Clinton is a firmly built man of notable height and formidable build. Standing at a solid six-foot-two and weighing in at 205 pounds of steely sinew, he is something of an imposing figure. Fair, moderately tattooed skin, touched by the sun, is stretched over imposing ridges of muscled physique. He cuts the hard silhouette one would expect from an apex predator. Clint sports masculine jaw and firm, handsome, even wolfish features – a strong nose and jaw with stern brow; all stony planes and angles. Settled into their sockets are eyes like chips of blue-grey ice; cold and severe in their gaze. Atop his head is a tightly cropped mane of dirty brown-blond hair, cut close to the scalp at the back and sides, leaving enough at the top to style should the occasion. Often, Clint will have a short beard upon his jaw. Borne not out of a fashion standpoint as much a neglect to regularly shave.

Division Medics have estimated that roughly twenty-five to thirty percent of Clint’s body is covered in scar tissue; old wounds inflicted by beast, blade, ballistics, and burns. It is a collection of badges of courage from his years among the Valkyries. Where scars do not tread, tattoos are often scrawled, nordic, Egyptian, and celtic-druidic in origin and design - wards against possession and blessings of battle etched into his very flesh. To those with an inhuman sense of smell, or simply in an intimate proximity to the man, his is a heady scent of a man well-traveled; Clinton has a constant aroma of coffee, leather, tobacco smoke, gun oil, and Old Spice around him.

In his day to day, Clint dresses as if constantly expecting to do some kind of taxing outdoor activity. Always in his steel toed boots, he often wears boot cut jeans or cargo pants with a light long sleeve shirt or a button-down shirt. When required to dress up for an occasion, he can clean up nicely. Connor’s full-tilt operational gear is what one would expect from a modern military operative - full tactical gear, including Crye BDUs and customized ballistic armor.

Clint is a man of firm temperament. Emotionally detached, but tenuously stable despite the horrors experienced in the day-to-day. He finds camaraderie with his fellow Sentinels but remains withdrawn and brusque even among the tightly knit brotherhood. Clint is always one to internalize and desensitize in order to maintain control and to keep a sound head. He is not one to trust easily, and whether a genuine display of apathy or a coping mechanism for the job, he takes a casual and cavalier attitude towards violence and the grotesque. Despite his resilience, he is only a mortal man, and turns to the crutch of stiff drink when the burdens grow too heavy to bear.

Division psychoanalysts have diagnosed Clint with an Automatic Nervous System Disorder, putting him in a constant, but fluctuating, state of fight-or-flight and hypervigilance. In their diagnosis, he is still “fully operational”, but may be prone to psychological degradation over time. “A ticking time bomb” if there ever was one.

His are a killer’s eyes. Far-seeing, piercing, and cold. They’ve held and beheld miracle and madness, and like the rest of him, never seem to be capable of rest. Clinton is always expecting the other shoe to drop, perpetually scanning and surveying his situation and surroundings for threats. Over the years, he’s developed a nervous tick that has manifested as a faint twitch in his gun-hand. One might not expect nor endorse a man such as him to be a guardian for the Oracle-Child, but since Operation: Cassandra, he’s been devoutly protective of the asset, even expressing the rare moments of tenderness and vulnerability to them. Footage exists of Clinton having a tea party with their ward, a dyed-in-the-wool killer hunched over a tiny playskool set, sipping imaginary tea from little plastic cups.

Ever since the incident in █████████, ██, select agencies United States government have been as obsessed with occult warfare. It started with the Division, but with the nearly-cataclysmic events of World War 2’s hidden fronts, like the siege on ██████, the highest echelons of government have invested in morally dubious occult research.

It started with the Philadelphia Experiments in 1943, then incidents in Roswell, culminating in the Montauk Project in 1984. Women from across the United States were experimented on within the fringe fields bio-occult and thaumatechnology. One Ms. █████ was a volunteer from the rural province of ██████, Massachusetts. Given its close proximity to Innsmouth and Salem, areas within several hundred miles were thoroughly screened. ████ was treated with the proper bio-occult solutions and received a donation from a prime male sample, her offspring showed potential.

Subject 013 was born a healthy male, showing no birth defects. 013 exhibited moderate psychic potency in the fields of minor precognition. Attempts were made to enhance these latent abilities through various means. While subjects 001-006 perished in similar means, 007-011 experienced vastly improved psychokinetic aptitude, and 012 and 013 fell into regression, their psychic energies all but disappearing. However, they experienced increased mental activity as a resort. 013 in particular showed acute adrenal hyperactivity, enhanced reaction time, and highly attuned hand-eye coordination. Additional tests were made with stimulants ██-█, █-██-█, and ████, yielding no psychic recovery. Subject 013 was scheduled for termination, labeled as a failure, despite achieving the highest markers in physical aptitude tests than all other subjects in the 001-020 subject rangelacus.

However, before Subject 013 could be successfully terminated, one of the Montauk staff appeared to have smuggled the young male out of the program’s ████ ████, ██ headquarters in the winter of 1995. Subject 013 was 11 years old at the time. Though Montauk Asset Containment Units tracked down every league, Subject 013 technically didn’t exist, which made tracking him complicated. Unable to weed out the night staff that extracted Subject 013 from containment, all night staff were terminated in order to eliminate loose ends.

Subject 013 was fostered by a Raylan and Eleanor Bronson - D.O.G.S. operatives at the “Ranch” facility near Aspen, Colorado, where he experienced an unorthodox rural upbringing. Raylan was a Vietnam veteran and a firm believer in a occult-communist-wrought apocalypse. Just like their other “recruits”, Subject 013 - named Clinton Bronson - was put through the same paramilitary “extracurriculars” as his foster siblings. Intense physical conditioning, firearms and martial arts training, and rudimentary explosive ordnance was drilled into their bodies and minds. This, of course, armed Clint with an immense arsenal as a juvenile delinquent. Clint was a mediocre student, at best, showing aptitude for history, mathematics, and language.

As a result, Clint had the rare happenstance of being raised among the Division’s operatives, trading a normal life for a particular education that has made him something to be feared among the supernatural community. Much of his operational history is heavily redacted, some missions even scrubbed from his own memory by amnestics or a one of the Division's neuromantic assets. Despite the sensitive nature of Operation: Cassandra, that mission's details are left untouched - staying in perfect, polarized clarity.

