Bork

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

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Moses Muller

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“Crap. Crap. Crap.”

Moses prayed under his breath, weaving, side-stepping and dodging like a drunkard as the distortion moved towards him like a living chainsaw, shredding all in its path. He took a moment to curse the Law of Life; that arbitrary limitation in his magic that had given birth to this monstrosity.

Moses continued his mad attempts to fight the distortion, using the pan in his hand as more of a shield rather than a sword. He wasn’t a fighter with 20 different degrees in a myriad of obscure martial arts. He was a twenty-year old street-artist, for crying out loud! A wild swipe elicited a yelp out of him as he awkwardly dodged it, raising his pan up to defend himself once more. Facing the distortion with a weapon was far more terrifying than facing him without one. It was lashing out wildly like a feral animal, contorting its body into a series of scorpion-like tentacles. Moses bit back a curse as one of its arms missed his head and instead, broke one of his canvas painting inwards.

One thing was for certain, though. He shouldn’t have been able to fight like this for so long. His stick-thin, caffeine addicted, lay-man body was begging to be broken apart. He didn’t know why he felt like he was getting stronger the longer the fight went on. Being close to the pan was like the rush after having eaten a home-cooked meal. There was a little more bounce in his steps, a vigour that couldn’t be gained through a coffee binge. Moses sloppilly ducked a wild swing that cleaved a ceramic mug in twain, the edge of his pan skidding on top of the cheap plastic counter-top. With every growing second, the heat of the pan handle grew into an warm inferno that suffused every molecule in his body. Unnatural strength filled his veins as he stumbled, dodging a charge and slamming the pan down on the backside of the distortion.

He needed to find an opening soon. The distortion made another wild charge for him, Moses pressing his back against the wall before narrowly escaping certain death as it plowed straight into it like an angry rhino. Its head was momentarily embedded as the distortion tried to dislodge itself.

There!

Moses slammed the pan downwards on the creature with a untrained, shaky blow, waiting for the inevitable crunch of skull, bone, meat or whatever the hell the creature was made of, bracing for the wet impact…..

Except it never came.

The damn distortion had caught the pan in one of its multi-digited limbs, ignoring the fact that its limbs were searing and charring upon contact with the pan. It reminded him of burning kerosene as Moses choking on the odorous fumes. Hell, if he wasn’t mistaken, it almost seem to be enjoying the pain, given the fact that it was transfixed on his trinket like a toy.

“ Hmm, all of this pain is...exciting. It seems you do still possess your magics…..”

It began to insert the pan into its open maw, crushing it and chewing it apart like hard candy, even as its body continued to melt apart under the sheer heat that the trinket was emitting. Well, it was distracted. For the moment. Moses slowly walked backwards in horror before he bumped into a desk with a binder of white paper and several pencils. He looked between it and the distortion, the gears crunching in his head, as a determined look came over his face. He grabbed a pencil and began to speed-draw in practiced motions, his eyes fidgeting between his drawing and the distortion.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t be too slow….

The distortion had finished devouring his pan and rounded upon him, not minding the fact that half of its body was covered in emberous burns with ash flaking off its multi-coloured skin. It had a shivering look of pleasure on its face, not minding the hideous amount of wounds covering its body. It looked around for him in the darkly lit room, a dozen blinking irises protruding out of its head.

“ Now, what were we - “

Before it could even react, Moses ran towards it with a nervous expression on his face and grasping what seemed like a miniature pineapple. He was holding onto it like it was a hot potato, sweat beading on his left palm. He ripped the leafy fronds off with his teeth and spat it out before doing the unthinkable. The distortion was too late to stop Moses from ramming the trinket in its throat, pushing his elbow deep past its teeth. He pushed further before he yelled in pain and wrenched his hand out, nursing it.

The distortion immediately backed away from him, clawing at its throat and hacking like a one-lunged smoker. It stumbled on its legs as it tripped and fell backwards through Moses shattered window, never bothering to break its eternal stare at him. Moses ran toward the window, peering out as its body fell on top of a garbage bin and flattened it apart. There was a sudden flash of light, the sounds of paint splattering onto the walls and then, nothing. Moses lowered his arms which stopped him from being blinded and nearly vomited at the scene. The lower half of the distortion had been blown apart into smithereens, paint strewn out from a mangled body with several of its limbs strewn across the entire lower alley-way. A second later, a shockwave of wailing filled in the apartment block as windows lighted up. The light scent of pineapple cocktail strewn with oil paint poured out from the window with the warbling echoes of a screeching laugh.

He managed to breathe a sign of elation before buzzing began to fill his head.

“ YOUR MAGIC IS LIKE A MUSCLE, MULLER."

His heart thudded like a rusty engine. His feeet began to stumble.

" WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR MUSCLES IF YOU DON’T USE THEM?”

Dark ants crawled over his vision as he fainted, unconscious even before he hit the ground.

" PERHAPS, THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU STILL."

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

I’m coming to town next week with another post.

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

MOSES MULLER

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8th September, 2014 - Santa Celia Police Headquarters - CONFESSION IN-3458

MOSES MULLER: I don’t remember anything before Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. End of story.

INTERROGATOR: Kid, your uncle didn’t just die. Five people died alongside your uncle that die and detectives spotted a trail of prints directly from your uncle’s classroom. Their bodies were half-incinerated, some looked like they got mauled by a grizzly. You mind explaining how that happened?

MOSES MULLER: I don’t know. Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. I - I don’t remember anything. End of story.

INTERROGATOR: Kid, even a deaf bat can tell that you’re not telling the truth.

MOSES MULLER: I don’t know. Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. End of story.

INTERROGATOR: Tell me the truth. Your uncle didn’t just die. Something else happened that day. I can see it in your eyes. That sweating brow of yours. You’re lying.

MOSES MULLER: I don’t know what happened. I swear to god, that -

INTERROGATOR: ‘Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. End of story.’ You think people are just to take that for an answer -?

MOSES MULLER: I DON’T KNOW! What do you want me to say? That I killed him. It just happened so fast. There was blood everywhere and I tried to stop it in time and I tried to pull her off Uncle Gerald and next thing I know, I get knocked down to the ground. I wake up and the next thing I saw was fire around me. There wasn’t anything left of his fa-God.

It’s me.

I - Oh god - I should have saved him.

I killed him.

Oh god, I killed him.

Why?

INTERROGATOR 2: C’mon, get out here, Simon, you broke the poor kid. Look, Moses, you didn’t kill your Uncle, you didn’t kill your Uncle. Who was it? A woman - A man - Give me a name -

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The pencil splintered in half, the top half of it bouncing off a linoleum seat to his right and onto the floor of the public bus. Mo’s hands still grasped the fragments of the broken pencil, moving and sketching a ghost drawing onto the notebook. He paused in his breathe, realising that everyone next to him was now looking at him as he put the notebook back into his rucksack. Well, only two people. That being, an old grandmother and a shifty man who was tucked back within the shadows of the truck, a pungent oil-like aroma sticking to his clothes. He massaged his right hand, taking out a loose splinter that was caught in between his index knuckles.

