Chapter 1 - Predator “Do good,” Flynn’s mother said to him the day she died. “Stand in the light.”
He’d hardly understood what doing good meant at six years old. He wasn’t sure he was much closer at eighteen. Here he was, after all, wasting what should have been his proudest moment, still trying to puzzle out the good thing to do.
Joining the police academy was supposed to be the honorable thing. There weren’t many options available for a street urchin like him, and this was far preferable to slowly rotting away begging for scraps like so many others in the city. As long as Flynn could remember, it had been his dream to stand armed among his brothers in uniform.
But he didn’t feel like he was standing in the light. All he could think of now was Thomas with the gaping hole through his neck, drooling red as he made that honking pig sound. The last he’d ever make. And Eddie, laid on the ground with blood smeared across his face, jaw-hanging open as the others named him a murderer. And the other thing he saw last night…that abomination. He should’ve told the truth, but who would believe him?
Thomas was a good man, who stood for those beside him just as a member of the police squad was supposed to. Surely he hadn’t deserved to die for that?
Eddie cared for nothing past the end of his own nose. Flynn still bore bruises from the last time he had to help calm Eddie’s drunken rage. Even so, surely he didn’t deserve to be named murderer for that?
Flynn glanced guiltily up at the statue of the scales, the emblem of Penumbra’s police force. Towering in judgment over him. He squirmed as though he was the one who’d killed Thomas and named Eddie a murderer. All he’d done was watch.
Watch and do nothing.
The Captain was always first to arrive and last to leave. Flynn had waited until all the others had gone for the evening before approaching his office. Flynn’s heart beat loud in his ears. His mouth opened.
“Captain Elliot!” he blurted, far too loud, and then, as the police captain turned toward him, croaked far too soft, “I need to speak to you.”
“What about, Flynn?” That gave him pause. The department was huge, he hadn’t thought the Captain would even know his name.
“About Edward Blake.”
A long silence. The captain might only have been a few years older than Flynn, pale-skinned and pale-haired as if the color was washed out of him, so gaunt a stiff breeze might blow him away, but close up there was something chilling in the captain’s eye. Something that caused Flynn to wilt under his gaze.
But there was no going back now. “He’s no murderer,” he muttered.
“The others think he is.”
His throat felt dry, but Flynn pressed on. “The others weren’t there. They didn’t see what I saw.”
“What did you see?”
“It was our day off. We were sharing drinks at the Rat’s Nest-“
“Yes I already know all this. Get on with it.”
This wasn’t going as well as Flynn had hoped. “Eddie and Thomas got into an argument, something about Eddie’s drinking habits. They took it to the alley outside…they started fighting. But then, there was something else there. It was- It was a monster!”
Captain Elliot glanced toward the office window, and eased a little closer. “But Flynn,” he whispered, “I already knew this as well.”
Flynn tripped backwards, gaping in horror at the nightmare that had suddenly appeared before him. The captain was covered slowly by a wispy shadow, his head arched forward and he grinned revealing a bright set of razor sharp teeth. It was the creature from last night, and up close it was even more terrible than he remembered. “You! But—“ he began to shout out for help but found he could not speak with the monster’s jaws clamped onto his neck.
It didn’t take longer than a few minutes for the beast to finish its meal. He gave a satisfied burp as the last traces of officer Flynn Avery melted away in his stomach, cut his contentment was cut short by the shadow that suddenly flashed in front of him.
“So, it was the captain all along? This city never ceases to amaze me,” came a stranger’s voice.
“Who are you?” The captain snarled, still in his monster form. The man that stood before him looked like a genuine mortal. How could he have snuck up on him so easily?
“I am the hunter,” the man said calmly as his silver blade sunk into the captain’s chest. “And you are my prey.”
Penumbra
Welcome, Hunter Penumbra - the city that never sleeps. Always moving forward, like a well-oiled clock with all of its gears in place. It is without a doubt the largest, wealthiest, most progressive city in the world. Everyone does as they are supposed to: the aristocracy forever dither on at their socialite gatherings, the artificers hustle in their shops during the day conducting their business, and the impoverished scatter throughout the streets and alleyways forgotten by everyone else.
But where there are the masses there must also be massive ignorance. Rich, poor, young, old, from the noblest of lords to the lowliest of vagabonds, they’re all the same really. Sacks of flesh and blood, lambs to the slaughter, blind to the horrors of the night. Of course there are rumors that pop up now and again; stories of monsters living in the shadows, or friends possessed by demons. Most regard them as low class folklore, carrying on with their lives without giving a second thought to supposed sightings of beastmen or the walking dead. A natural response I suppose, though rationale and skepticism make for poor defenses against the razor sharp claws of a lycanthrope or a gang of bloodsucking imps.
The more superstitious among the city’s populace simply refer to it as the Dark – a tad unimaginative, but a fitting enough term. They are the outsiders. The strange. The monsters mothers tell stories of to frighten their children. They feed off of confusion, despair, and loneliness. But they mostly feed on us.
But you’re not like the rest, are you? You are not the sheep destined to fall to the wolf. No, you are a Hunter…and soon the creatures of the Dark will learn that they too should fear the night.
A Brief History... Originally a small mining town, Penumbra experienced an industrial boom with the discovery of the world’s most precious resource – duskstone. The dark crystal was initially sought out as material for jewelry, though it’s commonness made it far less valuable than rubies or gold. It wasn’t until a hundred years ago when the scientific genius, Leviticus Blue discovered how to use duskstone as a source of energy. His breakthrough pushed Penumbra into an industrial age powered by the duskstone crystals.
A hundred years later, Penumbra has become one of the richest and most populous city-states in the regions. Though the Great Plague had attempted to decimate the city's population, even it would eventually fade away into the city's history. Immigrants pack themselves onto tiny boats along the Denied, hoping to find a life for themselves in Penumbra.
