Sander "Sandy" Lorraine

17

6’1’’

170lbs

Tall and gangly, Sander does not seem sure of his limbs, yet his movements are hardly awkward. He moves slowly, tentatively, talks softly, and always seems like he’s trying to making himself as small as possible, though it is a little bit hard with his tall frame. In his younger years, an interest in track and field has given him some definition, but he still looks quite unhealthy with his fair complexion. His hair is a dark brown mess with blond strands mixed in, which he grows out. From the way it looks, it is obviously he spends far more money on hair products than he cares to admit. His eyes are blue, dull and frozen not unlike the winter sky. Other than that, his other facial features remain unremarkable, albeit a little bit sharp on the eyes. When socializing, Sander wears a plain smile, though it hardly ever reaches his eyes.

However, there are also days when he has gone without violence for too long and his Stigma gets bad, Sander found himself in an almost homicidal mood. He retains his smiles, mostly because they have become almost second nature for him, but his eyes flickered and his limbs twitched as he reined in the violence. It is best to avoid him when he is in these sort of moods, but it is likely that he would go out of his way to avoid others as well.

Sander’s choice of apparel can be best described as ‘casual’. He wears comfortable t shirts and jeans on each and every occasion, putting on shorts and tank tops when he’s feeling sporty, or a hoodie when the weather turns cold. Despite the informal tone of his apparel, Sander is not sloppy about his appearance. His clothes are always freshly washed and immaculate, and it is rare for him to wear the same clothes twice in one week.

At his core, Sander is an idealist, likely due to the influence of his family. He sneers at the term ‘subnaturals’, firmly believes that his people deserved the recognition for all the sacrifices they made. This somewhat dangerous belief, combined with events of his past and his Stigma, became the fuel to his unrelenting yet directionless rage. However, with his keen sense of observation, he is no fool. He had seen how far the government was willing to go to dispose of troublesome subnaturals and what his people were capable of when left to run amok with their powers. The need for order is clear.

So to survive, he learnt to play their games, and he played it well. To most, Sander seems even-tempered and approachable for an Aberration. He buries his emotional baggage deep, with the occasional outbursts that mostly result in the destruction of nearby furniture. Many would probably notice his compliance to most of USARILN East’s rules. Some people might perceive such obedience as weakness, to Sander, it was a way to rein his rage in. While not as moody and melancholic as many of his fellow Aberrations, Sander does have his own way of keeping people at arm’s length. For all his friendly demeanour, he remains a deeply private person and hardly ever voices his true opinions.

There was not much to say about Sander’s early life. He grew up in a regular middle class family in North America, had brother 5 years his senior and was blissfully ignorant of his power for the first 12 years of his life. However, the tentative peace shattered once his brother’s power and involvement with a powered crime organization became known. Eventually, the government came for him; their modest family home was soon surrounded by armed men. However, Mr and Mrs Lorraine was not inclined to give up their eldest son, and his brother was not keen on surrendering either. The situation soon escalated into violence, then Sander couldn’t recall much more after that. From what people told him, he took three bullets to his side and spent the next month in the nearest hospital. However, once the staff found the large X on his throat, he never got to go home again.

Ever since, Sander moved back and forth between facilities, undergoing various assessments and tests. His record wasn’t exactly pristine, there had been instances when his rage got the better of him, which always resulted in damages to himself and others. As his behaviours slowly re-adjusted into the realm of the acceptable, Sander finally got transferred to USARILN East.

Exsanguinate

Through the consumption of blood, be it human or animal, Sander gains enhanced physical capabilities as well as heightened senses. The more he consumes, the more potent these augmentations becomes, though it takes a couple of minutes after feeding for the physical effects to fully activate. Once a limit is reached, he gained invulnerability, however, if this limit is then ignored and overcame, Sander will enter a state of frenzy, losing his ability to reason, his invincibility as well as his sense of self-preservation. The fact that he found the crimson fluid impossible to resist does not help in the slightest. While he does not need blood to survive at all, he just feels the urge to consume it. It makes him feel strong and vibrant, not unlike the effects of some conventional drugs. When he’s on one of his blood high, his irises glow a haunting crimson.

Unlike many of his fellow mages, Sander does not find it easy to distinguish between his ‘good’ dream and the bad one. They both started with a sea of blood and the fume of scorched flesh. His eyes stung as he waded forward, but he was not alone. Allies dogged his steps, both strange and familiar faces at his side as he pushed forward. He felt their blood pulsed as clearly as his own heart beats, and he couldn’t help but smirk.
“What will it be?”

“Maestro?”

In his nightmare, Sander did not, or rather, could not move freely in the pool of blood. Thick chains encircled his wrists, and the liquid kept rising steadily, its heat choking and curling down his throat. He struggled to no avail, staring helplessly at the single spark of light above as the blood slowly engulfed him. Its last words echoed softly, chafing his already frayed nerves:

“Or Monster?”

A snap, then metal rings came apart. He was torn asunder as he rose above the waves, white knuckles clinging to the cobble wall.