The bus rolled to a lurching stop, shuffling backwards and forwards before the hydraulic doors opened with a hiss. He stepped off and began to walk towards his flat, Rhombus’s pizza carefully stowed under the crook of his right elbow and his spray-painting supplies packed in his rucksack. Glenvale was located on the outskirts of the urban fringe of Santa Celia, near one of the main roads that led into the towering monolithic structure of Rook Bridge. It was a 5 story tall building that was squat and sheltered between the walls of two other apartment buildings like a scrawny kid shouldered between two jocks.

Moses began to walk towards the apartment doors, his mind still locked in thought while that same oily odour lingered around. Hell, if he thought about it - maybe, it was just the paint on his jacket. He sniffed the air once again, only to taste the familiar scent of sweat and pickled paint accrued after a long day at work. Giving a brief wave to the guard on duty, Moses entered the entrance and began to walk up at a brisk pace up towards his own room. A minute later of wondering why the concept of elevators hadn’t reached Glendale yet, Moses thumping footsteps, laden with fatigue, reached the front of his door. Number 105.

The door clicked and opened with a rusty whine. Moses waved his arms blindly in the darkness, feeling for the walls before managing to locate the small switch. He flipped it on and the low humming glow of incandescent light bulbs filled the apartment. It was more like a makeshift art studio. Unfinished sketches and paintings filled and crammed every corner of the room. There was a menagerie of pencil and marker sketches tacked to the right wall. A pile of overflowing scribbles choked the waste-bin. Moses signed as he palmed his paint-speckled face, dropping his rucksack and pizza onto his moth-eaten bed, ready to drop onto it and have a good night of sleep.

Then, something wet and sticky wrapped around his lower foot, causing to fall and face-plant onto the sodden wooden floorboards. He groaned as his body was slowly dragged and lifted up, choking at the smell of noxious fumes of burnt paint. He then felt coarse digits, thick as meat-shop sausages, wrapped around the edges of his jacket before his entire back was slammed against the wall with unnatural strength. He blinked for a second, taking a moment to put his senses together, before retching at the sight at what was in front of him.

The man’s features were contorted like some sort of obscure abstract painting by a psychopath, every orifice in his face in the wrong location yet still somehow talking. His clothes were made out of a combination of old art-room manila paper and crumpled newspaper. Droplets of wet thinning oil fell of its chin. There was a wet soggy path of paint that dripped behind him, leeching permanently into the surfaces of the room and seemingly fusing it with his entire painted body. It shouldn't have moved or existed yet it was animated with grotesque movements. Something stretched and cracked on its face to produce sound, as it spoke in the mixture of a high-pitched woman’s voice and the slurred masculine voice of a drunkard.

“ Never clean up your messes, do you, Aristonancer?”

Wha -

Moses didn’t have time to respond as the man threw him across the room, his body flailing around mid-air for a moment before crashing into a canvas bed and breaking it in half. He struggled to stand up, cringing at the pangs of broken ribs in his chest before he was once again grabbed by the neck and forced face to face with the entity.

“ Then, again, I guess you inherited it from Gerald.”

How? -

He was slammed again back towards the wall several times in a row savagely without any mercy whatsoever. The wind had been taken out of his lungs before the distortion began to choke him, placing both its melted fingers across his neck and pressing like a vice clamp. It whispered towards him, a playful cadence in its voice.

“ Come on, Moses, show me. Show me like you showed Gerald.”

It somehow knew his name. Dark spots began to dance in Moses vision as he gasped like a beached fish, his mouth open and begging for air but receiving nothing. He needed to get out of this situation. His arms wildly flopped around, searching for anything to use as a weapon. He could feel nothing except for the canvas, the paper, his paintings, all useless. He was nothing. He was going to die in this apartment, alone and -

FOOL, HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YOUR PURPOSE?

No. That was impossi-

YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO BANISH THE DISTORTION.

Moses turned his head towards the right. A blurry white canvas. A half-finished painting. It would be better than nothing. He began to reach out towards the canvas slowly, his fingers crawling towards it for just one touch, the distortion slowly throttling him harder and harder and when he did touch it -

Nothing happened.

Before everything filled with colour.

An aurora of burning energy seared the nerves in his right hand as he sunk it into the painting. A kaleidoscope of radiant colours, like an rainbow atomic bomb going off in slow motion, filled his vision for a moment whilst he concentrated to wrestle the energy under his control. It was a sensation akin to finding a lost puzzle piece and inserting it into himself. His heart trembled with nervous excitement as he drew out the object. No, the trinket.

He felt the distortion’s grasp on him grew weak as it drew backwards, growling at the sight of the trinket in his hands. He coughed, his neck bright red from the pressure of the creature’s hold. He took a gander at his drawn trinket - the first one that he’d summoned in years - and then, frowned in frustration.

Seriously, a frying pan?

In his hands was a large metallic green pan that was folded like origami, hurting his mind the more he looked at it. He recognized where it came from. It was a art project that he’d kept out of nostalgia from Arido that was an attempt at imitating cubism. It glowed like melted glass, a soft candle-light suffusing the darkness of his flat. Its smooth grip had a waxy consistency to it. It was the complete opposite of 'intimidating'.

Well, there was no use complaining now.

He looked at the intricate cooking implement in his hand and then, at the monster in front of him. A second extended into an eternity of befuddled thoughts, nerve-wracking anxiety and trepeditation. The distortion craned its neck curiously before a pleasurable sign came out of its mouth, as if in anticipation.

“Finally.”

His grasp tightened onto his weapon - frying pan - as the distortion lunged towards him in a feral movement.

He raised the trinket with a gulp.

And then charged his past head on.

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

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CHARACTER CONCEPT#1/FANDOM:POKEMON

gritty-urban-supernatural-crime-thriller

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Turquoise Delton - Retired Criminal

Crime doesn't pay but you do pay with your soul.

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(=0=)

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Birth Name

Aloysius Leonardo Cunnington

Aliases

- Hans Ashton
- The Fool's Hand
- Temporary Agent
- Blank

Age

29

Appearance

Like the setting of the sun and the rise of the moon, Turq’s external appearances change throughout the day, shedding his skin constantly like a Kecleon to suit the local environment around him, shifting ever-constantly between a man of mundanity and a creature of criminality in plain sight. First impressions of Turq usually leave the curious satisfied and deter the insecure qualms of the suspicious with a single glance. Turq seemingly prospers within the aesthetic of contemporary life yet underneath that civilized facade of his lies the subtle hint of ethereal shackles that chain him to a past that clings onto his very body. However, despite his tendencies for his ever-changing looks, he carries an air of consummate professionalism about him, annoyingly immaculate in his overall adornment and toes the line between the stations of the upper and lower class.

Standing at a deceiving height of 5’9, Turq’s milquetoast features belies a imposing weathered muscular physique forged from years of strenuous exercise and exhilarating criminal escapades. His corded muscles are lined with a number of post-traumatic scars from head to toe, each of them a moral of his story, ranging from healed incisions from a Picharisu’s Hyper Fang, a sliced nail from a rogue Bisharp, a patch of will’o’wisp burns from a mischievous Litwick and a long scar delivered by an angered Cubchoo. The knuckles of his fists are coated in calloused white welts and thick blemishes that cover his palms. Whilst the erosion and decay of ennui has begun to set into his body noticeably over the past few years, he is still fit in build.

