Below is my work in progress CS, posting it here as I find it keeps me motivated knowing that people can see how terrible my WIP is:
Name: Sophia "Doc" Wallace
Age: Mid-twenties Descriptor: A kind necromancer, efficient undertaker, and skilled practitioner of medicine.
Physical Appearance:
Day to Day Attire: Sophia is an androgynous dresser and favors bespoke three piece suits in shades of black, grey, or brown, bow ties, dark low-heeled leather shoes, and reasonably sized top hats. It is a rare sight to see Sophia in a dress, but rumors persist that the young woman was once seen in a tavern wearing a blue silk evening gown.
Frontier/Traveling Attire: When venturing out into the wilds, Sophia favors the practical dress of the vaqueros, and some have accused her of being overly fond of the vest/poncho combo.
I Put On My Necromancer Hat - Sophia is a talented wizard focusing on furthering her knowledge of the much feared and reviled art of necromancy. Like most practitioners of magic, Sophia is well-verse in hermetic rituals and the ways of spirits, devils, and other creatures found beyond the natural plane of existence. While, she secretly identifies as a necromancer, Sophia is also a capable spellslinger in a number of other more mainstream domains of magic.
Communicates with the Dead - Sophia has a knack for conversing with the dead, managing to successfully interpret their often disjointed thoughts and understanding the strange, dead languages that seem to be in vogue among the deceased of all ages.
Dead Friends in High Places - Guided by the whispers of the dead, Sophia has a second-sense for avoiding danger, spotting traps, and navigating through the domains of the dead.
Tough as Bone - Having spent so much time among the dead, Sophia appears to have gained some of the qualities of an undead creature. In the course of her study of the art of necromancy, Sophia has become remarkably resistant to disease, physical damage, and pain. To her great sorrow, the young wizard is however still very mortal.
Mental Bastion - Dealing with the undead and restless spirits on a frequent basis has left Sophia with a remarkably casual attitude towards all things related to horror, death, and madness.
Spirit Mentor - Sophia has been blessed with a spirit mentor, the often grumpy spirit of an ancient wizard, for most of her life. Her teacher and almost constant companion, the spirit, known only as Baltasar, has taught Sophia most of what she knows about hermetic magic, necromancy, and medicine. If asked, Sophia says that Baltasar looks like an old man with a luxurious white beard that reaches well past his chest, a long flowing gray robe, and some strange form of pointed hat in a similar shade of gray.
Mundane Skills:
Licensed Undertaker - Sophia is one of the few legitimately licensed undertakers in found this far from proper civilization. She knows how to make coffins, cheap and expensive, small and large, and how to prepare all manner of bodies for burial.
Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a... - Surprisingly for the era, Sophia is an actual doctor, a very good doctor, and not just a barber moonlighting as a surgeon like many of her so-called colleagues. She has a fancy diploma on her office wall that mentions some place called the "Harvard School of Medicine". However, whether this diploma is real or a high quality forgery is another matter entirely.
Experienced Traveler - Sophia is an experienced traveler and is used to life on the road or in the wilderness. When asked she claims to have traveled far and wide in search of alchemical knowledge and she commands a number of rare or esoteric languages, some of which do not sound like they were meant for human tongues.
Passable Shot - Sophia knows how to use firearms, especially shotguns and rifles, well-enough for someone living on the increasingly dangerous frontier. However, given her adherence to the Hippocratic Oath, she's reluctant to aim her gun at another person in anger and slower still to actually shoot to harm or kill.
Well Read - An educated woman, Sophia has wide range of knowledge regarding subjects both mundane and supernatural in nature.
Equipment:
Leather Physician's Bag - When she leaves her practice, Sophia brings a well-worn, leather physician's bag with her of impeccable quality. To those initiated in hermetic mysteries or sensitive to the arcane, there is a faint, but powerful force of magic that emanates from the bag. To everyone else, the medical bag is n different from any other and is full of the tools of Sophia's medical trade.
Silver Pocket Watch - One of Sophia's most prized possession is an ancient keywind pocket watch cast in silver. Inside the front cover of the pocket watch are strange etchings and words that are clearly not human in origin.
Arcane Grimoire - Sophia's other prized possession is a leather-bound grimoire dyed midnight black. Clearly ancient, the book is full of arcane formulas, long-forgotten rituals, and forbidden spells belonging to the shunned school of necromancy. An astute observer might notice that the handwriting of this arcane tome matches that etched into the front cover of Sophia's pocket watch.
Appaloosa Horse - Recalling the tragic fate of her predecessor, Sophia has steered clear of wagons, and for transportation she has an Appaloosa horse, a lovely spotted creature she won from a Nez Perce shaman in a wager she speaks of with a mischievous smile on her lips.
Coach Gun - When good sense demands it, Sophia carries a shortened, double-barred shotgun discreetly in her medical bag. Currently, she sports a fashionable 10 gauge William Moore & Company coach gun. Although accuracy tapers off at medium to far range, at close range the firearm is most effective.
