"Strange things happen around here. That much is true, though nobody says much about it. I say things though, I write down what I see. The boss didn't like my writin', called it chicken-scratch that nobody would ever give a damn about, but if you're reading this then you also know that strange things happen, and if you didn't you're about to learn about the thing I seen that scared me more than any lawman or Apache ever did." - 'The Red Bandit', Journal Entry One
Welcome to Ulysses
Ulysses is a moderately sized town settled in the rough expanse of territory along the Rio Grande in southern Texas. The folks are a rough sort, used to a life in reliance to the river and scorched under the sun. Several days ride North through the Apache lands will find you in the shade of the Guadalupe mountains, while a few days in the south or westerly directions across the river will put you into Mexican territory- desert, the lot of it. East stretches the plains that turns into Comanche territory, and the active conflict between the army and the natives to secure the railroad construction heading west... Ulysses is a frontier town, to be sure.
Other noteworthy settlements in the region include El Refugio, a Mexican oasis town to the southwest, the Mescalero Apache settlement to the north, and the big city of Quincy to the east- a rather far journey, compared to the rest, but it's there!. Other small towns and shanties exist, but those are the most noteworthy.
Most who come through Ulysses simply stop to refill packs and stomachs before heading on west and north into New Mexico territory, but those that stay will find a rugged community who looks out for its own.
"Ulysses is dead center to some outright evil shit, I tell you what. The lawmen and mayor keep things quiet in the town, but once you're out in the country at sunset everyone'll zip right up and keep a gun in hand. Even the natives seem to disappear once the sun goes down. We rovin' types, outlaws and vagrants? We got nowhere to go, and nobody to tell the shit we see. So I write it down, hopin' that one day someone reads this and listens right the hell up. I seen men that shoulda been dead crawl out of their graves. I seen great beasts in the moonlight who disappear in the blink of an eye. I saw a man call the rain, then get struck by lightning and killed by his own clouds. I seen a great deal many things, but I been lucky enough to make it through the nights. Unlike my boys. Good men, the lot of them. I might've been the only one among them who deserved to be out here in the night, and here I am the only one left breathing.
I used to keep watch while they slept. I didn't want to make them suffer through the shit that I seen. I wish I'd have kept them up that night." - 'The Red Bandit', journal entry two
Something just ain't right here...
"I was awake one night, as I usually was. We were over the river, in Mexican territory, hiding in the ruins of a few old Navajo Hogan that survived the years and elements. We were far enough west to avoid Apache patrols, but close enough to Ulysses to keep up our usual raids, and as far as we could ken the Navajo avoided the area like the plague. Now that I know why, I'd never have stayed one damn night in those huts, but at the time we figured 'em as the perfect base of operations for our outlaw endeavors.
But I was awake that night when the fog rolled in. Fog in the desert ain't strange during the day, but at night it's a damn strange thing to bear witness to. And this fog? Reeked of something foul, made my gut turn. I took to the whisky just to keep my stomach. It weren't until I downed a few shots that a shadow of a man slipped into the hut with us. Faster than a pistol shot I dropped my whiskey and drew my revolver- it'd carried me through a war, it'd carried me through fight after fight, and I thought it'd carry me through anything that was to come.
I was slow, the whisky dulled my senses. But I still shot first. Hell, I shot three times before that man ever got off one. And I know I hit him. I saw him stagger back. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground covered in my own blood as I clutched the stump of where my right hand used to be. I ain't no pushover, but I screamed like a whore on her first night, kicking and cursing to try to wake the boys up. But they didn't move. They didn't move one damn bit, even as I kicked them and yelled.
the shadow then lifted its duster and peered down at me, and what I saw I'll never forget;
Those burning, bright, eyes. Felt like I was staring at every sin ever committed, at something truly evil. Of all the crazy shit I seen, those eyes haunt me to this day." - 'The Red Bandit', journal entry three
In Ulysses, folks try to lead simple and earnest lives. But, for some reason or another, the strange and wild seem to inhabit the world around the city, and for the most part folks are unaware that something strange is even happening. For those that see, for those that know, however... Ulysses is a strange home indeed.
The mayor, one 'Lucas Ulysses'- the founder of the settlement, in fact - maintains that all is orderly and calm in the city, and the lawmen who reside over the township keep the streets (relatively) clean. People feel safe in the city, but even within the borders of Ulysses few walk the streets at night without protection of some sort.
Dead center of the city is a large church, whose tower rises high over the people and countryside and casts its shadow far. The church as of late has presented itself as a divisive force in the city, the words of the resident preacher-man, a man called simply 'Father George', clashing against those of the mayor and his lawmen.
where Lucas Ulysses says everything is fine and that life is as easy as ever in Ulysses, Father George tells those who gather in his church to fear for their souls and that damnation walks the earth.
This schism in the pillars of the community have caused much confusion and anger amongst the people, creating an underlying tone of confusion and fear in Ulysses. Whether people attest to the mayor and sheriff's assurances of safety, the fiery proclamations of Father George, or their own silent assessments, nobody can deny that something strange is going on in Ulysses.
But so very few ever want to admit it, and so an unspoken rule of silence and taboo hangs over the things that go bump in the night.
"By the time I was aware of what was goin' on, I was outside in the thick of that fog. Those burning eyes standing over me, a grip like iron on the shoulder of my right arm. Suddenly I didn't feel like screamin' no more. I shut right the hell up, and the whisky made me think I didn't even whimper but I'm sure that's just the bravado speaking. I stared back at those eyes of sin, and I swear to you that I could see them smiling right back at me. Like I was some dog who did what its owner wanted.
He threw me to the ground, stared down at me, and said a single sentence to me;
'John Redmond, you've got a job to do'
Then he was gone. So was the fog. I was covered in blood, my revolver in hand, lying face down in the dirt outside the burning huts. I have my hand back, and at first I was willing to chalk it up to the whisky making me misremember a Navajo raid, or a sheriff's posse rolling through... but what I wrote down here is the truth, every damn word of it. I have proof. Those burning eyes left a gift for me, one I can't seem to shake even if I burn it or rip it up.
Whenever trouble starts, The Jack of Diamonds always appears in my hand. And it scares me what this gift can do. What I have to do. Because once I woke up there, covered in my own blood, I knew I had a purpose and a job to do. And I have to do it. But I'll find a way to put that bastard in the ground for what he did to the boys, even if I have to do what he wants in the process. I'll keep writing. I'll never stop writing. One day these musings of mine might just save a life." - 'The Red Bandit', final entry of book one.
Character Sheet (I don't care your formatting, just get me this info and we'll be square, boss)
Name
Age
Descriptor - I tire of 'personality' sections. I'd rather learn organically. Instead, just give me a one sentence summary of your character concept. Example: 'I am a dangerous outlaw who leads a posse'. Etc.