When one meets face to face with Turq for the first time, they almost immediately notice the heavy-set face that brags a family history of violence and intimidation. His ridged forehead, a flat angled nose and a rectangular face makes one assume that he’s of rural ethnicity, a brutish background so to speak. His cheeks have a tint of red to them with a row of sleepless dark bags underneath his black eyes. Surrounding his long chined demeanour is a shaved bush of autumn-red hair that’s browning at the fringes.

In terms of fashion, Turq’s collection of button-up shirts and long pants is pretty eclectic, ranging from the most epicurean in Kalosian fashion, or the most mundane in Kantonese apparel. During his normal day-to-day hours, Turq prefers to wear a mixture of formal suits in a palette of light colors. During his nightly sojourns, a trench-coat is his main form of apparel. Regardless, he is never seen without his signature wide-brimmed pork-pie hat that brings a shadow over his entire face.

Personality

Turq is an wizened individual, far more experienced than one should be at his age, who displays all of the most paradoxical traits of a career criminal: honourable but cunning, honest but deceiving, gentle yet brutal and irrational but pragmatic. He is a man of consummate professionalism and dislikes any behaviour that he deems to be unprofessional or unbefitting of the person’s position or stature. After spending the majority of his youth dwelling in the criminal underworld, Turq is wallowing. He takes no pleasure nor does he take in any sense of achievement in his criminal dealings, only seeing them as a means to an end.

Biography

Skills

//Black-Collar Criminal

//Underground Trainer

//Hustler

//School of Hard Knocks

//Master of Disguise

//The Iron Chef

//Cosmopolitan

//Web of Ears

Weaknesses

//Money, Money, Money

//Street Rules

//Infamous

//Red Ledger

//Chronic Gambler

//Scars of the Past

Equipment

Pokemon

<sub>//CROCHET | CHATOT | FEMALE |KEEN EYE | HASTY

//DOODLE | SMEARGLE | MALE | TECHNICIAN | SASSY

//VEIL | DITTO | MALE | IMPOSTER | IMPISH

//DYNAMO | ROTOM | MALE | LEVITATE | CALM

//PLUTARCH | PORYGONv2.3 | MALE | DOWNLOAD | MODEST

//GREMLIN | SABLEYE | FEMALE | PRANKSTER | IMPISH</sub>

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Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

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Moses Muller

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“ So, how’s it coming along, Muller?”

“ Nearly there,” Mo murmured, chewing his tongue whilst his concentrated brow sweated beads of perspiration that slid down his forehead and onto his rubber-gas mask. He stopped depressing the plunger, bringing his coat of red gloss to a halt for a second to peel off the newspaper he’d overlaid onto the wall to protect the dried sections. He then set it down before reaching for a smaller can of ocean blue, spinning it in his hand, before The rhythm of the thin hissing colours and the peppy music conjoined with one another to form a melody that few could truly experience. The faint licks of misty paint in the humid night winds of Saint Celia obscured his vision just for a moment, powdery hues of red, yellow and light brown like a kaleidoscope. He was in his element. In these moments, he could finally forget about who he was and focus on the present.

“ Just - ”

A splash of forest green.

“ A little more….”

A little bit of orange-red for that finish…...

“ There.”

Mo released his pressure off the plunger slowly before setting the can down beside him on the newspaper floor. He tore off his gas-mask and took in the spectacle of his creation. An simple rustic red, white and green tableau of a guy cooking pizza out of a wood oven, coloured smoke pouring out the bricked chimney like an old steam train. It was relatively simplistic, although, it wasn’t a simple piece of hodge-podge graffiti or some tribalistic toilet art painted in some obscure urban back-alley. He’d spent the majority of last night, sacrificing a pile of ideas to the bin before he finally found a diamond in the rough. He pulled off the paint-splattered gloves, careful to not stain his own hoodie before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, unsure of what to expect, only to meet the wafting smell of melting mozzarella and the cherubic dimpled smile of Alfonso Rhombus.

The eponymous owner of Rhombus’s, the oldest pizza parlor in Santa Celia, was standing right in front of him, looking at him with a kindly full-toothed grin. He was approaching his twilight years soon, judging by the balding grey roots growing out of the side of his head and the aged lines that sagged his cheeks. Yet, there was a kind of imperceptible energy to him, an indomitable spirit that pushed back against the clock like a seaside cliff. He was holding a pizza out towards him, gesturing toward the restaurant. Most likely offering him dinner. Mo began to subconsciously reach for his wallet, stopping as Rhombus shook his head and spoke.

“ Nah, consider it on the house. Besides, what you’re just done is payment enough. Now, you can have a taste of my art. ” He motioned towards one of the empty wooden chair situated outside the entrance. “ Sit down. Eat.”

“ I - “ Moses was in the beginnings of a polite refusal before his stomach growled. He looked down at the pizza and eyed it. The crust was cooked to a crusty light brown perfection and rolling towards the center of cheesy goodness was a spiral of red sauce interspersed with toppings of prosciutto, roasted green bell peppers and sliced olives. With a beleaguered sign, he sat down with Rhombus, grabbing a slice for himself and chewing on it slowly, Immediately, he could feel the hearty tones of the prosciutto followed by the spice of the peppers and the salty pang of olives. He made an internal note in his mind to come back here again because this was the best pizza that he’d managed to eat in years. He quickly devoured a slice before going for another, much to the amusement of Rhombus.

“ Beautiful,” Rhombus was appraising his work slowly with his eyes. “ In hindsight, I guess I should have paid you more.”

Mo swallowed a bite, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the sauce off his chin momentarily before continuing.

“ Not about the money,” Mo grunted, finishing off his slice and reaching slowly for another one, “ About the art. ”

They stayed silent for a while, bathing in the splendor and night-life of Santa Celia. Rhombus’s restaurant was located right in the south corner of a busy traffic junction, taxis, cars, buses and motorcycles all moving past each other like glowing schools of fish. Rhombus didn’t take a slice, giving a mysterious look towards him that was bordering on paternalistic. He had his fingers wringed together.

“ I’ve also heard about some murmurs on the streets. Some of the gangs….they ain’t too pleased about a guy like you. I mean, I saw some of the stuff that you tagged. It needed to be done but you’re attracting some unsavory people, get what I’m saying?”

Rhombus stopped at his last question, letting Mo process the words or possibly having a chance to reply to his comment. Mo was unconcerned, letting no visible expression escape him as he continued to chew and eat the pizza, non-plussed. “ If you’re not careful, your art over there, “ Rhombus pointed towards the now-dried mural, several onlookers taking a picture of it as if to make a point “ - could endanger you. Heck, your art could even kill you. I know that you’re - Is something wrong, Muller?”

Mo suddenly reacted as if Rhombus had slapped him when he said the last sentence, eyes suddenly glazed over in memory. Mo’s knuckles were gripping the sides of his chair, knuckles white and his face ashen. He blinked several times before realising what he was doing and then, shied away from Rhombus’s face in embarrassment. “ N-no,” He stuttered quietly, with a dry lisp before licking his lips.

“ Can I get the rest of this to go?”

There was a pause before Mo heard the noise of a chair leg scratching against the concrete. There was the pat of a warm hand against his shoulder and the strong scent of the pizza travelled away, although it left a pungent aroma on the tabletop. As soon as the doorbell jingled, Mo collapsed into his chair and bristled, looking upwards at the night sky whilst simultaneously fumbling for his I-Pod.