He remembers the taste of blood and sand in his mouth, the blasphemous chanting of the cultists and the brief, brutal violence that culminated in the climax of the operation. It was the one time Clinton recalls losing himself mid-operation. The parameters were, in his mind, due to is failure in duty. He had been on the protective detail of the Oracle's mother, and despite suffering wounds at the time of her extradition, Clint pushed through. When the team discovered the newborn Oracle alive and unharmed, but her mother perished in labor, Clint succumbed to his baser instincts.

For a year and a day, Clint vanished. Only the Old Man knew where he was and what he did.

Gender: Male Presenting

Race/Species: Human Witch

Age: 29
Born August 6th, 1989.

Concept: The Flirtatious Greek
A god-favored witch and lover of the ancient Greeks. His craft is steeped in worship of the gods, whom he doesn’t seek to simply worship, but to develop amicable relationships with. The main deity he worships is Apollo, who shares many personality traits with him. Seeking to curry more favor with Apollo, Jason joined DOGS in order to protect the oracles.













_{This Operative is not privy to Operation: Cassandra}

Name:
Mark Theron
An unused legal birth name, this information is not regularly available outside of extraordinary circumstances. November refers to himself as November and with only awareness of his given name.

Alias/Callsign:
"November"
November Three

Gender:
Male, He/Him

Race/Species:
Human (Therianthrope)
Therianthropes are widely known among monstrous creatures as being indistinguishable from their human quasi-relatives while in their human forms, even to lay humans thanks to the brand of fiction and myth that surrounds them. Although some shapeshifters experience expression of their bestial lineage in their human form, this is less common. Most thera are not distinguishable by conventional means from their human counterparts and November is no different in this regard. Where November does differ greatly, is that as part of the warrior caste his parentage and lineage is made up entirely of theraianthropes, and that consequently he is three quarters weretiger and one quarter werelion.

Age:
28

Concept:
The Zealot
November is a born and bred monster, one of a long lineage that has been terrorizing humans since the earliest days. Human beings are regarded as a separate, lesser species, one both fragile and weak, lacking any semblance of what makes the thera superior and outright terrifying. In every sense, the therianthrope is just a superior alternative to the human, gaining all of the benefits of its kind with more after. While humans have a place in the world, it is beneath the thera and everything that stands in the way of that is an enemy to be destroyed or prey to be consumed. Force, and extreme force, to these ends is always an option.

Appearance:
Able-bodied and physically gifted, November not only passes for a human in the prime of ability and life, there might be argument for his being tropeish and for good reason. Therianthropes tend to be extremely physical creatures, something befitting their legacy of animal and human interwoven on a fundamental level of the universe, and those who have not only adapted to but adopted their monstrous gifts carry them over in some amount. Taller than most men, somewhere in the realm of six feet tall, and with a fighting weight body, November could easily stand in with most standing militaries or special services. For all of November's imagined background and bodily traits, an observer would notice there's virtually no scar or blemish on his flesh, and that the method of dress is perhaps too plain in choice and palette.

Yet there is something distinctly uneasy about November's presence beyond this and that is the way he carries himself that tinges with a hint of menace; from posture alone to the way his lips show an almost animal smile. Underneath the short, dark straw hair and ambered eyes, the reality is, is that there is something much worse. November's "natural", if such a word could ever be applied, form is that of a nine foot tall aberration that blends the most over features of a tiger and the most minor qualities of a lion, giving a somewhat unusually rugged appearance. Rather than smooth and streamlined, the hairs that follow the neck and shoulders is raked and savage, the fur of the body tinted in a strange gold where it drapes over visible musculature. A stare which radiates with an ambient intensity and hunger burning bright, carnivorous and remorseless. The posture is vaguely hunched, aggressive, and carried forward by the enormity of the animal legs that give it unmistakable gait, and supported by far larger feet. Each limb is long and heavily built, middling between limber and robust, with the torso and chest tapering upward, again characteristic of some amalgam of beast and human.

Because of their nature as shapeshifters in perhaps the most violent of sense, therianthropes often wear glamoured equipment meant to size for them no matter their form to avoid the effects ballistic weapons, all while not being initially detectable by conventional means. Silver makes for a poor, easily deformed projectile, and while more advanced ammunition exists which incorporates it rather than relies upon it, and so the best method of stopping these projectiles is still worn armor. While an uncommon article and closely guarded, this warrior caste armor - the type of thing only found on slain thera who were well prepared for battle - is the type of protective ensemble which makes up November's regular wear. Where unable to show their true nature, warriors will generally emulate human operatives and may even purposefully disguise themselves in equipment of a specific organization to throw off their enemies; false flag attacks are not unknown or at all considered against doctrine. November differs one here and can, as noted prior, potentially impersonate conventional human forces, as well as some unnatural ones which are easily mistaken for humans, if need be.

November's particularities in equipment are not well known or identified outside of these special made armors and the weapons they often carry. However, mobility is often a greater focus of the warrior caste's approach to battle, and despite the enormity of the armor, it largely focuses upon major areas of protection. Supplemental armor is only found on the rear collar of the armor, the upper shoulders, the thigh region, and forearms. It is for these reasons evasive maneuvers and firing on the move are preferred, and failing that, using the most protective elements of their equipment in the direction of conflict. This type of awareness, discipline, and skill in the use of protective wear separates the warrior caste from many other therianthropes which are known to be reckless.

Personality:
November was born into the world of the extraordinary, a literal child of the supernatural, although with a dedicated purpose rather than as consequence. This has had a profound, lifelong impact upon them where the ends justifies any means, so long as therianthropes not only maintain their number but inch ever closer to eclipsing their far more prevalent, meeker human counterparts. Part of this committed elite, obsession and irrational devotion on the level of fanaticism is only natural and normalized. This makes November prone to sneer at anything outside his kind in a mixture of disdain and pity, although equally likely to put said things "out of their misery". This has created an incessant loop of destructive behavior not uncommon to therianthropes who revel in the realization of their power.