Other:
Wallace's Medical and Funeral Services - Sophia's medical practice is located in a decrepit building that was once the local funeral home. Within the storied walls of the simple two-story house she offers both medical and funeral services depending on the current needs of her customer. Since buying the building Sophia has effected only the most basic repairs and painted the building an already fading shade of green. Marked by death, the building is somehow mildly threatening, filling those that view it with a sense of dread and unexpected wariness. The local neighborhood children claim that the building is haunted and tell stories of a strange glowing light emanating from the windows in the middle of the night. To Sophia's chagrin, it has become something of a game for the children to dare one another to knock on her door after dark.
Whiskey Drinker - At the end of a long day, Sophia enjoys a drink or two, and if given a choice she prefers a simple, neat glass of whiskey.
Mysterious - Sophia carefully cultivates an air of mystery around herself and her past. She has few friends, but many acquaintances, and while she is seen as a respected member of both the mundane and supernatural communities she remains aloof of any established organizations.
Because I'm very bored on this train, a brief character concept outline:
Sophia Wallace is currently the only practicing doctor and licensed undertaker in the small town of Silverwood. Among the citizens of Silverwood, both mundane and supernatural, Sophia is invariably known as "Doc" or at most "Doc Wallace". A newcomer to the town, the young woman has quickly established herself as a respected and indispensable member of the community. The timing of her arrival was most fortuitous for the townsfolk, as the previous town doctor, a Mr. Francois Dumont, had perished only a few weeks prior to her arrival in a tragic and mysterious wagon accident.
Sophia's skills as a doctor are truly remarkable, and in the safety of the seedy local tavern some of the townsfolk quietly whisper that there is something supernatural about the effortless way the young woman wields her scalpel. However, following those rare times when even the good doctor is unable to cure a patient, the townsfolk take comfort in the fact that a coffin and a proper burial can be arranged for in the very same building.
A gifted necromancer, Sophia relies on the widespread, but mistaken belief that necromancers cannot command healing magic and a steady supply of legally acquired corpses to hide herself and her necromantic magic in plain sight. Despite her chosen arcane vocation, Sophia is far from evil, and simply wants to make an honest living helping others.
"Donuts?" Toma excitedly piped in. She sensed opportunity. Delicious, wonderful, fried dough opportunity.
Sol had told her that there would be no more stealing. As an employee of Priest and Hawthorne he said that she had certain standards to live up to. Apparently. It was all very boring, but she owed them, so she'd behave. Mostly. However, if she was stealing as part of an officially sanctioned job? Well now, that was an entirely different matter.
Stealing donuts wasn't as fun as robbing a bank, stealing from arcane vaults, or ancient liches. It was a step down, but it was better than chasing a damned spider halfway across town for the better part of an evening. A wasted evening. Morgan hadn't even let them stop to get a drink. Toma had asked. Several times. The alluring woman was a cruel mistress. Toma had decided that she liked her already. Even if Morgan stilled smelled vaguely like an employee of a three letter agency. Not that it made any sense to the young wizard. The woman wasn't like any agent Toma had ever met before.
Most importantly, a pastry heist promised to be far more fun than fighting a spider in the dark, confined quarters of a warehouse distillery. Toma wasn't afraid of spiders, but she treated giant spiders with a healthy dose of respect. They were like grumpy, venom spewing horses with a taste for blood and a habit of collecting alarming numbers of victims in their dark lairs. If they only stuck to eating stockbrokers, it wouldn't have been so much of a problem. Toma might even have looked the other way.
"If-" Toma began, feeling her heart skip a beat or two with excitement and anticipation. She dared to take a step closer to Morgan and Gabe, and did her best to appear cool and uninterested. "If the donut store is closed. Which it certainly will be at this hour. I can get us in! They won't know what hit them! It will be the greatest donut caper of the century!"
She hadn't intended to talk so fast and Toma felt certain that she'd let her accent slip. She had to salvage the situation. The young arcane thief pretended to cough.
There was a pleading, desperate, and hungry look in her eyes as she nodded deferentially towards Morgan,"I mean, if that'd be helpful..."
Concept: A mischievous arcane shapeshifter and mostly-retired thief, who is currently working off the sizable debt that she owes to Priest and Hawthorne.
Name: Tamara Ivanivna Federova Diminutive: To her friends and family, Tamara has always been known as Toma. Gender: Female Race/Species: Human, however, given her prodigious talent for shapeshifting it is likely that at least some measure of supernatural blood courses through her veins. Taste test pending. Age: Twenty-five. Who's asking? Appearance:
Nearly a head below average height, Toma has a nimble build, supported by hard-won cords of muscle that are only apparent upon a very personal investigation of her body. Scrappy at heart and an ardent pugilist, she has little regard for even large differences in size. Toma perpetuates an air of not-so-quiet rebellion, if not outright challenge. A fact that can be attested to by the many marks and scars that she proudly wears. Her short black hair is full of rebellion and is kept in what might only generously be described as a very messy pixie cut. Her skin is pale enough to leave a vampire seething with jealously and is increasingly adorned with beautiful ink. The work of several master artists travels across much of her form, but given their locations some pieces are clearly intended only for private viewings. Her storm gray eyes are alight with electricity and seem to dance with the ever-changing arcane energies that she commands. Toma has generous lips, that oscillate between a bored frown and impish smile depending on the company. Fond of standing out, Toma paints her lips and nails in dark shades or vibrant hues. In short, she's quite the cherry bomb.
