It was good to hear some more information on his teammates’ capabilities, not only because it was fascinating to learn about other parahuman’s powers, but also because it was exceptionally useful to know what he’d have to work with. As he considered the composition of their team based on Aaliyah, Carmen and Jane’s explanations, another individual arrived. Tilting his head slight, Caiden raised an eyebrow, a faint smile quirking the edges of his lips. He had no idea who the brunette was, but she seemed nice enough. Stepping forward, he held out a hand to greet the newcomer (Aurorea/Eleanore), giving her a winning smile as he did so, “I’m Caiden–Crosspoint if we’re talking business–it’s nice to have you.” Whether she shook his hand or not, Caiden would glance back at the others briefly before continuing.
“Feel free to introduce yourself to the others. We were just briefing eachother on our capabilities before we are all shipped off to our first little mission at the museum. Might be best to get you up to speed on the way there, but do feel free to let us know what you’ve got up your sleeve power-wise haha.” As the words slipped from his lips with casual confidence, he flashed her another friendly smile and gave her a wink before craning his neck slightly to the side to regard the others who’d been lingering at the edges of the group.
“Looks like we’ve got quite the assortment of teammates. Heh, I bet it’s more than Mr. F bargained for. I suppose we’ll have to do our bargain best not to give him too much trouble eh?” As he said the words, there was a sly amusement in his gaze, as if he had no intention of being easy on the Director.
With a small laugh, Caiden beckoned the others to join the group. “It might get a bit crowded, but feel free to huddle up.” With that said, he turned from them and found somewhere out of the way to lean against a wall, regarding everyone with interest. While he remained there he considered what Bev had given them regarding the Museum’s layout. That would surely be helpful, especially in tangent with Aaliyah’s portals. Still, it was hard to say precisely how things would pan out until they were on the scene.
Though many would have you believe otherwise, reality does not bow to the senses and it is from this essential truth that Deception is born. The Aspect of lies, be it through falsehoods or omission, Deception can confound the senses, obscure the truth, or replace facts with all-too-believable falsehoods. Wielding this power, the Lord of Lies–the Seer of Masked Light–is capable of conjuring illusions, misleading the thoughts of others through clever omission, and indeed constructing falsehoods so believable that they are difficult to detect.
Embodying this power, Kaelhmor is the Trickster God, the Master of Illusions, and the Lord of Lies. With this Aspect he will deceive the world and so lead it according to his aims.
♦Illumination♦
♦ ♦
The brilliance of primordial Light brings clarity to many things, be they physical spaces or the immaterial Truths of the world, they nonetheless fall within the domain of Illumination. Wielding such a power, the divine might alter, create, or destroy physical light with abandon or wield the subtle forces upon the metaphysical, bringing clarity and enlightenment into the world. With the former, beacons of unquenchable brilliance can be created, making darkness flee from the source and bringing sanctuary to the denizens of the world. With the latter, lies and deception can be utterly destroyed, obfuscation obliterated and the confusion and discord of the unknown brought to light. This metaphysical power is the greater of Illumination's twofold nature and it is through wielding this that mortals can be brought to enlightenment, that darkness can be destroyed, and that the mysteries of the world can be unveiled to all.
Still, Illumination is but a tool for the Seer of Masked Light, mastered only so that he might hide behind its incandescent splendor. With its power, he will reveal to mortalkind the truths he desires them to know, while blinding them to all else. With it he will take the guise of Primordial Light unto himself to hide his so-called deceit-filled core.
Tl;dr: Illumination can be used both to literally bring light in the sense of creating or destroying sources to illuminate the physical world. So too can illumination cast metaphysical light onto the world, allowing mortals to make connections they otherwise might not, enhancing the clarity of their thoughts. Through this aspect of Illumination's power, deception can be removed, details revealed, or mysteries unraveled.
Persona ♦Charismatic ♦ Clever ♦ Dishonest♦
♦♦♦
An enigmatic and thoughtful being of endless guile, Kaelhmor is not the sort of person that one would immediately identify as a liar or a scoundrel. Far from it, in fact, for he is at his face, a charming and silver-tongued deity, a being who chooses each and every word with effortless care. He is intelligent and has a gaze that stretches far beyond the present and into the moments that follow long after his path has crossed with yours.
He is slow to anger, easy to amuse, and often gentle even in his manipulations. He is not–as one might think–a compulsive liar and rather is quite pleasant to treat with. However, be warned, for Kaelhmor is still the Lord of Lies and while he is not compelled to falsehoods, he can lie more easily than mortals breathe, more readily than gods create or destroy, and to attempt to discern his true intent is a thing nearing impossibility. Further, while the Seer is slow to anger, his fury is no less terrible than any other god’s and thus one ought be wary of insulting him.
Myth
♦ ♦
Aniryn woke that morning with a fire beneath his feet, driving him from his bed with great vigor, yet it was not to shy from heat but rather to exploit the energy it provided. Moving through his morning routine, he dressed before departing his home. He greeted his neighbors as he closed his door, slinging a pack over his shoulder as he did so. The blue-eyed man pushed the damp mop of his black hair from his eyes as he surveilled the small settlement in the early morning. Many men and women were up despite the hour, getting about their morning chores and errands before the day's heat beat down upon their heads. Intent on using every minute well, Aniryn joined them, moving with purpose as he greeted each and every one of his fellow villagers.
He'd taken up residence in the town some months ago, and now, having nested for such a time, he'd deemed this the day that things would truly begin. So as he moved through the sparse crowd and greeted his many neighbors with friendly 'good mornings' and glad tidings of the new day, he likewise slipped in suggestions of business later on. Having sewn the seeds of commerce for many moons, he would finally begin to reap his rewards as he opened up shop in the village square and gently coaxed his fellow man beneath the awnings of his small open-air shop.
The first two men to approach did so with their wives beside them, the men pretending at disinterest while the women admired his wares. Necklaces and earrings, pretty baubles for adornment, but the most prized of his creations lay hidden and out of sight as he waited to strike. Eventually, the two couples decided on a necklace and a bracelet respectfully, but before they could entirely depart, he companionably snared one husband's shoulder and whispered to the man conspiratorially.
"You know, I do have something that might catch your discerning eye," Aniryn said with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye. The man narrowed his gaze as he replied.
"I have no interest in your trinkets, Aniryn."
Aniryn held his hands up defensively, placating. "Ah, no mere trinkets, I'd not bother you with anything like that."
The husband raised an eyebrow, interest piqued, and turned to follow the merchant as they returned to his stall, just the two of them. Carefully, Aniryn unveiled the chest behind his table, then slowly opened its lid, revealing a small arrangement of rings and what at first appeared to be bracelets. The man glanced Aniryn's way, scoffing, "I thought you said you wouldn't be wasting my time." Aniryn shook his head.
"Never, sir, I don't waste the time of my valued customers."
Picking up one of the rings, Aniryn turned it over for the man to see the masterful craftsmanship. The man narrowed his eyes, "It is well made, I must admit, but that's hardly anything special."
Aniryn chuckled, "Well, it must at least be well made to be something worthy of you sir. However, its value is not in its appearance but in its function. With this ring, nothing will be out of your reach, sir."
"Hah, surely you jest. There is no such magic as this."
Aniryn only smiled, "Tell you what, I'll ask only a pittance of what you paid for your wife's jewelry, but if it does work...spread the word." For a long several moments, the man watched Aniryn's expression as if looking for the scheme, but he found nothing. So, after another moment's hesitation, he paid for the ring and departed. Long after he was gone, Aniryn chuckled to himself and turned back to coaxing others to his shop.
---
For the husband--Telor's--part little of note happened on his way home. Though he did happen upon some dropped coinage that surely brightened their day. When Telor and his wife Lin arrived at their house, however, something was different. There was a small crowd gathered, staring at his home as if in awe. Confused--though flattered--Telor spoke with them for a time, finding that they'd been stricken by the renovations they had made. Yet, Telor could not recall any changes at all. When he'd managed to get his neighbors to disperse and enter the house, all was as they left it.
Days passed, and things were always subtly better. People treated him and his family with more grace. Sometimes giving him gifts for no reason. The feud between him and the Hershells family ended, and they feasted together without a single screaming match, let alone any blows being thrown. Even his wife seemed to nag him less.
