I've got my character pretty written out (vat born psy in a robe, let's go), still contemplating the exact mech (but prob just gonna go psy heavy for that sweet trance pilot RP).
"You catch, I bat," Vera said, in what passed for a modestly accented English as she nodded at Aron. She had been practicing. In between drinking at the F Club, conveniently resurrected in Decibitus and haunted by dead rockers. Punk and Goth. Goth and Punk. Vera didn't really need much else when it came to music. One day she would figure out what the F stood for, but she had some ideas.
Looking ahead at the oncoming train wreck, Vera felt a smile tugging at her lips. She didn't mind a brawl. She minded boredom. If the wisp wanted to fight, all the better. No wasted time. No pointless running. Dry cleaning was an obvious business expense. She wasn't worried.
"Dream of the gallows," Vera hissed, as her sword appeared in her hand in a rush of midnight. Kicking a squarish rock the size of a bowling straight at the furry creature, the orange orangutan monster, Vera moved to close the distance at a brisk jog.
Cut. Stab. Chains. Chains. Stab. Cut. It was all the same to her. Dead was dead. Or at least it was supposed to be.
I'm working on a character that is a mixture of what I found interesting about cybernewtypes from Gundam (admittedly not a ton), Clanners from BattleTech (less the society obsessed with bad tactics and more a upbringing in a very rigid caste system), the Bene Tleilax from Dune (more the whole Ghola / vat born created from centuries old genes vibes than shapeshifting peeps) and tossing in some sweet Undertail psy vibes.
"High alert this, high alert that, and not even so much as a brawl," Ziska fumed from a corner of the cavern. Crouched over battered set of heatsinks, she presided over a fresh bottle of vodka and several small glasses filled to the brim. Gathered around her sat an obviously bored Astech Sunther and an uncomfortable looking Astech Minhas.
"Perhaps, you would let us return to our work," Sunther began.
"No, drink."
"B- but Ziska, we've already had-" Minhas began, her cheeks flush with fresh color.
"Drink," Ziska said, her eyes staying coldly on the two intruders. Intruders was the right word. Business proposals were well and good, but Ziska had begun to despair at the influx of uninvited guests, however well intentions they might have been. It was becoming a pattern. A new pattern Ziska did not like. And a pattern she considered might have to be resolved with the correct application of deadly violence.
Picking one of the shot glass up with her left hand, Ziska offered quick nod to her Astechs before swallowing the burning liquid in a fell swoop. Sunther managed only a slight cough, burying his mouth in the crook of his arm, and Minhas to her credit, made only a very pained expression as she drank the fiery spirit. As if reading her thoughts, Minhas looked warily at the pistol laying within easy reach of Ziska's right hand. The safety was off and Ziska flashed the smallest of smiles at the young Astech. Periphery knew Periphery. Pirate knew pirate. Minhas, kind, blissfully sheltered Minhas, knew better than most how Ziska perceived problems, and how she preferred to solve them.
The suit dressed out of a magazine didn't interest Ziska. Money was money. She didn't care much as long as the c-bills arrived in a timely and discreet fashion. The man she had brought with her did. He looked capable. He walked like a soldier. He smelled like a mercenary. MechWarrior, maybe, Ziska thought, summoning a brief flame of interest. She was bored, but there were ways to deal with that.
Running a hand over the fresh layer of bandages that covered Doctor Yuri's clever work, Ziska almost forgot that she had recently smashed her head against unwavering metal. Nakajima was good, better than good even. She owed her a drink. Something tasteful. Something from her festive stock.
Standing, Ziska walked leisurely towards the two strangers and crowd of Green Knights pretending not to be eavesdropping on the conversation unfolding in the makeshift hangar. She spotted one of Dalton's finest fiddling with a pack of cigarettes and snatched them from his hands before the man had a chance to react. Dancing just out of range, she shot the annoyed looking soldier a sly smile, as she faded to the edge of the crowed. Stealing a lighter from a nearby Astech, Ziska pulled a cigarette out of the pack.
Lighting the cigarette, Ziska took a closer look at Cassandra. She talked the talk and Ziska wasn't inclined to doubt that she walked the walk. She'd pay them, probably, and she was only lying as much as could be expected from a corporate executive. Better a new employer than no employer at any rate. And Ziska had never liked the late Governor Xiu very much. Ziska had no patience for incompetence. Morality was no concern to Ziska. She knew how to forget and shift her perspective easily enough. Being alive was more important than being right. Dead was dead. Incompetence killed. Losing control was fatal. Flinching, flinching for even a moment was deadly.