As if anointed by the punk gods themselves, Toma dresses in a manner befitting only the most cultured of punk royalty. She favors t-shirts decked out with punk flair and rude slogans, black jeans, dark skirts, and fashionably torn fishnet stocking. She has a penchant for accessories and to match her clothes she wears spike bands, silver jewelry, and a studded in choker. She values the ability to deliver a good and owns a beloved pair of beaten bovver boots that are only sparingly polished.
However, Toma's most prized possession is a well-worn leather jacket embroidered with a large tiger and a name in Cyrillic. The jacket is never far from her shoulders and anyone that damages it is likely to find themselves facing a recently shifted and furious Toma.
Professional attire is a matter that Toma believes is best left to other people. When threatened with bodily harm or a significant sum of money, she might be convinced to wear a blazer.
Personality:
Spitting fire and vitriol in equal measures, Toma is a former punk rocker, a recovering romantic, a bitter cynic, and in her own words a complete sellout. She has long since abandoned the quest for knowledge and power that consumes so many of her colleagues and traded it in for lump-sum payments of cold hard cash deposited into a Swiss bank account. Along the way Toma has acquired a veritable dragon's horde of treasure that has helped to silence her conscience. Or at at least it would have. If she hadn't made a habit of losing her savings in the best and quickest of ways. Despite her troubles, Toma remains convinced that the best motivation a thief can have is being dead broke.
Beneath a carefully crafted persona, an almost forgotten part of Toma remains hellbent on changing the world through the power of DIY magic, spray painted graffiti rituals, and loud music. She does her best to avoid entertaining such childish notions. However, sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she can't help but act like her old idealistic self.
Young enough to still happily ignore wisdom, Toma indulges in a number of vices that more conventional wizards tend to stay very far away from. Her deep love of alcohol is overshadowed only by her even deeper love for magically infused designer drugs. When asked Toma simply channels her inner Burner and replies that, "Magic is even more fun when you're on psychedelics, babe, don't be such a bore." She does best in loud places that are full of people, greasy food, and brilliant drinks. Left to her own devices she is prone to melancholy, long naps, and pointless thievery.
Irreverent and arrogant, Toma makes few apologies. She's rude, loud, and can hold a grudge for an eternity. Lost in her shadowy profession, she cares for few people and trusts fewer still. She respects only those who have shown themselves to be capable and has little patience for mistakes or weakness. Never staying in one place for very long, the young wizard jumps from one fleeting, superficial relationship to the next. Burying her emotions and regrets in ephemeral pleasure. The words 'damaged goods' have been used to describe Toma more than once. However, for all her flaws, and they are many, Toma possesses a truly terrible ability to charm, beguile, and tempt even the most chaste of scholars.
Perhaps as a product of her frequent shifting, Toma has an affinity for animals, especially cats, and can hold lengthy conversations with even the wildest of creatures.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Toma is a talented mage, chiefly in the uncommon domain of transmutation. Channeling arcane energies she is able to alter her appearance and to assume the form of other creatures. She can transform into creatures both mundane and magical, large and small. The constant flux of shifting form has forced her to develop a strong, if fluid, sense of self and she has learned to adapt quickly to unfamiliar bodies and strange environments. She has a thorough understanding of body language and picks up languages, even inhuman ones, with alarming ease. On rare occasions there is a faint, almost imperceptible trace of a Slavic accent when Toma speaks.
Having escaped her humble wizardly origins in pursuit of a far more lucrative criminal calling, Toma has had to acquire a very different set of skills compared to that of a law-abiding wizard. She can open a locks with magic, cloak herself in shadows, silence alarms, and disable cameras with a wave of her hand. Commanding a patchwork of spells from across several domains of magic Toma proudly refers to herself as an arcane thief and entirely eschews the more traditional titles favored by magical practitioners.
When push comes to shove and her magic fails her Toma is more than capable of using whatever means are available to her to leave her foes spellbound. A taser is as good of a Plan B as any, according to Toma.
Beyond her arcane abilities, Toma is a garden-variety human, blessed only with a remarkably high constitution. A trait which has seen her through many days and nights of drunken and drug-fueled debauchery. Well-aware of the pitfalls of her hedonistic lifestyle, the young spellcaster spends a surprising amount of time exercising for a spellslinger and can run a sub-5:00 mile in her true form.
A passable, but reluctant shot, Toma prefers to avoid using any firearms. Instead, she relies on her magic, her mastery of shapeshifting, and her fists if forced to fight. Like a wild creature, Toma fights with instinct rather than reason, relishing the chaos of battle, and using the powers of her shifted forms to her advantage. Secretive about her magic, Toma rarely discusses the times that she has lost control of herself and succumbed to the inhuman fury that she invokes.
