I expect that I need to put this first post here before anyone else can reply. That would make sense!

Here's my character:

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Name: Morgan Blackwood

Gender: Female

Race/Species: Succubus, but it’s complicated. The company’s founders know exactly who and what she is, as well as where she came from, but some mysteries remain. Most others have figured it out, either through stories or firsthand experience, that she isn’t human, though only a handful of people she likes and trusts know more than that.

Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): As a corporeal being, about 100 years. As a formless consciousness in a crushing, dark void, considerably longer. She appears to be in her early thirties.

Appearance:

Slightly over average height, Morgan is definitely not the kind person who fades into the background. Not out of brashness or a sense of constantly being in the spotlight, but more that her body language suggests effortless, lazy, near-perfect confidence. She is built like a martial artist or professional dancer, every line dangerous and elegantly feminine. Her skin is fair rather than unhealthily pale, and she has a tumble of dark, wavy locks that she keeps tied into a loose ponytail, though some hangs down to frame her face. Morgan's features are striking, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, just short of being masculine and with a constant, mischievous tilt to her inviting, playful lips. Her eyes are deep, crystalline blue-green, glittering with intelligence and, deep within, slow promises of wicked sensuality. She moves with a predator’s perfect, captivating grace, and though she's capable of startlingly fast motion, she tends to move at a relaxed pace unless otherwise required. Morgan is, by any measure, attractive, but people tend to remember why differently. They do, however, agree that she's beautiful in the same way as a sword - captivating, but with the subtle menace of dark purpose. Her hands are strong and quick, with long fingers tipped with a perfect manicure. Of her handful of scars, the small one that cuts through her left eyebrow is the most visible, and she has no tattoos.

Morgan tends to dress in well-tailored suits with button-down shirts and cufflinks, though she often leaves one more button undone than propriety might require. Most of her shoes and boots have at least some kind of heel, though not so much that she's in danger of tottering off them to break her neck on the pavement. She doesn't wear a lot of jewelry, but she does have a pendant around her neck and several studs in each ear. She is deeply self-conscious about the fact that she needs reading glasses to see small print, but still carries a pair of round, brass-wire-rimmed spectacles with her in a jacket pocket.

It’s very difficult to see her shoulder holster, but she usually has one.

Personality: Morgan is pleasant, gregarious, more than a little bit of a smartass and has a wicked, playful sense of humour. She likes people, she likes their stories, and she likes the stories they think they aren't telling best of all. She tends to be direct and forthright, though rarely rude or blunt, and subtlety is not always something that she excels at. Despite that, there are things - particularly about herself - that she doesn't talk about, secrets she would prefer not to throw about with no regard to who's listening, and those subjects will meet with anything from polite rebuff to an occasional harsh word. She tends not to bend the truth too much, as Morgan is a terrible, terrible liar. Perhaps somewhat unusually, she has a well-developed sense of internal morality - Morgan very much knows the difference between right and wrong, and prefers to 'do the right thing,' though for more complicated reasons than simple schoolhouse lessons. She is fiercely loyal, though not blinded by those attachments, and is possessed of an iron-bound sense of willpower and self-control. Perhaps important for those endless stakeouts waiting for something to happen, Morgan is intelligent, not easily bored, an excellent conversationalist, and a rather good singer.

Finally, Morgan has the kind of rich, plummy, upper-crust British accent that you might associate with an expensive boarding-school education. The silken, wicked edge her words sometimes carry is likely not from the same place.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: In terms of supernatural abilities, Morgan has a powerful psychometric talent. In other words, by touching something, or in certain circumstances, someone, she can get a look at important moments in that thing's past as a kind of disjointed series of vignettes. These are not complete, "like she was there" recollections, but can provide invaluable information - at the expense of those things being imprinted, indelibly, in Morgan's memory. She can, in general, control when to use this talent - save in some specific circumstances.

