial or total failure.
This will manifest in one of two ways. A spell could either downgrade, or misfire. A downgraded spell will be less powerful, impactful, and could potentially do no damage if the round was fired during these scenarios. As well, if Grask has a higher level spell bullet, if the downgrade is strong enough his spell will fail to fire.
Magitech Support ⫻ Like a pit fighter conditioning their body to react to the unknown a certain way, Grask has taught himself to intuit all manners of machinery. From flintlocks and cannons to airships and automatons, even if it's something he's never seen before, there is always a process someone followed. There is always a way to reverse engineer a device, and if anyone can find it, it's Grask.
Diplomatic Approach ⫻ Being a runt among his own kind, Grask learned quickly when it came to talking things through with others. He's had to interface with a lot of people from differing backgrounds since he was a kid. Grask, therefore, has an easy time talking his way into making someone look past aggression or misunderstandings.
Gunslinger ⫻ Grask knows his way around firearms, for obvious reasons. They're his seminal work as an Artificer, and he spends about as much time around them as wizards spend around their wands. If you need a hole placed in something just right, from a considerable distance, he's your guy.
Medic Multiclass ⫻ Sometimes, a gun explodes. Sometimes, a metamagic array goes the wrong way. Sometimes, the impudent son of a duke thinks he's an Artificer and nearly blows his leg off. Grask has learned plenty of first aid over the years, studying it not only to better understand how weapons hurt different people uniquely, but also to patch up accidents.
Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "No, I don’t breathe acid."
Grask is bigger than most humans, yet uncharacteristically short for a Dragonborn. His scales are a bloody red, sporting various patches that seem to be tarnished and brown from damage. Compared to most people who don't share his heritage, he's a big guy. It shows in his muscle, but other Dragonborn would consider him a lightweight. One would assume by his style of dress that he was a shopkeeper or a baker, given how plain his attire tends to be. Simple wool shirts, simple boots, nothing extravagant. His horns sweep backwards behind his head in a curve, going to dull points that show the occasional crack from years ago.
Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "This may be complicated, but that doesn’t make it difficult."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Grask wants to further his skills as an artificer. He's accomplished much so far, but the next step in his career is to pursuit an expertise in the field of Battle Smithing, the creating of autonomous beings that perform tasks on behalf of a master. He hopes to merge the principles of one field with his own, and make breakthroughs to build what others before him could not.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Success must be earned. It must be taken from the jaws of defeat, and one must be smart in how they do so. Grask earned his place in life through blood, sweat, and tears. There was no luck in it, he worked for what he has.
SECRETS ⫻ The methods which he uses to develop his unique bullets is something Grask guards jealously. There are many people out there who would love the ability to create unique enchantments for their armies that don't require a whole new cannon, from royalty to mercenary companies near and far. It put him on the map, and he's not about to let someone else figure it out to snub him. Also, Grask lacks the ability to breathe fire like other red Dragonborn. It’s embarrassing, so he doesn’t talk about it.
SEXUALITY ⫻ Pansexual
FEARS ⫻ Failure. Indignant, shameful, ruinous failure. Grask has something to prove, and gods help him, he will.
WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Grask was working on new research to advance his craft when the tower erupted. He had stopped in Greyharrow to rest and was planning to be on his way afterwards. But now, he's stranded alongside everyone else.
WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Grask just got here hours ago, he doesn't know any of you.
EQUIPMENT ⫻ Grask always carries his artifice gear with him wherever he goes, as well as some basic essentials for travel; A flask, his toolkit, some lightweight leather armor, and note-taking implements. He also carries a variety of raw materials with him wherever he goes, such as small slivers of the astral monsters that wash up on Greyharrow or any precious rocks that someone finds.
FLAWS ⫻ Pride drives Grask's ambitions. The easiest way to make him do something big and daunting is to say that he can't. It's what led him to become an Artillerist, it's what drove him to make a journey for new materials in the dead of winter, and it's what keeps him going. But it has also led him to some reckless decisions, either out of desperation or pure spite against the odds.
