BurningCold

Primality: Act 1

I'm here! Haven't checked back on the site in a minute

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

Yamggressive Diplo-Marty

^{Location: The Paradise Interaction(s): @Mcmolly}

---

The negotiations fell through quickly, through no fault of Marty's, it's necessary to add. Yam really hung him out to dry! Nobody can expertly pull off being a good-bad cop one fly act, least ways not well enough to win over the future-tense ground beef charging at the pair of them. His sensory hairs tasted the fear and pumping adrenaline that clung to each of these jackasses in the stench of the soon to be ass kicked. Going very still as his own assailant drew closer by the second, his compound eyes scanned the surroundings for any advantage, and the idiot with a chair leg for any weakness.

Most of what he saw in his periphery was Yam unleashing the extremely literal power of Hell upon the hapless gangsters that got sent her way. As a chair rocketed from her oversized grip into the chest of what was once a guy that thought he might be the main character of his own story, Marty had the thought creep into his mind that maybe she wasn't so bad after all. An elite warrior like him could respect that kind of badass prowess in another.

At the same time, Marty had finished his assessment of the goon that was now only several feet away. He recently consumed a large quantity of rhubarb, possibly as a salad dressing, had a cavity forming somewhere in his lower jaw, and took slightly larger steps with his right foot, which he also lead with.

The bristling statue that was Marty sprung into action as he kicked a piece of shattered ceramic forward, perfectly timed to skitter across the floor so that the gangster's foot came crashing down onto its jagged edges. The sound of crunching clay and the yelp of surprise that immediately followed was music to Marty’s sensory fronds as he fell upon the man, now tripped to the floor. His blades were flashes of steel that punctured the body beneath him in the hands, in the legs, in the abdomen. Shallow cuts meant to debilitate and cause more than a little agony, but all extremely precise in their nature.

He cried for a week straight the last time he killed someone.

“Hey buddy," His proboscis warbled. “I think red might be your color.” Little quips to get through the hard parts. The whole thing is the hard part though, so quip your damn heart out before the panic and impostor syndrome sink in.

Wings fluttering, he arced off of the gangster, now writhing and groaning in pain, and landed a few feet away. Shaking his blades sharply, the blood flicked off into four thin spatters across the floor. When Yam called out to him, he breathed a sigh of relief. This is what it was all about. A human like Yam, capable as she was, would need to see Marty project strength in a time of strife like this. Of course she was checking on him. Naturally, he was never worried about her for a second, since he could see in plain detail how capably she'd been handling herself, but there was no telling how she might be feeling inside.

Marty turned his head towards her, and struck a pose that he thought was a fair middle ground between gruff and heroic. “Teaching criminals a stern lesson? Couldn't be better! We'll make sure they all think twice before messing with us, am I right?”

In some ways, if you squinted and were also a bit drunk, the statement was even maybe kind of slightly true. He did sound like he was constipated again though.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion [Closed]

^{Location: The Tunnels Beneath Direct Mentions: @kazemitsu}

---

As Veeza underwent the process of fixing his armor into place, he felt a deep sense of ease fill his belly. Pulling the straps and buckles of the battleworn iron was like putting on his own skin; there was more to Veeza than combat and conflict, but he knew what he was. He knew what he had spent his entire life conditioning himself for. He was a warrior. One that read books, practiced medicine, and was versed in the healing arts, but a warrior still. So when the other burly argonian had asked him whether he expected a real fight in their future, all he could say was, “Talos willing, yes.”

Last came the gauntlets, reinforced with sturdy steel and studded along the knuckles with dwarven metal that had broken more jaws than he could recall. It felt like he had his hands again. Veeza had never been in prison before. Never been locked up or dealt with any run-ins with the law. It was a disturbing situation made worse by the inexplicable series of events they were now dealing with. Gods above, the Emperor.

Strapping his short sword into place and readjusting the particulars in his pack, Veeza let his mind drift to home, to Kvatch. Perched in his comfortable chair, peering at Ildrani from behind a book he could only pretend to read when she was there to admire. The focus, the elegance of her form as she weaved her hands through the air and made magic. Her gaze flicking to him from time to time as she practiced, preening a bit under his appreciative gaze. She was beautiful to him, and she knew it, but she was brilliant too. She blended frost and fire, illusion and the elements, to create evocative displays of art that awed the people of Kvatch. They both thrived under the gaze of a crowd, and they both worked night and day to be at the peak of their fields. By Azura he missed her.

Soon. Soon he would be home.