Off the clock, Toma enjoys sewing her own clothes, accidentally killing plants, and playing a mean bass guitar. Documents carefully acquired by Shiloh indicate that in her not so distant youth, Toma was a founding member of the now defunct Eastern European punk rock band Тайные хитрости(the Arcane Tricksters). When pressed, the young wizard simply mumbles something about living the riot grrrl life. Like all proper adults Toma can drive stick shift, but she prefers to take the bus.
Background:
"I won't do it," Toma said, idly spitting onto the ornate parchment that lay carefully unrolled on the table in front of her. Magical contracts were no trifling matter. She'd seen what a proper geas could do. Poor Harold had never been the same since that terrible day. Seeing the vacant, blissful look in his eyes, she'd promised herself then and there that she'd rather die than find her will chained to some fool of a master.
I fought the law and the law won, Toma thought with a bitter smile. It had been a fun adventure.
The grey haired man sitting across from her frowned, casually adjusting a sleeve of his immaculate suit that seemed to meld with the darkness. For all of his composure Toma could have sworn that she saw literal flames flash behind his sunglasses. Accessories she found to be a strange choice given the gloom that surrounded them. It was a plain, stark room, that smelled of disinfectant and death. Even the shadows that danced beyond the light cast by the overhead light were menacing and Toma wouldn't have been surprised if there was an alter of neatly stacked skulls in a corner of the grim room. It was all so predictable.
With a snap of his fingertips the man summoned a long-stemmed pipe, an ornate box of matches, and a small silk pouch into his outstretched hand. It was a neat trick and Toma clicked her tongue approvingly. She couldn't place the material of the pipe, but the stem was amber. A custom job, probably arcane, it had to have been expensive. Paying no attention to Toma, the man gently packed the bowl of the pipe with a measure of tobacco retrieved from the pouch. He shook the box of matches next to his ear, retrieved a single match, and lit the tobacco with well-practiced ease. Placing the stem of the pipe between his lips he crossed his arms and sent a frenzied trail of smoke rising to the low ceiling.
There was a ravenous hunger in his stare, and Toma felt like she being served up as the main course. Worse, she had the distinct suspicion that the hell spawn was terribly cross with her. It was the agitated way that his tail flicked back and forth behind his back that gave it away.
"Hey, goat face, if you're going to smoke, how about a cigarette for me? Last requests and all," Toma said, summoning all the insolence she could muster.
"I'm afraid that given what transpired last time we provided you with fire, management has decided that it's best you abstain," the reddish hued figure replied with a half-hearted and thoroughly unconvincing shrug. Toma knew he was lying. He could have gotten her almost anything. Anything that might get her to talk. Anything to get her to sign that damn contract. Anything to steal her soul. Anything to tell them where she had hidden it. His boss would have allowed it with some minor grumbling. Hell, he'd probably get a medal. He was just making her suffer. He was just doing it to be cruel. He was just doing it because it made him happy. Of course, she'd never expect anything less from a demon, even if he happened to be a bonafide badge carrying g-man.
"I'm not signing it," Toma snapped back, angrily nodding towards the parchment.
"You do understand what happens if you don't?"
"I do."
"Listen, Miss Federov.
"Federova," Toma corrected indignantly.
"Miss Federova," the man hissed. With a cruel grin glued to his face, he leaned in across the table and blew a puff of sweet smelling smoke in the young wizard's face. He raised an inhumanely long finger, and tapped against the large folder, stuffed to the brim with papers, that lay next to him. "In light of your past...indiscretionsI would advise you to reconsider. There's only one way you are getting out of here alive and before your hairs turned grey and that's if you start to cooperate-"
"You know, there's only one thing worse than a rat," Toma loudly proclaimed, leaning back in the hard plastic chair to which she was shackled with a smug look on her face. What she wouldn't have given for a key to the strange restraints that they had chained her with. She could feel whatever wards they had woven into the metal burning against the skin of her wrists. Pulses of arcane energy ran through her, and sent a slow throbbing pain running up through her arms. It had subdued any magic that she tried to summon, and she could feel it weakening her. She couldn't so much as transform her pinky. It was going to make her planned escape that much harder.
The bright eyed fiend interrupted Toma with a loud sigh of frustration, and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. He readjusted his sunglasses, and with the wave of a hand signaled for her to continue, "Please, Miss Federova, enlighten me."
"As I was saying, there's only one thing worse than a rat, and that's a policeman. You know back in the old country they used to call you lot Suk-"
Toma had no chance to finish what she felt was an exceedingly clever joke. Instead, she felt the sudden breeze of the table soaring past her and then a heavy fist hitting her face. With her hands restrained behind her back Toma could do little to keep her balance, and she fell gracelessly from the chair. Cursing, she curled into a ball as searing pain racked through her, and stars danced rapidly in front of her eyes. Panting, she could feel the cold kiss of the concrete floor against her cheek as blood began to pour from her freshly broken nose.
Two impossibly strong hands grasped her shoulders and she could only manage a low pained groan as she felt the bones in her arms begin to crack from the pressure. Hoisted to her feet, she was thrown back into the uncomfortable chair as if she was nothing more sack of slightly bloody potatoes. She glared at the demon through bitter tears, and spat iron onto the table.
