Ellie is one of the senior members of the Sunday Group. She is a medical doctor who was born in England but immigrated to America with her mother when she was seven years old. The Tregellan family has a long history of magical talent passed down through the female line. Ellie is a skilled practitioner of the art and frequently put her talent to use for the Sunday Group.
On a more day to day basis she provides medical care to injured personnel, handles some of the recruiting of patients and performs specialized autopsies when magic or supernatural forces are suspected as a cause of death.
Ellie is in her late thirties, has freckles, and is currently single.
Madeline has hired the Sunday Group to investigate the death of her sister Cassandra Holt. Although initially ruled a suicide Madeline refused to accept the fact and hired Ellie Tregellan to perform an additional autopsy. Ellie believes that Madeline might be right to be skeptical of the official story.
Madeline is heavyset, brunette and has a pinched haggard face. She lives in Rochester Mass but is currently staying in Chicago while the group deliberates the case.
Appearance: Unkempt would be the best word to describe Manny. He's often seen wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes. He has brown eyes and refined facial features, with long legs and a fit body. He quit smoking awhile ago, though he felt odd without something in his mouth. He tends to use toothpicks now.
Concept: Jaded and paranoid supernatural investigator and researcher with an old soul. Officer in the field. Sarcastic and tired.
Powers/skills:
Wing Chun: While he's by no means weak, he has no illusions that he'll be the strongest thing out there, so he took it upon himself to learn a martial art effective for close combat, yet it's power is derived more from stances, swift strikes, and momentum than ordinary strength. He's been a studious practitioner for 4 years.
Gun play: Years working in the back streets, and spent in shooting ranges, had made him an effective shot and a competent gun wielder. He's not the best, but he's reliable and a quick aim.
Sleight of Hand: He's had to do some unscrupulous things in his life in order to survive. He's a talented pick pocket and lock picker, and he's not too shabby with climbing small buildings if need be.
Recollection: He has a fine memory and can recall more than most would think, due to his obsessive mind.
Lore Student: He's studied more ancient and supernatural lore than a grown man should, thrice over. He could be a mythology professor if he cared enough.
Hot Rod: He can drive cars and motorbikes fast and skillfully.
Writing Sample:
Picking the lock to the window was easy enough. The interior of the abandoned office building was stuffy and thick with dust. Manny slipped the cloth he kept in his back pocket up to his mouth, breathing in slowly as he looked around. His sharp eyes caught the trail immediately, dust having been wiped clean on the floor, leading to a trail that led toward the fallen ceiling of the break room. He placed his foot on the counter, and kicked off with a leap to grab a hold, and haul himself up onto the 3rd floor. He held his breath throughout, so as not to groan and give away his position.
When he pulled himself up, he didn't move quickly or anxiously. He knew if what he expected to be here was here, it would be much quicker than him unless he was prepared. He knew it would toy with him if he was slow, which gave him an edge. Manny wrapped his jacket around his right arm, holding a vial at the end of it. His other hand slipped the safety off his M1991 .45 handgun, and he moved with a practice silence across the floor, though the ruined wood creaked every so often.
The slabbering noise in the other room was loud enough to drown out any small creaks however, and Manny casually, slowly stepped through the open doorway to view a scene out of a horror novel. Grey and smooth, putrid flesh covered the hulking figure as it nuzzled its face into the open chest cavity of the still-warm corpse. Wet sucking noises filled the air as the ghoul fed, its back-bone protruding out like a reptilian spine.
The claw marks on the opposite rooftop had given the beast way an hour ago. He'd been sufficiently prepared. He'd learned long ago not to call the police. Nothing but red tape and lawyers.
"Hey bitch," he called. With preternatural speed, the Ghoul yanked its head up and turned, only for its face to be covered in shattered glass and holy water. With a screech it leaped at the doorway instantly, but Manny had already moved. Summarily blinded, it hit the side wall and screeched more in pain. Manny stepped back into the doorway and fired his weapon, punching 4 holes into the beast before it croaked, and fell dead.
Before he left, he slipped on his gloves and fished his hands in the corpse's wallet. He'd notify the police of the death, of course. But he'd take some cash for his trouble. A man had to eat, after all.
Appearance: Kennedy has long, blonde hair down to the middle of her back and gray eyes. She has a fair complexion. She stands at 5'8'' and weighs 128 lbs. She has a curvy frame. She typically wears business casual outfits ranging in colors, but tends to favor darker tones. She has black rimmed glasses she wears often.