Despite this, November has little interest in anything outside furthering his cause. Walking in the regular world is not done for just enjoyment, it is observing possible targets. Blending in among the human population is not just a fact of daily life, it is entirely pointed toward being the wolf in sheep's clothing. An excuse to exercise and demonstrate power isn't ignored. Haughty and egotistical, November has no love for anything outside thera and at best, a tolerant understanding of what makes keeping humans around relevant, and only superficial willingness to cooperate with the Consortium; the latter not a trait unknown among therianthropes and shapeshifters, who are more concerned with their looming depopulation while the council does little for them.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Adept Arcana
While by no means comparable to true mages, many therianthropes, particularly felines, practice some sort of magecraft using their latent connection to evoke effects in the world. This minor dabbling in the esoteric stems from the chi within them, and allows them to interact with and understand magical implements, objects, and spells. November consequently can interact with it and evoke personal effects that are limited in scope but unexpected for the unprepared; more mundane such as poor object-reading or scribing without touch or being able to provoke a magical artifact into use.

Hybrid Vigor
Already towering monstrosities in their primordial form, blending human elements and their animal ones, and capable of destroying most anything man-made or man himself with little effort, hybrids are powerhouses of unnatural fury. While second generation hybrids are weaker than the first, as well as hybrid therianthropes being obscenely rare themselves due to the limited population to pull from let alone pair related species to, they are forces to be reckoned with. Stronger, more resistant, and with better regenerative capability, it leaves little wonder why they inflict a sense of fear in Sentinels who might not otherwise hesitate, with November being no exception.

Unnatural Resolve
The some part cult, some part order, and some part weapon, the warrior caste are the finest therianthrope specimens and they are single-minded in their commitment to their kind from cradle to grave; being hand selected by the secretive circles they make up to continue this generational legacy. Their iron will is legendary and they will stop at nothing to complete a task they are sworn to, making them exceptionally resistant to external influences.

Warrior Caste
Therianthropes have long since established their own inner circles and secret societies, although not nearly on a scale as large or organized as magi or the vampyr, and one of the most ancient themes is the "warrior caste". An independent orchestration only objectively set to carry on the protection and supremacy of their kind, November was almost fundamentally designed to confront external threats. Like others of the warrior caste, November is trained extensively in the use of their innate forms, human arms, armor, and operations, and minor magical aptitude. Comparatively an elite military unit, they are historically a significant if not numerically small threat to the Division of Occult Global Security and have only ever been opposition outside of the mutual agreement that preserving the Veil is of utmost importance.

Fears, Flaws, and Vices:
While the warrior caste of therianthropes is no secret to the Division of Occult Global Security, it is only understood by the specialist Sentinels that warrior-therianthropes are not just any other thera. They are purpose bred, indoctrinated killing-machines, and thankfully few in number. Their unlikely existence, thanks to the extreme pedigree they maintain and dangerous ethos, makes them uncommon to the point of obscurity but the real secret is, is that monsters like November are unstable. November is an "F2 Hybrid", or "filial generation two", meaning that the supernatural qualities associated with the lineage that created hybrid vigor in the prior generation is not only weaker, some flaws are much more profound, and in feline therianthropes this tends to be taken to the extreme.

November is a weapon and exhibits all the classical traits of a weretiger and then some thanks to parental hybridization. The monthly, unavoidable lunar calling not only forces weretigers to hunt and kill, as well as consume, hybrids have a tendency to kill rampantly and eat more than one victim, often doing so until the area is depopulated of prey. Such hunting frenzies are mindless activities, only checked by intervention or the end of that stage of the lunar cycle at dawn. November deeply fears this, the loss of control and complete loss of self or identity, and while it is suggested because this might reveal the nature of therianthropes to more people, the reality is, is that November is a creature of self-assurance and pride. To have that stripped away is to eliminate the individuality of November.

Similarly, November is a prideful creature and a being made up of and for supremacy of his kind. If there was no such warrior caste, November would not exist. It is an obsessive focus that motivates everything that can be considered or will be done. This particular world perspective of virtually all the warrior caste makes them completely irrational and self-justified, willing to commit consciously horrific acts beyond what is regularly expected of monsters; it isn't just that therianthropes are monsters, the most committed among them carry these ends out on purpose and November is among that number. However, it should not be misunderstood that these creatures are malicious to be malicious, such as with demons or similar entities of pure evil, it is rather that this is not only what they simply do, they have made it a point to live up to those expectations of their kind with pride.

Standard Loadout:
M107A1-CQ "Mod. W"
The M107A1 Special Application Sniper Rifle, also stylized as the "Long-Range Sniper Rifle", is a man portable anti-materiel rifle produced for the United States Army chambered in .50 BMG. While not originally intended to serve as an anti-personnel weapon, its reliability, versatility, and immense firepower in a semiautomatic configuration has made it a mainstay of selective operations requiring maximum destructive ability in a rifle while also being practical enough for battlefield employment. Unlike the standard version of the rifle, the "CQ" or "Close Quarters" variant features a greatly reduced barrel length and lighter platform meant for urban operations, particularly from aircraft or vehicles.

However, what makes this weapon distinct to the Division of Occult Global Security is the "Mod. W" variant, the "M107 Whiskey", unique in that this rifle has been modified to serve as a battle rifle in the hands of therianthropes through a slew of features; a frontal heat shield and shroud, a full forward forestock, oversized trigger well, larger pistol grip, lack of carrying handle and bipod, and mid range optics. Due to the immense size and strength of thera in their primordial form, a disciplined operative can utilize this weapon to devastating effect as easily as an average human could employ a regular rifle sized for them. Fortunately, these rifles are uncommon and only employed among special task forces of the thera similar in role to Sentinels.

M4A1 Carbine
The M4A1 Carbine is a specialty variant of the M4 Carbine, a rifle regularly configured in a semiautomatic or burst fire mode, which instead features automatic fire in place of burst fire. Widely seen among all branches of the United States' special forces and federal special task groups, it and its more numerous parent weapon are chambered in the extremely common 5.56mm NATO that is plentiful in the Western Hemisphere. Preferred for use because of its disposable, unremarkable nature by the therianthrope warrior caste, making it an effective weapon to blend in with where shapeshifting is not an option, it is another weapon available to November in place of the "M107 Whiskey". Its popularity and seeming ubiquitous quality makes it a popular weapon for both covert and clandestine use.

