It's 1930, and the light of the gilded age has faded. An age of excess and luxury has collapsed to a decade of poverty and despair. Faith in governments and economies across the world has fallen, and millions of lives are left lost in a maelstrom of economic turmoil, fanatic ideologies, and the heartbreak of a promised bright future turning into a nightmare. The promises of growth and wealth have come to naught, and now everyone must find a new place in this turbulent time or risk being swallowed by the waves of change.
That's the story on the surface, as everyday people understand it. Unknown to them there are hidden actors pulling the strings from underneath these waves. Ancient and powerful spirits and gods call from their retreats for a great new spiritual age as the light of Christianity wanes. The gods and goddesses of old demand to walk the earth again, and for their names to be on the lips of new followers. Some seek devotion, others blood and revenge. They poke and pull at the veil separating our reality from theirs. They cause loving husbands to murder their family, devout priests to curse their God, and committed killers to renounce their ways and devote themselves to new purposes. Monsters reappear in corners that humans dare to tread. New religious cults are arising, for Athena, Mars, Odin, Eris, Ra and other classical mythological figures. They claim to wield incredible magics and powers from their familiar gods, and are eager to show the world what they are capable of, both good or bad or inbetween. Existing religious orders in Christianity, Islam and Judaism reject these uprising revivalists as demons and lunatics. The chaos in the material world reflects the spiritual, or maybe it's the other way around.
The walls between worlds is crumbling, and anything can come into this reality.
You find yourself caught up in this storm and left with two choices. To either let yourself become a victim of circumstance and see how this wind will take you, or to dare to try and lead the charge and make a stake for yourself in this era of depression and violence. For some this is a nightmare, for others it's an opportunity.
New Haven is a fictional city set off the coast of California. It is considered the jewel of the west coast and a achievement creating a flourishing modern city out of what was once a set of grassy hills and untamed woodland. New Haven is on the cutting edge of society, technology and culture. A burgeoning film and radio industry, aeroplanes and automobiles and one of the hottest immigration spots in the world. It is also directly on the frontline of this spiritual and material cataclysm that's befallen civilization, as both the worst of the depression and religious agitation can be witnessed here.
In this setting a detective agency has been established by an ex cop and catholic priest to begin to investigate and solve the crime epidemic related to the ongoing crisis. Unofficial and with very little public backing, this agency is on the frontlines in attempting to make sense of the coming apart world around it. Montag Detectives Ltd have contacts in this world and the next and are often visited by all sorts of potential dangers.
Your characters are potential recruits for the new detective agency, and may be whomever you wish. Other than having a reason to work and try to solve cases, your character is mostly up to you. Here are some starting rules to help get you started.
On how the myths will work for your characters, each character has a god or goddess they may worship and commune with. This can give them benefits and perks of all sorts depending on what god they communicate with. For example, a character who has chosen Ares would do better in battle while an Aphrodite follower would be more charismatic. Gods aren't collectible cards though, and will require favors and tasks of you in order to maintain their good standings. You can also switch your chosen gods and follow whomever you please of the major pantheons, just keep in mind this can easily anger whomever you left behind. The benefits you get and the relationship with your chosen deity are largely up to you as well and subject to approval.
The only do nots are to not make characters who are omniscient, time warping, or other powers that are too much for a detective style premise to maintain.
Name- Age- Biography- Chosen God- Reason for Joining the team- Reference pic
I look forward to seeing all of your designs. There is only room for about six people max planned for right now, so please do not take it personally if you are not selected.
Robyn, a name commonly given to the third child in Robyn's family history.
- Age -
25
- Biography -
Robyn was just a young girl when her father suddenly attacked her family, a compassionate man had been driven to madness from out of nowhere, killing most of his family in a brutal act of uncharacteristic homicide. The poor girl was once an excelling student, even in the impoverished state their family lived in, the girl was determined to make a name for herself and in doing so, worked hard to achieve her dream. As that dream was shattered before her eyes in a single display of brutality, Robyn had only narrowly escaped as she jumped through a narrow window, one that was shattered in the struggle between her father and mother. That quick decision cascaded into the future she'd have to suffer through, living on the streets, needing to fend for herself, surviving the worst of the worst for months, living on the scraps of others.
