"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Name:
Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero
Age:
26
Gender:
F
Race:
Human
Description:
The first thing you’ll notice is the skin. Gray like fresh concrete from head to toe, even the freckles on her face have turned into a pale black spatter. It makes the red of her hair seem more fiery, makes her sickly eyes shine like polished gold, and makes Yam physically upset every time she looks in the mirror, so try not to mention it.
Next you’ll smell the smoke—relax, it’s only cigarettes. There’s one in her mouth now, there was one in her mouth five minutes ago, and five minutes from now there’ll be another one. She’s polite, she won’t blow it in your face, but Arôme de Nicotine is a powerful perfume and it’s the only one she owns.
Suit, tie, boots, coat, you get the feeling she’d wear a mask or a full suit of armor if she could get away with it. Some demons, especially ones who get cursed down to size, can be touchy about their earth-side appearances, but that’s not the case with Yam. She’s all human. Yep, check it again: Human. That’s not her skin, that’s her contract. It’s probably the worst ink job in New Helle; no artistry, no flourish, nothing but a blackout—well, grayout—nightmare.
It's easier to tell under the clothes. Pull up her sleeves, you’ll see some of her mom’s handywork: a webwork of curses, sigils, whatever the fuck those Hexen weirdos call it, Yam’s body is rife with them. They're like the tattoos on top of the tattoo, they even move. Creepy shit. You don’t see that much, cursed humans, but there’s something going on with that contract of hers that makes it necessary.
Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s a little touchy, a little temperamental, but her heart’s in the right place. Not in her job, holy shit no; it was pulling teeth dragging her back into the fold and she’s practically got it in her contract that she won’t get within a thousand feet of her mother. I meant her heart—when it’s actually her heart—isn’t as hellfire as she might put on. Buy her a drink, carry a lighter, you’ll get on fine.
Next you’ll smell the smoke—relax, it’s only cigarettes. There’s one in her mouth now, there was one in her mouth five minutes ago, and five minutes from now there’ll be another one. She’s polite, she won’t blow it in your face, but Arôme de Nicotine is a powerful perfume and it’s the only one she owns.
Suit, tie, boots, coat, you get the feeling she’d wear a mask or a full suit of armor if she could get away with it. Some demons, especially ones who get cursed down to size, can be touchy about their earth-side appearances, but that’s not the case with Yam. She’s all human. Yep, check it again: Human. That’s not her skin, that’s her contract. It’s probably the worst ink job in New Helle; no artistry, no flourish, nothing but a blackout—well, grayout—nightmare.
It's easier to tell under the clothes. Pull up her sleeves, you’ll see some of her mom’s handywork: a webwork of curses, sigils, whatever the fuck those Hexen weirdos call it, Yam’s body is rife with them. They're like the tattoos on top of the tattoo, they even move. Creepy shit. You don’t see that much, cursed humans, but there’s something going on with that contract of hers that makes it necessary.
Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s a little touchy, a little temperamental, but her heart’s in the right place. Not in her job, holy shit no; it was pulling teeth dragging her back into the fold and she’s practically got it in her contract that she won’t get within a thousand feet of her mother. I meant her heart—when it’s actually her heart—isn’t as hellfire as she might put on. Buy her a drink, carry a lighter, you’ll get on fine.
Background:
Saliel St. Sero is the real deal. God knows what they feed the Hexen, but they’re on some Be-Not-Afraid, Keep-My-Glock-At-The-Vatican, Angel-Blood-In-My-Cereal type shit. Name any bigshot demon walking around New Helle, and chances are they’ve got Saliel’s work on them somewhere.
Some thirty years ago, before she was that good, she met a demon who, like every demon the Hexen meet, wanted into New Helle. By and large, the Hexen aren’t a personable sort; in the same way you don’t make small talk with the TSA, demons don’t generally get chatty with the people in charge of cursing them. But this one was different. He talked plenty, asked questions about Saliel’s life, her job, her hobbies, and when she proved unreceptive to conversation, he introduced himself.
His name was Bel, and he did not want to be cursed. Refused it outright, in fact. He wanted into New Helle, but by now means would he allow Saliel or any other Hexen to curse him. This was, of course, incredibly illegal and Saliel, being a perfectly dedicated rising-star, denied him entry. Bel left, and there were no hard feelings.
Then he came back, making the same request. Again she denied him, and again he left. And came back. And left. And came back. And came back. And came back.
Eventually Saliel’s superiors looked into him, and found nothing. No Bel, no demons who knew Bel, or at least no demons who would talk about him if they did. He had made no threats, given no outright indication that he meant harm should they continue to deny his entry, and so it was decided that he was a nobody, and whatever reasons he had for lying about his identity didn’t concern the Bureau until he agreed to their terms. Saliel thought differently. Bel was polite, but in his presence she felt a distinct danger, a tension that wafted off him like smoke. He wanted something in New Helle, and while he was patient now, she had a feeling he would not be patient forever.
Sure enough, after almost five years of their routine, and an avalanche of promotions for Saliel, Bel showed disappointment for the first time. A frown, a twitch in the eye, and as he turned his back Saliel knew, somehow, that the next time he returned there would be no talking.
