Magister

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Capital Base, Liberty

His outfit exemplified ridiculousness on such a grand scale that Mayday had nearly lost his composure to a wave of resignation that threatened to wash his eyes into the back of his skull. The mission, and its importance, were what kept him from expressing his frustration with his clothes, and by extension Erubescian culture. To express dissatisfaction would be an insult to the time and effort Liberty had taken to set up this undertaking. Something Mayday did and would not take for granted.

Ultimately, it had been the mirror that nearly did him in; when he saw the man reflected outward.

Pants, two toned, one side of lavender strippers, the other, a crimson red whose design was heavy, haphazard strokes.

The fabric clung to his legs, floating up slightly right before his ankles, exposing the skin from there down. His shirt was untucked, but designed to be so. His buttons lay open to the stomach, where a lavender waistcoat held its place. Over it all was a sleeveless coat, reaching down to his thighs.

"Look at me." Mayday's voice was filled with disgust.

"Look at me." The second voice, foreign to the first was a sultry tone, brimming with the self satisfied confidence he imagined Erubescians to have. Lastly, he placed a rather obnoxious hat on his head, complete with large rainbow feather. One side of the hat was tacked up, no doubt to add an element of roguishness to the piece.

Mayday, through training, had learned to be outwardly comfortable in such clothing; to swing his hips and blend in with the bloated upper class of the Kings men.

Inwardly?

Nothing could stop the hatred.

Tight lipped, with his nose pointed skyward, Mayday left his room, locking his cold eyes onto each and every person who crossed his path. Even the slightest smile would be subject to strict retribution, brought to you by his icy disgust. Beretta had no doubt gotten dressed in her disguise before him. He had gotten dressed in the training room rather than their shared space, due to the meeting coinciding with the end of his daily regimen.

He crossed the hallways without snicker or incident. Which left him relatively clear minded for the task ahead.

An unexpected name called by one Agent Beretta left his eyes wide with shock. The sultry snapped out of his swinging hips instantly.

Sitting, in front of him, was a Councilor, specifically his councilor, the head of Liberty Espionage.

Mayday's face flushed immediately, his healthy skin turning a light pink ahead of a very hasty salute. His back was ruler straight, eyes set with purpose. All in all, he looked fairly ridiculous being so rigid in such an elaborate suit. "Councilor Laxton." he sounded breathless, just managing to get the words out. "Agent Mayday, reporting for duty."

He stood beside Beretta, failing to acknowledge her, and Kahn immediately.

As an afterthought.

"Agent Beretta, Agent Kahn." Perhaps if the Counselor wasn't sitting there, he would have offered Beretta something a few degrees warmer than his cold professionalism. Either way, he had little doubts that their progress today was going to be sharply scrutinized.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

The older male was wordless in his response. Like Oren, he understood that words weren't needed when a moment like this arose. They existed to comfort the captive, and, comfort the captor. A ritual to absolve the former of fear, and the latter of guilt. Which was redundant as far as they were concerned. Oren, who had steadily earned Montana's respect, had no fear, and the regenerator who expressed this respect with a single nod, felt no shred of guild. No pang of conscious.

From within, he withdrew a blade. It was long, slightly curved toward the middle, and ending in a straight point. Wrought of modern steel, and buffed by the bodies it had been plunged into during its career. It held a strange sheen in the low light. It had been dipped in poison, none save an experienced, or extremely astute observer would notice this small fact.

Before he could act, he heard a pair of feet descending the stairs. He could distinguish each wanderer by the sound and style of their gait. At times, even their moods, by the hasty or lackluster sound of their movements. If he was correct, this was Dawn descending the stairs.

"Montana."

The blade returned to its sheath, tucked neatly by his ribcage.

Montana was well aware his body could, at times, move quicker than thought, and that a contest between his body and her mind wouldn't be unlike two gunslingers with their hands poised above their revolvers, twenty paces at high noon.

He had sheathed it because he respected her wishes.

Instead, Montana knelt beside the woman, and produced a small canteen of water. He angled her face upward with a finger beneath her chin, and slowly tipped the contents toward her mouth. Water of life.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Dutch might have found the problem. One would expect a smile, or perhaps a look of satisfaction from the male. His face reflected neither. There was a problem to be solved, and until it was sorted, he'd only give a, "There ya go." to acknowledge his discovery.