Yet...Telor did not keep his promise, and eventually, he one day took the ring off to bathe. Soon it was as if the world had turned harsh upon him. He slipped and fell in the bath, hurting his knee; one of the Hershell boys started a fight with his young son, leaving bruises and several unsightly gashes. Some men and women of the village even left nasty letters at his doorstep. Yet...he was unable to find the ring as if it had disappeared entirely.
Desperate, Telor returned to Aniryn's shop, this time alone.
Aniryn smiled and greeted Telor the same as always, but Telor took him in his hands and shook the merchant, rambling on about how he was cursed, about how Aniryn must have come and stolen the ring from him. Aniryn shrugged and gave him a small smile as he admitted that it was true.
"I did take the ring back. After all, you didn't keep your end of the bargain." Telor gapped and raised a fist, but Aniryn put a hand gently on his shoulder. "There's no need for that; we're friends, aren't we? Tell you what, you pay for the ring full price, and it is yours. I'll bother you no more. However, as before, you must spread the word of my wares."
Telor hesitantly agreed, desperate to go back to the idyllic life that apparently the ring had allowed him. So, he paid his fee, donned the ring, and vowed to tell others of Aniryn's wonders. In the days that followed, his life improved marginally, bit by bit, but it never seemed to be the miraculous thing that he'd known before. No, he was far too paranoid for that. Still, Aniryn's shop became the bustling center of the town, his already stellar reputation coupled with Tellor's kind words bringing much of the village's population to his doorstep--so to speak.
Soon, everyone had some bauble or trinket from his shop, all at full price though some thought themselves saving money in the transaction. Aniryn was good like that. With time the village grew such that it no longer could be governed simply by rumors and the whims of the commonfolk. So it was that a man named Chaisyl was raised to power. Now the governor, Chaisyl was shrewd and always on top of the gossip and the village's needs. Best of all, though, he'd purportedly bought the foremost of Aniryn's unique pieces. His was a necklace that he hid beneath his garments, never removing it from his flesh.
Yet, there was something that the townspeople began to notice about Chaisyl. He was off somehow. Though he wasn't displeasing to look upon, he wasn't precisely charming either, nor was he particularly well-spoken. Yet, all who walked away from their encounters with him found themselves feeling reassured. Yet, the village's functioning slipped somewhat, and its growth slowed. Eventually, Aniryn's shop closed up, and he said his farewells. One night, eight years later, a mischievous teen found his way into the governor's office where he found numerous documents...forged or falsified. He found evidence of the man's lies. His subtle manipulations, his impossible assurances.
There was a riot, the man was strung up in the field at a tree, and the villagers moved along with their lives.
But they were all less joyful for having killed the governor, but none of them could figure precisely why. Eventually, people came to doubt Aniryn's leftover jewelry, his rings and bracelets, and necklaces too. With the passing of days, they were discarded, and though nothing changed, everything was different. Neighbors were less kind to one another, crops seemed less bountiful, days less warm, while nights were colder. The world was bleaker, perhaps.
Yet, none of them quite knew why.
They never would.
Perhaps one day, a story would be told of the place and how the Lord of Lies had walked among them, but it was anyone's guess as to who they might have been. Aniryn? The governor? Perhaps it had been one of the wives who had drawn the husband's attention to Aniryn's shop. Perhaps it had been the Hershell boy who might have fibbed about Chaisyl's documents. It was impossible to say.
Nonetheless, it would leave Kaelhmor in the minds of men for a long time, even if they had no name by which to call him nor a face to ascribe to his existence.
Perhaps one day that would change.
Perhaps.
Visage ♦True Form♦
♦ ♦
Many faces, many forms, Kaelhmor is a being who is, by his nature, difficult to ascribe any singular appearance. Nonetheless, he does possess a favored form, which is depicted below.
♦Facade♦
♦ ♦
Unnamed and numberless are the countless guises of Kaelhmor.
Though many would have you believe otherwise, reality does not bow to the senses and it is from this essential truth that Deception is born. The Aspect of lies, be it through falsehoods or omission, Deception can confound the senses, obscure the truth, or replace facts with all-too-believable falsehoods. Wielding this power, the Lord of Lies–the Seer of Masked Light–is capable of conjuring illusions, misleading the thoughts of others through clever omission, and indeed constructing falsehoods so believable that they are difficult to detect.
Embodying this power, Kaelhmor is the Trickster God, the Master of Illusions, and the Lord of Lies. With this Aspect he will deceive the world and so lead it according to his aims.
Persona ♦Charismatic ♦ Clever ♦ Dishonest♦
♦♦♦
An enigmatic and thoughtful being of endless guile, Kaelhmor is not the sort of person that one would immediately identify as a liar or a scoundrel. Far from it, in fact, for he is at his face, a charming and silver-tongued deity, a being who chooses each and every word with effortless care. He is intelligent and has a gaze that stretches far beyond the present and into the moments that follow long after his path has crossed with yours.
He is slow to anger, easy to amuse, and often gentle even in his manipulations. He is not–as one might think–a compulsive liar and rather is quite pleasant to treat with. However, be warned, for Kaelhmor is still the Lord of Lies and while he is not compelled to falsehoods, he can lie more easily than mortals breathe, more readily than gods create or destroy, and to attempt to discern his true intent is a thing nearing impossibility. Further, while the Seer is slow to anger, his fury is no less terrible than any other god’s and thus one ought be wary of insulting him.
Myth
♦ ♦
Aniryn woke that morning with a fire beneath his feet, driving him from his bed with great vigor, yet it was not to shy from heat but rather to exploit the energy it provided. Moving through his morning routine, he dressed before departing his home. He greeted his neighbors as he closed his door, slinging a pack over his shoulder as he did so. The blue-eyed man pushed the damp mop of his black hair from his eyes as he surveilled the small settlement in the early morning. Many men and women were up despite the hour, getting about their morning chores and errands before the day's heat beat down upon their heads. Intent on using every minute well, Aniryn joined them, moving with purpose as he greeted each and every one of his fellow villagers.
He'd taken up residence in the town some months ago, and now, having nested for such a time, he'd deemed this the day that things would truly begin. So as he moved through the sparse crowd and greeted his many neighbors with friendly 'good mornings' and glad tidings of the new day, he likewise slipped in suggestions of business later on. Having sewn the seeds of commerce for many moons, he would finally begin to reap his rewards as he opened up shop in the village square and gently coaxed his fellow man beneath the awnings of his small open-air shop.
The first two men to approach did so with their wives beside them, the men pretending at disinterest while the women admired his wares. Necklaces and earrings, pretty baubles for adornment, but the most prized of his creations lay hidden and out of sight as he waited to strike. Eventually, the two couples decided on a necklace and a bracelet respectfully, but before they could entirely depart, he companionably snared one husband's shoulder and whispered to the man conspiratorially.
"You know, I do have something that might catch your discerning eye," Aniryn said with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye. The man narrowed his gaze as he replied.
"I have no interest in your trinkets, Aniryn."
Aniryn held his hands up defensively, placating. "Ah, no mere trinkets, I'd not bother you with anything like that."
The husband raised an eyebrow, interest piqued, and turned to follow the merchant as they returned to his stall, just the two of them. Carefully, Aniryn unveiled the chest behind his table, then slowly opened its lid, revealing a small arrangement of rings and what at first appeared to be bracelets. The man glanced Aniryn's way, scoffing, "I thought you said you wouldn't be wasting my time." Aniryn shook his head.
"Never, sir, I don't waste the time of my valued customers."
Picking up one of the rings, Aniryn turned it over for the man to see the masterful craftsmanship. The man narrowed his eyes, "It is well made, I must admit, but that's hardly anything special."
Aniryn chuckled, "Well, it must at least be well made to be something worthy of you sir. However, its value is not in its appearance but in its function. With this ring, nothing will be out of your reach, sir."
"Hah, surely you jest. There is no such magic as this."
Aniryn only smiled, "Tell you what, I'll ask only a pittance of what you paid for your wife's jewelry, but if it does work...spread the word." For a long several moments, the man watched Aniryn's expression as if looking for the scheme, but he found nothing. So, after another moment's hesitation, he paid for the ring and departed. Long after he was gone, Aniryn chuckled to himself and turned back to coaxing others to his shop.
---
For the husband--Telor's--part little of note happened on his way home. Though he did happen upon some dropped coinage that surely brightened their day. When Telor and his wife Lin arrived at their house, however, something was different. There was a small crowd gathered, staring at his home as if in awe. Confused--though flattered--Telor spoke with them for a time, finding that they'd been stricken by the renovations they had made. Yet, Telor could not recall any changes at all. When he'd managed to get his neighbors to disperse and enter the house, all was as they left it.
Days passed, and things were always subtly better. People treated him and his family with more grace. Sometimes giving him gifts for no reason. The feud between him and the Hershells family ended, and they feasted together without a single screaming match, let alone any blows being thrown. Even his wife seemed to nag him less.
Yet...Telor did not keep his promise, and eventually, he one day took the ring off to bathe. Soon it was as if the world had turned harsh upon him. He slipped and fell in the bath, hurting his knee; one of the Hershell boys started a fight with his young son, leaving bruises and several unsightly gashes. Some men and women of the village even left nasty letters at his doorstep. Yet...he was unable to find the ring as if it had disappeared entirely.
Desperate, Telor returned to Aniryn's shop, this time alone.
Aniryn smiled and greeted Telor the same as always, but Telor took him in his hands and shook the merchant, rambling on about how he was cursed, about how Aniryn must have come and stolen the ring from him. Aniryn shrugged and gave him a small smile as he admitted that it was true.
"I did take the ring back. After all, you didn't keep your end of the bargain." Telor gapped and raised a fist, but Aniryn put a hand gently on his shoulder. "There's no need for that; we're friends, aren't we? Tell you what, you pay for the ring full price, and it is yours. I'll bother you no more. However, as before, you must spread the word of my wares."
Telor hesitantly agreed, desperate to go back to the idyllic life that apparently the ring had allowed him. So, he paid his fee, donned the ring, and vowed to tell others of Aniryn's wonders. In the days that followed, his life improved marginally, bit by bit, but it never seemed to be the miraculous thing that he'd known before. No, he was far too paranoid for that. Still, Aniryn's shop became the bustling center of the town, his already stellar reputation coupled with Tellor's kind words bringing much of the village's population to his doorstep--so to speak.
Soon, everyone had some bauble or trinket from his shop, all at full price though some thought themselves saving money in the transaction. Aniryn was good like that. With time the village grew such that it no longer could be governed simply by rumors and the whims of the commonfolk. So it was that a man named Chaisyl was raised to power. Now the governor, Chaisyl was shrewd and always on top of the gossip and the village's needs. Best of all, though, he'd purportedly bought the foremost of Aniryn's unique pieces. His was a necklace that he hid beneath his garments, never removing it from his flesh.
Yet, there was something that the townspeople began to notice about Chaisyl. He was off somehow. Though he wasn't displeasing to look upon, he wasn't precisely charming either, nor was he particularly well-spoken. Yet, all who walked away from their encounters with him found themselves feeling reassured. Yet, the village's functioning slipped somewhat, and its growth slowed. Eventually, Aniryn's shop closed up, and he said his farewells. One night, eight years later, a mischievous teen found his way into the governor's office where he found numerous documents...forged or falsified. He found evidence of the man's lies. His subtle manipulations, his impossible assurances.
There was a riot, the man was strung up in the field at a tree, and the villagers moved along with their lives.
But they were all less joyful for having killed the governor, but none of them could figure precisely why. Eventually, people came to doubt Aniryn's leftover jewelry, his rings and bracelets, and necklaces too. With the passing of days, they were discarded, and though nothing changed, everything was different. Neighbors were less kind to one another, crops seemed less bountiful, days less warm, while nights were colder. The world was bleaker, perhaps.
Yet, none of them quite knew why.
They never would.
Perhaps one day, a story would be told of the place and how the Lord of Lies had walked among them, but it was anyone's guess as to who they might have been. Aniryn? The governor? Perhaps it had been one of the wives who had drawn the husband's attention to Aniryn's shop. Perhaps it had been the Hershell boy who might have fibbed about Chaisyl's documents. It was impossible to say.
Nonetheless, it would leave Kaelhmor in the minds of men for a long time, even if they had no name by which to call him nor a face to ascribe to his existence.
Perhaps one day that would change.
Perhaps.
Visage ♦True Form♦
♦ ♦
Many faces, many forms, Kaelhmor is a being who is, by his nature, difficult to ascribe any singular appearance. Nonetheless, he does possess a favored form, which is depicted below.
♦Facade♦
♦ ♦
Unnamed and numberless are the countless guises of Kaelhmor.
The Arcane mysteries of Power both Personal and Cosmic, flow through us—giving life and consciousness—and around us, imparting motion and action and change upon the world. Arcana is the force that changes, that transforms, empowers, creates, and in equal parts destroys—always paring away at the world to reveal truths deeper still. With dominion over—if not mastery of—this power, Mae-Alari threads themselves through the world, desiring to understand it and herself as well.
In this way, Arcana is the expression of these ideas and ideals. In the living, Arcana exists primarily in the form of the Soul, whereas within the world it exists as the driving force for change, manifesting as the numerous energies that flow in and through the cosmos. This allows Mae-Alari to draw upon, manipulate, and manifest the many energies of the world by harnessing the potential energy contained within them. This potential energy can then be transmuted into any other form of energy or even new varieties. However, as a caveat, Mae-Alari cannot directly create, destroy, nor manipulate matter—instead they must influence it through the lens of energy. Where another god might create stone from their very essence whole-cloth, Mae-Alari must take pre-existing substance and mould its form and nature with energy, coaxing it into a new state. Though it may seem strange, while matter may not be created whole-cloth, more of existing matter can be propagated.
Tl;dr: Mae-Alari’s prime domain gives them power over the energies of the world, above all others being Potential Energy, Quintessence, the Breath, and the Soul. However, as a caveat to this incredible power, matter is beyond them. Stone must be coaxed by heat and pressure to become steel. Water heated or cooled to become gas or ice, whereas another god might simply bring these spontaneously into being.
Aspect ♦Curious ♦ Enigmatic ♦ Wise♦
♦♦♦
Mae-Alari is, first and foremost a being seeking understanding of itself through interaction with all else. Through its interactions with other deities and their myriad creations--as well as the reflection of its own expression through such objects, places, and peoples--the Arcane Source is always on the search for further aspects of itself. In this way its curiosity is clear as it finds a fascination with all things, particularly those it does not understand. Yet, despite its obsession with the world's workings, Mae-Alari is unquestionably wise, capable of drawing unexpected knowledge and insight from almost everything it encounters. In this way they contain both the aspects of an ancient sage and the overflowing enthusiasm of child-like curiosity.
As Mae-Alari's purpose is ultimately to understand themselves in all their vast and incalculable complexity, it follows that they are prone to change and--furthermore--difficult to fully grasp even for others. This often makes their intentions opaque and the reasoning behind their actions sometimes inscrutable, leading others top an enigmatic impression of their character. Still, despite their seemingly malleable and indiscernibility, Mae-Alari can always be relied on for their perceptiveness and willingness to assist others. Still, not everyone is wont to risk seeking them out given that often the true reasons behind Alari's giving nature are--at best--difficult to ascertain.
Visage ♦True Form♦
♦ ♦
Nested within the beauteous vessel of the Goddess dwells a singularity most sublime, its churning patterns the sum total of all Arcana. It is a sigil, an evolving pattern of energy catalyzing itself into yet greater forms. It is the eye and the heart and the mind as one, bound and unbound, endless yet circumscript. It is the Arcane Source, the Unseen Wellspring and it devours and blooms in equal measure.
Upon her conception in the Great Void before the World was born, Mae-Alari took in a wholly different shape, one far more alien and strange.
A more worldly manifestation, pared down from her full divinity for the sake of the mortal mind.
Tali Kei Kyshi'a ⇋⬤⇌ Maei Ta' LhuriWeaver of Fates⇂↿↾⇃Womb of souls⇂↿↾⇃Forge of Creation⇂↿↾⇃Arbiter of Axiom
“From the Womb of Souls did you emerge and unto it I may return thee. So heed my words, ye mortals, and do not forget. I am the Mother and the Judge.” Theme I ♦ Theme II ♦ Theme III ♦ Theme IIII
Tall-ee kay kai-she-ah May-eye Tah lure-ee
Aspect ♦Quintessence♦
♦ ♦
Drawn from the living, possessed by the dead, and pervasive throughout the primal fabric of existence, quintessence is that which animates, allows potentialities, and narrows the gaze of fate. From this essential component of the cosmos, identities arise bearing the living unto their vessels. Irreducible and infinite, quintessence is a wellspring of unknowable power, continually differentiating and iterating upon itself to fill all life with an essence that persists. Through this power, borne of it and serving as its source, the Progenitor of Breath may become many things. Through their Aspect, the Progenitor unifies each Conscious Spark with a web of tangled threads, each a path they might walk, every strand someone they might become. As the Weaver, Tali-Maei can view the potential paths of all who live; they may alter these probabilities or sunder any threads they choose.