Glock 22
A popular weapon among some special operations circles and some law enforcement agencies for its similar generic quality as the M4A1 Carbine, the Glock 22 is a pistol sidearm chambered in the .40 S&W. With greater stopping power than the much more common 9x19mm Parabellum and with a capacity higher than that of most .45 ACP firearms, it is another weapon chosen because of its nature as being indistinct and widely available. Paired with the M4A1 Carbine, it becomes November's alternate weapon in encounters where breaking the Veil even slightly is undesirable. It may also be carried concealed, meaning its comparatively powerful rounds and number of them serve as a close to middling range deterrent if better, more overt options are also unavailable.

Background:

EXCERPT

The Division of Occult Global Security has kept a long, although poorly vetted record of the few dispersed numbers of therianthropes found throughout North America and Europe, with records being even more unreliable in Africa, Asia, and South America. While not highly structured or organized, consistently a few trends of interconnectivity have arisen to demonstrate a continued network among these dispersed groups and even strains of therianthropy exist. This coincides well with informants circulating old stories about the once notable castes and society that ambiguously existed among all thera, although much of this appears to be mythos more than substance, but remains enlightening all the same when dealing with archetypes such as the "leader caste" or "priest caste" or the more directly notable "warrior caste". The latter of which has resulted in a chilled, not cold, recurring arms race that has made therianthropes increasingly challenging to contend with where organized.

Suggested to be out of increased pressure for what amounts to habitat invasion and from prolonged, ever more advanced pressure from humans, as well as age old pressure from other supernatural competition, the rebirth of the warrior caste among thera demonstrates a conscious orientation toward avoiding extinction. What it has cultivated is consequently alarming, as it is the manifestation of a warrior-cult, one dedicated to the preservation of its own survival and that of its relatives. Increasingly organized, funded, and committed, it was not until the 1980s that the real products began to rise as added pressure mounted, and with ever gathering speed toward the turn of the century. By 2010, the warrior caste had reestablished itself despite concerns from the Consortium, as it became less an isolated movement and pervasive understanding by many longstanding lines of therianthropes that their destruction was inevitable without their own inner organization: SEE "SECOND COLUMN", TABLE 3. While only a modest fraction of the total estimated number of therianthropes, the resurgence of the ancient warrior caste bodes poorly for humans and other supernatural creatures alike.

Notably, using advancements in the understanding of genetics and moreover epigenetics, an increasing number of these warrior caste members are offspring between related species' strains of theiranthrope. A number of these crosses benefit from hybrid vigor and breed true, breaking a generational inhibition by brute force attempts of repeat efforts, creating multigenerational hybrids with time when successes do happen and subsequently ensuring a greater likelihood of success on those residual generations while benefiting from earlier ones. This has had catastrophic consequences for the division's projections, as previously the nature of therianthropes and their society indicated a bias towards pedigree. AS expected this once obscure endeavor has, in many ways, created new filial hybrids that are poorly understood, although their representation seems to be limited to pantherine crosses or that of canine crosses: ADDENDUM, SEE "THEORETICAL PHYLOGENIC EFFECTS IN KYNANTHROPES x LYCANTHROPES".

November's involvement and obscurity faded with the Week of Nightmares that saw a temporary alliance between the Division of Occult Global Security and members of the warrior caste. Loyal to the cause to an end, it was not difficult to count him among the volunteers that would willingly work with the Sentinels in pursuit of it, knowing that the destruction of the Veil or complete devastation of humanity would be catastrophic if left unchecked. This has not, however, made November a true ally in any sense and longtime members of the task force have serious reservations about letting former enemies - including ones with not well known names - in among their number. The distrust is palpable, although November appears to pay no actual mind and follows the orders of those above him with at worst only voiced annoyance where the Division of Occult Global Security is given authority over his actions.

Because of practical considerations and mission relevant applications, November is not an asset lightly employed. While capable of maintaining a low profile, the therianthrope is not an infiltrator in the human sense of the word, and is instead more akin to a combat specialist. And while able to supplement magi operating in the environment or even stand in for them in the most minor of ways, November is considered a calculated risk more than anything else. As a result, it has become important to assign him to a more experienced leader's group and potentially collect information on him and the thera's warrior caste where possible; initial deployment in the field was deemed "difficult" for inexperienced operatives and that insertion with ill disciplined teams might lead to provocation and in-fighting, which would jeopardize the mission and the temporary staying of hostilities.

Was the Operative a part of Operation: Cassandra on October 17, 2010?
No

She is taller than an average human female, standing at 6ft exactly. Her slender form is deceivingly athletic, as she is fully capable of snapping bones and drawing her long bow to incredible lengths. A mop of barely kept mousy hair hangs to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with sharp features. Her eyes are a brown so dark they look black and are often fixed in a cautious, neutral stare more animal than human. Her ears are pointed and her skin is tinged blue, making her fae blood very apparent. She wears no shoes and very little clothing, and what she does wear is consisted entirely of roughly sewn furs, skins, and bones, giving her a very tribal appearance. She is often crouched or knelt down in a stance easy to fight or flee in, using non-verbal cues to communicate more than words.

She is quiet, observant, but very curious. She did not grow up around people so has a hard time understanding them. A lot of people see her as feral, more beast than anything, but she is by no means stupid. She is skilled and cunning in a lot of ways, just not in the social sense. She simply does not have all of the codes and mores of modern human conduct.

While she is a predator through and through, she does take joy in discovering new things and learning new skills. She can't read very well so she prefers to simply watch what other people do from afar then attempt to copy it on her own. She is almost skittish when it comes to people who she does not want or need to kill, and often avoids extended conversations.

The modern world is a large and scary place to her. She would rather fight several ferocious monsters than have to walk into a store to get food. Having lived in the woods most of her life she is not well adapted to an environment where everyone isn't trying to kill her constantly.

She doesn't have any strong opinions or desires other than hunting strong prey and protecting her mother. All of civilization (human, fae, or otherwise) could evaporate over night and she would barely bat an eye, but she is not completely cold-hearted. She is fiercely loyal to the few who earn her trust and will fight viciously to defend them.

