Name: Nathan(Nate) "Rune" Gray

Appearance (picture or description): Rune stands roughly 6 1/2ft tall with a fair complexion and dark golden-brown colored eyes. His hair is a choppy mess of black and brown that is never quite done right and looks as if he has just rolled out of bed. His entire torso is covered from neck to wrist to waist in strange, sleeve-inspired tattoos of fantastic and strange images. His thin frame carries a lanky yet fit body that is casually dressed in comfortable yet practical clothing usually green and grey in color.

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Corps: Black Dogs

Bio: Nathan grew up in the rural planes of Wyoming in a small town just outside of Milwaukee, WI. He led a simple life, school and sports however, Nate beings to suffer from extreme headaches, coupled with his recent wave of unrelenting dreams of death and the macabre. He feels even from a young age a strange connection to the supernatural, to the Underground. Always feeling haunted by fits of anger and rage, countless sleepwalking and astral planing events kept Nate from ever feeling well-rested. it was always understood to him that death was just another chapter in all of our lives that we must one day reach, he just never knew how close he was to the precipice.

It was a cold October evening in his 6th grade year, Nate had a terrible vision the night before, a dimly lit room, with a table covered in blood and papers shakes violently in the middle of this solitary room. Screams and moans of tortured souls echo throughout his skull as the table quakes even more violently. As Nate approaches the now almost vibrating piece of wooden furniture the papers are blown to the floor and the table slams into the adjacent wall exploding into thousands of tiny wooden slivers.

Nate violently jerks himself up, awake in the warm morning sunlight it was an almost perfect Autumn morning. As the police filed into his house the scene they stumbled upon was that of the likes these small town officers had never seen. Nate, covered in blood finds himself sitting on the couch in his parents living room. Much to his horror he is informed his entire family lay slaughtered in their beds, Nate's' mother and father, as well as two little sisters were all brutally murdered while they slept. Nate is held responsible for the murders and although he has no recollection of the events, he is aware that something here is not what it seems. Hours before his trail he is approached by an odd elderly gentleman in a tweed suit. The gentleman has a jack-lantern grin as he explains he works for "Her Majesty" and that she and her associates know "what really happened" to Nate and his family.

Confused and horrified, Nate listens as the gentleman explains that he will be taken in as a ward of the Hounds and if proven to be a useful asset he will be assigned and make available to to Her Majesty's bidding.Nate had proven himself skilled with a knife and no less familiar with a handgun. Where Nate truly excelled it seems, was in the art of remaining undetected in the shadows, able to get in and out of an area like the wind, free to ebb and flow as he pleases. He has proven himself a worthy member of the Black Dogs Corps

Personality: Although somewhat traumatized by his sordid past, Nate is rather outgoing and clever. Never one to miss a good joke or tell a story he hides his demons well. However he is prone to fits of rage and depression that can last for days, even weeks. He cares too much about how other people view him and hates feeling as though he is being judged and found wanting. Constantly over-compensates for his insecurities with jokes

Skills: Nate is a skilled gymnast allowing him to enter a desired location by rather unorthodox means. His dextrous hands allow him to pick locks rather easily and although he can shoot a gun he prefers unarmed or short-knife combat. He is also a skilled trap-maker and enjoys setting trip-wires and snares for any would-be tag-along.

Gear/Weapons (no more than three weapons): Nate always has his lock-picks,a small pair of digital binoculars(night-vision, FLiR)
A Steel Baton with retractable spikes


A sharp and deadly Swing Blade

& His Black Revolver


Other Information:His tattoos are said to sometimes "glow" when in the presence of supernatural beings, the validity of these rumors remains unfounded.