Appearance - Image optional, written description required for clarity's sake.
Biography
Other - List anything you think I should know as your GM. Magical powers, special abilities, mundane skills, basic equipment, etc. Anything you think is relevant.
Welcome Aboard
Black Powder Arcana is an asymmetrical co-operative online multiplayer horror experience experiment in player creativity and motivation. I intend to see character motivations drive the story, warped and flamed by the chaos of the old west. I will have storycraft and overarching plot threading into the narrative, but the key motivation I seek is player drive and the pursuit of a character's goals.
As the above has indicated, things aren't all sunshine and gunshots here in Ulysses. The supernatural and occult are very much so alive, even if the average folk ignore it or are outright unaware of it. Characters of all walks of life, all scopes of reality, all corners of imagination, are more than welcome here.
While intended for a small group [4-6 by my standards], I may very well welcome more than that aboard if my fancy permits or the muse strikes me... So feel free to come on in and submit a character!
The only rule? Be excellent to one another and Have Fun.
By the power of Ennio Morricone I am here with my CS in all it's current WIPness.
A humble necromancer, moonlighting as a doctor/undertaker (a most efficient combination).
Name: Sophia "Doc" Wallace
Age: Mid-twenties Descriptor: A kind necromancer, efficient undertaker, and skilled practitioner of medicine.
Physical Appearance:
Day to Day Attire: Sophia is an androgynous dresser and favors bespoke three piece suits in shades of black, grey, or brown, bow ties, dark low-heeled leather shoes, and reasonably sized top hats. It is a rare sight to see Sophia in a dress, but rumors persist that the young woman was once seen in a tavern wearing a blue silk evening gown.
Frontier/Traveling Attire: When venturing out into the wilds, Sophia favors the practical dress of the vaqueros, and some have accused her of being overly fond of the vest and poncho combo.
Sophia was born somewhere on the East Coast, likely Connecticut if her accent is any indication, and unlike a great many of the citizens of Ulysses she comes from a decidedly upper middle class family. A precocious child, she grew up wishing to follow in the footsteps of her father, a trained surgeon, and spent much of her early life buried in books. She lived something of a charmed life, wanting little, and basking in the comfort afforded to her by her family. What promised to be a pleasant, if predictable life, was forever changed when a teenage Sophia visited an antique bookshop with her mother. Drawn to a dark, seldom visited corner of the tomb-like shop, she found an strange book bound in leather and dyed a deep midnight. It was an ancient tome written in a strange hand and a stranger language still.
At first, the grimoire made little sense. However, with time, Sophia began to understand letters, then words, then phrases, then paragraphs, and finally pages. It was then that she met Baltasar, or rather, what remained of the ancient wizard. He was an ethereal creature, a spirit, that appeared only to the young girl. Once, had a been a great wizard, an infamous necromancer feared and respected throughout both the Old and the New World. He had met his end, predictably for a necromancer, at the hands of a coalition of his many enemies. It was his books that she had found, Baltasar said. He had written it centuries earlier, weaving powerful magic into each page, creating a bridge to another, cheating death, and ensuring that his legacy would not die with him, as it had with so many other persecuted necromancers.
The ancient spirit suggested that Sophia enter into a pact with him, providing him with an anchor to the mortal world far stronger than the weakening magic that still remained in his grimoire. In return, Baltasar promised Sophia knowledge, the vast sum of knowledge, both mundane and magical that he had acquired over his long life. He promised her guidance, training in the arcane arts, instruction in hermetic rituals, and an unparalleled mastery of the grim school of necromancy. But most of all, he promised her a friendship that would last beyond the grave. One oath, various arcane ingredients, and a small quantity of blood later, Sophia found herself with her very own spirit mentor.
From that point onwards, Sophia changed, she grew focused, impossibly focused, and a sense of purpose pervaded all her actions. Gone was the carefree girl she had been, replaced by an ambitious young woman. Guided by Baltasar, Sophia broke off an engagement that would have seen her married off to the son of a steel baron soon after. She had never seemed overly excited about the prospect and her parents could do little to convince the willful young woman that she was threatening her future. With great effort, she convinced her parents to send her off to a proper school, a university of peerless prestige, unparalleled scientific achievement, and great wealth. Her days were spent studying medicine, pouring over books concerning anatomy, chemistry, and the treatment of diseases. Her nights were spent in her darkened room with Baltasar, pouring over arcane tomes, drawing ritual patterns in chalk, and learning spells that manipulated life and death.
A scant four years later, Sophia left the world of academia and the university with a medical degree in hand. Although her instructors professed that they were a bit alarmed at the strange hours she kept, and the ease with which she dealt with dead bodies. Still, she was a talented surgeon they all remarked, one of the best they had ever seen. If she was a bit strange? Well, what did that really matter? Ambitions to establish a practice near her childhood home were soon crushed by resistance in the established medical community and Sophia found herself reduced to nothing more than an undertaker, the closet job she could find to a actually practicing medicine. On a bet and to prove a point, Sophia eventually secured the necessary license to pursue this line of work.
For a time, life was good, and Sophia managed to make a comfortable living seeing to the burial of the dead. At the very least, it afforded her discreet access to the raw materials required for any self-respecting necromancer to continue their work, namely corpses of varying vintage. As her mundane career faltered, Sophia continued to pursue her mastery of the arcane arts. Like Baltasar before her, Sophia had little interest in forced servitude as a member of one of the great orders of mages that existed in the New World. Instead, through talent, wit, and occasionally bribery, Sophia maintained a precarious position as an unaffiliated and sometimes only barely tolerated wizard. None, save Baltasar, and especially not other students of magic, were privy to her practice of necromancy.
For all her caution, Sophia's life was undone by a whirlwind romance with a conjurer, a naive hope to do good, and the robbery of an arcane vault belonging to the fanatical arcane inquisitors of the Guardians of the Veil. Baltasar had warned her, but she had not listened, and she paid the price. Betrayed by the woman she loved, Sophia did unspeakable, necessary, and evil things in order to survive. She broke the only oath she had lived by. The only oath that mattered. She took a life. A life that had mattered to her more than any other. Others followed. Bystanders. Unintended victims. The result of a spell gone horribly wrong. An entire city block lost to the ether.
And then...
Sophia ran.
She ran as far as she could. Stealing a horse, a gun, and then an entire wagon, she headed out West. Shedding her past, her name, and even her appearance along the way. Long days turned to weeks, then months, and when Sophia finally arrived in Ulysses she awoke to find that the melancholy dreams that had accompanied her journey had changed her. There was a darkness in the heart of the town that called to her, but she was no longer afraid. She had found a new purpose, a new place to call home, and a path towards the sort of redemption that only the wasteland can offer.
She wouldn't run.
Not this time.
Not again.