According to reports the father had killed his family and innocent bystanders outside their place before he brutally mutilated himself, having spooned his eyes out in a state of complete madness. Reminiscent of parts of the story of Oedipus.
The weak willed girl was eventually taken in by a group of homeless people, a colony of the kind and caring, the young and old. She was taught to fend for herself in hand-to-hand combat. And so she grew, eventually leaving the colony of the homeless, after living with them for upwards of four years. Robyn was still attacked, still assaulted, she still had to endure hardships. But she pressed on, fought back. It was around this age that the girl discovered her knack for drinking, often getting her into plenty of trouble around bars with how much she managed to drink and then cause trouble. Alcohol made Robyn forget, and smoking made it easier to cope with what she couldn't forget, she was a perfect bartender. And that job gave Robyn the chance to train to become the idealized version of herself, and train she did. When she wasn't working at the bar, she was educating herself on police work, studying incredibly hard to become a detective, so much so that she'd pull multiple all-nighters until she got the result she wanted. Her hard work the only thing keeping her anchored to the past she desired to forget.
Years later, Robyn would graduate and become a qualified detective, although her methods for obtaining information would be unfavourable, getting the job done was all that mattered to her and the institution she studied at. They didn't have time to worry about illicit sources of information when they had bigger problems to deal with, bigger problems that would interest Robyn as she looked for a team.
- Chosen God -
Artemis, the goddess of the hunt.
"Artemis, as the hunter goddess, while hunting game. Also protected it, especially the young."
At first this wasn't the case, Robyn held the gods in contempt for a long time while growing up, cursing them for putting her into this hell. Through time Robyn learned that... Not all gods intend to cause harm the way one had done to her father. That not all gods have ill intentions and only wish to walk the planet once more, without reaping the lives of those already inhabiting it.
Robyn, upon reading into the goddess of the hunt, found herself obsessed with this passage. And in some ways found it reflected her beliefs. While she intended to protect the people, especially the young. She would gladly hunt them down too. Those that do harm, at the very least. On a different, lighter note, while Robyn was younger and out in the street, animals were often there by her side. Be them strays or some pets that like to give her some attention on their walks, she handles their presence incredibly well and could calm even a cornered wolf down. And so, as she learned more and more about the pantheon, the mythos she was most interested in, she would find herself, in some ways, relatable to the goddess Artemis and as such has sworn to become a follower of hers.
- Reason for Joining the team -
Having been through what these gods are doing, she swears to serve the people, to investigate the plague befalling the world and protect lives she can yet save. To understand the crimes and why they happen.
I'd like a bit more information on her relationship with Atermis and why she's chosen as her deity. Especially since she has a problem with what other gods have done to her.
Sure she can fit in as a patron for your character. God/goddess I should probably mean to say whatever deity your character follows, so this can include demons as well.
I really like the vibe of this. It's definitely caught my eye, though I'll be busy through the weekend. I've been trying to tie music into my characters as a long-running experiment, and the era of Jazz and Swing is certainly one hell of a vibe to try and capture for a detective theme. We'll see where my rambling brain ends up, and if I even light a big enough fire to beat out the race to create a character lmao.
After an evening of light researching, Taliesen the celtic Chief of Bards calls to me; a minor, possibly-once-mortal, god of music and writing. I can make that vibe fit the 30's and the oncoming depression, methinks.