Bio: Roshan was once a mere mortal. Long before the age of nations, he commanded the hordes of Persia under the Parthian Empire. Roshan was the vizier of the emir, a man who hid beneath a golden mask as a dark figure in the desert king’s court, and a shadow administrator of the empire. It was here did he gain power through military might, having risen through the ranks in their plight against Rome, he had conquered and hungered for more. Some fled from him to avoid the pain that he brought, but others flocked to him for his twisted charisma. His thirst for blood and war had drove him to study the mystic arts, delving into a debauchery of esoteric and arcane beliefs. It drove him mad, as he believed in conversing with unseen forces, the spirits of long dead legends, and his own apotheosis to become a god. Fuelled by the visions of his own glory, soon Roshan desired to solidify his coils around the throne, and reign as emir in the light of the burning desert sun, yet to do this was treason and would take planning. As such, he developed his serpentine cult, brainwashing his twisted followers like his dogs with pleasures of flesh and hunt. In his madness and megalomania, he had even selected a protégé to carry on his legacy as his own Roshan. With the intrigue of the court, he had set in motion another war during Pax Romana, pulling the strings to incite his path in usurping the throne. It would have worked too, had it not been the unforeseen betrayal of his protégé who had learned all too well from Roshan. In the fall of his plot, an invading Roman army killed the emir and though however briefly he was emir, he too was captured and immolated through the desert before the very dogs he had trained to devour flesh ultimately ate him alive.

History had forgotten him, scratched out was his name through the records of the empires though his cult lived on. An imposter had replaced him, to take on his guise with golden mask, yet unknown to the world in his dying breath with a howl of terrifyingly mad laughter did Roshan curse the desert with his blood. He rose as a vengeful shade, as spirit of the desert with a grudge to reclaim his place. Yet without a corporeal body, he could only manifest his vengeance through a vessel. Once again he would take under his shadow a protégé, this time however he would find a true follower in the child sorcerer who ultimately became the Third Roshan. It was under the guidance of the First Roshan, did the Third overthrow the Impostor, The Second Roshan: Roshan of the False Face. For in his death and long meditation through the desert sand, the First Roshan had learned of his own foolishness to raise another being to be exactly like him, a lesson repeated as the Second took the Third. With the rise of his magical flesh puppet, Roshan the First, had effectively cursed his namesake with the endless cycle.

The Third Roshan became known as the Roshan of the Unending Darkness. This Roshan fully learned the black arts and moved the cult into the tunnels beneath the desert dunes. To which he had done so to serve the First in twisting his cult even further into the madness of Roshan. As a spirit, the First Roshan watched his cult flourished under the guidance of his second protégé. Having extended his lifespan beyond that of a mortal man through magical means, the Third had achieved immortality by virtue of his powers. It was this immortality, which the First envied, another betrayal of his tutelage as his second student learned to fear the fate of the predecessors. To such, Roshan spent seven hundred thirty eight years as merely a shadow of his shadow self, trapped in the world as a spirit bound to the desert sand. And for seven hundred thirty eight years, Roshan began to plot, gathering his ghostly powers to infiltrate the dark corners of the dreams men had, gaining a skill of memory absorption.

It was only after the Fourth Roshan, the Roshan of the Eternal Stone, rose to power by sealing away his former mentor, the Sorcerer, was the First ultimately reborn. Drawing upon the life force and magical prowess of the entrapped Third, the fourth created a powerful alchemic artifact which he used to create Homunculi which would serve to be his method of immortality as his master refused to grant him the secrets to the Third’s immortality. The Fourth was forced to renew his aging body by transferring his consciousness into the blank Homunculi. As such, he created dozens of Homunculi including one particular body, which was the supernatural naga he had planned to use as the ultimate body to become known as the Serpent. This plan was delayed by the rebellion of his own protégé the Fifth Roshan, who would be known as Roshan of the Infinite Waves. The Fifth Roshan caused a schism in the cult in the latter half of the 20th century as the age of modernity made it much more profitable to manipulate the world through the global market and technology than age-old methods by the Roshans past.

The feud between the Fourth and Fifth was employed by the First, who had influenced the descent of the Fifth into rebellion, haunting the boy’s toughts to flee from the desert sands and turn to the profit of the market. In the course of their infighting, the Fourth summoned the shade from the sands using arts long forgotten. Their deal would eliminate the Fifth, but more importantly, end the cycle of Roshan killing Roshan as the First ripped the memories of the Fourth and absorbed them into his own as his new Naga body tore the Fourth into pieces before dining upon the Fifth and all other cultists thereafter. Hence, the cycle was completed, five skins were shed, and a new form was taken or so the legends of the Five Roshans speak.

Yet the world was strange to Roshan, who had merely became a watcher to the events of history unfold, gleaning of knowledge of the world outside his patch of desert sand by the memories of his cultists he absorbed. The world he had known did not stand still, the age of empires blew into dust, and now nations bickered like children. The throne of Persia was long gone, and now he was truly a god. There was one weakness he had however: the Third Roshan. It was destiny and fate for there to only be One, and should the Third be unsealed from the stone sarcophagus, the Sorcerer would destroy the First. It was through this exploit did the First come into service of the Hounds was under the ‘Act of Supernatural’. When the Hounds discovered him as an active threat, they had sent Black dogs and Hellhounds after him, and soon discovered this fear as they utilized their custody of the sealed sarcophagus obtained through the lives of their agents and their memories. With this blackmail, they forced the last Great Emir of Old, to kneel before their Majesty.

A being as old as he, and as experienced in serving the crown knew better than to die now and forever. And as he graciously accepted becoming a "Royal Hound," to keep his new life, he has served with all intents of finding a method to kill his immortal Third. For this reason, he has kept in the dark, using draconian methods to glean information from his targets for the sake of resentment towards his role.

Name: Carson "Mr. Tinker" Derby

[b]Appearance:

Mr. Tinker appears quite a dapper fellow, a Caucasian male in his mid-to-late thirties, typically found in a pinstripe suit. His most obvious distinguishing feature is the fact that he's missing his right eye and wears a black eye-patch to cover the wound. He seems extremely concerned with his appearance and always makes sure his clothes are well-pressed, immaculately coordinated and perfectly styled. Though he might dress a little anachronistically, he always notes that "style never goes out of fashion".

Age: Estimated to be at least ninety years old.

Gender: Male

Corps: Black Dog

Bio: The Crown first became aware of Mr. Tinker when computerizing several data archives and streamlining them for the modern age. What initially seemed to be a glitch led canny investigators to discover a most unusual paranormal phenomenon living quite happily, and civilly, in the heart of London. They discovered Mr. Tinker. Notably, they discovered him because they found records of the same identical man having died and been buried multiple times since the late 1920's. Then he would crop up again, with a new name of course, but then go about his business quite happily. Were it not for some official zeal about removing potentially-harmful supernatural influences from the public, this fellow would have been allowed to keep on living, dying, getting up again with a new name and then presumably going on to die another time.

Mr. Tinker, when approached, actually proved quite amenable to serving the Crown. He expressed quite old-fashioned views about Queen and country - well, he had to remind himself that it wasn't "King and country" anymore - and happily told them of his life story. What parts of it he could remember, at least. The problem with his unusual talents was that he didn't bring all memories of his old lives into new ones.

He certainly remembers serving as a soldier in France, fighting Germans, both times. Records independently corroborated him serving (and dying) at the Somme and then later landing on the shores on Normandy (where he also died). Between the two wars, he seemed to do fairly well for himself as a civilian businessman, working in the Northern counties as a peddler of fine clothing to the upper and middle classes. He has fond memories of the Yorkshire Dales, so he assumes he's a Yorkshireman by birth, though that's a little foggy even to him. He does the accent quite well, though it might just a skilled imitation.

