"I'm not afraid to admit ran. I ran from the gunpowder, the smoke. I ran from the sound of the crying Gaullic bull, and I ran from the cheering of Prussian men. Now I'm halfway across the world with a dream to change it all."
--A fleeing conscript with ambitions to save the world.--
A Bavarian man with medium-length brown hair and soft, earthy eyes. His pale skin seldom gleans out from beneath his long duster and hat. Beneath those, he sports a white button-up partially concealed under his black waistcoat with thick, cotton trousers that would make any Texas day nearly unbearable. More often than not, his hair is tied up in a ponytail.
A Nameless Hamlet
Gercke was born in a small village on the border of Bavaria in what feels to him like a lifetime ago to both of his parents. Soon thereafter, two younger brothers had followed. He had acquired a passion for literacy as early as he could, due to -- with a belief that language is the bridge we all share -- it being his ultimate dream to be able to put the conflicts of the past behind the warring Germanic nation-states that all wished to conquer one another. Gercke's father sought to made him a tradesman in their lumber mill, but as the French had sought to overtake their village in his youth, his father was conscripted and never returned back to their home. His mother elected to continue his studies in private. As the French had come with an imperial aspiration, they had vanished almost as quickly as they had arrived.
Soon, however, it would all come to a head. With Gercke being the eldest man of his home, he had to take care of his mother and his younger brothers by plying the trade his father had come to teach him. It was not long thereafter that his brothers had contracted fevers, to which all of the money he had been saving to finance his personal studies had been dedicated were now flushed for the village doctor's care. It proved fruitless, however, and as much as he had wished to preserve his family's legacy, they were soon to pass as rapidly as his funds. The entire angle became unsustainable. The family business that Gercke worked so hard to maintain could no longer feasibly support him and his mother. His assets were liquidated for the two to be able to maintain their home lives for as long as he could manage until he would be able to find another career.
Austro-Prussian War
The Kingdom of Bavaria had not sought to engulf themselves in the war that was soon to overtake their neighbors, however they were quickly pulled into the side of the burgeoning Austrian forces upon the king's death. Gercke had never seen the conflict firsthand for this entire war, however his closest experience was the advancing Austrian army marching through his homeland. This left a sizeable impression on the young man, and as he was struggling to find work to support him and his mother, a war had made it impossible to find any means of subsistence. The two were barely able to keep their home supported and had to cater to both the Austrian advance and then later the Prussian encroachment. Neither armies took respect to the locals and had vandalized their abode on numerous occasions. Gercke's mother had taken ill due to the stress.
Franco-Prussian War
With Austria conceding defeat to the Prussians, Bavaria was spared harsh criticism for their lack of a role in the war and was soon thereafter joined to the confederating Prussian alliance. It was here that Gercke was finally conscripted. Thrown into the raging conflict headlong, he was given a rifle and his uniform as he was forced to leave home to join the effort. Having to leave his home behind gave him great pause for he knew that if he had left his mother, he was likely to never see her again. The two barely had time to say their goodbyes before he was sent off to fight the French.
Battle after battle had saw to the Prussian victories wholesale, but Gercke's letters from home had soon stopped. He had begun to lose his nerve with mounting anxiety and the approach to Paris. The young Bavarian man was on the frontlines day after day, and men around him that he had grown to call his friends would be shot and sent home or he would never see their faces after they had hit the ground. His battalion had come to be his new family, and he was losing them, too. After numerous pushes into French territory, Gercke and his comrades were expected to loot, pillage, and raze at their leisure. This did not sit well with him, and watching the people he had grown accustomed to turn into monsters further broke his resolve.
It was not too long after that during the siege of a village, his unit was directly struck by a cavalry attack that scattered them into the wilderness. Here, Gercke was pursued by dragoons upon routing. Evading nearly every one by concealing himself in a hollowed tree trunk den, one of the horsemen had found him and almost ran him through with his sabre until BANG! The smoke had engulfed the small inlet and he scurried out of it before long to watch the man he had fired at choking to death slowly before him. The French soldier looked up at him with an unparalleled fear that shook the broken Gercke to his core. Realizing, though, that this was his only opportunity, he spooked the horse to charge into the wood and replaced the uniform he had been given and took the dragoon's -- ill-fitting and soiled with blood and mud -- to feign as a wounded man and headed up towards the coast.
He was barely able to secure himself by stowing away aboard a small boat filled with refugees to escape to England where he and his fellow riders dispersed into the countryside. Though he had received looks for deserting, none ever knew his true allegiance to the Prussian army. Here, he pragmatically sold the uniform and equipment he had poached back in France for a ticket to escape to the United States with the hopes that he could escape the awful conflicts engulfing Europe.
Only having just arrived on the frontier, Gercke has assumed the moniker "Guilhartz" and seeks nothing but a better future than the one he left behind in the Old World. However, his innocence cannot last forever.
Guilhartz is able to speak German, French, and English fluently. He is literate in both German and French.
Descriptor A young warrior seeking improvement and belonging
Appearance
While generally preferring more traditional attire, necessity has forced adjustments to her wardrobe. Typically dressed in a short yukata with hakama, she has adopted more Western style boots and a duster coat. Leather cloves protect her hands and a dark blue omamori hangs from her obi.
Biography
Father,
I know you will not truly understand, but I must do this. The Meiji strip us of our titles, land, and wealth, yet none stand against this injustice. The samurai of today bring shame to those before us, and I cannot stand this display any longer. I am taking the stipend we recieved before you can turn it into a bond, our family scroll, and I am relieving your weapons of their cowardly owner. With the last embers of our ancestors' spirits, I will join the American we met with and visit his land in hopes of preserving them.
Farewell,
Date Uzume
Staring down at the letter, waiting for the ink to dry, Uzume considered her decision one last time. Once she leaves, that's it. No turning back. She will be in a foreign land, and will need to carve out a new place for herself. With a deep breath, the young girl reaffirms herself. Stepping into the great unknown would be better than suffering in familiarity. Grabbing her packed belongings, Uzume folds up the letter and exits her room. Walking through the empty estate, the samurai could not deny the pounding in her chest. Was it excitement or fear trying to tug at her? Was her body trying to push her onwards, or pull her back? It was impossible to truly tell, but she forced her legs along one step at a time.
