The moon was a crescent of hard silver light the night Cameron walked into the aging room of his distillery and found a spider the size of a Volkswagen. There were other shapes nearby - cocoons, smaller than a person but not by so much that he thought he'd stick around and take a closer look. Cameron swallowed hard and backed out of the room, afraid that if he rolled the door shut he might wake the thing up. At the same time, though, if he left the door open, the spider might have an easier time getting out, and out is where it could eat him. Deciding that discretion really was the better part of valor, or at least of not being digested, he walked backwards with slow steps past the threshold, out into the humid Illinois night. Overhead, a sodium lamp cast harsh orange shadows over the rust-streaked exterior of the metal-sided warehouse, lending only a little extra color by the watery headlights of Cameron's truck, which had been new sometime before the first time humans set foot on the Moon.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked down at the screen, then back up at the door to the aging room. He called up a dial pad, but...who was he supposed to call? The police? Animal control? An exterminator? He imagined the last conversation and let out the first bite of a barking, hysterical laugh, something that yipped out of his mouth and bounced off the corrugated metal wall in a sharp spray of discordant echoes. In front of him, the huge spider shifted, one giant leg coming uncurled from the apparently-sleeping mass with an almost delicate motion. Cameron took a step back, the phone slipping out of his hand, panic welling up behind his eyes while he watched another leg unfold, opposite the first. No longer caring how much noise he made, Cameron scrambled toward his truck, out of view of the door, and started digging in his jacket for his keys.
He was well into dropping them for the third time when he heard another sound coming up the driveway, this time something more familiar. Tires crunched on the gravel road, along with...something else. Cameron turned away from the slowly-unfurling spider, raising one hand against the glare of another pair of headlights, the sound of John Denver's Country Roads wafting into the night. The lights resolved into another truck, just a little newer than his own, and it came to a sliding, skidding halt a couple of meters from the door, spraying gravel all the way to Cameron's boots.
The truck's doors opened and a handful of people piled out, stepping over one another in no particularly good order. In the headlights' glare, Cameron couldn't quite see who these people were, save for the driver, who stepped out and took the few paces over to the man with long, quick strides. He could just make out her blue-green eyes, the curve of a cheekbone, the edge of a suit jacket. She looked at him, then at the warehouse, then back, and she shoved a hand through sweat-dampened hair.
"Hey, so," she said, sounding almost a little sheepish, "I've got a weird question for you." The words came with the rich enunciation of an English private-school education, which Cameron decided he wasn't going to worry about right now.
He looked past the woman, at the shapes of people behind her, then turned his head back back to the warehouse, neck muscles twanging. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a kind of squeak.
"Right," the woman said, "Look - this probably sounds ridiculous, but..." She took a deep breath and pointed at the building, "Is there a huge spider in there?"
Cameron gawped, a proper gawp, the kind that left his jaw hanging loose for a moment. It took him a long, long moment to get enough of his muscles under control to nod and point.
"Okay, thanks." The woman turned and gave a thumbs-up to the people behind her, and they came forward.
Cameron could make out more about the group now, in the hard shadows of two sets of headlights. They didn't look 'official' - no matching suits, no coordinated gait, not even the same kinds of haircuts. One held a shotgun, another had something wrapped around their arm, three objects pulsing with white light orbiting it with no obvious connection to one another. The woman watched with an expression Cameron couldn't read - a wry pull to a corner of her lips, a small roll of one shoulder. She breathed, and the air smelled like thunder.
"Who...who are you?" Cameron managed, after what felt like an eternity.
"Ah," the woman said, "...I'm Lydia. We're from Priest and Hawthorne Investigations."
Behind her, the spider had finished unfolding. It turned in place, long, delicate legs making the kind of thumping sounds on the ground usually associated with earthmoving equipment. One of the newcomers shouted, and the shotgun boomed. Cameron winced and fell against his truck, hands covering his ears. Morgan, for her part, stood steadfast and turned toward the warehouse. The spider shrieked, the sound almost louder than the shotgun. Morgan turned toward the warehouse, then looked back at Cameron. To her left, the metal wall buckled, and a meter of monstrous hairy leg punched through and started slowly rending a tear in the sheet metal.
"I wouldn't worry," Lydia said, reaching into her jacket, "We have this perfectly under control."
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Hi there!
Welcome to the OOC thread for Priest & Hawthorne Investigations, a modern-fantasy RP!
In this story, the players will take the part of people working for the titular Priest & Hawthorne Investigations, a small paranormal-detective service operating out of Chicago (though cases can take them all over). You are people from all walks of life, and have come to PHI by various means - maybe you're a police detective who couldn't overlook something that was obviously a monster attack, maybe you're a Real Actual Wizard but still need a way to make rent, maybe you're a park service ranger who's seen one too many Bigfeet. Whatever the reason, you're living in that liminal space between the mundane and the supernatural, and sometimes helping keep people safe from things that they never knew meant them harm.
The tone of this story is going to be along the lines of Hellboy, The Dreseden Files or The Dirty Streets of Heaven, probably with a dose of Hellblazer, The Sandman, and because I don't believe in grimdark, Ghostbusters. Depending on what I'm reading at the moment, I'll probably toss different ideas into the pot (Supernatural - sure, why not! Jujutsu Kaisen? I mean, who doesn't have a crush on Gojo), and I am also very pleased to hear suggestions and interesting ways to push on the world.
Priest & Hawthorne Investigations is a very small office, perhaps 10 or so people. The founders, Ada Hawthorne and Samuel Priest, are not often around, and the nominal person in charge is a woman called Morgan - don't worry, there will be a list of important NPCs toward the bottom of this post. PHI has been a going concern for about 150 years, but you don't have to have been with the organization for that entire time, of course. Jobs are handed out by Morgan, and how she gets them is a surprisingly normal combination of referrals, hearing about weird things going on in the area, and people calling PHI with weird problems - the firm is, after all, on Yelp.
I don't mean to scare anyone off, but I tend to have rather high standards for posts and characters. I'd like this to be quite a small group of people (maybe up to five, including myself), and it will not be first-come, first-served. I don't have specific roles in mind, but I would ask that you consider what makes a good team dynamic and a good story. I am, for example, generally not looking for silent and distant loners, violence-crazed psychopaths, vengeance-driven walking armories, or children.
Other than that, I'm not placing too many restrictions on characters - Faeries, Literal Actual Angels, or even Literal Actual Humans are completely welcome. I would caution you that I am personally fairly tired of vampires and werewolves, but if you impress me and make a good narrative case for yourself, I'm very easy. That's really the rule for most things - make a good case for whatever you want to write, and I'm not too hrad to convince. The big thing to consider here is the why of your character - I don't care if the character is No Joke Actually Freya, Lady of the Slain, but I do care that there's a really good reason why she's slumming it in a dingy monster-fighting office with a shitty landlord and traded Folkvangr for Bucktown.
We will be having a loose Session Zero once the cast is finalised in the Discord (Which is here: discord.gg/eD4wxfpH) to arrange things like what people think of one another, find the places where characters mesh in interesting ways, where they scrape in interesting ways, and try to round off the edges of the places where they come together in ways that don't work.
To that end: I do expect that the characters can work together. Like I said above, I'm not going to accept brooding, silent, inward-turned loners who communicate in monosyllables and by racking the slide on a handgun. (Unless you make it really funny.)
I do have several story arcs in mind, but they're deliberately designed to be flexible and to allow the players to push on the world; I will rarely say "no, you can't do that," since the yes-and of collaborative storytelling is my favorite part. :3 That is to say that I'm not not expecting this to be a bring-your-own-adventure sandbox, although I am more than happy (and am expecting to) tailor the world for the characters in it.
Finally, to contextualize the introduction above, the RP starts on a night where PHI has been chasing reports of a gigantic spider across the city. It has, over the course of the night, managed to get away from you a number of times, either directly running away or, in one case, causing a different problem that you had to deal with instead. You've been tracking it (if one of you has a means to do that, great, otherwise I'm totally handwaving how), and appear to have cornered it at a distillery some distance away from the city proper. What happens next is, well, up to you. <3
And now, without further ado, the character sheet:
Name:
Gender/Pronouns (as applicable):
Race/Species:
Age (Real and apparent):
Appearance: Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but I tend to prefer written descriptions. If you really have something perfect, that's fine; so is commissioned artwork.
Personality: Broad strokes is fine, I don’t need to know every bawdy joke they like to tell. Please don't make this a bulleted list.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Let this cover supernatural powers, mundane skills, and whether or not they’re particularly good at Ski-Ball. Be brief but complete, and include at least one thing that isn't related to fighting monsters - a hobby or passtime, for example.
Background: I do not want a biography here. Write me a scene that tells me the important things someone would need to know about the character. This can be (for example), a police interview, a last will and testament, or if you can squeeze it down that far, a fortune cookie. If there are Big Secrets you don't want the other characters to know, that's fine, but I would like to know them so I can incorporate them into the story. Be direct, be oblique, but above all, be interesting.
Ada Hawthorne - One of the founders of PHI. She is a handsome woman that appears middle-aged, red hair threaded with hard, bright silver. She is not in the office often, and what she does when she's not around is also not entirely clear. Many supernatural creatures in the area seem to know who she - and her Investigators - are, and mentioning her is something that will open some doors and close others violently. Her name is the one on your paychecks.
Samuel Priest - The other founder of PHI, a man with silver hair tied in a tail and a full beard, who wears a bowler hat and the kind of vest that went out of style in the late 1800s. He is in the office more than Hawthorne, but his direct appearances are fairly rare. He will occasionally call in with jobs for the rest of the cast.
Shiloh Cooper - One of PHI's support staff, who is in charge of the company's archives. She organizes the various magical trinkets and artefacts Investigators have recovered, and files records of cases. The PHI Library is by far the largest room in the small office that PHI rents, and Shiloh is its mistress. Taking things without asking can be grounds for something far more serious than a dressing-down. She is approximately five feet tall with dark hair and bright blue eyes, and despite that gives a very strong impression that she is no-one to be trifled with.
Morgan Blackwood - Tall, lean, captivating, and dangerous in the apex-predator kind of way, Morgan is the nominal 'office head' of PHI. She's one part dispatcher, one part investigator, one part administration; in total, a very busy woman. All of you have known her for the entire time you've been at PHI; it is very likely Morgan's was the first face you saw at the office.
Name: Morgan Silas Blackwood
Gender: Female (And female-presenting)
Race/Species: Succubus
Age (Real and apparent): Over 90 years old; appears early thirties
Appearance:
By any measure, Morgan is a striking woman. She is tall, though not quite approaching six feet in heels, with fair skin and a tumble of blue-black hair that falls to her shoulders, tied with a piece of leather cord into a loose tail. Large, blue-green eyes set off the wicked, elegant lines of her face, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline that stops just short of masculinity. Her lips, full and inviting, often tilt into an expression of playful mischief, at least when she's not concentrating on something else. She is possessed of a lean, dangerous figure, unmistakably feminine, and she works for it. Morgan moves with a long lifetime's practiced grace, a kind of lazy confidence shared with apex predators.
In her professional capacity, Morgan prefers well-tailored suits in colors that flatter her with contrasting, button-down shirts and slightly heeled boots. What jewelry she wears is typically studs in her many-times-pierced ears, and she has a pendant around her neck on a leather cord. Her shoulder holster is carefully concealed by excellent tailoring and body language, but there is only so much you can do to hide a handgun. Outside of her official capacity, Morgan prefers jeans, old band t-shirts and a battered denim jacket. For reasons that Morgan has only occasionally been truthful about, she has a rich, plummy, London-private-school accent.
Personality:
Playful, flirtatious, and apparently fearless, Morgan is a force of personality. She is gregarious without being boistrous, friendly but not overbearing, loyal, warm, and only occasionally viciously witty. She's kind of person you both love hearing stories from, and telling stories to - entirely without artifice, she is a perfect audience, gasping and all but applauding at exactly the right moments. She is, in general, collected under pressure, and responds to stress with humor and smart-assery. She is neither secretive nor open about the fact that she isn't human, but is careful with the specifics, depending on who's doing the asking. If pressed, she would probably identify as bisexual, but few enough bother to even wonder.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
By her nature, Morgan is a manipulator, through psychic weaponry, pheromones, body language and even the timbre of her voice. However, since she believes, at her core, in the primacy of free will, there are lines she will not cross and things she will not do; active choices made consciously out of a sense of responsibility and foundational to her sense of identity. She's not above using her supernatural allure to get a guard to focus only on her if another member of the team has to sneak into a building or to get a better deal on her cell phone plan, but she will not grab someone by the psychic brainstem and dragoon them into her bidding. Though she reins in what she is consciously, it isn't something she can entirely turn off - heads turn, and other supernatural creatures know she's there, and some of them even know exactly what she is by nothing more than the way she smells.
Morgan also possesses a psychometric talent, by which she can make physical contact with an object and discern important events from its past. These do not appear in a linear, digestable narrative, but rather take the form of often-abstract, disjointed visions that express important moments in the object's past, where it received or created a psychic imprint. These images are seared indelibly into Morgan's mind, and she cannot forget them even if she wants to, rendering this a skill she uses carefully.
She is remarkably hard to kill - nobody has managed it quite yet. She doesn't have a mutant healing factor, but her body is very resilient and heals more quickly than one might expect - something that has saved lives, and left her with several interesting scars. And, of course, extended stays in a recovery bed.
In the mortal world, Morgan is an FBI-trained investigator, though she no longer has any contacts with the Bureau. She has kept up on the world of modern technolgy in large degree, but she is not anything like a hacker or digital-forensics specialist. she can drive, call a Lyft, and order delivery with the best of any other mortal.
Outside of her position with Priest & Hawthorne, Morgan is a skilled belly dancer, an enthusiastic karaoke singer, and a vintage hi-fi enthusiast. She has a large collection of vinyl records (most bought at garage sales or thrift stores), and spends a lot of time on her couch, listening to music through a pair of very old, very nice headphones. She has a cat, who enjoys Morgan's music by sleeping on her stomach. She is not particularly good at Ski-Ball.
Background:
"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 her left eye itched and her fingers were almost numb, 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 shook her head. Her long legs flashed, turning away from Morgan with the scrape of a polished heel on hard ceramic tile. She circled the chair Morgan was cuffed to, every movement a predatory stalk and dipped one long-nailed hand into her jacket. Though her vision was still blurry, Morgan couldn't help but appreciate the way every seam flattered the other woman, tracing and accenting her figure in smooth, dark cloth. The woman pulled something into the light, like a cigarette case. She opened it with a click, and the smell of spices filled the air.
"You're better than this, Sister," the woman said, now to Morgan's left, "We are so much greater 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 keep her captor in view, "You're trying to sell me on Juliet's Path to Purpose and Happiness? I'll pass, thank you."
"You really don't understand, do you?" The woman, Juliet, sighed, "We looked for you for so long, Sister. You were the last piece of the puzzle, the checkmate play. But I suppose even we can't account for everything." She set something else down, a rustling noise, "I remember that night - the storms, the summoning, the ritual. But when we came to find you, there were nothing but bodies."
Morgan heard her stand, a few quick steps, and a voice by her ear, "Were those your first, Sister? Did you take them? Can you imagine that feeling, that thrill, whenever you-"
"No," Morgan interrupted, her voice ragged and hard. This close to Juliet, she could smell copper and salt.
"No? Then..." Juliet started, then walked in front of Morgan again. She considered, and then her expression broke into the kind of smile that starts religions.
"Ah...I see. The detective, the raid. It was their doing, yes? And then...of course." The expression became something that was not a smile, "She didn't complete the ritual - but that detective did. You have a conscience." She spat the words.
"They were madmen," Morgan said, her voice quiet, "Working with power they didn't understand. Connor-"
"Is that what you think?" the woman said, incredulous, "Is that what they told you? After all these long years - oh, Morgan."
Her voice softened to a purr, an inch from Morgan's ear, "I'll ask you again, and don't be cute with me. Do you know what you are?"
Morgan looked into Juliet's eyes, the same eyes she saw in the mirror every morning. She saw a certainty there, a depth of understanding, and it called to her across almost a century. There are questions you never really give up on, no matter how distant they might be or how foolish the quest to answer them, and a desire unlike any she'd ever known flared in her chest. She spat the words at the air, hurled them across decades.
"A mistake," Morgan said, "An unintended consequence. A predator."
Juliet pulled away, her expression almost triumphant.
"Oh, Sister, no," she 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 themsleves, a piece of a vast and intricate machine that even now coils across the world." Juliet started walking again, and enough of Morgan's vision had come back that she could see what the other woman was doing.
There were lines drawn on the floor, circles and points and arcs, careful paths of white salt forming sigils and runes. At the edge, a final line that finished the design, containing a figure of five equidistant points. Four of those points already had objects placed there, things that could only be ritual totems. Even in her battered state, Morgan could feel the power thrumming off them, her skin prickling. With a start, she snapped her head to Juliet, standing from placing the final object, and she realized what she was seeing - a Practitioner of the Art, walking deisul around their sacred circle.