His pack sorted, Veeza came back to himself, and noticed the chill of uncertainty that lingered in the air, permeated into the others. He felt it too. Either by instinct or by dark providence, he felt the encroaching danger. It was entirely possible this passageway was not as secret as the Blades had hoped. With the luck everyone seemed to be having, it was almost a guarantee.

His armored form approached Kharne. ”Might get that fight after all, beeko. Everyone looks jumpy. I don’t blame them.” He eyed the other warrior’s axe. “Impressive weapon,” He rasped. “If our poor luck holds, I look forward to seeing it in action.”

A ways away, he eyed the woman with the wilder's dagger with a mix of wariness and appreciation. And then there was Kiffar, the boisterous, hulking Cathay-raht. The prospect of fighting alongside such specimens - the wild, untamed and savage - got his tail thrashing.

The Lost Generation

i like this

The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

---

---

Breathtaking. Arcade had arrived in Loudon early in the morning, and spent all the time that he could walking its paths before the scheduled meeting. There was something uniquely charming about this little town caught between past and future that Paris lacked. He loved the city. He loved the people and he loved the changing times and all the new possibilities that they brought. Yet, much of his upbringing was in the fields and forests outside the city. The light filtering in through the trees, gently dappling the forest floor in a golden hue. The gently flowing streams that ran stones so smooth you'd struggle to find silks more pleasant to run your fingers across. And away from the forests, the fields of green grass and the proud, rocky hills that dotted the verdant landscape. Many of his paintings were an attempt to capture the mystique and grandeur of the natural world. By Arcade's reckoning, he failed every time. Such was the beauty of the world, and such was the inadequacy of his paintbrush to capture it.

Here, in Loudon, he felt connected to both man and nature in a profound way. So in a word: breathtaking.

Many memories within the city and without also came to mind as he walked the cobbles and climbed the hills of this charming town. Seeping like black oil into the recesses of his mind and spreading from those buried places in slow, oozing dribbles. So much shouting. So much confusion. So much pain. Try as he might, and try Arcade did, he could never fully excise those foul-minded remembrances when they reared their heads. Better to accept the washes of guilt and grief without resistance, and be glad when they passed.

As Arcade smiled with only a trace of grimness up at the sun as it rose to prominence in the sky, he reflected on the irony of finding pain and solace in the exact same things.

---

The meeting with the executor had gone well enough. Arcade was gracious and polite, but had to hide a trace of disappointment at the news that not only were none of the individuals gathered relatives of his, but that indeed he had no surviving relatives in Loudon. Six-thousand francs went a ways towards settling that disappointment, however. The business was thriving, but the extra currency would buy security for the grandchildren his mother was already making remarks about wanting. It wasn't… a prospect that displeased Arcade, but neither had he given the subject much thought. His own family as it currently stood had quite the broken history, and only freshly on the path to something that resembled healing. Could he bring a wife and children into his world without continuing what seemed to be a generational tradition of failure as both husband and father? He thought so, but neither was he entirely sure.

When offered the cognac, he hesitated before politely accepting, though he took only the faintest of sips from his glass. If his father were alive today, he would hide him for having even that much.

The individuals gathered were an eclectic bunch, including the rather flamboyant Monsieur Herbachet himself. The other inheritors themselves were quite striking figures in their own rights: an American that spoke with a noticeably aureate diction, and excellent command over the French language aside; an Englishman, a tinkerer apparently, with a fluency in French that Arcade would have lauded as impressive if not for the woman to speak directly before him; and an impressively dressed woman that Arcade assumed by her dress and sour attitude had possibly suffered a recent loss. M. Herbachet seemed to recognize this apparently pious woman, despite suggesting everyone gathered at present had no surviving relatives within Loudon.

The picture painted itself, really, although there was a hostility, or perhaps a coldness between the two, that puzzled Arcade.

When it came time for him to make his own introductions, he found that compared to the others assembled, he felt rather ordinary. He also felt suddenly self-conscious of the saber at his hip, and briefly wondered at the irony that he should have such a thing on his person while his brush stayed behind in Paris. Perhaps he was cutting an image of himself that wasn’t entirely truthful to his core.

Not long after, the meeting ended without issue, and Arcade departed for Old Cemetery Road and his lodgings at the Crescent Hotel.