The store room was locked, but she would not be impeded by this. Bringing one foot up, she slammed her foot into the door and sent it flying open with a thunderous crash. Hurrying in, Uzume grabbed the swords from their stand, the revolver from its box, and the freshly minted yen from the bank. As she finished her looting, the girl left the letter behind and quickly fled from what she once considered her home.
Arriving at her American contact's home, she rapped on the door while keeping an eye out for any pursuers. After a few seconds of delay, the door opened and she pushed herself in.
"Close the door," Uzume said before turning to face the man. He was well-built and strong, and wore some more casual attire from the West. The man stared at her with some scrutiny, but complied and shut the door behind her. Pushing some of his blonde hair out of his face, he asked a simple question.
"What are you running from?"
At this, the Date girl pause, taking a few seconds before sighing.
"My family. The government. Everything that once made this country my home. They strip away our rights! Taking what is rightfully ours, and yet everyone simply acce-"
The man brought up a hand to stop her, giving her a knowing nod as he responded, "I understand. The place I once called home did the same thing. We tried to fight against them, to end the injustice, but we were stomped out. I'll help you, where ever it is you need to go."
"America. What you've told my family about it, all the opportunity and danger, I think a warrior will be welcomed."
After a pause, the man got moving to arrange her a spot on the ship he arrived on using the very money she stole. Before she left, he gave her one piece of advise.
"Learn to shoot straight."
Other
Japanese
English
Spanish
Ambidexterity - Though born left-handed, Uzume was forced to use her right hand for most things and adapted. Once she started practicing with two blades, her left hand quickly became comfortable again.
Swordsmanship - As part of her upbringing, she was initially given basic training with short blades intended for self-defense. However, between natural talent and her vested interest in ancient figures such as her ancestors and the swordsman Miyamoto Musashi, Uzume continued to pursue the craft. Eventually, she took up using two blades like her idol, Musashi.
Calligraphy
Weapon Maintenance
Shogi
Archery
Hand-to-Hand
Equestrianism
Kemari
Gunslinging - Only a very recent addition to her skillset, she has gotten as far as how to load the weapon and shoot in the general direction of something.
Poetry
Go
Basketball
Yume and Kago - A katana and wakizashi which once belonged to her father. She stole the weapons, believing him unworthy of even carrying their spirits in name.
LeMat Revolver - A firearm given to her family by an American Civil War veteran, it is a single action revolver with a 9-round cylinder and a single-shot secondary barrel.
Calligraphry Set - A small, long wooden case containing two brushes, an inkstone, an inkstick, a water dropper, a stone with her signature, and an ink pot with red ink.
Maintenance Tools - For both her blades and the gun in her posession
Date Family Scroll - A scroll containing her family tree
The Book of Five Rings - A book written by Miyamoto Musashi, though somewhat worn from many times reading it, it remains one of her most prized posessions.
Travelling Pack - A leather sling bag containing most of her assorted belongings.
Omamori - A talisman Uzume purchased from a Shinto shrine before departing, hoping it would help protect her. Typically found hanging from her obi.
Name: Sophia "Doc" Wallace, although it is almost a certainty that this is an assumed name. Age: Mid-twenties Descriptor: A kind necromancer, efficient undertaker, and skilled practitioner of medicine.
Physical Appearance:
Far from a gunslinger, Sophia does not come across as very intermediating or threatening, and she stands evenly at an average height in a good pair of shoes. There is a stillness to her person, a reassuring thoughtfulness, and a subtle reminder of the polite civilization that is often left behind on the way to Ulysses. Sophia has a way of putting people at ease and has mastered the medically necessary talent of convincing her others that things will be alright, even when they clearly will not. Keen to avoid undue attention, the young necromancer does not have the pale skin that one might expect of a crypt-dwelling vampire or traditionally grave-robbing necromancer. Her skin is instead cast in a light shade of beige, warmed by the touch of the sun and painted with a collection of gentle freckles. Sophia has clever, azure eyes, that shine with a strange, eerie light when she casts spells. She has delicate eyebrows and full, expressive lips, that are only rarely set with severity or anger. She keeps her long black hair pinned in an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck, not quite having the heart to cut it short despite the impracticality of caring for long hair on the frontier. To secure the chignon, Sophia uses ivory or silver hairpins that match the tasteful jewelry that decorates her ears.
In short, for a person who spends most of her time among the dead and dying, Sophia has a remarkably warm disposition.
Unlike a great many of the other residents of Ulysses, Sophia does not have any impressive scars or missing body parts, and she has yet to lose so-much as a tooth in a drunken scuffle. She firmly believes that a healthy appearance is as important of an indicator of the skill of the medical practitioner as the girth of a chef is to the quality of the cooking.
Day to Day Attire: Sophia is an androgynous dresser and favors bespoke three piece suits in shades of black, grey, or brown, bow ties, dark low-heeled leather shoes, and reasonably sized top hats. It is a rare sight to see Sophia in a dress, but rumors persist that the young woman was once seen in a tavern wearing a blue silk evening gown. She wears a variety of small rings, inlaid with silver and set with jewels that seem to dance with arcane energy, on her fingers.
Frontier/Traveling Attire: When venturing out into the wilds, Sophia favors the practical dress of the vaqueros, and some have accused her of being overly fond of the vest and poncho combo.
All credit for the wonderful image goes to one,Steve Gibson.
Biography:
What Was:
Sophia was born somewhere on the East Coast a little more than two decades ago, likely Connecticut if her accent is any indication, and unlike a great many of the citizens of Ulysses she comes from a decidedly upper middle class family. A precocious child, she grew up wishing to follow in the footsteps of her father, a trained surgeon, and spent much of her early life buried in books. She lived something of a charmed life, wanting little, and basking in the comfort afforded to her by her family. What promised to be a pleasant, if predictable life, was forever changed when a teenage Sophia visited an antique bookshop with her mother. Drawn to a dark, seldom visited corner of the tomb-like shop, she found an strange book bound in leather and dyed a deep midnight. It was an ancient tome written in a strange hand and a stranger language still.