Though Penumbra is a Republic with a government headed by parliament, it is still essentially in the complete control of the city's aristocracy. Most of the large families had earned their name and reputation several generations prior with the discovery of the Duskstone, and earned their vast fortunes in the energy and technology market. However, they mostly all live in mansions along the city's Estate District. Talents and personalities of all kinds can be discovered littered throughout the rest of the city from artists to scholars to madmen.
Important Locations
Mining District –
Duskstone Mines – Ancient Ruins –
Estate District –
Huxley Manor – Smith & Engall – The University – Dowd Manor –
Central District –
Police Headquarters – Parliament – Safety – The Clocktower – Mercy Hospital – National Park –
Port District –
The Denied – The Marketplace – Tartarus Energy Co. – Bramhill Brewery – Sparrow’s Bridge – Abandoned Wares –
Rogue District –
The Rat’s Nest – St. Augustine's Cathedral – The Undercity – The Glass Slipper –
The Outsiders
The Dark Even among the Hunters with their vast network of knowledge and resources, much remains unknown about the Dark. However, it is largely agreed upon that the first appearance of the Dark came in the form of the Great Plague fifty years ago. The disease wiped out nearly fifty percent of the city’s population, mostly the poor and working class. The Forsaken crawled out onto the streets, crying for help as they bled out of every orifice. It was only through swift and ruthless action that the first Hunter, Eamon Dowd, managed to purge the city of its affliction – by completely annihilating all the Forsaken and all those who had come into contact to them. The smell of burnt flesh and smoke filled the city as piles of bodies were thrown onto the pyre.
While most of the city believes their ordeal is of the past, the members of the Fraternity know that it was just the beginning. Since then all sorts of monsters and demons have appeared within Penumbra. The city’s police usually find some excuse or another for all the mysterious murders and disappearances, and like the creatures of the Dark the work of the Hunters remains largely unacknowledged.
Even the more inquiring Hunters can only hazard a guess of where they actually come from. The hordes of bloodthirsty imps, the curse of the lycanthrope, the faceless one, the creatures of the Dark come in many forms.
The Fraternity Formed fifty years ago by the first Hunter, Lord Eamon Dowd, the Fraternity is the secretive organization of the Hunters, monster slayers attuned with the dark said to be blessed with extraordinary strength and skill. Their existence is as much a myth as the creatures they hunt.
All members of the Fraternity are born with the Sigil of the Hunter, a symbol of their affiliation with the Dark. Each are granted a unique ability that reflects their true nature, varying widely from Hunter to Hunter. Before the Fraternity finds them, those who bear the Sigil often lead hard lives as outsiders, keeping their powers hidden to avoid persecution. By the time they are discovered and taken under the tutelage of their fellow hunters, those marked usually have nowhere else to turn to.
Character Sheet
[Appearance] Name: Though most will call you by your hunter’s name, at one time we all had another. Title: Same name as your Hunter's Aspect Age: Do you prefer cane or rattle? Sex: Either you have it or you don’t
Backstory: Remember to include when and how you joined the Fraternity.
Aspect of the Hunter: This will be given to you based on your character backstory, or can be requested at random before you start your CS.
Stats: Rank them A through E. Average denizens of Penumbra have a rank of E in everything.
Strength – Physical capabilities, lifting strength, running speed Vitality – Endurance, Darkness resistance, regeneration Skill – Dexterity, stealth, weapon proficiency Knowledge – Tool usage and creation, adaptability Bloodlust – Ferocity, madness Darkness – Attunement with and power level of your aspect
Skills: List any noteworthy abilities here that aren’t covered by Stats. For example something like "animal affinity" would be applicable while something like "marksmanship" would fall under the Skill stat.
Inventory: Everything you are carrying at this moment, you may change out your inventory between missions. Remember that Hunters are far stronger than average humans and can wield rather unconventional weaponry (be creative with it).
I've been having trouble finding something to jump into, but something like this that is brand new seems really simple to get into. I will try to work out a character in the near future. :)
A WIP. I need to figure out what sort of weapons I want to have, as well as decide if I have any notable other skills. And of course I need to find an image I'm happy with... but otherwise I think I'm almost done.
EDIT: character sheet completed.
Name: Victor James Title: Bloodletter Age: 19 Sex: Male
Backstory: Victor was not cast aside by his family when they saw his shoulder emblazoned with the sign of the Hunters. They had wanted a son, and they were not going to simply cast him aside because of this cryptic nonsense. They had no serviceable explanation for why he was born with such a symbol if not for the esoteric notions of Fraternity brotherhood, but they were not going to ignore the child for his markings--they would love him like they loved his older sisters.
This noble effort of theirs did not last. Every peculiarity in Victor, which in another child would have been perhaps endearing, was scrutinized, and every time he did not get along with a neighborhood kid or one of his sisters, his parents would fret endlessly over him, warning him not to act out. It didn't take someone particularly sharp to see that Victor's parents thought he was odd. Victor himself, though, thought he was quite normal, and indeed he didn't seem particularly strange or occult to his neighbors. That unfortunately did not matter, as he was afraid of his parents' disapproval more than anything, and so he endeavored to be entirely unobjectionable and ordinary so as not to cause any unnecessary worry.
In spite of his best efforts, it was simply not meant to be. His parents grew increasingly paranoid each day, and on days when they received news about something from the Dark, their fury was especially severe. They punished him for things he hadn't yet done, hadn't even planned to do; they feared acts of violence, acts that would draw out the innately grisly and malevolent nature of the Hunter. They beat him and didn't allow him outside or near his sisters. He ate alone.