Your art could kill you.

He began to remember that night, even though he tried not to. His right hand began to spasm, in the phantom throes of holding a brush. A hand that shaped and borned a life that was never meant to be. The power to create life from nothing and yet, powerless to return it back from nothing. The red and yellow hotness of the pizza were beginning to crackle like a bon-fire in his mouth. The unrelenting, pounding yelling and screaming of the dead souls that festered in his head for months began to rise up again before he quashed them like they were persistent pests. Each breathe sharpened the world around him with increasing clarity as he shakily inserted the ear-buds into his ears and tried to forget everything. He was putting all of that behind him and was starting a life afresh. As a street artist. Not a god-damn Aritistonancer.

The palm of his right hand still burned in regret.

“I’ve lost all my pride. I’ve been to paradise. And out the other side. With no one to guide me. Torn apart by a fiery will inside. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you………”

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

I’ve begun to construct the beginnings of a plot for Mo but I just need a first IC post that gives me the general situation of Saint Celia so that I know how to adapt my plans to it.

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

Moses Muller

"Art doesn't express. It exposes"

_______________________________________________ Moses 'Mo' Jackson Muller _______________________________________________ 3rd November 1997 | 21 | Caucasian Hispanic _______________________________________________ Single | ♂ | Asexual _______________________________________________ Santa Celia Art College | Street Artist _______________________________________________ Physical Profile ___________________________________ [+] //Basics: • Height | 6'-1" • Weight | 165 lbs • Build | Lanky • Hair Colour | Dark Brown • Eye Colour | Grey Miscellaneous Items ___________________________________ [+] //Notes: • Right Forearm Tattoo | Intertwined around Mo's left fore-arm is a six-sided hexagram, each side composed out of a different writing tool which consists of a red-colored pencil, a brush dripping in blue paint, a quill in yellow ink, a piece of green chalk, a orange pen and a purple marker. //Paraphernalia: • Arsenal of Paint | A good artist never is alone without his tools. Despite of his general disorganization, Mo will carry around a rucksack filled with a myriad of painting tools and accessories including dollar-store chalk, Krylon spray paint, stencils, duct-tape, modifiable plungers, caps of different sizes, Krink markers and good ol' paint. He refills it on a weekly basis. • Sick Beats | When Mo has to tune out the troubles of the urban world, his handy I-Pod is always at the ready, filled with a custom made playlist of 195 songs, both classical and modern.

Appearance Details ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ With a bean-pole figure of 6 foot and 1 inch, one will almost always be immediately repulsed or disgusted by Mo when they first come into contact with him. Mo has the appearance of a skinny leech, reeking to high hell of overnight caffeine fugues of artistic fervor combined with pallid overgrown hairy skin. One evident thing that one will notice about Moses immediately is the fact that he is stained with artistic materials. Graphite dust etched into his skin from hours of sketching. Bits of dried paint underneath his fingernails. A blot of ink underneath his chin. Mo's face is undecipherable, scrunched eyebrows that are lost in thought and a glazed visage that shifts between the realm of reality and dreams. His mouth and facial expression are constantly irractic and shifting, almost as if he's conversing with someone else in his mind. His dark lidded grey eyes are constantly in a bloodshot state of frustration with baggy under-lids that are threatening to drop off his face at any moment. His face bears a lightly shaven moustache complimented with rows of splotchy acne scars permanently branding his cheeks and nose. His wild bush of dark-brown hair is uncombed and knot with splatters of paint and chalk dust dug into the very roots. Moses skeletal appearance belies a lithe physicality that is marked with legacies of a misspent youth, with puckered knees, weathered elbows and faded bruises aplenty. He has a slight hunch in his shoulders, bending him slightly forwards even when standing or sitting still. His thin arms dangle precariously off his shoulders, hands always gravitating towards his pockets to reach for a pencil and paper to draw on. Aside from this, Moses has one single ink tattoo on his right forearm. For casual wear, Mo prefers street-wear such as rain-jackets, bomber jackets and jumpers that always come with a hood alongside a pair of worn out sneakers or sport shoes. When he’s painting the streets, Mo wears a strappable gas mask underneath a red bandanna and scarf to conceal himself along with a set of paint-stained foreman gloves. Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Mo is a man who's seen it all and more who has become emotionally numbed in response to supernatural phenomena. Whenever something strange or out of the ordinary happens around him, he is often non-plussed and works with the situation as best as he can. Mo can always be expected to be a calm and nonchalant individual who is undoubtedly reserved, usually resorting to succinct or blunt responses during normal day to day conversations with strangers and doesn't engage in bouts of sentimentalism or overt emotional exuberance. On the contrary, he's more interested in doodling rather than conversing, often taking every opportunity during conversation to draw something or someone. Mo's lack of sociability is often affected by the fact that there are a constant retinue of dead talking Artistonancer's in his head that are incapable of shutting up, often leading to sudden impulsive bouts of frustration and shouting at seemingly no one. He treats his fellow dead Artistonancers with almost no semblance of respect and views them as more of a liability and annoyance rather than a source of help ever since the incident. Needless, Mo has an difficult relationship with the ghosts of former Artistonancer's that haunt him on a daily basis that range from sarcastic barbs to hostile expletive-filled death matches. In spite of his rather cold demeanor, Mo has the soul of an artist and expresses most of his emotions in his art, using it as an outlet for his repressed emotions and as a method for calming the voices in his head down. The very act of art for Mo is cathartic. He is completely enraptured with enthusiasm when dug deep into his work and will never refuse an offer to do a commission for a stranger, barring extreme circumstances. However, any criticism of his artistic ability is seen to him as a challenge that he has to respond to in kind. Heavens help you if you insult graffiti as an art form in any way possible. Mo has always had a pathological distrust of authority figures, holding a contemptuous view of them as a massive conglomerate of high-horsed people with ulterior agendas. This usually leads to Moses being more likely to disobey orders from a source of authority or to actively act against them if there is enough evidence to support his suspicion. However, in rare cases, he is willing to interact and cooperate with them on good faith if they give him enough reasons to do so. In terms of his ethical integrity, Mo is often apprehensive of moral situations and approaches them with trepidation, often going as far to trying to avoid the call to altruism. However, despite his best efforts, Mo will ultimately, in the end, help those in trouble, especially people of lower socio-economic background despite him believing internally that he's doing this for his own self-gain. However, intrinsically, Mo is a person who desires an ordinary life as a street artist rather than being stuck with the mantle of an Artistonancer after his last experience with the supernatural. He is both afraid and daunted of the nature and legacy of his supernatural abilities, often leading to conflict between him and the retinue of long dead Artistonancers that take refuge in his mind. Being one of the last order leaves a heavy burden on Mo's soul as he knows that with every choice that he makes, Artistonancy either becomes preserved or extinct. Therefore, this leads to a conundrum where Mo is afraid of acknowledging the existence of his powers and actively takes steps to prevent himself from using his abilities as best as he can. Right and wrong, good and bad, all of that doesn't matter to Mo when he's trying to live as a normal guy who tags buildings left and right. Deep inside his mind, Mo knows that his life as an street artist can't last forever as the world becomes more stranger and yet, he continues to fight against his destiny.