At first, the grimoire made little sense. However, with time, Sophia began to understand letters, then words, then phrases, then paragraphs, and finally pages. It was then that she met Balthazar, or rather, what remained of the ancient wizard. He was an ethereal creature, a spirit, that appeared only to the young girl. Once, had a been a great wizard, an infamous necromancer feared and respected throughout both the Old and the New World. He had met his end, predictably for a necromancer, at the hands of a coalition of his many enemies. It was his books that she had found, Balthazar said. He had written it centuries earlier, weaving powerful magic into each page, creating a bridge to another, cheating death, and ensuring that his legacy would not die with him, as it had with so many other persecuted necromancers.
The ancient spirit suggested that Sophia enter into a pact with him, providing him with an anchor to the mortal world far stronger than the weakening magic that still remained in his grimoire. In return, Balthazar promised Sophia knowledge, the vast sum of knowledge, both mundane and magical that he had acquired over his long life. He promised her guidance, training in the arcane arts, instruction in hermetic rituals, and an unparalleled mastery of the grim school of necromancy. But most of all, he promised her a friendship that would last beyond the grave. One oath, various arcane ingredients, and a small quantity of blood later, Sophia found herself with her very own spirit mentor.
From that point onwards, Sophia changed, she grew focused, impossibly focused, and a sense of purpose pervaded all her actions. Gone was the carefree girl she had been, replaced by an ambitious young woman. Guided by Balthazar, Sophia broke off an engagement that would have seen her married off to the son of a steel baron soon after. She had never seemed overly excited about the prospect and her parents could do little to convince the willful young woman that she was threatening her future. With great effort, she convinced her parents to send her off to a proper school, a university of peerless prestige, unparalleled scientific achievement, and great wealth. Her days were spent studying medicine, pouring over books concerning anatomy, chemistry, and the treatment of diseases. Her nights were spent in her darkened room with Balthazar, pouring over arcane tomes, drawing ritual patterns in chalk, and learning spells that manipulated life and death.
A scant four years later, Sophia left the world of academia and the university with a medical degree in hand. Although her instructors professed that they were a bit alarmed at the strange hours she kept, and the ease with which she dealt with dead bodies. Still, she was a talented surgeon they all remarked, one of the best they had ever seen. If she was a bit strange? Well, what did that really matter? Ambitions to establish a practice near her childhood home were soon crushed by resistance in the established medical community and Sophia found herself reduced to nothing more than an undertaker, the closet job she could find to a actually practicing medicine. On a bet and to prove a point, Sophia eventually secured the necessary license to pursue this line of work.
For a time, life was good, and Sophia managed to make a comfortable living seeing to the burial of the dead. At the very least, it afforded her discreet access to the raw materials required for any self-respecting necromancer to continue their work, namely corpses of varying vintage. As her mundane career faltered, Sophia continued to pursue her mastery of the arcane arts. Like Balthazar before her, Sophia had little interest in forced servitude as a member of one of the great orders of mages that existed in the New World. Instead, through talent, wit, and occasionally bribery, Sophia maintained a precarious position as an unaffiliated and sometimes only barely tolerated wizard. None, save Balthazar, and especially not other students of magic, were privy to her practice of necromancy.
For all her caution, Sophia's life was undone by a whirlwind romance with a conjurer, a naive hope to do good, and the robbery of an arcane vault belonging to the fanatical arcane inquisitors of the Guardians of the Veil. Balthazar had warned her, but she had not listened, and she paid the price. Betrayed by the woman she loved, Sophia did unspeakable, necessary, and evil things in order to survive. She broke the only oath she had lived by. The only oath that mattered. She took a life. A life that had mattered to her more than any other. Others followed. Bystanders. Unintended victims. The result of a spell gone horribly wrong. An entire city block lost to the ether.
And then...
Sophia ran.
She ran as far as she could. Stealing a horse, a gun, and then an entire wagon, she headed out West. Shedding her past, her name, and even her appearance along the way. Long days turned to weeks, then months, and when Sophia finally arrived in Ulysses she awoke to find that the melancholy dreams that had accompanied her journey had changed her. There was a darkness in the heart of the town that called to her, but she was no longer afraid. She had found a new purpose, a new place to call home, and a path towards the sort of redemption that only the wasteland can offer.
She wouldn't run.
Not this time.
Not again.
What Is:
Sophia Wallace is currently the only practicing doctor and licensed undertaker in the small town of Ulysses. Among the citizens of Ulysses, both mundane and supernatural, she is invariably known as "Doc" or at most "Doc Wallace". A newcomer to the town, Sophia has quickly established herself as a respected and indispensable member of the community. The timing of her arrival was most fortuitous for the townsfolk, as the previous town doctor, Mr. Francois Dumont, had perished only a few weeks prior to her arrival in a tragic and mysterious wagon accident.
Sophia's skill as a doctor are truly remarkable, and in the safety of the Leaky Pitcher some of the townsfolk quietly whisper that there is something supernatural about the effortless way the young woman wields her scalpel. However, following those rare times when even the good doctor is unable to cure a patient, the townsfolk take comfort in the knowledge that a coffin and a proper burial can be arranged for in the very same building for a most reasonable price.
A gifted necromancer, Sophia relies on the widespread, but mistaken belief that necromancers cannot command healing magic and a steady supply of legally acquired corpses to hide herself and her necromantic magic in plain sight. Despite her chosen arcane vocation, Sophia is far from evil, and simply wants to make an honest living helping others.
"Sophia Wallace?"
"That depends, who's asking?" Sophia warily answered. She had only just gotten her drink. It had been a long day. Three burials in one morning was two too many. One would have been enough, more than enough. She only asked for a bit of business, she wasn't greedy, she didn't need to be so busy. She had books to read, and undead to converse with. She wanted to take a bath. A real bath, a hot bath...she needed a bath tub.
Despite knowing better, Sophia eventually looked up from her drink. In front of her stood a prim and proper lady, an aristocrat that had no business in the Leaky Pitcher. Especially not on a Sunday. She wore a green satin dress with laced short sleeves over a linen chemise, a lace cap trimmed with rose-colored tassels, and an elaborate fan in her hand. She was stunning, and Sophia was almost surprised she had made it unaccosted to her table.
"Hannelore Weber," the young woman energetically proclaimed with a nod that was intended to be very serious. The dramatic and all too obvious pause that followed told Sophia that she was dealing with the worst sort of actress. "Of the Guardians of the Veil, perhaps you have heard of us?"