Toma's infernal interrogator laughed and flashed an alarming number of perfectly white, pointed teeth in her direction, "Miss Federova, you are spirited, I will give you that much." He dragged his chair painfully across the tiles, and moved closer to her. An offense that would have been enough reason for Toma to end him, beating notwithstanding. He looked far too pleased with himself, and Toma felt a rising sense of nausea at her predicament. The imp chuckled, and sat down in front of her, carefully readjusting his suit, and artfully avoiding the blood that fell from her nose. "However, I think you've mistaken me for someone that I am not."
"I know who you are, you're a fuc-"
The backhanded slap that struck Toma across the face, though measured, was enough to send the chair and Toma in it skidding across the floor. Dazed, she struggled to focus, her left cheek full of fire. Her only consolation was the pipe that now lay on the floor. She hoped it was broken.
"Allow me to finish," the demonic g-man intoned with a sickening sweetness on the edge of this tongue.
Fate, cruel as always, in Toma's humble view, did not favor the creature, and no sooner had he uttered those choice words than the door to awful room was thrown open. In strode a sharply dressed woman, clearly human, but perhaps not quite mundane in nature if Toma was asked to guess. A lawyer, in all likelihood, and an archivist if she was unlucky.
"Tsk, tsk, Otto, you soulless reaper. You know you weren't supposed to rough her up," the woman began, roughly grabbing a hold of Toma's jaw and inclining the young wizard's head towards the light as she writhed in pain. She didn't seem to pleased with the damage Otto had inflicted and she shook her head slowly from side to side. "Not this much at least. Not yet. What is the boss going to say when he sees her?"
"We're just getting acquainted, aren't we Miss Federova?"
"Acquainted, my ass! I'm going to cut you into pieces you-" Toma railed, almost falling out of her chair as she flailed helplessly against the arcane cuffs. A hand clamped solidly over her mouth and reduced her shouting to a series of muffled shouts and desperate gasps.
"Would you kindly shut up for a moment?" The woman commanded more than asked, her icy voice filled with the promise of certain violence. "Now as I was going to say, the Assistant Director, in his infinite, exceedingly infinite wisdom, has decided to cut you loose, to let you go...to allow you to leave in peace or rather in one piece. For now."
"No," Otto hissed and then practically roared. The words were a curse in his shark-like maw. "You can't be serious, Joanna!? She broke into the Vault, you know what she stole! You know what she did! What she risked!"
"Look, you have a problem with it, you can go tell the boss yourself," the woman countered with a deep-seated frown. She menacingly pointed a finger in the direction of the demon, "However, before you do, you should know that we were contacted by the offices of Priest and Hawthorne. They called the boss himself, on his personal, his personal fucking cellphone," Joanna said, guiding Toma to her feet and slowly leading her towards the door. "Not even I know that number, do you understand?"
Clearly deflated, Otto slowly closed his mouth, but Toma could feel the rage, the pure hatred emanating from his body. Had she not been just had her nose broken the feeling of pleasure that coursed through her would almost have been orgasmic. Toma struggled against the firm grip of the other woman, fighting until she could see the hell spawn again, and then she offered her best smile,"I'll be seeing you around, you goddamned-"
The last thing Toma remembered before the darkness overwhelmed her was Joanna roughly guiding her face straight into the nearest wall. "Of course, if you happened to walk into a wall on the way out, well, that would be a shame now, wouldn't it, Miss Federova?"
"You bi-"
The strange, concussion fueled dreams that followed were full of cats, sunshine, and enough acid for a small army. They were wonderful, and for once, even Toma felt content.
I must confess that I really like a lot of characters and I am glad I was not the one making any choices.
Secondly:
I'm very excited about this RP. Magical mischief is a theme that's very dear to my heart and it's wonderful to see so many potential avenues of interaction between characters via personality, common interests, and histories already.
Thirdly:
@Hour Error - Toma and Sophia can compare scars and prison ink. I'm looking forward to the two of you bouncing off one another. <3
If Russian novels about crime have taught me anything, it is that comparing prison ink is a favorite way to pass the time and to get to know one another. Scars are stories of their own.
Fourthly:
I think it's kind of hilarious that all three female-identifying characters have backstories involving handcuffs and hostility, too.
I am fairly certain that this is where we all collectively plead the 5th Amendment.
Fifthly:
Sorry for the very long OC post and as it is Friday evening, I will return in a more sober state soon, ta!
Concept: A mischievous arcane shapeshifter and mostly-retired thief, who is currently working off the sizable debt that she owes to Priest and Hawthorne.