Through all of this, he never once acted out. He never once wanted to harm anyone. It wasn't in his nature to do something like that, and he thought perhaps the cursed mark on his shoulder was a mistake of astronomical proportions. Indeed it was from this mark that came all of his problems. His parents would not be hurting if not for that mark; he would not be alone if not for that mark. And so he spent most of his childhood cursing it, scratching at it and tearing the flesh until he thought he might have scratched it off forever--he never did manage that.
One day, the floodgates were opened, as the saying goes, and all the pent-up negativity in Victor's home came rushing out. A burglar targeted their home, but was quickly confronted by Victor's father, a kitchen knife held threateningly in his hand. He told the burglar to leave, but it was never that simple. The burglar fought back and wrestled the knife from his father's hands. With a knife to Victor's father's throat, the burglar demanded as many of the family's valuables as he could carry. His mother and sisters were quick to comply, but something stirred in Victor, a primal rage he had never felt before. This man was targeting his family, his loved ones, his happiness--this man was completely unforgivable. Seeing his father's life hanging so precariously in the balance, he wondered what it was he suffered for. If his father were to die, what would it mean for Victor, who suffered his whole life in the hopes that his father would one day accept him? To threaten to steal that away was unforgivable.
With a guttural scream, he charged the burglar. The man was slow with surprise, not expecting that sort of sound from a young child. He also could not have possibly expected the child's strength; no one there could have. The burglar was thrown off his feet and, straddling his chest, pinning him to the ground, Victor began to pummel the man with his fists until they turned red. When he finally stopped, the man scarcely drew breath. His mother clutched his sisters' heads against her so they couldn't see, and she herself stared at Victor aghast. He didn't understand.
That night his family told him to leave. They couldn't live with him--they were afraid. Victor was confused. Had he not done this for them? Was this not an act of love, of kindness? But they wouldn't listen to him, they wouldn't accept that he was their flesh and blood any longer, and Victor was cast into the streets. He lived there alone for many years until by chance he saw a Hunter. He didn't know what else he was supposed to do, so he showed the Hunter the mark on his shoulder, identifying him as one of their own.
Aspect of the Hunter: Bloodletter -- When Victor consumes blood, he gains increased regeneration, endurance, and bloodlust. Drinking the blood of a creature of the Dark temporarily grants him some of their abilities and weaknesses. It is unknown what would happen if he were to drink the blood of another Hunter.
Stats:
Strength – B Vitality – A Skill – C Knowledge – D Bloodlust – C Darkness – B
Skills: --
Inventory: Two knives, a large axe, a small lantern.
I am very much intrigued by this - it's almost remeniscent of Bloodborne, in its own unique way. Let's see if I can't assemble a halfway decent character sheet.
Edit: Completed! Hopefully, it turns out all right!
Xerxes Hasek - The Salamander
"“Monster . . . ? Ah, you flatter me! Why, yes, I suppose I am! That does not, however, make me this tale’s villain, you know!”
Name: Xerxes Hasek Title: Salamander Age: 30 Gender: Male
Tall and lean, almost unhealthily so, Xerxes possesses a sharp, almost distinguished sort of gauntness about him. This lankiness, born of a preference for sweets absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, a relatively time-consuming occupation, and a lack of interest in food altogether, means Xerxes doesn’t cut much of a figure at all, much less one of an imposing nature. He emanates this unnerving, almost repellent sort of aura - the cheerful sort of defiance that only a hardened criminal or an absolute maniac might bear.
Lean, sharp angles mold the pale canvas of his face, carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. A short, closely-cropped beard lines his jaw and chin, further emphasizing that wild, dangerous edge.
Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes themselves are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and carry an odd, almost bitter hardness, though only occasionally.
His dark, perpetually tousled wavy hair curves to a stop just past his shoulders, falling diagonally across his face to partially obscure his left eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way.
His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing.
Eternally smiling, be it his typical condescending, unsettling grin, a scathing, derisive sneer, or a mutinous, dangerous smirk, Xerxes's wreathed himself in an air of his own truly baffling whimsy. Working tirelessly to shroud himself in enigma - not for any contrived, cliched desire to be "mysterious", mind you; he just enjoys seeing the stupid looks of consternation on people's faces - he imparts little more than the bare minimum on whatever allies he aligns himself with, yet does it in a way that makes it seem like it's their fault instead of his.
Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Xerxes can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He's well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There's something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really.
Incisive remarks or petty insults don't really bother him; he's always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he's quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, "my dear", to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he's patronizing a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well; his sentence structure and word choice are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind.
It's rare to spot Xerxes engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It's a massive waste of everyone's time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn't much like whining about things he knows he can't change.
Not all of Xerxes’ childish immaturity is an act, however. He's actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can't have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that's just a sad, sad travesty. He'd hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who's committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn't deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right?
He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he's already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe's luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he's not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he's seen it in action, so of course he's got to believe it exists, but he's yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time.
He's also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he's currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it's certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he'd never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!)
Xerxes often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he's quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, "Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!" He's a massive asshole. Just. God, he's so awful.
He came into the world silently, blinking owlishly up at the midwife, wide, curious eyes latching unshakably on her weary, haggard own. Not a single cry rose from his throat, no grating wails or frantic shrieks. Just silence, the heavy, wonderful pressure of silence. Which, in of itself, wasn’t exactly a big deal.
Most babies came out screaming and kicking, as if they instinctually knew they’d be better off crawling back in, little arms flailing for the dark, unknown abyss of unbirth. A wry smile unfurled on plump, chapped lips, frayed only slightly by fatigue’s jagged edge. “He’s a quiet one - a good, healthy set of lungs, I’m sure, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders, he does; knows when to keep his mouth shut. Don’t rebuke the small blessings, eh?”