Water, Ziska thought, puffing out a lazy cloud of smoke. Water was everything.
Water was the first thing needed to fight a war. Water on a planet like Espia was power. The Aqua Vitae Corporation, this Jeong standing in front of them, interviewing them, controlled the water, on paper if not in reality. They would have information. They would have resources. A way to keep fighting. A way off the planet, maybe. And a way to leave the Crimson Fists dying slowly if it came to that. Planet and civilian population be damned.
Smiling at the fighting man standing casually next to Cassandra, Ziska pocketed the pack of cigarettes. Nothing was free. Nothing was free when you came uninvited.
"It is as good of place to start as any," Vera agreed with a shrug, throwing a glance at Catherine and trying to discreetly catch her eyes. She was fond of the nun. For all their differences. From one thief to another, was a thought she seldom voiced.
Squatting low, Vera ran a hand through the grass below her, grasping dirt between her fingers, as she waited. Some of the magic of traveling was lost in the supernatural way the Reapers were transported to the realm of the living. Vera missed trains. She missed the grimy metro stations. She missed the old Soviet art. She missed the ugliness that had seeped through the cracks. She missed Moscow.
Memories, rarely welcome memories threatened her thoughts. Frowning Vera stood up, fishing out a fresh pack of cigarettes and her battered lighter. She looked around, fingers moving thoughtlessly. Australia. She had never been to Australia. Too far. Too warm. Too clean. She had always wanted to see a kangaroo. Maybe there would be time, but somehow she doubted it. Covering the flame of her lighter with a hand as she lit the cigarette, Vera studied the other reapers.
A strange mix, but not a bad one. She had known many people in her life like Amelia, adrenaline junkies, degenerate gamblers, and thrill seekers with a death wish. She did not mind. Such people were useful, so long as they were pointed in the right direction. And so long as you were not to close to them when they race out of control. Death had mollified many of her concerns. What was death to a reaper, other than a familiar condition?
There was something familiar about Ogawa. She did not know him well, but she felt she might understand him. They were the same. She thought she saw it in his eyes. She recognized the gaze, the watchfulness. She appreciated the suits. In life, they might have been cautious enemies, but in death, they were simply reapers.
Lena was a mystery. She was a social creature Vera knew. She had been to several of her work functions. Mixers as the motherly reaper liked to call them. There was a warmth to her that Vera found pleasant. And an excuse to drink was always welcome. Even in death, Vera found vodka loosened her tongue, and made her smile.
The nun amused her. Catherine was not what Vera had expected. The sisters of mercy she had known in her life were older, less pretty, and far less fun. She didn't pry. She didn't bother Catherine about her past. Some questions were best unasked. Some things were best unspoken. Midnight philosophy was a safe topic. Religion an oddly shared interest. Superstition came easy to thieves. Religion was not far from superstition, she had often thought.
The green of the landscape had faded into the burnt colors of fall, the shrubbery matching the color of the rock formation that loomed in the distance. Vera didn't get it. Rocks. Rocks didn't interest her. Climbing big piles of rocks smashed together across the eons didn't appeal to her. She preferred the seaside. She preferred the city. Covering the flame with a hand as she lit the cigarette, Vera relished the fire that burned her lungs. Tabachnaya Fabrika No.1 Leningrad had been a good place. A good time. Not better. Maybe simpler. The sides were clear. The stakes were obvious. Or so she liked to think. The old timers knew better, but she had found few of them in Decibitus.
Pulling on the cigarette and exhaling smoke Vera felt relaxed again. Fond of generosity, she held out the cigarette pack to the other four reapers and offered each a cigarette with a nod. There was no reason to be unkind. There was no reason not to share. They were comrades. Comrades of a sort. Trapped, perhaps by choice, perhaps not. Tied together by the strange gems they carried and common purpose. And death, always Death, Vera could feel the unmistakable hands of Miss Death conducting the symphony from afar.
Turning towards, Catherine, Vera offered a smile,"Shall we pray before we hunt down this wayward wisp, Sister?"
✦ Name: Vera Andreyevna Makarova (but, Vera, Vera will do just fine) ✦ Age: 27 years ✦ Age (Appearance): 27 years ✦ Gender: Female ✦ Time in Service: X ✦ Appearance: Hard to miss in a crowd, Vera is tall, measuring well over six feet. Maintaining the habits of her mortal life, Vera remains committed to keeping herself in tip top shape, and despite the fact that it provides her little physical benefit Vera continues to dedicate a portion of each day to physical exercise. Colored by a lifetime spent getting into and out of trouble, Vera has by neccesity developed a functional, athletic build. Her movements are fluid, agile, and efficient, if perhaps a bit uncouth and surprisingly quiet.