So she stopped him. She pulled the demon aside, they talked briefly, shook hands, and then he left. She never saw him again.
Smash cut, seventeen years later and Yamiel St. Sero has graduated highschool, on track to join the family business. Saliel was an unfair advantage; not for nepotism’s sake, but because there were few fiercer instructors than Mother St. Sero, and Yam had spent every year since her tenth birthday in the classroom of their home.
New Helle itself was also a teacher. Yam grew up alongside demons, half-demons, and humans with demonic predilections. She came to know the city’s streets well, to understand the tumultuous nature of its social contracts, to see how vice and virtue were so intricately woven together here. Sin was familiar to her, but she had a family and goals to keep her in line.
For a while, anyway.
Eventually, and to no one’s surprise, Yam joined the Hexen’s ranks. She had a wonderful six years of service, conjuring, tweaking, and replacing curses on demonkind both at the portal, or when necessary—and with supervision—in The Pit. She had her mother’s fortitude, which came in handy when her job put her on the bad side of Hell’s less-enthusiastic travelers. She got good at staring back, good at not flinching, not giving into the urge to conversate. She was on track to becoming as frigid and unlikeable as her mom, in a good way.
Then, one day on the job, she met Bel.
He approached her while she was alone, and was incredibly pleasant. They chatted for a while, she told him about her life, her job, her hobbies, and he artfully avoided any similar inquiries about himself. When it was time to leave, she said goodbye and he did not reciprocate. Instead, he offered his hand, and not wanting to be rude, she shook it.
She’s not sure how long she was out, but when she woke up she was in a hospital with her mother sat beside her. Oh, and her skin was gray. And she was covered in cursework—familiar, St. Sero cursework. An uncomfortable and inevitable conversation followed.
On the list of things you don’t wait for your kid to find out on their own, somewhere between “you’re adopted” and “I used to do porn” is, “I contracted you to a demon before you were born.”
Yam was dumbstruck; her mother had promised Bel her first born out of, what, fear? Risk aversion? What was worse, Saliel wasn’t nearly as sorry as she was proud—of herself. Bel had only asked for the contract, maybe assuming he could somehow use Yam to circumvent the Hexen, but had made no stipulation preventing them from cursing her. By his own word now he was trapped, having vowed never to darken New Helle’s door if the deal was held. It was, in Saliel’s opinion, and evidently the opinion of the Hexen, a decisive victory.
Yam agreed. She congratulated her mother, discharged herself from the hospital, and then promptly quit the Hexen and ran away. Unfortunately, when you belong to a small family under the Bureau’s protection, you don’t really get to disappear. What you get is the illusion of freedom, behind which a system of constant surveillance and protection waits to pounce and shatter any ideas you might have had of living your own life after being betrayed by the people you loved and trusted.
Yam figured this out when the city’s syndicates eventually realized there was a Hexen in the wind. Most steered clear, except for the Children of Helle. Whether they meant to ransom her, use her to lift curses, or just kill her for what her family had done, no one knew. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Bureau swooped in and snatched her up, at which point she was given a choice: go back out onto the streets, and pretend she didn’t know she was living under a microscope, or join up with the Bureau, where she might at least find some semblance of independence.
It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a simple one.
Some thirty years ago, before she was that good, she met a demon who, like every demon the Hexen meet, wanted into New Helle. By and large, the Hexen aren’t a personable sort; in the same way you don’t make small talk with the TSA, demons don’t generally get chatty with the people in charge of cursing them. But this one was different. He talked plenty, asked questions about Saliel’s life, her job, her hobbies, and when she proved unreceptive to conversation, he introduced himself.
His name was Bel, and he did not want to be cursed. Refused it outright, in fact. He wanted into New Helle, but by now means would he allow Saliel or any other Hexen to curse him. This was, of course, incredibly illegal and Saliel, being a perfectly dedicated rising-star, denied him entry. Bel left, and there were no hard feelings.
Then he came back, making the same request. Again she denied him, and again he left. And came back. And left. And came back. And came back. And came back.
Eventually Saliel’s superiors looked into him, and found nothing. No Bel, no demons who knew Bel, or at least no demons who would talk about him if they did. He had made no threats, given no outright indication that he meant harm should they continue to deny his entry, and so it was decided that he was a nobody, and whatever reasons he had for lying about his identity didn’t concern the Bureau until he agreed to their terms. Saliel thought differently. Bel was polite, but in his presence she felt a distinct danger, a tension that wafted off him like smoke. He wanted something in New Helle, and while he was patient now, she had a feeling he would not be patient forever.
Sure enough, after almost five years of their routine, and an avalanche of promotions for Saliel, Bel showed disappointment for the first time. A frown, a twitch in the eye, and as he turned his back Saliel knew, somehow, that the next time he returned there would be no talking.
So she stopped him. She pulled the demon aside, they talked briefly, shook hands, and then he left. She never saw him again.
Smash cut, seventeen years later and Yamiel St. Sero has graduated highschool, on track to join the family business. Saliel was an unfair advantage; not for nepotism’s sake, but because there were few fiercer instructors than Mother St. Sero, and Yam had spent every year since her tenth birthday in the classroom of their home.