Laughter, low and throaty, rumbled in his mother’s throat, and she swept a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. It was remarkable, almost, how someone could look so composed, even as beads of perspiration slid down her face in rivulets, her hair a disheveled, tangled mess, the red hue of exertion still gathering in her cheeks. If the midwife was weary, then Elizabeth Hasek was the picture of exhaustion. “The best sorts of mercies are the small ones - why else would I have popped him out, yeah?” She lifted her arms from the bed, extending her hands, reaching for the cloth-swathed bundle in the midwife’s arms. “Give him here - haven’t even gotten to see him yet. He’s supposed to have his father’s eyes, you know - all the others did.”
The midwife leaned over, gently easing the baby into his waiting mother’s arms. They were trembling, the midwife noticed, gooseflesh bristling on quivering skin. As Elizabeth cradled the baby close, clutching him protectively, her finger tangled in the cloth shielding the child.
One twist of the wrist, and the blanket slipped, baring a black insignia and the shoulder onto which it was inlaid.
The warmth seeped out of the room in great gusts. The sigil - the sign of the Hunter, the beast-mark, the shadow-taint. The burden of a thousand monsters - the pain of the hunt, the sting of the lies, the strain of playing the part of a demon housed in human skin. A chill trickled through the midwife’s veins, frosting over that wry grin, smothering the laughter rising in her throat. A monster. The bastard child of the darkness itself. The midwife scrambled back - no devil-spawn’s filth would corrupt her flesh. Her lineage was pure, simple, maybe, a bit plain and nondescript and yes, even poor, but she wasn’t the darkness’s whore. She was not the evil’s concubine, no, not her!
A sneer spread across those chapped lips, and cold eyes glittered with raw, unbridled hate. “You lying, wretched whore. What will the village say, when they see this act of - this act of debauchery?”
Elizabeth, to her credit, did not scream. She did not thrash or wail or plead. Tranquil eyes regarded the midwife, face carefully drawn into some pitiful attempt at composure. “Not my son,” she said, voice level, inflection slow, steady - deliberate. “They will not have him. Not my son.”
The child in her arms continued to stare, and the beast in his heart rumbled.
------------------------ -
As a child, Xerxes pricks his finger playing in the bazaar with a rusty old soldier’s knife shortly after the dusty road rushes up to meet him. His skull bounces off the dirt with an audible thump, and something warm and wet bubbles from between his lips. The cool, metallic tang of dirt assaults his senses in waves, and he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks he’s swallowed a rock. Iron’s pungent reek wafts in front of Xerxes’ nose mingling with the stale, stagnant stench of old rainwater, and something inside him stirs. His mouth waters.
The boy who shoved him lets out a short, barking laugh, voice scratchy and strident and loud, and he wants it to stop.
They find the boy an hour later, still screaming, fingers clutching at a crushed nose, flinching with the red-hot sear of agony every breath brings. It takes them another hour to find the rock that took half of his teeth, and even longer to deduce he swallowed the rest.
It takes them years to find Xerxes’ father, after that day, and when they find him, they find him hanged. ---------------------------- -
Her withered, sunken cheeks shuddered with each parting of her lips. “Don’t let me die, Xerx. Don’t leave your poor mother all alone.” Her voice is a breathy whimper, and each breath a ragged gasp. Oily, brittle clumps of hair surround her bald cranium like a halo, golden and waxy and dead. Much like she’ll soon be, he wagers.
His heart is tight, what with the anxiety clamping down every minute of every day.
He’s fifteen, now, and his mother’s abed with a particularly nasty case of pneumonia. Every home remedy, every possible cure, every type of medicine available all crumble before the malady’s wrath. It bulldozes over frothing, bubbling herbal concoctions, cleaves cleanly through leeches and injections, and grinds the latest experimental panacea into the dust underneath its heel.
He’s fifteen, and the snow clings to his eyelashes like manacles. It drifts lazily down to earth in great, heavy clumps, shivering as it falls, seeking refuge in the folds of his clothes and the strands of his hair. The jagged, uneven ridges of the brick wall grate roughly against his back, and the snow-smothered ground is cool against his legs.
Dull eyes sweep across the filthy expanse of alleyway on either side of him. Bland. Bland, and foul, and crusted with a layer of grime so thick not even a sharpened axe could chip it away. Pitiful. Pitiful and stupid and pathetic, just like the fool sitting slumped against it.
His eyes drift shut, and the cold overtakes him.
---------------------------------- -
He was still fifteen, and she appeared before him, sudden and fleeting as an apparition. Red hair. Green eyes.
Her name was L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢. (the name is like ice on his tongue, melting away every time he gets a solid grasp, he can’t remember, why can’t he remember)
“Hey, you.” A fingernail flicks against his forehead, and beads of blood well up in its wake. “Don’t you know you’ll catch a cold if you sleep in a place like this?” His eyes snap open, a yell tears itself from his throat, and he’s scrambling backwards, eyes wide and alarmed and absolutely bewildered.
Looking back, it was very obvious that she did not belong to this dimension.
The fingernail’s owner collapses into a fit of giggles, and when she tosses her head back in wild, unrestrained joy, her hair flutters with it, long and red and radiant. (He doesn’t notice, of course, there’s no way he noticed, especially not the fresh, clean scent wreathing it like a perfume.)
“You - what - “ The words refuse to come out, each conceived, delivered, and pronounced stillborn all before they pass his lips. His mouth is clumsy and tongue awkward, numb from the brutal cold, and his voice hoarse from disuse. “Who - ?”
“Say,” she says (sings, her voice is melodic and lilting and absolutely breathtaking) cutting him off, “what’s with you, anyway? Who do you think you are? This is my turf, I’ll have you know, and I don’t take kindly to outsiders! Your name, immediately!” And she’s pointing, her finger hovering inches from the tip of his nose.
(there’s something about the way she smiles that has him believe it)
“I am - “ the words fight his tongue, battering and thrashing, trying their damndest to resist “- Xerxes. Just . . . Xerxes.”
The finger swipes upwards, bopping the tip of his nose. “Really.” Another smile, another brandishing of the knives.