Frost Touched: Because of her Winter Court heritage, ice flows in her blood as well as her Qi. She is completely immune to cold and resistant to ice/water-based magic. She also has an affinity for snowy/cold climates, feeling more comfortable and in tune with her surroundings the colder it is. She can cast simple ice/water spells freely, though if she is wielding her sword she can channel much more powerful spells through it. If the area around her is hotter than 70 degrees, it is much harder for her to use her magical abilities. If it is above 80 she starts suffering heatstroke-like symptoms and becomes unable to cast any of her magic without her sword.

Like the Wind: She is unnaturally fast and stealthy, able to move several yards in the blink of an eye without causing more disruption or noise than a gust of wind. This only works if she can see where she is going, and anyone who can sense her magically or smell her scent can still track her movements.

Feast of Flesh: If she eats the flesh of a sentient creature she gains a temporary boon. She can heal her wounds, increase her magic, or gain more strength depending on who or what part she eats. The effect is not immediate, it takes anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes for it to start.

Consuming the flesh of sentients may be par for the course among many creatures, but bears a heavy price when it is done by a human. The native-american legends of the Wendigo say that if a human gives in to the darkness of their heart and commits the horrific sin of eating his fellow man, even if it is in desperation, that they will turn into a ravenous and unearthly beast. This is one of many sins Wendi's father was guilty of; a sin that she must pay for as well. Born with this terrible urge, an ever present hunger that gnaws at her every waking moment, she must take care not to indulge in it too much. Like blood is for some vampyres, the more she eats the more she needs to eat. Because of this she has very specific rules that she must follow to keep her sane. While she remains in control of her mind in most scenarios, she is at risk of losing herself during especially invigorating hunts or when facing very powerful foes.

Her other major flaw is that she is socially inept. Most normal people would think her to be some wild, crazy savage right out of the Stone Age. Sometimes she'll get way too close to people in an assertion of dominance, other times she will stand several feet away to carry a conversation. She possesses only a rudimentary understanding of technology. She knows how to avoid guns and explosives, but has never seen a computer in her life. Her reading skills are not the best either, having had very little access to books or a formal education. If someone were to teach her these things however, she would pick up the skills quickly.

Main fighting weapon for close combat is a long-sword of fae make, imbued with Winter magic. It has a hand and a half hilt with a quarter-sized sapphire set in each side. The blade itself has a subtle blue hue to it as well. It radiates cold and can do freezing damage when it strikes bare flesh or something weak against cold. She can cast ice magic through it such as shards of ice, ray of frost, and snowfall, but only once or twice per rest period.

For ranged fighting she has a longbow and quiver. The bow is made from enchanted wood, which grants it certain powers: it wont break from wear and tear as well as having increased damage, range, and speed. The quiver holds 25 arrows and can recall them after they are fired as long as they don't break on impact.

She also carries a survival knife (steel), two daggers (one is silver, the other is iron with a wrapped hilt to protect her hand), a water skin, a pouch with a whetstone, flint, a sewing kit, some cloths for bandages, a container of healing salve, twine, and other baubles, a pouch containing jerky made from sentients she's killed, and a pouch containing salt.

Her creation was neither planned nor voluntarily for her mother. Her father was well into his transformation into a wendigo when he came upon the fae woman. He over-powered her and had his way with her but before he could get as far as killing her she managed to escape back to her village in the Winter lands. Soon after the encounter she found out she was pregnant, but decided to keep the child despite the traumatic circumstances that had led up to it.

After she was born and started developing, it became apparent that there was something very wrong with her. She complained about being hungry all the time and would get into fights with other kids in the village. One day a fight got so bad she wound up biting the other child and had to be pulled off by another adult. Afraid of possible retaliation against her or her mother, she ran away from her mother's village at the age of 9.

After wandering around the forest for days she eventually stumbled into the territory of an old and powerful entity who took pity on her. He told her everything he knew about her “condition”, gave her some starting tools, and allowed her to live in his woods on the condition that she behave herself and not interfere with his little helpers. He was a kind and generous patron, but left her to figure things out on her own.

As the years went by she grew stronger and deadlier in the woods of her Watcher, visiting him occasionally but mostly serving as a guardian of the forest. Eventually she ventured beyond the bounds of her territory but she steered clear of any populated areas. When the Week of Nightmares happened the Watcher grew very concerned with the state of the world. Unlike most of his kin, he favored humanity and helped them where ever he could. He found out about DOGS and after some thought decided he would send them some help. He called Wendi back to the woods, told her of the situation, and then sent her to help the humans in their fight against the darkness. Its from him that she received her magical items and why she has decided to join the Operation.

Name: Samara (Sam) el-Azra

Alias/Callsign: If you try to give me some kind of cute nickname again, I won't tell you where I got the halva I left on your desk last week. My name is Samara, all right? Sam, if you really have to. I know it's playing dirty! But I really need you to knock it off, all right? Love you. (Excerpted from dispatch log 6.19.2014\\San Judas)

Gender: Female-presenting (She/her, they/them)

Race/Species: Human (for a given value)

Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): Mid-thirties apparent. Somewhat older in reality. Her birthday is on October 18th.

Concept: Chaplain, healer, lover. The adult in the room.

Appearance: Samara is, despite everything, a rather disarming-looking woman. She is short of stature, and though her frame is lined with lean, taut muscle, she tends not to carry herself in a way to draw attention to that. Her eyes are wide, almond-shaped, and mismatched; the right the color of old-growth forests with its opposite so light as to almost be silvery-gray, both sparkling with humor and mischief. Sam keeps her hair pixie-bob short, the locks coffee-dark and tousled, not so much out of fashion but rather because she tends to run her hand through her hair when she’s thinking. Her lips are full and inviting, often curved into a gentle smile, like she has a story she want to tell you because she thinks it will make you smile. Her skin is a rich, dark olive, the dusky shades of Arabic descent, with a smooth and unblemished complexion - that is, save for the scars. The largest and most obvious is why her eyes are mismatched; a trio of ragged marks that cut from her forehead, through her eyebrow, across her lighter eye, over her cheekbone, and curve toward her ear. The marks seem old and healed as well as something that traumatic could be, and while they are the most obvious record of the dangers of a Sentinel’s life, they are far from the only ones. She has a handful of tattoos; the one on the back of her right hand is the most obvious; an elaborate, circular mandala in the style of mehndi, or henna tattoo, that flows up her wrist almost to the elbow. Most of the other marks on her skin are in places that aren't likely to be seen on a daily basis, unless you happen to be someone Sam's sleeping with at the time. Sam often wears jewelry, including bangles, bracelets, cuffs and other baubles. Both of her ears are pierced several times, and hold an ever-changing variety of studs, chains, and whatever else catches her fancy.