He had thought it was the belt, the aged thing looked like it could hardly turn the motor, on account of its cracks and stiff nature, but deeper he dug, he found one of the electric boards had been burned out, likely by the last owner. Fella probably figured there was little point in fixing it. Dutch figured he had been right.

Scavvers hadn't come around here thankfully, and he had enough spare metal to make a work around.

Few minutes later, plus more than a few beads of sweat, and the generator spluttered to life, replacing the smell of oil in the air with smoke.

The second generator had been far more simple. Just some debris in the fuel tank, it roared to life along with the first. Like two great beasts who were shaking off a few decades of sleep.

Course, that didn't mean they'd have electricity just like that. The breakers were off. He'd flick the circuits on that he'd checked, and leave the ones off that were broken. Didn't want anyone getting shocked from a rogue wire touching a ceiling like. House was sturdy though, Dutch had been impressed. Whoever lived here put a lot of time and energy into it.

"Mina and them'l be able to have a hot shower tonight.

Now he smiled, a big old smile as he flicked the switch on the water pump, and those PVC pipes began to build up water pressure.

He had already checked the heaters. One still worked, a big one, but not enough for the Wanderers to all shower at once. They'd need to take turns and sort all that out.

Still. He felt well greased and accomplished.

"Well, alright." Took a few minutes, but he watched the needle on the water pump begin to build up PSI all on it's own.

Dutch smiled. Time for breakfast.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Erubescian Citadel

"Good Morning"

The voice said, like was rubbing in how sub-par his morning was going to be. He was rubbing his head while the first set of rubbing was going on. "Where the hell am I..." Makorai's face was a mask of genuine confusion. Behind the bucket that had somehow found itself covering his face space. He sniffed, pressing his nose against its cool surface. Smelled like sterility to him. Cleaning products too. He knew where he was.

Maintenance 21 B. The one with the sub-par filtering that allowed all of that horrible hallway light to flood in uninvited like it was crashing on Mel's couch. It explained why the bucket was on his head. Taking the bucket off would just add a new kind of thumping to the steady baseline that was already happening. He didn't want that, he had some meeting to get to, much to his displeasure. Something about...something? He couldn't remember. The big whig who promoted him to whatever it was he is, a field ops representative or something, had insisted on it. Said something about a good track record. Makorai had nearly burst out laughing, well, he sort of did. Had to mask it as a cough. Good track record his ass. All he did was shoot a Wanderer, shot a few times at Kora's nemesis and didn't manage to die either time. Woo.

Well. The first shot was half a mile out. So, pretty good.

"This is why I'm not ever productive." he mumbled, using the shelf to steady his rising body. "No good deed goes unpunished forreal."

He didn't take the bucket off when he opened the door, opting to reach into his coat instead, and pull out a small flask, which he quickly brought to his lips. What he really needed was a Bloody Dutchess. White liquor and totmatoe juice. Something healthy for breakfast.

Did he keep drink supplies in here? Makorai took the bucket off of his head finally, and rummaged through his makeshift bed.

No, that was 21 A. Fuck.

Well. Makorai would do that after this meeting. Not go to 21 A, he'd go to his lodgings. 21 A was for emergencies, and like any good Knight, he knew to save his emergency rations.

He stepped out into the world, blinking away the bright lights, spraying his mouth with that two minute fresh breath disinfectant Mel had insisted was integral to masking his day drinking. Good kid.

Elevators, corridors, and eventually he was at the Oak room. Some Knight Commander had made him stand to attention in the last one. Makorai has responded by flicking a bit of nose debris onto the tip of his superiors lip when he wasn't paying attention. 'Cuz I has aim like that. He thought to himself.

Mako made his way into the room, and saw a name plate. His name plate. 'Makorai Saika'. Maybe he wouldn't put his feet up on the desk for this one. Maybe he'd just sit like a regular human being.