(it’s dangerous outside.)
“What a dull name!”
(so is she. power radiates from every pore. not human power. is it inhuman?)
Another laugh, this one slightly less malicious and slightly more fond.
(is she?)
“Well, then, Just Xerxes, I think you owe me an explanation!” she chirps, and then, barely pausing to offer her name, she flops down beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Ah! So warm!” He flinches - it’s been so long since another person’s touched him without recoiling, without calling him a beast or a demon - and there she is, resting her head against his bicep.
Wha - what are you doing - get away - ? Why is she touching him, he’s filth, he’s trash, horrible, vile, despicable -
He doesn’t realize she’s taken his breath away until he tries to speak, tries to offer something, anything -
She’s either very egocentric, or very perceptive, because she talks right over him, effortlessly trampling the onslaught of self-loathing that threatened to split his heart in two. “What’s brought you out here, you lazy, good-for-nothing slacker? Shirking your work? Running away? Recruiting for a crime syndicate?” It’s the first time someone’s called him anything besides a monster. ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing slacker’ - it wasn’t exactly a compliment, but he’d take it.
He opens his mouth again, and this time, the words cascade, flowing as freely as a waterfall. He tells her everything. His mark. His mother. The rumors, the verified truths - he tells her he’s a monster, and she laughs in his face, and tells him she’ll do him a favor, on one condition.
She says she’ll lend him a hand if he swears fealty, becomes her dog, her knight, her closest, most trusted companion, and the offer’s too good to be true, he knows it is, because humans don’t have eyes like that, people don’t act like that after one half hour of talking, but he’s too desperate to care.
He agrees, she smiles, and the world grows resplendent with light. ---------------------- -
He’s twenty-two, and not a day goes by where he’s not utterly dazzled by the vibrance of life. The bright carmine blossoms garnishing the blooming trees, the harmonic chorus of the birdsong, the tantalizing aroma of freshly-baked bread sweeping through crisp air - the world is alive, energy thrumming through every speck of matter, and so is he.
He’s twenty-two, and each smile comes easier than the last.
He’s twenty-two, and it’s not love, what he feels for this infuriating, capricious, wonderful creature, but it sure as hell isn’t apathy, either.
He doesn’t believe in angels, but his mother’s strength began returning in droves soon after his scarlet angel paid a clandestine visit to the house. Her cheeks filled back out, flushed with the glow of health, her hair grew back, and she could even walk. She could walk, she could work, she was a l i v e .
(it didn’t occur to him that it might not have been his mother until long after she ceased to be)
He’s twenty-two, and, why, perhaps he’d been a liiiiittle too quick on the draw, there, judging life all harshly like that! Really, what a rude thing to do!
- - --------------- -
He’s twenty-three, and the house is burning. Great, billowing columns of smoke pour from the flame-licked windows, spiraling as they rise. The world is bathed in a bright orange glow. The fire greedily sweeps across the flimsy wood, consuming each inch more ravenously, more rapidly, than the last. It’s moving too fast. It can’t be stopped. It’s not spreading.
He stares at the door, horror splayed across his features, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar, and all he can think is, Oh. He’s numb. His fingers itch. He wants to move. Should he? He can’t.
(they’ll find him, it’ll be like before, they’ll find him, hurt him, kill him)
The flames devour his mother’s bedroom, and the ensuing gut-wrenching shriek is so shrill, so ragged, so agonized that it curdles his blood.
(can’t chill, already cold, can’t freeze what’s already a block of ice)
L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢.’s there, too, not ten feet away, but unlike him, she’s not cowering behind debris. She’s facing the rampaging villagers head-on, trying to quell the riots, trying to diffuse the situation. She’s laughing wildly the entire time. This is her element, this chaos. Discord fuels her, common sense disgusts her, and if she had to conform to society’s expectations, she might very well have keeled over on the spot.
He watches in horror as the tip of a spear explodes from the back of her right shoulder, before she’s borne to the ground. Someone else fires as the soldier leans down to finish the job, their bullet carving a tunnel through his scarlet angel’s torso. Somebody is screaming, calling her a monster, a demon, a witch. As the knife approached her neck, Xerxes realises dimly it’s him. The baker’s son’s voice joins him in a counterpart.
There’s a sickening squelch as Xerxes hits the soldier like a freight train. The man went flying, most of his body a mangled wreck. One lone forearm stands out in stark relief, the spear it’s clutching still impaled through Lucy’s shoulder. Xerxes nearly retches, and then everything caught fire.
The rest of the fight is an ashen blur. All he remembers afterwards is the overwhelming need to hurt things, very, very quickly. When the last villager was a ragged mess of blood and pain in front of him, the world abruptly contracts. Everything seems to go dark, focusing on a single spot of colour. The bright, crimson pulse of blood, obscenely vivid against pale skin.
Her smile dims, and so does his entire universe.
---------
He’s twenty-four when the Fraternity scouts him, citing his alleged defeating of a skin-changing witch and the village she’d possessed as their reason.
He’s twenty-four when he accepts.
She was his sin.
This is his penance, the means through which he’ll atone.
Aspect of the Hunter:"Salamander" - Xerxes possesses the ability to manipulate and quell (but not conjure or generate) fire. He is also able to read the memories of ash and cinder - ironically cruel, considering the burden he bears - and is unable to be harmed by flames while he is conscious. Attempting to invoke his aspect while enraged would be . . . unwise, to say the least, although regardless of the aspect's current state of activation, succumbing to fury doesn't seem like a pleasant idea.
Stats
Strength - D
Vitality - C
Skill - B
Knowledge - B
Bloodlust - A
Darkness - A
Skills
The ability to be carded for alcohol until age 45
An assortment of truly bad ideas and equally foolhardy ways through which to execute them
In a battle of wits, Xerxes is usually almost certain to win, simply because he'll talk circles around the opposing party until they throw in the towel in a fit of disgusted frustration.