---

Lying upon his bed at the close of day, he held the ruby ring gifted to him between thumb and forefinger, admiring the way its facets caught and refracted the light from the gaslamp that flickered upon his bedside table. It was a strong red, deep and full, and looked pleasing upon his finger when he briefly tried it on in the privacy of his chambers. The thought of wearing something like it in view of others embarrassed him a little. It’s not that his clothing was particularly cheap or drab, but a jeweled ring was still a level of finery he was ill-accustomed to. Perhaps his opinion on the subject would change with time, but for now, as the rumbling of the train departing the station nearby shook him from his admiration and reverie, he wrapped it up carefully in a handkerchief and placed it upon the end table.

Soon after, the light in the lamp flickered no more, and Arcade fell into sleep.

It was only a few hours past that point that an unearthly glow washed across his room, stirring him bleary eyed from sleep. As he fumbled for the lamp, the scent of putrescence filled the air, emanating from what was moments ago a sweetly smelling bouquet of flowers. Stifling a gag, his eyes watering, he began to dress himself hurriedly. Trousers. Shirt. Vest. Saber? Hm, fine. He would feel himself a poor son otherwise. Saber. Boots. Coat. Grimacing deeply, he snagged the cloth-wrapped ring off the nightstand and thrust it into a pocket before pushing out of the room. Good God, what a foul odor. Not wanting to subject the rest of the hotel to his misfortune, and unsure of where he should even dispose of the offending flowers, he elected to leave the vase behind along with the rest of his belongings for now.

He would take a short walk about town to clear his head, then return to lodge a request for a new room with the proprietor if the smell persisted on his return.

The air immediately outside his room was a significant improvement, but the crisp, cool air of the nighttime here in Loudon was even better. With a small sigh of relief, Arcade stepped out into the gloom.

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

The Fly of the Needle

^{Location: The Paradise Interaction(s): @Mcmolly}

---

The car ride to the Paradise was in some ways more disturbing to Marty than the murder scene they had just driven away from. He didn’t have the slightest clue what to even say to this woman. Not that he often knew what to say, but there was a special kind of anxiety that came from being trapped in tight confinement with someone he barely knew. Looking around helplessly, he finally let out an awkward cough before giving up on trying to talk and spending the rest of the ride combing his fronds in the mirror within the sun visor.

“Just so you know,” He grumbled at one point. “The neighborhood we’re headed to is a real shithole. In case you’ve never been.”

One car ride from a place somehow worse than hell later, they arrived at the location.

Hopping the many inches from the car seat to the pavement below, Marty fluttered his wings to soften the blow to his ankles before slamming the door shut and surveying the area. Coming round to the driver’s side, it was apparent that property damage was becoming the running theme of the day. As his focus flicked from the eviscerated concrete to the vaguely door shaped opening ahead of them, his proboscis began to quiver with amusement as he turned to Yam and said, “Talk about a real hole in the wall, amirite? Anyways, let’s uh, figure out what the heaven happened here. Be ready for a scuffle though.” Jokes were great for team building and icebreaking. Everybody knew that.

Marty buzzed his little wings over the majority of the rubble before landing with a soft tmp at the entrance, pausing to let Yam catch up as he peered inside. The place was fucking trashed. Shit was strewn all over the place, barstools were ripped from their bolting, and not even the plastic décor was safe. Then again, decorations that tacky probably classified as attempted homicide all on their own. The gangsters inside looked just as messed up. Probably attempted a lot of homicides as well.

Each of Marty's four hands came to rest inside the pockets of his jacket and jeans as he strode into the place, his head faced forward but every sensory fiber on his body working in tandem with his compound eyes to preempt any kind of ambush, general funny business, or even worse, the return of whatever fucked this place up so bad in the first place. Last thing that he needed was to embarrass himself in front of Yam by getting his ass beat.

A man in purple barked what definitely wasn’t a warm greeting at the pair as all eyes that still functioned came to rest on him and Yam.

Marty felt relieved. Uncooperative lowlifes were so much easier to deal with than coworkers.

“C’mon pal,” Marty buzzed. “You’ve still got one working eye. Let’s uh, keep it that way.”

He withdrew his hands from his pockets as in near unison, the sound of four clicks heralded the sharpened points of four separate switchblades. He mustered up his most threatening sounding voice, which for the sake of both the gangsters as well as his cleaning bill, he hoped was threatening enough.

“We’re just here to ask some questions, mainly about who just trashed this place, but anything you have to offer so that you don’t get turned into sashimi down the line like your pals would be great.” He glanced at Yam briefly. “I’m uh- I’m actually the good cop here aren’t I?” In an instant, the blades clicked shut.

“Fellas! Let’s have a conversation!”