Like many of her kind, Morgan is, at a very deep level, a kind of predator - one that hunts for a very particular kind of prey. She possesses a combination of pheromones and psychic weaponry to manipulate desire and arousal, though she rarely makes use of it anymore. When she does, though, the effect can be devastating - to the point of rendering whoever she has her attention on incapable of anything save involuntary orgasm. It isn’t manipulation or persuasion, it isn’t nice, and, since there are times when Morgan isn’t the kindest person in the world, the person on the other end can know exactly what’s going on, but be more or less incapable of stopping it. Provided, of course, that person is a more-or-less-average more-or-less mortal - there are certainly creatures that can rebuff her…”charm.” This kind of psychic hammer-blow is something she does not do often, as she doesn’t like the way it feels, and she doesn’t like the way it makes her feel about herself. She can’t turn off the psychic come-hither, not completely (She IS a succubus - she gets a lot of stares and come-ons at the bar, from most of the men and some of the women) so any creature that has psychic feelers or supernatural senses will probably be able to sense her, one way or another.

The reason that she doesn’t switch on the supernatural sexiness is complicated, and related to her psychometric abilities. The problem is that when the fun starts, that talent flares into brilliant clarity, which is also when her natural instincts to devour the soul, or life force, or whatever of the person she’s with becomes almost too much to ignore. The result is that she gets a crystalline, piercing look at who that person is, who they want to be, and who they wish they were in startling, clarion clarity and indelible detail. In other words, she’s certain that she will psychically maim, or kill, people she’s intimate with, and not only does she have a conscience about that, but she gets a brilliant, beautiful look at that person’s story, one that she can’t believe should end with her.

The result is that she goes through life in something like a permanent addict’s withdrawal - a deep, powerful craving that she knows could be sated by just taking one tiny action, but one she’s unwilling to perform. She has largely learned to wall the feelings away from her thoughts, but there are times, especially on the long and lonely Seattle nights…

While not supernaturally quick, Morgan does have a nearly-perfect sense of balance and grace, and she is considerably tougher than she looks. Not tough enough to survive a bullet to the head, but enough that it would take some considerable effort to kill her, and she heals fast. Not mutant-healing-factor fast, but faster than a human would under similar circumstances. Despite that, she is fiercely protective of her life, because she knows exactly what will happen to her if her body dies, and she has absolutely no interest in returning to that empty space behind the eyes of humanity.

She is, perhaps unsurprisingly, powerfully allergic to silver, and even alloys containing silver, to the point that she has to be rather careful around PHI’s preferred ammunition, or handle it with gloves. If that silver is, for example, something that's been handed down a family line or has been made holy by any number of means, much worse things will happen to her if she's hurt, or even has contact with it. This does not extend to holy symbols, holy words, or holy swords - unless they happen to be made of, have filigree made of, or contain silver. She stays away from Irish girls with claddagh rings for this very reason.

Background:

Morgan was used to surreptitious glances, barely-controlled stares and even seething scowls charged with hostility. Still, she had to admit that, perhaps this time, something beyond her natural charms brought that attention on. To begin with, none of the other patrons had come in with a long, shallow cut over one cheekbone, which still left bright red marks on the stolen napkin she pressed there. Pale skin showed through a constellation of tears and rips in her close-fitted suit, a few seams split. Dark char and scorch marks rimmed some of the more shredded areas, silk fibers frayed and bobbing as she moved. As Morgan walked, she favored one leg, her movement painful and hitched with every other step. Even her hands stood out, nails still shiny with the remnants of a manicure, fingers stained with unknowable grime, her slim, gold watch holding a shattered faceplate. Despite her appearance, the maitre d’ had withstood Morgan’s glare for only a handful of seconds before he decided that seating the woman would be less trouble than trying to throw her out. If he led her to the back of the restaurant, away not only from the windows but every other patron, then that was perfectly fine with her. She had done her best not to snarl her order to the waitress, but the poor girl seemed terrified all the same.

Half an hour later, Morgan sliced a piece off of the steak on her fine, bone-white plate and chewed with the careful, deliberate delicacy of someone who has recently been hit on the jaw. Swallowing, she took a deep breath and stuffed down the urge to pick the meat up with her hands and tear at the steaming flesh with her teeth; a hundred years and that instinct bore down with an almost physical need. Still, with the evening she’d had, a few old habits lurking beneath the surface couldn’t be that surprising. Her knife squeaked against the plate as she cut down again, bloody gravy leaking out of the expertly, if only barely, cooked dish in front of her.

“I see you started without me,” came a pleasant, smooth alto as a figure settled into the chair across from Morgan.