What Is:
Sophia Wallace is currently the only practicing doctor and licensed undertaker in the small town of Ulysses. Among the citizens of Ulysses, both mundane and supernatural, Sophia is invariably known as "Doc" or at most "Doc Wallace". A newcomer to the town, Sophia has quickly established herself as a respected and indispensable member of the community. The timing of her arrival was most fortuitous for the townsfolk, as the previous town doctor, Mr. Francois Dumont, had perished only a few weeks prior to her arrival in a tragic and mysterious wagon accident.
Sophia's skill as a doctor are truly remarkable, and in the safety of the Leaky Pitcher some of the townsfolk quietly whisper that there is something supernatural about the effortless way the young woman wields her scalpel. However, following those rare times when even the good doctor is unable to cure a patient, the townsfolk take comfort in the knowledge that a coffin and a proper burial can be arranged for in the very same building for a most reasonable price.
A gifted necromancer, Sophia relies on the widespread, but mistaken belief that necromancers cannot command healing magic and a steady supply of legally acquired corpses to hide herself and her necromantic magic in plain sight. Despite her chosen arcane vocation, Sophia is far from evil, and simply wants to make an honest living helping others.
"Sophia Wallace?"
"That depends, who's asking?" Sophia warily answered. She had only just gotten her drink. It had been a long day. Three burials in one morning was two too many. One would have been enough, more than enough. She only asked for a bit of business, she wasn't greedy, she didn't need to be so busy. She had books to read, and undead to converse with. She wanted to take a bath. A real bath, a hot bath...she needed a bath tub.
Despite knowing better, Sophia eventually looked up from her drink. In front of her stood a prim and proper lady, an aristocrat that had no business in the Leaky Pitcher. Especially not on a Sunday. She wore a green satin dress with laced short sleeves over a linen chemise, a lace cap trimmed with rose-colored tassels, and an elaborate fan in her hand. She was stunning, and Sophia was almost surprised she had made it unaccosted to her table.
"Hannelore Weber," the young woman energetically proclaimed with a nod that was intended to be very serious. The dramatic and all too obvious pause that followed told Sophia that she was dealing with the worst sort of actress. "Of the Guardians of the Veil, perhaps you have heard of us?"
Sophia let out a low sigh in response, but did her best to recover, it wouldn't do to offend the newcomer, she wasn't in the mood for a tavern brawl, especially not an arcane one,"Who hasn't?"
Mention of the infamous, among wizards, order of do-gooders and fanatical inquisitors sent a shiver down Sophia's spine and caused a presence to stir in the most carefully guarded recesses of her mind. He was angry, but more importantly, he was annoyed.
"Only the uninitiated," Hannelore smugly agreed, taking a seat unbidden across from Sophia.
"Well, Miss Hannelore, what brings you to this wonderful stretch of desolation and death known to the Gods as the town of Ulysses?"
"It has come to our attention, through a confidential source, that there are strange forces, arcane forces, at work in this town. And naturally when it also came to our attention that you were a recent immigrant to this fair city...well, you can't exactly be surprised that my superiors felt best to send a member of our order to have a chat with you."
"Oh, indeed?" Sophia answered, doing her best to appear bored.
"There's quite the file on you in the archives. I haven't seen it, of course, but I've been told it's extensive and very detailed."
"I'm sure there are only good things about me mentioned in your papers," the young necromancer hesitantly added, carefully studying her glass of whiskey.
"However, all our information was a bit out of date. We had great trouble identifying your current associates. Notwithstanding, Miss —"
"Don't say her name!" Sophia growled, slamming a fist hand down on the table, feeling the heat that spread across her cheeks.
It had the desired effect, and Hannelore looked at her cautiously with wide eyes. "Ahem. Well. I must ask, to what great order or society do you currently belong?"
"None."
"You aren't a member of a hermetic order?"
"No," Sophia replied with a small chortle.
"Surely, a magician as talented as you is aware of the dangers of exploring the matters of the occult alone and without the proper guidance?"
"I am, but all the same, I prefer to work alone. For obvious reasons..."
"That's a lie," a voice indignantly interjected, clearly hurt at what the young necromancer had insinuated. Vaguely British-sounding, the proud voice was accompanied by the sweet smell of pipe tobacco and a subtle hint of jasmine. "How long have I not guided you? I raised you up from middle class drollery and saved you from a loveless marriage to some fool of a baron's son. I initiated you into study of the great hermetic mysteries of existence. I taught you how to summon and command the dead. I instructed you in how to parley with spirits and devils alike. I forged a pact with you to span the ages and defeated death herself."
Sophia rubbed her brows wearily. It took some effort not to reply out loud in order to silence the long-dead wizard that now resided mostly in her head. He was arrogant, so damn arrogant, and even death had not robbed him of all of his power. The contract bound him to her, but it also bound her to him. Nominally, she was the master, but all magicians knew better than to trust the oaths of spirits and devils. At least in theory.
"Not now, Baltasar, I'm trying to be diplomatic," Sophia thought, shaping her thoughts into as strong of a command as she could discreetly muster.
"Oh yes, let us reason with our enemies," Baltasar disdainfully quipped.
"They are not our enemies, they are not my enemies, at least not yet."
"Don't worry, they will be soon enough, girl," Baltasar cheerfully mused. "The Guardians of the Veil have never been overly fond of necromancers. Do you know how many of my laboratories they destroyed? How many of my books they burned? And how many of my apprentices they killed?"
"I know."
"No one will notice one more body, not here, not now."
"No."
"Then what are you?" The prim and proper woman sitting across from Sophia practically hissed. She was growing increasingly irritated. Sophia had ignored her for too long. Baltasar had a habit of interrupting her thoughts as he pleased. He was a perpetual back-seat wagon driver. Most of the time it had the effect of making Sophia seem very thoughtful, like a philosopher of yore. The rest of the time it had the unfortunate habit of irritating those that expected a quick reply.
Sophia composed herself and took a small sip from the neat glass of whiskey that stood on the battered table in front of her. She relished the warmth that burned it's way down her throat and filled her chest with a pleasant tingling sensation. She carefully considered what to reply. Hermetic wizards were a superstitious and cautious lot and never took kindly to practitioners of the magical arts that operated outside of the usually safe domain of well-established and supposedly safe rituals. She didn't want to make a scene. It wouldn't do for the Sheriff to have to make an appearance. Not again. It had barely been a week.
Still thinking, she tapped a finger against her nose, "Ah, I suppose you could say that I am something of an independent contractor."
"A witch?" The other woman venomously asked. Sophia could not help but notice that she had managed to shift her chair away from her in record time. There was fear in her eyes, and that was never good. Not in a patient, not in a corpse, and certainly not in a hermetic wizard that was primed to blow you sky high with a fireball at the drop of a hat.