When not involved in some world-ending catastrophe, Sam's wardrobe is often playfully tomboyish. She enjoys jeans, comfortable, cute boots, and band T-shirts from thrift stores - though everything is, rather intentionally, flattering to her figure. It's every bit as common to see her in bright jewel tones or subdued blues and blacks, with no particularly predictable pattern beyond, perhaps, where the laundry rotation might be at any particular time. Button-down shirts aren't entirely unheard of, but it is somewhat rare to find her in anything approaching traditional business or professional wear.

Samara smells nice; the scents of a spice market, of incense, tea, or the sweet-sharp aroma of drying flowers. Nothing overpowering or even something you'd notice at more than an intimate distance, but pleasant, all the same.

Personality:

Samara is a person who is, to her core, kind - a term that doesn't mean that she's always nice. She usually has a smile not only for herself but for the world, and takes the time to find the wonders in the small things in addition to the world-changing. Her voice often seems to be a single lilting syllable away from laughter or music, both of which she's good at. She is gentle and warm, but never a doormat, the kind of person you want to talk to just because you know the conversation will make both of you feel good. Among the monsters and melees, she is the kind of person who will bring a trinket, or sweets, back to someone at headquarters because she knows it will make them smile.

She is someone who enjoys the pleasures the world has to offer, and is a connoisseur of delicacies, liquors, wines, sweets, men, and women from the world over. She knows where to get the best bourbon in Kentucky, the best curry in London, the good therapists, and the best bookstores, and very much wants to share that information with anyone who will come along with her. She loves sweet whisky and tall tales, good books and bad movies. To her mind, goodness never has to equate to being boring.

Sam believes very strongly in what can only be called a kind of faith - that we are put on this world to be better to, and for, one another, to lift each other up, that there is a higher purpose and order to the universe. She rejects outright that this life is all there is - but she is not a follower of any particular religion. Her motions of faith, of god(s)hood, of the why and the how are rooted in so many traditions from the world and history that there may be no way to untie that braid. She is not Hindu, or Muslim, or Christian, or Druidic - but she believes they all have meaningful things to say. If there is a prayer to offer, Sam probably knows it. If there are words of comfort, Sam probably can recite them, even though tears and pain. Where there are wisdoms small and large, Samara believes them - but if you accused her of believing in "Be Excellent To Each Other," well, you might not be wrong.

In a fight, Sam is never cruel or petty, though she also fights to win, and has almost no interest in a fair fight if she can avoid one. She is confident, courageous, but never stupid about that courage; she will sacrifice herself (or her immediate safety) if she needs to, but will almost never sacrifice someone else for her own sake.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:

Studyin' About That Good Old Way: Samara has forgotten more about the world of the occult, the arcane, the mystic, philosophical, and religious, than many people will ever know. She has a library of books at headquarters, many of which are the sole extant originals (She has made copies, which are stored somewhere else). Rituals, summonings, gods, and monsters are probably tucked somewhere in her mind, or if not, there's probably a book she can ask someone to read over the phone.

Le Petit Mort: Samara has a personal relationship with the cosmic force of Death. That is to say, they've met several times, have had tea with each other; they are, in a strange way, friends. For reasons of their own, Death has lent Samara a measure of supernatural power, though this is not in the form of a pact-mark or servitude. Samara does not appear to be aging, but more importantly she holds, to a small degree, the power of life and death in her hands. Her touch can close wounds, give air to the drowning, or purge a body of poisons - though Sam is bound by the knowledge that she should not try to bend someone's fate too far, if it really and truly is their time. In other words; through a person's life, there may be many times where they could die - but only one where they must, and Sam knows what this difference is. She can, in addition, ease the suffering of those for whom no help is coming, or guide someone recently deceased to whatever, for them, comes next.

Death is aware of what Sam does for a living, and their connection has left left Sam with some meaningful advantages in a fight. She is a phenomenon in close-quarters combat, though decades of practice and application in addition to having an intense awareness of her proximity to life and death sluicing through her mind. She understands, intrinsically, how to make it more likely for her to survive an encounter, and how to increase the odds her opponent will not. More directly: Weapons tend to find their mark, and while Sam isn't actually faster than anyone else her size, she simply tends not to be in the path of whatever tentacle, bullet, lightning bolt, or bad potted shrimp that would have otherwise maimed, killed, or mortally wounded her. This does not mean she can dodge bullets or absorb grenades, it means that injuries are rare, when what damage she does take tend not to be life-threatening (there are lots of things that are deeply unpleasant but not life-threatening), that she is usually quite hard to land serious blows on in an earnest fight to the death, and that a team member is very likely to show up to get her to a hospital rather than Sam bleeding out after a gunfight with a cult.

Not You Again: Samara has experienced 126 years of life, though they are spread in pockets, somewhat at random, through about 500 years of time. This has few tangible benefits - save that there are kinds of olives that Sam knows existed, but do no longer - but what is now called the Division has records of her entry, and death, in the organization for that entire time. Sam has been with the Division for about 15 years, currently.

Fears, Flaws, and Vices: There are creatures in the world that are aware of Sam's tendency to wander back into the monster-hunting timeline, and take her continued existence rather personally. Some of these creatures have been encountered by the Division; others have targeted the Division specifically because of it. She has, very likely and somewhat indirectly, gotten other Sentinels killed due to this attention, whether they knew it was because of her or not.

Sam knows that the Division's work is important, but she sees, every day, the toll it takes on people around her. The flame of belief, optimism, of believing in people and that there is a better world is something she carefully cultivates. She worries that one day she will look around and find that she has been wrapped in the same layers of armor, cynicism, and cold, uncaring calculus that so many Sentinels are, and that flame will be nowhere to be found.