Sophia let out a low sigh in response, but did her best to recover, it wouldn't do to offend the newcomer, she wasn't in the mood for a tavern brawl, especially not an arcane one,"Who hasn't?"
Mention of the infamous, among wizards, order of do-gooders and fanatical inquisitors sent a shiver down Sophia's spine and caused a presence to stir in the most carefully guarded recesses of her mind. He was angry, but more importantly, he was annoyed.
"Only the uninitiated," Hannelore smugly agreed, taking a seat unbidden across from Sophia.
"Well, Miss Hannelore, what brings you to this wonderful stretch of desolation and death known to the Gods as the town of Ulysses?"
"It has come to our attention, through a confidential source, that there are strange forces, arcane forces, at work in this town. And naturally when it also came to our attention that you were a recent immigrant to this fair city...well, you can't exactly be surprised that my superiors felt best to send a member of our order to have a chat with you."
"Oh, indeed?" Sophia answered, doing her best to appear bored.
"There's quite the file on you in the archives. I haven't seen it, of course, but I've been told it's extensive and very detailed."
"I'm sure there are only good things about me mentioned in your papers," the young necromancer hesitantly added, carefully studying her glass of whiskey.
"However, all our information was a bit out of date. We had great trouble identifying your current associates. Notwithstanding, Miss —"
"Don't say her name!" Sophia growled, slamming a fist hand down on the table, feeling the heat that spread across her cheeks.
It had the desired effect, and Hannelore looked at her cautiously with wide eyes. "Ahem. Well. I must ask, to what great order or society do you currently belong?"
"None."
"You aren't a member of a hermetic order?"
"No," Sophia replied with a small chortle.
"Surely, a magician as talented as you is aware of the dangers of exploring the matters of the occult alone and without the proper guidance?"
"I am, but all the same, I prefer to work alone. For obvious reasons..."
"That's a lie," a voice indignantly interjected, clearly hurt at what the young necromancer had insinuated. Vaguely British-sounding, the proud voice was accompanied by the sweet smell of pipe tobacco and a subtle hint of jasmine. "How long have I not guided you? I raised you up from middle class drollery and saved you from a loveless marriage to some fool of a baron's son. I initiated you into study of the great hermetic mysteries of existence. I taught you how to summon and command the dead. I instructed you in how to parley with spirits and devils alike. I forged a pact with you to span the ages and defeated death herself."
Sophia rubbed her brows wearily. It took some effort not to reply out loud in order to silence the long-dead wizard that now resided mostly in her head. He was arrogant, so damn arrogant, and even death had not robbed him of all of his power. The contract bound him to her, but it also bound her to him. Nominally, she was the master, but all magicians knew better than to trust the oaths of spirits and devils. At least in theory.
"Not now, Balthazar, I'm trying to be diplomatic," Sophia thought, shaping her thoughts into as strong of a command as she could discreetly muster.
"Oh yes, let us reason with our enemies," Balthazar disdainfully quipped.
"They are not our enemies, they are not my enemies, at least not yet."
"Don't worry, they will be soon enough, girl," Balthazar cheerfully mused. "The Guardians of the Veil have never been overly fond of necromancers. Do you know how many of my laboratories they destroyed? How many of my books they burned? And how many of my apprentices they killed?"
"I know."
"No one will notice one more body, not here, not now."
"No."
"Then what are you?" The prim and proper woman sitting across from Sophia practically hissed. She was growing increasingly irritated. Sophia had ignored her for too long. Balthazar had a habit of interrupting her thoughts as he pleased. He was a perpetual back-seat wagon driver. Most of the time it had the effect of making Sophia seem very thoughtful, like a philosopher of yore. The rest of the time it had the unfortunate habit of irritating those that expected a quick reply.
Sophia composed herself and took a small sip from the neat glass of whiskey that stood on the battered table in front of her. She relished the warmth that burned it's way down her throat and filled her chest with a pleasant tingling sensation. She carefully considered what to reply. Hermetic wizards were a superstitious and cautious lot and never took kindly to practitioners of the magical arts that operated outside of the usually safe domain of well-established and supposedly safe rituals. She didn't want to make a scene. It wouldn't do for the Sheriff to have to make an appearance. Not again. It had barely been a week.
Still thinking, she tapped a finger against her nose, "Ah, I suppose you could say that I am something of an independent contractor."
"A witch?" The other woman venomously asked. Sophia could not help but notice that she had managed to shift her chair away from her in record time. There was fear in her eyes, and that was never good. Not in a patient, not in a corpse, and certainly not in a hermetic wizard that was primed to blow you sky high with a fireball at the drop of a hat.
"Actually, I prefer the title Doctor," Sophia replied, flashing what she hoped was a disarming smile in the direction of the her conversational companion. She hefted her medical bag onto the table and patted it on the side, like one would pat a very large and very friendly dog. She leaned across the table, placing her elbows on the uneven wood of the table, and resting her chin on her interlaced fingers.
"Look, I'm flattered, very flattered that your order has taken an interest in my person and my interests here. However, I assure you, I am simply trying to make an honest living."
"Here?" Hannelore asked incredulously. "In this place."
"You have a point there," Sophia agreed taking in the filthy tavern and the filthier patrons surrounding her. "But yes."
"Why?"
Sophia laughed, smiling again, and shook her head slowly from side to side with amusement, "I told you, I'm a doctor. I have to help."
Magical Powers/Special Abilities:
I Put On My Necromancer Hat - Sophia is a talented wizard focusing on furthering her knowledge of the much feared and reviled art of necromancy. Like most practitioners of magic, Sophia is well-versed in hermetic rituals and the ways of spirits, devils, and other creatures found beyond the natural plane of existence. While, she secretly identifies as a necromancer, Sophia is also a capable spellslinger in a number of other more mainstream domains of magic.
They Being Dead Still Speakth - Sophia has a knack for conversing with the dead, managing to successfully interpret their often disjointed thoughts and understanding the strange, dead languages that seem to be in vogue among the deceased of all ages.
Dead Friends in High Places - Guided by the whispers of the dead, Sophia has a second-sense for avoiding danger, spotting traps, and navigating through the domains of the dead.