Fond of subtle acts of defiance, Vera has a modest collection of tattoos inked across her light skin. Of particular note is the large, roaring tiger, covering most of her back. Inquiries as to the meaning of any of her tattoos is rarely well-received and Vera seems oddly reluctant to permit others, even other reapers, the briefest of glances of the symbols etched into her skin.
Her last remaining vanity from her time as a mortal is her long blond hair that reaches past her shoulders. Unless the situation demand otherwise, she keeps her hair pulled back into a well-ordered ponytail. Her pale blue eyes are far from cold and burn with a carefully contained fury. Beneath a collected exterior smoulders quite the temperament and Vera goes to great lengths to hide this usually unwelcome trait. However, woe be it to those who manage to crack Vera's mask of professionalism and see real anger in her eyes.
In death, Vera is an exceptionally formal dressers. She favors bespoke three piece suits in solid colors, cut in all manner of fashions and fabrics, but inevitably dyed in shades of gray or black. maintains a tasteful collection of ties and dress shirts. One of her most cherished possession is a pair of black 14-hole Dr. Martens boots adorned with gunmetal gray shoelaces, shaped from smooth leather, and polished until they are as spotless as a mirror.
A chain smoking fiend in life and unlife, Vera is rarely found without a pack of cigarettes and a battered Zippo lighter engraved with an enameled US military crest. The discerning customer might note that the reaper smokes a long discontinued brand of Soviet era cigarettes, simply called Laika, after the legendary space faring dog.
The Zippo lighter Vera perpetually carries on her person looks less like a well-kept museum object and more like a Zippo lighter that has been buried in the jungle for more than fifty years after being run over a couple of times by a tank for good measure. The factory engraving is worn down to the very metal, but upon a close examination it is still possible to make out the original text (SPECIAL FORCES GROUP, 1st SPECIAL FORCES VIETNAM). The lid has been hand engraved with a name (SFC Thomas E. Karlsson, 31st ENGR DET, 11 FEB 68 – FEB 69,). On the reverse of the lighter is a skillfully hand carved map of Vietnam.
On the reverse of the lighter is a skillfully hand carved map of Vietnam overlaid with words in Russian, Кто не рискует, тот не пьет шампанского.
How Vera acquired a Zippo lighter of Vietnam war vintage and why she seems to guard it so zealously remains a mystery.
✦ Weapon: Banishing all thoughts of brandishing a dagger, Vera instead wields a two handed longsword that has been meticulously forged in the style of a Western European 14-15th Century blade. The sword is long, reaching well over a meter in length, and slowly tapers into an exceedingly sharp point. Despite the size of her sword, Vera's chosen weapon is no brutish, unnecessarily heavy bludgeon, but rather a precisely balanced weapon intended for medieval warfare.
An exceptional example of the latest and greatest technological innovation in the early 14th century,centering on how to cut or skewer (through gaps in plate armor), Vera's sword possesses an expertly honed flat hexagonal blade cross-section and a weight saving fuller that runs along a third of the blade. In short, beyond being the unmistakable work of a master weapon smith, Vera's personalized bit of sharpened steel represents an optimized compromise between thrusting capability and good cutting characteristics.
✦ Magic Branch: Abjuration
✧ Surprising no one more than herself, Vera has talent for the protective magic spells generally considered to be at the heart of the school of Abjuration.
✦ Spells:
✧ Dispellere (Dispel Magic)
Targeting a creature, object, or magical effect within 120 feet, Vera dispels active spells centered on her chosen target. The exact number of spells that are dispelled depends on the level of magic employed to cast said spells and the time Vera has to cast her own magic. Given the on the fly nature of reaping Wisps with a capital W, Vera generally favors quick off the cuff verbal applications of dispel magic. However, when there is a need for a powerful shaped charge of magic countering energy, Vera has been known to commit the spell to writing in an ornate script befitting only the finest calligraphy books.
✧ Globus invulnerabilitatis (Globe of Invulnerability)
By channeling her magic through spoken or written words, Vera creates a faintly shimmering magical barrier around herself that protects her from physical and magical damage. The magical sphere appears in a 10-foot radius around Vera and remains for up to a maximum time of a minute. When casting this spell using spoken magic, Vera must decide whether the magical barrier protects against physical or magical damage. Furthermore, to guard against more powerful attacks, