"Better than your ugly-ass face. Sir." Harken smirked back as the drunken Turian staggered past. Harken was a touch concerned when he first encountered his commander. He worked spec ops long enough to smell trouble coming. Someone like this Galen, a drinker and someone who clearly attacked every authority figure he encountered - being pushed into a high-danger situation, like messing around with Krogans, by the authorities who clearly didn't like him? This was beginning to sound more and more like the Council were trying to get Galen to commit 'suicide by Krogan'. He just really hoped Galen wasn't the kind of guy to commit suicide with a lot of collateral damage.. Well, anyway. Time to get his stuff and get out.
Galen's apartment was paid for by C-Sec, but since he was leaving that would be running out and damn soon - plenty of new recruits and even seasoned officers needed accommodation. He packed a light bag and arranged to have the rest put in storage or sold off, giving himself a little time to take one last look over the curving Presidium waterways. This place had been really nice. A shame he spent so long undercover, in shoddy Wards rubbing shoulders with gangsters and mercs. It was peaceful here, even if that peace was an expensive illusion.
His omni-tool beeped, an incoming message. A small holographic display of Councilor Vakarain popped up, but it must have been a fairly tightly encrypted channel, where the holo-representation had some layering issues and showed the entirety of the councilor's eyeballs through his transparent head and his voice crackled a little. "Councilor. Something you forgot?"
"No. Something I couldn't say in public.You've probably figured out that the Skal'kus situation is extremely sensitive and that your commander is most definitely not sensitive." Harken rolled his eyes in a 'well, obviously' fashion. Vakarian continued. "We can't afford another Krogan Rebellion, Calibos. The Krogan may not have had much time to repopulate after the Genophage, but they're still a formidable threat to galactic peace if they decide to be."
"You're worried Galen will do something stupid." Harken cut ahead a little in the conversation - he had a ship to catch, after all.
"I'm worried he'll do something catastrophic. The other councilors think his renegade attitude will appeal to the Krogans, fit their culture and social values. That might even be right. But if it isn't, you need to be prepared to take whatever steps necessary to prevent things from getting out of hand." A pregnant moment hung in the air between them, before Vakarian restated, slowly and carefully. "Whatever. It. Takes."
Harken hefted a duffle bag of his belongings onto his shoulder, looking at the door. "I'll do what I can, sir. But I'm not sure why you're coming to me about this."
"Because I know you can make it look like an accident, mechanical failure or natural causes. Because I know about what you and your squad did on Agessia."
Harken stiffened and tapped the communication closed. And today had been going so well. He turned and stalked out of the apartment without another word, down to the loading bay where the Normandy and the rest of the new Spectres awaited. His personal room was near the engines, which he didn't quite like in case something really catastrophic happened while he was sleeping, but he supposed he just had to trust in the other people around him. He had enough technical training to chip in if need be, he supposed, though most of his mechanical and electronic was... well, not in how to keep the ship running in tip-top condition. Quite the opposite in fact. After that, he began pacing the ship to learn the corners of it, the routes and the gathering-points, the quiet places and the shadows. Along the way, he happened to catch sight of the human woman, Claire, coming the other way. He affected a jovial manner as he came past. "Alright love?" he gave his best Northerner. "What's occurin'?"
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Just working on Harken's post now.
Oh yeah, as far as I know I'm the only one who's posted a profile.
jbeil said
Can't wait to see how Claire and Harken get on - I imagine wearing the Union Flag on his face might need some explaining...:D
"Oh, this? It's a Turian thing. We wear facepaint to show our clan, home planet - kind of like how Salarians have stupid names."
I think what I'll do is recast it to be a bit more focused in term of narrative; have everyone be members of one particular group/profession. I'm currently thinking maybe everybody is gatecrashers, people who explore new planets through the mysterious Pandora Gates..
"All in, and calling. Three Asari matriarchs and a pair of rachni." The cards hit the table in a clatter, in the low smoky light of the Ward back room. Games like this, where a lot was on the line, most people favored analogue over digital. No-one could hack into slips of thick card.