After WW2, he actually managed to join the civil service for a while before perishing in a traffic accident. The sixties and seventies were spent working under a variety of aliases in the booming narcotic underworld, though always in the most sharp-cut suits one could have imagined. By the time Maggie invaded the Falklands to garner votes, Mr. Tinker had grown bored of crime and gone into academia. When the Crown found him in the early 2000's, he'd finished a stint in jail for financial crimes and the assassinations of certain church officials.

As to the underworld and the supernatural, Mr. Tinker doesn't actually seem to have touched on that part of life very much. Whatever made him the way he was happened long ago, and many deaths ago, so he doesn't really remember any more. But he also doesn't seem to be particularly troubled by it all that much and is much more interested in the task at hand..

Personality: Mr. Tinker is a quite old fashioned archetypal gentleman, speaking in a crisp Radio-4 accent and always dressing smartly. He's a good liar, an excellent one in fact, and casually moves between various identities and deceptions with remarkable ease. Something that followed him from the good-old-days was his patriotic attitude - not quite a screaming jingoism so much as a near-religious certitude that the Crown knows best, that Britannia shall ever rule the waves and that England is God's own country. Because, well, it obviously is. That said, he seems almost nauseatingly good at a spot of the old ultra-violence and carries out the wetwork tasks with talent, experience and, well, style. He doesn't have any qualms with doing something utterly gruesome for the greater good - or for what certain government officials quietly assure him is the greater good - and might be considered some form of high-functioning sociopath. He certainly reads and manipulates people well and maintains a comprehensive list of surface-level interests to keep conversation flowing and smooth; no matter who he's talking to, he'll probably find a way to twist them into a friend.

Of course, his old fashioned attitudes can also sometimes make him come across as a tad.. unpleasant to certain demographics. He has very traditional views of, say, marriage and gender roles. He doesn't necessarily mean the things he says maliciously, but a poorly gauged request for a certain ethnicity to do his laundry might potentially ruffle some feathers.

Skills: Mr. Tinker's long life (well, lives) and varied careers has left him with a quite comprehensive list of talents that he can draw upon both in and out of combat. Naturally, he's a trained marksman and combatant, having served in both World Wars and picked up a few languages in the process. While stealth is something he's quite adept at, Mr. Tinker's real talent lies not in going unseen but in going unnoticed. He always seems to fit in with the environment perfectly - he looks just official enough that no-one would consider him out of place in upmarket places and just rough enough to look like he'd fit in with the down-market types. He's also got quite a network of contacts across multiple strata of society, from the House of Lords to the black market - you'd be surprised who he knows, what he can get his hands on, what he can make happen... what he might know about you...

Then there's Mr. Tinker's.. unusual talent. He is on file as a "serial ressurectionist". Essentially, Mr. Tinker does not seem to quite stay dead. It's not that he heals quickly, per se. It's more that he.. resets. Shoot him in the head and he dies like a normal person would, but somewhere between one minute and twenty four hours later, every wound is gone and he's awake. The current scuttlebutt among the research-types in the organization is that at some point in his first life, Mr Tinker was exposed to some kind of temporal anomaly and upon his death is restored to a point in his timeline before he died. He retains some but not all knowledge he had at the moment of his death - he probably remembers who killed him, but might not remember that he was married in his previous life. However, since the injury that lost him his eye stays with him when he resets, it seems that he lost the eye BEFORE he gained his talent. He also doesn't seem to age normally, probably as a result of the temporal anomaly. As a result of his talent, he does not fear death or pain, since he knows he can come back.

If there's something that can permanently kill him, he's not found it yet - obviously. But it's possible he's just not been killed the right way yet. And the more severe the injury, it seems to take longer for him to restore from it - a knife in the heart would take a few minutes, but a grenade would knock him out for hours.

Gear/Weapons: Tinker carries a silenced pistol with him at all times, as well as a wire garotte. In proper combat situations, he typically gets his hands on a quite high-end assault rifle with suppressor, tactical scope and extended mag. He also has a fair few spy gadgets on him most of the time - small microphones, sabotage equipment and the like.