“Mm,” Morgan said, swallowing down a bite, “Don’t be like that. I ordered you a glass of wine. And don’t you dare make the ‘I-don’t-drink-vine” joke. You’re on your own from there.” She smirked, but with a deep tiredness behind the expression, her glittering eyes a little duller than usual. “You’re Hawthorne, then, I take it?”

“Ah,” the other woman said, taking an appraising look at Morgan’s bedraggled state. As Hawthorne tilted her head, a lock of hair fell across one bright green eye, an echo of Veronica Lake’s glamour. “Yes, quite. And you would be…ah, how to phrase this delicately-“

“The FBI’s pet monster?” Morgan interrupted, skewering an asparagus tip with her fork, holding it up with an uncertain expression before putting it in her mouth.

“I was going to say ‘an agent of the government,’ but I suppose that will do just as well.” A waitress arrived, carrying Hawthorne’s drink on a dark wooden tray. The pair watched, variously impressed, with the way she delivered it from tray to table without taking her eyes off a hole in Morgan’s jacket and shirt, one that showed a square inch of the slope of her left breast. Her fingers lingered on the glass for a long moment before she shook her head and pulled herself away, her expression slightly confused.

Morgan looked over at Hawthorne and waved her fork, swallowing the asparagus tip with a deeply suspicious shudder, “Let’s say that’s…no longer an operative statement.”

“Indeed?” Hawthorne replied as her long-fingered hands wrapped around the glass, cradling it as though it might break, “And are your previous employers…ah…aware of that?”

“I should imagine so,” Morgan sighed. She reached into her jacket and tossed a thin leather wallet onto the table. A small, round hole had been punched neatly through one flap, a coppery glint catching the low restaurant light through the puncture, “It was the way they shot me that gave me a clue. But the real hints were probably the car chase and the grenade.”

“Do you mind if I ask why your employers felt the need to make your evening so exciting?” Hawthorne said, her tone carefully neutral. She picked up the wallet and flipped the cover open. The badge inside, with its ornate border and the fact it omitted “Federal” from “Bureau of Investigation,” looked to be a relic from a bygone era. Just left of centre, the metal bowed inward around a sharp divot, the engraving distorted. Hawthorne turned the badge over and her fingers found a dent, the metal rippled and cracked. The bullet strike had missed the ID photo, and Morgan’s face looked out, an impish smirk on her face even there.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Morgan sliced another strip of steak away from the bone on her plate, “I did shoot the director of the Paranormal Intelligence Commission.” She looked sharply at Hawthorne, “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but the Bureau asked me to hunt down a vampire who was causing all kinds of trouble, and I found him in the middle of having a college basketball player as an after-dinner snack.”

“Ah,” Hawthorne replied, drawing the syllable out, “You know that bullets don’t stop-“

“I wasn’t trying to stop him, just get him away from that kid,” Morgan broke in, “Besides, I think he might have been about as old as…” She hesitated, “…you are. I couldn’t have stopped him if I wanted to. But,” Morgan studied the dripping piece of meat on her fork, “That meant he could get on his radio and call for help.”

Hawthorne took another drink of her wine, contemplative, “Hence this meeting.”

“Hence this meeting,” Morgan said, putting the bite in her mouth with a slow and almost exaggerated, care.

The older woman lifted her glass to a tiny pinprick of light, as though it might reveal something about the dark, rich liquid. She swirled it, a thoughtful look on her long and not unpleasant face, her bright eyes examining Morgan as she took another sip.

“I heard that you asked for my colleague when you called,” she said at length.

Morgan smirked, a glimmer of wickedness in her eye, “Yes, I did.”

“Can I ask why?” Hawthorne said, the ghost of a smile tugging at one side of her mouth.

“I wanted to see how good you were,” Morgan replied, setting her knife down. The bone in front of her could only have been cleaner if it had been given to a group of carrion beetles with obsessive-compulsive disorder. The pile of asparagus, other than the single spear she’d eaten, lay untouched.

“We do actually know what you are,” Hawthorne said, her rich voice low, “In the past, we’ve had…dealings with someone like you.”

Morgan grinned and leaned forward a little, crossing her arms beneath her chest on the tabletop, “Not like me,” she said, her voice a smooth, playful purr wrapped in wicked promises neither of them would keep.