"We are their weapons, Morgan," Juliet said, "Their harbingers. We prepare the way for...well. What comes after." She took a long, slow breath, her eyes closed in concentration, "The perfect point of the most subtle spear. What else motivates these mortals but their desires, their hungers, their lusts? The entire race comes with their own bridle and saddle, we need only take the reins." She looked over at Morgan, and crossed the lines of salt with care.
Juliet knelt, brought herself ot eye level with Morgan. Her eyes roved over her sister's face, and she brought one hand up to touch her cheek, cool fingers rough with dried blood. She leaned in with viper-strike speed, and Morgan felt the woman's lips against her own for a moment that lingered like a dying breath. Then she stood, turned, and took two long, delicate steps.
"But none of that is for you, I can see that now. Losing you will be hard, Sister," Juliet said, her back to Morgan, "But the arc of time is long. Another decade will mean little. And with-""
A small sound pierced every other sound in the room - a metallic click, then a rattle. The noise cut off Juliet's words like shears on thread, and time seemed to stop. Juliet spun, and her eyes met Morgan's 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 Juliet's temple, sending her sprawling to the floor with a sharp gasp, the designs beneath her spraying away in a chaos of tumbling grains.
Morgan spun, her shoes further scuffing the careful runes, turned to her left, eyes scanning in a frantic search. There, surrounded by its own tangle of magic, a dagger made of glittering black glass, the handle wound in rough twine. She lunged for it, her hand tingling where she brushed away another magical working, 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. It seemed 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 sudden dizziness and nausea, and then she felt something else. Gasping, she managed to stand and turn back to Juliet, who stood with hand outstretched. Morgan could feel power flowing from her, something that 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 met the other woman's eyes again.
"You really are one of us," Juliet said, her voice tinted with pleasant surprise.
Morgan straightened, stalked toward her, brought the glass dagger up in a hard, sharp punch at Juliet's 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 her sister's eyes, found herself suddenly lost in those gemstone depths. She felt her lean into a 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 Juliet's eyes didn't waver. They were deep, intelligent, wicked, and when the other woman fell, Morgan found that try though she might, she couldn't pull her own gaze away. Only when Juliet's 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 unsteady 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 doorframe for support and she paused, her breatg ragged in her throat. 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?"
"Sam!" Morgan shouted, "Sam, 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," Sam said, raising her weapon, "She's got plans for ya."
Morgan felt her shoulders slump. "Oh no, Sam. Not you, too," she managed. Then she stood, straightened, swallowed.
"I'm so sorry."
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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 first one breath, then another, her throat hot and sore, 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.
In terms of lore - you've been in this world before. It's the standard urban fantasy pot, but feel free to expand on things where you feel it's important. If you want to flesh out world of ghosts and souls, that's absolutely something I'd like to read about; if you've got particular ideas about the Faen Courts, I'll probably let you get away with it. Did you inherit Baba Yaga's hut; are you descended from Haroun al-Rashid; is Gabriel the frontman of a Scandinavian metal band? So long as it don't tip the whole world on its ear, it's probably golden.
Again, the Discord is here: discord.gg/eD4wxfpH and I'm there...at least some of the time! I'll also be responding here in the OOC thread, so don't be shy!
A young woman stands before you with a dominating aura of supernatural attraction, a tide of cool bumps course over your skin with subconscious infatuation. Naturally wavy locks of auburn and amethyst are kept in a loose ponytail like a monochromatic rainbow of violet, keeping her lightly freckled face clear from hairy obstructions. Eyes bear the deep color of shiraz wine, bright and curious in a field of olive skin. She is particularly fond of classic makeup styles, and may likely bat voluminous lashes at any fool you so that you could provide useful information or spicy rumors.
Her form is athletic, though she will testify this is simply genetics. Nonetheless, her physique clearly allows her to handle any strenuous tasks that the average human man would find difficult. Callista also stands at a clean six feet tall, a near-perfect muse for any aspiring artist; especially once the godlike enchantment hits. Self-awareness is a key element to this demigoddess, proving her stature to be what she wants when she needs it.
Callista is also a decade-long fan of inking her body. Tattoos all act as a tapestry of the places she's been, the people she's known, and the events she's witnessed. She also has a knack for detailing various artifact objects and weapons she uncovered during her expeditions; these largely prompt questions of mild curiosity, but they have on more than one occasion involved her in trouble more than praise.
This time she's wearing business formal, a classy look when she isn't wearing anachronistic wardrobes or convention outfits. A custom tailored woolen three piece suit in a navy blue, a luxurious expense split by no small fraction, fitted with polished black buttons, matching pinstripe tie over black collared shirt, black leather pumps, and a light grey suit jacket to top it all off.
Socially, Callista [believes she] is everything she wants to be: witty, passionate, an influencer (of the real life variety). While humans have to work to maintain their physique, she is content with letting her genetics do all the heavy lifting so she may stay inside to read sardonic literature or historical documentation. A real geek for archaeology, her aura will shift dramatically with the mention of artifacts, period pieces, and forgotten lore.
Beyond the nerd culture she invests her free time with, the young woman is consistently pushing to explore ruins and other sites of interest. A hands-on explorer of the past golden eras, any find worth reporting will inevitably result in grand celebration involving many drinks and a certain obsession of telling millennia-old oral stories to a (sometimes quite literal) captive audience. Accompanied by the acoustic guitar passed down to her by her mother, she can be quite an emotional force to behold.
Recent years, however, Callista felt a certain itching at the back of her mind. While coolly searching fragments of the past was enlightening, the string to attain more knowledge was pulled. Clues are scattered across the world. They were gods, after all. Why restrict yourselves to one lousy mountain? If she exists, then where are they? What happened to them? Like many overwhelmed by the waves of intrigue, she desperately searched for and found a peculiar private detective agency. One that could use a "Face" for the field, or at the very least the opinion of a supernatural lore nut.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
❦ Enchanting ❦ In-person, anyone that locks eyes will have difficulty resisting her Charm and Suggestion.
∞ Attunement ∞ An affinity for wielding artifacts has proven effective for this archaeologist, even when newly discovered.
≐ Demigoddess ≐ While not superpowered or enhanced, Callista is gifted with a healthy body that can resist sickness, require virtually no exercise, and takes a lot of alcohol to get drunk.
♫ Musical ♫ While not a master by any measure, she can play a mean guitar. Coupled with an acoustic, her enchantment is a nefarious combo on the unaware.
Background:
An excerpt dated six years before current date from a peer's journal mentions Callista during her brief post at the Acropolis of Athens.
"The restoration project is going well! Well, that's an understatement. As young as she is, Callista Baros is solidly our most effective member. She may be new, but she has this uncanny ability to hone in exactly where we need to go and what to do. This sort of penchant has saved us a lot of time and supplies. Not only this, but the Panathenaea festival this year was unlike any year previous. The way she strums her guitar, I swear it's like she wrote that song just for me!. . ." The journal goes on for some time, further spiraling detailing her infatuations of the demigoddess.
Needs some editing, but here's my first attempt at this character:
Name: Valerie Ward, "Val"
Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Female (she/her)
Race/Species: Human with a hint of an ancient curse.
Age (Real and apparent): Looks to be in her early twenties, clocks in at an odd twenty three.
Appearance: Val's measurements are decidedly average and she stands at a respectable 5'5''. Hard to place, Val is ambiguous in terms of her appearance, and it would be hard to guess where she is from. She has olive skin, dotted with a small number of memorable scars, and an annoying Ankh symbol that she can't seem to rub off. Her eyes are hazel and shine brightly with a mischievous energy, as if she's always planning something, usually a playful theft. Her hair is sorrel, cast in a brownish orange shade, and cut to just above her shoulders. Experimental with the shape of her hair, Val uses an ostensibly endless supply of frequently lost hairpins to keep her hair in broad range of hairstyles.
Val moves with a feline grace, possessing a lazy, effortless efficiency to all her movements. She walks quietly and lightly, managing to surprise all but the most observant. She has a nimble, athletic build, and while far from a gym rat, it's clear that she keeps in good shape. She is flexible and agile, having spent most of her life climbing walls, ledges, and fences to get into forbidden places. A prodigious lounger, Val appears completely unwilling to sit normally, and is inevitably exploring novel ways to use furniture.
Val has little interest in fashion, instead she wears an incidentally acquired collection of jeans, t-shirts, and canvas sneakers. In warmer weather she favors sundresses, useful given her particular shapeshifting talents and what said transformations does to any fabric still on her body. Val often carries a backpack with a spare set of clothes in case she has to urgently shapeshift. She reluctantly wears more formal attire, such as business casual, only if it is absolutely necessary.
Personality: Sociable, confident, and easy going, Val is a mostly reformed career criminal trying to pay rent in the least effortful way possible. Far from lazy, she simply prefers to save her energy for when more vigorous action is required, and has a talent for finding places suitable for quick naps. Val is independent without being a loner, deftly dancing around deeper professional and personal relationships to avoid becoming overly attached. She is deeply inquisitive, especially regarding the supernatural, but hates to admit it. Val performs well under pressure, channeling any fresh anxiety into adrenaline, and she seems to relish the chance to overcome a new challenge.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Cursed after stealing a statue of Bastet, Val is an intuitive shapeshifter. She isn't a wizard. She doesn't know the first thing about magic. Val can't explain how she shapeshifts, only that that she does, and she is very quick to make it clear that she doesn't howl at the full moon. Shifting is a painful and difficult physical process, leaving Val with command of a limited number of shapes. Inordinately fond of cats, she favors assuming feline forms, and is particularly amused by transforming into a calico cat.
As a result of the curse that afflicts her, Val has gained heightened senses. She's extraordinarily good at detecting movement and given the faintest source of light is able to see in the dark. She has an acute sense of hearing and smell, which is not always to her advantage in the loud, bustling city. Possessing a remarkable sense of balance, Val has shown an impressive ability to land on her feet, even in her human form.
Val has quick, nimble hands that she is very proud of. She has a talent for picking locks, sneaking around, and experience in all matters related to burglary. In her spare time, she enjoys sleight of hand and performing magic tricks that rely on her dexterity. Consequently, items have an astonishing habit of disappearing around Val, reappearing soon after with only a wry grin and half-heartedly apology from the young woman.
Given her past as a career criminal, particularly her criminal record, Val prefers to avoid guns. Guns are loud, guns draw attention, and guns mean longer criminal sentences if you are caught. Avoiding conflict is the name of the game as far as Val is concerned and she prefers to leave the shooting to others at PHI.
Some people are bad at ski-ball. Some people are good at ski-ball. And then there is Val. Val is great at ski-ball. In fact, she might be one of the best to ever play the game, and at her worst there's still no way that she's leaving an arcade or carnival empty handed. Beyond collecting game coupons and prizes, Val unsurprisingly enjoys sport climbing. It keeps her in shape, it keeps her skills sharp, and it helps her blow off the stress that sometimes arises from working at PHI.
Background:
Two for one special:
Rain fell softly, pattering against the window in a slow, soothing rattle. The gentle sounds offered Laura no comfort. The room was cold, damp, and predictably oppressive. Laura was tired. She was afraid. Sitting on the filthy bed that they had shoved into a corner of the room, she struggled to remember how things had gone so wrong. She was in trouble. Real trouble, the kind of trouble that couldn't be fixed by a simple cantrip and a kind word. She hugged her knees tightly and tried to focus on her breathing. Panicking wouldn't save her. She knew that. She knew that, and still, she could feel her nerves fraying.
"In. Out. In. Out," she muttered raggedly, exhaling slowly as she tried to remember what Dominic had taught her. She had to do something. She couldn't wait. There had to be a way out. Some weakness in the room that she had missed. Something. Anything. Anything for her magic to work on. Anything for her to use. She could feel herself growing weaker each time they returned her to the room. She wouldn't last much longer.
They had put her on the fifth floor. The window was unlocked. Not that it mattered. Heavy iron bars wrapped around the window and she could see the runes carved into the rusted metal. She could hear a tapping sound, the low thump of something hitting glass. She looked up with startled eyes and saw a calico cat sitting outside of the window. She could hear it chirp as it pawed at the window. She stared. The cat hit the window even harder, chirping loudly as it moved its eyes towards the window latch in a curiously human motion.
Laura wondered if she was losing her mind. Here she was dying and she was busy staring at a cat. At least it was better than being alone, she thought as she unsteadily rose to her feet. Unlocking the latch she opened the window and the cat slipped in with a satisfied meow. Jumping to the top of a nearby bookshelf, it sat expectantly, and looked down on her with a look of presumed superiority. The cat waited expectantly as she struggled to pull the window shut, shaking water off of its paws in between irritated looks in her direction.
Wavering, Laura stumbled back onto the bed. Making a soft, inviting sound, she held out a hand towards the cat. Obliging her, the cat jumped down from its perch on the top of the bookshelf, rubbing against her as it sauntered across the bed. Laura could feel the tears burning at the edges of her eyes. It was wrong. Everything was so wrong. She wanted to go home. She just wanted to go home. Sobbing quietly, she began to slowly pet the cat.
"Hey there Mr. Kitty Kat, what are you doing here?" She whispered as the cat nuzzled against her with a loud purr. Picking the cat up, she wrapped her arms around it, and pulled it against her chest, burying her head in its soft fur. Long minutes passed, but she felt better. She wasn't alone. She wasn't alone and that was something.
Seemingly satisfied, the cat launched itself out of her grasp in a sudden leap. Landing on the floor, it watched her purposefully, and then moved in a shiver, its fur standing on edge. A pained sound escaped from the cat as the fur began to vanish in a sudden rush of very human looking olive skin. Bones snapped, moving beneath the new skin. Terrified, Laura covered her mouth as she let out a low scream of surprise. She looked away, hearing muscles tear as they stretched into new shapes. Laura fell backwards, burying her face the pillow as she forced her eyes shut.
"It's Miss Kitty Kat, actually," a woman's voice said impishly from across the room. "And calm down. Don't be such a baby about this. You're not the one who had to feel her entire body shifting itself twice over in one night."
"I- I'm sorry!" Laura stammered as she lifted her head from the pillow. The cat was gone and in its place was a young woman. A naked young woman. A very naked young woman. She managed to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape her lips, but she could feel the flush of color that traveled over her cheeks. The stranger didn't seem to be particularly bothered by her lack of clothes.
"Does it hurt?"
"Every time," the woman said, rubbing a hand against her neck. "More importantly, about fucking time you let me in! Do you know how long I was out there tapping against the window? I'm completely soaked thanks to your dilly-dallying and if I die from pneumonia you can be sure that it's your ass that I'm going to haunt!"
"I'm very sorry! I didn't realize that was you, I just thought it was the rain."
The woman sighed loudly, but offered a small, kind smile, "Don't sweat it, how about you hand me that blanket though? It's a bit drafty in here."
"S-sure," Laura said. She turned her head to the side as the woman wrapped herself in the blanket.
"Name's Val," the woman said wringing out her damp hair. "And you? Well, that's an easy one, you're Laura Campbell, after all."
"How do you know that?" Laura asked.
"I was sent here to get you. Wouldn't be a very good rescue mission if I didn't even know your name, now would it?"
"Someone sent you?"
"A mutual friend of ours."
"I don't have very many friends, not anymore."
The woman shrugged, "Dangers of dabbling with necromancy I suppose. Hard to keep friends when everyone thinks you're a grave robber with ambitions of world domination."
"That seems to be the case," Laura reflected bitterly. She wasn't evil. She wasn't trying to hurt anyone. She had no plans to summon an army of undead. But they still hated her. She knew the rumors. She'd heard the stories they told about her when she wasn't there. Wizards could be so cruel.
"It doesn't matter, not any more," Laura said wearily. She was too tired to fight. Too weak to care what people thought about her. "But please, tell me, who's this friend?"
The other woman scratched the back of her head thoughtfully, before her lips shifted into a playful smile, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you. You'll know who I'm talking about, he's not exactly discreet."
"What do you mean?"
"Tall, long black hair, heavy German accent," the woman began counting with her fingers. "Has pointy teeth and carries a giant Zweihänder on his back. Fucking stupid if you ask me. He might as well hang a giant "stake me" sign on his front door."
"Sigismund?"
"Yeah, exactly, good old Sigi. Scourge of Brandenburg, Terror of Berlin, and some other titles I forget. Doesn't really matter anyways. He's just another washed up vampire baron now. Slumming it down here in the gutter with the rest of us."
"How do you know Sigismund?"
"Hard to do business in this city without rubbing elbows with the Vampire mob. A favor is a favor and a debt is a debt, so here I am, soaked and wearing a moldy blanket. Don't worry though, everything is going according to the plan," she added with a wink.