The atmosphere in the room was tense, made all the more thick by the low red light and the choking cigar smoke. The two turians, a batarian and three humans eyed each other over the pot. Harken Calibos sat back after playing his hand and checked the time. Who would be first?
As if on cue, the house of cards began to topple. "I fold." said the first human, a middle-eastern man with a shaved head and thick, dark stubble across his lantern jaw. He put them face down, casting his eyes down in a gesture of low shame. When he looked up to catch Harken picking up on the gesture, he tried to cover his tell - but of course, it had already been too late. Then one of the turians followed suit, casting aside a pair of vorcha. Brave, to have gone so long with a hand that weak. But then surrender wasn't quite the turian way.
One by one, they fell away and made excuses to leave the table, cut their losses. This had been a high stakes game, but everyone was adults here. But Harken's source of concern, that was the one remaining human and the batarian. Both were angry. He honestly wasn't sure which was uglier. The human, an American male, Caucasian, he knew to be connected to Cerberus. The batarian was just a batarian, from the dossier he'd gotten on the major players in this game. "Well, gentlemen? Time to show your hands." he crooned smugly.
The batarian broke first and said something truly foul in their grumbling language, storming out after tossing his chair to the side and making disparaging remarks about the parentage of half the Turian species. That just left Harken and the human, alone in the room. "You think you're hot shit, birdface?" The human snarled.
"Not particularly. But I know something you don't, Mr. Garrick." That got Garrick's attention. He'd not been going under that name for the game. Garrick reached for his gun, but Harken was faster, knocking the table up and into the human's legs, blocking Harken from view. Garrick cursed, falling back and spraying into the metal of the table, unloading round after round in blind fury. But with all the light and noise, he'd lost track of his target. Harken decloaked to kick the gun from Garricks hand, then backhanded him hard across the face with his pistol. He felt teeth loosen in the human's jaw and he spat blood. "Citadel Security. You just got stung."
The Commissioner wasn't happy when the word came down about the Spectre job. Undercover operatives were valuable and Harken was one of his best. But the orders were coming from the Council, the same Council that had managed to avoid getting bombed thanks to Harken's undercover operations. And with an active case on his desk, there were no pretenses to keep him away. And so the paperwork went through quickly.
On the day, Harken wore the union jack proudly across his face as he paced up the steps towards the Council chamber. He'd not been able to wear it during the undercover work, which had left him feeling naked, but now everything was going according to plan again. The councilors were lined up with the other potential Specters, going down the line by name. When it came to Harken, he saw Vakarian's mandibles twitch uncomfortably. To a Turian, facial markings were a like a declaration of nationality, a wearable history, and he clearly was a bit nonplussed by Harken Calibos'... unorthodox choice.
"Detective Harken Calibos, of Citadel Security's Special Crimes Division." He read, trying to keep his voice passive and even. "During your time in the Turian special forces, you were a valuable special operative. Your work behind enemy lines against the Blood Pack was of extreme strategic value - what little has been de-classified, at least. That is, until you left the military to spend several years as an unemployed drifter, as far as our records show. Care to comment?"
"I drifted to Earth, sir. It's where I was born, my home. Hence the facepaint."
"Palaven not good enough for you?" Another mandible twitch. Apparently Turian pride was getting a bit sore, so the Asari councilor stepped in.
"Your... cosmopolitan past is part of the reason you were selected for this diverse team. Your C-Sec record also speaks highly of you, detective. You have our gratitude for bringing the Cerberus cell to justice. Not many officers have the skills needed for undercover work." She cast a look at Vakarian, the kind of look that says 'stop being so stupidly proud'. "Let's not waste any more time. As dangerous as the Blood Pack or Cerberus' sympathizers were, if you accept this offer you will find yourself in more danger than you ever imagined. Do you accept?"
Harken puffed out his chest and clicked his mandibles. "I do."
"Then by the authority of the Citadel Council, I welcome you to the Specters." She waved a hand and Harken's omni-tool pinged him to confirm the new statuses that had just been unlocked. Interesting, he thought, as he stepped back to take a look at some dossiers that had just been sent to him - the rest of the team, it seemed.
The atmosphere in the room was tense, made all the more thick by the low red light and the choking cigar smoke. The two turians, a batarian and three humans eyed each other over the pot. Harken Calibos sat back after playing his hand and checked the time. Who would be first?
As if on cue, the house of cards began to topple. "I fold." said the first human, a middle-eastern man with a shaved head and thick, dark stubble across his lantern jaw. He put them face down, casting his eyes down in a gesture of low shame. When he looked up to catch Harken picking up on the gesture, he tried to cover his tell - but of course, it had already been too late. Then one of the turians followed suit, casting aside a pair of vorcha. Brave, to have gone so long with a hand that weak. But then surrender wasn't quite the turian way.
One by one, they fell away and made excuses to leave the table, cut their losses. This had been a high stakes game, but everyone was adults here. But Harken's source of concern, that was the one remaining human and the batarian. Both were angry. He honestly wasn't sure which was uglier. The human, an American male, Caucasian, he knew to be connected to Cerberus. The batarian was just a batarian, from the dossier he'd gotten on the major players in this game. "Well, gentlemen? Time to show your hands." he crooned smugly.
The batarian broke first and said something truly foul in their grumbling language, storming out after tossing his chair to the side and making disparaging remarks about the parentage of half the Turian species. That just left Harken and the human, alone in the room. "You think you're hot shit, birdface?" The human snarled.
"Not particularly. But I know something you don't, Mr. Garrick." That got Garrick's attention. He'd not been going under that name for the game. Garrick reached for his gun, but Harken was faster, knocking the table up and into the human's legs, blocking Harken from view. Garrick cursed, falling back and spraying into the metal of the table, unloading round after round in blind fury. But with all the light and noise, he'd lost track of his target. Harken decloaked to kick the gun from Garricks hand, then backhanded him hard across the face with his pistol. He felt teeth loosen in the human's jaw and he spat blood. "Citadel Security. You just got stung."
The Commissioner wasn't happy when the word came down about the Spectre job. Undercover operatives were valuable and Harken was one of his best. But the orders were coming from the Council, the same Council that had managed to avoid getting bombed thanks to Harken's undercover operations. And with an active case on his desk, there were no pretenses to keep him away. And so the paperwork went through quickly.
On the day, Harken wore the union jack proudly across his face as he paced up the steps towards the Council chamber. He'd not been able to wear it during the undercover work, which had left him feeling naked, but now everything was going according to plan again. The councilors were lined up with the other potential Specters, going down the line by name. When it came to Harken, he saw Vakarian's mandibles twitch uncomfortably. To a Turian, facial markings were a like a declaration of nationality, a wearable history, and he clearly was a bit nonplussed by Harken Calibos'... unorthodox choice.
"Detective Harken Calibos, of Citadel Security's Special Crimes Division." He read, trying to keep his voice passive and even. "During your time in the Turian special forces, you were a valuable special operative. Your work behind enemy lines against the Blood Pack was of extreme strategic value - what little has been de-classified, at least. That is, until you left the military to spend several years as an unemployed drifter, as far as our records show. Care to comment?"
"I drifted to Earth, sir. It's where I was born, my home. Hence the facepaint."
"Palaven not good enough for you?" Another mandible twitch. Apparently Turian pride was getting a bit sore, so the Asari councilor stepped in.
"Your... cosmopolitan past is part of the reason you were selected for this diverse team. Your C-Sec record also speaks highly of you, detective. You have our gratitude for bringing the Cerberus cell to justice. Not many officers have the skills needed for undercover work." She cast a look at Vakarian, the kind of look that says 'stop being so stupidly proud'. "Let's not waste any more time. As dangerous as the Blood Pack or Cerberus' sympathizers were, if you accept this offer you will find yourself in more danger than you ever imagined. Do you accept?"