"Actually, I prefer the title Doctor," Sophia replied, flashing what she hoped was a disarming smile in the direction of the her conversational companion. She hefted her medical bag onto the table and patted it on the side, like one would pat a very large and very friendly dog. She leaned across the table, placing her elbows on the uneven wood of the table, and resting her chin on her interlaced fingers.
"Look, I'm flattered, very flattered that your order has taken an interest in my person and my interests here. However, I assure you, I am simply trying to make an honest living."
"Here?" Hannelore asked incredulously. "In this place."
"You have a point there," Sophia agreed taking in the filthy tavern and the filthier patrons surrounding her. "But yes."
"Why?"
Sophia laughed, smiling again, and shook her head slowly from side to side with amusement, "I told you, I'm a doctor. I have to help."
Magical Powers/Special Abilities:
I Put On My Necromancer Hat - Sophia is a talented wizard focusing on furthering her knowledge of the much feared and reviled art of necromancy. Like most practitioners of magic, Sophia is well-versed in hermetic rituals and the ways of spirits, devils, and other creatures found beyond the natural plane of existence. While, she secretly identifies as a necromancer, Sophia is also a capable spellslinger in a number of other more mainstream domains of magic.
They Being Dead Still Speakth - Sophia has a knack for conversing with the dead, managing to successfully interpret their often disjointed thoughts and understanding the strange, dead languages that seem to be in vogue among the deceased of all ages.
Dead Friends in High Places - Guided by the whispers of the dead, Sophia has a second-sense for avoiding danger, spotting traps, and navigating through the domains of the dead.
Tough as Bone - Having spent so much time among the dead, Sophia appears to have gained some of the qualities of an undead creature. In the course of her study of the art of necromancy, Sophia has become remarkably resistant to disease, physical damage, and pain. To her great sorrow, the young wizard is however still very mortal, if very cold to the touch of others.
Mental Bastion - Dealing with the undead and restless spirits on a frequent basis has left Sophia with a remarkably casual attitude towards all things related to horror, death, and madness.
Spirit Mentor - Sophia has a spirit mentor, a ghostly companion and guide that has accompanied her since her early childhood. The ghost is the incorporeal and usually grumpy spirit of a once living necromancer, infamous across all of the New World for his mastery of the dark arts. Baltasar the Black, as he calls himself, rarely makes himself perceptible to others or affects the world in any noticeable way, apart from advising Sophia on arcane matters. He appears capable of changing forms at a whim, but mostly takes the form of a weathered old man, with a carefully trimmed beard in the style of Gibraldi, a long flowing gray robe, and a soft-crowned gray hat. The ghost claims to be the incorporeal and usually grumpy spirit of a once living necromancer, infamous across all of the New World for his mastery of the dark arts. Although he is understandably reluctant to speak about it, almost forgotten stories mention that the ancient necromancer met his end at the hands of a coalition of powerful enemies several centuries ago. Tragic deaths notwithstanding, Sophia has learned most of what she knows about hermetic magic, the occult, and necromancy under Batlasar's exacting tutelage.
Mundane Skills:
Licensed Undertaker - Sophia is one of the few legitimately licensed undertakers in found this far from proper civilization. She knows how to make coffins, cheap and expensive, small and large, and how to prepare all manner of bodies for burial.
Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a... - Surprisingly for the era, Sophia is an actual doctor, a very good doctor, and not just a barber moonlighting as a surgeon like many of her so-called colleagues. She has a fancy diploma on her office wall that mentions some place called the "Harvard School of Medicine". However, whether this diploma is real or a high quality forgery is another matter entirely.
Experienced Traveler - Sophia is an experienced traveler and is used to life on the road or in the wilderness. When asked she claims to have traveled far and wide in search of alchemical knowledge and she commands a number of rare or esoteric languages, some of which do not sound like they were meant for human tongues.
Passable Shot - Sophia knows how to use firearms, especially shotguns and rifles, well-enough for someone living on the increasingly dangerous frontier. However, given her adherence to the Hippocratic Oath, she's reluctant to aim her gun at another person in anger and slower still to actually shoot to harm or kill.
Well Read - An educated woman, Sophia has wide range of knowledge regarding subjects both mundane and supernatural in nature.
Equipment:
Leather Physician's Bag - When she leaves her practice, Sophia brings a well-worn, leather physician's bag with her of impeccable quality. To those initiated in hermetic mysteries or sensitive to the arcane, there is a faint, but powerful force of magic that emanates from the bag. To everyone else, the medical bag is n different from any other and is full of the tools of Sophia's medical trade.
Silver Pocket Watch - One of Sophia's most prized possession is an ancient keywind pocket watch cast in silver. Inside the front cover of the pocket watch are strange etchings and words that are clearly not human in origin.
Arcane Grimoire - Sophia's other prized possession is a leather-bound grimoire dyed midnight black. Clearly ancient, the book is full of arcane formulas, long-forgotten rituals, and forbidden spells belonging to the shunned school of necromancy. An astute observer might notice that the handwriting of this arcane tome matches that etched into the front cover of Sophia's pocket watch.
Appaloosa Horse - Recalling the tragic fate of her predecessor, Sophia has steered clear of wagons, and for transportation she has an Appaloosa horse, a lovely spotted creature that she won from a Nez Perce shaman in a wager she speaks of with a mischievous smile painted on her lips.
Coach Gun - When good sense demands it, Sophia carries a shortened, double-barred shotgun discreetly in her medical bag. Currently, she sports a fashionable 10 gauge William Moore & Company coach gun. Although accuracy tapers off at medium to far range, at close range the firearm is most effective.
Other:
Wallace's Medical and Funeral Services - Sophia's medical practice is located in a decrepit building that was once the local funeral home. Within the storied walls of the simple two-story house she offers both medical and funeral services depending on the current needs of her customer. Since buying the building Sophia has effected only the most basic repairs and painted the building an already fading shade of green. Marked by death, the building is somehow mildly threatening, filling those that view it with a sense of dread and unexpected wariness. The local neighborhood children claim that the building is haunted and tell stories of a strange glowing light emanating from the windows in the middle of the night. To Sophia's chagrin, it has become something of a game for the children to dare one another to knock on her door after dark.
Whiskey Drinker - At the end of a long day, Sophia enjoys a drink or two, and if given a choice she prefers a simple, neat glass of whiskey.
Mysterious - Sophia carefully cultivates an air of mystery around herself and her past. She has few friends, but many acquaintances, and while she is seen as a respected member of both the mundane and supernatural communities she remains aloof of any established organizations.
“It's all fun and games until someone summons a servant of Satan in his cellar.”
Personal Dossier
Name
Danielle Moralés
Age
Danielle Moralés was born on February 2nd, 1843, only a few years before the onset of the Spanish-American War. She's over twenty years old, though some might say she's as high strung as someone under that threshold.
