Naril — Roleplayer Guild

Name: Samara (Sam) el-Azra

Alias/Callsign: If you try to give me some kind of cute nickname again, I won't tell you where I got the halva I left on your desk last week. My name is Samara, all right? Sam, if you really have to. I know it's playing dirty! But I really need you to knock it off, all right? Love you. (Excerpted from dispatch log 6.19.2014\\San Judas)

Gender: Female-presenting (She/her, they/them)

Race/Species: Human (for a given value)

Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): Mid-thirties apparent. Somewhat older in reality. Her birthday is on October 18th.

Concept: Chaplain, healer, lover. The adult in the room.

Appearance: Samara is, despite everything, a rather disarming-looking woman. She is short of stature, and though her frame is lined with lean, taut muscle, she tends not to carry herself in a way to draw attention to that. Her eyes are wide, almond-shaped, and mismatched; the right the color of old-growth forests with its opposite so light as to almost be silvery-gray, both sparkling with humor and mischief. Sam keeps her hair pixie-bob short, the locks coffee-dark and tousled, not so much out of fashion but rather because she tends to run her hand through her hair when she’s thinking. Her lips are full and inviting, often curved into a gentle smile, like she has a story she want to tell you because she thinks it will make you smile. Her skin is a rich, dark olive, the dusky shades of Arabic descent, with a smooth and unblemished complexion - that is, save for the scars. The largest and most obvious is why her eyes are mismatched; a trio of ragged marks that cut from her forehead, through her eyebrow, across her lighter eye, over her cheekbone, and curve toward her ear. The marks seem old and healed as well as something that traumatic could be, and while they are the most obvious record of the dangers of a Sentinel’s life, they are far from the only ones. She has a handful of tattoos; the one on the back of her right hand is the most obvious; an elaborate, circular mandala in the style of mehndi, or henna tattoo, that flows up her wrist almost to the elbow. Most of the other marks on her skin are in places that aren't likely to be seen on a daily basis, unless you happen to be someone Sam's sleeping with at the time. Sam often wears jewelry, including bangles, bracelets, cuffs and other baubles. Both of her ears are pierced several times, and hold an ever-changing variety of studs, chains, and whatever else catches her fancy.

When not involved in some world-ending catastrophe, Sam's wardrobe is often playfully tomboyish. She enjoys jeans, comfortable, cute boots, and band T-shirts from thrift stores - though everything is, rather intentionally, flattering to her figure. It's every bit as common to see her in bright jewel tones or subdued blues and blacks, with no particularly predictable pattern beyond, perhaps, where the laundry rotation might be at any particular time. Button-down shirts aren't entirely unheard of, but it is somewhat rare to find her in anything approaching traditional business or professional wear.

Samara smells nice; the scents of a spice market, of incense, tea, or the sweet-sharp aroma of drying flowers. Nothing overpowering or even something you'd notice at more than an intimate distance, but pleasant, all the same. 

Personality: 

Samara is a person who is, to her core, kind - a term that doesn't mean that she's always nice. She usually has a smile not only for herself but for the world, and takes the time to find the wonders in the small things in addition to the world-changing. Her voice often seems to be a single lilting syllable away from laughter or music, both of which she's good at. She is gentle and warm, but never a doormat, the kind of person you want to talk to just because you know the conversation will make both of you feel good. Among the monsters and melees, she is the kind of person who will bring a trinket, or sweets, back to someone at headquarters because she knows it will make them smile. 

She is someone who enjoys the pleasures the world has to offer, and is a connoisseur of delicacies, liquors, wines, sweets, men, and women from the world over. She knows where to get the best bourbon in Kentucky, the best curry in London, the good therapists, and the best bookstores, and very much wants to share that information with anyone who will come along with her. She loves sweet whisky and tall tales, good books and bad movies. To her mind, goodness never has to equate to being boring. 