Aberration

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You have none, yet. You will get some as the story progresses. Keep track of them here. Some of them might be really important or something, I don't know.

Kusari Bloodworth

18

6 feet

131 lbs.

Kusari is a tall young woman, with a frail, thin body. Some are reminded of the Dreamcatcher when they see her, though she has yet to hear that from anyone herself. Her skin is pale, looking as if it were powdered to mimic porcelain. Her hair is ghostly white, almost transparent, and it runs down all the way to her hips. A side fringe hides her right eye along with the blue streak that marks her as an arbiter. A single braid is styled on the left side of her face, hanging just past her left temple. Her eyes are deep crimson red, and framed by thick white lashes. Her eyes are narrow, this along with her hawkish facial features give her an imposing visage. Her voice is low, yet bold, betraying the ethereal image one may have of her at first.

Kusari is grossly sardonic, and nearly always pessimistic. She frequently makes remarks that could only label her as a misanthrope under normal circumstances. Any bridge she has crossed in the past she strode leaving behind a trail of gasoline, inevitably lit aflame by the sparks cracking from her mouth. She might make some excuse for her behavior. Perhaps that she's just acting out, that she doesn't mean it, but that would be a lie. She always means what she says. The best thing one could say about the way she talks to people is that at least her language isn't vulgar... usually.

Oddly enough, aside from her mouth, Kusari is hardly a 'bad person.' She doesn't go out of her way to fight anyone, even if someone ends up wanting to throw hands after something she's said. She's a student with great grades and attendance, and has a clean record sans one particular incident. However, these things are merely a consequence of her living on auto-pilot, she doesn't know what else to do, and she hasn't bothered trying to find out.

I don't know why my mother called them that day. Maybe she was growing tired of looking at the biggest mistake she'd ever made, maybe she was growing too paranoid that someone else would do it. Or maybe the growls of her empty stomach whispered into her ears like a devil on her shoulder. Whatever the case, I still don't know, and I've forgotten how to care. I woke up to the sound of sirens that day, and of course I jumped out of my rickety bed and looked out the window, as I always did when I heard sirens. Usually they passed this run down apartment complex, but today that dreadful noise I feared stayed, like the buzzing of a hive hanging above me. They were here, the army, they were here for me. I called for my mother, first in stuttering hushed tones, then in panicked screams as the door began to be broken from it's hinges. But she wasn't home.

I ran to the window to the street below, and jumped out. I lived on the sixth floor of this building, but that didn't seem to cross my mind at the time, I just wanted to get away. I hit the ground as gracefully as rag doll, I could hear the bones in my body as they splintered apart. My right leg looked like something that would be covered in a mosaic if this were being filmed, and my left arm was bent in ways an arm shouldn't bend. Somehow, I managed to lift my bleeding head from the pavement and see that behind one of the army's armored vehicles, was my mother. I slowly got to my feet, ignoring the soldiers yelling at me not to move. I started to hobble towards my mother, frustration and tears in my eyes, I didn't know if I was moving to kill her or seek solace, my head was pretty banged up. My mother turned away from me and was led away by a solider, and I stopped. I think I understood fully then what she had done, I wasn't her daughter anymore, I was a monster. Of course, I'd always been a monster, hadn't I? What business did I have even questioning her choice?

A loud bang hit my ears, and I felt something pierce my chest, bringing with it an intense burning pain. I looked down and saw blood pouring from my chest. They had shot me in the heart. It hurt, and I ended up falling onto my back, yet somehow I didn't die. As more figures moved towards me I let out a derisive chuckle. I really was a heartless monster.

Kusari's body is far from normal. She is able to rapidly regenerate wounds, and has near limitless endurance. There is no injury she can't recover from short of being obliterated, though she can be rendered immobilized or unconscious comparatively easily. The time it takes for a wound to heal can vary, a shallow cut will heal within a minute, but something drastic like losing a limb can take a week, unless she is able to reattach it. Losing vital organs is not lethal as somehow her ability compensates for whatever was lost until it fully recovers. This goes for everything, including her brain, though she will likely pass out if her brain is damaged heavily. While her body is healing, it is always surrounded in a dim light.

In my dream, I was everything. I was a saint, I was loved, I was worshipped. I saved countless lives across the planet using my powers for good. I inspired those around me, rousing them from despair into hope. The term 'subnatural' was quickly thrown away, and others like me were able to be called 'mages' by not just each other. What a simple dream it was, what a stupid, unrealistic, pathetic dream. Yet it was the one I chose. Maybe such a pathetic dream suits me just fine...

In my nightmare, I was nothing. My body was a formless mass of flesh. No eyes or ears, just the feeling of my body as it moved on it's own, devouring everything in it's path. There was nothing but a perverse pleasure as I ate, even when people came to destroy me I seemed to feast on their desperation and suffering. My body grew and grew as I ate, until there was nothing left, just me. I was alone, and longed for the taste of anything I could grasp, yet there was nothing. Well, there was one thing left to eat, the only thing left...

Arbiter

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