Yet, Tali-Maei is more than the Weaver; so too is she the Womb of Souls, from which every animating spark was born. Through this facet, the God of Quintessence may imbue life into the lifeless or youth into the old. With this power, so too can the nature of a being's essence be changed, granting any number of banes or boons. Thus, Tali Kei Kyshi'a--Maei Ta' Lhuri--is the source from which all souls were derived, whether one was aware of it or not. Yet...as the Arbiter of Axiom--the principles by which all must abide--so too may the ensouled become empty husks at the Arbiter's command.
Through understanding, one may glean Tali-Maei as the source of souls, and so too the Weaver of their fates. She is the Mother and her warmth; He is the Judge, the Scales, and the harsh Blade of judgment. After all, what one has created, so too can they destroy. What one has given, so too can they reclaim. Such is the way of the Progenitor.
Simplest among Tali-Maei’s capabilities is the capacity to impart souls into things that exist in physical reality. It should be noted that though the Progenitor’s Aspect has strong ties to Life and Fertility, she cannot expend power (AP) to create physical vessels of any kind, be they bodies of flesh and bone or golems of wood and stone. However, the Progenitor can impart life to the unliving by inserting quintessence into things that already exist in the world. Furthermore, Tali-Maei’s power over the precise nature and construction of souls allows her to rewrite and alter them in the interest of creating various outcomes. A soul could be created in such a way that it gave its holder specific capabilities outside those natural to their species.
A human without innate magic or knowledge might be given a soul that allows them to understand the calls of animals or the whispers of the trees. Perhaps an elf might be born with a soul gifting them with great talent for the arts or mathematics; such things as these are possible when graced by the gifts of Tali-Maei. Notable, however, is the fact that the Weaver of Fates cannot create souls that give innate physical properties to a given race without power pulled from beyond their Aspect (MP).
However, while Tali-Maei is often a benevolent influence within the world, so too can their power be harnessed to cause great harm or misfortune. While direct physical alterations cannot be enacted via her Prime Aspect, the Progenitor is capable of creating curse-like effects by altering the nature of a given soul (or souls). A woman of great intellect might be cursed with profound laziness such that they may never act upon their ideas; a hateful man might be blighted with terrible luck, the possibilities of their fate narrowed to those of unending misfortune.
Beyond this, as the Weaver of Fates, Tali may alter the potentialities assigned to any given soul(s), allowing the Weaver to sculpt their lives to their satisfaction. Possibilities might be pruned such that a man who was once destined for poverty might instead turn his life around and become a great inventor. Perhaps a tyrannical monarch whose rule was fated to be long might be cut tragically short. Of course, as the Arbiter of Axioms and the Womb of Souls from which all Quintessence is borne unto the world, Tali-Maei can at any time wrest the soul from any vessel it inhabits. While this will not innately kill the body, without a soul, the vessel will be rendered empty of intellect and agency and thus unable to care for itself leading to its inevitable demise.
Persona ♦Compassionate ♦ Enigmatic ♦ Merciless ♦
♦♦♦
Though a great many traits aptly describe the Progenitor of Breath, none may entirely encapsulate the deity’s mystique. While Tali-maei is indeed a profoundly maternal figure, holding a nigh endless capacity for compassion and love for all her many children, so too is the god capable of incredible cruelty. Yet, it cannot be said that the Weaver of Fates is truly unkind or cruel, for any punishment meted out by the Arbiter is innately just, as their rulings are based upon the precepts of Fate itself. Thus, though it can be said that they are merciless, it can never be said that she is inequitable.
Beyond these defining features of the Progenitor’s persona, little can be said, as their capricious and willful nature defies succinct or stable description.
Myth ♦TITLE IF YOU WANT♦
♦ ♦
"Tali
"Mei
"Kei
"Ta'."
A bright chant floated upon the air of that bright moonlit night, its source a woman perched atop a mountain's peak, her hair and clothes in disarray. Yet, upon her face was an expression of purest joy and jubilation. Slowly her belly had grown as she'd climbed the icy peak, its fell winds clawing at her skin and clothes, threatening to pull her into the great beyond. Nonetheless, she had persisted, and so now she remained, in meditation upon the peak, as she had been for nigh on a year. Blessed by the Great Tree's sap she found that she could subsist on the sparse plants and animals that existed at those once frightening heights.
Now, atop that cold mountain, with warmth in her heart and belly, Tamira knew that it would soon be time. As heavy with child as she had become, it was only a matter of hours or days before her child was to be born into the world. It would be a harsh place to be born, Tamira knew, and yet a contented smile lay upon her lips and a knowing look within her azure eyes. Though she already held a deep maternal love for her baby, she knew that the reality was that her child might not survive in such a place.
Yet she had come, for it was to this place that she had been drawn. Now, with peace settled within her heart and the open sky stretching in every direction above her, she found that even if she'd been wrong to come that she did not regret it. In a world such as theirs, if her child could survive atop this peak for several days as she made her way to ground, then they would not survive the trials of their life. So it was that in the glowing night, with swollen belly and swelling feet, Tamira's water broke.
Then the trial began. Waves of twisting pain--contractions--then heaving pushes. The wetness of sweat and fluids, harsh breathing, calls into the night for anyone. Her mother, her father, her lover, her friends, but she was alone and between waves of shattering, constricting pain, she held the power. Shuddering and cold, yet at once on fire as her body fought for release, Tamira lost herself in the hours of long and arduous labor. As time wore on and the sun began to finally crest upon the horizon, something pushed beyond her body, and she found she had lost all sense of herself. There was no individual, only a body in spasmodic pain, striving for rest, pushing new life into the air's embrace.
There was nothing except breath, and pain; exhaustion, fear, loneliness, and finally...release. Spent, Tamira gathered what she could of herself, finding her identity, and then her name. Finding where she ended and another began, all without moving. Though her mind struggled to focus, she would not have her fight end for naught. So with power drawn from the air itself, she lifted her child with the intentions of her mind and drew the warm body into her arms to shield it from the wind.
Yet....
There was no breath. As she looked down upon her child a quiet horror struck her. A terrible realization. Tears spilled down upon her cheeks without understanding why.
The wind shuddered.
Then prismatic lightning struck down from on high and as the sky shattered, so too did that horrifying moment.
Warmth spread from the small body in her arms. Tamira's eyes widened and the tears too grew warm as a gentle loving smile pressed itself upon her lips. A small cough, then another...then a deep breath and a piercing cry.
"Taei'ka. My little miracle," she cooed, pulling the baby close to her bosom to share her warmth with her newborn child.
Then another spoke and their voice was motherly warmth and fatherly protection. It was a song that sung of fates, bittersweet, but loving. Stern, yet somehow gentle. "A wonderful name, Tamira. A beautiful child. A glorious beginning."
Tamira was too tired and relieved to be shocked or afraid. Yet, as she turned and beheld the form that knelt beside her her eyes did widen and she found herself clutching her son to her chest. Yet, even as worry for their safety crossed her mind, something reassured her. It was as if they could not be safer than they were in that moment, in the presence of the strange being who had manifested before them.
The figure smiled, their form a silhouette sculpted of darkness and light, threads of warmth and cold brutal fated ends and beginnings both. "I have many names, but you may call me Mother," the goddess said, as if replying to an unasked question. Tamira remembered her own mother, but did not feel any shame when she spoke the word in reference to this being.
"Mother, why are you here?"
The goddess' smile became warmer and a hand wrought of swirling stardust and churning colorless quintessence reached out and stroked Tamira's cheek. "To help you of course, my child." Tamira's tired body welled with gratitude, but still she found herself confused.
"Why?"
The Goddess laughed lightly and pushed up from the ground, her silhouette vaguely humanoid, yet undeniably strange as if she were in every moment shedding essence and being remade at once.
"Silly child. I am the Womb, the Weaver, and the Forge. I am the Breath, the Essence, the Soul. I came because this is what I am. This is how things are to be."
Tamira's frown only deepened, "But Mother...how am I to repay you? This debt it is too great. I--" the Goddess shook her head and Tamira fell silent, wordless and confused.