Other Information: Mr. Tinker has amassed quite a sizable bank account, which he does not touch. It's possible he's entirely forgotten what he's saving up for. Also, clocks tend to break around him and it's easy to lose track of time around him.

Name: Clement Brom - "Dragon"

Appearance: Clement is a lean man with a light-chocolate complexion. He stands at an above average height of 5'11" with an athletic build that offers a unnaturally skinny bearing. His dark hair is scruffy and unkempt, like black sheep wool with neat edges and near-faded sides. His wide amber eyes have the tendency to lure others inside their heated embrace; despite the ruggedness on the outside they tend to hold a longing, solemn expression. Above them sit wild eyebrows that offer a bit of ferocity to him, usually out shining the sadness in his eyes. Full lips rest in a frigid straight line underneath his statuesque nose. When confused or surprised, his cocked brows always caused several wrinkles to occur on his tight forehead. While most find it suitable to wear a suit, he only occasionally dresses this way, usually donning a black vest and black tie over a white dress shirt.

Age: 23

Gender: M

Corps: Hell Hounds

Bio: At some point he was just a urban youth, seeking out a way to live a life worth living. He had made it his goal to not end up like all the "up-standing citizens" that he took up shop with. Since he was little, he was always sensitive to the world's subtleties, always seeking the one truth that the world would hide at all the cost. In between searching for an enigma and trying his best to stay a bar above the norm, Clement was actively delving into the supernatural. Looking for some semblance of something greater than himself.

While he was always reprimanded for doing so, when he came to the age that he could decide for himself, he made the compromise of only studying the supposed lighter sides of the supernatural; Fairies and the such. With time and no sign of answers to come, he packed up all his old books of the supernatural and pushed them out of his mind. So was the way of life when college and the real life is on the precipice of blooming. When things seemed to be going in the right direction, when life was looking up; something unimaginable changed his life.

Leaving from his girlfriend's dorm and heading back with his roommate, Clement was surprised when they were robbed at gunpoint. Fear gripped him immediately, despite his height and athletics, he had always had a fear of guns and its power. When the man took their cash, the bang of the gun deafened Clement and before long, he realized he had watched his roommate fall. After a threat the man dashed away. Stunned, he quickly called the police and after answering there questions he returned to his dorm room. Just when he reached his dorm room, he heard the voice of shooter. At first he assumed he had been followed but when he turned around, he realized the voice was coming from behind the door.

Enraged and upset, he went into his room fuming at his shamelessness. He went to blaming humanity for their incompetence and cruelty, and in a fit of rage that could only be describe as madness; he rampaged in his room. Suddenly a trail of small embers burst in from his vents, a veil of inky smoke suffocating him until he fainted from the exposure. When he awoke, he saw a minuscule being, elven ears atop of a alien head, indescribable beauty dressed in a flowing red gown floating over him. She spoke in a language that he could only perceive as English, for he could understand her without effort. She asked him what would quell his hatred, for which he answered from the deepest pits of his heart.

"To change the world!"

She smirked a bit before flying back then shooting through his heart and out through his back. Sure that he was dead, the last thing he remember was the hypnotizing smile of the being floating overhead, When he awoke to the smell of burning wood and a much fouler smell; one that corroded his nostrils from the inside out, he noticed the amberesque hue and roaring flames around him. He rose to his feet and exploded out of the window from fear. After a short rampage and shortly afterwards, hiding, he was taken in under the 'Act of Supernatural' and later the 'Act of Contact'. Due to his abilities and deep desire to see the world change, he was given the moniker "Dragon".

Personality: Clement is cold and recluse, keeping to himself even among the other Hounds of the organization. He can be considered a hermit, in the sense that he strays far from others and even takes to being inside the shelter of building than outside; his own fate in humanity being shattered to the point that he can hardly stand being around them. His heart is enclosed in a iron-bound cage that only lets the memories of his encounter with the supernatural in. Due to his utter disappointment in mankind, he rarely shows respect to those that deserve it, and thought this may be a certainty, his devotion and appreciation for the royal family has him being foolishly loyal to their every whim.