Harken puffed out his chest and clicked his mandibles. "I do."
"Then by the authority of the Citadel Council, I welcome you to the Specters." She waved a hand and Harken's omni-tool pinged him to confirm the new statuses that had just been unlocked. Interesting, he thought, as he stepped back to take a look at some dossiers that had just been sent to him - the rest of the team, it seemed.
Right, getting my post up soon.
Name: Marble (street name), Michael White (false ID), formerly Michael Summers)
Appearance:
Like his name suggests, Marble is a very pale man. His skin is never flushed, even when he physically exerts himself - of course, this is his mask, how he appears to mortals. He is a tall, fairly handsome Caucasian male with extremely smooth skin that makes it hard to tell exactly how old he is. He tends to dress in dark colors, a fairly goth/punk style and apply radical, vibrant dyes to his hair - all of which just makes his albino skin even more stark. Under the dye, the truth becomes more clear; Marble is a walking statue, his carved and chiseled features being very literally carved and chiseled from the white marble he has apparently named himself for. Any color other than white has literally been painted on his otherwise all-white body when you see him in this form.
Age: 35
Age Taken: 19
Age Escaped: 32
Concept: Stoic Dealer
Virtue: Temperance. Marble is a fairly cool customer and can resist temptation well; he might peddle dope but he's never even inhaled.
Vice: Lust (Obsession) Marble is fixated on his sister; not in a sexual way, but in a kind of twisted protective big-brother way. He regularly shadows her, stakes out her home etc to make sure she's alright, even to the detriment of other parts of his life or the wishes of his motley.
Mental Attributes (Tertiary)
Intelligence: 2
Wits: 2
Resolve: 2
Physical Attributes (Secondary)
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 2
Stamina: 3
Social Attributes (Primary)
Presence: 3
Manipulation: 3
Composure: 2
Mental Skills (Tertiary)
Academics:
Computer:
Craft:
Investigation:
Medicine: 1
Occult: 1
Politics:
Science: 2
Physical Skills (Secondary)
Athletics: 1
Brawl (Dirty Tricks): 2
Drive: 1
Firearms:
Larceny (Concealing Goods): 2
Stealth :
Survival:
Weaponry:
Social Skills (Primary)
Animal Ken:
Empathy: 2
Expression :
Intimidation : 1
Persuasion (Fast-Talk): 3
Socialize:
Streetwise (Black Market): 3
Subterfuge: 2
Merits: Dual Kith (ooo), Allies (o - minor local criminals, petty favors), Striking Looks (oo), Mantle (Winter 1)
Willpower: 4
Size: 5
Speed:
Initiative Mod:
Defense: 2
Armor:
Health: 8
Seeming: Fairest
-Blessing: Spend Glamor to get bonus dice on Manipulation, Presence, Persuasion or Socialize
-Curse: -1 Dice on rolls to avoid losing Clarity.
Kith: Treasured/Stonebone
-Treasured: Alabaster Fortitude: Once per scene, spend one Glamor to reroll any failed Stamina, Resolve or Composure roll
-Stonebone: Obdurate Skin: Spend one Glamor once per day to gain a natural armor rating equal to Wyrd
Court: Winter
Contracts: Heart 1 (Fickle Fate), Mirrors 2 (Riddle-Kith, Skinmask). Eternal Winter 2 (Jack's Breath, Touch of Winter)
Wyrd: 1
Glamour: 1
Clarity: 7
Backstory:
Michael Summers was the oldest of two children born in a trailer park in one of the worse parts of the country. Him and his sister, Susie, were raised by their parents until Mom left (or maybe died? He's not sure any more) leaving them with Dad (who he definitely DOES remember). Dad was fine so long as he was working the night shift and tired. When the slaughterhouse he worked at fired him to replace him with Mexican immigrants, he came home and started drinking. Michael knew he wasn't much, wasn't smart or strong, but Susie - he loved her more than anything. And she had a chance, if Dad didn't ruin her. When Dad started taking his anger out on his kids, Michael stepped forward to bear the brunt for his kid sister. Verbal abuse, beatings, it didn't matter. So long as it was him and not her, he could take it.