“Do you have anything you want to collect?” Hawthorne said, the lopsided smile still on her face, “It’s a long flight.”

Morgan grin remained, “I’m already packed. I know how long it takes the Bureau to freeze assets, but I left them enough to feel good about themselves.”

“Then welcome to Priest & Hawthorne,” Hawthorne said, holding out her hand, “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

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IMPORTANT NPCS

Samuel Priest - Co-founder of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. A slender man of medium height, he is not terribly imposing. He owns a collection of tailored vests, a bowler hat, and an improbable Cockney accent. He has dark hair, greying at the temples, and apparently always has. What, exactly, he does for the company isn’t immediately clear. He currently lives in Philadelphia.

Adelina Hawthorne - Co-founder of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. Motherly and pleasant, with chestnut hair and dimples, it’s hard to believe the stories about how dangerous she is. She oversees day-to-day operations for the company, from ordering the silver bullets to browbeating banks into delivering checks in envelopes made of leaves from a very specific oak tree in Waukegan, Illinois. She lives in Philadelphia.

Solomon (Sol) Tanner - Current head of the PHI office in Seattle. A bear of a man with a sleek but very thorough beard, intense eyes, and a voice like industrial machinery, he is deliberately pleasant, refined, and genteel. He has overseen operations at PHI in Seattle for twenty years, has a vast network of contacts, and nobody has ever seen him sleep. He lives in Seattle.

Shiloh Grey - Archivist and researcher at PHI. She is strong, statuesque, often quiet, but anything but mousy. Her glare has been known to even silence Sol, on the occasions when they’ve been at odds. Her hair is wolfs-mane grey, and her features have a timeless, though not necessarily youthful, beauty. She has forgotten more about the supernatural world than many others, even immortals, have ever known. Taking something out of the archives without asking might be a fairly terminal idea.

Name: Robert Miller jr. Or just Rob.

Gender: Male.

Race: Human

Age: He's 46, though the graying hair and wrinkles make him look over his fifties.

Appearance: Robert miller jr. is 5 feet 11 inches tall and weights 182 pounds. His hair is a mixture of dark and grey, short and if not messy, definitely not combed nor specially maintained. He doesn't keep beard but doesn't shave it daily, so there's stubble. His eyes are greenish between two heavy eyelids and small bags under the eyes, making him look constantly tired. Lips are thin and mouth isn't particularly wide. His face could have been cut from wood, with strong, thin jaw, slim cheeks, roman nose and high cheekbones. But his skin starts to show wrinkles and aging.

Rob wears dress shirts with vests and woolen trousers with mild colors, kept up by a belt with silver buckle. Shoes are made from brown or black leather, somewhat maintained but seen wearing. He has three sets of silver cuff links; two looking like half of a marble and third flat square with rose carving. Outside he dons either his long grey trench coat or a simple brown jacket and grey fedora.

Personality: The work at Priest & Hawthorne Investigations is a personal crusade for Robert. He did his job well before joining the PHI, but calm and professional Robert has found his calling, passion to work or meaning of life in the unit.

Robert lived three decades without encountering any paranormal activity. Hence he still isn't all friends with the supernatural abilities or beings, but during the years he has accepted that they are part of this world and not all of them are hostile. Some might even be useful.

He has seen, read and experienced enough in his years to not be shaken too much, but that's not to say one can't see things affecting him. Twitch at his lips or clutching his fists before relaxing tell more than enough when cases get serious to him. And when he's serious, he focuses on the case to get it done like a locomotive. He's not afraid to rough people up if it means getting forward.

Out of cases or on breaks Rob enjoys conversations and activity to relax his mind before next case or continuing his current one. For Robert a relaxed mind without too much trouble is an effective tool.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:

He has spent four years in marine corps, where he was taught the art of shooting things with variety of weapons. He wields his pistols professionally and he is accurate with rifles, all way up to 200 yards. With sniper rifle he can shoot to targets 500 yards away in right conditions. He has decent hand-to-hand capabilities (krav maga, judo, boxing) and he still keeps himself fit to be prepared just in case.

He has contacts in and out of law due to his years as a County Detective and few towards paranormal activity after his cases with PHI. Robert's sources might prove useful to gain artifacts, books, information or equipment for a case at hand.