Backstory ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "They called me a madman."
Grask was born near the kingdom of Fellwyn, among a clan of Dragonborn who lived in the wilderness. They hunted their food and lived off of what nature provided, and so every day was a day filled with work and hard labor. They lived in mountains rife with monstrous beasts of all shapes and sizes, it was dangerous to stray far from home. His father was a blacksmith, his mother was a hunter, and each of his three older siblings were more useful than him in their own ways. Grask was the fourth child, and as if fate had a sense of humor, he was shorter and weaker than them. Not as tall, not as stout, not as capable of stoking flame as his red Dragonborn father. It was a miracle he even survived his first winter, his brothers used to joke his heart wouldn't beat of its own accord until he was a day old.
He eventually got healthy enough, as he grew older, that he could keep up with everyone. But he was always the underachiever. Grask was never the best bowman, never the best healer or gardener. The older generations of his community were often more disappointed in him than proud. There were arguments over dinner, lectures every day about how he had to pull his own weight. One of his brothers once told him he wasn't ever wanted.
One day, he got tired of it. So he grabbed his things and left in the dead of night. He set out for Tulerros, the capital city of Fellwyn, when he was barely a teenager by human standards. With some gold that he'd scraped together, Grask found a place to stay and decided he'd learn to make things. Kingdoms all over the world were making breakthroughs in technology, and there just happened to be an enclave of Artificers in the city. So he offered himself up to them as an apprentice. It wasn't glamorous, or even very informative. For a whole year, the most he did was read books in a library and handle logistical work. It kept him fed, though. And eventually, his master concluded Grask was competent enough at intellectual endeavors that he'd be able to grasp the craft.
And grasp it he did.
Within two years of study, he cultivated an incredible understanding of weapons, the classical schools of magic and machinery. The young Dragonborn threw himself at it relentlessly, going days without sleep and burning himself more than a few times to master a given subject. He even built a few devices without the oversight of his seniors. In time, he was whipped into the shape of a competent Artificer, no longer an apprentice but an equal among the older members of the enclave. But time wasn't kind to all of them, for as Grask grew up, they grew old.
Veltavi the Alchemist retired at the age of 142. Rozaru Brightwind of Grimhall was called home by an old friend. And Grask's teacher, Brathzeon, passed from the world to meet his creator. The surviving masters had, before their departure, made the decision to put Grask in charge of the workshop. Each of them had their own apprentices, but of them, only Grask intended to stay in Tulerros. They had other dreams, their own adventures and prospects. One by one, they eventually struck out on their own under Grask's temporary guidance. Until eventually, at an age when most human would almost be considered young adults, he had the place to himself.
Other ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "They were wrong."
Anyyyything else?
Class ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "That’s a nice fireball you have, there. Here’s mine..."
TYPE ⫻ Artificer / Artilierist
MAGIC ⫻ Grask doesn’t cast spells with a wand or a tome. Rather, he channels magical principles into machinery to create tools that can consistently perform the same “spell” over and over again. His inventions can, with some training, be used by anyone regardless of magical skill. And with the right materials and tools, Grask can build something to match just about any spell a traditional caster can perform. Every time, with mechanical precision.
CURRENT TOOLS ⫻
ARCANE AMMUNITION Grask’s iconic work is the ammunition he creates. Using special components, metals and small-scale spellwork, he can create ammunition that delivers an effect from a distance. The process is flexible enough to encompass various effects, which only need to be learned by Grask before he can copy them.
FLAME ⫻ Produces a 5ft explosion of heat on contact with a surface. Most effective against undead and unarmored targets.
PSIONIC ⫻ Shot carries psychic energy that sends targets flying backwards as if hit by a charging bull. Great for making space.
SHATTER ⫻ Emits a focused shockwave that fractures the surface it strikes. Ideal for breaking through armor or fortified barriers.