Sam believes very strongly in what can only be called a kind of faith - that we are put on this world to be better to, and for, one another, to lift each other up, that there is a higher purpose and order to the universe. She rejects outright that this life is all there is - but she is not a follower of any particular religion. Her motions of faith, of god(s)hood, of the why and the how are rooted in so many traditions from the world and history that there may be no way to untie that braid. She is not Hindu, or Muslim, or Christian, or Druidic - but she believes they all have meaningful things to say. If there is a prayer to offer, Sam probably knows it. If there are words of comfort, Sam probably can recite them, even though tears and pain. Where there are wisdoms small and large, Samara believes them - but if you accused her of believing in "Be Excellent To Each Other," well, you might not be wrong.

In a fight, Sam is never cruel or petty, though she also fights to win, and has almost no interest in a fair fight if she can avoid one. She is confident, courageous, but never stupid about that courage; she will sacrifice herself (or her immediate safety) if she needs to, but will almost never sacrifice someone else for her own sake. 

Powers, Traits, and Abilities: 

Studyin' About That Good Old Way: Samara has forgotten more about the world of the occult, the arcane, the mystic, philosophical, and religious, than many people will ever know. She has a library of books at headquarters, many of which are the sole extant originals (She has made copies, which are stored somewhere else). Rituals, summonings, gods, and monsters are probably tucked somewhere in her mind, or if not, there's probably a book she can ask someone to read over the phone.

Le Petit Mort: Samara has a personal relationship with the cosmic force of Death. That is to say, they've met several times, have had tea with each other; they are, in a strange way, friends. For reasons of their own, Death has lent Samara a measure of supernatural power, though this is not in the form of a pact-mark or servitude. Samara does not appear to be aging, but more importantly she holds, to a small degree, the power of life and death in her hands. Her touch can close wounds, give air to the drowning, or purge a body of poisons - though Sam is bound by the knowledge that she should not try to bend someone's fate too far, if it really and truly is their time. In other words; through a person's life, there may be many times where they could die - but only one where they must, and Sam knows what this difference is. She can, in addition, ease the suffering of those for whom no help is coming, or guide someone recently deceased to whatever, for them, comes next.

Death is aware of what Sam does for a living, and their connection has left left Sam with some meaningful advantages in a fight. She is a phenomenon in close-quarters combat, though decades of practice and application in addition to having an intense awareness of her proximity to life and death sluicing through her mind. She understands, intrinsically, how to make it more likely for her to survive an encounter, and how to increase the odds her opponent will not. More directly: Weapons tend to find their mark, and while Sam isn't actually faster than anyone else her size, she simply tends not to be in the path of whatever tentacle, bullet, lightning bolt, or bad potted shrimp that would have otherwise maimed, killed, or mortally wounded her. This does not mean she can dodge bullets or absorb grenades, it means that injuries are rare, when what damage she does take tend not to be life-threatening (there are lots of things that are deeply unpleasant but not life-threatening), that she is usually quite hard to land serious blows on in an earnest fight to the death, and that a team member is very likely to show up to get her to a hospital rather than Sam bleeding out after a gunfight with a cult.

Not You Again: Samara has experienced 126 years of life, though they are spread in pockets, somewhat at random, through about 500 years of time. This has few tangible benefits - save that there are kinds of olives that Sam knows existed, but do no longer - but what is now called the Division has records of her entry, and death, in the organization for that entire time. Sam has been with the Division for about 15 years, currently.

Fears, Flaws, and Vices:  There are creatures in the world that are aware of Sam's tendency to wander back into the monster-hunting timeline, and take her continued existence rather personally. Some of these creatures have been encountered by the Division; others have targeted the Division specifically because of it. She has, very likely and somewhat indirectly, gotten other Sentinels killed due to this attention, whether they knew it was because of her or not.

Sam knows that the Division's work is important, but she sees, every day, the toll it takes on people around her. The flame of belief, optimism, of believing in people and that there is a better world is something she carefully cultivates. She worries that one day she will look around and find that she has been wrapped in the same layers of armor, cynicism, and cold, uncaring calculus that so many Sentinels are, and that flame will be nowhere to be found.

Between her "lives," the world tends to change. Samara is sometimes a little (or a lot) old-fashioned, automatically doing things that are decades or centuries out of date, or swears in dead languages.