Robert has a knack for surveillance and inspection. He tails people in and out of cities, he does surveillance from safe distance, he asks around for information related to people involved in the cases and if needed, he will bug the apartments or put a tracer under a car. When it comes to people, it's "Job for Rob".

Background:

People sometimes ask how a man from decent Minnesota family with promising career in Law enforcement ended up in Priest & Hawthorne investigations. There is one official case file and several stories to answer that question, but on average the tale goes like this:

Years ago there were some peculiar news about missing persons around the state of Washington. Priest & Hawthorne Investigations were sent agents to investigate this as rumors about cultists started to pop at the same time. During the investigations they found out about a small cult which made contact with priests, rabbis and other people. PHI wasn't exactly sure what the cult had for sale - though related to missing persons, it wasn't probably anything good- so they prepared themselves against variety of threats.

They finally found the cult in Mattawa. The cult was once again selling their "miracles" to the church members in exchange for money, shelter and well, people. They had the town figured out but the cult's location was still at large. Time was running out to find out who were hiding the cultists and what they were planning.

Two days later still in the middle of investigations the police and ambulance going to pick up six cult members, two who had been shot. PHI later came to reclaim what was left from the artifacts, burned books and whatever information that was left in their hideout. It wasn't long to find out they were dealing with a demon demanding sacrifices for his own amusement. In exchange he demonstrated supernatural powers and promised more for those joining him. At least according to stories.

They later went to interrogate the cult members, who revealed that some dark brown haired man had came to their apartment with assault rifle. It was their cult leader who was possessed by the demon, and the confrontation between the two ensued. Man had no idea how to expel the demon or slay it, but he knew that throwing salt and contact with his silver cuff links were able to repel it. Fierce battle between the two wounded two cult members and forced the cult leader to escape.

PHI investigators next searched the man that had called the police. They quickly found out he was called Robert Miller jr, a former county detective. It didn't take long for them to call his phone and arrange for a meeting to listen what Robert knew. The rumor has it that Robert had hunted the cult for 8 months thanks to a case he was involved in. It started with a missing witness to a case - generally assumed to be related with catholic priest, though some suggest conspiracies- that had Rob puzzled for a week before finding out the people involved. He had found the girl alive and well, but he had also taken his first step into supernatural world. Leaving behind the logic of natural world he took a leap of fate studied demonology. Naturally books and urban stories were numerous. Facts were hard to come by but Robert had taken his time to piece together at least something to deal with the demon he tailed.

The follow up is well known though. The Priest & Hawthorne Investigations agents and Robert cooperated to find the cult leader and expel the demon. Robert had done a remarkable job finding the possessed one and cornering him with the PHI personnel. They kept Robert's number in case there was a need for his man-hunting skills.

Another case not too long after their first meeting and Robert was invited to Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. They quickly found out that finding people wasn't the only thing Robert was decent at.

Robert doesn't specify why he stays at PHI. "Money and an interesting career" is his usual answer when asked. Some suggest the first counter with paranormal was quite special for Robert, like opening of a new world. Others say the girl he first saved was sent in asylum and Robert still feels guilt. Whatever the exact reasons are, Robert keeps doing his job with determination.

Name: Emmaline Von Morganstern (Goes by Emma Stern)

Gender: Female

Race/Species: Human

Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): 28

Appearance:

Emma is a tall Germanic woman with straw blond hair. She is pretty, although her high cheekbones and angular features seem to conspire to rob her of true beauty. She has a hiker’s lean trim build which bespeak many years of alpine life in her native Austria. Although her eyes are a piercing blue, they are usually kept behind the large glasses she wears to aid her with her reading.

Emma affects a stern masculine body language and takes pains to limit her femininity. Her hair is kept in a tight bun and her back rigid. She wears tailored suit of an academic cut when she is at work but is equally comfortable in sportswear when off duty or the situation demands it. Her taste in jewelry is her only divergence from strict propriety and she is almost always seen with bracelets and necklaces made of silver or polished copper.

Despite having lived in the United States for several years, and her best efforts, Emma has been unable to eradicate her crisp Austrian accent.

Personality:
Emma is first and foremost an academic and her scholarly career has been the primary influence on her personality. Competition with men and the institutionalized biases against women have encouraged her to do what she can to discount her sex. One of these tactics is to adopt the prim manners of a German Schoolteacher and her speech is frequently pedantic and over exact. Another is to keep her romantic side walled away beneath her professional demeanor.