MANABLASTER ⫻ A large, hefty pistol with a break-action loading mechanism. The gun is designed to accept a wide variety of ammunition, and due to the size of the ammo, it only holds one shot at a time.
SOTERIAN GAUNTLET ⫻ A metal brace lined with mechanical components. The gauntlet produces a barrier of magical energy, in the shape of a five foot square, that can reflect a few attacks before crumbling. These barriers are stationary, and fixed in place when created.
LIMITS ⫻ Grask requires specific materials for his work, and the materials currently found in Greyharrow are of an impure quality. What he can find in the city isn't worthless, and can be used, but they aren't perfect. As such, until better quality components can be found, his power is limited.
WEAKNESSES ⫻WEAKNESSES ⫻ Grask’s devices will work profusely normal in normal situations, however, they will experience a complete disruption to their ability in certain situations. When magic behaves unpredictably, such as wild magic zones, if there is planar interference, or if he honestly expletives a strong emotional surge his inventions will suffer a partial or total failure.
This will manifest in one of two ways. A spell could either downgrade, or misfire. A downgraded spell will be less powerful, impactful, and could potentially do no damage if the round was fired during these scenarios. As well, if Grask has a higher level spell bullet, if the downgrade is strong enough his spell will fail to fire.
”Hmm.” She stared the emo, goth ass looking motherfucker down for a moment while thinking about whether she’d seen his face before. And it turned out that literally living under a rock for some parts of the time she spent at AA meant she wasn’t great at recognizing people. ”No clue who he is, but I’m guessing he goes to our school if they let him in. I think Andy’s about pack him up, but if she doesn’t, I’ll get him.”
The way Percy was just floating in the air now thanks to Dorian, Leah wondered if the dollar store Eric Draven looking son of a bitch was about to do something nefarious before those two got back from the Astral Plane.
”You’d think the actual Avengers in the room would sort him out,” Leah commented. ”He can’t be that tough, with this many of us in here. He probably-“
Leah’s attention was grabbed as a few more people appeared. Some girl with a skateboard, and… Wait a damn minute. There was no way. The blonde one, Leah recognized her. That was Millicent Broadway, and she knew that because her girlfriend was a fan of her! She wasn’t a big fan herself, but when someone she loved ran their mouths about their interests, she listened.
”Is that… Millie Broadway? Damn. ‘Bine, look who just walked in.”
Location: Court of Two Sisters Gear: Skills:
”They call me Marlena, but you can call me anytime,” she answered, without missing a beat. A cute face with a bubbly smile, in a place like this? Ohhh yeah, Marlena was gonna be eating good. In more ways than one. Marlena flashed April a toothy grin, spinning her board against the ground. ”You’re Cascade, right? Saw the fight, came in person. You’ve got a good team.”
Was it disingenuous to make a move on someone who she just met, that also just catapulted themselves into interplanetary levels of fame? Perhaps. But then again, the girl in front of her was hot. And Marlena loved getting to know hot girls. She wasn’t usually a fan of those kinds of events, where mutants and wizards and demigods and all the other colorful characters under the rainbow hammered each other for sport. But it was a new experience, and definitely not one she’d regret.
”We’re going to the same school, so you’ll probably see me around back in Cali. I’m new, so I don’t know many people yet.” She omitted any questions about whether April might like to change that. After all, she wasn’t even here for five minutes yet.
Magitech Support ⫻ Like a pit fighter conditioning their body to react to the unknown a certain way, Grask has taught himself to intuit all manners of machinery. From flintlocks and cannons to airships and automatons, even if it's something he's never seen before, there is always a process someone followed. There is always a way to reverse engineer a device, and if anyone can find it, it's Grask.
Diplomatic Approach ⫻ Being a runt among his own kind, Grask learned quickly when it came to talking things through with others. He's had to interface with a lot of people from differing backgrounds since he was a kid. Grask, therefore, has an easy time talking his way into making someone look past aggression or misunderstandings.
