I'll drop down some interest here and have a good read through to see where I can fit in. In a previous RP I made a character set known as the Two Tucker Twins for a kinda Westworld RP, but only ever got to write up the intro. Tweak them around and they may just fit in.
Description: A morose Apache without a family who lives a quiet fruitless life of self-punishment for his actions of the past, with the tendency to become manic around fire.
Appearance: Dakota is an Apache, as is apparent by his olive skin, coarse black hair that falls down to his shoulders, and eyes so brown they seem tinged with gray. There is a fierce, yet miserable look about Dakota. His skin is stretched tight over his skull, emphasizing an already broad forehead, cheekbones, and jaw. He stands tall at 6’3, but generally carries himself in an unhappy slump, rounding his shoulders and letting his arms hang low. His body is lean and hard, and before their deaths his tribemates had nicknamed him “butte” because they joked the spirits of the wind had chiseled his wiry body like they carved out the massive rocks in the desert. Dakota does not dress in the traditional clothing of his tribe anymore. Instead he has adopted the attire of the white man. He typically wears a pair of brown or tan chaps, a breezy white cotton shirt tucked in neatly, and a black cowboy hat with a single gray feather that is threaded once flatly against the brim.
Bio: Living day by day. Growing and thriving under the arid sun. Enjoying his family, his tribe. Learning not just English from his intelligent father, but crafts valued by both Apache and White Man. Dakota enjoyed his life, all up until the point that he killed everyone he knew and loved.
His obsession.
Dakota played with fire. If anyone knew, they would say he was obsessed. They would say he was a maniac. Whether he was cradling a small ember in the palm of his hand (embracing the blister of pain that came with it), or setting blaze to a dry thicket that expanded for dozens of acres (something he’d done more than once), he was fascinated by it. It’s warmth, it’s light, it’s constant hunger. Dakota related to the fire on every level. He even loved it. Eventually it consumed him, like it does everything else; he couldn’t bear to part with it. Every time the flame went out, he too would feel extinguished. At least, until the next time he got to reignite.
The ritual was inside of their largest tee-pee. To celebrate and thank the spirits for a good harvest, the entire tribe packed inside to perform a twelve hour sweat. Nearing the end, when the humidity was at it’s worst, the entire tribe close to breaking their mescalito enchantment, and when the fire was running at it’s lowest, was when it happened.
Dakota didn’t want to see the flame go out. He couldn’t bear the ensuing darkness or the chill that followed. He’d just been passed the vat of mescaline, and a long draught of it increased his mind numbing fear of losing the fire. There was one more log by the fire pit. He reached for it when his father, the eldest member of the tribe, grabbed his arm. He had a look in his eyes. Disappointment, and fear.
In that second, Dakota was aware that his father knew, and his own fear spiked even further. He pulled away from his father, who tightened his grip. Dakota tried to throw the log into the fire. Somewhere in the struggle the vat of mescaline tipped.
The oil seeped down towards the pit, and the brightest most beautiful flame Dakota had ever seen erupted within the teepee.
It had left him unscathed. It reduced the teepee to cinders, and the bodies to ashes, but the fire had spared him. The beast had chosen not to bite the hand that fed it. He sat for hours under the moonlight and among the smoldering remains until the last flickering flame died. When he stood, he realized he was not alone.
There was a man; or something that resembled a man. The thing wore all black, and stood tall amid the smoke, he seemed to bask in the fumes. Dakota thought it must’ve been the mescalito, but the man’s eyes shined yellow, like the front light on a distant train. His face was shrouded in darkness. The moonlight didn’t seem to touch him.
“You now live a cursed life, Dakota Crow. Only one path can lead you to peace.”
In the months and years that followed that fateful night, Dakota left his Apache heritage behind, and joined in with settlers’ society. He carried his curse with him wherever he went, and never stuck around in any town for too long. Three years had passed since the loss of his tribe when he came across Ulysses. The man in black, and the words he had spoken that night never strayed far from Dakota’s thoughts. Upon cresting a mesa and first catching sight of Ulysses, Dakota had lit a match and heard the fire speak. “Path to Peace” This is where he is today.
Other: Since that fateful night, Dakota has had a strange relationship with fire. Anytime he’s near a flame, big or small, it becomes a manifestation of his dead tribe. They’re not particularly happy with Dakota, but neither do they hate him. The tribe can influence the world in a variety of ways through an open flame. They can cause it to immediately extinguish, something they did to Dakota on many cold nights during his three years as a nomad. They can grow it and spread it if there’s available fuel nearby. They can speak through the flames to him. And once, when he came across a burning stagecoach, the fire spat out his father, who followed Dakota for over a mile, clubbing the back of his head and spitting insults. Dakota presumed he’d finally disappeared because the fire at the stagecoach had gone out. He has accepted being cursed, and carries matches with him wherever he goes. He considers it his penance, and the tribe eagerly agrees with him.