The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

That's a good point @enmuni. I've got sort of mixed sources suggesting about 10-30% of the French populace was considered fluent in English during the year 1900.

@Olive Fontaine First off, thanks for accepting me, I'm super excited for this. Secondly, as a business owner/manager how realistic would it be for Arcade to have passable English skills? (I have no idea how much relevance this holds, to be fair.) I doubt he has strong fluency or the ability to write it very competently, but do you reckon he'd be passable in conversation?

The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

Arcade Laurent

Name:

Arcade Laurent

Age:

21

Sex:

Male

Profession:

Baker

Interests:

Arcade’s father, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian War, saw it fit to drill combat training into his son until his recent passing. So, while not necessarily interests of his, Arcade has some capability with marksmanship and swordplay. His true passions are less eminently useful, including a penchant for painting (although Arcade doesn’t think he’s very good), and woodworking. Mostly, he makes smaller sculptures and toys that he gives out to children visiting his mother’s bakery, though he’s also completed a few pieces of furniture as well.

Personality:

Much of Arcade’s character has been informed by the actions of his late father. Yet they are actions he has had to work to decipher and translate, to find the virtue underpinning the sin. Jean-Pierre Laurent was not an evil man, but he was a broken and misguided one, the lessons he imparted similarly so. Untangling the strand of bravery, and cruelty, and hidden sorrow that his father was, to find purpose in the pain, is the great challenge of Arcade’s life. If Arcade is one thing, for better or for worse, it is endlessly forgiving.

Conversely, his mother, meek and domineered by her husband until his passing, played a diminished role in Arcade’s childhood. The lessons she taught him were gifted in dribs and drabs, scant moments when they two had brief privacy together, and in all the many quiet, unspoken sacrifices she made otherwise. No longer a boy, but a young man instead, Arcade reckons fully with the strength of the woman that held a family together while her husband dragged her son off to play soldier in the countryside.

Arcade is a patchwork of bittersweet sorrows, simple wisdoms, and humble hopes for a future that is brighter than his father was ever capable of believing in. He grapples with his masculinity as told to see it by Jean-Pierre, and tries to strike a balance truer to his own nature. To find strength in vulnerability, and solace, rather than restlessness, in peace. To be his father as he could have been if not for the many disadvantages heaped upon him by war and madness and his own crooked childhood.

For his mother, he works every day to emulate her capacity to love, and to hope, and to take pleasure in the basic joys of being.

Yet, his father's blood is in him still, and darkness unseen may haunt his steps.

Appearance:

Arcade has a long face with gentle, well proportioned features. His skin is ruddy and lightly freckled, and medium length red hair that occasionally falls in front of his eyes frames a somber countenance. He stands at 5’9’’ in height, with a capable, athletic build and strong arms from years of carpentry and kneading bread for long hours. His heterochromia is a minor curiosity, and occasionally a conversation starter, but nothing of particular import to Arcade himself.

Though not typical for him, for this particular trip he has chosen to wear his father’s infantry saber at his hip. He’s never gone far from Paris before, and if he would ever get a chance to gain even the slightest use from his father’s training, it might help the whole affair feel less dour in his mind.

Background:

Jean-Pierre spoke little of his childhood, or indeed much of his life at all, the little Arcade could gather only putting together at best a patchwork picture of the man his father was. He seemed to have had a very hard, painful childhood. His time in the war with Prussia he spoke even less of. Still, since the age Arcade was strong enough to hold a gun straight, he was taught how to use one.

His mother, Adrienne, held down the business in Paris that inherited from her own family, working hard to keep a roof over everyone’s heads as Jean-Pierre drilled their child relentlessly and purposelessly. Political strife and upheaval may have plagued their nation, but any wars France was engaged in were far afield in foreign lands. Europe was tired. Arcade was tired too, but he tried not to let it show. He wanted to be a dutiful son, and he loved his father, even if it often felt like he was being raised by a military officer from the past than any true parent.

The moments he loved most were the quiet days when Jean-Pierre would wander off into the streets of Paris alone, and leave Arcade and Adrienne alone in the bakery. In their small home above the shop, they’d huddle together around a table and Adrienne would teach her son his letters by the light streaming in from the window. Aside from teaching him his basics, and eventually introducing some light concepts of bookkeeping and management as he got older, she encouraged him to nurse his true passions as well.

Gifts of paints, blocks of wood and carving equipment were Arcade’s favored possessions.