Playing against these traits is a natural curiosity about the world and the people in it, which drives her closer to others the better to interrogate them. She has a dry and understated sense of humor and has even been known to laugh, though she tries to keep this under control due to her embarrassing tendency to snort when she does so.

In every situation Emma attempts to exude an aura of knowing control expected of a professor. Unfortunately the more uncontrolled a situation becomes, the closer this drives her to panic.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:

Hexen - At some point in the mysterious past Emmaline’s ancestors acquired certain powers, most notably the ability to manipulate the energies around them. The first Hexen discovered that these abilities passed from mother to daughter and each generation made its own contribution to the craft. For most of recorded history this has required covens of women to work together but with the onset of modern mathematics this has changed. Emmaline can do the traditional tricks, like draw heat from the air to create ice, or call up a wind by creating a pressure differential, but her true calling is in the realm of curses. Emmaline has a talent for altering probability, she can, if she puts her mind to it, ensure that a particular person has a run of unusual good luck, or she can curse someone so that Murphy's Law punishes them with a special viciousness. Unfortunately in both of these cases the luck has to even out somewhere, and for every miracle there is a corresponding tragedy.

In addition to, or in conjunction with, her occult powers Emmaline holds a PhD in Applied Mathematics and has lectured at several major universities.

Background:

Emmaline sat straight backed in her chair, primly sipping at the adequate wine before her. It was expensive, sure, but somehow Americans always seemed to conflate expense with quality. She peered down at a napkin on which she was carefully writing an equation with an ornate fountain pen. The ink spread out through the porous medium in unlovely blobs but it would serve her purpose.

Across from her sat a nervous young man with his awkward date. There was an aura about him that spoke to her, the nervous way he ran his fingers through his hair, the slight sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. He was about to have the worst night of his life. Unless she intervened of course.

Concentration fell away in shattered shards as someone cleared his throat in front of her. With a vexed hiss she looked up and pushed the glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. The man before her was of indeterminate years and he wore a suit that probably cost as much as she made in a year.

“Professor Von Morganstern, I hope I have not startled you?” he asked in a smooth, almost liquid alto. She forced her professional colleague smile to her lips, uncharacteristically reddened by lipstick.

“Of course not,” she lied sweetly, looking down at the menu to give her face time to smooth way the incipient frown.

“You are Mr…” she began but he nodded cutting her off.

“Yes from the Agency,” he concluded before she could speak his name. She clucked she clucked her tongue disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. He clearly didn’t fear her powers but he was demonstrating that he knew something about them by not speaking his name. The beginnings of a superior smile indicated that he had guessed what she was thinking. She glanced down at the formula on her napkin and then laid it face up on the expensive table cloth. Another sip of resinous wine. He slid into the seat across from her.

“I will be brief Professor Von Morganstern…” he began but it was her turn to hold up an interrupting hand.

“Professor Stern," she corrected, "I don’t go by my full name, also this isn’t a lecture you may call me Emma.” The clipped Austrian accent made the admonition seem harsher than she meant it. People weren’t always her thing. Screw it, served him right for showing off with her real name.

“I invited you here tonight because I want to offer you a job.” Emma sat back a little shocked. When she had received his letter employment was the furthest thing from her mind. It was rare to meet a man who knew about Hexen and rarer still for that meeting to end well.

“I already have a job mien Herr,” she began her english slipping, “As clearly you know by addressing me as Professor.” Her tone was defensive, a faint stirring of anger bubbled within her. He gave her an almost pittying look.

“Yes but I’m afraid that UCLA will decline your application for tenure, and there maybe little opportunity for you to earn it again. Faculty politicking I’m afraid.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic. Emmaline’s stomach plummeted, years of work and academic research for nothing. It was a given that his information was true, there was no lie in his voice and anyone who could discover she was a Hexen could penetrate the flimsy boundaries of University security with ease.

“There are few people with your particular talents in the United States,” he continued, his voice gentle and consoling. He waved away the waiter.

“We could use your more… ahem occult skills,” he concluded pushing a printed letter on expensive paper across the table to her. Fighting to keep her bottom lip from quivering with disappointment at losing her shot at tenure she mechanically scanned the document. When she reached the figure printed on it her eyebrows rose in spite of herself. The elegant man set back with a satisfied look on his face.