"Plan? There's a plan? How are we getting out of here?" Laura asked desperately, fighting the pang of hope she felt in her stomach and the sudden lurch of her heart as it began to thump loudly in her chest.
"We wait."
"How long?"
"Let's say fifteen minutes," the woman said. She tapped the side of her head, "Don't worry about the time, I've got a great sense of timing."
"And then what? We run?"
"That's the plan," the woman mused.
"Look, I've tried," Laura said pointing at the door. "There's some sort of ward carved deep into the wood. I can't damage the lock and the door won't budge no matter how much magic I throw at it or how hard I hit it."
The woman flashed a Cheshire cat grin and waggled a finger at her, "Who said anything about using magic?"
"How are you going to open it then? Do you have a key?"
"Ha, please, I don't need a key. I brought a hairpin."
"A hairpin?"
"Yes, a hairpin. What else did you expect? It should be plenty for a lock like this," the woman said, holding up a metal hairpin that she fished out of her hair. "You wizards really need to get out more. Not every problem needs to be solved with magic."
The other woman tossed the blanket aside, crouching next to the lock as she grabbed hold of the hairpin, and carefully inserted it into the lock. Her eyes stayed on Laura as her hands began to move slowly. The lock offered no resistance, surrendering in a manner of seconds, and opened with a dull metallic click. Val offered another winning smile and winked, "See, I told you, you just have to have a bit of finesse."
"That's quite the party trick," Laura said, feeling a smile, the first smile in days take hold of her features.
"I know, right? Wait till you see what I can do with pack of cards, it'll blow you away, I promise," the woman teased, not quite managing to hide the pride in her voice. "Now give me your hand."
Laura held out her hand and Val grasped it and squeezed gently. There was something reassuring about her, something kind. Something that said that escaping from the the makeshift dungeons of a mad, half-demon warlock was just just another Wednesday. Her eyes were hazel, Laura thought as their eyes met. Catlike, but very pretty, almost distracting if it hadn't been for the fact that she was terrified. Val leaned in closer and Laura could feel the warmth of her breath against her ear as she spoke, "Listen, Laura. I'm going to count to three and then I am going to open that door and we are going to run. Whatever happens, I want you to keep running. Don't stop. Don't stop no matter what you hear or what you see. Got it?"
"Yes," Laura managed, swallowing her fear.
"Alright. 3! 2! 1! Let's go!"
"We're just waiting."
"Watching you mean. We're clearly watching," Val corrected. "If Blackwood asks we were watching the house. If Hawthorne asks we were watching the house with a proper perimeter set up. And if Priest asks...we didn't stop for coffee and bagels. Got it, Trevor?"
The sun was only a lazy blood red circle at the edge of the horizon. Hunched over the steering wheel Val tried her best to forget the hangover the pounded against her skull. The birds were too loud. The sun was too bright, even beneath her sunglasses. She hated the suburbs. Cities were loud and smelled, mostly of rotting garbage, but at least cities were interesting. The suburbs had none of that. She looked up from the steering wheel, glancing at the picturesque house to her left. She hated it. She hated the ugliness of it. The disgusting consumerism that dripped off of every line. It looked like every other house on the block. Upper middle class. Basic security system, advertised with a fancy sign planted in the front yard, and installed sloppily by someone getting paid minimum wage. Just another house, in just another neighborhood. Unremarkable, save for the fact that this house happened to be owned by an ogre peddling arcane drugs to high end clients. A problem to Val, only because she was being paid to make it her problem.
"Yeah, sure, we were watching the house," the large man reclining in the car seat next to her said after a lengthy pause.
"Don't sweat it, He hasn't even gotten out of bed yet."
"How do you know?"
Val made a show of sniffing in the air, "Can't smell any bacon. First thing every morning, he makes a cup of coffee, fries up some bacon, and poaches two eggs."
"Get out of here, you can't smell that from all the way over here."
"Bet," Val said, "I bet you I can."
"Whatever, I'm not falling for that again. You already stole $75 from me."
"Won, Trevor, the word you are looking for is won," Val smirked, punching Trevor playfully in the shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah, anyways, how much do you think PHI is getting paid for this?"
"More than they are paying us, that's for sure."
"Ain't that the sad truth," Trevor said, shaking his head from side to side. He coughed awkwardly and Val could sense him trying change the course of the conversation, "Real talk. What's your story? I mean, the transformation thing?"
"Really, we're going to have this chat now?"
"Yeah, when else. What's the harm? We've got plenty of time to kill. We're on shit duty for at least another six hours."
"Sure, sure, whatever," Val said with a well-practiced roll of her eyes. "What do you really want to know? My bra size? The color of my underwear? If I'm single?"
Trevor chortled in reply, managing to spit out at least half of the coffee in his mouth. He shot Val a glare, "Thanks, thanks for that, Val. You're a real pal."
"Are you going to ask your stupid questions or not?"
"Fine, sure, just let me get this," Trevor said, trying and failing to wipe the coffee off of his shirt. "Are you a wizard?"
"No."
"Then how are you a shifter? Did you get bitten by a werecat? What do werecats even look like? Giant cats?"
"No, it's...it's complicated."
"Complicated?"
"I stole a statue from the MET."
"You stole a statue? That's it?"
"I stole a statue of Bastet from the MET."
"Bastet?"
"Bastet. You know, the Egyptian goddess," Val said, pausing as she noticed the confusion on Trevor's face and his annoyingly vacant stare. "She's the only goddess with a cat head...kinda hard to miss."
"Maybe, doesn't really ring any bells."
"Keep this up and maybe you'll be the one cursed, you ignorant bastard," Val said sipping coffee from the Styrofoam cup she cradled in her hands.
"Hey, it's not my fault, we can't all have the benefits of a fancy college education."
"Yeah, well, I don't think the prison book club counts as a fancy college education."
"You were incarcerated?"
"Couple of times. Last visit I did three months. Albion Correctional Facility. Could've been worse, only got hit with trespassing."
"Bank robbery?"
"Nah, I wish, that would have been so much cooler. It was just some antique store. Real flashy joint, lots of expensive shit. Client wanted some old amulet. Got caught. Damned if I know how. I didn't trip any alarms. There weren't any cameras. No one saw me go in and no one saw me go out. Had a strange feeling though. Goosebumps, felt like someone else was there with me the entire time. Spooky shit. Never did figure out what was up with that."
"How'd you get out? Good behavior? That doesn't sound like you," Trevor scoffed, demolishing an entire bagel in an impressively poor showing of table manners.
"I'll have you know that I was a model prisoner," Val said, pretending to be offended at the implication. "Priest and Hawthorne sprung me out of the prison. Legally that is, sent a fancy lawyer and Morgan, I don't know what she said, but I've never had a case dismissed that fast before."
"Morgan? You mean, Blackwood?"
"Yeah, who else?"
"She's one scary lady," Trevor said, whistling theatrically.
"Don't catch her saying that or she might just decide to snack on your soul," Val said waving her hands and making a ghostly moan at Trevor.
"If I have to sacrifice anyone to Blackwood, I'd pick you."
"Cool, that just makes me important. But now that you've heard my sad story, I think it's time for you to tell me how exactly a Frost Giant ends up doing an internship at PHI? Tired of fighting Norse gods? Retirement benefits in Valhalla not to your liking?"
"Jötunn, we prefer to be called Jötunn," Trevor said, visibly bristling with irritation. "And I'm only an eighth Frost Giant, as you people say. Wouldn't be able to fit in this car if I was a full-blooded Frost Giant. Anyways, that's beside the point. This internship is all thanks to my uncle, apparently he served with Priest back in the day during the first —"
"Look alive, Trevor! We've got movement," Val interrupted, pointing towards the house that they were supposed to be watching. The house that they were watching.
"Where?"
"Left side, by the garage door, three of them, wearing coats. Who the fuck wears a coat in July?"
"Backyard as well, two more just jumped the fence," Trevor added, panic rising in his voice. "What the hell? Who are these guys?"
"I don't know, but I've got a bad feeling about this," Val began, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rising.
"Fuck!" Val screamed, ducking down in her seat, and turning the key in the ignition as she slammed her foot down on the pedal. Lurching to life with a sudden jolt, the car rocketed into drive. Val could hear the loud pop pop sound of gunfire as the Toyota barreled down the street and away from the unfolding battle. PHI didn't pay her enough to stick around. Not when people started blasting.
Appearance: A middle aged man that appears perpetually tired, Jacob stands in at 6'2", putting him typically several inches taller than many of his cohorts. Jacob has a sinewy build and broad-ish shoulders, but is neither bulky nor lanky. His wavy hair is relatively short and generally brushed to the side and kept out of the way, the gray and dark brown hair somehow always manages to appear neat, yet casually unkempt at the same time; and his chin often sports a stubble that is likely several days old. His eyes are a sharp gray, and his piercing gaze is analytical and critical but belie a lurking sadness. His facial features were once strong and defined, but have grown gaunt and thin, and his mouth is often pressed into a thin line. His prominent features and build would lead one to believe that in his heyday, many would consider Jacob fairly attractive, though years of work and being a single father have clearly taken its toll.
Most of Jacob's wardrobe consists of well fitted suits, specially reinforced by PHI to be more durable and comfortable than the average suit. The vast majority of Jacob's footwear are leather dress shoes, clean and professional enough to wear with his suits, but comfortable enough to walk or do activity in for days on end. Jacob wears a leather shoulder holster over his shirt, and typically makes no effort to hide it. On his left hand Jacob wears a silver wristwatch, along with a golden wedding band on his ring finger. He keeps a picture of his daughter in his wallet.
Personality: A serious man with a strong work ethic, Jacob, while generally kind enough, often has a no-nonsense demeanor and is typically impervious to the jokes and wisecracks made by his coworkers. Only rarely willing to crack a grin for his close compatriots, Jacob is for the most part incredibly blunt and to the point, though not confrontational. Incredibly strong willed, and somewhat hard-headed, Jacob is a man of conviction and his beliefs are hard to shake. Despite his callous attitude, its fairly plain to see from his actions and interactions that Jacob is honest and well-meaning, but doesn't have the easiest time expressing it. He isn't afraid to get his hands a little dirty, and is jaded, and somewhat cynical. Despite possessing a well developed moral compass, Jacob will often ignore morality and act in what he believes are in the best interest of himself and his compatriots.
Generally slow to trust those around him that he isn't well acquainted with, Jacob is skeptical of most strangers, and is a firm believer of "If it seems to good to be true, it is". He takes almost everything with a grain of salt, and rarely accepts things at face value. Jacob is for the most part calm and patient, and requires a fair amount of goading to lose his cool. As a part of his fatherly instincts, Jacob is extremely protective of his daughter, and will often react aggressively when something involving her well-being seems to be threatened. As a result of his wife's murder, Jacob is usually distrusting of supernatural creatures- particularly vampires, and is quicker to aggression when one is involved.
While technically capable of acts of magic, Jacob for the most part considers himself as mundane as the average man or woman walking around the streets of Chicago, and prefers to deal with his problems from the perspective of an average man or woman. He prefers to deal with issues as they arrive head-on, and avoids beating around the bush when a problem can be solved with the application of strong words, a mean look, or in extreme cases, a silver bullet.
Not completely at peace with his wife's murder, Jacob struggles to balance his desire to find closure, and his need to make Chicago a safe place for his daughter to grow up in. Between work and family life, Jacob has little time for much else, including sleep and proper self care. While there's no doubt that he's good at what he does, he can only do it for so much longer.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Jacob possesses an innate magical talent, and has the ability to cast the simplest charms and spells (think jedi mind tricks), and can telekinetically move smaller objects, such as books, pens, wallets, and coins. He has yet to bother pursuing further mastery of his magical talent, too busy with work and family to take the time to focus on practicing magic.
Well aware of his shortcomings as a more-or-less human, Jacob is well read on a variety of magical and supernatural creatures, and is knowledgeable about the physiology of many them as well. He spends a great amount of time reading, recording and adding to the records of supernatural creatures in the PHI library. Amongst his compatriots at PHI, Jacob is considered the resident expert on supernatural monsters and methods of dealing with them.
While by no means an Olympic athlete, Jacob is no slouch. In rather good shape for someone his age, Jacob possesses a powerful mental and physical fortitude capable of taking a considerable beating and can hold his own in most situations that are physically or mentally taxing, from lifting and moving objects, to chasing down suspects or even withstanding torture and interrogations. While not a brawler, Jacob knows his way around a fist fight and can be a formidable foe when provoked. Though not an expert marksman, Jacob is well versed in operating firearms and firearm safety, and is a good shot with his sidearm or even a shotgun or rifle.
Jacob is a smoker, and smokes regularly. Despite his good shape, and regular workout habits, its clear that the years of smoking have taken a toll on his overall stamina. Jacob has also been starting to develop a drinking habit, and has begun using cigarettes and alcohol as a vice. It hasn't affected his work yet, but its clear his body won't be able to maintain his more physical line of work much longer- though getting him to admit it would be an effort in futility.
Street savvy and smart, Jacob knows his way around Chicago, and does especially well at night, when most decent folk have called it a night- his stature and attitude often give the seedy types pause. As an investigator, Jacob is capable of many tasks, from surveillance, to opening doors that aren't meant to be opened, and even a bit of interrogation. As a single parent, Jacob is also fairly adept in common household skills, he knows his way around the kitchen, and can grill a mean steak.
Jacob currently holds the record as the highest scoring Ski-Ball players at PHI- which is surprising because he's never actually played the game himself. Whenever Jacob is invited out to play with his colleagues, he brings his daughter out with him, and lets her play in his place. Amanda insists that his coworkers are taking it easy on her, but Jacob assures her that she is just a ski-ball prodigy of some sort.
Background:
Glazed in the golden glow of midday, the interior of the little shop was absolutely aromatic, a mixture of coffee and baked goods filled the air and almost took Jacob to days long past. Once the sparse cloud cover blocked out the golden sun, Jacob was slowly brought back to reality- a paper cup of the cheapest, strongest coffee he could buy and the loud voice of the Starbucks barista calling out to the next customer. He sat at a short, small wooden table, his knees bumping against the bottom of the wooden surface. Across from him was an empty chair nursing some sort of strange, pinkish-purple and blue concoction that was apparently a frappuccino of some sort.
Jacob took a sip of his coffee absentmindedly as he regarded the pale pink puffy jacket drapped around the back of the chair- Morgan had gotten it for Amanda a few weeks back, said something about him having a terrible taste in children and women's fashion. It wasn't designer, but it wasn't cheap, Jacob was curious how Morgan managed to afford buying gifts for his daughter so regularly- her salary couldn't have been that much higher than his after all.
Looking up as a head of dirty blonde hair skipped back to the table, he couldn't help but touch the golden band on his finger fondly. While Amanda had his eyes, nothing else about his daughter looked anything like him. She did however, take after her mother almost perfectly, the round face and soft features- Jacob liked it better that way, his wife was the pretty one in the family anyway.
"Did you wash your hands?" Jacob asked pointedly as Amanda sat down, grabbing at the drink with notably dry hands and sipping on the straw. Amanda finished a long sip of her drink before she looked away sheepishly.
"Yes..." she lied, not very well. She Also took after her mother in that regard.
"Then why are your hands so dry?" Jacob asked suspiciously, Amanda hated hand dryers, and the brown paper towels only ever got most of the moisture off.
"No they're not!" Amanda insisted, rapidly rubbing the sides of her drink, collecting the condensation onto her hands before shoving them out and showing them to her father, "See! They're still wet!"
"Amanda..." Jacob chided softly as he pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and dropped a dollop onto his daughter's outstreched hands. "Now hurry up, we've got a lot to do today."
Half an hour later, and the two McCalisters were at the Pier Park, Jacob watching as his daughter went on a spinning ride for what must have been the fourth time. This was Jacob's first full day off in weeks, so Amanda had written out an itinerary for her self titled 'Best day off day ever, ever'. They were already done with most of the list- breakfast/brunch in bed, followed by a matinee showing of The Incredibles 2, late lunch with 'Auntie Morgan', and a trip to the arcade. After a coffee break, the two came to the Navy Pier, where they'd ride rides to their (Amanda's) content, and watch the sunset.
As Amanda got off her fifth ride on the swinger, she giddily- and dizzily made her way over to her father, giggling all the while. Hugging at her father's waist Amanda let out a tinkling little laugh. "Hey daddy, are you sure you don't want to go on? Its really really really fun!"
"Ah you know me," Jacob said with a nonchalant wave, "I'm not too fond of heights."
"But you're a detective! You're not supposed to be afraid of anything?" Amanda insisted, looking up at her father.
"Now where on earth did you get that idea?" Jacob asked, as he resisted his daughter's pull towards the large swing ride. "Besides, don't you think you've been on there enough? You can barely stand straight!"
