Character Description

Name: Viktor Ulrich
Gender:Male
Age: 58
Nationality: German
Appearance:

appearance [+]

Personal Effects: A change of clothes, several books (prayer, exorcism rites, demonic identification etc.) 3 vials of blessed water and 3 of blessed oil, 1 Webly Mk V revolver and enough bullets for 1 reload, a journal of his own study/notes.

---

Background:

What is your job Bishop of a church in Poland
Backstory: Born in 1875 to a moderate family in the German countryside, Viktor was the oldest of three children. This led him to forcibly adopt a parental mentality and aided in the care of his younger brothers. The family, being neither vastly poor or wealthy, did their best and led mostly normal lives. Viktor was always drawn to the church as he said that it brought him a sense of peace in his life and eventually, when he came of age, took the first steps into the priesthood at the age of twelve. If life had continued this way, life would have been peaceful and that is where his story would have ended.

At the age of thirty eight, as an established priest, the Great War broke out and chaos erupted in the country. Ever the father-figure at heart, Viktor’s heart grew troubled at the thought of his countrymen in a great battlefield without the Lord’s presence and before the Archdiocese had called for volunteers to go and spread the gospel in such forsaken lands he stood at the front of the line willing to go. His family, very much troubled by his decision, reluctantly sent him off with the gift of a brand new revolver. War was an entirely different affair than anything that Viktor had ever experienced. As he took up his position as a military chaplain and aided the medical staff in their duties the untold amount of death and serious injuries slowly took their toil on the priest as he did the best he could to give the peace of Christ to the wounded and dying.

For four years he toiled among the back lines burying countless young men and gave counsel to those that remained. One night a field camp after burying yet another soldier in the wee hours of the morning came a moment that would change his life forever. As he came around the corner at the far end of camp, a sharp metal gleam caught his eyes in the brush. As he turned to face the brush the horrifying sight of a mangled soldier covered in viscera with a twisted and contorted face stare back at him. In a panic Viktor reached for the pistol at his side and when he turned back the creature was in his face and in garbled German it spoke;

”WHERES YOUR FAITH FATHER??”

As soon as it had breached his space, the thing was gone. It wasn’t long after that incident that the war ended and Viktor returned to his parish. That night in the field shook him to the core and for the next two years it haunted him until a meeting with another bishop that he told another soul. The response of demon attack was something he hadn’t expected. With this new information Viktor went on a learning spree and began the self taught route of an exorcist.

<Snipped quote by Archangel89>

Looks good. However, can I make a recommendation to improve a wee bit?

The main thing I'm thinking is a Polish Bishop might be noticed if he's out of his Diocese.

My main recommendation would be to put them closer to the action, as it were. So perhaps make them Archbishop of Munich and Freising or similar.

If you wanted to make them a less public figure, you could go with a priest or mendicant friar?

Don't mind me, just had some fun writing this. Behold, an adrenaline junkie.

Masako Yamamoto [+]

Character Description

Name: Masako Yamamoto (山本正子)
Gender: F
Age: 23
Nationality: Japanese
Appearance:

appearance [+]

Personal Effects: Aside from normal everyday clothes, Masako possesses a fully-equipped nurse’s chatelaine, a lighter and pack of cigarettes, a flash, a small bottle of laudanum, and a combat knife. She has tentative plans to purchase a pistol.

---

Background:

What is your job Registered Nurse with the Japanese Red Cross
Backstory: I was born in 1900—that is, Meiji 33—perhaps two or three weeks after that year’s Hanami. I do not actually know when I was born, exactly, which I must admit is the greatest disappointment my father probably found in me. I can say that I was born at my father’s work, where my mother was visiting him after classes had finished for the day. I was told growing up that this was an omen of my studious nature. I performed well in school; from the beginning to the end, I was one of my father’s best students. Certainly, I imagine this was helped by the fact that my teacher followed me home! But I always found the praise from hard work attractive, and further enjoyed most of my studies then.