Descriptor A young warrior seeking improvement and belonging
Appearance
While generally preferring more traditional attire, necessity has forced adjustments to her wardrobe. Typically dressed in a short yukata with hakama, she has adopted more Western style boots and a duster coat. Leather cloves protect her hands and a dark blue omamori hangs from her obi.
Biography
Father,
I know you will not truly understand, but I must do this. The Meiji strip us of our titles, land, and wealth, yet none stand against this injustice. The samurai of today bring shame to those before us, and I cannot stand this display any longer. I am taking the stipend we recieved before you can turn it into a bond, our family scroll, and I am relieving your weapons of their cowardly owner. With the last embers of our ancestors' spirits, I will join the American we met with and visit his land in hopes of preserving them.
Farewell,
Date Uzume
Staring down at the letter, waiting for the ink to dry, Uzume considered her decision one last time. Once she leaves, that's it. No turning back. She will be in a foreign land, and will need to carve out a new place for herself. With a deep breath, the young girl reaffirms herself. Stepping into the great unknown would be better than suffering in familiarity. Grabbing her packed belongings, Uzume folds up the letter and exits her room. Walking through the empty estate, the samurai could not deny the pounding in her chest. Was it excitement or fear trying to tug at her? Was her body trying to push her onwards, or pull her back? It was impossible to truly tell, but she forced her legs along one step at a time.
The store room was locked, but she would not be impeded by this. Bringing one foot up, she slammed her foot into the door and sent it flying open with a thunderous crash. Hurrying in, Uzume grabbed the swords from their stand, the revolver from its box, and the freshly minted yen from the bank. As she finished her looting, the girl left the letter behind and quickly fled from what she once considered her home.
Arriving at her American contact's home, she rapped on the door while keeping an eye out for any pursuers. After a few seconds of delay, the door opened and she pushed herself in.
"Close the door," Uzume said before turning to face the man. He was well-built and strong, and wore some more casual attire from the West. The man stared at her with some scrutiny, but complied and shut the door behind her. Pushing some of his blonde hair out of his face, he asked a simple question.
"What are you running from?"
At this, the Date girl pause, taking a few seconds before sighing.
"My family. The government. Everything that once made this country my home. They strip away our rights! Taking what is rightfully ours, and yet everyone simply acce-"
The man brought up a hand to stop her, giving her a knowing nod as he responded, "I understand. The place I once called home did the same thing. We tried to fight against them, to end the injustice, but we were stomped out. I'll help you, where ever it is you need to go."
"America. What you've told my family about it, all the opportunity and danger, I think a warrior will be welcomed."
After a pause, the man got moving to arrange her a spot on the ship he arrived on using the very money she stole. Before she left, he gave her one piece of advise.
"Learn to shoot straight."
Other
Japanese
English
Spanish
Ambidexterity - Though born left-handed, Uzume was forced to use her right hand for most things and adapted. Once she started practicing with two blades, her left hand quickly became comfortable again.
Swordsmanship - As part of her upbringing, she was initially given basic training with short blades intended for self-defense. However, between natural talent and her vested interest in ancient figures such as her ancestors and the swordsman Miyamoto Musashi, Uzume continued to pursue the craft. Eventually, she took up using two blades like her idol, Musashi.
Calligraphy
Weapon Maintenance
Shogi
Archery
Hand-to-Hand
Equestrianism
Kemari
Gunslinging - Only a very recent addition to her skillset, she has gotten as far as how to load the weapon and shoot in the general direction of something.
Poetry
Go
Basketball
Yume and Kago - A katana and wakizashi which once belonged to her father. She stole the weapons, believing him unworthy of even carrying their spirits in name.
LeMat Revolver - A firearm given to her family by an American Civil War veteran, it is a single action revolver with a 9-round cylinder and a single-shot secondary barrel.
Calligraphry Set - A small, long wooden case containing two brushes, an inkstone, an inkstick, a water dropper, a stone with her signature, and an ink pot with red ink.
Maintenance Tools - For both her blades and the gun in her posession
Date Family Scroll - A scroll containing her family tree
The Book of Five Rings - A book written by Miyamoto Musashi, though somewhat worn from many times reading it, it remains one of her most prized posessions.
Travelling Pack - A leather sling bag containing most of her assorted belongings.
Omamori - A talisman Uzume purchased from a Shinto shrine before departing, hoping it would help protect her. Typically found hanging from her obi.