Name- Ahura Morgenstern Age- 25 Biography-When he was thirteen his mother and father were killed by a statewide serial killer called The HoneyMaker. He was taken in and raised by his grandparents(On his father's side) Ellsi and Nikolai. On the first anniversary of his parent's death, he prayed to anyone that would listen and asked them to bring his parents back. His prayers were answered, but only in his dreams. In his dream state, he met Lilith, and she told him that she couldn't bring his parents back but offered to be his friend. Him being a child he happily accepted, but he didn't know the terms and conditions of saying yes. For a few days, he began to feel pain all over his body but it went away after he talked to her on the last night. That night he learned that it was his body adjusting to the powers Lilith gave him, and after a few months, he learned how to control them with the help of Lilith. A few months after his fifteenth birthday, Ahura and his grandparents moved to New Haven for a fresh start. Chosen God- Lilith Reason for Joining the team- He wants to protect people from tragedies that can be controlled. Reference pic
Chosen God Taliesin the Twice-Born Chief of the Bards, Seer of the Round Table, Poet, Writer, and Musician extraordinaire.
The domain of Taliesin is wide and varied, but his reputed power is merely that of a peerless seer, beautiful person, and unchallenged bard. His history is a mystery, so tied up in his role in other mythologies that the true story of Taliesin the Bard and the born-again god-child of Ceridwyn through the power of Awan, mystic cauldron of the chief goddess. Some stories use Merlin and Taliesin interchangeably in their role amongst King Arthur's Court, while others still keep the entities distinct and focus on Taliesin's prophetic powers and reputation as a peerless bard...
Cathal's dreams are omen-like in nature, filled with surreal glimpses of what may-be, and what may have been. "I get ramblin' dreams, y'see. I see things and people I ain't never seen before. I've never liked what I've seen."
(Note, I will not be using this as a means of prophecy or future-sight by means of intention; merely a flavorful means of capturing the character's mental state and perception of things by way of enhanced sleep descriptions. If the GM tosses me some info from time to time to sprinkle into my descriptions that's swell, but not my goal with this.)
Cathal is in service to a Muse; his music, poetry, and written works are guided by divinity into their ultimate forms. As such, his works have subtle enthrallments to them. "I've got a dab hand at the piano and saxophone, and I like to think my singing voice is fair on the ear to boot! When it comes to the written word, I like to keep a journal for hobby, and I can be convinced to produce a limerick or two when the need arises."
(There will be no mind control or sudden musical healing coming from our boy here; He will be able to stir, draw out, bolster, or create emotional states in others with his pieces. Someone in a good mood might be more willing to talk than someone in a bad, but he can't control or affect their actual intelligence in this way. We're just gonna avoid all the 'squicky' aspects of 'charms' and focus on the benign here.)
Cathal is a Medium, of sorts "I trust my gut. When I get a feelin' about a fella, it's usually for good reason."
(Taliesin was said to be able to 'see into the otherworld', and while Cathal can't communicate with or see spirits directly, he can certainly feel their emotions- especially in places of significance. This becomes more potent if he has specific knowledge of the potential spirit, and grows with increased knowledge and research until he has a complete emotional understanding of an event. The goal with this isn't 'the ghost tells me who the murderer is', but rather 'While looking out back behind the club, Cathal gets a gut feeling this is a place of anger and fear'.)
Cathal is 'Twice-Born' "Askin' about me life before I came to the States is a bit of a no-go, pal. Clear as a foggy day and easy to stomach as turpentine. If there was a life for O'Molloy elsewhere, it's gone now."
Cathal was resurrected once by Taliesin; all bets are off if the Twice-Born can do it a third time.
Cathal's young life was highlighted by tragedy and punctuated by War. The Irish revolution coincided with the climax of World War One; his home was ripped apart from within while he was stuck in trenches on the front lines of the world's bloodiest war so far. While he was fighting for the safety of his way of life and a world of peace, insurrectionists in Ireland were redefining what his way of life was even supposed to be.
Whenever mail came, it was bad news. Each letter came in twos; the first from his mother explaining how another brother had died, and the second from the British News detailing another Irish Terrorist Event. His world was torn asunder, and his only solace in the trenches was his journal and his music. He kept a detailed record of his time in the war as an infantryman, and he was a well liked companion to his fellows for his quick eye, quicker mouth, cool temperance, and strong singing voice.