Concept: Ex-Lawyer Yearning For The Truth
Powers/skills: Expert In Negotiations, Fresh Pair Of Eyes, Hard-Working and Determined
Name: Sadhbh /pronounced Sive, rhymes with hive/ Malone
Age: 35
Appearance: At 5'6ish she is athletic and fit with the typical features of her mixed Irish/Swedish ancestry. Strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, fair complexion, deep blue eyes and jet black hair. But that's not what one would see if they were to look upon Malone right now. They would see her gaunt, tired face. Her cheeks sunken, her eyes lined with black smudges of fatigue, stress and something close to grim determination. She looks broken and battered, but her eyes burn with dark resolve.
Concept: Malone grew up as the single daughter to parents Orla Malone and father Mikael Nyqvist. Her parents divorced when Sadhbh was little. So Sadhbh grew up without a father, but since she was too small when her parents had divorced she didn't carry with her the usual trauma divorce generally caused children. She loved her mother. She was a hard worker and did the impossible to raise her girl so that she wouldn't want for nothing. She was an OR nurse and Sadhbh would spend a huge amount of time in the hospital day-care.
Despite her unusual upbringing Sadhbh grew up a happy and well-adjusted kid. She loved to read and go on amazing adventures within the pages of the books. She was a bright young girl who was raised to be good, caring and well mannered. Growing up in the hospital, though shielded by the staff of the day-care, she witnessed too many people in pain and in need of help and assistance. It made her want to help, like her mom was helping people.
That desire never really went away. And as any kid who grows up to be idealistic and with love for adventures, she decided she was gonna be a cop when she grew up. And at twenty-four with a freshly acquired Masters' in Criminal Sciences and Criminal Behavior and a solid experience in Krav Maga and Aikido she enrolled in FBI's Academy.
Sadhbh worked hard and studied just as hard in the Academy and distinguished herself. She finished among the top of her class and was offered a position in FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Her youthful enthusiasm was soon replaced by harsh realism. Malone tried her best to not allow the work to make her too jaded. But dealing with the lowest of the low, the degenerates, the perverts, the monsters. It was no easy task. Still she was helping. The guilty were being put away and that was something at least.
Currently Malone is in a very dark place, but she is too well mannered to let her inner demons leak out, so people generally wouldn't notice much of her darker demeanor. She would mostly appear quiet and wounded.
Powers/skills: Experienced martial artist /Aikido and Krav Maga/. FBI Profiler. Malone has a better than average perception and would make connections between facts and leads faster than humanly possible. She always attributed this ability of hers to years of practice and experience. She is starting to wonder if that is truly it though.
Writing Sample:
At thirty-three Malone's whole world came crashing down! She was a part of a task force on the hunt for an especially vicious and cunning child predator. The bastard was elusive and careful and the team was left always a step behind him. Each new victim weighed heavily on the investigators. Sadhbh was having nightmares night after night. Her nerves were shot to hell as she kept poring over the files tirelessly, trying to penetrate the monster's mind and gleam some secret. Something! Anything that would allow them to catch up to him.
And as if that wasn't enough her mother suddenly fell ill. Cancer, the doctors said. Malignant. Inoperable. Terminal! Watching her mum wither away in a manner of months to finally breathe her last breath. It was too much! She was barely holding it together when the team finally hit a breakthrough. The monster'd made one huge mistake! He'd taunted her and her colleagues too much. Out of desperation and murderous determination to make him pay she and her fellow investigators had finally managed to put the puzzle together.
When they finally caught the perp, the slimy sleaze had started spewing venom at them. Describing in vivid detail what he'd done to the children and how it was all their fault for being stupid enough not to catch him sooner. Sadhbh snapped then. She saw the beast for what he truly was. Evil! And not the metaphoric kind. No! The supernatural kind. For surely his eyes had gleamed with something otherworldly. She charged the monster beating him to a bloody pulp, before her partner managed to pry her away from him.
Josh, her partner, dragged her away from the perp and the crowds gathered around to spectate.
"Are you out of your mind?!" He slammed her against the wall of a nearby alley.
Malone was breathing like a freight train. Her eyes were glazed with fury. She didn't see Josh at all. She only saw that gleam in the perp’s eyes and the images of all the children he'd raped and mutilated. She exploded! Dislodging Josh's arms from her shoulders she shoved him backwards.
"Lay off me, Josh! You don't know what he is!" She shoved again. "You didn't see his eyes. There was evil there. Pure evil!" She gripped the lapels of Josh's jacket. "You didn't see!!!" She hissed.
"Jesus, Malone, do you hear yourself?" He tried to pry her hands away from his jacket, but failed. Instead he just gripped her wrists. "Of course he's a monster and evil. We all know that, but..."