He's a master of misdirection and adept at distraction; he'll go off on a fifteen-minute tangent, then pick right back up where he was as if he'd never diverged.
However, Xerxes is also fairly weak. He's crafty, but that can only carry him so far. Due to his skinny frame and frail constitution, he can't dish out high damage, nor can he sustain any sort of hit. A few well-placed strikes could leave him permanently out for the count. He has to rely on cheap shots, his agility, and his craftiness and predilection for stealth to survive a fight.
Inventory
Scarlet Angelica - Named for the fickle, whimsical dreamer that would later save his life, Scarlet Angelica is Xerxes’ preferred weapon. Initially appearing as nothing more than an ornate, antique black parasol, it’s usually dismissed without a second thought. Concealed within the handle - or rather, taking the place of the handle - is a slender, wickedly sharp steel blade, tinted red to complete the aesthetic.
Lantern Flail - Dangling from a menacing chain, and glowing with an unearthly blue light, this lantern, ensconced in a thick, sturdy glass casing, serves as a monument immortalizing the brutality of the Hunters. Each pane of glass is secured by a thin metal bar, which connects the top of this unusual device to the bottom, preventing a catastrophic spill. A heavy chain protrudes from the circular hook on top, enabling Xerxes to use it as an emergency bludgeon. Both practical, yet extremely painful.
A small bag of individually-wrapped sour candies, most of which contain a deadly poison. The green ones are commonly regarded as the worst, most noxious, vilest-tasting flavor ever to desecrate the sanctity of candy itself, and those are the only ones not tainted. (The green ones are Xerxes’ favorite, and the only ones he’ll eat, so this does wonders for dropping his target’s guard.)
@Boggle: Everything looks good so far, just finish everything up and you're accepted. Your Hunter's Aspect and Title is "Bloodletter" which gives you grants you endurance and regeneration when consuming blood. Drinking the blood of creatures aligned with the dark will also temporarily grant you aspects of their powers (be careful though, since this can also include taking on their weaknesses). What will happen when you drink the blood of a fellow Hunter is as of yet, uncertain.
@Clericbeast: You're right, it's heavily inspired by Bloodborne (as is your name I see) along with some other things like Dishonored, Bioshock, Claymore, etc. As for your character, looks cool so far, just finish up your backstory then I can give you your Hunter's Aspect.
@Clericbeast: Looks good! Your Hunter's Aspect and Title is "Salamander" which gives you the ability to manipulate and quell (but not create) fire. You are also able to read the memories of ash and cinder, and are unable to be harmed by flames while you are conscious. Be careful, something bad might happen if you are enraged.
Athletic to say the least Ligeia's pleasingly muscular figure slopes from an unobtrusive bust into belled hips and a pair of plump, powerful thighs; aggressively feminine. Her chiseled form conjures to mind the warrior women of mural and myth more than the carefully cultivated beauty of Penumbra's waifish socialites, mired dually in as much threat as allure. When paired with her maverick demeanor it's nearly enough for one to overlook the jarring absence of either hand.
Her face flows in broad strokes; sly, sleepy eyes nestled beneath a bantam brow like flecks of sard. Full cheeks tapering into the sort of jaw you could really tee off on and a chin that was made to be upturned. Like a wax seal her small, scornful little smirk of a mouth pulls everything together, silently assuring the world of her superiority.
A tidy crop of dark curls survives the scalp revealing trim that mows its way down into a very utilitarian cross braid a stone's throw away from being a 'hawk'. In the end she's left with a prim, all-weather cut just full bodied enough to fit a few fingers through.
Her voice is pure audio sex, a soporific melody that could make good morning sound like an invitation to bed.
Ruthless to a fault Ligeia sees her wits and wiles as little more than ready tools to be added to her repertoire, the sort of woman that spreads her legs with all the compassion of a bear trap. Often with the same result. In her mind she is the better woman. The better hunter. Much of her life spent accruing the needed skills to keep this image free from contention and eradicating worthy rivals.
The aplomb with which she greets life's hardships is itself an exercise in self-indulgence, her vanity obliging her more than any actual mettle or content of character. A gourmand when it comes to worldly pleasures, she lives to be pampered, praised and adored as much as she aches to be feared and reviled. Loving nothing save herself the triumphs and tribulations of all others are met with either spite or indifference.
Enamored with the idea of molding her own heir Ligeia has proved a poor mother, adoptive or otherwise. Her long list of proteges all having met suspiciously grisly fates as they inevitably fell from their mentor's good graces.
Life assaulted the frail form pulled forth wet and wailing from its mother, another of Lord Siccar's bastard children; the fragile infant's fledgling senses groping for purchase as that first breath sputter's and fails. Like the tide drawn out before a tsunami that chilling sight flensed the once jubilant assemblage of color before the sudden crash of shouts and commotion flooded the bedchamber. In frantic delirium the mother whimpers hoarsely for her baby, hurried hands rushing to restrain her even as other work away the umbilical noosed around its throat. It's far too late for her, the leaden ache of a collapsed lung all that she will ever know; already cooling on the bedsheets.
"I'm sorry." the midwife began, silenced not by the mournful mother but instead the tiny sound that had usurped everyone's attention. Laughter. For in all the calamity the mistress had born twins and a giggling newborn girl now greeted them with toothless grin, still toying with the fleshy tether that had ensnared her sister.
A dark blot jeered at them from her belly.
------------------------ -
"Why doesn't mother tutor me?" queried Ligeia, knocked-knees dangling restlessly over the lip of her chair. The world-weary professor whom she liked to imagine must never have been a child leveling his tired gaze with her to eke out an impeccably dry response. "As we've discussed your mother remains infirmed."