One day, Dad came home roaring drunk and mistook Suzie for her mother. Michael took her away that night. They didn't have a plan, they didn't have directions. They just went, hitch hiking when they could and going through on foot when they couldn't. In the journey, Michael and Suzie got separated in an unfamiliar patch of woods. He looked and looked for her but somehow just seemed to wind himself deeper and deeper into the forests. Eventually, he started to see lights through the trees and, thinking it was a road, he got closer... Here, his memory becomes fuzzy.
He has been able to piece together that he stumbled into Arcadia, the realm of the Fae. He doesn't know it's name - the True Fae guard those closer than anything - but in the opulent manor it lived, he came to think of it as The Sculptor. It took him and showed him Suzie, his sister, as its other guest. And it assured him, or maybe it got someone else to assure him, that Suzie would be perfectly happy so long as Michael did whatever it wanted. He agreed - same deal as before, with Dad, just in a nicer trailer, that's how he saw it. He accepted whatever The Sculptor wanted. First it wanted him to be a petty manservant, cleaning and pouring and cooking, but he wasn't too good at that so it moved him over to being a guard but he wasn't too good at that either. Eventually it decided to just turn him to stone and leave him for a while. He's not sure how long. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except stare at Suzie, there on the scarlet couch. Her staring back.
When the Sculptor came back, it must have decided it rather liked the look of Michael as stone. It never turned him back. Instead, it just got a chisel and cut him some points of articulation - and yes, he felt that. The deal continued, indulging the Sculptors artistic desires, forming scenes and dioramas. When its demands were more than Michael could do, a part he just couldn't play, then out came the chisel again... And to stop him from escaping, every so often it would turn him back to solid stone again, unmoving.
One day, for whatever reason, the Sculptor left Michael mobile. He took the chance, grabbed Suzie by her mute wrist and dragged her away, out of the house, into the forests again. Lights, he remembers running towards lights again, Suzie trailing behind him. The thorns bit at his, somehow cutting through his stone-skin, but he didn't care because soon they would be free and -
When they made it to the side of the freeway, Michael looked to Suzie, only what looked back was a pile of sticks and rags. It fell apart as soon as he saw it. The Sculptor never had her. It had only taken him. Maybe she'd never gone into the same patch of woods he had. Maybe she was still out there... Maybe she'd gotten lost, gotten scared and decided to go home. He'd only been missing for a few days, maybe a week, so he went home. The trailer was gone and when someone saw Michael snooping around, they screamed for some reason - and he saw he was still covered in stone. He fled, soon realizing the stone had gone away - no, he was just hiding it...
Trying to reintegrate with his old life was hard. What had felt like a week had been over ten years. The papers that Michael Summers (at least, another Michael Summers) was still alive and well, only after coming home from his attempted runaway he'd apparently waited for Dad to fall asleep and opened his neck with a kitchen knife. He was now in maximum security, psych eval showing him a total psychopath and huge danger to others. Suzie, she was put into the system, new name and everything. Got a good schooling, good life. Michael followed her as quiet as he could, to the new city she lives in now, working in an office doing something moving papers around. Michael's settled down within the city's worst district, setting himself up as a petty wheeler and dealer of narcotics. The more he learns about what's happened to him, how he's changed, from meeting others like him, he has come to align himself with the Winter Court, who feed upon sorrow - and there's plenty going on where he lives..
Recently, something new came to the attention of Michael (who started calling himself Marble). Some people he was selling to were found dead together in what the police were calling some kind of ritualistic mass suicide, overdosed on his product from what he could tell. Their dying message was something about finally catching a glimpse of The Truth through death... Poking around the strange cult has led Marble to find out more about what's going on in the city and into contact with other concerned individuals..