"But nothing!" She interrupted her partner. "You didn't see. I'm not crazy. And don't even try to tell me the case got the better of me. I'm the shrink here." She finally released him. "You didn't see." She muttered a final time.
Josh was quiet for a moment. All of them were strung high. That bloody bastard had evaded them for months. Five children! Five little, precious souls tortured beyond imagining and mutilated post mortem. Of course it was evil. But that was not how Malone meant it. Even if she said different, she sounded like a crazy person. Losing her mum to the cancer on top of it all didn't help. And if he didn't put her back on the ground she could lose her job.
"You need to be careful, partner." He placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "If this little stunt hasn't cost you your job already when the Bureau shrinks hear you speak like this, you surely will."
"I don't care!" Malone stated defiant, staring daggers at her partner, dislodging his arm off her shoulder. The Bureau wasn't equipped to catch monsters like this. Not in time anyway. She wouldn't allow another child to get hurt and die a brutal death like this ever again. Not if she could help it.
In the end the Bureau did let her go. Due to the extenuating circumstances, however, the Bureau offered her a mutual separation, instead of putting the incident on her permanent record and firing her. She took the leave. She was done anyway. The Bureau was powerless against what she'd gleamed in that monster's eyes. She needed to find someone better equipped. And if she couldn't she would go at it alone!
Appearance: Fiona has skin that is porcelain white, and that, like most of Fiona’s appearance, is by design. She often has on dark red lipstick and uses makeup to exaggerate her cheekbones for a harsher, more angular look. Her long hair is dyed black, sharp bangs sweeping across her forehead, resting just above her eyes. She only wears black, but keeps up with the latest fashion trends. If she had to pick a style icon, Wednesday Addams is the first that comes to mind. Fiona has curated her style with care and takes great pride in her appearance.
Concept: It had started out as a joke, but quickly turned in a way to make a quick buck. Her friends used to joke that Fiona could talk anyone into anything. Pair that with her witchy aesthetic and you have yourself a bonafide fake medium. First it was just a party trick, something to whip out with over exaggerated hand movements and palm reading. Then, after realizing she could make money from it, Fiona started charging to tell people’s future. She claimed to talk to the beyond and tell the future. A few kitschy crystals here, and a dash of occult paraphernalia there set her stage. It all came down to watching people closely and feeding them information. They’d perk up when she’d mention something generic they mistook as more. Their head would twitch just a bit when she happened upon a detail. Micro Expressions, as she would later learn, could tell her everything she needed to know. People heard what they wanted to and the self-fulfilling prophecy would take effect. It didn’t take much work on Fiona’s part.
Fiona kept up her little con for most of college. There was nothing other-wordly going on, just a girl who knew how to read people extremely well. One of her clients, however, changed all that. A beautiful and mysterious woman came to her office one evening just as Fiona was closing up. Fiona tried to kick her out, having a party to make it to, but the woman had convinced her to do one more reading. What started out as a normal reading quickly turned on its head. When Fiona took both of the woman’s hands, pretending to contact the other side, a blinding heat burned through her head. Her entire body felt like it was on fire, but no matter how hard Fiona tried to drop her hands she couldn’t. Eventually the pain became too much and Fiona’s world went black.
When Fiona came to it was the next morning and the woman was missing. She convinced herself she was drugged when she realized all of her money was gone. But, strange things started happening. People kept appearing and disappearing in her peripheral. Voices came to her when she knew she was alone. Eventually Fiona figured out she wasn’t going crazy, she could talk to ghosts. What started out as a con became her reality through some kind of twisted irony. Fiona was a real life medium.
Powers/Skills: Fiona is a smooth talker and picks up quickly on other people’s body language and micro expressions. She can talk to ghosts when they reach out to her. She’s had some success channeling particular ghosts, but most of the time she has to wait for them to come to her.
Writing Sample:
A cigarette hung precariously in between two thin fingers. It’s smoke swirled away delicately in the icy wind cutting through even the smoker’s leather jacket. A young woman took another long drag, reveling in the nicotine rushing through her body. “You know Charlie,” she started, breaking the silence between her and the leggy blonde leaning next to her. “I was doing some thinking,”
“Oh? Something from the other side speaking to the great and mighty Fiona?” the blonde interrupted dryly. Charlie was one of the only people who knew Fiona’s secret and liked to poke fun at it every chance she got.
“I think I am going to that party after all. Fuck Sean,” she said defiantly, stomping out her cigarette for dramatic flair.
“And when you run into him at Aaron’s?”
“I ignore him.”
“You mean you’ll pretend to ignore him while pinning silently after him in the corner somewhere until you end up back at his place again, only to call me in the morning to come meet you for post hate-sex coffee and eggs.”