"I can so!" Amanda replied with a huff and a stomp, not noticing as she brought her foot down onto her father's shoe. "See! Watch!" She said as she began to walk away from Jacob, standing upon a line in the cement tiles and walking foot in front of foot, her arms out to her sides to help her keep balance. Unfortunately, that type of walking made the already unsteady Amanda even move unsteady on her feet, and after a few short steps, she stumbled forward, catching herself with a few stuttering steps and a pair of hands being thrown forward.
"Well, I don't think we have enough time to go on the ride again anyway," Jacob said as he trotted over to his daughter, pointing at the sun. The sun had dipping closer to the horizon, turning the sky from a light blue into the darker prelude of evening. "If we don't get on the ferris wheel now, we'll miss the sunset.
The threat of missing the sunset must have been a strong motivator, because next thing he knew, his daughter had grabbed his hand and began dragging him towards the steadily growing line of the park's ferris wheel. Through some stroke of divine fate, or perhaps a bit of trickery on Jacob's behalf, the two McCalisters managed slip through the lines and get themselves high into the sky just as the sun began falling past the horizon, the sky now noticeably mixed with a wash of orange and purple amongst the blue.
The younger McCalister stiffled a yawn and leaned against her father. Jacob placed a hand fondly on her head and ruffled it a bit.
"Daddy," Amanda asked, stiffling another yawn, "What was mommy like?"
Jacob blinked a few times, his hand curling up and slowly retreating from his daughter's head. "Hm? Where's this coming from?"
"I've been trying really hard to remember mommy, but I cant remember a thing." Amanda muttered, pawing at her eyes with a small hand. "What was she like?"
"Your mother?" Jacob replied, absentmindedly touching his ring, "Well,"
If you want to take some pictures of some fascinating witches...
Name: Sophia De La Fuente
Gender: Female (She/Her)
Race/Species: Human
Age: 27
Appearance: An olive skinned Latina with short raven hair and hard eyes. Although not unattractive, her features have a slightly feral look. Tattoos cover her arms and much of her body, though her face is unmarked. Many of the tattoos appear to be related to South and Central American religions of the Pre-columbian Period, although there are a number of gang related designs. She is slender and a little on the short side.
Personality: Sophia is passionate and intense. She is easily roused to anger, especially when she is frightened or confused. She is in the process of beginning to break down the walls that her previous life required her to build but remains a trifle aloof and perhaps a little awkward.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Sophia’s primary talent lay in the direction of ritual magic and thaumaturgy. After being extensively educated by her mother she traveled from her native El Salvador, absorbing various other traditions along the way. Years of involvement with gangs and narcotics trafficking have given her an insight into the criminal underworld, though it isn’t something she is eager to revisit. Sophia is also a naturally gifted sculptor and painter, though she lacks any kind of formal training.
Background:
The smell was the worst. Like greasy meat burned in an oven. It clung to her, coating her dark skin, sheening her black hair, an oily film at the back of her throat. Even when the flashing lights gave way to the quiet interrogation room and she was permitted a few minutes to ‘wash up’, swab her filthy body with a few wet wipes and rinse her mouth out with tepid tap water, it still clung to her. A change of clothes had been permitted her, an orange prison jumpsuit to replace the rags she had been arrested in, but the bright fabric did little but accentuate the filth that coated her. The detectives that came next wrinkled their noses, struggling to conceal their horror behind the blank face of professional detachment. They slapped a paper file down on the table between them and took their own seats.
Sophia looked up with them, her eyes dark and unreadable, the fluorescent light seemed to make tendrils of smoke dance in her irises. Neither of the detectives flinched but the younger of the pair shifted uneasily. He covered his unease by picking up the manila folder he had just slapped to the table and making a show of leafing through it.
“I’m going to be honest with you Miss De La Fuente, it doesn't look good for you. Four men burned alive… well California doesn't have a death penalty but if you don't cooperate there is no chance you will ever see the outside of a prison cell again.” It had the ring of a rehearsed statement, but that didn’t make it untrue.
“I was a prisoner there,” she said, her thick El Salvadoran accent rendering the final word as ‘dare’ rather than there. English was not her first, or even her second language but she spoke it well enough to be intelligible. The statement seemed to move the two policemen onto more familiar ground, a perp denying a crime was more intelligible than four men burned to carbonized husks. It helped that she spoke the way she did, it fit their comfortable preconceptions.
“Look girl, we got security footage of the place, no one in there but you, and you were the only one in the building,” the older, fatter one declared. Sophia spread her hands wide, the restraints that bound the ran through the eyebolt which secured her to the floor with a musical tinkle of metal on metal.
“So your theory is I overpowered four chera and set them on fire?” she asked with a skeptical quirk of her eyebrow. The younger thinner of the two gave her a malevolent grin, clearly aggravated by her apparent lack of reaction. He leaned across the table and grabbed her wrist. From arm to shoulder her skin was covered with tattoos of various kinds, curving serpents and strange sigils atop more prosaic ink.
“You think we don’t know gang ink when we see it? You think that any jury in the world won't take one look at those MS13 tats and…”
The metalized door swung open hard enough that the gasket hissed with the pressure of slowing its progress. A flustered looking junior officer slid into the room a only a footstep ahead of an elderly man dressed in a neat vest and wearing a bowler hat. The officer was trying to make a point of leading the newcomer into the room, but there was absolutely no evidence the older man would have waited for his theoretical escort. The man swept the room with his eyes and cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Uhh the chief says you are to give Mr Priest here a moment with the pris.. I mean suspect,” the escorting officer stammered. Both detectives stood up at once, their postures of angry beligerence so identical that the movement appeared rehearsed to Sophia’s eye. One of the cheap metal framed chairs toppled over with the suddenness of the movement. Priest regarded the detectives with a calm as cool and dry as the Atacama. Both men seemed to freeze for an instant in mid outburst, as though they had expected to find one more step in a long flight than was truly there. Angry words died on their lips in a moment of shock and confusion which transmuted to an anger for which their hesitation left them no outlet. Sofia saw the pulse throb in the heavier detectives neck. The moment passed and they stormed brusquely from the room but neither of them spoke.
The newcomer, Priest apparently, bent down and righted the toppled chair with quiet efficiency. This accomplished, he snapped open an antiquated looking case and withdrew a folded cloth which he unhurriedly spread on one of the recently vacated chairs. He sat down and adjusted the seat before tenting his fingers peering across at the chained, orange clad Sophia intently. There was something to his eyes, a keenness and weight to his gaze that she hadn't expected. She tossed her hair in half hearted defiance anyway, as a woman brought up in a brutal world of gangs and narcotics, it was an instinctive reaction.
“Miss De La Fuente was it?” he asked in culture Spanish. It was Castillian rather than South American in accent and idiom but perfectly understandable. It sounded exotic to her ear even elegant. She nodded her head, as powerless to prevent herself from moving as she would have been to stop a mudslide.
“That was quite an impressive piece of Thaumaturgy back there, what did you use for a flame?” The question was matter of fact and the point, the tone a man would use when asking which chisel one had selected for a particularly difficult cut. The shock moved quickly to a sense of panic. Were there police who could understand what had happened? What if she couldn’t… Priest lay a hand on hers, his hand was dry and slightly cooler than she imagined.
“No fear child, I just want to know how you did the working. Quite impressive, if a little gruesome. Now what did you use for a flame.” Sophia looked around as though afraid of hidden recording devices. Priest merely shook his head, dismissing the fear with unarguable certainty. His eyes bored into her as though trying to draw the answer from her mind with strength of will.
“The pilot light,” she said finally, “the stove had a pilot light, those cabrons were smart enough not to use it but they didn’t know about the light.” Priest sat back on his chair an appraising look in his eyes.
“It must have taken you days to gather enough power to use such a flimsy ignition source.”
“Four days,” Sophia said blankly, her eyes focusing on the near distance. By the way his gaze sharpened he clearly understood what such a task implied. The cartels knew how to hold a Brujha. An empowered circle was easy to create, even for a layman if they knew what they were doing, and even the mightiest practitioner could only do so much with what power remained within the mystical confinement. It would have been easy to waste it in useless fury, every mote of magic had been needed for what she had done, even then one of them might have lived if he hadn’t gone into shock.
“How did you create your links to them surely they were…” Priest trailed off as the answer to that particular question revealed itself in the asking, his face frowning with distaste. Sophia shrugged her shoulders as if to imply that it was nothing that concerned her. Priest withdrew his hand and sat back, his face considering.
“I will be frank Miss De La Fuente. My … firm you might call it, has an opening for someone of your particular skills. We consult on matters regarding the paranormal, take care of problems that sort of thing.” Sophia shifted against her restraints, rattling the chains.
“Senor if you can get me out of here, I don’t care if you are reanimating corpses for your friends to fuck.” Sophia’s voice was quiet and desperate, the profanity a habit rather than an effect of anger. If she were transferred to a prison, she wouldn’t last a day. Even a Brujah had to sleep sometime and the Narcocartels had a very short way with people like her, at least, once they slipped their leashes. Priest smiled as though he had expected nothing less.
“Splendid my dear, we will be happy to have you aboard.” Sophia glanced around the room, as though imagining some miraculous means of escape was about to present itself. No mystical portal opened, now transportation spell whisked her away, she merely sat, chained to the floor.
“So how are you going to get me out? Magic?” she asked Priest as he stood and began to fold his cloth, replacing it in his case with the same neat precision with which he had retrieved it. He gave her a slightly superior smile.
“Oh no my dear, a force much more powerful and diabolical than that,” his voice dripping with a sinister menace. As if on cue, the door opened to admit a man and a woman bedecked in sharp suits of severe and expensive cut.
“Lawyers.”
It was only after he left and the lawyers wrinkled their noses that Sophia realized that Priest had not so much as blinked at the smell of charred human corpses.
Name: Emmaline Von Morganstern (Goes by Emma Stern)
Gender: Female (She/Her)
Race/Species: Human
Age (Real and apparent, if applicable): 28
Appearance:
Emma is a tall Germanic woman with straw blond hair. She is pretty, although her high cheekbones and angular features seem to conspire to rob her of true beauty. She has a hiker’s lean trim build which bespeak many years of alpine life in her native Austria. Although her eyes are a piercing blue, they are usually kept behind the large glasses she wears to aid her with her reading.
Emma affects a stern masculine body language and takes pains to limit her femininity. Her hair is kept in a tight bun and her back rigid. She wears tailored suit of academic cut when she is at work but is equally comfortable in sportswear when off duty or the situation demands it. Her taste in jewelry is her only divergence from strict propriety and she is almost always seen with bracelets and necklaces made of silver or polished copper.
Despite having lived in the United States for several years, and her best efforts, Emma has been unable to eradicate her crisp Austrian accent.
Personality: Emma is first and foremost an academic and her scholarly career has been the primary influence on her personality. Competition with men and the institutionalized biases against women have encouraged her to do what she can to discount her sex. One of these tactics is to adopt the prim manners of a German Schoolteacher and her speech is frequently pedantic and over exact. Another is to keep her romantic side, indulged in steamy novels and a love of grand dramatic gesture walled away beneath her professional demeanor.
Emma is possessed of natural curiosity about the world and the people in it, which drives her closer to others the better to interrogate them. She has a dry and understated sense of humor and has even been known to laugh, though she tries to keep this under control due to her embarrassing tendency to snort when she does so.
In every situation Emma attempts to exude an aura of knowing control expected of a professor. Unfortunately the more uncontrolled a situation becomes, the closer she comes to panic.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Hexen - At some point in the mysterious past Emmaline’s ancestors acquired certain powers, most notably the ability to manipulate the energies around them. The first Hexen discovered that these abilities passed from mother to daughter and each generation made its own contribution to the craft. For most of recorded history this has required covens of women to work together but with the onset of modern mathematics this has changed. Emmaline can do the traditional tricks, like draw heat from the air to create ice, or call up a wind by creating a pressure differential, but her true calling is in the realm of curses. Emmaline has a talent for altering probability, she can, if she puts her mind to it, ensure that a particular person has a run of unusual good luck, or she can curse someone so that Murphy's Law punishes them with a special viciousness. Unfortunately in both of these cases the luck has to even out somewhere, and for every miracle there is a corresponding tragedy.
Coven - Unlike the lone witch in the woods of popular myth, Emma belongs to an extended coven of blood relations who, while concentrated in Europe, span the globe. Each Hexen is expected to make her own contribution to the advancement of the art. Ordinarily this is done through scholarship, both mundane and arcane. While rivalries exist for the most part the sororal bond is a tight and pleasant one. Emma can ask for favors from her sisters, be it magical or mundane, and provides them in her turn. Once this required summonings in the dark hours before dawn, but now it is just easier to use Zoom (or broom as the younger Hexen have taken to calling it).
In addition to, or in conjunction with, her occult powers Emmaline holds a PhD in Applied Mathematics and has lectured at several major universities. She also plays the violin with technical proficiency but a lack of passion which robs her music of zest and irritates Emmaline.
Background:
Emmaline sat straight backed in her chair, primly sipping at the adequate wine before her. It was expensive, sure, but somehow Americans always seemed to conflate expense with quality. This restaurant was the perfect microcosm of the phenomena, aggressively minimalist and plucked from the pages of glossy magazines without a care for the ugly sterility that resulted. It probably took a great deal of money to create something so ugly. She peered down at a napkin on which she was carefully writing an equation with an ornate fountain pen. The ink spread out through the porous medium in unlovely blobs, straining their legibility, but it would serve her purpose.
Across from her sat a nervous young man with his awkward date. There was an aura about him that spoke to her, the nervous way he ran his fingers through his hair, the slight sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. Misfortune seemed to radiate off him in waves. He was about to have the worst night of his life. Unless she intervened of course.
Concentration fell away in shattered shards as someone cleared his throat in front of her. With a vexed hiss she looked up and pushed the thin rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. The man before her was of indeterminate years and he wore a suit that probably cost as much as she made in a year. Perhaps hastag-not-all-Americans.
“Professor Von Morganstern, I hope I have not startled you?” he asked in a smooth, almost liquid alto. She forced her 'professional colleague' smile to her lips, uncharacteristically reddened by lipstick.
“Of course not,” she lied sweetly, looking down at the menu to give her face time to smooth away the incipient frown.
“You are Mr…” she began but he nodded cutting her off.
“Yes from the Agency,” he concluded before she could speak his name. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. He clearly didn’t fear her powers but he was demonstrating that he knew something about them by not speaking his name. The beginnings of a superior smile indicated that he had guessed what she was thinking. She glanced down at the formula on her napkin and then laid it face up on the expensive table cloth. Another sip of resinous wine. The man cocked his head slightly, as though attempting to decipher the ink stained napkin, before sliding into the chair with liquid grace.
“I will be brief Professor Von Morganstern…” he began but it was her turn to hold up an interrupting hand.
“Professor Stern," she corrected, "I don’t go by my full name, also this isn’t a lecture, so you may call me Emma.” The clipped Austrian accent made the admonition seem harsher than she meant it. People weren’t always her thing. Screw it, served him right for showing off with her real name.
“I invited you here tonight because I want to offer you a job.” Emma sat back a little shocked. When she had received his letter, a vague allusion to mutual friends and an invitation to dinner, employment was the furthest thing from her mind. It was rare to meet a man who knew about Hexen and rarer still for that meeting to end well.
“I already have a job mien Herr,” she began, her English slipping, and her Germanic accent biting out the words.
“As your use of my honorific demonstrates you already know.” Her tone was defensive, a faint stirring of anger bubbled within her. He gave her an almost apologetic look, it wasn't pitying, but unmistakably that of a man about to deliver a message which would cause some awkwardness.
“Yes but I’m afraid that UCLA will decline your application for tenure, and there maybe little opportunity for you to earn it again. Faculty politicking I’m afraid.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic. Emmaline’s stomach plummeted, years of work and academic research, dozens of papers and theorems for nothing. It was a given that his information was true, there was no lie in his voice and anyone who could discover she was a Hexen could penetrate the flimsy boundaries of University security with ease.
“There are few people with your particular talents in the United States,” he continued, his voice gentle and consoling. He waved away the waiter with an air of dismissal that a Hapsburg Monarch might have envied.
“We could use your more… ahem occult skills,” he concluded pushing a printed letter on expensive paper across the table to her. Fighting to keep her bottom lip from quivering with disappointment at losing her shot at tenure, she mechanically scanned the document. When she reached the figure printed on it her eyebrows rose in spite of herself. The elegant man set back with a satisfied look on his face.
“With bonuses,” he added with a mischievous grin, lifting his glass of adequate wine to her. She watched him for a long moment before, reluctantly, she lifted hers in tacit acceptance of his offer.