Descriptor
Danielle Moralés is the daughter of a famous smuggler, outlaw, and privateer, a pedigree that has defined her life for over two decades.
Appearance
Danielle Moralés is a woman who has lived a ragged, tough life. The years she spent underneath her father's shadow are long past, but the echoes of that darkness still lingers behind her. Her eyes are a grayed blue and her hair a deep brown so much that it appears black against the glare of the hanging sun. Due to her mixed heritage she can blend in to several colonial crowds (she's descended of Spanish, American, and French colonists) with a height that is only a little taller than the average female drifter. Her hair runs long, lagging past her shoulders, though she has most often drawn it into a ponytail to keep it from being in the way and used against her; she's even on occasion cut it short to blend in with more masculine crowds when trying to evade certain lawgivers throughout the continental United States.
In terms of clothing, she knows when to don something more traditionally feminine, though more often than not she looks like the usual plains or coastal drifter, including longcoat and wide-brimmed hat. A holster hangs from her belt, though she has a spare tucked in her boot when her six shooter is not an option; sometimes a holdout pistol is more useful than a dueling pistol.
Biography
Danielle Moralés was born in the city of St. Augustine in the territory-turned state of Florida in 1843. Her father, Hernán, on paper was a contracted privateer and maritime captain for the United States government – though the truth of the matter was that he was a smuggler, thief, and pirate. With associates in Savannah, Havana, and New Orléans, Hernán served as an influential member of the Gulf of Mexico's criminal underworld. This would come to define Danielle's life growing up for better or worse.
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Other
Armed with her trusty Remington Revolver, Danielle Moralés is a drifter, a woman who is constantly running; both from her past and certain enigmatic figures in her life. She's a crack shot, a charismatic negotiator, and a sly minx. She is deceptive, elusive, and mostly pretty damn lucky. She's worked as a rustler, grifter, thief, enforcer, smuggler, and sailor, and has the battle scars to prove it. Her life has been a dynamic one, but one limited to the gulf. People know her from St. Augustine to Havana, though it is no secret she wants to make a new life in Texas for reasons only known to the Spanish-American outlaw. Whether she's in Texas to go “straight” or to build a new network is uncertain, but her skillset is valuable whoever she saddles up with.
Some of these skills are as follows:
- Has sailed on maritime vessels since she was twelve years old; can swim and navigate based on the stars. - Is a quickdraw and accurate shot. Not the fastest in the Gulf, but still skilled. - Has connections with the criminal underground of Havana and St. Augustine as well as their immediate surrounding areas. - Can be quiet when the need arises, has been part of heists that didn't involve gunfights. - Can use a lasso as good as any decent rustler. - Can pick a lock; trained by the best, better than the rest. - Informally trained by “privateers” in the art of swordplay. - A rough but capable brawler, though she tries to shoot over punch. - Has a damn good poker face.
Additionally, Danielle has oftentimes gone by these aliases:
- Dan Morris - Danielle Marion - Abigail Galloway - Emilia Bettencourt - Roxanne O'Hara - Annabelle King - Elizabeth Jane - Andie Wacomb
I like the idea of this one! Working on a CS now. Can the glowy-eyed man in black evil guy make a guest appearance in my character's history? I'm still piddling around with ideas here, but my character will essentially be a Native American who's responsible for the deaths of his entire tribe, and is now quite literally haunted by their spirits.
I like the idea of this one! Working on a CS now. Can the glowy-eyed man in black evil guy make a guest appearance in my character's history? I'm still piddling around with ideas here, but my character will essentially be a Native American who's responsible for the death of his entire tribe, and is now quite literally haunted by their spirits.
That is so high concept that I just got an erection.
Go for it fam, hit me up in a PM and I'll work with you on it, so you're square on just how the glowy eye evil d00d in black works since he's basically the only relevant entity I've characterized that isn't admittedly basic name-dropping.
HOWDY FOLKS! A Wild WIP approaches. I'll work on it more this evening once I'm home from le job. @hour error I'm stealing most of your formatting, so thanks! :)
Name : Samuel Gilead & Orpheus, The Dane
Age : Sammy is in his late 20s, but he looks...weathered. Orpheus is a smidgen older than the first dreams of men.
Descriptor : Known grifter, town drunk and resident crazed loon & his completely normal dog
Appearance : Sammy Gilead is looking a little worse for wear. Years of sleazy living have given him an appearance like the dead end of a deep canyon, all hard lines and deep shadows. His calloused, sore encrusted skin hangs loosely from thin bones, as if clinging on to his skeleton through sheer force of will. Flat watery eyes the color of fish scales peer from beneath long stringy clumps of unwashed hair. The dirty blonde coils of grease topped by a battered wide brim hat speckled with holes. An alcoholics nose, grown fat to resemble a prickly pear, hangs heavily above a stoutly mustachioed mouth filled with broken teeth, all stained shades of sour yellow and rot brown from years of tobacco and liquor. Each day he is found lingering about the local saloon, wearing the same tired looking clothes, ratty threads of heavy leather, worn dull and soft from years of use and covered by a thick woven poncho that appears to have been eaten by moths.
Always lurking near his side, is Orpheus, The Dane. A great dane of imposing stature, standing nearly eye to eye with the average man, the dog is the color of a mooncast shadow and impossible-to-miss beside the skeletal visage of Samuel Gilead. While he moseys about town in a distinctly languid manner, the canine is often found statuesque, silently judging the goings on of the town with an unsettling pair of eyes which seem to shimmer oddly in the dark. The beast wears a cord of rope around its neck, with an iron trinket attached.
Biography : Sammy grew up around these parts. His upbringing is rather unremarkable, hard times making hard people in the little hamlet of Ulysses. His father, a widower in childbirth, had been a silver miner in Earlstead a few days ride from Ulysses, before it collapsed taking the best jobs and a handful of good men with it. With a source of income gone, Henry Gilead took to drinking himself to death, and spent the rest of his short years never more than arm’s reach from a bottle.
Left largely unattended, Samuel had a penchant even as a boy for ruffling feathers, often found stealing whiskey and goosing women in the local saloon and brothel, The Leaky Pitcher, beneath their petticoats. The Sheriff did what he could, but in a town like Ulyssess there was plenty else goings-on to keep his attention from raising the boy proper. A troublesome boy became a troublesome man, growing only bolder with age, he began hustling cards, selling snake oil and occasionally taking what wasn’t his by force in the surrounding towns and settlements around Ulysses. Anything for a quick buck, which he would turn around and spend at The Leaky Pitcher when he returned home.
It is said that every frontier town has a need for a neerdowell drunkard, and Samuel Gilead fit that bill. The sheriff sort of felt sorry for the kid, occasionally tossing him in a cell to dry out, several times assuring an angry mob that Sammy would be staying there for a “long time” only to release him again once things settled down.