Name: Tamara Ivanivna Federova Diminutive: To her friends and family, Tamara has always been known as Toma. Gender: Female Race/Species: Human, however, given her prodigious talent for shapeshifting it is likely that at least some measure of supernatural blood courses through her veins. Taste test pending. Age: Twenty-five. Who's asking? Appearance:
Nearly a head below average height, Toma has a nimble build, supported by hard-won cords of muscle that are only apparent upon a very personal investigation of her body. Scrappy at heart and an ardent pugilist, she has little regard for even large differences in size. Toma perpetuates an air of not-so-quiet rebellion, if not outright challenge. A fact that can be attested to by the many marks and scars that she proudly wears. Her short black hair is full of rebellion and is kept in what might only generously be described as a very messy pixie cut. Her skin is pale enough to leave a vampire seething with jealously and is increasingly adorned with beautiful ink. The work of several master artists travels across much of her form, but given their locations some pieces are clearly intended only for private viewings. Her storm gray eyes are alight with electricity and seem to dance with the ever-changing arcane energies that she commands. Toma has generous lips, that oscillate between a bored frown and impish smile depending on the company. Fond of standing out, Toma paints her lips and nails in dark shades or vibrant hues. In short, she's quite the cherry bomb.
As if anointed by the punk gods themselves, Toma dresses in a manner befitting only the most cultured of punk royalty. She favors t-shirts decked out with punk flair and rude slogans, black jeans, dark skirts, and fashionably torn fishnet stocking. She has a penchant for accessories and to match her clothes she wears spike bands, silver jewelry, and a studded in choker. She values the ability to deliver a good and owns a beloved pair of beaten bovver boots that are only sparingly polished.
However, Toma's most prized possession is a well-worn leather jacket embroidered with a large tiger and a name in Cyrillic. The jacket is never far from her shoulders and anyone that damages it is likely to find themselves facing a recently shifted and furious Toma.
Professional attire is a matter that Toma believes is best left to other people. When threatened with bodily harm or a significant sum of money, she might be convinced to wear a blazer.
Personality:
Spitting fire and vitriol in equal measures, Toma is a former punk rocker, a recovering romantic, a bitter cynic, and in her own words a complete sellout. She has long since abandoned the quest for knowledge and power that consumes so many of her colleagues and traded it in for lump-sum payments of cold hard cash deposited into a Swiss bank account. Along the way Toma has acquired a veritable dragon's horde of treasure that has helped to silence her conscience. Or at at least it would have. If she hadn't made a habit of losing her savings in the best and quickest of ways. Despite her troubles, Toma remains convinced that the best motivation a thief can have is being dead broke.
Beneath a carefully crafted persona, an almost forgotten part of Toma remains hellbent on changing the world through the power of DIY magic, spray painted graffiti rituals, and loud music. She does her best to avoid entertaining such childish notions. However, sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she can't help but act like her old idealistic self.
Young enough to still happily ignore wisdom, Toma indulges in a number of vices that more conventional wizards tend to stay very far away from. Her deep love of alcohol is overshadowed only by her even deeper love for magically infused designer drugs. When asked Toma simply channels her inner Burner and replies that, "Magic is even more fun when you're on psychedelics, babe, don't be such a bore." She does best in loud places that are full of people, greasy food, and brilliant drinks. Left to her own devices she is prone to melancholy, long naps, and pointless thievery.
Irreverent and arrogant, Toma makes few apologies. She's rude, loud, and can hold a grudge for an eternity. Lost in her shadowy profession, she cares for few people and trusts fewer still. She respects only those who have shown themselves to be capable and has little patience for mistakes or weakness. Never staying in one place for very long, the young wizard jumps from one fleeting, superficial relationship to the next. Burying her emotions and regrets in ephemeral pleasure. The words 'damaged goods' have been used to describe Toma more than once. However, for all her flaws, and they are many, Toma possesses a truly terrible ability to charm, beguile, and tempt even the most chaste of scholars.
Perhaps as a product of her frequent shifting, Toma has an affinity for animals, especially cats, and can hold lengthy conversations with even the wildest of creatures.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Toma is a talented mage, chiefly in the uncommon domain of transmutation. Channeling arcane energies she is able to alter her appearance and to assume the form of other creatures. She can transform into creatures both mundane and magical, large and small. The constant flux of shifting form has forced her to develop a strong, if fluid, sense of self and she has learned to adapt quickly to unfamiliar bodies and strange environments. She has a thorough understanding of body language and picks up languages, even inhuman ones, with alarming ease. On rare occasions there is a faint, almost imperceptible trace of a Slavic accent when Toma speaks.
Having escaped her humble wizardly origins in pursuit of a far more lucrative criminal calling, Toma has had to acquire a very different set of skills compared to that of a law-abiding wizard. She can open a locks with magic, cloak herself in shadows, silence alarms, and disable cameras with a wave of her hand. Commanding a patchwork of spells from across several domains of magic Toma proudly refers to herself as an arcane thief and entirely eschews the more traditional titles favored by magical practitioners.
When push comes to shove and her magic fails her Toma is more than capable of using whatever means are available to her to leave her foes spellbound. A taser is as good of a Plan B as any, according to Toma.
Beyond her arcane abilities, Toma is a garden-variety human, blessed only with a remarkably high constitution. A trait which has seen her through many days and nights of drunken and drug-fueled debauchery. Well-aware of the pitfalls of her hedonistic lifestyle, the young spellcaster spends a surprising amount of time exercising for a spellslinger and can run a sub-5:00 mile in her true form.