Tough as Bone - Having spent so much time among the dead, Sophia appears to have gained some of the qualities of an undead creature. In the course of her study of the art of necromancy, Sophia has become remarkably resistant to disease, physical damage, and pain. To her great sorrow, the young wizard is however still very mortal, if very cold to the touch of others.
Mental Bastion - Dealing with the undead and restless spirits on a frequent basis has left Sophia with a remarkably casual attitude towards all things related to horror, death, and madness.
Spirit Mentor - Sophia has a spirit mentor, a ghostly companion and guide that has accompanied her since her early childhood. The ghost is the incorporeal and usually grumpy spirit of a once living necromancer, infamous across all of the New World for his mastery of the dark arts. Balthazar the Black, as he calls himself, rarely makes himself perceptible to others or affects the world in any noticeable way, apart from advising Sophia on arcane matters. He appears capable of changing forms at a whim, but mostly takes the form of a weathered old man, with a carefully trimmed beard in the style of Gibraldi, a long flowing gray robe, and a soft-crowned gray hat. The ghost claims to be the incorporeal and usually grumpy spirit of a once living necromancer, infamous across all of the New World for his mastery of the dark arts. Although he is understandably reluctant to speak about it, almost forgotten stories mention that the ancient necromancer met his end at the hands of a coalition of powerful enemies several centuries ago. Tragic deaths notwithstanding, Sophia has learned most of what she knows about hermetic magic, the occult, and necromancy under Balthazar's exacting tutelage.
Mundane Skills:
Licensed Undertaker - Sophia is one of the few legitimately licensed undertakers in found this far from proper civilization. She knows how to make coffins, cheap and expensive, small and large, and how to prepare all manner of bodies for burial.
Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a... - Surprisingly for the era, Sophia is an actual doctor, a very good doctor, and not just a barber moonlighting as a surgeon like many of her so-called colleagues. She has a fancy diploma on her office wall that mentions some place called the "Harvard School of Medicine". However, whether this diploma is real or a high quality forgery is another matter entirely.
Experienced Traveler - Sophia is an experienced traveler and is used to life on the road or in the wilderness. When asked she claims to have traveled far and wide in search of alchemical knowledge and she commands a number of rare or esoteric languages, some of which do not sound like they were meant for human tongues.
Passable Shot - Sophia knows how to use firearms, especially shotguns and rifles, well-enough for someone living on the increasingly dangerous frontier. However, given her adherence to the Hippocratic Oath, she's reluctant to aim her gun at another person in anger and slower still to actually shoot to harm or kill.
Well Read - An educated woman, Sophia has wide range of knowledge regarding subjects both mundane and supernatural in nature.
Equipment:
Leather Physician's Bag - When she leaves her practice, Sophia brings a well-worn, leather physician's bag with her of impeccable quality. To those initiated in hermetic mysteries or sensitive to the arcane, there is a faint, but powerful force of magic that emanates from the bag. To everyone else, the medical bag is n different from any other and is full of the tools of Sophia's medical trade.
Silver Pocket Watch - One of Sophia's most prized possession is an ancient keywind pocket watch cast in silver. Inside the front cover of the pocket watch are strange etchings and words that are clearly not human in origin.
Arcane Grimoire - Sophia's other prized possession is a leather-bound grimoire dyed midnight black. Clearly ancient, the book is full of arcane formulas, long-forgotten rituals, and forbidden spells belonging to the shunned school of necromancy. An astute observer might notice that the handwriting of this arcane tome matches that etched into the front cover of Sophia's pocket watch.
Appaloosa Horse - Recalling the tragic fate of her predecessor, Sophia has steered clear of wagons, and for transportation she has an Appaloosa horse, a lovely spotted creature that she won from a Nez Perce shaman in a wager she speaks of with a mischievous smile painted on her lips.
Coach Gun - When good sense demands it, Sophia carries a shortened, double-barred shotgun discreetly in her medical bag. Currently, she sports a fashionable 10 gauge William Moore & Company coach gun. Although accuracy tapers off at medium to far range, at close range the firearm is most effective.
Other:
Wallace's Medical and Funeral Services - Sophia's medical practice is located in a decrepit building that was once the local funeral home. Within the storied walls of the simple two-story house she offers both medical and funeral services depending on the current needs of her customer. Since buying the building Sophia has effected only the most basic repairs and painted the building an already fading shade of green. Marked by death, the building is somehow mildly threatening, filling those that view it with a sense of dread and unexpected wariness. The local neighborhood children claim that the building is haunted and tell stories of a strange glowing light emanating from the windows in the middle of the night. To Sophia's chagrin, it has become something of a game for the children to dare one another to knock on her door after dark.
Whiskey Drinker - At the end of a long day, Sophia enjoys a drink or two, and if given a choice she prefers a simple, neat glass of whiskey.
Mysterious - Sophia carefully cultivates an air of mystery around herself and her past. She has few friends, but many acquaintances, and while she is seen as a respected member of both the mundane and supernatural communities she remains aloof of any established organizations.
Age : Sammy is in his late 20s, but he looks...weathered. Meru appears to be a young, virile Coyote.
Descriptor : Local and former neerdowell & his completely normal coyote companion.
Appearance : Sammy Gilead is looking a little worse for wear. Years of sleazy living have given him an appearance like the dead end of a deep canyon, all hard lines and deep shadows. His calloused, sore encrusted skin hangs loosely from thin bones, as if clinging on to his skeleton through sheer force of will. Flat watery eyes the color of fish scales peer from a gaunt face, nestled beneath long stringy clumps of unwashed hair. The dirty blonde coils of grease topped by a battered wide brim hat speckled with holes. An alcoholics nose, grown fat to resemble a prickly pear, hangs heavily above a stoutly mustachioed mouth filled with broken teeth, all stained shades of sour yellow and rot brown from years of tobacco and liquor. Each day he is found lingering about the local saloon, wearing the same tired looking clothes, ratty threads of heavy leather, worn dull and soft from years of use and covered by a thick woven poncho that appears to have been eaten by moths.