Between her "lives," the world tends to change. Samara is sometimes a little (or a lot) old-fashioned, automatically doing things that are decades or centuries out of date, or swears in dead languages.

Standard Loadout:

Replica Winchester 1887 "Mare's Leg" shotgun: Chambered in 12 gauge, fitted with an oversized cocking lever, a heavily-truncated barrel, and carrying the obvious marks of heavy use. One of Sam's favorite movies is Terminator 2. She has resisted the suggestions to use something less "cowboy." This weapon is bespoke, and was made in 2006.

Browning Hi-Power: Chambered in 9x19mm. Gently upgraded through the years for reliability, with parts replaced when they broke or when some snarling horror bit them off. Manufactured in 1966.

Silver-engraved dagger: Of the Arabian khanjar style. It's for cutting apples, and occasionally stabbing something that needs stabbing. Sam would say it was made in 1680, but at this point it has had several handles, scabbards, and even a new blade.

Silver ankh necklace: Seriously, you thought this wouldn't be here? It has no particular magical properties, but was a gift.

Additionally, Sam owns a curved Arabian-style sword (custom-made, 1830s) that tends not to come on missions because longswords are not especially practical these days, an acoustic guitar (Taylor, 2018), and a motorcycle that she likes very much (Norton Commando, 1969).

Background:

Hamadan, Persia, 1510 AD

"You're early."

Samara heard the voice, mellow and with a rolling basso tone that made her chest thrum. She shook her head - what was going on? The last thing she remembered had been a blood-colored sky, the last sliver of a golden sunset counting down the seconds to something terrible. There had been screams, that ugly, familiar coppery smell in the air, panic and desperation. And now, this place. Cool, dim, with only the sound of the wind outside and the gentle flap of canvas. The pressure in her gut was gone, the strange numbness creeping through her body had faded, and though she felt her throat should have been raw from screaming, there was no pain. Carefully, she rolled to one side, pushed herself to her feet.

She saw she was in something like a caravaner's tent, the sides drawn up to let in a cool evening breeze. Outside, the sky was something incredible, and nothing found on earth. The stars flowed in woodsmoke spirals, light enough to cast whirling, dancing shadows. Inside, there was a small, low table, and a pair of comfortable chairs. She saw the back of a head, bald, dusky, a scalp traced with tattoos, wrapped in a robe. Samara opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was dry enough that when she coughed, she expected sand to fall out of her mouth.

"There is water here," the person said, the basso-profundo voice gentle, warm, good-humored. "Come. We should speak."

She moved carefully, but the chair looked comfortable, and she was beginning to understand what was happening. Samara sat, and what at first had been a sip became much more, like she had never had water before now. She coughed, drank again, and finally, with an effort, set the cup back down. The man leaned over, refilled it from a clay jug.

"I didn't think this was real," Sam managed, after a moment.

The figure laughed, and she saw warm, pleasant features pull into a smile of genuine pleasure, "What part of it?"

She smirked, "Any of it? All? A world beyond. Life after..." Her voice trailed off, and she waved a hand, "So, will my guilt be weighed against a feather? Or do you have questions for me?"

"I suppose I should have expected that the Order would have educated you well," the figure said, the smile staying on broad features, "No, no. There will be no test." The figure paused, "Not the kind you are thinking of, in any case." They blew out a long breath, "I am, truth to tell, neither god nor angel."

Samara picked up the cup, took another drink, "Then...what? Why?"

"Like I said, you're...early." The figure looked to one side, "We are not meant to be meeting, here, now. In fact, you and I were probably never meant to meet like this at all. You are an exception to the order, and, well." Another smile, "That makes you interesting.."

With care, Samara took another drink from her cup, "I understand that, but you're still not telling me what that means."

"It means that someone - something - broke the rules," the figure said, "And that means I get to break them too. Or bend them - at least a little."

The figure raised a hand, "I do not know the shape of things to come. In fact, I don't know when you were supposed to pass into the realm beyond. I really only know when things are meant to end when they are meant to end." They sighed, "Confusing, I know. What you need to know is this: You are not supposed to be dead, here, now."

"So...you're going to snap your fingers, and I'll wake up back with the rest of the Order?" Samara put the cup down, "Then...I'm ready. This has been a nice break, but I do have things to do."

The figure chuckled, a sound low, and not only mirthful, "I...have a proposal for you, Samara. I do not know what killed you, but I am certain it was powerful, long-lived, and subtle. Something very much beyond even what your Order would trouble itself with, and perhaps may not even believe exists. Whatever - whoever - it might be, something that can reach this deeply into the world and twist it, even to the extent of a single life...it is beyond what words may have the power to describe." The figure looked up with heavy, dark eyes, "I am certain it will try to exert its power again, but likely not for some...time."

Samara looked at the figure, then pulled in a sharp breath. Her heart, which she realized she could still feel, started beating faster. She let her breath out, her voice quiet, "...You want me to help you find it."

"There is an order to the universe," the figure said, "A tangled, messy, bent and circular order, but an order. To upset that is...well. Upsetting." The figure steepled its fingers, "I would ask for your help, yes. In another time, in another place, you will awaken. I know about your Order, and its...valuable work." A smirk, "If it has already endured for millennia, then I believe it will thrive and grow. I would like you to follow it, and stop the things that need to be stopped. And, in the fullness of time, I expect that whatever is out there will come again."

"And after that?" Samara said, her fingers drumming on the side of the cup.

"I expect it will kill you again," the figure said, their voice pleasant if frank, "And we will know more. And on, and on, until we know enough. You will not be my soldier or my servant; I am not going to compel you, Samara. I ask you this in the spirit of...cooperation." A smile, broad and brilliant, "I am, in fact, inviting you to make moves in the great game. To see how it all really works, even in the smallest degree."

"Look, you're...if you're what I think you are," Samara said, "Why me? Why can't you do this yourself?"

"The order of things is being shaken," the figure said, "I am that order. Or its end, at least. Or, the end of this part - to tell the truth, even I don't know what the end after my end is." Death grinned, broad and warm, with an expression of perfect contentment, "But regardless. I cannot hunt through time for whatever this is. It is not my place, and my attention is needed elsewhere, in any event."