Tragedy and War were turned to song; his sorrow and love were turned to poetry. Poetry written for a girl back home, a girl waiting for him to return from this bloody mess, a girl he missed dearly; Ava Whelan. Oh, she was the girl everyone wanted- He'd had to bloody his brothers' noses regularly over their mutual pining for the redheaded woman- but she was his, and he was hers, and they were going to be something someday.
God is a woman it's plain to see Who else could plan a world as perfect as thee?
Right now God is lost The smoke's too thick to see The world's been tost But it'll see you back to me.
When the smoke clears And the birds can sing God, it's been years But I'll get you that ring.
At least, that was the plan. Contracting Malaria in the Eastern Campaign, Cathal O'Molloy was officially declared dead in Greece where he was shot by Bulgarian soldiers while fever had wracked his wits and compelled him to kneel in prayer and fruitlessly try to form another verse of poetry for Ava. When the rifle shot took him through the clavicle, it was not God who answered him- it was not bells and angels from on high who came to guide his spirit.
Instead when he fell, the world a blur of fever and pain, his hands gripping pen and page as cavalry thundered past him, what he witnessed can only be described as a dream and a portent of what was to come. He saw bright lights. A world aglow. Men were brothers once again, sharing drink and laughter. Solid gold towers rose higher than he'd ever seen; the airplanes of the battlefield crashed upon their shining splendor and the resultant explosions didn't even leave a scorch mark on their radiance. From these high towers of gold, music played; the most beautiful music he'd ever heard, music filled to the brim with soul and joy and passion- sex made into song, and distilled directly to the brain.
The music filled him, lifting his broken and fevered body from the ground and to his feet. As he walked these streets of silver, striding between these towers of gold, speaking to people made of marble and alabaster and obsidian, eating food that was ambrosia and drink that cured his fever, he soon found himself with a companion.
He was the most handsome man Cathal had ever laid eyes on; rather than jealousy, admiration burned within him. Seeing such a resplendent man sharing a table of food with him made him embarrassed; he awkwardly lifted a hand to his shattered collar and found it whole. Where he had expected to find a sucking wound and shattered bone, he instead found the rough tissue of scarring.
"I've allowed you to see this place so you might know what's to come. Look a little deeper, O'Molloy, if you can stomach it. Look deeper, and see the truth. Dining at my table has given you new strength; do with it what you will, but if you appreciate this gift then do for me but one thing..."
The man leaned forward, raising a glass of sparkling wine.
"Don't ever put that pen down."
Cathal toasted the man, then put his mind to the task of comprehending the dream. He was stunned to see that the longer he gazed at the sparkling glass he held, the less the wine bubbled and shone; in fact, the longer he gazed at it, the darker the liquid became until it was the deep red of blood resting in the glass. The thick, clotted, blood of an old wound. It dripped down from the ceiling over his table, and as he looked upwards he was stunned to see that where once there was beautiful fresco and divine paintings, there were now the twisted and horrid visages of tormented souls crawling within the taut-pulled skin of a fleshy ceiling.
He looked back to the handsome man only to find himself alone save a placard scrawled upon in the calligraphy of a man's hand; Taliesin is my name; carry it forth along with this vision.
He ran from the building, departing from his meal of rotted meat and sludge vegetables, and onto those streets of silver- Nay, those streets of bloodslick steel. He slipped on the viscera and cast his gaze upwards as he scrambled to his feet- Golden towers replaced by tall structures of bone and paper, the golden paint chipped off and revealing the mite infested truth beneath. The perfect people he'd passed on the streets were but grotesqueries wearing perfect masks, their clothes threadbare from behind even as they meticulously scrubbed a mark from the patchwork maintenance of the front. He saw one man hiding a knife behind his back as he shook the hand of another, whose own hidden hand was coated in brass dusters. He saw a woman whose stroller held a shotgun instead of a babe; an old man whose toothless smile revealed gums lined with razorwire; as the sun set, it was like a great eye rose over the horizon to watch him struggle amongst this world of suffering...