And then Jean-Pierre would return from God-knows-where with bruised knuckles and blackened eyes, his mind foggy and his energy drained. It was never alcohol, though. Jean-Pierre was broken, oftentimes harsh, and overall ineffectual as a man, but he was not a monster. He would never be his own father.

Life went on like this in a steady rhythm for the longest time.

Jean-Pierre would watch his boy, exhausted from a day of sparring, hunched over a small canvas in the corner of their sitting room, and see a light shining in his boy’s eyes that he could never begin to understand. The saving grace of this rusted automaton of a man was that he never begrudged his son for his small joys. If he could handle himself when the time came, who was he to force his child to be as miserable as he was?

Adrienne understood this. It was the only reason she didn’t leave him after the Third Republic reinstated her ability to do so. The shouting was enough. The “training bruises” her son would come home with were enough. If this man punished her boy for the crime of creativity, divorce may have been the least of the things she would do to him. Adrienne was demure, and raised to fulfill a certain role in life, but here she was, playing both homemaker and provider. Enough was starting to become enough.

Apparently Jean-Pierre agreed.

A few months before Arcade turned eighteen, his father was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on the steps of a nearby chapel.

It was as if one dark cloud had lifted from he and Adrienne’s lives only for another to immediately descend. One day, Arcade will decide if he feels the exchange was worth the heavy cost or not. Then however, and now, he tries not to consider the incident too critically. At the least, he knows one thing.

Arcade loved his father, and he misses him.

Over the past three years, he’s taken a much more active role helping his mother manage the bakery, and very occasionally will sell off a painting or a piece of furniture of his own creation. Life was starting to truly start for Arcade, and maybe he wasn’t healed, but he was on that path.

The inheritance notice came as something of a shock. The money was significant, and certainly wouldn’t go amiss, but they did not need it. The reason Arcade travels to Loudon is for another reason entirely. Adrienne’s family history is well documented, while that of his father is not. The chance to connect with family on his father’s side, even if they are distant relatives, feels like an opportunity he’s obligated to take.

Stats:

14 Vitality
15 Strength
11 Perception
14 Skill
8 General Knowledge
10 Rationality
11 Spirituality

The Great Game of Knowledge

It's starting to become clearer to me... is that a love triangle I see in your past? Or was it someone very dear that you lost? Our fallen Eve card is so very forlorn. You are good with your hands - and you have not the eyes of a dullard. And yet it may seem that there is always some tenacious demon around the corner, tempting away the happiness you seek. Take heart, child. You may not know it, but you were born under a lucky star. The going may not always be easy, but in your darkest hour you are sure to find your way.

Cards: Luck, The Cobbler, Eve (reversed), -hidden-, The Devil
Stat Changes: +2 Skill, +1 Rationality. Some potential for Black Magic. You also have a special protection from the Luck card.

The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

Arcade

Name:

Arcade Laurent

Age:

21

Sex:

Male

Profession:

Baker

Interests:

Arcade’s father, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian War, saw it fit to drill combat training into his son until his recent passing. So, while not necessarily interests of his, Arcade has some capability with marksmanship and swordplay. His true passions are less eminently useful, including a penchant for painting (although Arcade doesn’t think he’s very good), and woodworking. Mostly, he makes smaller sculptures and toys that he gives out to children visiting his mother’s bakery, though he’s also completed a few pieces of furniture as well.

Personality:

Much of Arcade’s character has been informed by the actions of his late father. Yet they are actions he has had to work to decipher and translate, to find the virtue underpinning the sin. Jean-Pierre Laurent was not an evil man, but he was a broken and misguided one, the lessons he imparted similarly so. Untangling the strand of bravery, and cruelty, and hidden sorrow that his father was, to find purpose in the pain, is the great challenge of Arcade’s life. If Arcade is one thing, for better or for worse, it is endlessly forgiving.

Conversely, his mother, meek and domineered by her husband until his passing, played a diminished role in Arcade’s childhood. The lessons she taught him were gifted in dribs and drabs, scant moments when they two had brief privacy together, and in all the many quiet, unspoken sacrifices she made otherwise. No longer a boy, but a young man instead, Arcade reckons fully with the strength of the woman that held a family together while her husband dragged her son off to play soldier in the countryside.

Arcade is a patchwork of bittersweet sorrows, simple wisdoms, and humble hopes for a future that is brighter than his father was ever capable of believing in. He grapples with his masculinity as told to see it by Jean-Pierre, and tries to strike a balance truer to his own nature. To find strength in vulnerability, and solace, rather than restlessness, in peace. To be his father as he could have been if not for the many disadvantages heaped upon him by war and madness and his own crooked childhood.