“You love coffee and eggs,” Fiona said, her attention being quickly drawn to the shop behind them as the familiar ding of the little bell announced another customer. Charlie just offered a half wave as she pushed herself off the wall, knowing her friend had work.
“You better show up this time Fi. I’m not going alone again.” She was already sauntering off before Fiona could respond. She closed the back door to the ally as she entered back into “The Mystic Eye”.
“I’m sorry love, but we’re closing up for the night. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. The spirits are tired and so am I,” Fiona said, making her way up to the front.
“I think they’ll have time for one more. I’ll pay double.” said a voice, smooth as butter. Fiona perked up at the offer. A quick “fortune is coming your way” and “yes grammy misses you too” and she’d be on her way. With the double fare she might even have enough to grab a cab to the party.
“I can’t make any promises, but we’ll see if they’re still around,” Fiona said, walking through a beaded curtain to the counter in the doorway of her shop. With the sun fully set behind the skyline, the only light came from the many candles Fiona had on around the room and the streetlight from across the street peaking in through the window. Even in the low light though, Fiona could tell the woman in front of her was beautiful. She towered over the psychic’s 5’9 stature in impressive heels. The black overcoat she wore looked more expensive than Fiona’s rent. Her skin was a warm caramel color and her hair laid in soft curls down her back. People like her didn’t come into “The Mystic Eye”.
“So who is it you’re trying to reach?” she asked as she ushered the woman into the back room, offering her a seat across a small circular table.
“His name was Alastor,” she said, seeming to float down into the seat, her posture immaculate.
“Okay, let’s see here…” Fiona said, pretending to take extra effort to settle into her seat, letting out a sigh. She forewent any chanting or over dramatics, figuring this woman would have seen through the act. No, it was better to keep it in the subtleties with this one. “Is there something of his you have, something to help me find him?” she asked after a few minutes pretending to concentrate. Really, Fiona was just picking out her outfit for the evening. Maybe that new little black dress she got at Benny’s. That with her black booties might be just the ticket.
“I have an old coin of his. Said it brought him luck,” said the woman, pulling out an odd looking gold coin. Fiona took it and turned it in her hands. A few of the symbols looked familiar, but it wasn’t an ordinary coin.
“Here take my hands and think of the last time you saw him. Really concentrate on the details. How he smelled, what he was wearing. That kind of thing,” Fiona instructed, offering her hands to the woman across from her. As soon she she grabbed them, the coin pressing hard into her left hand, Fiona felt a scorching pain radiating behind her eyes. It was like the worst migraine she had ever had, pressure building in her head that felt like it would pop at any moment. Fiona let out a pained cry, unable to pull away from the woman. Her vision turned white hot as if there was a spotlight being shined directly into her eyes despite how dark the room was.Just as the pain grew to the point Fiona was begging for death, her world went black.
Name: Leon Smith, though there is a sneaking suspicion that last name isn’t really his.
Age: 30
Appearance: Leon comes in around 6’3” and has a decently muscular build. He’s got a nice face, if you go for the rugged boxer kind of thing. He’s got a strong square jaw, a slightly crooked nose, and next to his left eye is about an inch long scar. Despite all that his green eyes still are calm and endearing. He keeps his hair short as a function over form decision. While his wardrobe is fairly average, the observant will notice that he constantly wears a pair of brown leather gloves.
Concept: Leon is all too well versed in the supernatural. As it would turn out growing up in the backwoods of Oregon can lead you into a whole life affected by it. As a child it was just little things, out in the distance: A wandering light or a whisper on the wind. But as Leon grew more perceptive he was finding traces everywhere. He could identify footprints, discern what was a screech owl and what was something from beyond, or sometimes rarely he’d spot things that others denied. Soon enough he was certain there was something much bigger out there. It wasn’t just his skills increasing. It was getting closer. The last nail in the coffin was when, in the middle of the night, the family dog was killed. Everyone was certain it was just a bear or maybe another dog, but upon closer inspection Leon discovered a finger inside the dog’s mouth. A long gray boney finger. Leon burned it to be on the safe side. He was always on edge from that point.
People worried he was going paranoid from living out here, that something was wrong with the boy. Now he needed proof. Leon set a plan into action. Convincing his parents he was going on a week long school trip he headed off. The first couple days were spent following the traces as best he could. When he found the footprints again he knew he was close. He followed stalking closer. Eventually he found himself drawing near to an old cabin, probably used by a hunter in the open seasons. The tracks led inside. Thinking through the options, Leon hid then threw a rock to bust a window. After the glass shattered there was a cry of pain. A person. Leon was stunned for a moment. Had he just made a massive mistake? Had he really gone off the deep end? He wanted to run up and apologize but in the back of his mind, he knew he must be right. The rock was really too small to hurt anyone, or at least wound someone. If there was a person they’d come out the door in three, two, one.