"Live and give thanks. That is all I ask."
Tamira nodded, her expression suddenly grave, as if she understood.
How could she though? How could she even fathom a divine intellect?
Turning away, a veil of threads and power trailed from every inch of her form like the train of a dress, like long sleeves dragging through the air. Like fates woven into garments adorning an arbiter of creation. The being paused in its departure though, stopping for a moment, silken threads drifting lazily in the wind. Thoughtfully, she spoke, but no more was her voice feminine and warm. No, his voice was searing ice, the frost that kills--cold, implacable, and impossible to deny.
"Ah, but do not forget little one. Your child's fate is not your own."
Tamira swallowed hard and nodded. The god half turned, regarding the woman, then nodded as well.
"Do not forget, Tamira."
Turning away, he left, stepping off the cliff's edge before gliding away upon the air before dissipating into the heavens.
Visage ♦True Form♦
♦ ♦
Too vast to behold, too unfathomable to bear, the true visage of the Womb of Souls–the Forge of Creation–expands throughout existence, cradling all that is in a vast cosmic womb. Eclipsing all else should it ever fully manifest, this truest of forms is only ever glimpsed in flashes and fragments. Though Tali-maei is indeed innately a being of creation, should their form ever slip entirely into this world, it surely would destroy it.
♦Facade♦
♦ ♦
Possessed of many forms, the Progenitor of Breath can take a genuinely endless quantity of guises. Nonetheless, each and every one bears an aspect of her nature, never fully solid, never properly mundane. So it is that, unlike many gods, the Arbiter cannot hide her nature even from men and mer.
Tali Kei Kyshi ⇋⬤⇌ Maei Ta' LhurWeaver of Fates⇂↿↾⇃Womb of souls⇂↿↾⇃Forge of Creation⇂↿↾⇃Arbiter of Axiom
“From the Womb of Souls did you emerge and unto it I may return thee. So heed my words, ye mortals, and do not forget. I am the Mother and the Judge.” Theme I ♦ Theme II ♦ Theme III ♦ Theme IIII
Tall-ee kay kai-she-ah May-eye Tah lure-ee
Aspect ♦Quintessence♦
♦ ♦
Drawn from the living, possessed by the dead, and pervasive throughout the primal fabric of existence, quintessence is that which animates, allows potentialities, and narrows the gaze of fate. From this essential component of the cosmos, identities arise bearing the living unto their vessels. Irreducible and infinite, quintessence is a wellspring of unknowable power, continually differentiating and iterating upon itself to fill all life with an essence that persists. Through this power, borne of it and serving as its source, the Progenitor of Breath may become many things. Through their Aspect, the Progenitor unifies each Conscious Spark with a web of tangled threads, each a path they might walk, every strand someone they might become. As the Weaver, Tali-Maei can view the potential paths of all who live; they may alter these probabilities or sunder any threads they choose.
Yet, Tali-Maei is more than the Weaver; so too is she the Womb of Souls, from which every animating spark was born. Through this facet, the God of Quintessence may imbue life into the lifeless or youth into the old. With this power, so too can the nature of a being's essence be changed, granting any number of banes or boons. Thus, Tali Kei Kyshi'a--Maei Ta' Lhuri--is the source from which all souls were derived, whether one was aware of it or not. Yet...as the Arbiter of Axiom--the principles by which all must abide--so too may the ensouled become empty husks at the Arbiter's command.
Through understanding, one may glean Tali-Maei as the source of souls, and so too the Weaver of their fates. She is the Mother and her warmth; He is the Judge, the Scales, and the harsh Blade of judgment. After all, what one has created, so too can they destroy. What one has given, so too can they reclaim. Such is the way of the Progenitor.
Persona ♦Compassionate ♦ Enigmatic ♦ Merciless ♦
♦♦♦
Though a great many traits aptly describe the Progenitor of Breath, none may entirely encapsulate the deity’s mystique. While Tali-maei is indeed a profoundly maternal figure, holding a nigh endless capacity for compassion and love for all her many children, so too is the god capable of incredible cruelty. Yet, it cannot be said that the Weaver of Fates is truly unkind or cruel, for any punishment meted out by the Arbiter is innately just, as their rulings are based upon the precepts of Fate itself. Thus, though it can be said that they are merciless, it can never be said that she is inequitable.
Beyond these defining features of the Progenitor’s persona, little can be said, as their capricious and willful nature defies succinct or stable description.
Myth ♦TITLE IF YOU WANT♦
♦ ♦
"Tali
"Mei
"Kei
"Ta'."
A bright chant floated upon the air of that bright moonlit night, its source a woman perched atop a mountain's peak, her hair and clothes in disarray. Yet, upon her face was an expression of purest joy and jubilation. Slowly her belly had grown as she'd climbed the icy peak, its fell winds clawing at her skin and clothes, threatening to pull her into the great beyond. Nonetheless, she had persisted, and so now she remained, in meditation upon the peak, as she had been for nigh on a year. Blessed by the Great Tree's sap she found that she could subsist on the sparse plants and animals that existed at those once frightening heights.
Now, atop that cold mountain, with warmth in her heart and belly, Tamira knew that it would soon be time. As heavy with child as she had become, it was only a matter of hours or days before her child was to be born into the world. It would be a harsh place to be born, Tamira knew, and yet a contented smile lay upon her lips and a knowing look within her azure eyes. Though she already held a deep maternal love for her baby, she knew that the reality was that her child might not survive in such a place.
Yet she had come, for it was to this place that she had been drawn. Now, with peace settled within her heart and the open sky stretching in every direction above her, she found that even if she'd been wrong to come that she did not regret it. In a world such as theirs, if her child could survive atop this peak for several days as she made her way to ground, then they would not survive the trials of their life. So it was that in the glowing night, with swollen belly and swelling feet, Tamira's water broke.
Then the trial began. Waves of twisting pain--contractions--then heaving pushes. The wetness of sweat and fluids, harsh breathing, calls into the night for anyone. Her mother, her father, her lover, her friends, but she was alone and between waves of shattering, constricting pain, she held the power. Shuddering and cold, yet at once on fire as her body fought for release, Tamira lost herself in the hours of long and arduous labor. As time wore on and the sun began to finally crest upon the horizon, something pushed beyond her body, and she found she had lost all sense of herself. There was no individual, only a body in spasmodic pain, striving for rest, pushing new life into the air's embrace.
There was nothing except breath, and pain; exhaustion, fear, loneliness, and finally...release. Spent, Tamira gathered what she could of herself, finding her identity, and then her name. Finding where she ended and another began, all without moving. Though her mind struggled to focus, she would not have her fight end for naught. So with power drawn from the air itself, she lifted her child with the intentions of her mind and drew the warm body into her arms to shield it from the wind.
Yet....
There was no breath. As she looked down upon her child a quiet horror struck her. A terrible realization. Tears spilled down upon her cheeks without understanding why.
The wind shuddered.
Then prismatic lightning struck down from on high and as the sky shattered, so too did that horrifying moment.
Warmth spread from the small body in her arms. Tamira's eyes widened and the tears too grew warm as a gentle loving smile pressed itself upon her lips. A small cough, then another...then a deep breath and a piercing cry.
"Taei'ka. My little miracle," she cooed, pulling the baby close to her bosom to share her warmth with her newborn child.
Then another spoke and their voice was motherly warmth and fatherly protection. It was a song that sung of fates, bittersweet, but loving. Stern, yet somehow gentle. "A wonderful name, Tamira. A beautiful child. A glorious beginning."
Tamira was too tired and relieved to be shocked or afraid. Yet, as she turned and beheld the form that knelt beside her her eyes did widen and she found herself clutching her son to her chest. Yet, even as worry for their safety crossed her mind, something reassured her. It was as if they could not be safer than they were in that moment, in the presence of the strange being who had manifested before them.
The figure smiled, their form a silhouette sculpted of darkness and light, threads of warmth and cold brutal fated ends and beginnings both. "I have many names, but you may call me Mother," the goddess said, as if replying to an unasked question. Tamira remembered her own mother, but did not feel any shame when she spoke the word in reference to this being.
"Mother, why are you here?"
The goddess' smile became warmer and a hand wrought of swirling stardust and churning colorless quintessence reached out and stroked Tamira's cheek. "To help you of course, my child." Tamira's tired body welled with gratitude, but still she found herself confused.