Appearance:
Like his name suggests, Marble is a very pale man. His skin is never flushed, even when he physically exerts himself - of course, this is his mask, how he appears to mortals. He is a tall, fairly handsome Caucasian male with extremely smooth skin that makes it hard to tell exactly how old he is. He tends to dress in dark colors, a fairly goth/punk style and apply radical, vibrant dyes to his hair - all of which just makes his albino skin even more stark. Under the dye, the truth becomes more clear; Marble is a walking statue, his carved and chiseled features being very literally carved and chiseled from the white marble he has apparently named himself for. Any color other than white has literally been painted on his otherwise all-white body when you see him in this form.
Age: 35
Age Taken: 19
Age Escaped: 32
Concept: Stoic Dealer
Virtue: Temperance. Marble is a fairly cool customer and can resist temptation well; he might peddle dope but he's never even inhaled.
Vice: Lust (Obsession) Marble is fixated on his sister; not in a sexual way, but in a kind of twisted protective big-brother way. He regularly shadows her, stakes out her home etc to make sure she's alright, even to the detriment of other parts of his life or the wishes of his motley.
Mental Attributes (Tertiary)
Intelligence: 2
Wits: 2
Resolve: 2
Physical Attributes (Secondary)
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 2
Stamina: 3
Social Attributes (Primary)
Presence: 3
Manipulation: 3
Composure: 2
Mental Skills (Tertiary)
Academics:
Computer:
Craft:
Investigation:
Medicine: 1
Occult: 1
Politics:
Science: 2
Physical Skills (Secondary)
Athletics: 1
Brawl (Dirty Tricks): 2
Drive: 1
Firearms:
Larceny (Concealing Goods): 2
Stealth :
Survival:
Weaponry:
Social Skills (Primary)
Animal Ken:
Empathy: 2
Expression :
Intimidation : 1
Persuasion (Fast-Talk): 3
Socialize:
Streetwise (Black Market): 3
Subterfuge: 2
Merits: Dual Kith (ooo), Allies (o - minor local criminals, petty favors), Striking Looks (oo), Mantle (Winter 1)
Willpower: 4
Size: 5
Speed:
Initiative Mod:
Defense: 2
Armor:
Health: 8
Seeming: Fairest
-Blessing: Spend Glamor to get bonus dice on Manipulation, Presence, Persuasion or Socialize
-Curse: -1 Dice on rolls to avoid losing Clarity.
Kith: Treasured/Stonebone
-Treasured: Alabaster Fortitude: Once per scene, spend one Glamor to reroll any failed Stamina, Resolve or Composure roll
-Stonebone: Obdurate Skin: Spend one Glamor once per day to gain a natural armor rating equal to Wyrd
Court: Winter
Contracts: Heart 1 (Fickle Fate), Mirrors 2 (Riddle-Kith, Skinmask). Eternal Winter 2 (Jack's Breath, Touch of Winter)
Wyrd: 1
Glamour: 1
Clarity: 7
Backstory:
Michael Summers was the oldest of two children born in a trailer park in one of the worse parts of the country. Him and his sister, Susie, were raised by their parents until Mom left (or maybe died? He's not sure any more) leaving them with Dad (who he definitely DOES remember). Dad was fine so long as he was working the night shift and tired. When the slaughterhouse he worked at fired him to replace him with Mexican immigrants, he came home and started drinking. Michael knew he wasn't much, wasn't smart or strong, but Susie - he loved her more than anything. And she had a chance, if Dad didn't ruin her. When Dad started taking his anger out on his kids, Michael stepped forward to bear the brunt for his kid sister. Verbal abuse, beatings, it didn't matter. So long as it was him and not her, he could take it.
One day, Dad came home roaring drunk and mistook Suzie for her mother. Michael took her away that night. They didn't have a plan, they didn't have directions. They just went, hitch hiking when they could and going through on foot when they couldn't. In the journey, Michael and Suzie got separated in an unfamiliar patch of woods. He looked and looked for her but somehow just seemed to wind himself deeper and deeper into the forests. Eventually, he started to see lights through the trees and, thinking it was a road, he got closer... Here, his memory becomes fuzzy.