What came out of the door was anything but human. A bleached white monstrosity that smelled like rot. It’s body looked like a distorted corpse with extremely lanky limbs, long clawed fingers and toes, and a mouth large enough to swallow a turkey whole. It screeched a high demented sound, somewhere between a cry of pain and a rage filled roar. Leon fumbled around for an arrow while the monster was still displaying. He notched it and took aim. When the arrow was let loose it seemed to just appear in the monster. The thing staggered around confused. Leon let another fly. Again it sunk deep into the monster. The thing staggered and fell. Now was the only chance. He sprint up and pulled out a silver knife, something he had procured from a flea market months back as his concerns grew. As he closed in on the monster it began to get back up. Leon lunged and stabbed the monster in the back, and again, and again. He continued until his arm didn’t have the strength to pulled the knife out again.
He looked down and saw the shredded corpse of a man. There was no proof, but Leon didn’t need that now. He just needed to run.
===
Leon tried to move life on from that point. He left Oregon. Found a job. Found a wife and had a child with her. Even then no matter where he was he couldn’t ignore the signs of “the beyond” as he began to call it. That constant strain on his mind and the worries it caused began to ruin the marriage. He knew he needed help, but he didn’t turn to a therapist. He dug deeper. He found others like him. He found The Sunday Group. It didn’t put everything together like Leon wanted it to. It didn’t make the things he’d seen any less terrifying, and it didn’t ease him when he was informed his wife had died in a DWI. It gave him one thing. A certainty that cursed or blessed to see these things, he had to acknowledge them.
Now he’s been here years. Somehow still able to pass for sane and still raising his daughter. If you asked he’d probably say she’s the only thing keep him that way. He’s done his best to teach her about the darker side of the world without taking her down the same path.
Powers/skills: Leon is definitely no slouch when it comes to physical capabilities. He took a bit of karate when he was young, but he mostly just retains the grabs and how to throw a good punch. He did grow up hunting and is used to both firearms and bows. Technically he’s much better at archery, but being as it’s much less convenient he carries a pistol as a sidearm. He carries a suitable variety of ammunition for his pistol: blessed, silvered, and even a couple special bullets made out of australian ironwood essentially stake bullets. He also always carries his silver knife, a simple eight inch blade with an antler handle.
When it comes to “the beyond” Leon’s become extremely perceptive to it. Those little oddities that don’t add up jump out to Leon. Admittedly, he is sometimes held back when something normal happens, but he doesn’t know how it works. He’s a paranormal detective not a scientist.
As useful as that experience is it doesn’t help with the more dangerous aspects of the job. Leon’s taken some precautions of the magical variety. He wear a duster which is thoroughly covered with protection runes. They normally are invisible, but in the presence of magic they tend to flare up and give the coat a resistance to magic. This still leaves it open to basically everything else though. Heck a stronger man with a switchblade could probably stab through it if they wanted.
The other and probably far more important is Leon’s practice with totems. Finding himself with limited talents or patience to learn how to cast spells Leon instead found the ability to make totems. The art was all over the world each with useful differences and better focuses for each one. Already a fan of woodworking Leon indulged himself in the true depth of totem craft. Now he doesn’t leave home without them. Everywhere Leon spends a lengthy amount of time has a handful of totems scattered around now. Warding totems, energizing totems, totems that protect the mind, totems that bring good weather, and more.
Leon can’t say for certain that all of the designs he’s studied actually work, but there a good few that he has proven. A native american pacific one that guards doorways, a south pacific totem that projects a sort of spirit shield but disintigrates after the shield fades, and a warding totem from australia that does as it says and wards off bad spirits.
Writing Sample:
The Chekolv deli was the unsuspecting home of the best pastrami in the city. Its owner was also the unsuspecting landlord of one of the best monster hunters in the city, though competition was more limited for that title. The place was old enough to call the cracks between the bricks character, but more than enough of that was supplied by the occupants. On the top floor apartment tucked away in a little corner workshop Leon could be found hunched over a small wooden figure. The room was silent save for the tiny scritches of his penknife. Every detail needed to be exact. Anything less than perfect was not good enough.
He had been toiling away since the break of dawn, and carried on into the afternoon. No protest of the body could discourage his mind. The wood began to take shape, a vaguely human form with some features greatly exaggerated while others were barely there. The most notable detail was the massive eyes. They were as deep as they were wide, two empty sockets that seemed to pierce into the soul. Even Leon found himself getting lost if when he began to stare too long.