"Why?"
The Goddess laughed lightly and pushed up from the ground, her silhouette vaguely humanoid, yet undeniably strange as if she were in every moment shedding essence and being remade at once.
"Silly child. I am the Womb, the Weaver, and the Forge. I am the Breath, the Essence, the Soul. I came because this is what I am. This is how things are to be."
Tamira's frown only deepened, "But Mother...how am I to repay you? This debt it is too great. I--" the Goddess shook her head and Tamira fell silent, wordless and confused.
"Live and give thanks. That is all I ask."
Tamira nodded, her expression suddenly grave, as if she understood.
How could she though? How could she even fathom a divine intellect?
Turning away, a veil of threads and power trailed from every inch of her form like the train of a dress, like long sleeves dragging through the air. Like fates woven into garments adorning an arbiter of creation. The being paused in its departure though, stopping for a moment, silken threads drifting lazily in the wind. Thoughtfully, she spoke, but no more was her voice feminine and warm. No, his voice was searing ice, the frost that kills--cold, implacable, and impossible to deny.
"Ah, but do not forget little one. Your child's fate is not your own."
Tamira swallowed hard and nodded. The god half turned, regarding the woman, then nodded as well.
"Do not forget, Tamira."
Turning away, he left, stepping off the cliff's edge before gliding away upon the air before dissipating into the heavens.
Visage ♦True Form♦
♦ ♦
Too vast to behold, too unfathomable to bear, the true visage of the Womb of Souls–the Forge of Creation–expands throughout existence, cradling all that is in a vast cosmic womb. Eclipsing all else should it ever fully manifest, this truest of forms is only ever glimpsed in flashes and fragments. Though Tali-maei is indeed innately a being of creation, should their form ever slip entirely into this world, it surely would destroy it.
♦Facade♦
♦ ♦
Possessed of many forms, the Progenitor of Breath can take a genuinely endless quantity of guises. Nonetheless, each and every one bears an aspect of her nature, never fully solid, never properly mundane. So it is that, unlike many gods, the Arbiter cannot hide her nature even from men and mer.
Date/Time:November 11th, 2022; 6:08 PM Location(s):Redline, PRT Headquarters As the others smothered Rachel in compliments and thanks, Caiden’s gaze shifted slightly as a feminine voice pulled at his attention. With that same easy smile on his lips, the teen’s demeanor no less relaxed in costume than it had been out of it, Caiden glanced Aaliyah’s way. A single eyebrow raised as he gave her a once over before his gaze shifted to some of his other teammates. He liked what he was seeing as, despite the fact that some of their costumes had clearly had more thought put into them than others, none of them were something he’d find himself embarrassed to stand alongside. Furthermore, they were all eminently flattering, a fact that made itself clearer as Aaliyah spoke up again, this time deliberately pulling his attention towards her. This time he kept his eyes firmly fixed on her face as he took in her words, processing the interest in her tone. “I’m glad you think so,” he replied, his tone containing the same degree of subtle emotion, conveying that he found her words flattering.
“It’ll be nice when we’ve got the time to share,” he said, his features slipping into a slightly more coy smile as he leaned his head back slightly and let out a small laugh. However, before curly-haired Aaliyah could engage him further, the sound of something weighty made itself known. Raising an eyebrow, Caiden turned his gaze to the entrance to the girl’s changing rooms where a veritable mech was emerging. His brows raising, he found himself momentarily speechless even as the others responded to Jane’s arrival. Reading the room, and taking in a few of the other costumes in greater detail he noted that their other tinker had outfitted herself with a quite formidable quantity of pouches and holsters, clearly in preparation for any number of gadgets she might possess in the future–near and far. If he was being entirely honest, he enjoyed Bev, Aaliyah, and Jane’s choices the most, though he found Will’s costume had solid presentation as well.
Then he heard the sound of something falling and immediately took several steps in that direction. However, before he could do anything, Will had–surprisingly–reached out to help the falling Bev, who appeared to have rather suddenly fainted. Caiden’s mouth opened slightly as his expression shifted from serious and back to one of faintly startled amusement. It seemed that some of them had been significantly more impressed by Jane’s rig than others. As with other tidbits he’d picked up over the last ten or so minutes, he filed that bit of information away for later.
With Fashionista quickly moving to help the younger boy, Caiden decided that things were well in hand and so turned his attention back to Jane’s mech for a moment. After a brief inspection, he nodded his head, satisfied, before he moved to follow after Fashionista, having processed her brief explanation of their costumes. All the details matched what she’d more or less told him when they’d been working on the outline for it a week or so back. Donning his mask well before they ended up amongst the other PRT employees, Caiden filed in alongside the others as they crowded around the Director for their briefing of the situation.
By now, given the seriousness he’d detected in the mannerisms of their two superiors–along with the fact that they’d all suited up–Caiden had surmised that his earlier assessment had almost certainly been wrong: This was serious. That fact excited him far more than anything else, as despite the worry for himself and his teammates’ wellbeing he just couldn’t wait to let loose for once.
So it was that his thoughts were confirmed as the Director’s words washed over all of them. As the man went back to his work, Caiden found himself grinning slightly even as he tilted his head to the right and gave Aaliyah a sidelong glance. “Well Gress,” he began, a sort of pleased mischief in his tone, “...it looks like it’s time to dish eh?”
With that said, Caiden let his mind flash through his surroundings as he’d seen them in the previous moments before he focused his intent on the space some feet above his person. A coiling prismatic luminescence spiraled into existence in that spot before it expanded into the shape of a blade and then solidified. “The short of it, is that I can manifest these blade projectiles near myself and then launch them with a certain range of specific properties.”
The blade, still hovering in the air where it had formed around 3 feet above his head, began to spin slowly. He met Aaliyah’s gaze–or attempted to at least–and continued. “I can dictate their durability, speed, and the nature of their trajectory. Ah…and before launching them I can control them telekinetically, as you can see.” He laughed slightly before snapping, the blade vanishing into thin air as he did so.
“If I’ve got multiple blades already fired, I can use them to create fields of pressure to damage or restrict the movement of anything within. So there’s that to watch out for as well. What about you?” He aimed the question at Gress, curious of the precise nature of her power–especially given her keen interest earlier.
Name: Drake Vettman. Alias: Chatterbox. Age: 21. Alignment: Villain. Loyalty: Local Villain. Appearance: The short and simple of Drake's appearance is that he's a 5'9 pretty boy with a a devilish mischief in his eyes and a charming smirk tpyically plastered over his well sculpted face. He's got eyes so strikingly blue that they almost look silver under most light, and short blonde hair framing his face. While he gives of a cocky vibe in costume, he's a bit more tame out of it, though he walks through the world with a certain swagger in his naturally slim and toned build. Really he's all around a well framed case of good genetics, though he'd rather call his looks 'god given,' if only to get on people's nerves.
In regards to his cape identity, Chatterbox, Drake wears a rather simple costume, consisting of a crimson dress shirt and pants, the shirt with green buttons and the pants with green decals on the sides and near the belt. For his costume he quick dies several locks of his hair a stark green and dons what amount to goggles with reinforced material, which act as shades as well so as not to be easily blinded. To add more mystery to his face, Drake has made his costume include two crimson plates of relatively thin metal to conceal the shape of his jawline as well as a single green plate at his chin to conceal his chin slightly. These plates are actually part of a small modified chingaurd which has been painted to skin tone. He wears this along his jawline where it fastens in his hair behind his head.
History:
Drake, despite appearances, was a quiet child, growing up to an Alicia and John Vettman in the suburbs of Denver. He had a a childhood as quiet as him, playing with some kids in his neighborhood, though he read alone or watched TV more often than not. School was full of studies and loud children playing tag and calling names, but Drake went through it all in relative peace, ignored or treated relatively well by his classmates. As he moved into middle school he became the token “quiet guy,” in the class, with some making fun of him for it, and others trying to figure him out, while very few every really tried to approach him. As he transitioned into highschool and thus adolescence the loneliness finally started to gnaw at him, though only slightly. He wanted friends, if only a few, so he tried to make some, but his generally soft spoken nature and awkwardness in social situations made it...more than a little difficult. Even those who shared his problem eventually drifted away from him, leaving him on his lonesome once again. So he tried a different approach, practicing jokes and studying comedy in his free time
Then in his senior year he entered a talent show at his school, a decision he'd sorely regret as none of his jokes came out as he succumbed to stage fright and ended up running of the stage. Still, even with the embarrassment he didn't give up and started going to comedy clubs on nights where the stage was free and the customer count low. Gradually he learned to make people laugh and his confidence grew until one night when he decided to go to a new club. During his performance not a soul laughed eventually even booing him off stage, throwing paper and food at him.