“With bonuses,” he added with a mischievous grin, lifting his glass of adequate wine to her. Reluctantly she lifted hers in tacit acceptance of his offer.

Across from her she saw the young man tense. With a hiss she sat down her wine and scribbled frantically on her napkin for a moment more closing the last few parenthesis, then sliced her thumb on a silver ring she wore on her ring finger, dribbling a drop of blood onto the paper with a muttered word. The boy stood up and drew a small box from his pocket before falling to one knee before his date. In the window behind him fireworks suddenly bursts, framing him and dazzling his intended as he knelt before her. Her moment of hesitation swept away by the fireworks, she cried her acceptance and rushed forward to hug him. In the background there was a mechanical pop as the buildings air conditioner coughed and died. Emmaline smiled, a few hours of discomfort for a lifetime of happiness. Fair trade. All the boy had needed was a bit of luck after all. The elegant man raised an appreciative eyebrow at her.

“I think you will make a fine addition to Priest and Hawthorne Professor Stern, a fine addition indeed.”

Name: Jacob B. Mcalister
Gender: Male

Race/Species: Human

Age: 40

Appearance:

A middle aged man that appears perpetually tired and somewhat disheveled, Jacob stands in at 6'2", putting him typically several inches taller than the majority of others. Jacob has a sinewy build and broad shoulders, but is neither bulky nor lanky. His dark brown hair is short and out of the way, with the odd streak of gray and somehow manages to appear neat, yet casually unkempt at the same time; and his chin sports a stubble that is likely several days old. His eyes are a sharp gray, his piercing gaze analytical and critical but belie a lurking sadness. His facial features are strong and defined, and his mouth is often pressed into a thin line. His strong facial features and build would lead one to believe that in his heyday, many would consider Jacob fairly attractive, though years of work and being a single father have clearly taken its toll.

Most of Jacob's wardrobe consists of well fitting, slim suits, mostly black and gray often with a monochrome tie. The vast majority of Jacob's footwear are leather dress shoes, clean and professional enough to wear with his suits, but comfortable enough to walk or do activity in for days on end. Jacob wears a leather shoulder holster over his shirt, and typically makes no effort to hide it. On his left hand Jacob wears a silver wristwatch, along with a golden wedding band on his ring finger. He keeps a picture of his daughter in his wallet.

Personality:
A serious man with a strong work ethic, Jacob often has a no-nonsense demeanor and is typically impervious to the jokes and wisecracks made by his coworkers. Only rarely willing to crack a grin for his close compatriots, Jacob is for the most part incredibly blunt and to the point, though not confrontational. Strong willed, and somewhat hard-headed, Jacob never starts something without finishing it- even if it takes him hours, days, or even weeks. Despite his callous attitude, its fairly plain to see Jacob is honest and well-meaning, and uses his work ethic to cover up an inner sadness. Jaded, and somewhat cynical, despite possessing a well developed moral compass, Jacob will often ignore morality and act in what he believes are in the best interest of himself and his compatriots.

Generally slow to trust those around him that he isn't well acquainted with, Jacob is skeptical of most strangers, and is a firm believer of "If it seems to good to be true, it is". He takes almost everything with a grain of salt, and rarely accepts things at face value. Jacob is for the most part calm and patient, and requires a fair amount of goading to lose his cool. As a part of his fatherly instincts, Jacob is extremely protective of his daughter, and will often react aggressively when something involving her well-being seems to be threatened. As a result of his wife's murder, Jacob is extremely distrusting of vampires, and is quicker to aggression when one is involved.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Jacob possesses an innate magical talent, and has the ability to cast simple charms and telekinetically move smaller objects, such as books, pens, wallets, and coins. He has yet to bother pursuing further mastery of his magical talent, too busy with work and family to take the time to focus on practicing magic.

While by no means an Olympic athlete, Jacob is no slouch. In good shape for someone his age, Jacob possesses a mental and physical fortitude capable of taking a considerable beating and can hold his own in most situations that are physically taxing, from lifting and moving objects, to chasing down suspects and even fist fights. While not a brawler, Jacob knows his way around a street fight and can be a formidable foe when provoked. Though not a marksman, Jacob is well versed in operating firearms and firearm safety, and can be a decent shot with his sidearm or even a shotgun or rifle.