Standard Loadout: 

Replica Winchester 1887 "Mare's Leg" shotgun: Chambered in 12 gauge, fitted with an oversized cocking lever, a heavily-truncated barrel, and carrying the obvious marks of heavy use. One of Sam's favorite movies is Terminator 2. She has resisted the suggestions to use something less "cowboy." This weapon is bespoke, and was made in 2006.

 Browning Hi-Power: Chambered in 9x19mm. Gently upgraded through the years for reliability, with parts replaced when they broke or when some snarling horror bit them off. Manufactured in 1966.

Silver-engraved dagger: Of the Arabian khanjar style. It's for cutting apples, and occasionally stabbing something that needs stabbing. Sam would say it was made in 1680, but at this point it has had several handles, scabbards, and even a new blade.

Silver ankh necklace: Seriously, you thought this wouldn't be here? It has no particular magical properties, but was a gift.

Additionally, Sam owns a curved Arabian-style sword (custom-made, 1830s) that tends not to come on missions because longswords are not especially practical these days, an acoustic guitar (Taylor, 2018), and a motorcycle that she likes very much (Norton Commando, 1969).

Background: 

Hamadan, Persia, 1510 AD

"You're early."

Samara heard the voice, mellow and with a rolling basso tone that made her chest thrum. She shook her head - what was going on? The last thing she remembered had been a blood-colored sky, the last sliver of a golden sunset counting down the seconds to something terrible. There had been screams, that ugly, familiar coppery smell in the air, panic and desperation. And now, this place. Cool, dim, with only the sound of the wind outside and the gentle flap of canvas. The pressure in her gut was gone, the strange numbness creeping through her body had faded, and though she felt her throat should have been raw from screaming, there was no pain. Carefully, she rolled to one side, pushed herself to her feet.

She saw she was in something like a caravaner's tent, the sides drawn up to let in a cool evening breeze. Outside, the sky was something incredible, and nothing found on earth. The stars flowed in woodsmoke spirals, light enough to cast whirling, dancing shadows. Inside, there was a small, low table, and a pair of comfortable chairs. She saw the back of a head, bald, dusky, a scalp traced with tattoos, wrapped in a robe. Samara opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was dry enough that when she coughed, she expected sand to fall out of her mouth.

"There is water here," the person said, the basso-profundo voice gentle, warm, good-humored. "Come. We should speak."

She moved carefully, but the chair looked comfortable, and she was beginning to understand what was happening. Samara sat, and what at first had been a sip became much more, like she had never had water before now. She coughed, drank again, and finally, with an effort, set the cup back down. The man leaned over, refilled it from a clay jug.

"I didn't think this was real," Sam managed, after a moment.

The figure laughed, and she saw warm, pleasant features pull into a smile of genuine pleasure, "What part of it?"

She smirked, "Any of it? All? A world beyond. Life after..." Her voice trailed off, and she waved a hand, "So, will my guilt be weighed against a feather? Or do you have questions for me?" 

"I suppose I should have expected that the Order would have educated you well," the figure said, the smile staying on broad features, "No, no. There will be no test." The figure paused, "Not the kind you are thinking of, in any case." They blew out a long breath, "I am, truth to tell, neither god nor angel." 

Samara picked up the cup, took another drink, "Then...what? Why?"

"Like I said, you're...early." The figure looked to one side, "We are not meant to be meeting, here, now. In fact, you and I were probably never meant to meet like this at all. You are an exception to the order, and, well." Another smile, "That makes you interesting.."

With care, Samara took another drink from her cup, "I understand that, but you're still not telling me what that means."

"It means that someone - something - broke the rules," the figure said, "And that means I get to break them too. Or bend them - at least a little." 

The figure raised a hand, "I do not know the shape of things to come. In fact, I don't know when you were supposed to pass into the realm beyond. I really only know when things are meant to end when they are meant to end." They sighed, "Confusing, I know. What you need to know is this: You are not supposed to be dead, here, now."

"So...you're going to snap your fingers, and I'll wake up back with the rest of the Order?" Samara put the cup down, "Then...I'm ready. This has been a nice break, but I do have things to do."