A tiny hand grabbing on his shirt pulled him back.
“Daaad. Daaaaad.” A sweet little voice called for him, her voice stronger than the draw of the totem.
Leon set the figure down and picked up someone far more precious to him.
“Maaaria.” He laughed copying the way she had called for him before setting her on his knee.
The little girl giggled wrapping her arms around her daddy. He responded in kind putting his arms tightly around her as he began to refocus his priorities. Maria nuzzled her little face up against Leon’s scraggly beard. Leon petted her long black hair glad to have his daughter back again.
“So how was school today?” Leon asked as he got up and carried his daughter out of his workshop.
“Okay.” She said simply.
“Just okay? Nothing interesting happen today?” Leon asked trying to get a little more info out of her.
Leon set Maria down on one of the kitchen stools before heading to the pantry.
“Joey said, he said he was gonna bring a turtle for show’n’tell, but, but he lied. He brought a toy turtle.”
“Well isn’t that still a turtle?” Leon asked still digging through the stacks of cans and boxes in the pantry.
“But, I thought he was gonna bring a realll one!” Maria pouted crossing her arms.
“Then isn’t it your fault for guessing it was real?” Leon said a quizzical look on his face as he returned with a box of graham crackers and some nutella.
“I wanted to see a real turtle.” Maria said still upset.
Leon considered his daughter’s plight as he spread out the snack. He moved a happiness tiki from the middle of the table off to the side placing a bowl of graham crackers in its place. Adding two glasses of milk made everything right with the world. With snack time set for two he gained a few more minutes to mull over the issue as they both began to nibble at the crackers. As the bowl of crackers began to empty Leon realized that a choice would have to be made.
“Well maybe if you do really well this semester we’ll get a turtle.” Leon decided by two factors: by the end of the semester either Maria wouldn’t even remember she wanted a turtle, or if she had her heart set on it how much trouble could one turtle be.
Even that possibility though made Maria light up. She did a happy little dance swaying back and forth on her stool.
“That goes for school and practice.” Leon added making sure there was an understanding.
“Kay!” Maria agreed still bouncing in her seat.
“Alright, go grab your flashcards.” Leon smiled forced to be happy by the joy coming off his daughter.
Maria jumped off her stool and ran to the bedroom her sneakers lighting up the hallway. Leon cleaned up before sitting down on the living room sofa bed. Maria came running back and plopped herself down on her dad’s lap handing him the stack of 3x5 flashcards.
“Ok Maria, what’s the ABCs?” Leon asked while he grabbed the cards
“ A b c d ef g hi jk lmno p q r s t u v w x y z.” Maria sing-songed.
“And what’s our ABC?” Leon clarified
“Always be careful.” Maria said with a certain pride.
“Good. Now what stops a…. Ghost.” Leon asked pulling up a card with the word ghost on it and a little ghost sticker.
“Uhm…. salt.” Maria said after thinking about it.
Leon flipped the card over to reveal a list of different things that could stop a ghost.
“Mhmm. How about a…. Werewolf.”
“Gold.” Maria said rather fast.
“No, what’s the other really shiny metal.”
“Silver!” Maria almost shouted.
And so it went on. Leon knew there were risks to sharing this. Maria would likely never find a truly normal life, but would a life with no mother, no father, really be any better? This had to be better. If Maria was part of this world then Leon could be part of hers.
By every measure, Morgan is striking. She is tall for a woman, with fair skin and rich, dark hair that tumbles to her shoulders. Her features are elegant and wicked, with large blue-green eyes and lips that always tilt into an expression of mischief, set against sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw that stops just at the border of femininity. Anything but frail, Morgan is built like a martial artist or professional dancer, her body one of long, lean lines and dangerous curves. She moves with the lazy confidence of an apex predator, something captivating but not always inviting. Her hands are long-fingered and strong, rarely manicured, and marked with several small scars.
Morgan's professional appearance is almost always one in a dark, close-tailored suit, subtly heeled boots, and a shirt that might have one more button open than propriety requires. She wears a small amount of jewelry, mostly studs in her ears and occasionally a pendant. Her shoulder holster is hard to see, but it's usually there. In her off-duty hours, Morgan is a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of person. She listens to a lot of records through studio headphones, on a couch in her apartment.
Concept: Hiding in plain sight / Celibate succubus
Powers and Skills: Morgan is possessed of a variety of tools to manipulate those around her, from psychic weaponry to pheromones and body language, virtually all of which she makes an active choice to suppress. A notable exception is a powerful psychometric talent, which she makes only careful and deliberate use of. Morgan makes a considerable effort to keep what she is hidden, but there are cracks in the mask. She's considerably harder to kill than a 'normal' human, and she can't entirely switch off the supernatural sexiness - heads turn, perhaps especially when she'd rather they didn't. There are also more than a few genuinely supernatural creatures, including others of her own kind, that can also reliably know what Morgan is.