"Oh." the spritely girl chirped, dog-earing the textbook pedestaled atop her writing desk before venturing to continue. "Is that why mother never visits?" This urged her teacher only to parrot himself, stating once more "As we've discussed your mother remains infirmed." irritation soaking into the terse reply. "Strange." remarked little Ligeia. "How so?" groused the scholar.
"Because when nobody thinks I'm listening they say it's since I killed my sister."
------------------------ -
"Really now, don't you fancy me anymore Cyril?" she teased, a gloved hand walking down her tomboyish frame to explore the small knick now inlaid upon her hip. "I thought it might persuade you to give up this foolishness. If Gais knew you were sparring, and with real swords no less--" her step-brother worriedly confided, as if expecting his sudden arrival. Ligeia snickered back at him and crossed swords, reaching down to roughly seize his most sensitive anatomy in a harsh hold that had him wincing "I hardly think that's the worst we keep from father." she'd put bluntly, sidling up against her older sibling and daring him to kiss her.
Like father like son it seemed. Both so eager to be led astray.
------------------------ -
"A duel?" scoffed Tristan to the sound of hearty applause, as incredulous to the prospect as his peers. "You said I could ask for anything, did you not? I want a duel." she'd remind, already having perfected that pouty little frown of hers. "And whom shall I be dueling M'lady? You have no other suitors of which I am aware." he'd so gloriously announce, the request having caused even her father and his court to stifle chuckles. Even so Ligeia wore an entirely different sort of smile as Cyril, as much a man as she was now a lady, pushed out from his chair. This was less a laughing matter, for of all Lord Siccar's children none were so renowned for their swordsmanship.
Murmurs yipped at his heels all the way, and as he came to stand before his prospective brother-in-law the rasp of metal leaving its scabbard hissed over the growing din of protest. None were so loud as that of Gais, their father; he'd been careful to silence the spread of rumor surrounding his least loved daughter--bastard or no she'd be of use, so long as word of that damnable mark never reached the right ears. It was only as the weapon passed from Cyril to Ligeia that the room breathed a sigh of relief and a few onlookers reprised their amused tittering.
"You'd best humor her, none are so willful as my dearest Ligeia." advised the Lord, with the caveat that any wounds would be sure to spoil the honeymoon. Barely sixteen no one expected her to do more than imitate what she'd seen of her brothers. She'd be disarmed with a showy display and they'd be wed, or so was the prevailing notion. She shed those preconceptions in the instant it took for her sword to dance through Tristan's silhouette.
------------------------ -
"Cognatic primogeniture" she'd crisply tut, it was an unusual toast to say the least, but her family had grown accustomed--if weary--of such antics in the year following her duel. "What of it?" her elder step-brother asked, arm laid lovingly across his wife Emilia. "Very much I should think, now that you've been blessed with child. Too starry eyed to notice the lovely banquet we've prepared?" that at least was something worth drinking to, and many did until Ligeia continued. "Do you think of me when you fuck her or the other way around?" she'd say so casually that the only response was a stunned 'what?' blurted by one of their many drunk uncles, she was unkind enough to repeated it for him.
Plates clattered onto the floor as the table erupted into a shouting match some forty voices strong, that one venomous barb having ignited decades of unaired grievances. It took a furious Gais to restore order, bellowing over his amassed and fractured bloodline. "You conniving, incestuous whore! I should have had the good sense to let you waste away with your mother. You've been nothing but a blight on my good name and venerable house. Out! Out I say! I disown you foul beast. I never wish to lay eyes upon you or that damnedable mark ever again!" Naught but dead silence existed in the wake of the abuse he had hurled, for he was a lord first and father second and spoke not merely words but commands.
"And you won't, father." she'd affirm, rising from her seat at the far end of the table and briskly striding to the door. "You died tragically, revenge for my slaying of Tristan. His father is known to be a vengeful man." she all but cooed, barring the exit. "Why. His men killed everyone here--it's a miracle I survived."
------------------------ -
Bleary eyes fell through the empty space each wrist now offered as a throbbing pain threatened to push her back into the void of unconsciousness. "Impressive. Might have worked if you'd just swallowed your pride and poisoned them." A gruff voice surmised, heaping something onto her chest, she didn't need to look down to know what it was. "Really have to hand it to you." quipped her abductor. Ligeia was too weak to reply.
"I hear your brother's on the mend--might not want to send him your well wishes just yet though, first words he could manage were 'drawn and quartered.' chuffed the unseen man. "But don't you fret, coin doesn't mean much where you're going." It was an impactful statement, had her tensing for a deathblow that didn't come. "Told you not to fret." the voice mocked, tussling her hair. "As it happens you did come into an inheritance today..." mused the hunter, peeling away his glove to display an all too familiar birthmark.
------------------------ -
Aspect of the Hunter:"Belladonna" - Ligeia possesses the ability to mesmerize and entrance others with little more than her rhythmic undulations and a sustained gyre of hip. Unsurprisingly denizens of the dark are not so easily bewitched, her efforts only serving to slow or distract them.
Stats
Strength – B Vitality – B Skill – A Knowledge – A Bloodlust – C Darkness – D
Skills
Greased Eel - Ligeia could put most contortionists to shame, gleefully plunging over that line where flexibility stops being seductive. This has proven to be of questionable utility professionally but indispensable in more private affairs.
Educated Feet - Keen to overcome whatever hand she's been dealt--or in this case denied--Ligeia has sculpted her feet and toes into precision instruments over the later half of her life. Should she ever give up the hunt there's a promising career in watchmaking ahead of her.
Adaptive - Burdened with an Aspect that is exceptionally weak on its own this innovative huntress utilizes an array of duskstone powered inventions cobbled together for the express purpose of working in tandem with her esoteric powers.
Inventory
Mosquito Mask- Far from the traditional fare the Lady Siccar deigns to helm herself in a face obscuring mask festooned with ornamentation, not least of which being the pappenheimer-esque visor that mediates her flinty gaze. With a dangerously sharp proboscis featured prominently she pecks away at foes with rapier precision.
Bondage Armor - More the product of predilection than practicality this custom tailored ensemble is two parts reinforced fencing armor mixed with a dash of sanitarium straight jacket and trussed with enough lace, leather and locks to give it that S&M flair. The sleeves socket snugly into special pockets at the front and back of a sturdy doublet, so that each arm may rest close to the body--the precautionary 'off-hand' favored among classical duelists.
Stinger - A sharp spike and some thirty feet of thick cable attached to a duskstone powered winch. Worn unobtrusively upon the back and operated with a crude turn crank mechanism allowing for its deployment and retrieval.
How are we supposed to rank the stats? I know you said 'Rank them A through E' does that mean one gets an A, one gets a B, etc.? Or is it more random and you'll tell us if we're going balls deep into the over-powered dangerzone?
Name: Geoffrey Whittake Title:"Mirrorwalker" Age: 71 Backstory: Born with the sigil upon his palm, Geoffrey was barely ever raised by his parents. They kept him around untill he became five, then began to push him out of the door daily, locking it behind him. "Do do something!" they would shout from behind the door. And do something he would.
He'd go out, find as many books as possible, discarded, thrown out, he'd even begun to steal some at the age of twelve. Always going back home later on. His parents were always slow to open any doors, and would attempt to get him to go back, but infill he turned 14, he never did go back. At the age of 14, he came home, but before even hearing the voice of his parents, the people he once thought loved him so, he turned and left, to find a new place to go.
For the next ten years of his life he was homeless. His book stealing eventually grinded to a slower pace, as he had read what seemed to be every book findable. Of course going anywhere to purchase books wawasnt possible because even if he stole the money, he'd likely be attacked for having the sigil upon his hand.
Fast forward 3 years, as the years of being alone, unlikeable due to his sigil and the eventual stop to stealing, one of his only things to do, he eventually snapped. Walking around from sidewalk to sidewalk, a man bumped into him, immediately the man turned and called him a nobrained fuck. To which Geoffrey replied to him, by punching him in the stomach, causing them to double over and begin to gasp for air. People saw it, and one man went over to help the other. Geoff, noticing the man had come close to him, he jerked forward, slamming his hand into their face, knocking them down in a single punch. It wasn't lot before everybody in the area began to sorround Geoffrey, attacking him and attempting to throw him out. Even stronger than any average man, he was unable to fight back, and he rushed away.
Despite being chased by the ones who came after him, he was an expert at fleeing from people, and slipping away due to his long life as a thief. He easily was able to get far away from the people, though he was scattered with bruises after being mobbed by the people. Later that day, he was found by a hunter, and taken in when his Sigil was discovered. It had been many years of waiting, but it was finally time that he become apart of the group he was cursed to enter.
Aspect Of The Hunter: "Mirrorwalker" which grants you the ability to instantly travel or send messages through reflective surfaces. Your attacks and weapons mysteriously seem to ignore hide and armor. Be wary of traveling through mirrors in the darkness, you never know what else will be doing the same.
Strength: D Vitality: C Skill: B Knowledge: A Bloodlust: C Darkness: B
Skills: -Can finish a 300 page book in an hour, if he's really trying -Is, despite being old, still quite OK at the art of running the he'll away.
Inventory:
-Iron Caltrops: A large bag of cantrops, used for dropping in the midst of being chased. Four spikes and made so that no matter what, one spike is facing up. Watch your feet!
Pocket Knife: A small knife for which he keeps in his boot.
A Wanderer's Honor: His all time favorite book. Contains 200 pages. Leather cover.
Rapier: A small and swift sword, to fit with his expert speed and ability. His only reliable weapon.
@Dandelion: Clericbeast was correct. You are free to distribute stats however you want, and if it's too much I'll let you know.
@BeachBurrito: I have a few concerns with your character, mostly curious what the point is for your "Bondage armor". The mask is fine, if a bit eccentric, though I have to ask how she's going to fight besides trying to peck people. It's also a personal peeve of mine, but I really do prefer character images to descriptions, though I don't mind both. Backstory looks fine though, your Hunter's Aspect and Title is "Belladonna" which gives you the ability to enthrall and hypnotize others with your dance and movements. This is much less effective against creatures aligned with the Dark, while you can usually slow down or distract monsters you cannot fully control their actions as you would a normal human.
@Geoffrey: I know he's supposed to be a bookish coward, but you might want to consider giving him an actual weapon. Caltrops will be woefully ineffective against most the things you will be fighting. Everything else looks fine, your Hunter's Aspect and Title is "Mirrorwalker" which grants you the ability to instantly travel or send messages through reflective surfaces. Your attacks and weapons mysteriously seem to ignore hide and armor. Be wary of traveling through mirrors in the darkness, you never know what else will be doing the same.
1. Bondage Armor: Mostly a stylistic choice. Ligiea's take on 'I could beat you with my arms tied behind my back' 2. Aside from pecking she's sure to unleash volleys of kicks, knees, leg locks and shoulder take-downs. More to the point however, that helm of hers is attached to a full sized sword... 3. Not really the sort of aspect I had in mind when hoping for something to work in tandem with her inventions but I can work with it. I wouldn't have left it blank if I didn't want to be surprised.
One last thing though--and I don't really want to be that person--but I feel it needs to be said. I'm not a fan of the many spelling and grammar errors to be found in Geoffrey's rather short CS. By all means it's your roleplay and your decision and I might be the only one bothered by it. That said I'd rather back out early if that's where you set the bar for applicants, even if some (like cleric beast and yourself) exceed the standard. Wouldn't want to spoil the fun for others or drop out mid chapter.