Samara closed her eyes. She set her water down, the heavy clay cup making a soft sound. "Do I have a choice?"

"Oh, my. My, my." Death spoke in a quiet voice, like fog and morning dew, "Of course you do. There is something beyond this place, this...nowhere. I don't know what it might be for you, but it is out there. If you choose, the waking world can be behind you."

Samara looked down at her cup, then at her companion, to the sky outside. The pinprick lights she still thought were stars whorled together in an endless dance, not-quite patterns almost repeating, flowing apart, whirling about one another. She closed her eyes, blew out a long breath that only started to shake at the end.

"If I go back, will I get to see Layla again?" Sam said, her voice quiet.

"Your sister will be long gone, I'm afraid," the figure said. "There are...rules about where I can put you. There will be sorrow, and pain. But love, ah. Love does last. You could say that the universe is made of love."

"And we can stop whatever this thing is?" Samara looked up, met Death's eyes for the skin of a second.

"I don't know," Death said. "But we can try."

Samara swallowed, closed her eyes.

"Then let's play the game."

-------

Florence, Italy, 1622 AD

Samara stormed into the tent, hurling her hat down behind her, "Rules? Rules? What in all the Hells is the matter with you, I don't speak Italian!"

This time, the figure in the chair was tall, elegant, with steepled fingers and a widow's peak. The voice was different, too; more silken, and not so deep. The utensils on the table had changed too, this time being cast blue and green glass, with a fish-shaped pitcher.

"You didn't speak Italian," Death said, beckoning Samara over.

"You-" Samara spluttered, "I-"

"They say a person's not dead while their name is still spoken," said Death, "Your colleagues told stories for a long time. I thought it would be easier to have a clean start."

"A century later. The Order had even changed its sign!" Samara paced back and forth, "Do you know how long it took me to find them? I've been here for fifteen years!"

Samara stopped pacing, snatched up the glass, took a long pull. Gods, she had almost forgotten what good, clean water tasted like. After another few minutes, she calmed down enough to speak.

"Well?" Samara said, taking another drink, "Is that why I died?"

"Yes," Death said, and looked very pleased with themselves. "The pull was stronger this time. Whatever this is, it seems to have an interest in you."

"Lucky me," Samara said into her cup.

--------

Bucktown, Chicago, United States, 1987 AD

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

This place had stopped being a tent centuries earlier. It had been a tavern, a church, a bordello - but this time, it was a record store. Band posters lined the high walls, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Wooden boxes held vinyl records, but there was only one other person in the room. Slender, finely-featured, with alabaster skin and big, teased hair. They faced away from Samara, the strap of a shirt falling and leaving one shoulder bare.

"Four hundred years, and you start flirting with me?" Sam said. She walked toward the figure, who flipped through records with long-fingered hands.

A chuckle, warm, playful, "So much less serious than when we first met. I like that."

"Keep it up," Sam said, taking up a place opposite Death, flipping through her own box of vinyl, "I'm always willing to expand my horizons."

Death looked up, one eye marked with curling design at the corner, "If only it were so simple."

Samara grinned, "Well?"

"Bad luck, this time," Death said, "Maybe not so bad as the time in the 1790s, but bad luck. But there's something else, too."

"There's...a kind of tension. Something that's spreading across the skeins of time and fate." Death grinned, "I've always wanted to say something like that. Sounds like it came from one of those trashy novels."

"I thought you didn't have time to read?" Sam said with a smirk.

Death gestured down at their appearance, "You are joking, yes? Times change. I can change with them.

Sam flipped through the box some more, "You've thought there was something big coming before."

"And every time I have, you've been killed by our...friend," said Death. "But this feels even larger. It might be the moment we've been waiting for."

"You've said that, too," Sam said with a sigh, pulling a record out of the box, "I remember this concert. Hey, can I take things out of here? I can't believe I've never asked."

"That?" said Death, "Sure, why not. But I'm really serious this time, Samara. This is something different. Something new. I'm only going to send you a little further ahead this time - you may have some explaining to do with the Division when you get there."

"The Old Man?" Samara said.

"I think he's figured it out, yes." Death pulled another record out, handed it to Sam, "Here, this one too. You'll love it."

"The Replacements?" Sam said, "I think I missed this one."

"Trust me," Death said, with a broad grin.

"Well," Sam tucked the album under her arm, "When to next, hm?"

"I have an exact date for you this time," Death smiled, straightened. The grin was still there, but maybe an edge of nervousness this time. She coughed, "Not where I'm sending you, but a date you need to look out for."

"Yes?" Sam said.

"Oh..." Death walked around the boxes of albums, and put their arms around Sam in a full-bodied embrace. "Hey...dance with me for a minute? I like this song."

Samara slid the albums onto one of the boxes, shifted her weight, gathered the figure toward her. If Sam didn't know better, she would have thought Death was trying to hold back tears. She felt Death's hips sway, in almost but not quite exactly not the rhythm of the song.

"October 17th," Death whispered, "Twenty-three years from now. Be careful."

The light rose, and Sam stepped back into the world.

------------------

One question to be answered: Was the Operative a part of Operation: Cassandra on October 17, 2010?

Yes.

Other notes

Samara has died quite a number of times. The dates of her deaths, and the lengths of her lives, are below:

Deaths

8th August, 1510; Hamadan, Persia (34 years)
23rd March, 1622; Florence, Italy (15 years)
9th October, 1688; Muscat, Oman (4 years)
14th January, 1726; Province of Maine, Dominion of New England (9 years)
31st October, 1744; Alcântara, Brazil (8 years)
11th May, 1790; Vendée, France (6 hours)
8th July 1842; Linfen, China (7 years; killed during the total solar eclipse)
30th April, 1870; London, England (2 years)
31st December, 1899; Nairobi, Kenya (8 years)
14th April, 1912; North Atlantic Ocean (4 years)
17th July, 1918; Reims, France (3 years)
22nd August, 1943; Stalingrad, Soviet Union (4 years)
2nd September, 1971; Paris, France (6 years)
10th October, 1987; Chicago, United States (5 years)