"Caddie!" Makorai flashed her a winning smile, turning his glamour on briefly to add a faint glow and greater impact to his wink right after. "You're looking chipper today." He leaned over and gave her a brotherly peck on the top of her head. He liked Caddie. She let him pass out in her closets and listened when he talked. He did some listening too.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Ranch House

The Night shift had always been a traditionally Montana vocation. While his twilight vigil was often shared by another Wanderer, if one did happen to fall asleep on their watch, they could rest easy knowing there was a sleepless pair of eyes endlessly staring into the rolling plains of the ash. Experienced eyes, that noticed the shift in shadows as clearly as one noticed the sun dancing off of a measure of glass. Lately however, his time had been occupied, his attention, had been redirected to suit his latest purpose. He had left the midnight hours to the Wanderers alone, to tend to one Oren Kovalenko, The Erubescian Alchemist. His endless stare had now settled on her, intent on extracting whatever information she had on Helena, and the curious intent of her requisition by the military power.

The failed attack, would not have been too suspicious, if not paired with yet another attempt after the mother had relinquished her care into the hands of some of the Kingdoms most wanted. The Ash was not ideal for most, Montana knew that well enough. He understood that Helena's mother knew that well, yet despite this, he preferred her daughter in their care.

Kora's simple action spoke volumes to the regenrator.

Oren's refusal to fill in the redacted, black barred sections of these volumes lent an interesting subtext, but did not give the clarification he needed.

Through sheer force of will, a gift influenced failsafe or both she had revealed nothing to him. Their time together showed him that she would simply never break, and more vicious torture would just serve as a release of frustration. Something he did not need.

The other, Larke, had been akin to Mina's pet-name once the right buttons pushed, the right threats made once Oren's lack of communication had been made known, along with sending Spire in to interrogate her if he didn't cooperate. A proper songbird.

People like that would often mix in what the interrogator wanted to hear, to appease them. He was wary of this too.

One had helped, one had not, and instead offered him something different from her lips. Obscenities and spit.

Which is why he had decided that on this day, he'd kill her. Not out of anger, but because she represented a danger that should perish. Perhaps he'd take her to a hill to watch the sunrise if he was feeling uncharacteristically altruistic.

Montana descended the stairs, but made little to no sound. He moved silently out of habit, since survival was rarely a motivator for him. In his right hand, an offering. A full plate of food, hot from the gas stove. A variety of canned meats and vegetables, with a side of some signature Soren baked goods.

His left was empty, for it offered nothing save her death.

The older male knelt beside her, and undid one of her hands, so she could eat. A utensil was left by the the plate.

He stood, and said nothing. Watching her with those unblinking coal black eyes.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Roderic Montana

Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayberry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: Lazarus. Old Man. My Old Adversary.

Age: 198

Gender: Male

Gift: Regeneration

Loyalty: His Morals

Description: Montana stands at 5'10, built with compact, functional muscle. His iris is indistinguishable from the pupil. His hair is medium length, black, and always swept behind the ears. Wears a European cut suit, covered by a grey, form fitting overcoat. Favours a wide brimmed hat. When engaging in matters requiring the utmost care and stealth, is known to wear a stealth suit. His face remains youthful despite his advanced age, as does his body, due to the nature of his gift. Perhaps those of a keener eye could discern his age by the weathered look that lingers in his eyes.

Personality: Distant, subdued, with moments of keen interest. Perhaps a bit whimsical in a nostalgic way. At times, malevolent. He has a myriad of stories to tell, most of which he keeps to himself, but some of which he's pleased to share, should anyone find themselves awake and alone during the dark hours.


Skills: Talented in Martial Arts and Weapons training, with experience that spans over a century. Experience in a variety of combat, espionage, and tactical situations. Very perceptive, relying on logic and deduction to problem solve and win confrontations. None of this has mattered for quite some time, until he met and began traveling with the Wanderers.

Weaknesses: His dispassion can be used to take him by surprise.


Brief History: Montana's history spans nearly two centuries. During one of the brief, but enjoyable moments the Wanderers shared together, he revealed that he was a veteran of World War 2, a human war that had long since faded from memory, and since then, he had taken part in a variety of conflicts as a soldier of fortune. Including the onset of the Gifted War, where he killed the Lich Queen, a powerful gifted who rose from Central Romania, enthralling humans and gifted alike. She ultimately marched on London, where she was defeated by an alliance between Montana and his allies, and the False King Roger, a gifted who had set himself in the Tower of London as the de facto ruler of England.