Across from her she saw the young man tense. With a hiss, she sat down her wine and began scribbling frantically on her napkin, completing equations and closing the last few parenthesis. That task completed, she sliced her thumb on a silver ring she wore on her ring finger, dribbling a drop of blood onto the paper with a muttered word. The boy stood up and drew a small box from his pocket before falling to one knee before his date. The skeins of fate twisted around him, warped by the energies she had channeled through her napkin. In the window behind him fireworks suddenly bursts, framing him and dazzling his intended as he knelt before her. Her moment of hesitation swept away by the fireworks, she cried her acceptance and rushed forward to hug him. In the background there was a mechanical pop as the buildings air conditioner \coughed and died. Emmaline smiled, a few hours of discomfort for a lifetime of happiness. Fair trade. All the boy had needed was a bit of luck after all. The elegant man raised an appreciative eyebrow at her.
“I think you will make a fine addition to Priest and Hawthorne Professor Stern, a fine addition indeed.”
Technically Genderless but Masculine Presenting; (he/him/his)
𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐞/𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬
Judeo-Christian Archangel
𝐀𝐠𝐞
Mentally Since the Dawn of Time; Physically Early Thirties
𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞
What does one visualize an angel looking like? In truth, if one studied any holy texts they'd note the form would be akin to something Clive Barker would make while on peyote and lost in an bird exhibit. So, what does their mortal husk look like? Probably something more like Michelangelo would produce on a good, non-petty day.
Sloane has all the makings of a gorgeous angelic figure, but with one resounding flaw. Tall, though probably not the tallest in the room, broad-shouldered, and with a bone structure that would make the aforementioned Clive Barker Michaelangelo cry. He has blond hair, short on the sides and longer on top with a slight curl to it. His brows are not like other natural blonds, non-existent and spooky in darkness. Instead, they are a darker shade and expressive. His eyes are downturned and a pale shade of hazel with flecks of blue in them. He has strong cheekbones and an even stronger jaw. The only part of his face that might be offputting to modern beauty standards would be his gold-rimmed, round spectacles set atop a Greek nose. Another deterring factor of what would be a rather picturesque Adonis is the fact that Sloane has been around for twenty or fifty or so years, and has not really known how to cope. His mechanism, at first, was his compulsive need to organize. But once things were organized, it was hard to re-organize them infinitely. And he did try. So, he turned to food. That was a hole that could be filled again and again. He's quite overweight, though he dresses in a way to appear slimmer. Still, it doesn't stop the round curves of his form and a noticeable belly that he attempts to girdle with a waistcoat. Notably pearshaped, his face remains equally as striking as his weight is a balance between broad shoulders and a long gait. And one might simply recommend a diet, but Sloane sees nothing wrong, or at least he finds nothing wrong with his habit. Mortals have far more destructive behaviors. And, he's quite fond of donuts.
His clothes are all tailored and bespoke. The colors follow the trends of the seasons as he's fashionable. Sloane adores three-piece suits, ties, and well-polished buckles and shoes. On his days off, he'll wear something only a smidgen less formal. Good luck ever seeing the angel in shorts, no matter the weather. He always smells of warm fires on a new winter morning with a dash of birch for lightness.
𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲
The first thing to know about Sloane, and probably the most noticeable is that he doesn't lie. It's hard to tell if that's an angelic trait or a concept that he can't quite fathom and so can't enact. But he does have a tendency to not wax poetic, or wax at all. Everything from his lips is as blunt and square as a brick. He doesn't really care if it hurts your feelings, because quite frankly he thinks lies are childish padding that displays mortal's fallibility. And, of course, he's an instrument of God. He can't be prone to mistakes.
Except that he is. Trapped in a human husk has made him prone to the same machinations as any other mortal around him. In truth, he does try to hold himself to a higher standard. But the years on Earth have caused his gears to slip more and more. His angelic properties come to light in the form of his meticulous nature. His desk is absolutely organized, his sticky notes color-coded, and his office plants sufficiently watered and groomed. More so, he seems to be the most willing to fence phone calls and tend to secretarial duties with ease. Though, if you ask him to fetch you a coffee, you're getting a black liquid with congealed grounds in the bottom where he has coffee the color of a lightly toasted marshmallow. He enjoys work, but he doesn't live to serve. Well, he did, but he's currently on hiatus from that facet of his life.
And here we breach into Sloane's imperfections. He thinks he's right. He knows he's right. All the years of mortals blundering and butchering the simplest of things have just shown him that they're incapable of learning from their mistakes. That has led to him having a sense of pride that is both grating and self-aggrandizing. He gives in to his notions and compulsions because they must be right. Right? He'll take the last muffin from the break area because quite frankly mortals are neglectful and prone to wastefulness... even though he's already had two, and half the office hasn't had any. It's that justification he gives himself which leads him into compulsive and sometimes foolhardy decisions.
Sloane will get the job done with great speed and efficiency and will assume no one else could do what he could.
𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬, & 𝐀𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬
In Heaven or the various Otherworlds of differing religions, Sloane is quite powerful. On Earth, he's not so much. As regent of the sun, he does contain the ability to bend light to his will. Only if it is made naturally, though. He can't just cause light to appear. He isn't a paltry magician. It's white-hot and filled with sanctified energy. Basically, it's a night light constructed of holy water. He uses it to mostly form weapons and takes to wielding long stave-like ones--grumbling if anyone asks him to make a sword. He seems to have a fond dislike for his sibling, Michael. He can also use the ability to refract and reflect the light in a way that can make him invisible (to sight) or blind his target. Don't ask him to make a rainbow, though.
His angelic powers also allow him to see the lingering dead and speak with them. He can't help them cross over--anymore. But he can converse with them and point them in the direction they need to go to receive such relief. He's basically a glorified DMV employee for Heaven.
Sloane can also fly. He reminds people that the depictions of angels, humanoid figures with wings, aren't really how they look. So, when he sprouts wings and darts about, it's because mortals can comprehend that. They couldn't comprehend his true form, a mass of wings and eyes that would make even Lovecraft blush.
His mortal body can also be destroyed without it destroying him. He just shifts back to Heaven, regroups his power, and then creates another mortal husk for himself. His spirit can be stopped from regenerating, but one needs to know quite horrific and unnatural arts. Sloane has admitted to the fact that angels have been caught and snuffed out. He hasn't ever been caught, though. And it's apparent he doesn't even allow much damage to happen to his mortal husk considering the wear he's put on it.
All that said, if you want something that Sloane does wield like a sword look no further than his prowess with Excel. That angel can build tables, create graphs, assign budgets, and present and PowerPoint with all the numbers and talking points that you could ever imagine. If the angel could become an accountant without years of study and experience, he would.
In Sloane's off hours, he enjoys cooking--more prone to baking than anything else. He'll drive the next city over to participate in chili cook-offs and pie baking contests. He also owns a plethora of cats as he fosters them in hopes of relieving the local shelter of its overcrowding. Not that you would be able to tell considering he never has a single strand of fur on him. But he seems to relate to the cats, they're just as fat and self-absorbed as he is.
As much as Skiball is concerned. He just states that it's a game for hacks and mortals. Of course, that's right before he decides he'll play. Maybe he'll win this time around. He never does.
𝐘𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝
“… so, I went on hiatus.” Sloane said into the phone’s receiver, fingers twirling his pen slowly. There was a beat when the person on the other side of the line didn’t respond. “Fine, I was asked to go on hiatus. But honestly, Gregory you have to look at the numbers. The socio-political climate of Earth was… well is… revving up for another massive influx. It’s hard to say if we have the infrastructure for such numbers.”
Another pause came across the end of the line. Gregory, the man who had called him, seemed flustered. “I don’t even remember the question I asked you or the answer.”
“Right.” Sloan leaned back, setting the pen down. It was an inch from this blue pen, which in turn was an inch from his red pen, which was an inch from his tablet pen. They were all about half-a-foot South from his bonsai plant. He eyed it. One of the branches was uneven. Where were his scissors?
“Sir?” Another pause. “Jesus Christ, dude.”
“Oh, right.” Sloane focused back on the phone. “You don’t wish for me to get into the conversation of my old boss’s son. That is a can of worms I do not wish to open. This brings me to my next questions. Where did that saying arise from?”
“You know what, Management doesn’t allow us to hang up, but I’m hanging up. Have a nice day Mister Soth-sun.”
“It’s South-sewn.” But those words were greeted with a solitary beep beep beep, letting Sloane know that he had truly been hung up on. He placed the starch white phone back on the receiver. “There’s an umlaut over the u.”
Sloane counted down the drawers to his third one and pulled it out. In it were the instruments to attend to the assortment of objects on his desk. He grabbed the pruning scissors and slowly closed the drawer. The counterweights grabbed it and pulled it into the housing. There wasn’t much difference between it and the rest of the other carbon copy desks around, except that Sloane’s was sparkling clean and perfectly manicured. He’d even added the counterweights after work one day, because the sound of them slamming was an ear sore.
He lined up his scissors to take care of the errant branch on the tree when a nasty “whump” of paperwork landed on his desk. Sloane snipped too soon and barely missed snipping off the entire branch. That didn’t stop him from narrowing his eyes at the interruption.
The shadow that had so unkindly caused an earthquake on his desk was one Turver. Maybe. Whatever his name was; it was dumb. Sloane glanced up at the other gentleman.
“Wow, you were on the phone for a while, Sloane.” He waggled his brows. “Was it a hot girl? Er, boy? Er, sentient, non-gendered blob? You know, I can’t tell what you like.”
“I like manners for one, Turver. It was a telemarketer asking me if I was happy with my life insurance.” Sloane lined up his scissors for another attempted snip at his tree. Turver huffed.
“It’s Trevor, and I’m assuming you told them all about Heaven’s infrastructure, and how you got into an argument with God about it.”
Sloane ignored the correction. “We didn’t get into an argument. It was a disagreement. A polite disagreement between a higher power that controls life as we know it, and me—the one person in that stinking place that can count higher than fifty-two.”
“I know I’m going to regret this, but why fifty-two?”
He lowered his scissors. “Right. You mortals count on your fingers, and there are ten of them if you don’t decide to involve your bottom fingers.”
“Toes, but sure.”
“So, we have fifty-two.”
“Fingers?”
“No, wings. Keep up, Turver.” Sloane laughed; it was an antiseptic sort of thing that cleaned the air of any merriment. “Fingers…”
“Oh my Go—osh. I owe Joanne five bucks. I cannot do this.” He patted the stack of files. “I was told you were more than happy to digitize these. So, digitize away. I’m going to try to remember which bathroom I hid the Fireball in.”
Sloane lined his scissors back up with the bonsai. “Thank you, Turver, for the enlightening conversation.” He paused. “That was sarcasm. How did I do?”
There was silence as Trevor walked away, making sure to hip check Sloane’s desk. It caused his elbow to swing inward, leading to him snipping way too much from his bonsai tree. The angel just stared. He slowly lowered the scissors, crossing his hands over them. A few deep breaths were taken before he stood. He rounded the side of the desk and grabbed his garbage can. Setting it underneath the edge of the desk where the bonsai tree was, he pushed the now-and-forever ruined shrubbery into it. It landed in the can with a deep ‘thud.’
Sloane took a deep breath before sitting the garbage can back to its place and returning to his seat. As he was tucking away his scissors, the beams of light seemed to intensify from their source until they pierced through the plastic can and ignited the bonsai within. A small, holy fire roiled upwards, producing quite a bit of smoke.
And that’s how Sloane Southsühn ended up overseeing the Fire Safety courses.
Not a submission, since I rescinded my join request in the Discord but this is what I managed to spin out of the background for those who are interested.
The Phenoma-Forums
Safeguarding Against Strangeness Since 1998
Public Lecture Series: Pathology of the Paranormal 101
This series is an overview and analysis of common paranormal diseases and injuries which affect both humans and sapient para-species. Topics covered includes the following but not limited to: resuscitory exorcism, examination of silver toxicosis in lycantropes, vampire hematology, emergency para-species surgical procedures and histological analysis of paranormal afflictions. I hope you find these lectures an invaluable resource to supplement your own knowledge with which to arm yourself against a wide variety of ailments and afflictions, both mundane and magical.
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INSERTING RUNIC FIREWALLS
INSTALLING ANTI-SPIRIT SOFTWARE
ONLINE LEY-LINE STABILITY AT 98%.
[00:02:43]
“ Welcome to the second seminar on Paranormal Pathology. I know the grimiores I prescribed to you during the last seminar are a bit barbaric but hopefully, you got a taste of what we’ll be delving into today. Today, we’ll be covering the six classes of classification and yes, It will be more of an overview but trust me guys when I say this is necessary . We’re laying out the structure of the maze you’ll be getting into and trust me, even though I’ve had 15 years of experience, I’m still stuck in the maze as far as I can tell.”
“ Now, firstly, we’ll begin with werewolf physiology. - Goddammit, I got the wrong papers. No, that’s not until- Why would I even - - God, what are you doing, Ambrose? 10 years of residency at Mayo, 5 years at St Angel’s ER and look at where you are right now. If only Chandler could see me now. They’d all think of me as a quack - “
“ Shit. I’m still recording, aren’t it? And I’m going to have to cut that one out. Great. Just great.”
[00:10:13]
“ Now, as we turn to the next slide, we can see several photos of bite marks from several para-species. In the right corner, we have a bite from a southern loup-garou and on the left corner, a bite from an Atlantic merman. Notice any patterns yet? Alright, let’s compare the inflammation across the periphery of the wound si-
“ No, Bartleby, bad boy! Bartleby, don’t touch tha - Dammit, Bartleby! Do you know how long it takes to embalm pixie corpses?”
[00:20:25]
“ A rule for paranormal infections is to distinguish between syndromes and full metamorphosis. What do I mean by this?”
“ How many of you of you know Andre the Giant? And I know all of you MDs and PhDs must be screaming right now. Yes, he’s classified as having acute hyperthyroidism. The truth is that he got bitten by a werewolf. The only reason why he didn’t tear up his match when it was a full moon was because he got a syndrome, not the full metamorphosis. Yes, you’ll notice that most creatures that rely on transforming their target due to physical contact end up causing ‘blank’ bites. The factors for this phenomenon can vary depending on the individual. You can stay asymptomatic for weeks, months at a time before you start having a craving for blood or start shooting up a meter in height.
Don’t even get me started on what happens when you get multiple blank bites. South Park didn’t come up with ManBearPig out of the blue…….
[00:50:50]
“ Take a look at this doctor’s report. Dilated pupils, elevated levels of epinephrine and norephrine, cardiac arrhythmia. Now, take a look at this ECG. 10 year old boy. Notice the tachycardia? Would you believe me if I said that he wasn’t reporting any referred pain on his shoulders? It makes one think how many overdoses, heart attacks and panic attacks are really just a phantom or spirit trying to have a crack at puppeteering your corporeal body.”
“ We’ll be covering emergency exorcisms in a later part of this series but all you need to know is that it’s a broad spectrum of possessions. If we’re talking western pagan spirits, they tend to be on the reasonable side but say your prayers if you encounter a yokai or hell, a demonic spirit. You’ll need to bust out high voltage defibrillators and do STERIS with steel clamps.”
“ One important rule of note. Never do sedation. I’ll repeat it again, never tranquilize or try to do heavy sedation if you suspect that a person is under possession. Get a priest to confirm before you use heavy sedatives. If you make a mistake…..”
“ Well….”
“ ….I’ll just say an angry family’s worst to deal with than a pissed off phantom.”
[02:01:25]
“ And we’re at the end. If any of you have any questions, please DM me about it and I’ll try to do my best to answer. As I said before, most of you aren’t going to get an answer because that’s the best type of answer.”
“ Trust me.”
“ Some things are better off not knowing and sometimes, even with all the knowledge in the world, you’ll make mistakes.”
“ God, that became depressing. Probably going to have to delete that one…..”
Right. Here's my vampire. I hope he's somewhat entertaining, at least XD. I'm willing to change his powers/weaknesses if necessary, or expound further on the context behind his background vignettes, stuff. It is 3.16am and I am too sleepy to tweak my writing further.
Name: Matthew Stanford
Gender/Pronouns: Male, he/him
Race/Species: Vampire, formerly human
Age (Real and apparent): literally Really 700 Years Old, apparently early-mid 20s
Appearance:
At 1.76m / 5ft 9in tall, Matthew was tall for the century he was born in, but now, of course, that's fairly average. With sharp cheekbones and somewhat hollow cheeks, built lean and wiry, he looks slightly too underfed to be properly handsome, but his indeterminate Eurasian features might be termed by some as 'exotic, maybe even pretty', others as 'immigrants oughta go back to where they came from', and still others as 'wait, where are you from?' His slightly curling black hair reaches almost to his shoulders, and remains in the exact same style from night to night, no hair gel involved, swept/combed back enough to not get in his cloud-grey eyes and to appear charmingly windblown rather than untidy.
Matthew carries himself with easy grace and a wry, relaxed smile; though the smile's real enough, his gaze is always watchful. His standard outfit is a black leather longcoat over a dark long-sleeved t-shirt, dark blue jeans, and sturdy, well-worn boots; the hand-and-a-half longsword at his hip is usually Obfuscated from notice.