For his mother, he works every day to emulate her capacity to love, and to hope, and to take pleasure in the basic joys of being.

Yet, his father's blood is in him still, and darkness unseen may haunt his steps.

Appearance:

Arcade has a long face with gentle, well proportioned features. His skin is ruddy and lightly freckled, and medium length red hair that occasionally falls in front of his eyes frames a somber countenance. He stands at 5’9’’ in height, with a capable, athletic build and strong arms from years of carpentry and kneading bread for long hours. His heterochromia is a minor curiosity, and occasionally a conversation starter, but nothing of particular import to Arcade himself.

Though not typical for him, for this particular trip he has chosen to wear his father’s infantry saber at his hip. He’s never gone far from Paris before, and if he would ever get a chance to gain even the slightest use from his father’s training, it might help the whole affair feel less dour in his mind.

Background:

Jean-Pierre spoke little of his childhood, or indeed much of his life at all, the little Arcade could gather only putting together at best a patchwork picture of the man his father was. He seemed to have had a very hard, painful childhood. His time in the war with Prussia he spoke even less of. Still, since the age Arcade was strong enough to hold a gun straight, he was taught how to use one.

His mother, Adrienne, held down the business in Paris that inherited from her own family, working hard to keep a roof over everyone’s heads as Jean-Pierre drilled their child relentlessly and purposelessly. Political strife and upheaval may have plagued their nation, but any wars France was engaged in were far afield in foreign lands. Europe was tired. Arcade was tired too, but he tried not to let it show. He wanted to be a dutiful son, and he loved his father, even if it often felt like he was being raised by a military officer from the past than any true parent.

The moments he loved most were the quiet days when Jean-Pierre would wander off into the streets of Paris alone, and leave Arcade and Adrienne alone in the bakery. In their small home above the shop, they’d huddle together around a table and Adrienne would teach her son his letters by the light streaming in from the window. Aside from teaching him his basics, and eventually introducing some light concepts of bookkeeping and management as he got older, she encouraged him to nurse his true passions as well.

Gifts of paints, blocks of wood and carving equipment were Arcade’s favored possessions.

And then Jean-Pierre would return from God-knows-where with bruised knuckles and blackened eyes, his mind foggy and his energy drained. It was never alcohol, though. Jean-Pierre was broken, oftentimes harsh, and overall ineffectual as a man, but he was not a monster. He would never be his own father.

Life went on like this in a steady rhythm for the longest time.

Jean-Pierre would watch his boy, exhausted from a day of sparring, hunched over a small canvas in the corner of their sitting room, and see a light shining in his boy’s eyes that he could never begin to understand. The saving grace of this rusted automaton of a man was that he never begrudged his son for his small joys. If he could handle himself when the time came, who was he to force his child to be as miserable as he was?

Adrienne understood this. It was the only reason she didn’t leave him after the Third Republic reinstated her ability to do so. The shouting was enough. The “training bruises” her son would come home with were enough. If this man punished her boy for the crime of creativity, divorce may have been the least of the things she would do to him. Adrienne was demure, and raised to fulfill a certain role in life, but here she was, playing both homemaker and provider. Enough was starting to become enough.

Apparently Jean-Pierre agreed.

A few months before Arcade turned eighteen, his father was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on the steps of a nearby chapel.

It was as if one dark cloud had lifted from he and Adrienne’s lives only for another to immediately descend. One day, Arcade will decide if he feels the exchange was worth the heavy cost or not. Then however, and now, he tries not to consider the incident too critically. At the least, he knows one thing.

Arcade loved his father, and he misses him.

Over the past three years, he’s taken a much more active role helping his mother manage the bakery, and very occasionally will sell off a painting or a piece of furniture of his own creation. Life was starting to truly start for Arcade, and maybe he wasn’t healed, but he was on that path.

The inheritance notice came as something of a shock. The money was significant, and certainly wouldn’t go amiss, but they did not need it. The reason Arcade travels to Loudon is for another reason entirely. Adrienne’s family history is well documented, while that of his father is not. The chance to connect with family on his father’s side, even if they are distant relatives, feels like an opportunity he’s obligated to take.

Stats:

Vitality: 14
Rationality: 9
Spirituality: 11

Here he is! I haven't changed any stats from my reading yet

The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

@Olive Fontaine I'm still working on mine, it should be done tonight or tomorrow depending on how long commitments go for today