A passable, but reluctant shot, Toma prefers to avoid using any firearms. Instead, she relies on her magic, her mastery of shapeshifting, and her fists if forced to fight. Like a wild creature, Toma fights with instinct rather than reason, relishing the chaos of battle, and using the powers of her shifted forms to her advantage. Secretive about her magic, Toma rarely discusses the times that she has lost control of herself and succumbed to the inhuman fury that she invokes.
Off the clock, Toma enjoys sewing her own clothes, accidentally killing plants, and playing a mean bass guitar. Documents carefully acquired by Shiloh indicate that in her not so distant youth, Toma was a founding member of the now defunct Eastern European punk rock band Тайные хитрости(the Arcane Tricksters). When pressed, the young wizard simply mumbles something about living the riot grrrl life. Like all proper adults Toma can drive stick shift, but she prefers to take the bus.
Background:
"I won't do it," Toma said, idly spitting onto the ornate parchment that lay carefully unrolled on the table in front of her. Magical contracts were no trifling matter. She'd seen what a proper geas could do. Poor Harold had never been the same since that terrible day. Seeing the vacant, blissful look in his eyes, she'd promised herself then and there that she'd rather die than find her will chained to some fool of a master.
I fought the law and the law won, Toma thought with a bitter smile. It had been a fun adventure.
The grey haired man sitting across from her frowned, casually adjusting a sleeve of his immaculate suit that seemed to meld with the darkness. For all of his composure Toma could have sworn that she saw literal flames flash behind his sunglasses. Accessories she found to be a strange choice given the gloom that surrounded them. It was a plain, stark room, that smelled of disinfectant and death. Even the shadows that danced beyond the light cast by the overhead light were menacing and Toma wouldn't have been surprised if there was an alter of neatly stacked skulls in a corner of the grim room. It was all so predictable.
With a snap of his fingertips the man summoned a long-stemmed pipe, an ornate box of matches, and a small silk pouch into his outstretched hand. It was a neat trick and Toma clicked her tongue approvingly. She couldn't place the material of the pipe, but the stem was amber. A custom job, probably arcane, it had to have been expensive. Paying no attention to Toma, the man gently packed the bowl of the pipe with a measure of tobacco retrieved from the pouch. He shook the box of matches next to his ear, retrieved a single match, and lit the tobacco with well-practiced ease. Placing the stem of the pipe between his lips he crossed his arms and sent a frenzied trail of smoke rising to the low ceiling.
There was a ravenous hunger in his stare, and Toma felt like she being served up as the main course. Worse, she had the distinct suspicion that the hell spawn was terribly cross with her. It was the agitated way that his tail flicked back and forth behind his back that gave it away.
"Hey, goat face, if you're going to smoke, how about a cigarette for me? Last requests and all," Toma said, summoning all the insolence she could muster.
"I'm afraid that given what transpired last time we provided you with fire, management has decided that it's best you abstain," the reddish hued figure replied with a half-hearted and thoroughly unconvincing shrug. Toma knew he was lying. He could have gotten her almost anything. Anything that might get her to talk. Anything to get her to sign that damn contract. Anything to steal her soul. Anything to tell them where she had hidden it. His boss would have allowed it with some minor grumbling. Hell, he'd probably get a medal. He was just making her suffer. He was just doing it to be cruel. He was just doing it because it made him happy. Of course, she'd never expect anything less from a demon, even if he happened to be a bonafide badge carrying g-man.
"I'm not signing it," Toma snapped back, angrily nodding towards the parchment.
"You do understand what happens if you don't?"
"I do."
"Listen, Miss Federov.
"Federova," Toma corrected indignantly.
"Miss Federova," the man hissed. With a cruel grin glued to his face, he leaned in across the table and blew a puff of sweet smelling smoke in the young wizard's face. He raised an inhumanely long finger, and tapped against the large folder, stuffed to the brim with papers, that lay next to him. "In light of your past...indiscretionsI would advise you to reconsider. There's only one way you are getting out of here alive and before your hairs turned grey and that's if you start to cooperate-"
"You know, there's only one thing worse than a rat," Toma loudly proclaimed, leaning back in the hard plastic chair to which she was shackled with a smug look on her face. What she wouldn't have given for a key to the strange restraints that they had chained her with. She could feel whatever wards they had woven into the metal burning against the skin of her wrists. Pulses of arcane energy ran through her, and sent a slow throbbing pain running up through her arms. It had subdued any magic that she tried to summon, and she could feel it weakening her. She couldn't so much as transform her pinky. It was going to make her planned escape that much harder.
The bright eyed fiend interrupted Toma with a loud sigh of frustration, and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. He readjusted his sunglasses, and with the wave of a hand signaled for her to continue, "Please, Miss Federova, enlighten me."
"As I was saying, there's only one thing worse than a rat, and that's a policeman. You know back in the old country they used to call you lot Suk-"
Toma had no chance to finish what she felt was an exceedingly clever joke. Instead, she felt the sudden breeze of the table soaring past her and then a heavy fist hitting her face. With her hands restrained behind her back Toma could do little to keep her balance, and she fell gracelessly from the chair. Cursing, she curled into a ball as searing pain racked through her, and stars danced rapidly in front of her eyes. Panting, she could feel the cold kiss of the concrete floor against her cheek as blood began to pour from her freshly broken nose.
Two impossibly strong hands grasped her shoulders and she could only manage a low pained groan as she felt the bones in her arms begin to crack from the pressure. Hoisted to her feet, she was thrown back into the uncomfortable chair as if she was nothing more sack of slightly bloody potatoes. She glared at the demon through bitter tears, and spat iron onto the table.
Toma's infernal interrogator laughed and flashed an alarming number of perfectly white, pointed teeth in her direction, "Miss Federova, you are spirited, I will give you that much." He dragged his chair painfully across the tiles, and moved closer to her. An offense that would have been enough reason for Toma to end him, beating notwithstanding. He looked far too pleased with himself, and Toma felt a rising sense of nausea at her predicament. The imp chuckled, and sat down in front of her, carefully readjusting his suit, and artfully avoiding the blood that fell from her nose. "However, I think you've mistaken me for someone that I am not."
"I know who you are, you're a fuc-"
The backhanded slap that struck Toma across the face, though measured, was enough to send the chair and Toma in it skidding across the floor. Dazed, she struggled to focus, her left cheek full of fire. Her only consolation was the pipe that now lay on the floor. She hoped it was broken.
"Allow me to finish," the demonic g-man intoned with a sickening sweetness on the edge of this tongue.
Fate, cruel as always, in Toma's humble view, did not favor the creature, and no sooner had he uttered those choice words than the door to awful room was thrown open. In strode a sharply dressed woman, clearly human, but perhaps not quite mundane in nature if Toma was asked to guess. A lawyer, in all likelihood, and an archivist if she was unlucky.
"Tsk, tsk, Otto, you soulless reaper. You know you weren't supposed to rough her up," the woman began, roughly grabbing a hold of Toma's jaw and inclining the young wizard's head towards the light as she writhed in pain. She didn't seem to pleased with the damage Otto had inflicted and she shook her head slowly from side to side. "Not this much at least. Not yet. What is the boss going to say when he sees her?"
"We're just getting acquainted, aren't we Miss Federova?"
"Acquainted, my ass! I'm going to cut you into pieces you-" Toma railed, almost falling out of her chair as she flailed helplessly against the arcane cuffs. A hand clamped solidly over her mouth and reduced her shouting to a series of muffled shouts and desperate gasps.
"Would you kindly shut up for a moment?" The woman commanded more than asked, her icy voice filled with the promise of certain violence. "Now as I was going to say, the Assistant Director, in his infinite, exceedingly infinite wisdom, has decided to cut you loose, to let you go...to allow you to leave in peace or rather in one piece. For now."
"No," Otto hissed and then practically roared. The words were a curse in his shark-like maw. "You can't be serious, Joanna!? She broke into the Vault, you know what she stole! You know what she did! What she risked!"
"Look, you have a problem with it, you can go tell the boss yourself," the woman countered with a deep-seated frown. She menacingly pointed a finger in the direction of the demon, "However, before you do, you should know that we were contacted by the offices of Priest and Hawthorne. They called the boss himself, on his personal, his personal fucking cellphone," Joanna said, guiding Toma to her feet and slowly leading her towards the door. "Not even I know that number, do you understand?"
Clearly deflated, Otto slowly closed his mouth, but Toma could feel the rage, the pure hatred emanating from his body. Had she not been just had her nose broken the feeling of pleasure that coursed through her would almost have been orgasmic. Toma struggled against the firm grip of the other woman, fighting until she could see the hell spawn again, and then she offered her best smile,"I'll be seeing you around, you goddamned-"
The last thing Toma remembered before the darkness overwhelmed her was Joanna roughly guiding her face straight into the nearest wall. "Of course, if you happened to walk into a wall on the way out, well, that would be a shame now, wouldn't it, Miss Federova?"
"You bi-"
The strange, concussion fueled dreams that followed were full of cats, sunshine, and enough acid for a small army. They were wonderful, and for once, even Toma felt content.
A humble cog in a very clever and beautiful watch, perhaps.
[hider=The Tyger - William Blake]
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
[/hider]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">A humble cog in a very clever and beautiful watch, perhaps.<br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="The Tyger - William Blake">The Tyger - William Blake [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Tyger Tyger, burning bright, <br>In the forests of the night; <br>What immortal hand or eye, <br>Could frame thy fearful symmetry?<br><br>In what distant deeps or skies, <br>Burnt the fire of thine eyes?<br>On what wings dare he aspire?<br>What the hand, dare seize the fire?<br><br>And what shoulder, & what art,<br>Could twist the sinews of thy heart?<br>And when thy heart began to beat,<br>What dread hand? & what dread feet?<br><br>What the hammer? what the chain, <br>In what furnace was thy brain?<br>What the anvil? what dread grasp, <br>Dare its deadly terrors clasp! <br><br>When the stars threw down their spears <br>And water'd heaven with their tears: <br>Did he smile his work to see?<br>Did he who made the Lamb make thee?<br><br>Tyger Tyger burning bright, <br>In the forests of the night: <br>What immortal hand or eye,<br>Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?</div></div></div>
Fading Memory