Personality:
Generally irreverent, laidback and snarky, sometimes playful and a touch dramatic, occasionally flirtatious, Matthew can seem like he doesn't take anything seriously, or that he's putting on an act of some kind, and the way his accent and tone slips and slides across at least two continents and multiple eras does not improve that impression any. The truth is, he does want to make friends and help people, and doesn't really do malice as a rule, drawing certain moral lines quite firmly, but a combination of being slightly tone-deaf (in more than one sense of the term) and having gone a bit insane over the centuries (also in more than one sense of the term 'insane') makes for someone who isn't exactly the most socially well-adjusted, and trying to adjust further has an effect akin to adding more colours to a paint pot that has already had a few too many colours stirred in.
That said, he is surprisingly capable of introspection and self-discipline, and when shit gets real, he can turn quite deadly serious, settling into quiet patience or striking with swift efficiency as the situation requires, and not a single quip as he goes about it. Matthew seems more 'real' like this, sometimes, yet also possibly a little terrifying and, perhaps, less human.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Matthew has once described himself as a ghost inhabiting his own corpse, preserved and animated through blood magic and willpower, which is both technically accurate and a gross oversimplification.
His flesh is cool and firm to the touch, his dead heart unbeating, his breath only for speaking with, unless he wills his blood to stir, temporarily generating heat and forcing his organs to imitate living behaviours. He must drink the blood of others to sustain his existence and fuel his supernatural abilities, preferably fresh human blood or that of other supernatural beings; bagged blood is nearly worthless, and while he can gain sustenance from animal blood, the quantities required make it impractical as a primary source when living in a city. The only kind of blood he cannot, or rather will not drink, is the vitae of his own kind, for vampire blood can addict and enslave those who taste it to the will of the individual whose veins it spilled from; Matthew himself has no such thralls, and never intends to.
Regeneration and recovery from injury, enhanced strength and speed, those are the most typical abilities of his kind, powered by the stolen life they consume. Wounds heal in moments and minutes if he has the blood to spare, and lie open and oozing if he does not. Matthew is old and his lineage is inclined towards the gifts of strength and speed; when he pushes himself, he is capable of short bursts of speed that can cross thirty to forty feet in a blur, and strength enough to break through a brick wall. Invisibility and heightened senses, concealing objects that should be in plain view, and the ability to meld with the soil in order to sleep hidden from the sun, these talents were much more difficult, but Matthew has made a hobby of exploring and pushing the boundaries of his supernatural capabilities, and so he is capable of all of these; alas, shapechanging and telepathy are beyond him as yet, along with other more esoteric powers. He does have a third natural aptitude for glamour that amplifies his personal magnetism and can even entrance victims into doing as he wishes, but he no longer exercises that talent unless he has urgent need.
He fears the touch of sunlight and of fire, which leave grievous wounds that incur a great cost in both blood and time to heal, if they do not burn him to ash in moments with their intensity. He once feared the strength of his inner beast, which can drive him to a mindless frenzy when goaded by hunger, fear or rage, but he has achieved a mastery over its nature that allows him to restrain it so long as he has the will - and he has honed his willpower to an inhuman extent. He fears a wooden stake to the heart that will leave him not just paralysed but trapped in torpor, but he conceals his sleeping-places well and few are those he has met who can match him in a physical fight, especially with blades in hand. He does not fear holy symbols; heck, he carries an article of faith upon his very person. He most certainly does not fear garlic.
Matthew has trained in firearms and played at picking locks and learned to drive, among the many skills he has dabbled in over his many, many years; he knows a little bit about almost anything, but he doesn't know all that much about, well, almost everything, with the exception of personal violence in general and swordsmanship in particular. That said, he has adapted to the modern era better than most vampires with half his centuries, passing easily enough as his apparent age with his knowledge of memes, gamer terms and how to buy things through the internet. His hobbies have shifted over the years, but currently they include meditation, tea ceremonies, reading self-indulgent fantasy, two different MMORPGs, and scrolling Tumblr. He wonders why it's called ski-ball, mostly remembers it only as 'that arcade ball-throwing game', and is only modestly capable at it; it's a safe bet to say he'll never be the last name on the scoring ranks, but that's about it.
Background:
"I am told that you claim to be a Scholar of Untamed Hunger," the dapper little man said, hands folded neatly before him upon his solid mahogany desk. The lines of his deep grey suit and crisp white shirt were sharp and impeccable, his pale, stern face unremarkable, and all he needed to complete the appearance of a banker or bureaucrat was a pair of spectacles. Possibly gold-rimmed ones, Matthew mused, considering the tastefully expensive manner in which the office was furnished.
"You either know what that means," he replied dryly, hands staying shoved into the pockets of his jeans, "or I shouldn't be explaining it to you."
The man behind the desk tilted his head very slightly in either consideration or acknowledgement. There was a soft chuckle from the only other visible occupant of the office, relaxed in his seat upon one of the couches. When Matthew glanced sidelong at him, though, he said nothing, only waved him off with a ring-encrusted hand.
When the grey-suited man spoke, his tone was as matter-of-fact as before. "I am Nathaniel Finch, Philosopher of the Sanguine Curse, Twilight Judge of the Dying Light, and Chancellor of the Chicago Academy." If you know what that means went unsaid, but Matthew fancied he heard it anyway.
For that matter, he did actually know what most of that meant, and could extrapolate the rest. Urgh. Sometimes secret society shenanigans was fun, but right now it was tedious and also potentially dangerous, because all those fancy words meant that Finch outranked him massively on three separate fronts. In Matthew's experience, vampires who were that kind of overachiever were also prone to exercising that rank, usually to the detriment of those beneath them.
"And Prince of the city," the guy lounging on the couch added with evident amusement.
"Thank you, Asil," Finch said, a touch of dryness that proved he did possibly have a sense of humour too.
Okay, make that four ways he was way out of Matthew's league, socio-politically speaking. Great.
Whatever.
"And?" Matthew said, wryly exasperated, like he wasn't talking to someone who could very well order his final death. Granted, he was reasonably confident that whether said order could be successfully carried out was a whole different question, but still. "If you're concerned about me stirring up trouble, I moved in two months ago, actually, and I very much intend to continue to keep a low profile, obey the laws, and not get in anyone's way. If you're wondering whether my Ordo credentials are legit, I will-" grudgingly "-submit to trials in order to prove my grasp of the Coils. I have no intention of getting involved in the game of thrones- sorry, the 'Danse Macabre' or whatever. I simply desire to establish amiable relations, by which I mean live and let live. Well, that and get to know the local Academy members, pursue further mastery of the Coils. Stuff."
There was a long pause.
"He's telling the truth, my usual caveats aside," Asil observed. "How refreshingly direct."
Matthew turned to eye him consideringly. "Second Sight," he guessed.
Asil smiled at him, one lazy tiger to another. "Very astute."
"You certainly make an impression," Finch remarked, and it almost made Matthew's teeth grind, that he couldn't tell at all what Finch really meant behind that neutral tone of voice. He had to give the Prince props for not already ordering Matthew whipped for his temerity, though, so he supposed 'live and let live' really was on the table. "Which Academy did you study at, and why did you leave?"
In lieu of a verbal reply to the first question, Matthew reached into one of his longcoat pockets, drew out a loop of beads with a pendant of woven thread, and held it out for inspection. "I left because I wanted to reunite with my family."
Asil rose from his place on the couch to take a better look. Finch's sharp blue-grey gaze moved from the cross-and-dragon symbol upon the pendant to Matthew's person, and while his expression hadn't actually changed, the surprise was clear. "You have studied with the monks?"
"Yes. Book, cover," Matthew said drily. Granted, if the elder monk who'd mentored him was here, he'd be receiving a gentle rebuke about his behaviour that he would feel chagrined about, but his mentor wasn't here.
Finch inclined his head very slightly once more, this time in definite acknowledgement. "Scholar-"
"Just Matthew."
"Matthew. Have a seat, and let us talk." _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________
"When you told me you wished to take a break from our studies, I did not think you would choose such a... job," Finch said, pausing to savour the subtle floral fragrance wafting off the cup of tea he held. "I'm aware that you do not need the money, and of your policy regarding the enthrallment of mortals."
"There's no need to enthrall them when they're already in the know," Matthew replied wryly, and sipped at his own cup. Unlike Finch, who hadn't touched a drop, he was going to have to regurgitate the lot later, but right now the smooth flavour rolling across his tongue was pretty worth it. "But I am hoping to expand my pool of voluntary donors."
"That does not necessitate your employment with them."
Matthew sighed, and set down his cup, taking a moment to dredge up honest words. "Because they do good work helping people, and I actually find it not only interesting but worthwhile. Because being involved provides me an additional anchor to humanity, provides me perspective. Because they're people. Don't you start again on how I'm wasting my time with inconsequentialities instead of focusing on the Great Work."
Maybe it was unfair of him to say that - Finch hadn't 'started on it' again since that one time they'd had the knock-down-drag-out argument discussion on everything from the common attitudes vampires held towards their prey to why exactly Matthew had ended up with the monks in the first place, a discussion that had run well into the day - but every time he visited the Academy he was reminded all over again of how he didn't fit in with the 'Kindred', and possibly he felt some kind of way about that.
Finch gave him a cool look. Okay, it was unfair of him. "Sensei," he murmured, and dipped his head.
"On the contrary," the other vampire said mildly, not-quite-accepting Matthew's not-quite-apology, "it gives me an idea, and one that might interest you. Furthermore, it is about time I gave you another study assignment. Follow the Dragon's Tail. But with a mortal whose life you save."
Matthew had to admit Finch had a point, the insightful, manipulative sadist that he was. He was familiar with the concept of that particular learning exercise, to study change through observing the cause and effect of consequences that rippled outwards from a human's death, but his own stubborn clinging to certain morals actually met Finch's amorality at the junction of agreeing that practices like that were mostly pretty wasteful for something that could be studied in less reckless ways. And to examine the consequences of having saved someone would most certainly help Matthew expand and maintain that perspective on humanity that he wanted. It just wasn't comfortable, being seen by someone, something something the mortifying ordeal of being known. "As long as you don't ask me to write an essay."
"You may report your findings to me however you wish," Finch said serenely. "So long as you can satisfy me regarding the thoroughness of your study."
"I am tempted to report my findings to you through interpretive dance," Matthew replied sarcastically, just because he could. "Or to offer to satisfy you thoroughly in a more pleasurable manner."
Finch merely gave him another look, this one distinctly long-suffering.
Appearance: Win stands tall at six foot three, his meaty forearms folded over his broad chest, his formerly ripped gut sucked in to hide the fact that he’s had less time to hit the gym these days. He is African-American with dark brown skin and big, expressive eyes that are of a lighter shade of brown. His black, curly hair is styled in short dreads with a fade, while grays have begun to invade his short, neatly trimmed beard. Win has a crooked smile with deep dimples that he’s quick to flash. There is a small scar underneath his left eye whose story he always promises to tell another time but never delivers, and the hint of the start of a burn scar on his chest peeking out from the collar of his shirt whose story he claims nobody would ever believe. The fourth and fifth finger on his left hand are stumps ending just below mid-knuckle.
Win dresses well, but his wardrobe is limited—the only difference between his casual weekend outfit and his work outfit is he untucks on the weekend. Otherwise, it’s dress shoes with some orthopedic inserts, neutral chinos, and pastel button-downs with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Win has only worn a suit jacket once and that was at his wedding. He won’t even wear a winter coat unless it’d be suicidal to go outside without one. A heavy hand with the cologne leaves a thick smell of sandalwood lingering wherever Win goes, bordering upon violating the Geneva Protocol for chemical warfare.
Personality: Win is a survivor forever stuck in a limbo between deciding if he’s just stupidly lucky, extremely determined, or, as his wife once put it, stupidly determined. A Chicago native turned soldier, he doesn’t let the guilt of outlasting friends who’d died in the streets or overseas bring him down. Instead, he chooses that always unbearable path of the warm and bright optimist, saying such cliche things like how he’d live life to the fullest because anything else would be disrespectful to those he lost. In his five years at PHI there have been plenty of times where he has spoken up in disagreement, but nobody can recall a time he has complained simply to complain. He doesn’t even stress in bumper to bumper traffic.
Humble, generous, and understanding with a dangerous sense of justice and responsibility, Win is a dedicated family man—and he considers his coworkers family. Win is the kind of guy who’d invite a coworker over for dinner with his wife and two kids before ever even getting a drink with them afterwork. He’s also the guy at the bar who’d step in to stop a fight or the guardian angel who’d dive in front of a bullet, claw, or an extremely garlicky slice of artisanal pizza to protect their partner while out on an investigation.
While he has his lightbulb moments, Win’s more thoughtful and wise than he is analytical and strategic. In the field he’s happy to let others take the lead while offering advice or pointing out flaws where he sees fit, but he usually won’t push against an idea he only somewhat disagrees with. However, there are some things he won’t do. He’s sensible, but he’s not a sucker. If a plan crosses the line he’ll put his foot down or break it off in someone’s ass if he must. Win’s a survivor after all, but there are some things—betraying family, abandoning a friend—that he just wouldn’t be able to live with.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Even if Win has lost his six pack in favor of sneaking his son’s Snack Pack, he’s still immensely strong for a normal, non-magical human being and shockingly quick and agile for a man of his size. A former Marine Raider trained in CQC backed up by wilding teen years of street fighting, Win is a lightning fast striker whose punches hit like miniature wrecking balls. He can take it even harder than his guns can dish it, and almost always finds a way to stay on his feet until a fight is done. He still spars in a ring at a gym in his limited spare time, but generally punishes the punching bag in his basement more often than not.
Of course when you’re hunting things that have massive maws that can tear a man in two, six needle-like arms that can quickly swiss cheese a torso, or a living embodiment of fire getting up close and personal generally isn’t the best call, even if he does switch out the punches for lethal stabs with a silvered tactical knife. Win was the designated marksman for his squad back in the day, and his shot hasn’t dropped a bit. Favoring big game hunting rifles and backing it up with wrist snapping, high caliber revolvers, Win aims to stop most hostile things that go bump in the night with just one loud bang. He once jokingly asked Morgan to see if there was room in the budget for a flamethrower so he could get over his fear of fire, except the look of defeat on his face when she told them they needed a new printer first was evidence enough that he was only half-kidding.
He doesn’t pretend to be the supernatural expert or the tactical genius, but he’s extremely organized and attentive while out in the field. When needed he offers overwatch from a vantage point, runs the radio check-ins, keeps track of the other investigators, and offers to sit, comfort, and interview any victims or witnesses while the others investigate the area. In the office, Win naturally falls into the role of a mediator or counselor—things can get heated between people in the field and egos tend to swell once you learn how to cast spells, but Win always manages to let someone know they're being a shithead without hurting their feelings. He also makes the best coffee and knows how everyone takes theirs.
Otherwise, Win is a devoted husband to a demonologist, blogger, self-published author, and occasional PHI consultant named Lily, loving father to his seven-year-old son Sam and four-year-old daughter Lucy. Win is also an avid gardener, a crossword puzzle addict, a live jazz fan, and somehow slowly turning into one of those old guys who goes to the park to play chess despite never winning a single damn game. Win got rid of the old Skee-ball machine taking up a parking spot in the garage that he got from a friend who knew a guy after his Lily said that it was really alarming how much effort he was putting in to beating a child at a stupid arcade game. He now tries to get everyone over to the Air Hockey table. He crushes it at Air Hockey.
Background:
The knife flashed forward, milky white liquid dripping from the fresh cuts as it slashed through the body again and again and again. There was the sound of something snapping, followed by a crunch, crunch, crunch as the cutting ruthlessly continued. The voice of Smokey Robinson softly sang through a tinny phone speaker, doing little to mask the sniffling of an adult man crying. Win pulled the bottom of his apron up to his eyes and wiped away the tears. Damn onions always got to him. He scraped the diced onions and chopped celery into a bowl, and then started working on the carrots. A rogue hand shot out from behind him and snatched up a carrot, treading dangerously close to his careful cuts.
“For real, Lily?You know how that freaks m—!”
“Shh, I just got Sam down. Try this.”
Win glanced at the glass of white wine Lily was offering him, her dark eyes shining with expectation and a hint of playful mischievousness. The tension in his shoulders loosened as he took the glass, noticing a bit of her black lipstick on the rim of the glass. He closed his eyes, took a sip, and held it in his mouth as he felt his taste buds turn against each other and kill themselves off. He opened one eye to stare Lily down as he put his mouth back to the glass and spit the wine out. He could see the corner of her large smile appearing at the edge of the hand that was covering his mouth. He’d been with Lily for nearly six years, married to her for three years, the father of her son for two of them, and still he found himself surprised by what a little troll she could be.
“Your face! Oh god, you look so disappointed,” she said with a snort.