Jacob is a smoker, and smokes several cigarettes a day. Despite his good shape, and regular workout habits, its clear that the years of smoking have taken a toll on his overall stamina. Jacob has also been starting to develop a drinking habit, and has begun using cigarettes and alcohol as a vice.

Street savvy and smart, Jacob knows his way around Seattle, and does especially well at night, when most decent folk have called it a night- his stature and attitude often give the seedy types pause. As an investigator, Jacob is capable of many tasks, from surveillance, to opening doors that aren't meant to be opened, and even a bit of interrogation. As a single parent, Jacob is also fairly adept in common household skills, he knows his way around the kitchen, and can grill a mean steak.

Background:
Born and raised in Seattle, Jacob Mcalister was born the oldest son to the Seattle police officer, and a doctor. His childhood was not one of major note, he went to public school, got relatively good grades, got into a few scraps, and eventually went to a University to study Criminal Justice. He graduated from his university when he was 22 and got a job with the Seattle police department as a police detective. He met the woman of his dreams shortly afterwards, and got married at the age of 28. 4 years later, his daughter was born. The family lived a rather mundane life, with a small house in the suburbs, plain and quiet, but happy.

Throughout most of his adult life, Jacob had always been aware of the occult, and would technically consider himself a part of it, having discovered his own magical talents shortly after he got married. Only bothering to make a shallow delve into the realm and idea of magic, Jacob for the most part decided to leave well enough alone and kept the paranormal and occult separate from his everyday life, not out of fear, put out of plain disinterest. His wife had never been particularly fond of the occult and paranormal, so the family never bothered to explore it.

At least not until 3 years after his daughter was born.

One late night, as Jacob was returning home from a long night at the police department, he found the front door to his house unlocked and ajar. Rushing to into his home, Jacob found the house a mess, with signs of obvious struggle. In the living room, he found his wife dead, attacked by something with sharp claws, and with what appeared to be an oversized snake bite on the back of her neck. When Jacob called for emergency services, he was surprised to find that it was not EMT's that showed up, but rather a trio of suited individuals from Priest & Hawthorne Investigations. They explained to him that his wife's murder was a result of a powerful vampire gone rampant, and that the investigators had been spending the better part of last year searching for him. Unable to track the vampire, the investigators begrudgingly left the scene, leaving Jacob with a business card in case he came up with any more information.

Jacob spent the next few months providing information to PHI on any paranormal-esque information he found while working at with the Seattle Police Department, from the occasional vague clue, to direct persons of interest. As a detective himself, Jacob often knew what kind of information the PHI were looking for, and did his best to oblige. In one of his interactions with PHI, one of their investigators jokingly mentioned that Jacob could try working for them some time. A few days later, Jacob put in his two weeks at the Seattle Police Department.

A two weeks later, none other than Jacob Mcalister showed up at the front door of Priest & Hawthorne Investigations, resume in hand.

Jacob has spent the last 5 years of his life working with Priest & Hawthorne investigations, with a surprisingly impressive track record of closed cases, though there are several that never seem to close. Similar to working with the SPD, his job with PHI is more or less the same, the only difference being the inclusion of the occult and paranormal. In his spare time, Jacob still looks for clues regarding the vampire that killed his wife, which still has yet to be tracked down.

Jacob now lives in a small apartment along the outer edge of Pioneer square with his 8 year old daughter. Despite having a daughter, he spends relatively little time at home- most of his waking hours are spent at work or on the job, often leaving his daughter at home to fend for herself.

Name: Amanda Staten, but it’s likely that anyone she becomes friendly with at PHI would call her Mandy.

Gender: There is, in fact, a girl buried somewhere beneath all those sweaters.

Race/Species: Half-breed, poor thing. Amanda’s mother was a cait sidhe, a race of faerie cats with both human and feline forms. Mom had a fling with a human man, and a few months later, Amanda was born, the runt of the litter. Her human half is most definitely dominant. (More details in the traits and background sections.)

Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): Amanda is recently turned twenty-five, but is often mistaken for younger. As faeries go, even as a half-blood, she’s still considered an adolescent by most standards.