Moving from a WIP to a complete draft*, I think this will do until a wonderful nap and coffee:
Name: Sophia "Doc" Wallace, although it is almost a certainty that this is an assumed name. Age: Mid-twenties Descriptor: A kind necromancer, efficient undertaker, and skilled practitioner of medicine.
Physical Appearance:
Far from a gunslinger, Sophia does not come across as very intermediating or threatening, and she stands evenly at an average height in a good pair of shoes. There is a stillness to her person, a reassuring thoughtfulness, and a subtle reminder of the polite civilization that is often left behind on the way to Ulysses. Sophia has a way of putting people at ease and has mastered the medically necessary talent of convincing her others that things will be alright, even when they clearly will not. Keen to avoid undue attention, the young necromancer does not have the pale skin that one might expect of a crypt-dwelling vampire or traditionally grave-robbing necromancer. Her skin is instead cast in a light shade of beige, warmed by the touch of the sun and painted with a collection of gentle freckles. Sophia has clever, azure eyes, that shine with a strange, eerie light when she casts spells. She has delicate eyebrows and full, expressive lips, that are only rarely set with severity or anger. She keeps her long black hair pinned in an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck, not quite having the heart to cut it short despite the impracticality of caring for long hair on the frontier. To secure the chignon, Sophia uses ivory or silver hairpins that match the tasteful jewelry that decorates her ears.
In short, for a person who spends most of her time among the dead and dying, Sophia has a remarkably warm disposition.
Unlike a great many of the other residents of Ulysses, Sophia does not have any impressive scars or missing body parts, and she has yet to lose so-much as a tooth in a drunken scuffle. She firmly believes that a healthy appearance is as important of an indicator of the skill of the medical practitioner as the girth of a chef is to the quality of the cooking.
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. She wears a variety of small rings, inlaid with silver and set with jewels that seem to dance with arcane energy, on her fingers.
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.
All credit for the wonderful image goes to one,Steve Gibson.
Biography:
What Was:
Sophia was born somewhere on the East Coast a little more than two decades ago, 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 Balthazar, 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, Balthazar 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, Balthazar 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 Balthazar, 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 Balthazar, 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 Balthazar 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 Balthazar, 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. Balthazar 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, she 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, Balthazar, 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," Balthazar 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," Balthazar 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. Balthazar 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. Balthazar 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 Balthazar'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.
*I suppose a draft is still a WIP, but relative completion felt like it deserved a new post.
Name: John Tatum (more commonly known as "Scarecrow Jack" or "Wanderin' Jack")
Age: 36
Descriptor: Appalachian guitar-pickin' Wise Man.
Appearance: One quick glance tells you where the nickname came from: John is over six feet tall, thin and tough like an iron nail. His clean-shaven face is not unhandsome, with blue eyes clear and sharp like a mountain creek, a prominent nose, and an honest smile. His brown hair is a bit unruly and tucked under a shapeless hat. His hands are large and capable-looking. While his clothes aren't fancy, they are rugged, practical, and in good repair.
Biography: John was born and raised in the part of Appalachia that would later be called West Virginia. He was trained as an outdoorsman from an early age. He had a quiet step, a sharp eye, and a fair hand with a rifle even before he was conscripted into the Union army. With a copy of The Long Lost Friend in his pocket he was able to help his fellow soldiers maintain their health and their faith on the campaign trail.
Once the war ended, John Intended to settle down in his beloved mountains. But was seized with a restlessness that has occupied him ever since. His endless travels and natural curiosity have led him to people both good and evil, and circumstances both natural and unnatural. Soon enough he realized he was a Wanderer, propelled by some unseen calling to travel about and help the small folk across the land.
More recently, that drive sent him across the mighty Mississippi. Nowadays he's not sure if there's something pushing him from behind, or calling him forward. Is Ulysses the cynosure of his calling? He doesn't know, but that's where he's headed...
Normal skills:
Outdoor survival. John is an accomplished outdoorsman, actually more comfortable sleeping outside than indoors. He can fend for himself outdoors for an extended period of time, identify plants and animals, track, hunt & forage well, and do a pretty good job of not getting lost. Good shot with a rifle. Less so with a revolver. Broad scope of folk knowledge. Including herbal lore, basic homey skills, and a vast array of knowledge about spirits, ghosts, ghouls, and all kinds of unnatural creatures and how to deal with them. Wandering balladeer. John's an excellent guitar player who knows hundreds of songs. He can also make up a song on the spur of the moment. Bare-knuckle fighter. John can put up his dukes when he needs to. Will power and resolve. John don't give up easy, and he never surrenders to evil.