_{Character Synopsis
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Born to a middle-class suburban family in the center of San Francisco, Moses ‘Mo’ Muller lived a sheltered life under the constant eye of his mother and father who were grooming their children to take over the reigns of Muller and Associates, one of the top premier accounting firms within San Francisco. Whilst the rest of the Muller children were willing to fufill the wishes of their father and mother, Moses was the proverbial black sheep of a family, wanting to escape from under the nose of his family. Ever since he was young, Moses was attracted to the arts ever since he first drew a little stick figure of a butterfly he saw in the backyard. His parents first wrote it off as a minor ‘hobby’ and that he would soon see the error of his ways. He didn’t. Much to their horror and Mo’s confusion, Mo continued to become more ambitious and daring in his artistic ventures, signing up for extra-curricular art activities and generally raising a middle finger to his family’s wishes.

It soon became worse when Mo’s family visited an charity art exhibition out of necessity, causing Mo to come back to his home later, claiming that he was hearing voices in his head. Five to be specific. Voices of adult men and adult women, painters, from the Renaissance, from the Cold War, famous artists of yore.

That was the last straw.

One day, without any warning whatsoever, at the age of 13, Mo’s parents made him pack his bags and sent him to his uncle, Gerald Muller, who was an art professor in Arido Art College, informally disowning him and refusing to recognise him as their son. Gerald Muller recognised Mo’s almost innate talents in the visual arts and immediately made him his protege, teaching him the foundation of the arts. Eventually, Gerald took a wager and betted on it after several nights of indecision. He took out one of Mo’s paintings, a black and white striped apple, and asked him jokingly to try and take the apple out. Mo managed to do it on his first try. After that incident, Gerald revealed that he was one of the last curators of an ancient art of magic of ‘Artistonancy’ and the history of their family. That Mo was what Aristonancers would call an 'Avant-Garde', a practitioner who would decide the fate of the study by himself and himself alone.

After celebrating with his first shot of whiskey (at an illegal age at that), Gerald had been unknowingly training him to become better in the art of Artistonancy in order for one single goal.

To resurrect his dead wife. Mo's aunt.

The process seemed successful. For a few brief seconds, the professor had his wife back. Before the screaming began and his blood began to splatter on the walls. Instead of making a successful replica of his own dead wife, Mo accidentally gave birth to an horrific abomination made of writhing flesh, splattered oil and twisted shape. A distortion. Mo was knocked out by a blow that left his mind in a tumble of broken memories. The next thing he knew, he was being interrogated by detectives in Saint Celia National Hospital, demanding to know what had happened. Why was half of the campus destroyed in pieces? Was it the work of an terrorist organisation? Was it a gas leak?

They wouldn’t even believe him if he told the real answer. Mo was soon admitted to the hospital and was lost and adrift, with only the voices in the head to guide him and - Fuck that. The voices were responsible for this. Artistonancy was a curse. It had birthed that….thing. That monstrosity. It was dangerous. No, he was dangerous. Soon after his uncle’s funeral, Mo approached the ruins of the campus, ducking underneath a border of security tape, to secure his uncle’s books on Artistonancy. The last remaining books of a once thriving order. Centuries worth of knowledge that he hadn’t even tapped into yet.

He burnt them one by one, not even stopping to take a peek at the pages, and threw them into the ocean, no matter how much the voices told him to stop.

After a few days of argument and dissent, the murals stopped communicating with him. For years in fact.

A few years later, Mo’s still trying to move past the incident by working as a job as a legal street artist in the inner city of Saint Celia. As he realised the increasing levels of crime and violence within the city he loved, he tried to do something good for the city as the muck and scum of crime rose, accepting jobs to paint memorials of dead victims, tags that criticised the local gangs that preyed on the innocent and tried to cast color into a city that was quickly losing it. His paintings made people weep. Cry. Laugh. It gave them hope. For once, he was proving the murals wrong. That he didn’t need to be an Artistonancer to make the world right. As storms darken on the horizon of Rook Bridge, Mo only hopes that he can hold onto his dreams for a little while longer.......

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Artistonancy | Artistonancy is a branch of magic that involves the use of artistic mediums as the main source of an practitioner's power by ‘drawing’ magical objects otherwise known as trinkets out of the artistic medium. Artistonancy was once effectively known as a 'poor man’s' magic in the inner circles of the magical community in the 15th century, effectively on the verge of extinction due to the hubris of its practitioners, believing they could overcome its rules. Every practitioner of Aristonancy has either accidentally killed themselves from their creations or gone insane from the accumulation of murals in their head. Ironically, Artistonancy has managed to out-live other magical arts that were once wide-spread throughout the world, although, its survival rests in the hands of one ordinary Californian.

Mo is one of the last remaining Artistonancers on Earth, specialising in using painted mediums as his source of magical power. The type of trinket drawn out can either have mundane qualities or supernatural qualities that can give boons to the user. The degree to which the object is supernatural depends on the materials used to create the object, the style of art, the aesthetic characteristics and much, much more. Mo has been out of practice since he found out his talents in Artistonancy 4 years ago but he still remembers the bare basics.

Artistonancy mainly involves two concepts: visualization and materialization of the object in question. Visualization requires clearing the mind of any distractions and focusing on the object that the practitioner wants to ‘draw’ out of a medium. Different types of paintings vary the difficulty and extent of visualization that a user must be involved in. A single image or a picture of an trinket restricts visualization but makes it extremely easier to focus. A more complex painting composed of multiple images gives a measure of freedom and leeway to the user to visualize whatever trinket that they want. Materialization involves the practitioner touching the visual medium and physically pulling the object out. The difficulty of materialization and the time it takes depends on the size of the object. Larger trinkets require Artistonancers to request the help of other people in order to fully materialize the object.

Mural Transferal | The soul of an Aristonancer continues to live in their art, even after they have passed away. When an Artistonancer dies, part of their spirit lays trapped and remains in their painting, sustained by the mere belief and awareness of their creations by the world, becoming what is known as a mural. If a Aristonancer's work becomes culturally insignificant over time, the remaining part of their soul will begin to degrade until they are no more. If it's not the case, then, a living Artistonancer can bring them back to life, allowing their conscious to inhabit their mind and voluntarily link them to their soul. Murals are independetly living spirits that are tied to the conscious mind of an Artistonancer. A mural is a source of invaluable information and experience for any Artistonancer and serve a secondary use of shielding their mind from mental or psychic attacks. The more murals that an Artistonancer accumulates, the increasing likelihood that they will begin to exhibit symptoms of sociopathy and psychopathy which will then develop into full-blown insanity. The recommended limit for accumulation of murals is a total of 8 voices.

Limitation(s) | Laws of Artistonancy

Artistonancy is a multi-faceted area of magic that has many nuances and limitations that even most Artistonancer's are not aware of. Due to burning Gerald's last collection of Artistonancy lore and by extension, his relationships with the murals in his head, Mo is currently aware of only 3 laws within Artistonancy that he has learnt thus far. With further communication with the murals in his head and more testing, he may soon grow to be aware of other laws.