Gunslinger ⫻ Grask knows his way around firearms, for obvious reasons. They're his seminal work as an Artificer, and he spends about as much time around them as wizards spend around their wands. If you need a hole placed in something just right, from a considerable distance, he's your guy.
Medic Multiclass ⫻ Sometimes, a gun explodes. Sometimes, a metamagic array goes the wrong way. Sometimes, the impudent son of a duke thinks he's an Artificer and nearly blows his leg off. Grask has learned plenty of first aid over the years, studying it not only to better understand how weapons hurt different people uniquely, but also to patch up accidents.
Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "No, I don’t breathe acid."
Grask is bigger than most humans, yet uncharacteristically short for a Dragonborn. His scales are a bloody red, sporting various patches that seem to be tarnished and brown from damage. Compared to most people who don't share his heritage, he's a big guy. It shows in his muscle, but other Dragonborn would consider him a lightweight. One would assume by his style of dress that he was a shopkeeper or a baker, given how plain his attire tends to be. Simple wool shirts, simple boots, nothing extravagant. His horns sweep backwards behind his head in a curve, going to dull points that show the occasional crack from years ago.
Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "This may be complicated, but that doesn’t make it difficult."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Grask wants to further his skills as an artificer. He's accomplished much so far, but the next step in his career is to pursuit an expertise in the field of Battle Smithing, the creating of autonomous beings that perform tasks on behalf of a master. He hopes to merge the principles of one field with his own, and make breakthroughs to build what others before him could not.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Success must be earned. It must be taken from the jaws of defeat, and one must be smart in how they do so. Grask earned his place in life through blood, sweat, and tears. There was no luck in it, he worked for what he has.
SECRETS ⫻ The methods which he uses to develop his unique bullets is something Grask guards jealously. There are many people out there who would love the ability to create unique enchantments for their armies that don't require a whole new cannon, from royalty to mercenary companies near and far. It put him on the map, and he's not about to let someone else figure it out to snub him. Also, Grask lacks the ability to breathe fire like other red Dragonborn. It’s embarrassing, so he doesn’t talk about it.
SEXUALITY ⫻ Pansexual
FEARS ⫻ Failure. Indignant, shameful, ruinous failure. Grask has something to prove, and gods help him, he will.
WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Grask was working on new research to advance his craft when the tower erupted. He had stopped in Greyharrow to rest and was planning to be on his way afterwards. But now, he's stranded alongside everyone else.
WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Grask just got here hours ago, he doesn't know any of you.
EQUIPMENT ⫻ Grask always carries his artifice gear with him wherever he goes, as well as some basic essentials for travel; A flask, his toolkit, some lightweight leather armor, and note-taking implements. He also carries a variety of raw materials with him wherever he goes, such as small slivers of the astral monsters that wash up on Greyharrow or any precious rocks that someone finds.
FLAWS ⫻ Pride drives Grask's ambitions. The easiest way to make him do something big and daunting is to say that he can't. It's what led him to become an Artillerist, it's what drove him to make a journey for new materials in the dead of winter, and it's what keeps him going. But it has also led him to some reckless decisions, either out of desperation or pure spite against the odds.
Backstory ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "They called me a madman."
Grask was born near the kingdom of Fellwyn, among a clan of Dragonborn who lived in the wilderness. They hunted their food and lived off of what nature provided, and so every day was a day filled with work and hard labor. They lived in mountains rife with monstrous beasts of all shapes and sizes, it was dangerous to stray far from home. His father was a blacksmith, his mother was a hunter, and each of his three older siblings were more useful than him in their own ways. Grask was the fourth child, and as if fate had a sense of humor, he was shorter and weaker than them. Not as tall, not as stout, not as capable of stoking flame as his red Dragonborn father. It was a miracle he even survived his first winter, his brothers used to joke his heart wouldn't beat of its own accord until he was a day old.
He eventually got healthy enough, as he grew older, that he could keep up with everyone. But he was always the underachiever. Grask was never the best bowman, never the best healer or gardener. The older generations of his community were often more disappointed in him than proud. There were arguments over dinner, lectures every day about how he had to pull his own weight. One of his brothers once told him he wasn't ever wanted.
One day, he got tired of it. So he grabbed his things and left in the dead of night. He set out for Tulerros, the capital city of Fellwyn, when he was barely a teenager by human standards. With some gold that he'd scraped together, Grask found a place to stay and decided he'd learn to make things. Kingdoms all over the world were making breakthroughs in technology, and there just happened to be an enclave of Artificers in the city. So he offered himself up to them as an apprentice. It wasn't glamorous, or even very informative. For a whole year, the most he did was read books in a library and handle logistical work. It kept him fed, though. And eventually, his master concluded Grask was competent enough at intellectual endeavors that he'd be able to grasp the craft.
And grasp it he did.
Within two years of study, he cultivated an incredible understanding of weapons, the classical schools of magic and machinery. The young Dragonborn threw himself at it relentlessly, going days without sleep and burning himself more than a few times to master a given subject. He even built a few devices without the oversight of his seniors. In time, he was whipped into the shape of a competent Artificer, no longer an apprentice but an equal among the older members of the enclave. But time wasn't kind to all of them, for as Grask grew up, they grew old.
Veltavi the Alchemist retired at the age of 142. Rozaru Brightwind of Grimhall was called home by an old friend. And Grask's teacher, Brathzeon, passed from the world to meet his creator. The surviving masters had, before their departure, made the decision to put Grask in charge of the workshop. Each of them had their own apprentices, but of them, only Grask intended to stay in Tulerros. They had other dreams, their own adventures and prospects. One by one, they eventually struck out on their own under Grask's temporary guidance. Until eventually, at an age when most human would almost be considered young adults, he had the place to himself.
Other ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "They were wrong."
Anyyyything else?
Class ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "That’s a nice fireball you have, there. Here’s mine..."
TYPE ⫻ Artificer / Artilierist
MAGIC ⫻ Grask doesn’t cast spells with a wand or a tome. Rather, he channels magical principles into machinery to create tools that can consistently perform the same “spell” over and over again. His inventions can, with some training, be used by anyone regardless of magical skill. And with the right materials and tools, Grask can build something to match just about any spell a traditional caster can perform. Every time, with mechanical precision.
CURRENT TOOLS ⫻
ARCANE AMMUNITION Grask’s iconic work is the ammunition he creates. Using special components, metals and small-scale spellwork, he can create ammunition that delivers an effect from a distance. The process is flexible enough to encompass various effects, which only need to be learned by Grask before he can copy them.
FLAME ⫻ Produces a 5ft explosion of heat on contact with a surface. Most effective against undead and unarmored targets.
PSIONIC ⫻ Shot carries psychic energy that sends targets flying backwards as if hit by a charging bull. Great for making space.
SHATTER ⫻ Emits a focused shockwave that fractures the surface it strikes. Ideal for breaking through armor or fortified barriers.
MANABLASTER ⫻ A large, hefty pistol with a break-action loading mechanism. The gun is designed to accept a wide variety of ammunition, and due to the size of the ammo, it only holds one shot at a time.
SOTERIAN GAUNTLET ⫻ A metal brace lined with mechanical components. The gauntlet produces a barrier of magical energy, in the shape of a five foot square, that can reflect a few attacks before crumbling. These barriers are stationary, and fixed in place when created.
LIMITS ⫻ Grask requires specific materials for his work, and the materials currently found in Greyharrow are of an impure quality. What he can find in the city isn't worthless, and can be used, but they aren't perfect. As such, until better quality components can be found, his power is limited.
WEAKNESSES ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)
New Orleans was a beautiful city. It was a rough few weeks, moving across the country and then getting setup in a new school. A new school in a new neighborhood, surrounding by new people, with a new expectation on her shoulders. But Marlena was doing fine, all things considered. Her new classes weren’t anything particularly intense, since she opted for the less combative beginner heroics. Nothing crazy.