These images burned themselves into his mind forever. Then, he woke up. The Nightmare was over. He was in a small hostel in Greece, run by an old man who had scoured the battlefields for survivors. When he awoke, Cathal was in a bunk shared by a Bulgarian man whose leg had been amputated. Across from him was a Turk, whose upper face was entirely wrapped in bandages. The world was brighter, though fear laced the air from his suddenly awaking mind. He touched his collar; a mass of scar tissue, but he was alive.
The world had moved on. When he was well enough to depart, he thanked the man and returned home. Ava had moved on, now married to his only surviving brother. He did not reveal himself to them. He chose to do as the world had done; as his love had done; as the Gods themselves had done in all the years he lost in his stupor. He chose to move on.
Cathal O'Molloy traveled to the United States, an immigrant and veteran of war. He experienced a dread and strange fulfillment of purpose as he traveled westwards across the states; while nothing as grand or as truly ostentatious as his long dream appeared, he witnessed the rise and fall of the Gilded Age firsthand. His music and voice were at the forefront of many popular clubs as he worked his way across the country, and he witnessed the amazing splendor and wealth to be had in this time-
But as things began to show their true colors, his vision remained burned in mind. Truth was beneath that lustrous veneer. Truth was to be found sooner rather than later. The pursuit of that truth lead him to New Haven. His first night in New Haven, he stumbled into a club called The Soul of Sandra. What he experienced there that night was otherworldly.
Cathal gazed at the flickering neon sign. Soul of Sandra. The first 'o' flickered and struggled to stay lit, but to Cathal's mind the flickering seemed almost as if a promiscuous wink. A beckoning thing that caught the eye and promised something real. He tugged his collar higher against the rain, and descended the concrete steps down into the smoke of the lounge.
Its interior was lit in the blue glow of distant neon lights, the flickering of candlesticks keeping the atmosphere manageable on individual tabletops. The emberglow of smoke pipes and the dogged and ragged cinder-ends of cigarettes revealed themselves to be the source of the haze. Once he crossed the threshold he turned his collar down and removed his hat on general principles- but the rest of his thoughts were consumed by the song.
Up-on city lights our world A-dancing, a-spinning, a-wonderin' Without endin' losin' track of what's more important than... Feelin' right.
Oh yeah. Feelin' right. Oh yeah. Feelin' right.
I'd do anythin' Anythin' at all If it meant seein' through the lustre of light I'd do anythin' anythin' at all if it meant I could see what's inside.
Oh yeah. Feelin' right. Feelin' right. Oh yeah, Feelin' right while blind of eye
The man singing on the stage was an elderly man, dark of skin, whose head had been shined to a reflective sheen. His vocals were raspy, his lungs more filled with smoke than air- and seemingly had been for his entire life- but he was skilled and his voice carried the sombre tone of the song well. Cathal's eyes moved past him; while he was excellent, he wasn't what had immediately captured Cathal's soul.
His gaze next fell on a young man with bright eyes and a small hat that sat lopsided upon his head, in a fine suit, at the piano. His passion and enthusiasm made up for inexperience; his freestyle embellishments to the song filled the gaps well, and on a fundamental level he was keeping the tune right and not disrupting the rest of the band. No, not him either. Cathal's gaze moved, unknowingly his hands moved too to raise the glass of whisky he'd acquired without realizing to his lips.
The gentleman on the drums was a stick of a man, his long limbs moving as if drawn on strings by a puppeteer as he struck cymbal and drum alike, the gentle, rolling, thunder of his instrument adding a storm behind the old man's raspy voice. A cadence of warning, the threat of danger, behind words of sorrow. His sunken in eyes were shadowed by a broad ridged forehead, giving him an eyeless visage. The song continued as Cathal's gaze finally fell on what had stirred him so strongly.
Up-on city lights Lustre of light A-dancing, a-spinning, a-wonderin' What's inside? What's inside?
I'd do anythin' Anythin' at all I'd do anythin' if it meant Feelin' Right.