On a purely mundane point of view, Morgan has spent the best part of a century working with various law enforcement divisions of the United States government, and has collected quite a number of useful skills. She is capable with firearms, comfortable with vehicles from horses and buggies to tuned-out drift racers, and speaks several languages. Morgan plays the guitar, and knows the words to everything Fleetwood Mac ever released.
Despite actually being a supernatural creature, Morgan is not extensively versed in the world she comes from - she's aware that the shadow world exists, and can tell a pixie from an ogre, but she is far from an encyclopaedic source of knowledge. Her life has been one that, until quite recently, only occasionally intersected with the things that go bump in the night.
Writing Sample:
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"Do you know what you are?"
Morgan lifted her head, tried to blow away the strands of hair stuck to her face. Almost every part of her hurt and the crust of dried blood above one eye itched, but she managed to pull one corner of her mouth up in a wry grin.
"Special Agent Morgan Blackwood, FBI," she said, each word made sumptuous by her accent.
Another woman stood in the room, proud and glorious and terrifying. She let out a short huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and turned away from Morgan, heels scraping on the floor. She began to circle the chair Morgan was cuffed to, her gait a smooth, even prowl, and reached into her jacket. Though her vision still hadn't entirely focused, Morgan appreciated the way every seam flattered the other woman, tracing her figure in dark cloth. Light gleamed from a metal case the woman withdrew, then folded open in perfect silence.
"You're better than this, Sister," her now to Morgan's left, "We are so much more than you know. You - we - were meant for such great things." She set something on the ground with a glassy clink, "And here you are, a pet monster. A nightmare on a leash. And happy to be there."
"And your way is better?" Morgan said, turning her head to follow the other woman, "Your dry cleaning bills alone would make me wonder."
"You really don't understand, do you?" The woman sighed, "We looked for you for so long, Sister. The storms, the summonings, everything went right. But when we came to find you, there were only bodies." Her eyes brightened, and with quick steps, she swarmed up to Morgan, putting her arms on the chair, leaning in so their faces were only inches away. Morgan smelled copper and salt.
"Were they your first?" The woman said, and she leaned further in, "Did you take them? Can you imagine that feeling, that thrill, whenever you-"
"No." Morgan interrupted, the word falling like a lead weight.
"Then..." The woman started, then stood. She looked over Morgan, and her face broke into the kind of smile that starts religions. "Ahh, it all makes sense now. The detective, the raid. Those bodies weren't your doing, but theirs. And then...of course. " An expression that was not a smile pulled at her lips, "The wrong person completed the ritual. You have a conscience."
"They didn't know what they were doing," Morgan said, "Occult dabblers working out of books they found in an attic somewhere. They didn't know the Circle would actually work. It drove them mad, Connor said they were like animals when he broke down the door."
"Really?" The woman purred, pushing herself back to her feet and returning to her slow circle, "Then I'll ask you again, Morgan, and don't be cute - do you know what you are?"
Morgan looked at the other woman, swallowed. "A mistake. They wanted a...well. They got a predator."
"Oh, Sister, no." The woman said, chuckling, "That was no barely-literate secret society, luring members with promises of orgiastic rites. They were part of something so much grander than themselves, an intricate piece of a vast machine that even now coils across the world." She set something else down, and this time Morgan saw it - a small pewter cup a tiny egg. Swirling memory resolved at last, and she suddenly knew what she was seeing through still-watering eyes. A sacred circle, ritual totems, careful lines of salt - and a practitioner walking deisul around the perimeter.
"We are their weapons, Morgan," She said, "Their harbingers. We prepare the way for...well. What comes after." She set a small animal skull with care at her feet, then returned the case to her jacket. "The perfect point of the most subtle spear. What motivates these creatures more than their desires, their hunger, their lust? The entire race comes with their own bridle and saddle, and we only need steer them." She looked over at Morgan, then made her way to the chair.
She knelt, brought herself to eye level with Morgan. Her gaze roved over Morgan's face and she brought one hand up to touch her cheek, where cool fingers left sticky trails across her face. She leaned in with viper-strike speed, and she felt the woman's lips press against her own for a moment that lingered like a dying breath. Then she stood, turned, took a pair of paces away.