He ran out of the building...only to run into something worse, a mugging in process, and not just any mugging, one being committed by parahumans. Getting caught up in it, robbed both at gunpoint, he tried to—reflexively--joke to maybe reduce his chances of death by amusing the criminals. Instead, it got him pinned up against a wall by one of the parahumans, that is...pinned with a telekinetic power. It was at this point that he lost his composure and started calling out for help, but alas...no one came and in that moment he felt truly alone and the fear, shame, and loneliness caused his trigger. With the parahumans stunned from the sudden trigger event, as they often were, Drake came to on his knees, having been dropped by the telekinetic.
Angry and confused he shouted at the parahumans and in response the cowered away, listening as he berated them and told them what shitty people they were. It lasted for only several minutes, but they nodded attentively at every word, enraptured. Realizing that something was off, Drake told one of them to punch their ally and in response...she did. A fight was incited in moments and, despite himself, Drake found a grin slipping across his face. Before he could get too caught up in the feeling he called the cops, told the victim of the mugging to forget him, a command that was obeyed without thought, and fled.
In the ensuing months and years, he practiced his ability, continuing to go to comedy clubs, now with his reception becoming significantly improved with each successive act. More often than not he found that smirk plastered across his face and so he began his slide down a slope that he didn't even know he was descending. Drake devises his first outfit and heads out in his new cape identity, Chatterbox. While he doesn't encounter any capes he manages to rob some couples senseless before heading back home in a roundabout way.
With each theft and each comedy act and his introduction to other villains, his behavior, and his crimes, would deepen leading him to the present day. Now, Drake is anything but quiet spoken. He's manipulative, he's conniving and he's turned his exceptional intelligence towards darker, more selfish ends. Now, with the offer from a mysterious cape named Broker, he's decided to join a new team.
A team of villains. Luckily for him, the heroes haven't caught wind of him just yet...so he expects to put on a grand performance to...introduce them to his fun little power. After all, what's a grand performance without some skilled actors.
Personality
Motivations: In short, Drake is motivated by three things, money, attention, and feeling powerful. As a result these are the things he wants to achieve using his power and he'll go to almost any length to achieve them.
Sexuality: Ladykiller. Likes:
Messing with people's heads.
Saturday Night Live.
Jokes/Comedy.
Being amused.
Feisty women.
Mixed drinks.
Dislikes:
Being underestimated.
Having his fun ruined.
When no one laughs.
Boring people.
Being Bored.
Fish.
Derangement: As odd and likely silly as it may sound, Drake's power has actually made him prone to nihilism, sadism, and power trips as such personality alterations will drive him to use his power more and more, compounding the alterations to his personality, and so improving the likelihood of him using his power—something his shard wants a lot. Additionally, it makes him less mindful of the moral code and his societal responsibility to uphold it to a degree making his morality decidedly gray...at best.
Parahumanism
Skills: While not a seasoned individual, Drake has been going to the shooting range a fair amount within the last few months. He's skilled with card tricks, good at running, and has a pretty good grasp of psychology—having taken some and studied it in highschool and in recent years. He's also a comedian as his day job, which was going fairly well even before he got his power.
Classification: Master/Trump. Details: In short, Drake’s power makes his voice capable of tampering with the mental state and--to an extent--physiology of the affected. With it, Drake is capable of using his words and intent to brainwash people on a deep or surface level. Beyond this he possesses a loose awareness of the proximity and direction of affected individuals in relation to his own location--though this has a limited, if vague, range. Variables such as the volume of his voice, the acoustics of the locale, and the length of exposure increase the potency of his ability. With prolonged exposure individuals will move through the three stages of influence severity, which are detailed below.
The first stage is Psychological Addiction, during which individuals receiving first exposure to his voice--or having received very little exposure prior--have a gradually intensifying desire to listen to him. This desire is both subtle and nigh irresistible, driving individuals to not just heed his words, but subconsciously try to conform to both whatever he says and the intent behind those words explicit or implicit. If he tries to drive you to feel a certain way towards him or even something else, the affected will sway closer to that ideal, all the while unaware of the manipulation. While an individual is at this stage of influence their behavior--from an outsider’s perspective--will infrequently set off red flags. Furthermore, if observed by other individuals also under the influence of Drake’s power, nothing will appear particularly amiss even if their actions are significantly divergent from the norm. It is this insidious property which carries through all three stages, as Drake’s power makes it incredibly difficult--even after exposure has ceased--to tell that one was ever affected at all.
Naturally following is the second stage, which transitions the psychological addiction to Drake’s voice into a physiological one, creating in the affected a physical craving and need for his voice. While typically the resultant behavior might be anomalous, individuals in this stage have a more subtle addiction, which is tempered by the insidious nature of Drake’s shard, making them seek out his voice through appropriate mediums. Unlike the first stage, in which influence tends not to decay even over long periods of time, individuals in the second stage can lose their addiction if they are not exposed to the power sufficiently. The period of deprivation can result in irritable behavior, which the affected will almost always attribute to other aspects of their life or environment. Individuals who have been exposed just short of becoming Third Stage risks may actually resort to other addictive substances in an attempt to recreate the physical high caused by hearing CB’s voice.
Individuals at this stage of exposure are exceedingly suggestible and will often--almost without question, or with very little need for convincing--follow Drake’s suggestions and orders, thinking nothing strange about doing so. At first requests may be followed simply because more exposure to his voice is promised, but as the severity of their exposure rises, their mental defenses weaken, making them less and less likely to question or resist his demands. At this upper register, individuals become suggestible enough for Drake’s power to begin repurposing them for his ends--though only minor psychological alterations can be made in any reasonable time frame. Those at the upper limit of this stage can receive orders even through non-verbal means, though not without Drake being physically present.
Finally, following the above, individuals reach stage three, hitting a critical juncture where they become Enthralled. Individuals at this stage, referred to as ‘Thralls’ will not question or disobey Drake’s orders regardless of their contents so long as they remain possible for them to achieve--short term or long term. Individuals who have reached this level of exposure are so thoroughly under the influence of his power that complex commands, brainwashing, skills, and otherwise psychological programming can be used to reshape them into living extensions of the parahuman’s will. It is at this stage that Drake can give commands even through filters such as phone calls, text messages, or other long range forms of communication. Strangely, despite these filters, Thralls will be far more able to understand Drake’s exact intent and meaning than someone equally equipped might. While the influence of his power can eventually decay all the way back to the first stage, it does so at an incredibly slow rate and would take months without any exposure to Drake’s power for an individual to return largely to ‘normal’. However, while someone who was formerly enthralled might one day regain all of their agency, any alterations to their personality enacted during their time as a thrall would remain...meaning that Drake’s victims are irrevocably altered if they are to reach the third stage of exposure.
Aside from the effect Drake’s power has on his victims it is notable that he can ‘tune’ it, allowing him to affect specific individuals rather than anyone present. Furthermore, he can even lower the potency of his power from its max all the way to zero, allowing him to make it even more subtle as well as grant people a sort of ‘immunity’ by not directing his power at them at all. Additionally, Drake--due to the circumstances of his trigger--is capable of imparting his power to others, though with a rather specific limitation. Namely, he can only impart his power to thralls. The Empowered gain a less potent instance of his ability, which possesses significantly reduced control and roughly 60% potency relative to Drake. Individuals exposed to Empowered Thralls accrue influence in the same way as those exposed to Drake himself and are not only subject to the commands of any Empowered Thrall, but also to the original holder of the power.
As a small side effect of his power, Drake’s voice never gets hoarse even from screaming or otherwise strain.
Anyone affected by his power is capable of extracting intent and meaning from any sound he makes with his vocal cords even if it is unintelligible. Their ability to discern his intent/meaning becomes more pronounced as their exposure increases.
Beyond the result of Drake’s power it is worth mentioning that the power works almost entirely by interacting with the neural and endocrine systems of the body. The first stage works almost entirely with the endocrine system, while the second stage begins to affect and alter the peripheral nervous system until finally one reaches the third stage, at which point even the central nervous system is affected. At the third stage (while Drake is currently unaware of this), this power actually allows an individual to actively and intentionally alter the psychology of the victim in addition to inducing intense emotional and physical responses including pleasure, pain, fear, paranoia, and any number of other related or similar phenomena.