Feelin' Right.
the swarthy woman, olive of complexion and black of hair, on the saxophone. Her Mediterranean features stirred his blood even as her playing captured his soul. He desperately wished to speak to her. This place was so full of emotions- sorrow, fear, anger, hate, desperation- and it was filling him to the brim with his own sensations. The way she aggressively handled the saxophone, the way the sequins of her dress glittered, the way the dress flattered her frame, the way her playing was like a searing hot knife to the back of his mind, opening it up to the fullness of the song- all of it together made her so utterly important to him in this instant it was painful.
The song had to come to an end at last. As the elderly man spoke his thanks for the crowd, the woman- whose face was concealed by a veil worn beneath a wide brimmed hat- silently rushed from the stage and out the back. Cathal rose immediately; he could practically taste her fear. why would she be afraid, goddess of this place as she was? Why?
He looked about, and in an eerie snap back to reality he realized that several other people had also risen up. Two trench-coat obscured men raced out the back after the woman, while another pair of coat-wearing people- one a woman, Cathal was soon to discover when she kicked him in the chin in a few minutes- moved out the front door. Cathal ran out the front door and climbed the rain-slick concrete stairs out from the Club's underground front door. He whirled about, seeing the running backs of the strange people and gave chase.
The gunshot he heard was like deja-vu. He felt the bullet pierce his collarbone. He felt his own life fade- but he shook himself of this reverie. It was just noise. It was just noise...
Gasping for breath he staggered against the brickwork of the building, clutching at the phantom pain of his scarred clavicle. As his fingers curled painfully through his own coat and into his flesh, he finally rounded the corner. What he saw next burned itself into his mind as viscerally as the vision of Taliesen.
The saxophonist woman, sprawled in the rain, a bullet tearing her veil in twain and revealing to him the dullness of a dead, hazel eye. The four pursuers were briefly surprised by his appearance, but in a dazzling display of immense physical prowess the nearest to him- her frame slender and petite, and what glimpse he got of her face beneath her hat as she twisted upwards to him revealed an elfin set of features- but he didn't see much of anything else as the steel toe of her boot collided with the side of his head and sent him sprawling against the brickwork of the building. He collapsed in a heap, blood spilling from his own mouth as the world faded to darkness and he heard four sets of feet beating a hasty retreat through the rain.
The last thing that ran through his mind was a single thought;
Who was that woman? Why did she have to die?...
And it was with that story, the story of the later-identified Rea Markouli and the ongoing, unsolved, mystery of her murder, that Cathal approached Montag Detectives Ltd. He wasn't looking to hire; he was looking to make a difference. He'd failed his country; he'd failed his family; He felt like he was failing Taliesin too...
For some reason, the spirit of Rea Markouli had tied itself to his soul and he refused to let her down. The sight of her, bloody and dead behind the jazz club, had burned itself atop the fever dream of Taliesin; New Haven was a rotten city waiting to crumble, and he wanted to do his damndest to make a difference.
As for when this will start. I'm waiting for some others involved to finalize their characters and see if they are ready to start sometime this week. We'll see for now.
Name- Jacob (Partial Amnesiac) Age- 22 years old Biography- Jacob, unbenownst to himself, is a man who was born in December of 1908. His mother left him on the doorstep of a loving, childless couple who raised him with love and wisdom for years. He was diligent, smart, and lucky enough to be educated very well in the sciences, but also had a love of God and country. Nationalistic, but not xenophobic, nor was he a man who disrespected the "lesser" races. This was a man who loved his neighbor. He came across two thugs beating up on a Jewish man. It was clear the man was going to die soon unless he intervened. Jacob Solomon (his surname is Solomon) rushed to help the elderly man and was slashed across his neck and chest, killing him within seconds. Recently, Jacob has been found rising from his grave, with his grave stone partially defaced.
Chosen God- Zadkiel (Archangel of God's goodness, Christianity) Reason for Joining the team- He wants to make the world a better place and help the innocent people in the world. Reference pic