However, one can only outrun their reputation for so long. Rumor has it that Samuel ran afoul of another sheriff, one Geoffry Lockehart, one whom allied himself with The Bricktooth Brothers, a nasty gang of banditos that operated as a sort of additional ‘peacekeeping’ force in Quincy.
Word was that Geoffry had Samuel strung up like a cheap whore and thrown in a shallow pit somewhere out in the savage wastes of the texan desert.
But that didn’t stop Samuel from showing up back in Ulyssess a few short weeks later. Looking as if he’d aged a lifetime with a massive black hound treading quietly in his wake.
Hear the Devil callin'. Hear the Devil callin'. Well, I hear the Devil callin', gotta pay him what he's due. I can't stop the Dogs of War.
___________________________________________
L I L Y O A K L E Y "ʀᴇᴅ" 34 | ♀
ᴍᴜɴᴅᴀɴᴇ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ
♠ Ambidexterity ♠ Marksmanship ♠ Fighting ♠ Big game hunter ♠ Survival
ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ
♥ Emotionless, except extremes and the 7 sins ♥ Supernatural aim, time slows as the adrenaline gets pumping
ᴇqᴜɪᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ♣ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴꜱ
♦ 2x Colt Single Action Army A pair of reliable single action revolvers, each holding 6 .45 Colt cartridges. These particular models are the models issued to cavalry units, coming with 7 1⁄2 inch barrels.
♦ Winchester Model 1866 A rugged lever-action rifle chambered in .44 Henry. It's tube magazine holds 15 rounds. It's leather strap allows it to easily be carried over a shoulder.
ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ Lily stands at 1.7m tall and is probably most easily recognized by a her dark red, almost crimson colored hair. Her eyes are a muddied brown and have an uncanny hardness to them, speaking volumes of the horrors she has witnessed. Her skin is fair, tanned by the many hours she has spend under the unforgiving glare of the sun.
There are a myriad of scars marring her body, from animal slashes to gunshot wounds. The most notable is a nasty gash that runs horizontally across her throat. She normally attempts to cover the latter one up with her iconic red scarf.
ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛᴏʀ A cursed gunslinger seeking revenge against those who killed her.
ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ The memories of before my death seem like a lifetime away now...
I used to have it good, y'know? My parents, my little brother and little sister; all living peacefully on our own little plot of land far away from civilization. The ground was good for crops and game aplenty. We worked the lands and were happy with the way things were. It's where my pa taught me how to shoot, hunt and survive. Ah, but we all know what this place does to a good thing, don't we?
They came riding in at dusk. Bandits, raiders, outlaws... Whatever you want to call them. A posse of twelve had entered our lands and were making a beeline for our home. My pa told us to hide in the barn as he tried to reason with them. I found myself a crack in the paneling I could peer through as my pa approached the gang, cocking his rifle. Now my pa was a big man, the kinda guy everybody had to look up at. But the leader of this gang towered over my pa! A hulking mass of muscle.
I was too far away to hear what was said, but you could tell things were rapidly going downhill by the gang's laughter. Things quickly went south as they ganged up on my pa, mercilessly beating him down into the dirt. I screamed in instinct, drawing the attention of the outlaws. Bearing down onto the barn like a pack of wild dogs, they dragged us out into the open.
Now I wish this all had a happy ending, but we both know better, don't we? I had hoped, prayed, that these men were here merely for money or food... But god has turned a blind eye to this part of the world, hasn't he?
I watched how they strung my little brother up into a tree and used him as target practice for their knifes... My dad was beaten until even I didn't recognize his face anymore. As for my little sister, mother and me. Well... I'm sure you're the imaginative kind. Let's just say their screams will haunt me till the day I die.
As the sun dipped below the hills, I began noticing weirder things. The outlaws had set up a large fire, bathing the area in an eerie orange glow. But it was their shadows that seemed off, hunched and deformed. More beast than man. Weirder still, was the shady figure darting between them. Perhaps it was the abuse I was receiving that day, my mind trying to concoct a reason as to why a human being could possibly be this cruel. But I swear there was a thirteenth member of the gang among them. His shape was a mere wisp of smoke, featureless like a shadow. It would move from man to man and whisper something into their eyes before they would enact yet another horrifying act.
Now, I could regale you with all the horrors they inflicted on me that evening, but I doubt you're here for that. No, I told you I died, didn't I?
When the first rays of sunlight broke over the hills, I was approached by their leader. The absolute giant of a man had stayed remarkably absent during his gang's festivities during the night. I still remember the words he spoke to me like he said them yesterday... "My my, you survived?" He told me with a noticeable glee in his voice. Grabbing me by my hair, he pulled me up as if I weighed nothing. "Tell him I said hello." He growled. Before I could even bother to form the question who he meant, he dragged a knife across my throat.
I collapsed to the ground, desperately clutching my throat as I quickly began choking on my own blood. The last thing I remember seeing before darkness overtook me was the man grinning down at me, his teeth awfully sharp for a human.
Now this is where I would tell you that I saw the white light, right? That my family was eagerly awaiting me with open arms. But that's just a load of bull. There was nothing. Blankness. Void. No warmth nor cold.
There was a light though, but it didn't come from some heavenly portal. I simply found myself opening my eyes and staring up at the clear blue sky. Sitting up with a start, I reached for my throat; finding nothing but caked blood and the charming scar I have today. I wasnt alone though. Before stood perhaps the oddest figure I've ever seen.
A small, spindly man in a dirty suit that looked more at home in a bank. His cheeks were gaunt and his skin awfully pale. But what I remember the most were his eyes. The bluest blue I'd ever seen. He simply said to me the following:
"Find him, bind him Tie him to a pole and break His fingers to splinters Drag him to a hole until he Wakes up, naked Clawing at the ceiling Of his grave"
And just like that, he was gone; vanished like smoke.
The homestead was razed. I buried my family, yet felt no remorse or sadness. It was as of a part of me died that evening. All I knew was that I would find this gang and kill them with my own two hands. Which is what brought me to Ulysses. See, ever since that night I've felt a pull. Like something guiding me towards this place. Whether this is just a stop in between or the end of my journey I don't know... But how about you pour me another whiskey and we'll see what the night bring?
I'm not a huge fan of writing summary histories, so I wrote this:
"Sophia Wallace?"
"That depends, who's asking?" Sophia warily answered. She had only just gotten her drink. It had been a long day. Three burials in one morning was two too many. One would have been enough, more than enough. She only asked for a bit of business, she wasn't greedy, she didn't need to be so busy. She had books to read, and undead to converse with. She wanted to take a bath. A real bath, a hot bath...she needed a bath tub.