Limitations: Due to his power originating entirely from his voice--at least for the duration of the first two stages--Drake cannot use his power if he cannot make sound with his mouth or vocal cords. Furthermore, the less you can hear his voice, the less effective his power is. Earplugs or excessively loud noise sufficient to overwhelm the sound of his voice are perhaps the most effective countermeasures against him--perhaps excluding not being close enough to hear him in the first place. Furthermore, while Drake can issue commands to the enthralled through non-verbal and technological means, his power does not work through any sort of filter. If recorded, or transmitted, his power will not work, meaning that any non-acoustic/natural amplification of his voice will not work and that he cannot enthrall or otherwise affect individuals through a phone call or a speaker system. Last among his power’s weaknesses is the sheer amount of time that it takes in order to reach its full potency on a given target as typically even getting to the upper limit of stage one requires several minutes of continuous exposure. Stage two on the other hand tends to require ten(10) to thirty(30) minutes to reach. Lastly, Stage Three can even take an hour or more to reach and longer for an individual to be fully enthralled.
Drake, when I the guise of Chatterbox carries several things of note, including a deck of modified cards, which have metal edges and are reinforced to be stiff and resilient. On his person are also smoke pellets—that act as effectively as smoke grenades or bombs. Additionally he carries a revolver armed with blanks and a single real bullet as well as additional ammo, which he refers to affectionately as Roulette. He also carries around what amount to amplified pop rocks, which he calls blast rocks as upon hitting the ground at sufficient speed burst into a bright sparks capable of blinding for a second or two or just throwing unsuspecting people off. Drake's costume also includes a bulletproof vest beneath his dress shirt as well as knee and elbow guards.
With his attention split between the Director and his fellow Wards, Caiden found himself more than a bit surprised when a wall folded in on itself to reveal a rather attractive woman that he’d already had the pleasure of meeting once. ‘Ah, Rachel,’ he thought as Fukuda’s lack of explanation was suddenly explained by the Vice Director’s presence. He chuckled slightly to himself as–totally within his expectations for the woman–Fashionista completely dominated the room’s attention. Caiden didn’t feel to catch the look she’d given Fukuda, and he took a sort of personal pleasure in seeing the man shy away from her gaze. Then came the obligatory introduction of course, markedly more enjoyable than such an awkward thing would typically be given the situation, all owing to the sheer charisma the woman brought to the table.
He really did enjoy Rachel’s company, in fact, he found that he’d adopted a more honest smile as he watched her work the room and then guide them from the Wards’ central control room. As he followed he took note of the fascinating security measures. Eventually, they made their way into what he guessed was a changing room–which he swiftly found confirmed as Fashionista passed out access cards and explained their purpose. The place was rather utilitarian, but it wasn’t as if they’d be spending much time there, so that made a certain amount of sense.
As he received his access card from Rachel, Caiden gave her a bright smile, laying on a bit of the charm before he let his eyes drift down to the card. Of course, given that they were clearly about to get their first feel for what being in costume would be like, Caiden reevaluated his earlier ideas about the nature of the interruption. No, things were almost certainly much more severe if both the Director and Fashionista were on edge–especially combined with the fact that they were being told to get in costume. As Will–‘Wilbur’, he thought with a slight chuckle as he moved to retrieve his costume and go get changed–had feared, this was almost certainly ‘cape shit’ as the young man had so eloquently put it.
While many of the others seemed…unnerved by the turn of events–at least going based on their initial reactions–Caiden found he was rather looking forward to having an excuse to use his power. He’d been itching to properly use it ever since he’d gotten his first taste of its true capabilities back during–...he cut off the thought as images of pools of blood flashed behind his eyes.
Focusing for a moment as he changed, Caiden found that the get-up was even better than he’d expected. It fit perfectly, neither restrictive of his movement nor did it leave him with any discomfort at all. It was honestly incredible, even clothes he’d gotten custom made before hadn’t fit him like this. Caiden supposed it was the benefit of having a clothing tinker on hand.
Once he’d finished getting in costume, Caiden stepped out from the men’s changing room and let his gaze fall directly on Fashionista.
“Honestly Rachel, I’m more than impressed,” he praised, his smile as relaxed as it was honest.
“Comfortable, unbelievably breathable and…” he paused, glancing to make sure he wasn’t particularly close to anyone before he snapped his fingers and a mass of prismatic energy flashed into existence. The energy rapidly coalesced into the silhouette of a blade. Then, in the space of a second or less a full blade had manifested just to Caiden’s right, its tip aimed at the ground.
Casually, Caiden grabbed the grip of the blade and poked at some of the draping cloth of his costume. It didn’t cut it at all, though he could tell it would part if he truly used his power properly. Still, it was impressive.
He looked back to Rachel, the blade vanishing into a spray of quickly dispersing particles as he finished “...surprisingly durable. Excuse the turn of phrase, but it’s honestly good shit.” He said it all with incredible casualness, each word coming out as if he’d said them a thousand times–yet at once like they weren’t practiced. Moving on without comment on his brief use of his power, Caiden lifted the mask he’d kept in his left hand up to look at.
It was just as good as the rest of the costume. He honestly wasn’t sure if he could be happier with her work. With his own testing done, he glanced elsewhere, waiting for the others to emerge from the changing rooms, eminently curious as to what their choices had been.
Kari Presidio
Date/Time:November 11th, 2022; 6:13 PM Location(s):Redline, Guardian Mobile Fortress
Never one to be caught unprepared–and especially not one to ever waste time–Kari had been experimenting with her power while she sat on a comfortable sofa for the greater length of the day. She’d gone on patrol before Trump Card for a few hours, and that had helped take off the edge that something was up. So, with an uncounted number of forcefields arranging and rearranging themselves in the air in front of her, Kari didn’t find herself even remotely surprised when the Director called them with bad news.
Instantly, as it became apparent they’d need to deploy, Kari let a series of forcefields align with her mask, forming a tiara-like formation before she complexified the arrangement to add a sort of transparent shielding for her eyes. With that done, she rose to her feet, a small amount of tension easing rather than growing as she heard the news. Though she didn’t approach the screen, instead listening from halfway across the room, Presidio oddly found herself relieved that her instincts hadn’t been off. She was equally glad that she’d kept some of her more common constructs properly maintained for the duration of the day.
When the Director signed off and Risen spoke up, Kari considered things for only a moment before Siren pitched in. Glancing at the stern woman, Kari felt herself slip into her role almost effortlessly–she’d been practicing.
As Siren finished, Presidio let her array of shields arrange themselves at her back and sides before she spoke up in reply, her tone resolute.
“I’m going with Siren. There’s too high a chance that these things will be equally dangerous.” She glanced up at Risen and Blaster, regarding Fenris as well for a moment before turning her attention back to their leader. “If anything you three and Trump Card are more than sufficiently equipped to protect the Mayor, especially in tangent with the PRT and the Mayor’s personal guard. Even if things get bad on his end, I can rest assured that you can handle yourselves. The Wards however…” she trailed off, frowning slightly.
“...well, even with me being the newest to the group, I’ve still got drastically more experience than almost any of them, perhaps with our local speedster excluded. Besides, I’d say that I’m probably the best-equipped power-wise to protect them.” At that she gave Risen a confident smile, her eyes glittering slightly even as the pair of shields at her sides unfurled into larger concave formations reminiscent of buckler shields, but about as wide as a person was tall. In Kari’s case, they dwarfed her own 5’3 frame.
Satisfied she’d made her point, the constructs retracted into themselves, swiveling down into slots deeper inside another series of interlocking forcefields. At her back another array of forcefields were popping into existence and rapidly assembling into a construct she’d already had the pleasure of using on several occasions since she’d joined the Redline Guardians. It would be much like a spool of thick cord, or chains, made from intricately intertwined and interlocked forcefields. It’d take her quite some time to make it properly, but they had some time before things would push off–at least it seemed that way, there was no way to truly be sure with thinkers.
“Any complaints?”
Her hazel eyes briefly flicked between Risen and Siren.
She hoped not.
In the colder seasons (like now), Presidio modifies her costume's typical design. This modified version includes a black turtleneck with sweeping arcs of light blue in place of the revealing top beneath her vest, as well as warm black pants that go into her boots rather than shorts.
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