The figure chuckled, a sound low, and not only mirthful, "I...have a proposal for you, Samara. I do not know what killed you, but I am certain it was powerful, long-lived, and subtle. Something very much beyond even what your Order would trouble itself with, and perhaps may not even believe exists. Whatever - whoever - it might be, something that can reach this deeply into the world and twist it, even to the extent of a single life...it is beyond what words may have the power to describe." The figure looked up with heavy, dark eyes, "I am certain it will try to exert its power again, but likely not for some...time."

Samara looked at the figure, then pulled in a sharp breath. Her heart, which she realized she could still feel, started beating faster. She let her breath out, her voice quiet, "...You want me to help you find it."

"There is an order to the universe," the figure said, "A tangled, messy, bent and circular order, but an order. To upset that is...well. Upsetting." The figure steepled its fingers, "I would ask for your help, yes. In another time, in another place, you will awaken. I know about your Order, and its...valuable work." A smirk, "If it has already endured for millennia, then I believe it will thrive and grow. I would like you to follow it, and stop the things that need to be stopped. And, in the fullness of time, I expect that whatever is out there will come again." 

"And after that?" Samara said, her fingers drumming on the side of the cup.

"I expect it will kill you again," the figure said, their voice pleasant if frank, "And we will know more. And on, and on, until we know enough. You will not be my soldier or my servant; I am not going to compel you, Samara. I ask you this in the spirit of...cooperation." A smile, broad and brilliant, "I am, in fact, inviting you to make moves in the great game. To see how it all really works, even in the smallest degree."

"Look, you're...if you're what I think you are," Samara said, "Why me? Why can't you do this yourself?"

"The order of things is being shaken," the figure said, "I am that order. Or its end, at least. Or, the end of this part - to tell the truth, even I don't know what the end after my end is." Death grinned, broad and warm, with an expression of perfect contentment, "But regardless. I cannot hunt through time for whatever this is. It is not my place, and my attention is needed elsewhere, in any event."

Samara closed her eyes. She set her water down, the heavy clay cup making a soft sound. "Do I have a choice?"

"Oh, my. My, my." Death spoke in a quiet voice, like fog and morning dew, "Of course you do. There is something beyond this place, this...nowhere. I don't know what it might be for you, but it is out there. If you choose, the waking world can be behind you." 

Samara looked down at her cup, then at her companion, to the sky outside. The pinprick lights she still thought were stars whorled together in an endless dance, not-quite patterns almost repeating, flowing apart, whirling about one another. She closed her eyes, blew out a long breath that only started to shake at the end.

"If I go back, will I get to see Layla again?" Sam said, her voice quiet.

"Your sister will be long gone, I'm afraid," the figure said. "There are...rules about where I can put you. There will be sorrow, and pain. But love, ah. Love does last. You could say that the universe is made of love."

"And we can stop whatever this thing is?" Samara looked up, met Death's eyes for the skin of a second.

"I don't know," Death said. "But we can try."

Samara swallowed, closed her eyes.

"Then let's play the game."

-------

 Florence, Italy, 1622 AD 

Samara stormed into the tent, hurling her hat down behind her, "Rules? Rules? What in all the Hells is the matter with you, I don't speak Italian!"

This time, the figure in the chair was tall, elegant, with steepled fingers and a widow's peak. The voice was different, too; more silken, and not so deep. The utensils on the table had changed too, this time being cast blue and green glass, with a fish-shaped pitcher.

"You didn't speak Italian," Death said, beckoning Samara over.

"You-" Samara spluttered, "I-"

"They say a person's not dead while their name is still spoken," said Death, "Your colleagues told stories for a long time. I thought it would be easier to have a clean start."

"A century later. The Order had even changed its sign!" Samara paced back and forth, "Do you know how long it took me to find them? I've been here for fifteen years!" 

Samara stopped pacing, snatched up the glass, took a long pull. Gods, she had almost forgotten what good, clean water tasted like. After another few minutes, she calmed down enough to speak.

"Well?" Samara said, taking another drink, "Is that why I died?"