"But none of that is for you, I can see that now. Losing you will be hard, Sister," she said, her back to Morgan, "But the arc of time is long. Another decade means little. And with-"
A small click pierced every other sound in the room. The noise cut off the woman's words like shears on thread, and time seemed to stop. The woman spun, their eyes met for the length of an indrawn breath. Then Morgan exploded from the chair, her hair a dark comet trail and she brought an arm dangling an open handcuff up, fingers clenched into a tight ball. Her fist connected with the other woman's temple and she went sprawling to the floor with a sharp gasp, the design beneath spraying away in a chaos of tumbling salt. Morgan spun, her shoes scuffing another careful rune, turned to her left, eyes frantically scanning. There, surrounded by its own circle, a dagger made of glittering black glass, the handle wound in rough twine. She lunged toward it, fingers wrapping around the handle in the skin of a second.
When she touched the weapon, Morgan felt a pressure against her mind. The dagger pulsed with history, with fable, with emotion and the weight of time. It dragged at her soul, her vision swam, and she nearly lost herself in that current. With an effort of will, she shoved the sensation away from her mind - there was no time to allow that connection now. She stood, started to turn back, then white light blossomed behind her eyes from a blow to the back of her head. Her sister had recovered more quickly than Morgan had expected.
Morgan stumbled forward, her hands almost nerveless from the blow. She gritted her teeth, tried to swallow down the sudden dizziness and nausea, and then she felt something else. Gasping, she managed to stand and turn back to the other woman, who stood with hand outstretched. Morgan could feel power flowing from her in what should have been a crashing wave, a dark, vicious pull at everything primal and carnal inside her. But she felt all of it split and flow around her, something she was aware of but was not affected by. Morgan shook her head, and she locked eyes with the other woman again.
"You really are one of us," she said, her voice tinted with pleasant surprise.
Morgan stalked toward her, brought the glass dagger up in a hard, sharp punch at her side. She felt the woman's silk jacket part around the tip, the fibrous tearing of the blade through her skin, the scrape of glass on bone.
She watched the other woman's eyes, found herself suddenly lost in those amber depths. She felt her lean into her sudden embrace, one arm around her shoulder, the other still wrapped around the dagger's handle. Morgan felt the power sluicing over her mind flicker and back away, but the other woman's eyes didn't waver. They were deep, intelligent, wicked, and when the other woman fell, Morgan couldn't pull her own gaze away. Only when her eyelids flickered closed did the world return, and Morgan realized she hadn't been breathing. She looked down at her hand, saw the blood dripping off her own fingers, and she swallowed against a hard lump in her throat.
A few more steps took her to the door, and she shoved it open. The hinges shrieked, the heavy metal banging against the wall. Her balance still shaky, she had to lean against the wall for support and she stopped, her breathing ragged. She swallowed in a few gulps of air, then she heard a voice from ahead - familiar, with a deep Southern twang.
"Morgan?" Came the voice, "'Zat you?"
"Jules!" Morgan shouted, "Jules, I...give me a minute, I'm just down by the..." Her voice trailed off.
She came into Morgan's view with her pistol at the ready. Her shirt was open farther than Morgan had ever known it to be, the buttons torn, threads dangling. Her eyes were wide, her green pupils dilated, spots of color on her cheeks.
"Best get back in there, Miss Blackwood," Jules said, raising her pistol, "She's got plans for ya."
Morgan felt her shoulders slump. "Oh no, Jules. Not you, too," she managed. Then she stood, straightened her back.
"I'm so sorry."
An hour later, Morgan pushed her way through another heavy steel door. She felt the oppressive humidity of a Georgian summer evening slap her in the face like a wet towel and in that moment, nothing had ever felt so wonderful. She pulled in one breath, then another, her throat ragged, her body protesting from every muscle and joint. Groaning, she propelled herself away from the wall, digging in her pocket for her keys. They would know what vehicle to track, but Morgan had ben suspecting a day like this would come. She didn't have many options, but she'd made sure she had more than none.
She fell into her car with a hard puff of breath, started the engine, felt the air conditioner struggle against the boiling darkness. She had warned them. There were memos and emails and texts and lunch dates and screaming, arm-waving fights. They knew there were other things like her - myths given life, ghosts, and monsters from folktales. She'd known that eventually, those forces would come for the mortal world, for the Bureau, but they hadn't cared. And now, this.
The air conditioner finally started to catch up with the outside temperature, and Morgan felt the cool, dry kiss across her skin. It was time for something new. She had always looked for answers to other people's questions because she'd already known all her own answers. In the space of an evening, all of that had changed. She wondered if they would look for her, and decided that she didn't care.
With another groan, Morgan straightened, reached up and put the car into gear. She drove into the rising sun, and she didn't look back.