Always lurking nearby, is Meru, The Coyote. Unassuming and silent as a ghost, the canid is the color of the moon’s flesh & wood ash. Wiry, long, and prone to skulking in the shadows, the young male coyote is surprisingly easy to miss, particularly when one is distracted by the ghoulish visage of Samuel Gilead. While during the day Meru moseys from shadow to shadow in a distinctly languid manner, he is typically found statuesque, silently judging the goings on of the town with an unsettling pair of eyes which seem to shimmer oddly in the dark. Though the appearance of a coyote is town is unusual and folks are wary, Meru has remained docile and has been allowed to stay, even following Samuel into The Leaky Pitcher on numerous occasions.
Biography : Sammy grew up around these parts. His upbringing is rather unremarkable, hard times making hard people in the little hamlet of Ulysses. His father, a widower in childbirth, had been a silver miner in Earlstead a few days ride from Ulysses, before it collapsed taking the best jobs and a handful of good men with it. With a source of income gone, Henry Gilead took to drinking himself to death, and spent the rest of his short years never more than arm’s reach from a bottle.
Left largely unattended, Samuel had a penchant even as a boy for ruffling feathers, often found stealing whiskey and goosing women beneath their petticoats in the local saloon and brothel, The Leaky Pitcher. The Sheriff did what he could, but in a town like Ulysses there was plenty else goings-on to keep his attention from raising the boy proper. A troublesome boy became a troublesome man, growing only bolder with age, he began hustling cards, selling snake oil and occasionally taking what wasn’t his by force in the surrounding towns and settlements around Ulysses. Anything for a quick buck, which he would turn around and spend at The Leaky Pitcher when he returned home. It seemed Samuel was destined for little else than following his father's drunken staggers into an early grave.
Still, every frontier town has a morbid need for a neerdowell drunkard, and Samuel Gilead fit that bill. The sheriff sort of felt sorry for the kid, occasionally tossing him in a cell to dry out, several times assuring an angry mob that Sammy would be staying there for a “long time” only to release him again once things settled down.
However, one can only outrun their reputation for so long. Rumor has it that Samuel ran afoul of another sheriff, one Geoffry Lockehart, one who allied himself with The Bricktooth Brothers, a nasty gang of banditos that operated as a sort of additional ‘peacekeeping’ force in Quincy. Word a year ago was that Geoffry had finally gotten his hands on Samuel, strung him up like a cheap whore and tossed him in a shallow pit somewhere out in the savage wastes of the Texas desert. Nobody seen or heard from Sammy in a time, and life went on, as it always does.
But that didn’t stop Samuel from showing up back in Ulysses a few moons ago after a week worth of rain. Looking as if he’d aged a lifetime with a Coyote the color of a week-old campfire treading quietly in his wake.
Not a soul in Ulysses is quite sure what to make of the duo. Seems every resident has a different version of the truth they’ve invented. Daily rumors are passed in whisper about what’s gotten into the Gilead boy, where Meru came from, or what exactly happened to Sammy out there in the desert. It was clear to every resident of Ulysses who had known Sam that something had changed. He is now quieter, better behaved in a sense. He's helpful, respectful, and direct, all the things he once was not. Instead, it is now his words, rather than his actions, causing a commotion.
Samuel has claimed on more than one occasion that Meru was called to Ulysses across the sands. He insists to any that will listen that the people of Ulysses must 'be vigilant.' Recently causing more of a stir by interrupting a public execution to yell that both the Mayor and Father George were two vipers which shared a tail.
Such disquieting behavior would easier to dismiss were Samuel not stone sober. True or not, murmurs are spreading through the town. Though much of the attention he's attracting isn't good.
All the while the coyote is a second shadow to Gilead. Ears perked, eyes glimmering.
Coyotl - The Spirit Of The West: - Coyotl has been spoken of in the tales of native tribes for countless generations before Europeans ever arrived in what became considered ‘the new world.’ Coyotl is a reflection of our true selves, representing all the best and worst mankind has to offer. But Coyotl wears many faces, and Meru is but one such manifestation. A solitary filament in a tapestry woven from the feral energy of the American West, he exists among us, equal parts curious and capricious, holding minor domain in our realm.
Pray For Rain - Meru is able to call to the rain, influencing storm clouds to form. While not capable of causing a torrential downpour or tempest winds, there are benefits to such power. Any good tracker knows mud holds prints better than dust.
Shadow Walker - The Coyote’s yowling at the moon is a familiar staple in the American West. Due to the kinship Meru shares with Sister Moon, he is able to travel short distances via shadows cast by her light. This ability can give one the impression that Meru is everywhere at once, a maddening trick used for both escape and pursuit in the crisp desert night.
Pulling On The Strings - At one time, man and Coyotl would converse and sing together, but long gone have those days been. Though the shared tongue is largely forgotten, it is said that when the stillness of death approaches, Coyotl is always there, his language whispered on the wind. The Spirit of The West is drawn by those who linger in suffering in the wild wastes. Coyotl typically offers a parting gift, a quick death, to end needless agony. But sometimes, when it suites him, he offers more. Those that learn Coyotl's tongue & agree to terms before their life-force fades are said to be able to skirt the grasp of death itself, until their deal is seen through. And in doing so, grant Coyotl a puppet to influence the world of men.
Notable Objects:
Iron Trinket - Tied to the Meru’s neck, virtually hidden amidst the tufts of fur is a thick cord of rope, affixed with a small trinket curled in a spiral around a strange, metallic stone. There are glinting, deep indigo veins cutting through the polished stone, giving it the appearance of movement, as if its surface were made of liquid.
Rusted Revolver - Samuel Gilead carries a muddy and rusted firearm. The engraved handle is caked with dirt, but reads "Lockehart." Before he disappeared, Samuel had been a capable and self-sufficient frontier highwayman, but the gun he carries now can’t rotate the chamber or fire a bullet. Nonetheless it remains loaded and tucked in his holster. The boys in the saloon regularly mock him for it since his return.
Hear the Devil callin'. Hear the Devil callin'. Well, I hear the Devil callin', gotta pay him what he's due. I can't stop the Dogs of War.