Skills: Blessed by a fairy, a being of inherent magic and endless possibilities, Clement was gifted with the power of fire, smoke, and heat. The ability to generate those elements from within his own self, and the knowledge that his emotions holds a direct correlation to his destructive capabilities. This has given him an almost invulnerability to physical attacks, which usually causes significantly less damage to him. He is incapable of touching water and severe winds can spur on a natural disaster. Along with this affinity to fire, a strange curse has been placed on him; he has lost the ability to laugh and read.

Gear/Weapons: None.

Other Information: None.

Name:
Olivia Clarke | Nightingale

Appearance:
Olivia is a small thing at just 5'3". She's still on the skinny side, but her training has made her stronger and her body is slowly but surely reflecting this. There's a light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose that's only visible in the sun, and her fair complexion is layered with a hint of gold. She has a tattoo of five small birds in flight, trailing along her shoulder blade to her nape—she'd gotten it during a rebellious phase when she was sixteen, but now she can't help but think it was foreshadowing of some sort.

She likes to dress in accordance to the current trends, and is partial to bright colors and patterned tights. Because she's always in uniform for combat training and learning to control her abilities, she relishes the sparse moments when she is allowed to wear what she wants.

Age:
20
Gender:
Female
Corps:
Hell Hounds

Bio:
All her life, it'd been Olivia and her father, side-by-side, clumsily navigating through life. Her mother was nothing but a faceless figure to her, present only in the annual letters she received from her on her birthday. And even then, her words were generic and detached—a measly Happy birthday! I miss you—with only her age and the date marked changing every year. It's difficult to care for someone she's never met, but for her father's sake, she tried. He was desperate in his attempts to establish some sort of connection between her and her mother. "She left for our sake, she did not abandon us," he would say. Her father made sure she understood the distinction. Olivia eventually feigned acceptance. Why did it matter, anyway? Her mother only existed in letters that she couldn't even be sure she sent. It was only after she'd been recruited by the Royal Hounds, when she was finally in the know, that she would understand her sacrifice.

Not two months ago, Olivia still had some semblance of normalcy. Her life had been fairly simple. She wanted for nothing, living in moderate luxury. Her father had seen to all her whims--ballet lessons, singing lessons, he paid for it all. She was in a performing arts university with only another year to go, and the worst of her problems ranged between struggling to stay awake for an exam after rehearsing the night before and an ex-boyfriend stalking her. The most exciting thing to happen to her was getting through a national singing competition. She was amongst the three semi-finalists and from all the buzz she was getting in social media, she knew she was favored to win. Everything was going her way, coming up roses like they say.

How could she have known everything could change in a blink of an eye?

As if fate had a penchant for the theatrical, this life-altering change happened during the competition's televised finale. Olivia had started to feel strange during the two-week long rehearsals, but she had chalked it up to frayed nerves. It would be her last chance to perform, to win over the people, and it seemed only natural for the stress to get to her. She ignored the relentless twisting in her stomach, and diagnosed the dull ache in her throat as a mere sign of overexertion. The finale would be starting soon and she knew that once she was on the stage, she'll simply get lost in the performance, and do what she did best. For the most part, she was right. Olivia sounded the best she had all season, and the audience went absolutely wild for her, their voices clamoring so in-synch it was like they were under a trance. The reaction was unlike she'd ever received.

When it came to her last song, a powerful ballad that required weeks and weeks of rehearsal to perfect, the strangest sense of foreboding wracked her frame. The flutter in her stomach intensified, as did the burning in her throat, but she was too caught up in the moment to pay it any heed. This was it; her goal was within reach, and she was determined to secure her victory with her final song. As the lights dimmed and the spotlight zeroed in on her, Olivia sang her heart out. She lost herself in the song, felt as though she was drowning in the melody as she let the words fly across the auditorium and past it. The audience was stunned to silence.