He has been able to piece together that he stumbled into Arcadia, the realm of the Fae. He doesn't know it's name - the True Fae guard those closer than anything - but in the opulent manor it lived, he came to think of it as The Sculptor. It took him and showed him Suzie, his sister, as its other guest. And it assured him, or maybe it got someone else to assure him, that Suzie would be perfectly happy so long as Michael did whatever it wanted. He agreed - same deal as before, with Dad, just in a nicer trailer, that's how he saw it. He accepted whatever The Sculptor wanted. First it wanted him to be a petty manservant, cleaning and pouring and cooking, but he wasn't too good at that so it moved him over to being a guard but he wasn't too good at that either. Eventually it decided to just turn him to stone and leave him for a while. He's not sure how long. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except stare at Suzie, there on the scarlet couch. Her staring back.
When the Sculptor came back, it must have decided it rather liked the look of Michael as stone. It never turned him back. Instead, it just got a chisel and cut him some points of articulation - and yes, he felt that. The deal continued, indulging the Sculptors artistic desires, forming scenes and dioramas. When its demands were more than Michael could do, a part he just couldn't play, then out came the chisel again... And to stop him from escaping, every so often it would turn him back to solid stone again, unmoving.
One day, for whatever reason, the Sculptor left Michael mobile. He took the chance, grabbed Suzie by her mute wrist and dragged her away, out of the house, into the forests again. Lights, he remembers running towards lights again, Suzie trailing behind him. The thorns bit at his, somehow cutting through his stone-skin, but he didn't care because soon they would be free and -
When they made it to the side of the freeway, Michael looked to Suzie, only what looked back was a pile of sticks and rags. It fell apart as soon as he saw it. The Sculptor never had her. It had only taken him. Maybe she'd never gone into the same patch of woods he had. Maybe she was still out there... Maybe she'd gotten lost, gotten scared and decided to go home. He'd only been missing for a few days, maybe a week, so he went home. The trailer was gone and when someone saw Michael snooping around, they screamed for some reason - and he saw he was still covered in stone. He fled, soon realizing the stone had gone away - no, he was just hiding it...
Trying to reintegrate with his old life was hard. What had felt like a week had been over ten years. The papers that Michael Summers (at least, another Michael Summers) was still alive and well, only after coming home from his attempted runaway he'd apparently waited for Dad to fall asleep and opened his neck with a kitchen knife. He was now in maximum security, psych eval showing him a total psychopath and huge danger to others. Suzie, she was put into the system, new name and everything. Got a good schooling, good life. Michael followed her as quiet as he could, to the new city she lives in now, working in an office doing something moving papers around. Michael's settled down within the city's worst district, setting himself up as a petty wheeler and dealer of narcotics. The more he learns about what's happened to him, how he's changed, from meeting others like him, he has come to align himself with the Winter Court, who feed upon sorrow - and there's plenty going on where he lives..
Recently, something new came to the attention of Michael (who started calling himself Marble). Some people he was selling to were found dead together in what the police were calling some kind of ritualistic mass suicide, overdosed on his product from what he could tell. Their dying message was something about finally catching a glimpse of The Truth through death... Poking around the strange cult has led Marble to find out more about what's going on in the city and into contact with other concerned individuals..
In
The New 52 Ultra-Verse: Legacy of the Supers (Superhero RP interest check. Multiple ideas inside!)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
I'd love to play some Wildstorm characters, at least Wildstorm before the DC buyout. Jack Hawksmoor, Spartan, The Midnighter etc..
jbeil said
I happen to be one of those soft southern poofters, thank you very much, you cheeky bugger, go mine some coal or something :P
Hey, we used to have an industry up there before Thatcher.
(Northamptonshire, actually. Not quite southern, but one of the local football clubs does play in the Southern Premier - does that count for anything?)
If it's not one of the Yorkshires, it's the south.
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