“Was that cooking wine?” asked Win, wiping his lip as he coughed.
“You didn’t even smell it first!” said Lily, her voice turning into a squeal as she struggled to properly breath.
“It was some kind of wine right? Lily?” Win watched in horror as his wife stumbled out of the kitchen, holding her sides. He craned his neck around the corner. “Lily, that was wine, right?”
“Hold on. Let me grab the bottle.”
Win shook his head and chuckled to himself. “Try this” had been the first thing Lily had ever said to him when they met at a mutual friend’s house party. Normally Win stuck to the creed of not taking random red solo cups from strangers dressed like mall goths, but normally strangers dressed like mall goths weren’t also pretty Indian girls so he took the risk. He woke up the following morning next to a toilet. He said he was honestly surprised he was able to remember her when they ran into one another at an occult bookstore after he'd been discharged from the Marines. She’d said she was honestly surprised that he read about Middle Eastern demonology, let alone that he was a reader at all. She’d always been quick to play the role of the jerk. It’s one of the things he loved about her.
“Ta-da!” said Lily, whipping out a bottle of fernet from behind her back as she returned. “It’s pretty terrible, isn’t it? Silvia gave it to me as a gift for agreeing to do a book signing at her store.”
“I thought Silvia liked you,” said Win, finishing up the vegetables.
“I think she knew I’d give it to you.”
“I thought Silvia liked me,” he muttered.
“She does. She just likes me more,” said Lily, trying another sip of the fernet. “It’s kind of refreshing in a weird way. I’ll give you the bottle of the good stuff after you nail your interview tomorrow. You nervous at all?”
“Knowing your definition of “the good stuff” I am now,” said Win. “Actually, I was hoping you could run me some dummy interview questions and tell me if any of my answers sound stupid.”
“Sure. Telling you what is and isn’t stupid is my job, after all.”
“Mhm, it’s why I keep you around.”
He took the bowl filled with the holy trinity of veggies and set it next to the gas stove, opened the window to vent the smoke as a gust of cool fall air rustled the curtains, and flicked on the pilot to the frustrating sound of a clicka-clicka-click as it didn’t catch. Win groaned, turned the knob again, and was met with the same sound. It looks like Romantic Dinner Night might turn into Pizza Night. He flicked it again as Lily spoke up, “Hey, give it a…” Third time’s the—whoosh! The pilot came to life and it caught the gas, creating an impressive ball of fire that leapt up before Win’s eyes. The knife clattered to the floor as Win stepped back, the cool Chicago air vaporized with the rest of his apartment as flames consumed all he could see.
Win felt himself become soaked in sweat as the desert air wrapped around him, sand blasting against his goggles as it crept past the folds in his handkerchief and sizzled against his skin like hot, tiny coals. The harsh sun had completely disappeared in the sudden sandstorm that’d swallowed up his team, the radios crackling with static interference that was drowned out by the sound of a loud roar like a jet engine except it sounded wrong. Less mechanical, more organic. Win didn’t even have the chance to consider how ridiculous of a thought that was as a wall of flame erupted out in front of him. He fell to the ground and covered his face as the blowing sand turned into lacerating bits of glass.
He heard the Raiders around him screaming, grown men crying out horrifically. Somebody called for a retreat. The wind carried the smell of burning flesh like overcooked bacon as Win heard the beating of wings. Win struggled to his feet and started running, unable to see more than a dozen feet in front of him through the sandstorm. He tripped over something and fell prone, looking back to see the crisp corpse of a Marine. He made himself stand up. Another roar, another blast of fire. A few more feet closer and he would’ve been roasted alive by it. Instead, his vest caught flames as a wall of black glass erupted out from the sand. He ripped it off quickly and chucked it away before the ammunition caught, rolling on the ground to put out his shirt.
He heard Sergeant Andrews screaming orders through the storm. The boys used to make fun of how damn loud he was; now it was a godsend. Win rushed off in that direction, grabbing a fellow soldier who was struggling to find footing up out of the sand and offering him a shoulder. He saw the Sergeant through the storm seconds before a massive black shadow flew down on Andrews so quickly that Win only really saw the black, serpentine tail as the orders stopped coming before the sand flew up to block his vision. Fear overtook the soldier on his shoulder, who shoved free of Win and ran back. Win closed his eyes and breathed deeply, ignoring the smell, ignoring the screams. Panicking would only get him killed. He had to remain calm, he had to remain calm. Win opened his eyes, the flames rolling towards him, fire all he could see. He felt a hand touch his own and pull.
“Hey, are you alright?” asked Lily, pulling her husband back from the past, her eyebrows knitted deeply with concern. The oil in the pan had begun to smoke before she’d turned the gas off.
“Yeah,” said Win, blinking away the look of sheer terror on his face as he saw his apartment again. Lily narrowed her eyes at him. He sighed deeply and leaned against the counter, pulling her into his arms. She hated when he tried to be tough and lied to her, so he didn’t. “No. No, I’m not, but I will be. Just give me a second.”
“We really need a better stove,” she whispered after his sobbing stopped.
“We need a better apartment,” said Win, letting Lily go so she could take over making dinner. She waited until he’d turned to walk to the barstool before switching on the gas.
“Wait, you don’t want to raise our son in a one-bedroom, roach-infested shithole?” she said, smiling over her shoulder as she popped another piece of carrot in her mouth.
“A second bedroom would be nice,” he said.
“A second bedroom would be nice, which means you need to nail this interview. What kind of questions do you think they’re gonna ask you at Church and Hawthorne?” she asked.
“Priest and Hawthorne,” he corrected. Lily poured the veggies into the pan. Win winced as they sizzled and popped like Marines in the desert. He reached for the glass of fernet, took a sip of it that made his face sour but his shoulders relaxed, and added a bit more to the glass. Lily was right. It was refreshing in a strange kind of way. It drove out the phantom scent of burnt bodies. “And I don’t really know. You’re the paranormal expert, miss author, not me.”
“Hmm. Okay, Mr. Coates. Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, tele—”
“C’mon, ask me a real one.”
“Fine. During an investigation, you come toe to toe with a giant, man-eating spider. How would you handle it?” she said.
“Lily, I think the job’s more about going to a person’s house and telling them the ghosts they’re seeing is really a carbon monoxide leak than hunting down made up monsters.”
“Do you not believe in monsters, Mr. Coates? Have you never heard of a tulpa?”
Win sighed. After what he saw, of course he did. “A tulpa is a paranormal manifestation of an entity brought upon by a strong enough belief in said entity. Assuming such a thing is possible, then there are definitely enough people who are afraid of giant spiders that one could potentially be born as a tulpa. As for how I would handle it, that would depend on company protocol. If we were to capture it, I would do everything in my power to do so, unless I found the entity a threat to either the wellbeing of our contact or our team, in which case I would then neutralize the threat.”
“Awww, someone’s been reading my blog,” said Lily.
“Every post. But c’mon, a giant spider?” Win snorted and took another drink. “Really? Hit me with another question. One they’d actually ask this time...”
Race/Species: Human (with coyote spirit). 3/4th english, 1/4th Cherokee
Age (Real and apparent): 21 and he looks it.
Appearance: 'Street' would be the best way to describe John to anyone who cared to ask. He throws on whatever baggy pants he can grab, whatever t-shirt he can don, and he combs his mane just enough to keep it out of his eyes. His dark features accompany his lithe, youthful frame nicely, though considering he lacks fashion or care it's mostly wasted. With a tanned physique and strong, callused hands, his amber eyes reflect light like they were wrought of a reflective metal. They're even more striking than the sterling silver necklace he wears under his shirt, emblazoned with the symbol of the coyote.
Personality: Many would call John lazy, sarcastic, ungrateful, and various other less than stellar terms. To a point, they're right. He's a hard worker when pressed, but he enjoys slacking off when he can. Sarcasm and jokes are his bread and butter when he's not complaining. In essence, he's the typical college dropout, unhappy with his lot in life and his lack of options, just finding humor and brevity where he may. Of course, as per cliche tradition, deep down he's a caring, good man with hopes and dreams and courage in the most unlikely of places. Unfortunately, the Spirit inside him keeps him annoyed enough and disrupts his life enough to where this 'unpolished gem' rarely shows its face. When the Coyote takes over, even for a moment, John goes from facetious to cackling, his expression transforms from choleric to a fiercely sardonic, and in flirtatious situations he even goes from awkward to smooth. John has started getting used to walking away from situations without remorse, just trying to keep the consequences of his actions from reaching him. All from waking up in the middle of a hairbrained situation the Coyote has dragged him into, whether it be in a stolen car, the bed of a stranger, or eating Trix at 3 AM watching animal planet. One thing is for sure, he's definitely put his mind to controlling the Spirit, showcasing he has the will to do so when he applies himself. What he really wants is to turn his affliction into a positive, and thanks to his tracking skills he thinks he's found his niche. Secretly he feels the agency is good security for if he goes crazy with the spirit, but he would never admit it.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: John himself can street fight when he needs to, and he's been given basic firearms training by Priest & Hawthorne. What he really has pivotal knowledge on are cryptids and animistic spirits, and how the mind of a thief works.
His Coyote Spirit is what truly makes him notable, though it's also the complication. At the funeral of his grandfather, he was given his grandfather's old pendant, unknowingly cursing himself with the wraith-like animal thing. Now apart of him, it's turned his life upside down. On the bright side, John has enhanced hearing, smell, and eyesight. He's also a bit stronger, faster, and dexterous than he used to be, though not to any large degree. He can track spirits and aberrations when under the influence of the coyote, and with his speed he can help find most things the agency hunts.
Unfortunately, the curse has a tendency for the spirit to 'overtake' him sometimes, forcing himself out of his body as the spirit takes over to commit mischief and feel the free air once more. John's had to deal with it for a year, which led to him dropping out of college, losing most his friends, and deciding to move out of Jacksonville to join Priest & Hawthorne. Thankfully, he's gotten used enough to it to keep the spirit most suppressed. It's when the two work in unison that he becomes truly powerful.
When that happens, his body transforms into what appears to be a sixty pound coyote, able to see into the spirit world. Any wounds inflicted on it are healed when he reverts back to his normal body.
He had heard stories of werecoyotes, with the shape of both coyote and man. But he hasn't quite reached that point yet. He's just trying to have a normal life at this point.
Background:
"Yes, I know." He sighed, leaning against the wall, a hand pressed to his forehead to vainly keep the migraine down. Advil had done little, and the 'fresh northern air' wasn't the cure all he had been told. "Look, I'm not trying to argue. Let's just agree that the best thing to do is to let you take him for awhile. I know he'll miss me, but I'm not responsible enough for him. Not right now, just trust me. I'll wire some money to you to pay for his vet bills..."
A glazed look came over his eyes as his brows narrowed, showcasing the face he would make were he face to face with her. "I like how you say you're a cat person, because on my end you're sounding like a real bitch."
He hung up, vastly aware of just how much he was going to pay for that later in guilt and time. He knew, in ten years time, breaking up with Margo was going to be one of his biggest regrets. The last two months hadn't been easy, and he'd become particularly vulnerable to his condition. It was after he nearly hit someone with his car that he knew he needed help, and a new life. He was a survivor after all, just like the spirit. Unlike the coyote, he needed a job and a healthy way to deal with his problems.
He pushed off the wall, just about to step into the crowd to go hitch a ride with anyone he could, when his keen vision caught the sleight of hand of a pick pocket three meters away. It almost seemed like a dream, and he felt it as much as saw it. Somehow the coyote knew where to look. For the briefest of moments, he was about to go and attack the thief, without provocation or a back up plan. But he was in enough trouble as it was. Instead, he caught up with the lawyer-looking guy who was suddenly a wallet short.
"Hey," he said, patting his shoulder to catch his attention. The rolling of the suitcase faltered as he turned, confused and a bit bemused. John pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "See that guy in the green hoodie? He took your wallet."
The college kid was already walking away as the man felt for his wallet and realized it was gone.
"Hey, you! Stop!" He cried behind John's back, and the boy felt a weird leather thing in his pocket at just that moment. Suddenly, he realized he had the wallet! John opened his mouth, and then hurried away, caught between helping the man by giving it back and admitting to a crime he knew that thing inside of him committed.
"Why did you take his wallet!?" John hissed to what seemed no one. In his mind he heard snickering, and a...feeling cascaded over him, like a message but without words or images. Just a conveyed meaning he could decipher. John almost laughed at the realization that the spirit simply wanted to one up another trickster, regardless of the consequences. Looking back on it, he recalled the moment the coyote took over and swiped the wallet from the other thief. John was getting better at catching it, but he needed more focus.
He felt like he was walking through a spiderweb growing more and more taut as he walked out of the airport, carrying the wallet further away from its rightful owner. He was just scared and alone, in a new city with some psycho curse or insane mental condition. Once he made it out of the parking lot, he started to run down the street even as it began to rain. He ran until he found himself in the city, suddenly surrounded by towers of stone and steel. He clutched at the wallet and backed into an alley that was more occupied than he originally thought.
"You took that wallet from me!" A nasally voice accused, and John spun around to see a... a small man. A small green man, with a red beard. John pointed at him, his brow furrowing.
"You're a leprechaun." He stated. He was too weirded out to say much else. "A guy stole a wallet, not someone as short as you."
"Yes, I am laddae! And I can appear as a tall folk if I wish! That wallet is going in me pot of gold!" The diminutive sprite declared, and floated there expectantly. John blinked, because he had the distinct impression there was a con going on here. It was like he had a second type of vision, for he saw a cloaked form gliding like a hanglider over to nab the money in John's hands. The young man couldn't see the creature he believed was fake until two seconds ago. But in the shade of the alley, his dark eyes glinted gold, and suddenly he could not only see the invisible thing, but smell the sprite. Inside his mind, he heard chortling, and his hand shot out to grab what he shouldn't have been able to see.
"What!?" The leprechaun gasped, flummoxed. Vainly he wiggled his short arms, trying to break free. John pulled him up to eye level, and smirked. Moments later, he had thrown the leprechaun in the dumpster, and took a long wiff of the wallet. He realized he was going to come clean and find the man back at the airport. He could track him.
Two days later, he found himself just at the front of a building the spirit had guided him to. Just before him, Priest & Hawthorne Investigations was stamped on the building.
He figured he could do field work. He needed the money after all.
Two (technically 3) character concepts I was evenly fond of, open to you picking out whichever one you'd rather have aboard the RP.
Name: Nathan Bishop
Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Male - He/Him
Race/Species: Human
Age (Real and apparent): 34
Appearance:
Nate doesn't carry a particularly imposing figure: a wiry frame that tops out at 5'9 and a sharp, thinly-rounded face with a low-cut shaven head and closely cropped beard of coarse, black hair. His bronzed skin is the only other feature indicative of his Afro-Cuban heritage. Though his eyes are normally a deep brown, there are periods where the colour seems to periodically flicker to a lighter tone. Or maybe it's just an optical illusion, a trick played by the mind.
A man of practical habits, Nate dresses for comfort - usually throwing on a hoodie or a jacket over a t-shirt, with a sturdy pair of cargo pants and rugged hiking-boots serving as his go-to choices for leg and footwear respectively.
Personality:
A firm work ethic and sense of diligence steer Nate on a path towards professional and overall good conduct in the workplace, much to the extent that he sometimes forgets that he's not carrying a badge anymore - he retains a good sense of what he thinks is right and wrong and near-exclusively sticks to the former in his actions. Though attentive to work, he's not an exceptionally difficult person to speak to, generally exhibiting a sociable if not friendly disposition towards others.
Being exposed to the reality of the world, where matters are not quite so mundane, remains an ongoing experience for him - he's not entirely comfortable in his own awareness of things like eldritch monsters and overgrown arachnids and it shows on some of these occasions, often making him seem like the rookie to his more seasoned, senior coworkers in PHI.
And it would not be wrong to suggest that Nate has found life as a living anchor for the spectre of his dead coworker, Detective Gabriel Ward, to be a challenging experience - indeed, there are periods where he feels the stress and trauma of the original experience bubbling to the surface, culminating in moments of frustration or despair.
The experience was a traumatic one, which ultimately forced him out of Chicago PD when his attempts to investigate Gabe's death and subsequently 'erratic' behaviour demonstrated in view of other cops led to his being placed on an indefinite leave. Though he respected and considered Gabe a good friend, there are moments where he resents involuntarily becoming an anchor to the mortal world for his dead coworker and the toll it's taken on him.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
If it wasn't already clear, Nate is the living anchor to the mortal world for the spirit of his late coworker, Detective Gabriel Ward. Wherever he goes, Gabe's spirit is linked to him and manifests in the form of his old likeness, perceptible only to him and those privileged few capable of sensing spiritual entities such as the undead. In practice for Nate, this link gives him a certain sixth sense that's not wholly infallible, occasionally giving him an eye for certain illusions concealed in plain sight or letting him pick up a hint of spiritual residue, even letting him see whatever Gabe can. It's not cut and dry - he's still a rookie at this gig, after all.