I must have gotten my will to be studious from my father, as my mother was always more concerned with tradition and with my grooming than these academic matters. I still do not understand, to that end, how they became married, but my mother always suggested to me that my father had only ever become more liberal-minded in his time as an academic. I remember that they often fought, as my mother felt my education should not come at the expense of my potential as a mother myself, while my father was particularly delighted by my interest in the sciences, and only ever disappointed by my lack of a sense for literature. In that time, I learned English from my father, who was an avid reader of the latest works on education, many of which were written in that language, while the others often were translated into it.

I had, when I was younger, accepted that my mother had already made up her mind on which sorts of men she wanted to see me with; two of her closest friends had sons, and it was my understanding that I had a choice between the two of them and only the two of them. I got along particularly well with the elder of the two, named Katsuo, and it was felt with great excitement by both of our mothers that we would marry soon after our primary schooling. But as we grew from children into young people, I felt as if we grew apart, though I do not know if he felt the same. “It is only natural that people change,” my father told me then, and so at this point I understood better how he felt about the matter. He did not want his young daughter to be married so soon, imagining that I would instead, after completing primary school, go on and continue my education, to become more than a wife and mother, but rather, at the very least, a good wife and wise mother, as it was said. With such encouragement, to my mother’s outrage, I chose to study nursing under the Red Cross with my father’s support, rather than to follow Katsuo around on whatever path he chose. If the two of us should reconvene in our paths, my father imagined, then he would surely approve of whatever we chose to do, but he firmly refused to insist upon any relationship, despite insistence from my mother and from Katsuo’s.

For my ability in English, I was delighted to have the opportunity to serve as one of the youngest nurses in the squad sent to Southampton. My father greatly encouraged that trip abroad, while my mother was beside herself. Little did any of us know that we would be asked to remain for the entirety of the war! I will admit, then, that this time awoke something within me. I imagine a keen mind must be inclined to thinking on its own, and if this is the case, then my own was left to its own devices. I was young and silly then, and at such a time in my life as I was, I learned a great many things there. If my mother should ever learn how I came to know the German language, I would imagine she would die on the spot, unless she managed to induce me to kill myself first, so I will ask that my writing of my experiences abroad not be shared outside of my confidence.

Although the majority of the Prisoners of War we cared for in our time in Southampton were of no consequence to me, I found myself picking out several of the most dashing, and considering what I might do. I told myself and my fellow nurses, then, that the extra time I devoted to the injured among these dashing sorts was to learn the German language, so that we might better be able to care for them. I did make good progress with the language, but I cannot say that this was the only product of my time among them. By my second year around these—shall we call them crippled gentlemen?—I found myself perhaps more bold than sensible. Although my fellow nurses said nothing of the matter, perhaps for at least one of them also considered a fling as I did, the surgeon indeed took notice when I turned entirely red as one of the new men in our charge requested me to care for him by name, despite us having never been introduced. He presumed, in a sort of kindness to me, that it was simply that I was better with German language than any of my fellow nurses. But I will admit that I did care for him as I cared for some of those other handsome fellows; after all, I had found that I greatly enjoyed going “above and beyond” in my care.

I suppose it is poor form to say that I enjoyed the war, but my experience was surely more lovely than most. The stress and activity of my work and the sort of entertainment I could access, both in the forms of the United Kingdom’s extensive scientific literature and in the nonetheless handsome forms of the crippled Germans in our care, brought me to feel almost mournful when I was on my way to return to Japan. To go from intensive medical work and intensive leisure to a possible quiet domesticity felt entirely unacceptable to me. I remember, as I sat in my bed on the way back, thinking of ways to prolong my time in the service. How fortunate I was that Russia was in shambles and that our country was engaged in a massive intervention! I had no sooner greeted my parents than I announced that I would be departing north shortly. My mother screamed at me then, while my father stood in stunned silence. But I had already enlisted to go there, and it could therefore not be helped, even as I then felt a sense of remorse for abandoning them so soon after my return.