Law of Dimensions:Artistonancer’s are unable to draw out trinkets that are larger than the dimensions of the visual medium itself without severely injuring themselves or causing a rupture. A ‘rupture’ is known as a backlash of magical energy that can rebound upon the caster, causing either severe mutations related to the visual medium or in extreme cases, death. Along with this, Artistonancer’s are restricted to only using their magic on one dimension only and not multiple dimensions. Therefore, Mo can only draw trinkets out of two-dimensional visual mediums and not three-dimensional visual mediums such as origami, sculptures, pottery or statues.

Law of Belonging:Artistonancer’s are only able to draw trinkets out of art that they have created by themselves only, finding themselves unable to draw out trinkets out of art created by other people. Attempting to draw trinkets out of artistic objects not created by the caster doesn’t have any severe repercussions, merely just a sense of disappointment, unlike the law below.

Law of Life:It is said that past or ancient aristonancers managed to master crafting life out of art itself. However, the practice of vivification, as it is called, has been lost in the annals of history. Attempting to create an sentient being out of an artwork will always almost result in the formation of a distortion. Plants and fungi are the exception to the rule but even attempting to take out any living being that can express intelligent behaviour is going to distort immedietely. Distortions are extremely dangerous sentient beings created by an Aristonancer that are a facsimile of life itself ranging from eldritch abominations to mere shadows of a person. Distortions are insane and can’t be reasoned with, operating on a single minded obsession that may vary from benign to dangerous.

Law of Energy Artistonancy is meant to be a poor man's form of magic, harnessing creativity as a quick-fix to perform the most complex of spells. However, over-use of Aritistonancy over a short period of time can severely fatigue the user depending on how experienced they are. This is known as a debt. Over-time, a Aristonancer can build up a resistance to accumulation of these debts, similar to how one exercises their muscles. However, without continual practice, an Artistonancer is sure to run out of energy after creating a few trinkets.

Weaknesses | Whilst Mo’s artistonancy is particularly versatile and grants him several boons, there are several weaknesses that one can capitalise on with enough observation. One of Aristonancy’s main weaknesses is the concept of Iconoclasm, or rather the inherent weakness of a trinkets that may cause it to degrade over time, depending on the quality and nature of the materials used. As Mo’s trinkets are mainly derived from chalk and paint, a combination of water or chemical solvents can dissolve or destroy Moses’s constructs on contact, even constructs that are meant to be defensive in nature. Whilst a mere drop of water won’t carve through Moses constructs, a downpour of rain or a gout of water from a firehose could potentially wash away everything.

Other than this, the main source of a Aristonancer’s power is also their crippling flaw. As long as one prevents Mo’s away from an available supply of paint and chalk, Mo could be easily mistaken for a simple ordinary individual with no outward superhuman characteristics whatsoever. Easy pickings for any one with a bare minimum of professional training.

As the majority of Mo’s Aristonancy relies on touch in order to begin drawing the trinket out of the visual medium, breaking Mo’s hand or simply crippling them beyond use is a valid tactic that any opponent could use to remove the use of his powers.

_//Skills:

Painter | Mo is an accomplished career painter who is adaptable with a myriad of visual mediums and has a knack for combining both realistic detail and surrealist imagery in a fitting blend with one another. His creativity and imagination are boundless whenever he’s holding a brush, a pencil, a marker or a can in his hand. His preferred mediums for painting are chalk, spray paint and pencil, although, he does have experience with other mediums such as oil and water-color in acquiescence of the voices in his head.

Parkour | Mo is mostly adept at the art of parkour, a childhood of rebellion in the inner city being responsible for him picking up the skill in the first place. Whilst not possessing as much finesse or brute endurance compared to other free-runners, Mo’s technical skills have never diminished throughout his age. Mo is able to maneuver through the concrete jungles of Santa Celia with ease, confidently leaping off roof-tops and vaulting over fences without catching his breath. Mo mainly uses his parkour skills to access the perfect canvas for his art or to mainly escape from the menagerie of authorities and gangsters that are on a constant chase after him.

_{Supporting Cast
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Alfonso Rhombus - Eponymous owner of Rhombus's, the oldest pizza parlor in central Santa Celia.

The Distortion - A mysterious entity that followed and attacked Moses at his apartment. Assumed to be dead...for now.

[UNKNOWN] - Moses last mural that is a amalgam of all his other mural's essences combined into one singular conciousness that seemingly aids him on his journey to become an Artistonancer.

---

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

Mo

Avant Garde

"Art doesn't express. It exposes"

_______________________________________________ Moses 'Mo' Jackson Muller _______________________________________________ 3rd November 1997 | 21 | Caucasian Hispanic _______________________________________________ Single | ♂ | Asexual _______________________________________________ Santa Celia Art College | Street Artist _______________________________________________ Physical Profile ___________________________________ [+] //Basics: • Height | 6'-1" • Weight | 165 lbs • Build | Lanky • Hair Colour | Dark Brown • Eye Colour | Grey Miscellaneous Items ___________________________________ [+] //Notes: • Right Forearm Tattoo | Intertwined around Mo's left fore-arm is a six-sided hexagram, each side composed out of a different writing tool which consists of a red-colored pencil, a brush dripping in blue paint, a quill in yellow ink, a piece of green chalk, a orange pen and a purple marker. //Paraphernalia: • Arsenal of Paint | A good artist never is alone without his tools. Despite of his general disorganization, Mo will carry around a rucksack filled with a myriad of painting tools and accessories including dollar-store chalk, Krylon spray paint, stencils, duct-tape, modifiable plungers, caps of different sizes, Krink markers and good ol' paint. He refills it on a weekly basis. • Sick Beats | When Mo has to tune out the troubles of the urban world, his handy I-Pod is always at the ready, filled with a custom made playlist of 195 songs, both classical and modern.