Despite knowing better, Sophia eventually looked up from her drink. In front of her stood a prim and proper lady, an aristocrat that had no business in the Leaky Pitcher. Especially not on a Sunday. She wore a green satin dress with laced short sleeves over a linen chemise, a lace cap trimmed with rose-colored tassels, and an elaborate fan in her hand. She was stunning, and Sophia was almost surprised she had made it unaccosted to her table.
"Hannelore Weber," the young woman energetically proclaimed with a nod that was intended to be very serious. The dramatic and all too obvious pause that followed told Sophia that she was dealing with the worst sort of actress. "Of the Guardians of the Veil, perhaps you have heard of us?"
Sophia let out a low sigh in response, but did her best to recover, it wouldn't do to offend the newcomer, she wasn't in the mood for a tavern brawl, especially not an arcane one,"Who hasn't?"
Mention of the infamous, among wizards, order of do-gooders and fanatical inquisitors sent a shiver down Sophia's spine and caused a presence to stir in the most carefully guarded recesses of her mind. He was angry, but more importantly, he was annoyed.
"Only the uninitiated," Hannelore smugly agreed, taking a seat unbidden across from Sophia.
"Well, Miss Hannelore, what brings you to this wonderful stretch of desolation and death known to the Gods as the town of Ulysses?"
"It has come to our attention, through a confidential source, that there are strange forces, arcane forces, at work in this town. And naturally when it also came to our attention that you were a recent immigrant to this fair city...well, you can't exactly be surprised that my superiors felt best to send a member of our order to have a chat with you."
"Oh, indeed?" Sophia answered, doing her best to appear bored.
"There's quite the file on you in the archives. I haven't seen it, of course, but I've been told it's extensive and very detailed."
"I'm sure there are only good things about me mentioned in your papers," the young necromancer hesitantly added, carefully studying her glass of whiskey.
"However, all our information was a bit out of date. We had great trouble identifying your current associates. Notwithstanding, Miss —"
"Don't say her name!" Sophia growled, slamming a fist hand down on the table, feeling the heat that spread across her cheeks.
It had the desired effect, and Hannelore looked at her cautiously with wide eyes. "Ahem. Well. I must ask, to what great order or society do you currently belong?"
"None."
"You aren't a member of a hermetic order?"
"No," Sophia replied with a small chortle.
"Surely, a magician as talented as you is aware of the dangers of exploring the matters of the occult alone and without the proper guidance?"
"I am, but all the same, I prefer to work alone. For obvious reasons..."
"That's a lie," a voice indignantly interjected, clearly hurt at what the young necromancer had insinuated. Vaguely British-sounding, the proud voice was accompanied by the sweet smell of pipe tobacco and a subtle hint of jasmine. "How long have I not guided you? I raised you up from middle class drollery and saved you from a loveless marriage to some fool of a baron's son. I initiated you into study of the great hermetic mysteries of existence. I taught you how to summon and command the dead. I instructed you in how to parley with spirits and devils alike. I forged a pact with you to span the ages and defeated death herself."
Sophia rubbed her brows wearily. It took some effort not to reply out loud in order to silence the long-dead wizard that now resided mostly in her head. He was arrogant, so damn arrogant, and even death had not robbed him of all of his power. The contract bound him to her, but it also bound her to him. Nominally, she was the master, but all magicians knew better than to trust the oaths of spirits and devils. At least in theory.
"Not now, Baltasar, I'm trying to be diplomatic," Sophia thought, shaping her thoughts into as strong of a command as she could discreetly muster.
"Oh yes, let us reason with our enemies," Baltasar disdainfully quipped.
"They are not our enemies, they are not my enemies, at least not yet."
"Don't worry, they will be soon enough, girl," Baltasar cheerfully mused. "The Guardians of the Veil have never been overly fond of necromancers. Do you know how many of my laboratories they destroyed? How many of my books they burned? And how many of my apprentices they killed?"
"I know."
"No one will notice one more body, not here, not now."
"No."
"Then what are you?" The prim and proper woman sitting across from Sophia practically hissed. She was growing increasingly irritated. Sophia had ignored her for too long. Baltasar had a habit of interrupting her thoughts as he pleased. He was a perpetual back-seat wagon driver. Most of the time it had the effect of making Sophia seem very thoughtful, like a philosopher of yore. The rest of the time it had the unfortunate habit of irritating those that expected a quick reply.
Sophia composed herself and took a small sip from the neat glass of whiskey that stood on the battered table in front of her. She relished the warmth that burned it's way down her throat and filled her chest with a pleasant tingling sensation. She carefully considered what to reply. Hermetic wizards were a superstitious and cautious lot and never took kindly to practitioners of the magical arts that operated outside of the usually safe domain of well-established and supposedly safe rituals. She didn't want to make a scene. It wouldn't do for the Sheriff to have to make an appearance. Not again. It had barely been a week.
Still thinking, she tapped a finger against her nose, "Ah, I suppose you could say that I am something of an independent contractor."
"A witch?" The other woman venomously asked. Sophia could not help but notice that she had managed to shift her chair away from her in record time. There was fear in her eyes, and that was never good. Not in a patient, not in a corpse, and certainly not in a hermetic wizard that was primed to blow you sky high with a fireball at the drop of a hat.
"Actually, I prefer the title Doctor," Sophia replied, flashing what she hoped was a disarming smile in the direction of the her conversational companion. She hefted her medical bag onto the table and patted it on the side, like one would pat a very large and very friendly dog. She leaned across the table, placing her elbows on the uneven wood of the table, and resting her chin on her interlaced fingers.
"Look, I'm flattered, very flattered that your order has taken an interest in my person and my interests here. However, I assure you, I am simply trying to make an honest living."
"Here?" Hannelore asked incredulously. "In this place."
"You have a point there," Sophia agreed taking in the filthy tavern and the filthier patrons surrounding her. "But yes."
"Why?"
Sophia laughed, smiling again, and shook her head slowly from side to side with amusement, "I told you, I'm a doctor. I have to help."
Hopefully it serves to reveal some of Sophia's character and backstory. Haven't read through it after writing it (yet), so apologizes for any obvious errors/half-awake writing.
Edit: I hope you don't mind @ElRey814, but I referenced the Leaky Pitcher.
I'm all for additional writings and extra narrative reveals, but I do request that you keep to what little required information I have requested. I probably have the sparsest sheet in Advanced, and I'll hold everyone to it who submits a character. So give at least some form of summative backstory, but feel free to also supplant what you've presented here onto the sheet in a neatly filed manner. Characterization is an ever-pleasant thing to witness.
Use 1870 as a reference point for research if necessary, but I am refraining from outright stating a year directly ICly unless necessary/desired by you folks. Bogging down my fantasy with history, huff
Use 1870 as a reference point for research if necessary, but I am refraining from outright stating a year directly ICly unless necessary/desired by you folks. Bogging down my fantasy with history, huff
The best fantasy is grounded with lore. Especially when it's historical fiction.
I'm all for additional writings and extra narrative reveals, but I do request that you keep to what little required information I have requested. I probably have the sparsest sheet in Advanced, and I'll hold everyone to it who submits a character. So give at least some form of summative backstory, but feel free to also supplant what you've presented here onto the sheet in a neatly filed manner. Characterization is an ever-pleasant thing to witness.
Fair. :)
Hopefully this works, but I am happy to make any changes:
What Was:
Sophia was born somewhere on the East Coast, likely Connecticut if her accent is any indication, and unlike a great many of the citizens of Ulysses she comes from a decidedly upper middle class family. A precocious child, she grew up wishing to follow in the footsteps of her father, a trained surgeon, and spent much of her early life buried in books. She lived something of a charmed life, wanting little, and basking in the comfort afforded to her by her family. What promised to be a pleasant, if predictable life, was forever changed when a teenage Sophia visited an antique bookshop with her mother. Drawn to a dark, seldom visited corner of the tomb-like shop, she found an strange book bound in leather and dyed a deep midnight. It was an ancient tome written in a strange hand and a stranger language still.
At first, the grimoire made little sense. However, with time, Sophia began to understand letters, then words, then phrases, then paragraphs, and finally pages. It was then that she met Baltasar, or rather, what remained of the ancient wizard. He was an ethereal creature, a spirit, that appeared only to the young girl. Once, had a been a great wizard, an infamous necromancer feared and respected throughout both the Old and the New World. He had met his end, predictably for a necromancer, at the hands of a coalition of his many enemies. It was his books that she had found, Baltasar said. He had written it centuries earlier, weaving powerful magic into each page, creating a bridge to another, cheating death, and ensuring that his legacy would not die with him, as it had with so many other persecuted necromancers.
The ancient spirit suggested that Sophia enter into a pact with him, providing him with an anchor to the mortal world far stronger than the weakening magic that still remained in his grimoire. In return, Baltasar promised Sophia knowledge, the vast sum of knowledge, both mundane and magical that he had acquired over his long life. He promised her guidance, training in the arcane arts, instruction in hermetic rituals, and an unparalleled mastery of the grim school of necromancy. But most of all, he promised her a friendship that would last beyond the grave. One oath, various arcane ingredients, and a small quantity of blood later, Sophia found herself with her very own spirit mentor.
From that point onwards, Sophia changed, she grew focused, impossibly focused, and a sense of purpose pervaded all her actions. Gone was the carefree girl she had been, replaced by an ambitious young woman. Guided by Baltasar, Sophia broke off an engagement that would have seen her married off to the son of a steel baron soon after. She had never seemed overly excited about the prospect and her parents could do little to convince the willful young woman that she was threatening her future. With great effort, she convinced her parents to send her off to a proper school, a university of peerless prestige, unparalleled scientific achievement, and great wealth. Her days were spent studying medicine, pouring over books concerning anatomy, chemistry, and the treatment of diseases. Her nights were spent in her darkened room with Baltasar, pouring over arcane tomes, drawing ritual patterns in chalk, and learning spells that manipulated life and death.
A scant four years later, Sophia left the world of academia and the university with a medical degree in hand. Although her instructors professed that they were a bit alarmed at the strange hours she kept, and the ease with which she dealt with dead bodies. Still, she was a talented surgeon they all remarked, one of the best they had ever seen. If she was a bit strange? Well, what did that really matter? Ambitions to establish a practice near her childhood home were soon crushed by resistance in the established medical community and Sophia found herself reduced to nothing more than an undertaker, the closet job she could find to a actually practicing medicine. On a bet and to prove a point, Sophia eventually secured the necessary license to pursue this line of work.
For a time, life was good, and Sophia managed to make a comfortable living seeing to the burial of the dead. At the very least, it afforded her discreet access to the raw materials required for any self-respecting necromancer to continue their work, namely corpses of varying vintage. As her mundane career faltered, Sophia continued to pursue her mastery of the arcane arts. Like Baltasar before her, Sophia had little interest in forced servitude as a member of one of the great orders of mages that existed in the New World. Instead, through talent, wit, and occasionally bribery, Sophia maintained a precarious position as an unaffiliated and sometimes only barely tolerated wizard. None, save Baltasar, and especially not other students of magic, were privy to her practice of necromancy.
For all her caution, Sophia's life was undone by a whirlwind romance with a conjurer, a naive hope to do good, and the robbery of an arcane vault belonging to the fanatical arcane inquisitors of the Guardians of the Veil. Baltasar had warned her, but she had not listened, and she paid the price. Betrayed by the woman she loved, Sophia did unspeakable, necessary, and evil things in order to survive. She broke the only oath she had lived by. The only oath that mattered. She took a life. A life that had mattered to her more than any other. Others followed. Bystanders. Unintended victims. The result of a spell gone horribly wrong. An entire city block lost to the ether.
And then...
Sophia ran.
She ran as far as she could. Stealing a horse, a gun, and then an entire wagon, she headed out West. Shedding her past, her name, and even her appearance along the way. Long days turned to weeks, then months, and when Sophia finally arrived in Ulysses she awoke to find that the melancholy dreams that had accompanied her journey had changed her. There was a darkness in the heart of the town that called to her, but she was no longer afraid. She had found a new purpose, a new place to call home, and a path towards the sort of redemption that only the wasteland can offer.
She wouldn't run.
Not this time.
Not again.
What Is:
Sophia Wallace is currently the only practicing doctor and licensed undertaker in the small town of Ulysses. Among the citizens of Ulysses, both mundane and supernatural, Sophia is invariably known as "Doc" or at most "Doc Wallace". A newcomer to the town, Sophia has quickly established herself as a respected and indispensable member of the community. The timing of her arrival was most fortuitous for the townsfolk, as the previous town doctor, Mr. Francois Dumont, had perished only a few weeks prior to her arrival in a tragic and mysterious wagon accident.
Sophia's skill as a doctor are truly remarkable, and in the safety of the Leaky Pitcher some of the townsfolk quietly whisper that there is something supernatural about the effortless way the young woman wields her scalpel. However, following those rare times when even the good doctor is unable to cure a patient, the townsfolk take comfort in the knowledge that a coffin and a proper burial can be arranged for in the very same building for a most reasonable price.
A gifted necromancer, Sophia relies on the widespread, but mistaken belief that necromancers cannot command healing magic and a steady supply of legally acquired corpses to hide herself and her necromantic magic in plain sight. Despite her chosen arcane vocation, Sophia is far from evil, and simply wants to make an honest living helping others.
I usually don't try to make things so dramatic, but Westerns always have that edge of tragedy/regret to them and it seemed interesting to explore the character of a doctor that took a couple of lives (if perhaps not intentionally).