___________________________________________
L I L Y O A K L E Y "ʀᴇᴅ" 34 | ♀
ᴍᴜɴᴅᴀɴᴇ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ
♠ Ambidexterity ♠ Marksmanship ♠ Fighting ♠ Big game hunter ♠ Survival
ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ
♥ Emotionless, except extremes and the 7 sins ♥ Supernatural aim, time slows as the adrenaline gets pumping
ᴇqᴜɪᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ♣ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴꜱ
♦ 2x Colt Single Action Army A pair of reliable single action revolvers, each holding 6 .45 Colt cartridges. These particular models are the models issued to cavalry units, coming with 7 1⁄2 inch barrels.
♦ Winchester Model 1866 A rugged lever-action rifle chambered in .44 Henry. It's tube magazine holds 15 rounds. It's leather strap allows it to easily be carried over a shoulder.
ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ Lily stands at 1.7m tall and is probably most easily recognized by a her dark red, almost crimson colored hair. Her eyes are a muddied brown and have an uncanny hardness to them, speaking volumes of the horrors she has witnessed. Her skin is fair, tanned by the many hours she has spend under the unforgiving glare of the sun.
There are a myriad of scars marring her body, from animal slashes to gunshot wounds. The most notable is a nasty gash that runs horizontally across her throat. She normally attempts to cover the latter one up with her iconic red scarf.
ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛᴏʀ A cursed gunslinger seeking revenge against those who killed her.
ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ The memories of before my death seem like a lifetime away now...
I used to have it good, y'know? My parents, my little brother and little sister; all living peacefully on our own little plot of land far away from civilization. The ground was good for crops and game aplenty. We worked the lands and were happy with the way things were. It's where my pa taught me how to shoot, hunt and survive. Ah, but we all know what this place does to a good thing, don't we?
They came riding in at dusk. Bandits, raiders, outlaws... Whatever you want to call them. A posse of twelve had entered our lands and were making a beeline for our home. My pa told us to hide in the barn as he tried to reason with them. I found myself a crack in the paneling I could peer through as my pa approached the gang, cocking his rifle. Now my pa was a big man, the kinda guy everybody had to look up at. But the leader of this gang towered over my pa! A hulking mass of muscle.
I was too far away to hear what was said, but you could tell things were rapidly going downhill by the gang's laughter. Things quickly went south as they ganged up on my pa, mercilessly beating him down into the dirt. I screamed in instinct, drawing the attention of the outlaws. Bearing down onto the barn like a pack of wild dogs, they dragged us out into the open.
Now I wish this all had a happy ending, but we both know better, don't we? I had hoped, prayed, that these men were here merely for money or food... But god has turned a blind eye to this part of the world, hasn't he?
I watched how they strung my little brother up into a tree and used him as target practice for their knifes... My dad was beaten until even I didn't recognize his face anymore. As for my little sister, mother and me. Well... I'm sure you're the imaginative kind. Let's just say their screams will haunt me till the day I die.
As the sun dipped below the hills, I began noticing weirder things. The outlaws had set up a large fire, bathing the area in an eerie orange glow. But it was their shadows that seemed off, hunched and deformed. More beast than man. Weirder still, was the shady figure darting between them. Perhaps it was the abuse I was receiving that day, my mind trying to concoct a reason as to why a human being could possibly be this cruel. But I swear there was a thirteenth member of the gang among them. His shape was a mere wisp of smoke, featureless like a shadow. It would move from man to man and whisper something into their eyes before they would enact yet another horrifying act.
Now, I could regale you with all the horrors they inflicted on me that evening, but I doubt you're here for that. No, I told you I died, didn't I?
When the first rays of sunlight broke over the hills, I was approached by their leader. The absolute giant of a man had stayed remarkably absent during his gang's festivities during the night. I still remember the words he spoke to me like he said them yesterday... "My my, you survived?" He told me with a noticeable glee in his voice. Grabbing me by my hair, he pulled me up as if I weighed nothing. "Tell him I said hello." He growled. Before I could even bother to form the question who he meant, he dragged a knife across my throat.
I collapsed to the ground, desperately clutching my throat as I quickly began choking on my own blood. The last thing I remember seeing before darkness overtook me was the man grinning down at me, his teeth awfully sharp for a human.
Now this is where I would tell you that I saw the white light, right? That my family was eagerly awaiting me with open arms. But that's just a load of bull. There was nothing. Blankness. Void. No warmth nor cold.
There was a light though, but it didn't come from some heavenly portal. I simply found myself opening my eyes and staring up at the clear blue sky. Sitting up with a start, I reached for my throat; finding nothing but caked blood and the charming scar I have today. I wasnt alone though. Before stood perhaps the oddest figure I've ever seen.
A small, spindly man in a dirty suit that looked more at home in a bank. His cheeks were gaunt and his skin awfully pale. But what I remember the most were his eyes. The bluest blue I'd ever seen. He simply said to me the following:
"Find him, bind him Tie him to a pole and break His fingers to splinters Drag him to a hole until he Wakes up, naked Clawing at the ceiling Of his grave"
And just like that, he was gone; vanished like smoke.
The homestead was razed. I buried my family, yet felt no remorse or sadness. It was as of a part of me died that evening. All I knew was that I would find this gang and kill them with my own two hands. Which is what brought me to Ulysses. See, ever since that night I've felt a pull. Like something guiding me towards this place. Whether this is just a stop in between or the end of my journey I don't know... But how about you pour me another whiskey and we'll see what the night bring?
Name: John Tatum (more commonly known as "Scarecrow Jack" or "Wanderin' Jack")
Age: 36
Descriptor: Appalachian guitar-pickin' Wise Man.
Appearance: One quick glance tells you where the nickname came from: John is over six feet tall, thin and tough like an iron nail. His clean-shaven face is not unhandsome, with blue eyes clear and sharp like a mountain creek, a prominent nose, and an honest smile. His brown hair is a bit unruly and tucked under a shapeless hat. His hands are large and capable-looking. While his clothes aren't fancy, they are rugged, practical, and in good repair.
Biography: John was born and raised in the part of Appalachia that would later be called West Virginia. He was trained as an outdoorsman from an early age. He had a quiet step, a sharp eye, and a fair hand with a rifle even before he was conscripted into the Union army. With a copy of The Long Lost Friend in his pocket he was able to help his fellow soldiers maintain their health and their faith on the campaign trail.