This link also has its drawbacks - traumatic experiences aside, there is a certain personality bleed which has seeped through, causing Nate to recall slivers of memory and adopt a few curious habits which once belonged to Gabe - drinking as a coping mechanism. He's not quite aware of it yet, though Gabe hasn't missed it.
Though he's but a man, Nate brings just under a decade of Chicago PD experience under his belt, having passed the detective examination a good few years prior to his life jumping off-track. He's not necessarily as seasoned as some, but he's got some solid instincts that serve him well enough, with some added guidance from the spirit anchored to his own.
He's in fairly good shape, can manage a lengthy sprint and take care of himself in a physical confrontation with the average streetwalker, but he's no prizefighter. Likewise he can competently handle most conventional firearms and handles driving exceptionally well, having once attained a Precinct record for an advanced driving course back in his CPD days. He's also a moderately fluent Spanish speaker.
When Nate isn't out on a job, he's either drinking somewhere quiet, perusing through casefiles at the office or otherwise trying to keep his mind occupied and away from less pleasant matters. His social media presence is minimal at best, just enough to keep in touch with a few friends and family when he's not busy at work - that, and occasional checking in in Gabe's two daughters to see how they're doing. Otherwise, he's spending his time checking on the news or listening to policing documentaries.
Nate's performance at Skee-Ball leaves much to be desired; it's just not something he's had a lot of time for. He prefers ice hockey, personally. That, or foosball - and that's assuming he's not busying himself with one of the racing cabinets at the arcade.
Name: Gabriel Ward
Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Male - He/Him
Race/Species: Spectre
Age (Real and apparent): 50 (48 at death)
Appearance: Most people can't see Gabe unless they've got some form of innate connection to the spiritual or otherwise magical realms. Those who do, however, see the shade of a stocky, middle-aged male with sharp features and a cropped salt-and-pepper beard, typically wearing a grey sports jacket. On a bad day, his form takes on a more haggard approach - his wrists and throat carved open and his clothes spattered with dried, black blood. On the worst, that decay is amplified - depending on the situation and Gabe's frame of mind.
Personality: Death has an unusual way of altering someone. In Gabe's case, it exaggerated certain aspects of his personality - partially as a coping mechanism, and partially on the basis of death being a life-changing, traumatic experience.
A sharp, dry wit and an overall sarcastic demeanour can colour his interactions with Nate anyone else in his presence. Being dead certainly amplified his sense of gallows humour, giving him an edge rivalled only by the underworld. Otherwise, he has a good sense of what's right and wrong and the varying grey areas inbetween, even if his work ethic isn't quite as diligent as others.
Buried beneath this front is the shade of a man somewhat embittered by his predicament, unable (and subconsciously unwilling) to move on and trapped as an echo of his former self, unable to experience something as simple as the taste of good liquor, or the warmth of another human being. Periodically, this frustration surfaces, usually in the form of outbursts lashing out at anything or anyone he can - usually leaving Nate to serve as the emotional punching bag.
Gabe does truly care, though - though loathe to admit it - and deeply misses the connections he lost, including those he had with his (now-adult) daughters.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Being a spectre with some limited grounding in the mortal realm, Gabe is particularly limited in what he can do - or be seen by, given that only the most perceptive or circumstantially positioned (ie, undead) are just about the only people who might be able to perceive him, apart from Nate. Having a non-corporeal form, he can pass through most forms of matter that don't have any form of spiritual protection placed upon them to ward off spirits, which does allow him to survey Nate's surroundings. But as Nate is his anchor to the world, he can't stray too far away without encountering great resistance, akin to having an invisible leash fixed around him.
When focused, Gabe can interact with certain objects and aspects of his surroundings on a limited basis - knocking over a glass here, leaving a handprint on a window there. And in the presence of the recently deceased, he can inhabit and puppeteer their corpses for a limited period, akin to hotwiring a car and taking it for a joyride before the anti-tamper system kicks in, though his senses remain dulled - like pressing through latex. Technically, he could possess Nate and use him as a proxy - but he's never figured it out, nor would he test it.
A 24-year veteran of the Chicago Police Department at the point of his death, Gabe has a few good decades' worth of policing experience under his belt and then some, having enrolled in the academy not too long after some brief service as a tanker in the Gulf during Operation Desert Storm. Casework and filings were his bread and butter, something which hasn't dulled despite several years of being dead.
Apart from that, he used to be a competent cook. Nothing fancy, but many at the old office could've attested that his fried chicken and waffles recipe was to die for, getting the batter just light enough that it was just the right amount of crispy. He also had a soft spot for a few classic 80s-90s scifi movies, particularly Aliens and the Terminator.
Skee-Ball? Yeah, he used to be a pretty good shot at that - better than Nate for sure. Even now, he could probably give the rest of PHI a run for their money, provided nobody cheats by placing some form of barrier spell against the balls.
Excerpt from a Bureau of Internal Affairs report on Detective Nathan Bishop.
Det. Bishop's personal integrity and commitment to law enforcement is without any doubt, and his service record warrants no further question. My concern, rather, lies in his fixation on events surrounding the death of his former co-worker, the late Det. Gabriel Ward. For context, Det. Ward was found dead under unusual circumstances that were ruled to be suicide by the Medical Examiner's Office. Det. Bishop has insisted on several occasions that the death was a homicide and, despite multiple warnings from their superior, has continued on several occasions to pursue an extrajudicial investigation in contradiction to Department regulations, including the misuse of Department resources to continue said investigation.
It has also been brought to the attention of the Department that several of Det. Bishop's co-workers have anonymously come forward to report instances of erratic behaviour on his part, including the consumption of alcohol while on-duty and engaging in conversations and 'arguments' with the late Det. Ward - though Det. Bishop has firmly denied such allegations.
It is for this reason that I recommend Det. Bishop be placed on indefinite paid leave, pending referral to PCD under TISMP and post-counselling assessment.
Name: Clark Fraser
Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Male - He/Him
Race/Species: Vampire
Age (Real and apparent): Chronologically 69, physically 12
Appearance: Clark is what some might disparagingly refer to as a 'Pinocchio' - a vampire trapped in a child's body, allowed to turn at a young age. He carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, grey tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, cool to the touch. Though undeath leaves him relatively unblemished, he does have a rather deep gouge running along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve - acquired during an early childhood mishap.
Clothing choices deemed 'sensible' for a child tend to be limited, but Clark usually finds room to wear a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, usually with a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of fingerless gloves, if it's winter.
Personality: To say the least, Clark is frustrated by his predicament - stuck in a child's body, unable to enjoy the 'perks' of an unholy immortality by virtue of being too underdeveloped to experience the world. No room for any form of intimacy, or even joining others for social occasions at the bar. It leaves him with a certain bitterness at times, typically reflected against those beneficiaries of unnatural longevity with none of the drawbacks of perpetual childhood.
Being dismissed or mistaken for a child agitates him, and he bristles at the mere mention of the phrase 'kid' or other such diminutives, particularly when speaking to people who by all rights may be several decades younger than him. This sore spot, especially around his peers, drives Clark to subconsconsciously compensate for this by behaving in an egregiously unchildlike manner whenever it's not absolutely necessary, demonstrating a firm commitment to good work ethic and an overall serious if not professional demeanour when on the job.
Though not an extrovert, he reciprocates a mutual respect towards those who treat him as a peer, even demonstrating sprinkles of dry wit and sarcasm while steering away from the cold, callous behaviour that others of his kind have been reputed for. That's not to say he's without any skeletons (or exsanguinated corpses) in his closet though, but he keeps such matters close to his chest and takes a ruthlessly pragmatic approach to being a 'predator'. At least, so long as the thirst is kept in check.
Powers, Traits and Abilities: Though locked in a child's body, Clark has doubtless been blessed with the unholy gifts bestowed by vampirism - particularly his senses. His eyes have adapted to maintain visibility in the dark, his ears are so fine-tuned that they could probably pick up WBBM-AM and his nose could rival a bloodhound's. If there's a trace of anything left at a scene, be it gasoline, ectoplasm or, above all else - blood - Clark can pick up its smell, even its taste from mere presence. Were he a decade older and precluded from the predatory habits of his kind, he'd have probably made Chicago's finest forensic investigator.
Perceptive cabilities aside, Clark is far more robust than his appearance would suggest, able to commit to admirable feats of speed, stamina and endurance while exhibiting a degree of strength that far exceeds what a 12 year old boy should be capable of demonstrating. He can scale steep walls and adjust his center of gravity to cling to the ceiling, too - among other troubling examples of behaviour uncharacteristic for 12 year old boys.
Sunlight, silver and other appropriately treated materials are corrosive to the touch, burning his skin upon contact and would doubtless prove fatal if exposed for sufficient duration, with fire having a similar effect. A stake or some other such implement impaled through the heart probably wouldn't do him much good either. Otherwise, he is functionally immortal, capable of regenerating from the most grievous of injuries in a matter of minutes.
Of course, all of the above does largely depend on Clark sustaining himself through feeding on the lifeblood of other living creatures. His robust capabilities wax and wane, depending on how much and often he sates the thirst, with wounds lingering and strength faltering when deprived of blood for too long. This growing weakness, coupled with the addictive nature of the thirst, is often enough to drive him to moments of frenzy if left unsated for too long.
Certain religious symbols, specifically those of the Abrahamic denominations, do produce a certain unease in him - personal scars from an unpleasant incident in the late '90s when some would-be evangelist attempted to 'redeem' his soul by locking him in a basement surrounded by silver implements and religious imagery.
Other gifts of vampirism - telepathy, shapeshifting and the power to enthrall other beings - all remain beyond Clark's reach, having little practice, understanding or awareness of the true heights of vampiric power. Perhaps, with time, he might be able to explore this ceiling, but that may take decades - centuries even, provided he even tries at all.
And unholy capabilities aside, Clark's not above using his diminuitive form to deceive or manipulate others into getting to where or what he wants - perhaps without even needing to play into the magnetism that vampirism lends its gifted. After all, nobody's likely to gun for the child as a suspect at the scene of a disaster - though it is a very, very sore spot of provocation for him.
Though not a conventional fighter, Clark has learned to be pragmatic and opportunistic where appropriate - relying on more underhanded tactics to compensate for his smaller stature on those occasions where he's needed to be forceful for his own good. He knows how to operate a firearm, but anything larger than a pistol or a plinker tends to be a little too clunky for his diminutive form and most would raise an eyebrow to the prospect of leaving a child with access to a firearm. He's a better pitcher than a marksman, anyhow - anything from baseballs to bricks - and Skee-Ball, naturally. The rest of PHI found a worthy opponent when Clark came aboard, on the occasions he actually bothers to participate.
In theory, Clark knows how to drive stick, though he can only just about reach the pedals and not without raising eyebrows. Bicycles are a little more manageable, though typically made redundant when not keeping up a public face and on occasion he's taken a dirt bike for a joyride when walking, running or climbing haven't been so convenient.
A product of his time, Clark shares an eclectic fondness for rock and heavy metal music to help him focus, with a select collection of tracks on his phone. The same applies to his tastes in media - though where video games are concerned, he struggles to appreciate anything newer than the SNES - perhaps his perspective was a little skewed by the unconventional controller layout of the then-revolutionary N64.
Across various social medisla outlets, Clark has established quite the footprint under various aliases, surprisingly enough - though it serves an ulterior motive that few would find as a good topic of conversation for the dinner table.
Background:
The faint thrum of hospital machinery, ventilators and heart monitors pulsed against his temples. A dozen footsteps and voices idly chattered outside the hospital room, unaware that an interloper had scaled the wall to clamber in through the window.
Clark blinked at the fragile creature resting on the bed, garbed in a speckled-blue gown that ran from shoulders to knees, an IV line snaking its way from the bedside stand into her sleeve. Time had robbed her of many things: her youth, her memories and now? Her health.
His sister wasn't long for this world, that he knew, from what he could follow of the countless conversations and private doctor's messages he'd pried upon. Illness was terminal, this time - and even if it wasn't, lucidity eluded her more days than not. Her own children couldn't bear to watch their mother fade away, seldom making personal calls anymore, and for all intents and purposes she was the last of their family.
Clark knew he shouldn't interfere. Shouldn't say anything. He was a ghost, and yet...
“Judy?“ The name slipped out of him.
His voice was barely above a whisper, yet her frail form seemed to stir in mere seconds and her withered expression seemed to light up.
"Clark?“ she spoke hoarsely, "Is that you?“
Too late to back out. "It's me, Judes..." The words spilled out awkwardly.
"Clark... where've you been, huh?" her greyed brow furrowed, leaning forward as though she wasn't aware of the IV drip feeding her fluids, "We've been worried sick." Age had robbed her of just enough lucidity to to deceive her into thinking they were just children once more.
"Mom and Dad, they've been worried sick for you.." Dad died in '91. Mom in '98.
But Clark tried to pass it off, best he could with a kind lie. "I was just with Tommy, y'know?" A retiree now, last he knew. At least he got to grow up. He knew the truth was too much to bear or believe. Far better to tolerate a gentle scolding - any excuse to spend a little time with her, face-to-face.
"Even Frank.." Judy's features creased a little more as she chided him, slowly forming the words, "H-he went looking all over for you, he can't sleep." Frank enlisted in '65 and got shipped off halfway across the world to Vietnam. In '67, they shipped him back home in a box. Clark loosened a soothing hush to try and calm her, leaning in close enough to be drawn into her embrace.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, with a childlike sincerity he hadn't felt for some time, clutching her tight as he felt her heartbeat strum a familiar, waning chord. "I didn't mean to upset you." Perhaps for just a moment, he could truly be a child again, in body and mind. Forget about what happened to him. Forget about everything he'd done - had to do, wanted to do. Forget that he was stuck somewhere between spending eternity as a child and the black oblivion which lay beyond. For a moment, Clark could be the little brother and forget.
But not the thirst. No, never the thirst. It was always with him at the best of times, like a scratch on the paintwork of a brand new Camaro. And for a brief moment, perhaps by instinct alone, he became acutely aware of her heartbeat. How even her ailing body carried blood - that it would be such a tempting moment, an opportunity. And there he was again, no longer a child.
No.
The thought shamed him, and he stiffly drew back from the thin, leathery arms that had been drawn around his shoulders. Even as that part of him tried to justify the notion, that Judy could join him - he recognised the folly of it. What life would that be? Her mind addled, her body at its final juncture. Would she have ever entertained it if her mind was her own?
He decided not. Better to let Judy rest. It was time he made his exit, before his senses failed him.
"I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes." Clark lied, turning away so she wouldn't see the black finger creeping from eye to cheek. "Just get some sleep." He didn't stop to see if she acknowledged that, but he felt the faint murmur on her lips. Goodbye.
As he left the room, he felt the reverberating thrum of the burner phone resting in his side pocket. Idly slipping it out, it took him but a few seconds to scan the SMS that had crept across the screen.
looking forward to seeing u buddy. ;)
Another matter to attend to, a friend - the kind that were easy enough to bait out if you trawled the right places. The kind that might've been a predator to some, but prey to him. Which was for the best, really.
The thirst was never truly apart from him. Self-control had its limits.
Clark keyed a few letters back in a well-rehearsed motion, then hit send.
My apologies, work kept me very late tonight. Love being on the clock till midnight! I'm about to crash out so you'll see the final cast tomorrow morning!
@Lucky as Callista Baros - there are so many plot hooks that I want to play with here!
@Rapid Reader as Valerie Ward - I could read about Val for hours!
@vietmyke as Jacob McCallister - Bring Your Daughter To Work Day has never been weirder.
@Penny as Emmaline von - sorry - Emma Stern. I swear I can hear Emma's voice in my head like she's standing next to me.
@psych0pomp as Sloane Southsühn - You took me up on the offer for someone to be a Literal Archangel and made it work. I could not stop smiling reading this! Amazing work.
@Atrophy as Edwin Coates - The idea of someone with a deeply supernatural family makes me very happy. This character just made me feel good!
@Zombiedude101 as Nate Bishop - Urban fantasy characters are often haunted, but rarely are they this haunted. I'm into the idea. Let's see how it develops!
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@POOHEAD189 - I like the idea of someone dealing with being (perhaps involuntarily) possessed by Coyote; trickster spirits are a lot of fun. I do think I want to know more about why he's involved with PHI, and what role he might have there, though.
@Dracorex - I am mulling over Matthew, and I admit I'm going back and forth. I wish I had a better answer right now, but "give me a moment" is going to be the best I have.
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I will be adjusting the IC teaser post to account for a somewhat larger cast, and arranging various "session zero" things in the Discord over the next day or two. You are all amazing writers, and I barely feel like I deserve the incredible talent you have put on display! Here's to some excitement. :3