Appearance Details ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ With a bean-pole figure of 6 foot and 1 inch, one will almost always be immediately repulsed or disgusted by Mo when they first come into contact with him. Mo has the appearance of a skinny leech, reeking to high hell of overnight caffeine fugues of artistic fervor combined with pallid overgrown hairy skin. One evident thing that one will notice about Moses immediately is the fact that he is stained with artistic materials. Graphite dust etched into his skin from hours of sketching. Bits of dried paint underneath his fingernails. A blot of ink underneath his chin. Mo's face is undecipherable, scrunched eyebrows that are lost in thought and a glazed visage that shifts between the realm of reality and dreams. His mouth and facial expression are constantly irractic and shifting, almost as if he's conversing with someone else in his mind. His dark lidded grey eyes are constantly in a bloodshot state of frustration with baggy under-lids that are threatening to drop off his face at any moment. His face bears a lightly shaven moustache complimented with rows of splotchy acne scars permanently branding his cheeks and nose. His wild bush of dark-brown hair is uncombed and knot with splatters of paint and chalk dust dug into the very roots. Moses skeletal appearance belies a lithe physicality that is marked with legacies of a misspent youth, with puckered knees, weathered elbows and faded bruises aplenty. He has a slight hunch in his shoulders, bending him slightly forwards even when standing or sitting still. His thin arms dangle precariously off his shoulders, hands always gravitating towards his pockets to reach for a pencil and paper to draw on. Aside from this, Moses has one single ink tattoo on his right forearm. For casual wear, Mo prefers street-wear such as rain-jackets, bomber jackets and jumpers that always come with a hood alongside a pair of worn out sneakers or sport shoes. When he’s painting the streets, Mo wears a strappable gas mask underneath a red bandanna and scarf to conceal himself along with a set of paint-stained foreman gloves. Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Mo is a man who's seen it all and more who has become emotionally numbed in response to supernatural phenomena. Whenever something strange or out of the ordinary happens around him, he is often non-plussed and works with the situation as best as he can. Mo can always be expected to be a calm and nonchalant individual who is undoubtedly reserved, usually resorting to succinct or blunt responses during normal day to day conversations with strangers and doesn't engage in bouts of sentimentalism or overt emotional exuberance. On the contrary, he's more interested in doodling rather than conversing, often taking every opportunity during conversation to draw something or someone. Mo's lack of sociability is often affected by the fact that there are a constant retinue of dead talking Artistonancer's in his head that are incapable of shutting up, often leading to sudden impulsive bouts of frustration and shouting at seemingly no one. He treats his fellow dead Artistonancers with almost no semblance of respect and views them as more of a liability and annoyance rather than a source of help ever since the incident. Needless, Mo has an difficult relationship with the ghosts of former Artistonancer's that haunt him on a daily basis that range from sarcastic barbs to hostile expletive-filled death matches. In spite of his rather cold demeanor, Mo has the soul of an artist and expresses most of his emotions in his art, using it as an outlet for his repressed emotions and as a method for calming the voices in his head down. The very act of art for Mo is cathartic. He is completely enraptured with enthusiasm when dug deep into his work and will never refuse an offer to do a commission for a stranger, barring extreme circumstances. However, any criticism of his artistic ability is seen to him as a challenge that he has to respond to in kind. Heavens help you if you insult graffiti as an art form in any way possible. Mo has always had a pathological distrust of authority figures, holding a contemptuous view of them as a massive conglomerate of high-horsed people with ulterior agendas. This usually leads to Moses being more likely to disobey orders from a source of authority or to actively act against them if there is enough evidence to support his suspicion. However, in rare cases, he is willing to interact and cooperate with them on good faith if they give him enough reasons to do so. In terms of his ethical integrity, Mo is often apprehensive of moral situations and approaches them with trepidation, often going as far to trying to avoid the call to altruism. However, despite his best efforts, Mo will ultimately, in the end, help those in trouble, especially people of lower socio-economic background despite him believing internally that he's doing this for his own self-gain. However, intrinsically, Mo is a person who desires an ordinary life as a street artist rather than being stuck with the mantle of an Artistonancer after his last experience with the supernatural. He is both afraid and daunted of the nature and legacy of his supernatural abilities, often leading to conflict between him and the retinue of long dead Artistonancers that take refuge in his mind. Being one of the last order leaves a heavy burden on Mo's soul as he knows that with every choice that he makes, Artistonancy either becomes preserved or extinct. Therefore, this leads to a conundrum where Mo is afraid of acknowledging the existence of his powers and actively takes steps to prevent himself from using his abilities as best as he can. Right and wrong, good and bad, all of that doesn't matter to Mo when he's trying to live as a normal guy who tags buildings left and right. Deep inside his mind, Mo knows that his life as an street artist can't last forever as the world becomes more stranger and yet, he continues to fight against his destiny.

_{Character Synopsis
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Born to a middle-class suburban family in the center of San Francisco, Moses ‘Mo’ Muller lived a sheltered life under the constant eye of his mother and father who were grooming their children to take over the reigns of Muller and Associates, one of the top premier accounting firms within San Francisco. Whilst the rest of the Muller children were willing to fufill the wishes of their father and mother, Moses was the proverbial black sheep of a family, wanting to escape from under the nose of his family. Ever since he was young, Moses was attracted to the arts ever since he first drew a little stick figure of a butterfly he saw in the backyard. His parents first wrote it off as a minor ‘hobby’ and that he would soon see the error of his ways. He didn’t. Much to their horror and Mo’s confusion, Mo continued to become more ambitious and daring in his artistic ventures, signing up for extra-curricular art activities and generally raising a middle finger to his family’s wishes.

It soon became worse when Mo’s family visited an charity art exhibition out of necessity, causing Mo to come back to his home later, claiming that he was hearing voices in his head. Five to be specific. Voices of adult men and adult women, painters, from the Renaissance, from the Cold War, famous artists of yore.

That was the last straw.

One day, without any warning whatsoever, at the age of 13, Mo’s parents made him pack his bags and sent him to his uncle, Gerald Muller, who was an art professor in Arido Art College, informally disowning him and refusing to recognise him as their son. Gerald Muller recognised Mo’s almost innate talents in the visual arts and immediately made him his protege, teaching him the foundation of the arts. Eventually, Gerald took a wager and betted on it after several nights of indecision. He took out one of Mo’s paintings, a black and white striped apple, and asked him jokingly to try and reach into it. Mo managed to do it on his first try. After that incident, Gerald revealed that he was one of the last curators of an ancient art of magic of ‘Artistonancy’ and the history of their family. That Mo was what Aristonancers would call an 'Avant-Garde', a practitioner who would decide the fate of the study by himself and himself alone.

After celebrating with his first shot of whiskey (at an illegal age at that), Gerald had been unknowingly training him to become better in the art of Artistonancy in order for one single goal.

To resurrect his dead wife. Mo's aunt.

The process seemed successful. For a few brief seconds, the professor had his wife back. Before the screaming began and his blood began to splatter on the walls. Instead of making a successful replica of his own dead wife, Mo accidentally gave birth to an horrific abomination made of writhing flesh, splattered oil and twisted shape. A distortion. Mo was knocked out by a blow that left his mind in a tumble of broken memories. The next thing he knew, he was being interrogated by detectives in Saint Celia National Hospital, demanding to know what had happened. Why was half of the campus destroyed in pieces? Was it the work of an terrorist organisation? Was it a gas leak?

They wouldn’t even believe him if he told the real answer. Mo was soon admitted to the hospital and was lost and adrift, with only the voices in the head to guide him and - Fuck that. The voices were responsible for this. Artistonancy was a curse. It had birthed that….thing. That monstrosity. It was dangerous. No, he was dangerous. Soon after his uncle’s funeral, Mo approached the ruins of the campus, ducking underneath a border of security tape, to secure his uncle’s books on Artistonancy. The last remaining books of a once thriving order. Centuries worth of knowledge that he hadn’t even tapped into yet.

He burnt them one by one, not even stopping to take a peek at the pages, and threw them into the ocean, no matter how much the voices told him to stop.

After a few days of argument and dissent, the murals stopped communicating with him. For years in fact.

A few years later, Mo’s still trying to move past the incident by working as a job as a legal street artist in the inner city of Saint Celia. As he realised the increasing levels of crime and violence within the city he loved, he tried to do something good for the city as the muck and scum of crime rose, accepting jobs to paint memorials of dead victims, tags that criticised the local gangs that preyed on the innocent and tried to cast color into a city that was quickly losing it. His paintings made people weep. Cry. Laugh. It gave them hope. For once, he was proving the murals wrong. That he didn’t need to be an Artistonancer to make the world right. As storms darken on the horizon of Rook Bridge, Mo only hopes that he can hold onto his dreams for a little while longer.......