Once the war ended, John Intended to settle down in his beloved mountains. But was seized with a restlessness that has occupied him ever since. His endless travels and natural curiosity have led him to people both good and evil, and circumstances both natural and unnatural. Soon enough he realized he was a Wanderer, propelled by some unseen calling to travel about and help the small folk across the land.
More recently, that drive sent him across the mighty Mississippi. Nowadays he's not sure if there's something pushing him from behind, or calling him forward. Is Ulysses the cynosure of his calling? He doesn't know, but that's where he's headed...
Normal skills:
Outdoor survival. John is an accomplished outdoorsman, actually more comfortable sleeping outside than indoors. He can fend for himself outdoors for an extended period of time, identify plants and animals, track, hunt & forage well, and do a pretty good job of not getting lost. Good shot with a rifle. Less so with a revolver. Broad scope of folk knowledge. Including herbal lore, basic homey skills, and a vast array of knowledge about spirits, ghosts, ghouls, and all kinds of unnatural creatures and how to deal with them. Wandering balladeer. John's an excellent guitar player who knows hundreds of songs. He can also make up a song on the spur of the moment. Bare-knuckle fighter. John can put up his dukes when he needs to. Will power and resolve. John don't give up easy, and he never surrenders to evil.
Special skills:
White magic. While John has never been apprenticed to a magical teacher, he has a lot of practical experience with white magic, mostly protective/defensive/abjurational charms and rituals. He still has his dog-eared copy of The Long Lost Friend to help him.
Normal possessions: Bedroll, tinder box, Bowie knife, hunting rifle and cartridges, water skin, change of clothes, good boots, beat-up hat, copy of The Long Lost Friend
Special possessions: Hand-made guitar with silver strings. The guitar itself is only special in that it sounds very nice. The strings are pure silver, but somehow put forth remarkable music. John sometimes uses his music to aid him in his white magic.
Descriptor: A man who hunts down, kills and/or captures the supernatural for the government.
Appearance: 5'11 with a angular nose sticking out from a deeply tanned face, he wasn't what you would call traditionally handsome , but he was far from unattractive. A vain man his tar black hair was almost always slicked back with whatever he happened to have on hand, often removing his hat just to show it off. He complemented his looks with an almost 5 o'clock shadow. He had a wide grin, revealing white teeth, and dark eye that promised adventure to whatever young lady crossed his path. A band of black metal clung tightly to his neck, often covered bu some kind of clothing.
Biography: Never a man of strong moral or conscience, at a young age jack left home to seek his fortune, in the mountains west of his home town in Wisconsin, but not to pan for gold; he figured why look for it, when others were doing that for you. He led a decent career in the mountains of Colorado, robbing gold panners and even wagons to make his living. That is, until he found himself involuntarily employed by the union army to fight both the Rebels and the Natives. He did ok, working in the army, but the strict rules and boring shifts bored him, to the point that he joined his Captain and group of 20 or so deserters in leaving thar ranks, fleeing into the foot hills of Montana. Due to the outlaw gangs intimate knowledge of army supply lines and payroll routes, when they weren't looting wagons, they working closely with the natives to disrupt army supplies. One winter, when Jack was a young man of 26, the gang had been pursued deep into the mountains by a large group of soldiers and townsfolk, fed up with their raids, and cornered in a large cave system. Food ran out quick, and the soldiers were more than happy to starve the outlaws out. The former union Captain, a man of distinct cruelty and drive, resorted to murdering one of his thugs, and roasting his flesh, as one might a rabbit. He passed it around to the rest of his men, saying he'd found a deer who had hidden in the cave before they did. All of them heartily dug into the warm flesh, all but Jack, who was sleeping fitfully in a pile of furs. Lucky for him, none of the greedy bastards wanted to share their food. The sound of screaming woke Jack, and he shot up like bolt, his revolver in hand. He'd figured the Soldiers got tired of waiting in the cold, and decided to end it all in a push. But when he came into the main chamber, what he saw wasn't gun smoke and blue uniforms pouring through the breech, but his own former comrades, now fellow outlaws, changing before his eyes. He'd watched in horror as they grew to three times their height, limbs disproportionately long, and faces skeletal. The screams of pain and fear turned into ones of otherworldly hunger, and evil. The turned on each other, stripping what little flesh remained on one an others bones, shoving whatever they could into their mouths. Baring thinking, Jack opened fire on the abominations, his bullets snapping brittle bones and passing through paper like skin. When his revolver ran dry, and they got to close, he resorted, to his shotgun and bowie knife. After the screaming and fighting stopped, the soldiers went in, figuring that the outlaws had killed eachother off, but were shocked to find a dozen inhuman corpses, and one survivor. Jack Slade. They, loaded the corpses into a wagon, covered with a large tarp, and locked jack in a prison transport, bound for Washington, DC. After a series of bureaucratic delays, jack was brought before the head of a newly formed, un named division of the government, lead by a man in a black mask. The divisions purpose, was to identify, acquire and exterminate and supernatural threat to the recently fractured government of the united states. Jack would be agent 005 of this division. He never did meet the others. They were more than likely dead. He was sent on three missions, one that proved to be nothing more than a autistic girl, before he managed to sneak away from them. As punishment, they had him bound and flogged, and put him to work the very next day. He broke free twice more before the 'researchers' at DC put together an accessory that kept him from escaping. A black metal collar that not only tracked him, but could be used to execute him the next time he broke rank. Weather good or bad, it was his job to make those with powerful magic work for the government. Or die before they can work against it. Normal Skills: -Gunfighting. He'd been a fast hand before the military, and after. He practiced everyday, ready for the next fight. -Card Sharping. During his travels while employed by the Agency, he would make money to fund his late night carousing by lightening gamblers pockets at the table. -Brawling. He was a more than decent fighter, able to take on more than one opponent at a time. His broken nose was an indicator as to how he got these skills.
Normal possessions: Horse and tack. Nothing special. Two Colt double action revolvers, one on each hip. Short barreled lever action shotgun, in a holster on his back. Winchester long rifle with a scope. Kept on his saddle. Bowie knife. Dynamite.
Special Possessions: Black metal collar around his neck, binding him to the Agency. A large black compass, kept on him at all times. Points to the largest sourse of magic nearby, good or evil. Silver bullets. Kept in a special cylinder on his belt, ready for whenever he might come across a were-creature.