New Helle itself was also a teacher. Yam grew up alongside demons, half-demons, and humans with demonic predilections. She came to know the city’s streets well, to understand the tumultuous nature of its social contracts, to see how vice and virtue were so intricately woven together here. Sin was familiar to her, but she had a family and goals to keep her in line.
For a while, anyway.
Eventually, and to no one’s surprise, Yam joined the Hexen’s ranks. She had a wonderful six years of service, conjuring, tweaking, and replacing curses on demonkind both at the portal, or when necessary—and with supervision—in The Pit. She had her mother’s fortitude, which came in handy when her job put her on the bad side of Hell’s less-enthusiastic travelers. She got good at staring back, good at not flinching, not giving into the urge to conversate. She was on track to becoming as frigid and unlikeable as her mom, in a good way.
Then, one day on the job, she met Bel.
He approached her while she was alone, and was incredibly pleasant. They chatted for a while, she told him about her life, her job, her hobbies, and he artfully avoided any similar inquiries about himself. When it was time to leave, she said goodbye and he did not reciprocate. Instead, he offered his hand, and not wanting to be rude, she shook it.
She’s not sure how long she was out, but when she woke up she was in a hospital with her mother sat beside her. Oh, and her skin was gray. And she was covered in cursework—familiar, St. Sero cursework. An uncomfortable and inevitable conversation followed.
On the list of things you don’t wait for your kid to find out on their own, somewhere between “you’re adopted” and “I used to do porn” is, “I contracted you to a demon before you were born.”
Yam was dumbstruck; her mother had promised Bel her first born out of, what, fear? Risk aversion? What was worse, Saliel wasn’t nearly as sorry as she was proud—of herself. Bel had only asked for the contract, maybe assuming he could somehow use Yam to circumvent the Hexen, but had made no stipulation preventing them from cursing her. By his own word now he was trapped, having vowed never to darken New Helle’s door if the deal was held. It was, in Saliel’s opinion, and evidently the opinion of the Hexen, a decisive victory.
Yam agreed. She congratulated her mother, discharged herself from the hospital, and then promptly quit the Hexen and ran away. Unfortunately, when you belong to a small family under the Bureau’s protection, you don’t really get to disappear. What you get is the illusion of freedom, behind which a system of constant surveillance and protection waits to pounce and shatter any ideas you might have had of living your own life after being betrayed by the people you loved and trusted.
Yam figured this out when the city’s syndicates eventually realized there was a Hexen in the wind. Most steered clear, except for the Children of Helle. Whether they meant to ransom her, use her to lift curses, or just kill her for what her family had done, no one knew. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Bureau swooped in and snatched her up, at which point she was given a choice: go back out onto the streets, and pretend she didn’t know she was living under a microscope, or join up with the Bureau, where she might at least find some semblance of independence.
It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a simple one.
Ability:
Once, Yam was a rising star among the Hexen. That was before the curses. Now her skills are restrained, her ability to weave intricate seals bottlenecked by her mother’s nigh-unbreakable work. She can still untangle curses well enough, still knows the practice like the back of her hand, and while that comes in handy against the occasional talisman, it's not what her family trained her for.
Her real abilities lie in her contract with Bel. The tattoo covering her entire body isn’t just for show, it’s part of the pact. Most demon contracts will grant things like hellborn strength, the ability to breathe fire, or conjure golems of brimstone. Yam didn’t make her own contract though, Bel did, and what Bel wanted was access to New Helle. In a way, despite Saliel’s efforts, he got what he wanted.
Yam can transform any part of her body into Bel’s. Her arms can become his arms, his eyes her eyes, etcetera, etcetera. She came to understand quickly that the narrow, polite man she had met in Hell proper was not Bel’s true form. In reality his skin is scaly, immensely durable and incredibly strong. His claws can break stone and rend metal, his legs can leap great, powerful bounds, his eyes can see much more sharply than her own. Even restrained by Saliel’s cursework, the power afforded to her by their contract was enough to bring Yam into Section 7’s field team, and to this day she's still discovering the extent of her patron's twisted abilities.
Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.
Her real abilities lie in her contract with Bel. The tattoo covering her entire body isn’t just for show, it’s part of the pact. Most demon contracts will grant things like hellborn strength, the ability to breathe fire, or conjure golems of brimstone. Yam didn’t make her own contract though, Bel did, and what Bel wanted was access to New Helle. In a way, despite Saliel’s efforts, he got what he wanted.
Yam can transform any part of her body into Bel’s. Her arms can become his arms, his eyes her eyes, etcetera, etcetera. She came to understand quickly that the narrow, polite man she had met in Hell proper was not Bel’s true form. In reality his skin is scaly, immensely durable and incredibly strong. His claws can break stone and rend metal, his legs can leap great, powerful bounds, his eyes can see much more sharply than her own. Even restrained by Saliel’s cursework, the power afforded to her by their contract was enough to bring Yam into Section 7’s field team, and to this day she's still discovering the extent of her patron's twisted abilities.
Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.
Artifacts:
N/A
Connections:
- Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen
Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.
Misc:
- Color code is 9173CA
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