_{Abilities & Skills
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//Abiliites:}

Artistonancy | Artistonancy is a branch of magic that involves the use of artistic mediums as the main source of an practitioner's power by ‘drawing’ magical objects out of the artistic medium. Artistonancy was once effectively known as a 'poor man’s' magic in the inner circles of the magical community in the 15th century, effectively on the verge of extinction due to the hubris of its practitioners, believing they could overcome its rules. Every practitioner of Aristonancy has either accidentally killed themselves from their creations or gone insane from the accumulation of murals in their head. Ironically, Artistonancy has managed to out-live other magical arts that were once wide-spread throughout the world, although, its survival rests in the hands of one ordinary Californian.

Mo is one of the last remaining Artistonancers on Earth, specialising in using painted mediums as his source of magical power. The type of object drawn out can either have mundane qualities or supernatural qualities that can give boons to the user. The degree to which the object is supernatural depends on the materials used to create the object, the style of art, the aesthetic characteristics and much, much more. Mo has been out of practice since he found out his talents in Artistonancy 6 years ago but he still remembers the bare basics.

Artistonancy mainly involves two concepts: visualization and materialization of the object in question. Visualization requires clearing the mind of any distractions and focusing on the object that the practitioner wants to ‘draw’ out of a medium. Different types of paintings vary the difficulty and extent of visualization that a user must be involved in. A single image or a picture of an object restricts visualization but makes it extremely easier to focus. A more complex painting composed of multiple images gives a measure of freedom and leeway to the user to visualize whatever object that they want. Materialization involves the practitioner touching the visual medium and physically pulling the object out. The difficulty of materialization and the time it takes depends on the size of the object. Larger objects require Artistonancers to request the help of other people in order to fully materialize the object.

Mural Transferal | The soul of an Aristonancer continues to live in their art, even after they have passed away. When an Artistonancer dies, part of their spirit lays trapped and remains in their painting, sustained by the mere belief and awareness of their creations by the world, becoming what is known as a mural. If a Aristonancer's work becomes culturally insignificant over time, the remaining part of their soul will begin to degrade until they are no more. If it's not the case, then, a living Artistonancer can bring them back to life, allowing their conscious to inhabit their mind and voluntarily link them to their soul. Murals are independetly living spirits that are tied to the conscious mind of an Artistonancer. A mural is a source of invaluable information and experience for any Artistonancer and serve a secondary use of shielding their mind from mental or psychic attacks. The more murals that an Artistonancer accumulates, the increasing likelihood that they will begin to exhibit symptoms of sociopathy and psychopathy which will then develop into full-blown insanity. The recommended limit for accumulation of murals is a total of 8 voices.

Limitation(s) | Laws of Artistonancy



Artistonancy is a multi-faceted area of magic that has many nuances and limitations that even most Artistonancer's are not aware of. Due to burning Gerald's last collection of Artistonancy lore and by extension, his relationships with the murals in his head, Mo is currently aware of only 3 laws within Artistonancy that he has learnt thus far. With further communication with the murals in his head and more testing, he may soon grow to be aware of other laws.

Law of Dimensions:Artistonancer’s are unable to draw out objects that are larger than the dimensions of the visual medium itself without severely injuring themselves or causing a rupture. A ‘rupture’ is known as a backlash of magical energy that can rebound upon the caster, causing either severe mutations related to the visual medium or in extreme cases, death. Along with this, Artistonancer’s are restricted to only using their magic on one dimension only and not multiple dimensions. Therefore, Mo can only draw objects out of two-dimensional visual mediums and not three-dimensional visual mediums such as origami, sculptures, pottery or statues.

Law of Belonging:Artistonancer’s are only able to draw objects out of art that they have created by themselves only, finding themselves unable to draw out objects out of art created by other people. Attempting to draw objects out of artistic objects not created by the caster doesn’t have any severe repercussions, merely just a sense of disappointment, unlike the law below.

Law of Life:It is said that past or ancient aristonancers managed to master crafting life out of art itself. However, the practice of vivification, as it is called, has been lost in the annals of history. Attempting to create an sentient being out of an artwork will always almost result in the formation of a distortion. Plants and fungi are the exception to the rule but even attempting to take out any living being that can express intelligent behaviour is going to distort immedietely. Distortions are extremely dangerous sentient beings created by an Aristonancer that are a facsimile of life itself ranging from eldritch abominations to mere shadows of a person. Distortions are insane and can’t be reasoned with, operating on a single minded obsession that may vary from benign to dangerous.


Weaknesses | Whilst Mo’s artistonancy is particularly versatile and grants him several boons, there are several weaknesses that one can capitalise on with enough observation. One of Aristonancy’s main weaknesses is the concept of Iconoclasm, or rather the inherent weakness of a construct that may cause it to degrade over time, depending on the quality and nature of the materials used. As Mo’s constructs are mainly derived from chalk and paint, a combination of water or chemical solvents can dissolve or destroy Moses’s constructs on contact, even constructs that are meant to be defensive in nature. Whilst a mere drop of water won’t carve through Moses constructs, a downpour of rain or a gout of water from a firehose could potentially wash away everything.

Other than this, the main source of a Aristonancer’s power is also their crippling flaw. As long as one prevents Mo’s away from an available supply of paint and chalk, Mo could be easily mistaken for a simple ordinary individual with no outward superhuman characteristics whatsoever. Easy pickings for any one with a bare minimum of professional training.

As the majority of Mo’s Aristonancy relies on touch in order to begin drawing the object out of the visual medium, breaking Mo’s hand or simply crippling them beyond use is a valid tactic that any opponent could use to remove the use of his powers.

_//Skills:

Painter | Mo is an accomplished career painter who is adaptable with a myriad of visual mediums and has a knack for combining both realistic detail and surrealist imagery in a fitting blend with one another. His creativity and imagination are boundless whenever he’s holding a brush, a pencil, a marker or a can in his hand. His preferred mediums for painting are chalk, spray paint and pencil, although, he does have experience with other mediums such as oil and water-color in acquiescence of the voices in his head.

Parkour | Mo is mostly adept at the art of parkour, a childhood of rebellion in the inner city being responsible for him picking up the skill in the first place. Whilst not possessing as much finesse or brute endurance compared to other free-runners, Mo’s technical skills have never diminished throughout his age. Mo is able to maneuver through the concrete jungles of Santa Celia with ease, confidently leaping off roof-tops and vaulting over fences without catching his breath. Mo mainly uses his parkour skills to access the perfect canvas for his art or to mainly escape from the menagerie of authorities and gangsters that are on a constant chase after him.

_{Supporting Cast
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(TO BE EXPANDED ON LATER)

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A little nervous of how this turned out. Will most likely edit this later.

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

CYBERPUNK RESOURCES

GENERAL SETTINGS

IDEAS AND FOOD FOR THOUGHT
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/57405013/
https://www.reddit.com/r/d100/comments/8t1rro/lets_build_cyberpunk_corporations/

IMAGES
https://imgur.com/gallery/LFE0i
https://imgur.com/gallery/53FWk

RPG BOOKS

https://thetrove.net/Books/Cyberspace/
https://thetrove.net/Books/Shadowrun/5th%20Edition/
https://thetrove.net/Books/Savage%20Worlds/Interface%20Zero/
https://thetrove.net/Books/Cyberpunk/

Word association Game!

Howling