Special skills:
White magic. While John has never been apprenticed to a magical teacher, he has a lot of practical experience with white magic, mostly protective/defensive/abjurational charms and rituals. He still has his dog-eared copy of The Long Lost Friend to help him.
Normal possessions: Bedroll, tinder box, Bowie knife, hunting rifle and cartridges, water skin, change of clothes, good boots, beat-up hat, copy of The Long Lost Friend
Special possessions: Hand-made guitar with silver strings. The guitar itself is only special in that it sounds very nice. The string are pure silver, but somehow put forth remarkable music. John sometimes uses his music to aid him in his white magic.
No rush, and no deadlines just yet, but if folks have any sort of timeframe in mind about completing sheets or making up first drafts etc. It'd be nice to know, even if only for my sanity. What little of it remains.
And as usual feel free to PM me if uncertain or curious about anything.
Or, Hell, yell at me publicly. Whatever floats your boat.
Once again thanks to @Hour Error cause I totally ripped off their layout.
Name : Samuel Gilead & Meru, The Coyote
Age : Sammy is in his late 20s, but he looks...weathered. Meru appears to be a young, virile Coyote.
Descriptor : Local and former neerdowell & his completely normal coyote companion.
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 a gaunt face, nestled 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 nearby, is Meru, The Coyote. Unassuming and silent as a ghost, the canid is the color of the moon’s flesh & wood ash. Wiry, long, and prone to skulking in the shadows, the young male coyote is surprisingly easy to miss, particularly when one is distracted by the ghoulish visage of Samuel Gilead. While during the day Meru moseys from shadow to shadow in a distinctly languid manner, he is typically found statuesque, silently judging the goings on of the town with an unsettling pair of eyes which seem to shimmer oddly in the dark. Though the appearance of a coyote is town is unusual and folks are wary, Meru has remained docile and has been allowed to stay, even following Samuel into The Leaky Pitcher on numerous occasions.
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 beneath their petticoats in the local saloon and brothel, The Leaky Pitcher. The Sheriff did what he could, but in a town like Ulysses 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 seemed Samuel was destined for little else than following his father's drunken staggers into an early grave.
Still, every frontier town has a morbid 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 who allied himself with The Bricktooth Brothers, a nasty gang of banditos that operated as a sort of additional ‘peacekeeping’ force in Quincy. Word a year ago was that Geoffry had finally gotten his hands on Samuel, strung him up like a cheap whore and tossed him in a shallow pit somewhere out in the savage wastes of the Texas desert. Nobody seen or heard from Sammy in a time, and life went on, as it always does.
But that didn’t stop Samuel from showing up back in Ulysses a few moons ago after a week worth of rain. Looking as if he’d aged a lifetime with a Coyote the color of a week-old campfire treading quietly in his wake.
Not a soul in Ulysses is quite sure what to make of the duo. Seems every resident has a different version of the truth they’ve invented. Daily rumors are passed in whisper about what’s gotten into the Gilead boy, where Meru came from, or what exactly happened to Sammy out there in the desert. It was clear to every resident of Ulysses who had known Sam that something had changed. He is now quieter, better behaved in a sense. He's helpful, respectful, and direct, all the things he once was not. Instead, it is now his words, rather than his actions, causing a commotion.
Samuel has claimed on more than one occasion that Meru was called to Ulysses across the sands. He insists to any that will listen that the people of Ulysses must 'be vigilant.' Recently causing more of a stir by interrupting a public execution to yell that both the Mayor and Father George were two vipers which shared a tail.
Such disquieting behavior would easier to dismiss were Samuel not stone sober. True or not, murmurs are spreading through the town. Though much of the attention he's attracting isn't good.
All the while the coyote is a second shadow to Gilead. Ears perked, eyes glimmering.
Coyotl - The Spirit Of The West: - Coyotl has been spoken of in the tales of native tribes for countless generations before Europeans ever arrived in what became considered ‘the new world.’ Coyotl is a reflection of our true selves, representing all the best and worst mankind has to offer. But Coyotl wears many faces, and Meru is but one such manifestation. A solitary filament in a tapestry woven from the feral energy of the American West, he exists among us, equal parts curious and capricious, holding minor domain in our realm.
Pray For Rain - Meru is able to call to the rain, influencing storm clouds to form. While not capable of causing a torrential downpour or tempest winds, there are benefits to such power. Any good tracker knows mud holds prints better than dust.
Shadow Walker - The Coyote’s yowling at the moon is a familiar staple in the American West. Due to the kinship Meru shares with Sister Moon, he is able to travel short distances via shadows cast by her light. This ability can give one the impression that Meru is everywhere at once, a maddening trick used for both escape and pursuit in the crisp desert night.