"Yes," Death said, and looked very pleased with themselves. "The pull was stronger this time. Whatever this is, it seems to have an interest in you."

"Lucky me," Samara said into her cup. 

--------

 Bucktown, Chicago, United States, 1987 AD 

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

This place had stopped being a tent centuries earlier. It had been a tavern, a church, a bordello - but this time, it was a record store. Band posters lined the high walls, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Wooden boxes held vinyl records, but there was only one other person in the room. Slender, finely-featured, with alabaster skin and big, teased hair. They faced away from Samara, the strap of a shirt falling and leaving one shoulder bare.

"Four hundred years, and you start flirting with me?" Sam said. She walked toward the figure, who flipped through records with long-fingered hands.

A chuckle, warm, playful, "So much less serious than when we first met. I like that."

"Keep it up," Sam said, taking up a place opposite Death, flipping through her own box of vinyl, "I'm always willing to expand my horizons."

Death looked up, one eye marked with curling design at the corner, "If only it were so simple."

Samara grinned, "Well?"

"Bad luck, this time," Death said, "Maybe not so bad as the time in the 1790s, but bad luck. But there's something else, too."

"There's...a kind of tension. Something that's spreading across the skeins of time and fate." Death grinned, "I've always wanted to say something like that. Sounds like it came from one of those trashy novels."

"I thought you didn't have time to read?" Sam said with a smirk.

Death gestured down at their appearance, "You are joking, yes? Times change. I can change with them.

Sam flipped through the box some more, "You've thought there was something big coming before." 

"And every time I have, you've been killed by our...friend," said Death. "But this feels even larger. It might be the moment we've been waiting for."

"You've said that, too," Sam said with a sigh, pulling a record out of the box, "I remember this concert. Hey, can I take things out of here? I can't believe I've never asked."

"That?" said Death, "Sure, why not. But I'm really serious this time, Samara. This is something different. Something new. I'm only going to send you a little further ahead this time - you may have some explaining to do with the Division when you get there."

"The Old Man?" Samara said.

"I think he's figured it out, yes." Death pulled another record out, handed it to Sam, "Here, this one too. You'll love it."

"The Replacements?" Sam said, "I think I missed this one."

"Trust me," Death said, with a broad grin.

"Well," Sam tucked the album under her arm, "When to next, hm?"

"I have an exact date for you this time," Death smiled, straightened. The grin was still there, but maybe an edge of nervousness this time. She coughed, "Not where I'm sending you, but a date you need to look out for."

"Yes?" Sam said.

"Oh..." Death walked around the boxes of albums, and put their arms around Sam in a full-bodied embrace. "Hey...dance with me for a minute? I like this song." 

Samara slid the albums onto one of the boxes, shifted her weight, gathered the figure toward her. If Sam didn't know better, she would have thought Death was trying to hold back tears. She felt Death's hips sway, in almost but not quite exactly not the rhythm of the song.

"October 17th," Death whispered, "Twenty-three years from now. Be careful."

The light rose, and Sam stepped back into the world. 

------------------

One question to be answered: Was the Operative a part of Operation: Cassandra on October 17, 2010?

Yes.

Other notes

Samara has died quite a number of times. The dates of her deaths, and the lengths of her lives, are below:

Deaths

8th August, 1510; Hamadan, Persia (34 years)
23rd March, 1622; Florence, Italy (15 years)
9th October, 1688; Muscat, Oman (4 years)
14th January, 1726; Province of Maine, Dominion of New England (9 years)
31st October, 1744; Alcântara, Brazil (8 years)
11th May, 1790; Vendée, France (6 hours)
8th July 1842; Linfen, China (7 years; killed during the total solar eclipse)
30th April, 1870; London, England (2 years)
31st December, 1899; Nairobi, Kenya (8 years)
14th April, 1912; North Atlantic Ocean (4 years)
17th July, 1918; Reims, France (3 years)
22nd August, 1943; Stalingrad, Soviet Union (4 years)
2nd September, 1971; Paris, France (6 years) 
10th October, 1987; Chicago, United States (5 years)
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