The Siberian Intervention, I suppose, was less excellent than my time in Southampton, but despite the unpleasant material conditions and good reading, I made up for this with socialising—of the normal kind, to be clear. That is not to say, though, that I did not maintain my previous hobbies. At the time of my departure to Siberia, I had known a number of Germans, a Hungarian, two Englishmen, a Scotsman, two Canadians, and an American. By the summer of last year, when that disappointing announcement of our withdrawal from the intervention came, I realised in my tally that whoever I married would not be my first anything. I had known, in addition to those previous fellows, a particularly handsome Cossack, as I learned he was called, a Buryat fellow, two Yakut gentlemen in rapid succession (they called themselves Sakka, as I recall, and needed only a bit of patching—it was their visit where I was almost caught!), one of my fellow nurses (on several occasions, actually, we slept together specifically to stay warm, but found ourselves enjoying one another’s company more than I had imagined I would), five or six Czechoslovak legionaries, perhaps twelve White Russians and one Red, if I recall, out of my own curiosity and as an odd sort of kindness to him, for he was to be executed when the Whites returned, and a significant number of our own soldiers—enough of whom, anyway, that I cannot recall all of their names, though for a certain number of them, I believe it is because we had both drunk far more than we ought to have. I admit, writing it, that I make it sound as if I were immensely promiscuous, but disregarding recurring incidents, I rarely engaged more than a few times a month—twice in a week, at the very most.

But when that conflict ended, I could not bring myself to return home at all. I wrote a letter to my father, saying that I intended to immigrate to America. But instead, I boarded a ship heading to Germany—a place I imagine few who know me would bother to consider—intent on finding one of my old flings to perhaps help me find some nursing work in their area. Perhaps fortunately, it is unusual to see an Oriental woman of any sort in this part of the world, and I had managed to track down several of them. So it seems, I sound like a Southern German when I speak, and not a proper one at that. Munich is home to not one, but three of my old flings! Werner, Julius, and Eduard are their names—sadly, only Julius greeted me warmly. Though I could not stay with him, on account of his mother, he was kind as to give me directions and assistance in finding temporary employment while I made arrangements to become properly certified in accordance with German law. While modelling for artists is by no stretch of my imagination anything I would have ever done under normal circumstances, with how fascinated they are to have a “genuine Oriental subject,” as they say, I would be silly to try and find other temporary work. Artists are, even in such a case, stimulating enough company that I cannot find myself too disappointed. But I still look forward to when I can return to my nursing work, and find more situations as I have in the past to enjoy excitement in work and leisure at once.

<Snipped quote by Dyelli Beybi>

Can do that’s an easy fix, and done

Introducing Nelly Hacke, fortune teller's assistant! Her backstory might be a little sloppy in terms of writing since I did most of it all in one go last night, but it hits all the important points.

Nelly Hacke [+]

Name: Cornelia "Nelly" Hacke
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Nationality: American (German Heritage)
Appearance:

appearance [+]

Personal Effects: Gris-gris, matchbox, bottle of rum, worn flat cap, heavy worn overcoat, bone-handled hunting knife, pocket change

---

Background:

What is your job Beggar
Backstory: Nelly was born in New Orleans to a pair of German immigrants - her father was a dockworker while her mother did some tailoring as a seamstress when more money was needed. They lived a humble life, with a small but modern house not far from the docks. They did not live in excess, but they never dipped into poverty. Nelly's mother taught her instead of sending her to school. Like many Catholic mothers, she primarily taught her from the Bible and did the same for Nelly's little sister, Anja, when she came around.

Stable as they were economically, life was far from perfect. Nelly and Anja's father had a penchant for drinking, and when he drank, he found a penchant for violence. From a young age, Nelly learned how to read her father. Not just his expression, but his schedule. Sundays irritated him, made him feel like a failure in the eyes of God, so she locked Anja and herself up every week after church. Bigger boats sailing in meant he'd be too tired to go to the bar after, which meant they'd be safe. She got good at it. Good enough to protect her family.