When she got settled, she started picking up on the goings-on around the school. The legendary, incredible, absolutely overpriced Contest of Champions would be happening in days. Though she wasn’t one for being a hero herself, Marlena had gone with the rest of the plane-goers to watch in-person. She hadn’t told her dad but she wasn’t really answering his calls at the moment. Not yet, anyway. The Contest was a fun event, it really took her mind off a lot of things. When Excelsior somehow squared away a win from the jaws of defeat, her head was spinning from the noise.
Then she hit the pavement, board in hand, and went on an adventure through the French Quarter. Every city had its different scenes, the streets were always different from the suburbs, the back-alleys were always different from the fancier communities. Back home in New York, she made a habit of keeping her powers a secret. It was different here, she could cruise with her powers pushing her along without a care in the world. There wasn’t any need to keep quiet, especially after she’d been sent to California.
She got some pictures for her camera roll, and by the time the arena was fully empty, she was hungry. So Marlena rolled across the French Quarter for a while, looking up some of the highest rated spots. The one that caught her eye was the Court of Two Sister. The menu made her stomach cast a rather impactful vote, so that was her destination. And, as it turned out, there was a private party being held for students from Excelsior’s team.
The food smelled incredible.
But when they led her out into the very pretty, very aesthetically pleasing private dining area… It looked like hell broke loose. Cutlery and dinnerware of all shapes and sizes went flying, a very hot girl looked ready to stab some poor bastard, the adults didn’t seem to care that much.
She whistled lowly, walking out the door past Max and Magneto with a board resting under her arm. Well out of the way of the post-game shenanigans, in case something went flying her way. And she cracked a joke.
Leah inched over in her seat to give Sabine some space while giving the smaller girl a knowing look.
”Uh. Yeah…” Leah wasn’t sure how to react. First, she’d sat down to apologize to the Young Avengers, and then suddenly Andy was making out sloppy style with America and Gideon. Leah didn’t have any issues with that. And why would she? But… Holy shit, that came way out of left field. Her face might’ve turned red if her skin wasn’t rocky. It was awfully hot, really. She didn’t know Andy was into polycules. Or maybe she just had a revelation or two.
Either way, she definitely deserved some love after the Zari thing.
”She’s… Uh- She’s fine.” Compose yourself at once, Jordan. ”She’s got friends who care about her, and she knows she can ask for help. Victoria’s better than she was a month or two ago.” Leah was, of course, referring to CAGE. But she also didn’t really think it was her place to answer anything intimate. Vicky could speak for herself when it came to that stuff.
She put an arm around her girlfriend, nudging her and being the clingy one for once.
”I’m… Okay, I think,” She whispered, so as to not interrupt Andy’s whole moment. ”Glad I left the field, before they won. Remind me not to be around people in suits ever again.”
A few tables over, an eating contest was about to commence. Leah couldn’t help but roll her eyes. If anyone tried to steal her food they’d probably overdose on capsaicin or get kicked halfway to the moon. Couldn't they just chill out? She kind of agreed with Magneto.
”You wanna eat?” She asked, still keeping her voice down. ”Don’t have to, we can step out whenever you want. It’s mostly fish and crabs, I think.” She hadn’t forgotten that food was a thing Sabine had to be careful about, or the fact that she wasn’t a big fan of seafood.
Leah’s mental bandwidth was being tested a lot after her team’s victory. She had walked back inside, able to find her way around a bit easier, and it seemed everyone from here to Mars wanted to take a minute of her time. Some pretty-looking guy with goat horns and immaculately braided hair, about her age, came running up to her with his younger sister asking for a picture. She didn’t smile in it, but he insisted he’d follow her with it on her socials… Which she didn’t have. A kid who couldn't have been older than five asked her to sign a fucking cinder block. She did, and the kid ran off like he'd stolen the Declaration of Independence.