Then one by one, they screamed.

Olivia stopped abruptly, watching in horror as everyone dropped to their knees, desperately clawing at their ears, panicked shrieks filling the auditorium as many tried to escape. She can still remember the way they looked at her, fear etched in their eyes, as they wiped the blood dripping down their ears. It was terrifying. When the security guards started to approach her, guns cautiously trained at her, she started panicking. Her mouth opened on its own, letting out an ear-shattering scream that surprised even her.

She awoke in an unfamiliar room afterward, a metallic muzzle placed over her mouth. For the next few days, she was briefed on everything. What happened during the finale, to the members of the audience. The Royal Hounds, the Underground. Supernatural beings that she thought existed only in fiction prowling about the world. Being one of these supernatural creatures—or at least, partly—because her mother was a siren. They told her nothing of her mother's location, but she knew she was among these so called hunters of the crown, she could feel it in her bones.

It's been thirty-seven days since she has become a member of the Hell Hounds. Olivia has yet to fully immerse with the Underground world, but she's slowly getting used to everything. Everyday, she undergoes the Hell Hounds' intense training regimen where they train her to fight and to control her abilities.

Personality:
Olivia is a little firecracker with a bit of a rebellious streak. Reckless and heedless of consequences, she is flippant in the face of danger, confident that she can always find a way out of any mess she gets herself into. She's resourceful and adaptive, quick on her feet and never bogged by pressure. When she was inducted into the Underground, she easily accepted their truths, no matter how farfetched they seemed. Olivia sees the world as full of pregnant possibilities, good and bad, all out there for her to explore. Nothing is impossible if she works for it. Vivacious and passionate, she approaches life with a certain joie de vivre that's infectious, and it is with this vigor that she tackled on her role as a Hell Hound.

Compared to the veterans of the Royal Hounds, Olivia reeks of ingenuousness—still a puppy finding her footing. Cynicism has yet to wear her out. She's idealistic and foolishly brave, clinging onto an outdated sense of heroism that can likely get her hurt. Her loyalty runs deep, and once she's considered someone a friend, there's nothing she wouldn't do for them. A puppy through and through.

Skills:
From her siren mother, she has inherited the ability to manipulate sounds. First and foremost, she has found that her songs can affect people in a variety ways. Her arias lure them in, compelling anyone listening to do whatever it takes to approach her. It was just as the sirens in the stories were known to do. Lullabies work wonders, inducing sleep as effectively as a heavy sedative. Happy melodies that causes temporary euphoria and eventual stupor. Other songs have more destructive effects: some that can cause confusion, nausea, or trepidation. Susceptible individuals, often those with weaker wills, can be subjected to some manner of persuasion, as well.

Olivia's abilities goes beyond singing, although that remains her forte. There's power in her voice alone, one she has yet to fully harness and control. She can amplify it to inhuman levels, enough to cause physical damage when she screams. Her training with the Hell Hounds forces her to develop the more offensive properties of her ability and she is learning to generate and project soundwaves through other means. Currently, she is being taught to incorporate her abilities in combat, by creating physical constructs from sound and releasing sound blasts that damages on impact.

She has gained a keener sense of hearing, as well. Olivia can detect sounds further away, and they sound richer in her ears. Sounds that used to be simple have become extremely intricate, layered with subtleties she's never noticed before.

Gear/Weapons (no more than three weapons):
Her voice is her greatest weapon, but she has a small knife in case that fails her. She also keeps a metal muzzle on her person at all times, and puts it on during days when she feels particularly out of control. Since the muzzle completely prevents her from speaking, she was given a watch that allows her to type up and project text to communicate.

Other Information:
Her abilities are heavily affected by her emotions and are thus subject to instability.