Until she was twelve years old. It was a Sunday. She and Anja were huddled together in their room, waiting with dread for their father to come home from the bar. When he did, there was yelling. It wasn't angry, though. It was...absolutely jubilant. She couldn't keep Anja from racing downstairs to see the man twirling with his confused wife in his arms. He was so exuberant, so full of life. It was happier than any of them had ever seen him. The happiness was infectious. Soon Anja was dancing with her father while her mother laughed in the corner.

That evening was more joyful than any that had ever taken place in that house. They had gumbo instead of fish, told each other stories into the night. Anja fell asleep in her mother's arms in front of the fire, who eventually took her to bed, leaving Nelly with her father. She wasn't sure what it was about him - the slight smirk that played at the corner of his lips, the unprecedented sharpness behind his eye. Something about him struck Nelly with the sudden unwavering belief that this man was not her father.

She didn't tell her mother. She didn't even tell Anja, not at first. Instead, she slipped into the bed her and Anja shared to try - and fail - to sleep. They woke up to the sweet smell of baking. Cake waited on the dining room table in place of grits, with both their parents sitting at the table, silently waiting for the pair. Nelly had her suspicions immediately, but it wasn't until she was sat across from her "mother" that she was sure. The woman had that same smirk, that same sharpness. Her mother was not her mother.

Nelly slipped away as quickly as she could while still avoiding suspicion. She packed her and her sisters' things, explaining to the younger girl that they were leaving. Anja was confused, upset. Explaining it only caused Anja to grow more upset - to the point of drawing the people pretending to be their parents into their room. Nelly kicked their bags under the bed, quickly spinning a lie about hitting her sister to explain the tears she was shedding.

Nelly didn't end up leaving that night as she'd planned. Anja refused, and she couldn't bring herself to leave without her sister. The next morning, she woke up to find Anja already awake, staring at her inches away. The sharpness had been unsettling in her parents' eyes. Seeing it in little Anja's sent a stabbing terror into her heart. On her lips played that malicious smirk. That day, they had cake. They had gumbo. And when night came and the things that weren't her family were sleeping - or at least mimicking sleep - Nelly slipped out of her bed and turned on their gas stove.

The house burned, and, as far as Nelly knows, whatever they were burned with it.

There was no funeral procession, no second line. Nelly didn't have any other family in New Orleans. No one to bury her dead, no one to take care of her. So, she took to the streets. There's a lot a kid can learn on the streets of New Orleans, especially one as observant as Nelly. The stray dogs taught her how to fight, like a cornered animal without restraint. The rats taught her how to worm her way into tight places she oughtn't be in to snatch up things she oughtn't have. And cats taught her how to weave through a crowd without anyone paying her any mind. Her ability to snatch wallets and watches as she did was something she taught herself.

It's that last skill that'd lead her to her Gigi. She was weaving her way through a crowd, slipping hands into pockets. One of her marks had an envelope - not too thick, but there was something with some weight inside. Jewelry maybe? She was about to open it when she saw something that made her pause. It was addressed to her: Nelly Hacke. It shocked her enough not to notice when a figure approached her, grabbing her by the wrist. Looking up, she found a heavyset old woman with a stern face.

Nelly never understood why Gigi took her on as her ward rather than turning her in. Maybe Nelly's quick hands impressed her. Maybe she pitied the kid. Hell, maybe it was simply Nelly's last name; Gigi always seemed amused to have a girl named Hacke helping her con people. Gigi was allegedly a psychic, a fortune teller gifted with foresight. She was a fraud, of course, something Nelly discovered early in her tenure as the woman's assistant. However she'd managed to get Nelly's name, it wasn't the spirits that gave it to her. Many of Nelly's duties had to do with spying on her Gigi's clients. Hiding atop confession booths with a glass cup, sneaking into bars to hear them drunkenly spill their secrets, slipping into their houses to find any clues as to what to bring up at their next session.