When she got away from all of that, it was just suits and bureaucrats inside. Someone led her to meet up with her team for one big interview, and it wasn’t fun. Leah didn't have the social capabilities for this stuff, even if she knew that most journalists who hounded superheroes in this environment just wanted sound bites.
How did you get so strong?
What brought you here from Asg- You're not Asgardian?
Why did you abstain near the end of the Contest?
Blah. Blah. Fucking. Blah.
A few questions of the lot did seem like they were actually thoughtful, though.
“Leah! Your earth bending is incredible! Who is your inspiration?” Asked a woman with a notepad and a cellphone in her hands. That was an incredibly vague question, but miraculously, she knew how to answer it.
"...Villains, terrorists, other evil people like that. They inspire me to be better than them, so there's someone to stop them." She omitted the part where it was personal.
An older guy in a baseball hat spoke up next. He looked old enough to have grandchildren. “Leah! What’s your opinion on the recent Humanity First movement to remove super powered kids from being able to compete in sports and use public facilities?”
Leah heard about them once. She did not fuck with that. She sat up and leaned towards the microphone someone had given her.
"That's stupid. People like that would lose to kids without superpowers, and they've probably never even sat foot on a field in the first place. And since I know one of you is about to bring up segregating them so they play against each other- Look around you. And when they don't, there are rules about it," She added. "That's the same thing people said days and weeks after it was suddenly illegal to kill mutants- Don't let them exist in public... We solved this problem decades ago. You'd have to be delusional to think we didn't."
Somebody asked her about her nonexistent social media presence and if that would change now that she was famous. It wouldn't.
And then the corporate drudgery happened. Contracts, brand deals, stuff she really wasn’t equipped to understand in an hour, let alone a brief conversation. She Hulk was right about letting her deal with things like this, so Leah had told several of the suits that she’d ask a lawyer to look over anything written down first. Unsurprisingly, several of them suddenly needed to make a phone call. The rest assured her that it would've been above board, but they were gone when she turned around. Funny how they didn't want to talk to someone who knew enough to call them out on their shady tricks.
Then, two men with lanyards found her, one holding a clipboard and the other holding a box full of stuff. When she was alone, she opened it up and… It was like the entire sphere of queers and shades of gays had all been distilled down into a box. Leah wasn’t really sure what to do with most of it. But she picked out a bracelet that somehow fit her huge wrists. It was made of plastic beads in alternating colors that made up a bisexual flag. And, interestingly enough, there was bag of enamel pins. One in particular caught her attention; A three color flag with blue, pink and dark purple with a white triangle on one side. In the white triangle was a yellow heart, pointed sideways.
It was a polyamory flag. She sat the box on the floor, dug out a conveniently Leah-sized jacket with a Margaret Carter Institute logo on the back. She stuck the pin to the front and threw it on, then decided that she'd be wearing this thing every day. She left alongside everyone else, after Vision had performed some Jedi mind tricks to get Excelsior away from the rest of the nightmare that was corporate functions.
The rock-shaping giant felt a bit small walking into the Court of Two Sisters. The place looked awfully pretty, natural and calm. This whole city felt like it was just one big fairytale from what she’d seen of it so far, it was nice. Nice in ways that made Leah stop talking and just chill out. She was led out back to the reserved area, and momentarily forgot why she even came. The smell of food was damn near intoxicating.
Looking around, she didn’t see any of her team yet. She must have gotten there early. Leah got to a table, and ordered some crawfish and crab cakes with black coffee. Leah heard someone calling someone hot. She craned her head around and… Oh. Her table was right across from America, Cassie, and Patriot. Leah suddenly remembered why she’d come here and felt nowhere near as confident about it as an hour ago.
”Um- Hi… You three. Heard Andy snapped your leg.” Great start, Jordan. Masterful. ”You seem to be walking it off okay, now.”
Get it? Because it’s your leg and- Yeah. That was dumb.
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