Pulling On The Strings - At one time, man and Coyotl would converse and sing together, but long gone have those days been. Though the shared tongue is largely forgotten, it is said that when the stillness of death approaches, Coyotl is always there, his language whispered on the wind. The Spirit of The West is drawn by those who linger in suffering in the wild wastes. Coyotl typically offers a parting gift, a quick death, to end needless agony. But sometimes, when it suites him, he offers more. Those that learn Coyotl's tongue & agree to terms before their life-force fades are said to be able to skirt the grasp of death itself, until their deal is seen through. And in doing so, grant Coyotl a puppet to influence the world of men.
Notable Objects:
Iron Trinket - Tied to the Meru’s neck, virtually hidden amidst the tufts of fur is a thick cord of rope, affixed with a small trinket curled in a spiral around a strange, metallic stone. There are glinting, deep indigo veins cutting through the polished stone, giving it the appearance of movement, as if its surface were made of liquid.
Rusted Revolver - Samuel Gilead carries a muddy and rusted firearm. The engraved handle is caked with dirt, but reads "Lockehart." Before he disappeared, Samuel had been a capable and self-sufficient frontier highwayman, but the gun he carries now can’t rotate the chamber or fire a bullet. Nonetheless it remains loaded and tucked in his holster. The boys in the saloon regularly mock him for it since his return.
Descriptor - An eccentric and strange woman who seems to drift through the world like a leaf on a flowing river. She has a lazy and relaxed way of speaking. Generally kind but with a sarcastic streak.
Appearance - A slim, half-starved looking young woman. Bobbi has high cheekbones, willowy figure with arms and legs a little too long for her body and spider-like hands. Her face generally has a vacant sort of expression on it, as if she is looking off into the far distance. Her eyes are a deep, dark brown and her long hair flows down her back in gentle waves. Her skin is a sickly pale and one can see her veins in some places. She dresses in dark colors, wears large sunhats, and does her best to stay in the shade or wander at night. She is quite small, standing at about 5'.
Biography - Bobbi was born to superstitious and devout Evanglican parents. They praised God that their baby should be so quiet while most others screamed. Sometimes she would laugh at nothing at all. A quiet and happy baby. As she grew older it became apparent that the imaginary friends she described were deceased loved ones or devil. In all other ways than this, she was respectful and good-natured. The parents thought they had given birth to the spawn of the devil. The anti-christ. Their priest told them to take her to the graveyard and kill her. Bobbi's father couldn't do it. He simply left the five-year-old there.
She didn't much mind as the cemetery was full of friends who protected and helped to raise her. They guided her through life and travels. She earned money by telling fortunes, finding lost people or items, or contacting the dead on behalf of the living. Sometimes she was cursed and shouted out of a town. Sometimes she was welcomed by the desperate. Whatever the case she did as she did with little thought to doing more than surviving.
Abilities -
I see dead people - Bobbi can see and speak with the spirits of the deceased and other creatures of that plane. Seance - Using her spirit guide and can communicate with those who have passed beyond the veil. Clairvoyance - An object holds its history. She can tell who owned it, what their strongest feelings were, and the image of the person. Navigate - Using objects owned by the person she can find their whereabouts. Spirit Hand - Some souls enjoy helping out and will move things for her. Or defend her in danger. None more so than her spirit guide. Fortune Telling - Using cards or the power of spirits she can look a little way into the future to see a possible event that may unfold.
Equipment - A rucksack, deck of cards with symbols drawn on them, a locket, a change of clothes, a sharp knife, sewing kit, medical kit (suture needle, suture thread, pure alcohol, bandages, and a gun with a single bullet), a charmed money pouch which will bring bad luck on all who take it from her, and a box which holds a wax sealed empty bottle.
Spirit Guide - He calls himself Mister July. He has the appearance of an older, gruff looking man. He has a beard, dirty/patched clothes, and is quite tall and muscular. He has a soft and gentle way of speaking though, rather a fatherly energy. July has been taking care of her since her birth.
@Hour ErrorHahaha, I'm pretty excited for Sophie & Samuel/Meru's potential interactions, going to be quite an interesting dynamic. You know...what with...well you know.
For the sake of my own book-keeping I'll be getting a bit more on the ball about the sheet processes.
I'll only be approving a limited number of sheets, ideally around 6, but I may be inclined to accept more once I go through the full proper review process of every sheet.
If I missed someone/a sheet down below, let me know and I'll go commit sudoku
Assumed to be completed/Finalized Sheets, will begin a formal review process of the sheets