As fraudulent as her sixth sense might have been, Gigi was still a spiritual woman. She taught Nelly of Vodou and the Loa. She also helped teach Nelly how to spot and avoid what she called the Otherfolk - that which appeared human but were not. The things that took her family weren't the only kind. New Orleans, as a city of the night, had plenty creatures of the night pass through, things pulled from folklore and bedtime stories. Under Gigi's tutelage, Nelly developed what could only be described as esoteric street smarts. Nelly learned how to spot them, how to avoid them, how to take notice of strange happenings long before they became deadly. She was witness to a lot - after all, few pay attention to folks like her, begging on the street.

Nelly couldn't say she was surprised when they came for Gigi. She'd been slipping, becoming soft, guiding the Otherfolk's prey out of town with her fortunes instead of keeping to herself as she'd taught Nelly to. In the end, Gigi suffered the same fate as her family - wearing that same smirk, same sharpness. Nelly left the very night she realized Gigi had been taken. She'd planned on leaving town, maybe going North. As such, she took her Gigi's coat. Slipping her hands into her jacket pocket, she found one final trick from the old fraud. Inside was the very same envelope she'd snatched from Gigi all those years ago. Same writing, same weight to it. Opening it, she found two tickets: one from New Orleans to England, and another from England to Germany, the first leaving in a week, the second in a month. Inside was also a matchbox from some German cabaret.

Gigi didn't have a gas stove, but she did have a lot of high proof liquor. Enough to set her little shack ablaze. Nelly kept a low profile the following week until her ship was scheduled to depart. The journey to and through Germany was long; Nelly managed to scrape by begging. She didn't really have anywhere to go after the second ship dropped her on German shores - she tried tracking down extended family, but never really had much luck there. Her resources were few, after all, and there weren't many interested in helping a homeless woman find her family. She was panhandling in Munich when she got it: an envelope dropped into her hat. She didn't get a good look at who dropped it into her hat, but when she dug inside, she found an invitation. An invitation to a cabaret - one with the same name she saw every time she needed a light.

Here is my CS finally

Finley drake [+]

Character Description

Name: Finley Drake
Gender:Male
Age:37
Nationality:british
Appearance:

appearance [+]

Lean and muscular physique. 6 foot tall

Personal Effects:

1895 Nagant revolver [+]

Clothes [+]

With black pants and black dress shoes. No hat

Pipe [+]

And a small pocket knife. And playing cards, and Small brown Journal with pen.

---

Background:

What is your job soldier turned treasure Hunter.
Backstory:Finlay Drake was born in 1886 into a well-known and respected family in England. As a descendant of the famous explorer Sir Francis Drake, it was only natural that he would carry on his family's tradition of travel and discovery. From an early age, Finlay showed a keen interest in history and archaeology, spending much time studying maps and artifacts.

When World War I broke out, Finlay felt it compelled him to serve his country and enlisted in the British Army. . He proved to be a brave soldier and was promoted to a respected leader. But the dangers of war befell him, and he returned home from the battlefield a changed man. Although he did pick up rather good aim.

After the war, Finlay struggled to find his place in the world. He yearned for the thrill of adventure and the excitement of discovery that he had experienced during his military service. Remembering the tales of his ancestor's exploits, Finley decided to follow in Sir Francis Drake's footsteps and become a treasure hunter.

His travels took him to Munich, where he had heard rumors of a long-lost artifact that was said to hold great power. Armed with his knowledge of history and his natural instincts for exploration, Finley set out to uncover the secrets of the past and make a name for himself as a renowned treasure hunter.

<Snipped quote by Chronic>

Looks generally okay- one question though. Where did the Nagant come from? Might be worth something to explain that acquisition.

That's cool... or you could run with something like he got involved in the Allied Intervention in the Russian Civil War and potentially picked it up off a dead Chekist as a trophy...

Just an idea as he'd have been using a Webley Mk VI for most of the war which was is a darned good revolver.