This victory came at great personal cost.


He briefly resurrected his Mercenary company after the Gifted Human War. It is now defunct but some of its members, or children of members may still roam the Ashland.

Other: Most of those who are old enough to remember are long dead, and the few who recall use names he's long abandoned.

Makorai Saika

Full Name: Makorai Saika

Nicknames/Aliases: A real catch(self given) Best Damn Sniper in Eru(self given) Don't you owe me money?(More accurate)

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Gift: Glamour (the ability to make himself appealing not only on a physical level, but able to invoke concepts like romanticism and nostalgia)

Loyalty: His chosen family first, Erubesco second.

Description: Makorai’s height is relatively unimpressive, peaking at 5’9, a looker (in his opinion) dark eyes and hair, with Anglo-Asian features one can only assume comes from mixed parentage.

Personality: Makorai’s loyalty is ultimately to the people he chooses to invest it in, and is willing to go to great lengths to aid his friends and the people he fellows. This more redeemable quality is often eclipsed by his aloof, womanizing nature, and equally drowned in the liquor he’s fond of.

Skills: Makorai is an Erubesco sniper. In an age where gifts often dictate the work one does, his destiny was driven by natural talent. Makorai’s dead eye marksmanship is aided by a unique ability of his. He can use both of his eyes as master eyes, meaning he can shoot, and look for new targets without the aid of a spotter, as well as assess threats while shooting. He considers himself the best in Erubesco, though this opinion has never been thoroughly explored. He has however, won numerous marksmanship competitions in various competitions in the Erubescian countryside.

Weaknesses: Women, Drink, and ultimately his loyalty to people.

Brief History: Makorai was orphaned at a young age, his parents dying under circumstances unknown and under-investigated. He spent his youth in an orphanage, finding friendship in the other orphans he spent his formative years with. Initially drawn to the fast nature of Erubescian city society, and the underworld, he was convinced to leave crime behind, to earn an honest living in the Royal Forces.

Other: A recent loss to the Wanderers had left him bitter towards his vocation, and himself, but a recent victory over a notorious Wanderer have left him in better spirits, and a small amount of fame. Homies with Mel.

Mayday Lesauvage

Full Name: Mayday Lesauvage

Nicknames/Aliases: Agent Mayday

Age: Late 28

Gender: Male

Gift: Control of Kinetic/Potential Energy through touch.

Loyalty: Liberty Agent, Special Division

Description: Lesauvage, at a glance fits the profile of a supermodel, soft features lined with masculine lines, everything in the right place for it to be enticing for the eyes. His body is tight with muscle gained from a strict training regimen, but nothing that would make his preferred clothing, a jumpsuit or women's cut suit, look grotesque or misshapen on his frame. He always keeps a neat appearance, but never spends too much time preening himself. Mayday's look is function over fashion, which the exception of his bleach blonde hair, which he leaves long.

Personality: Mayday is a cold, driven individual with a singular goal mind. A Liberty Victory. His standoffish personality largely keeps people from sharing anything but a strictly professional relationship with him. He views personal conversations as largely frivolous, but will indulge in them from time to time, though the conversation is always, ultimately steered back to Liberty. He is a loyal individual who would happily give his life for the ideology that rules him. He is easily irritated and does not suffer fools.

Skills: Mayday is a skilled combatant, with exceptional situational awareness and adaptability. He excels in reclamation and subjugation, and is also a reliable espionage agent. He is highly trained in hand to hand combat, conventional, and unconventional weaponry, the latter being centered around weapons used to disable counteract Gifts.

Weaknesses: Mayday is loyal to the principles of Liberty, rather then individuals.

Brief History: Agent Mayday rose to prominence after playing a key role in the capture of the powerful gifted responsible for the attack on Liberty, catching the eye of Liberty higher-ups, and earning him swift promotions. He's currently working with a small team with plans to infiltrate a high profile Erubesco Ball.

Other: Has grown far closer to Agent Beretta than he thought possible.

Dutch Dalton

Full Name: Dutch Dalton

Nicknames/Aliases: Dutch the Douche. Morningstar.

Age: 20's

Gender: Male

Gift: Spirit/Ki Manipulation

Loyalty: The Wanderers

Description: Dutch is neatly coiffed hair always kept in it's perfect dimensions, his trademark leather jacket, often left open exposing his white V-neck t shirt, and black drainpipe trousers, ending with a pair of Chelsea boots. His face has changed drastically since he joined the wanderers. Where his eyes had once been his most striking feature, ice blue and unforgiving, a new feature had taken that top spot. The scarred outline of a handprint, burned into the left side of his face. Courtesy of Kora Norrevinter.

Personality: Dutch isn't the best with words, and is frequently frustrated with how people react to him, and his mantra of "our safety above all else" Antagonistic and brash, his finer qualities, loyalty and genuine love and care, are often overshadowed by his abrasive nature.

Skills: His energy manipulation allows him to far exceed the strength and stopping power of his regular body, allowing him to fight, and fly at tremendous speeds, as well as deal massive amounts of damage. He can expel energy from his body, from his hands, manipulating the shape and intensity of the blast. The upper limits of his power have not been tested, but the ability to destroy large portions of land has been confirmed.

Weaknesses: His confrontational personality, and often one track mentality are his greatest weaknesses.

Brief History: Dutch hails from a tribe far from the Wanderers current location. Their society is based around the pre war media depictioms of rockabilly/greaser culture, which has heavily influenced their style, values, and choice of vocation and pastimes. His childhood was filled with different faces, turbulence, and a ring of experiences that saw him leave his home to search for something better out in the ashland. His journey inevitably brought him into conflict with the many inhabitants of the wastes, largely due to his confrontational nature, and left a path of destruction in his wake. This changed when he ran across the Wanderers, perhaps the first people to show him any kindness since he left his tribe. Viewing them as the family he wanted since he was a child, he threw his loyalty in with them, and killed in their name, much to their chagrin. A notable feat was an assault at the then decrepit Liberty council, which resulted in the temporary death of Clockwork, and the permanent death of Indigo. A later confrontation with Kora, which culminated in his defeat at her hands, her rage proving too much after believing her daughter was dead, has started his first period of growth in a very long time.

Josiah Tanner

Full Name: Josiah Tanner

Nicknames/Aliases: Teacher

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Gift: Sound/Frequency control, manipulation, enhancement and creation.

Loyalty: Council member, and head of the Education Department

Description: Tanner stands at an average 5'11, but exudes an air of confidence that was practiced first, then natural after time. His wardrobe is largely consistent, mandarin collared shirts and various coats and jackets of a grey tweed variety. Each and every coat and Jacket he owns has the Liberty symbol patched to the breast area. His hands are more often then not, are active, being used to express his thoughts and ideas.

Personality: Tanner holds himself to the teacher archetype very seriously, and switches his demeanor based on the people he's in front of. In his essence he's a curious person who enjoys learning and discovering new things. Josiah regulates how he expresses himself when not under the influence of excitement, but doesn't hide his emotion on reflex. His intentions are often displayed on his face, due to his habit of firmly believing everything he says when he says it, regardless of if he believed it prior, or believes it after. Tanner is romantic in how he views the world, and his place in it. Something that's obvious the more you get to know him.

On a professional level, he believes that people must be taught, and dissenters reeducated and returned to their lives rather than executed. He does however, harbour a cruelty for those who stand against Liberty ideas for Erubescian shortcomings. There are few things he would not do to further Liberties cause and ideology.

Skills: Tanner is a passionate public speaker, who can use his powers to influence how his voice is represented. These changes range from obvious, like making his voice heard for miles without technology, to subtle. A subtler application of his powers would involve using the right tones to make his voice sound veracious to the listener, irrespective of how true the statements made are. Like most in the Liberty council, he can utilize his powerful gift with devastating effect.

Weaknesses: Literature. Things Tanner reads have the ability to effect his judgement, and loyalty to certain Liberty ideas.

Brief History: Tanner's ascension through Liberty was aided by his gift, and his application of it. Rising to the rank of councilor was something he saw as an inevitability.

Other: Currently dating, and very in love with Faye.

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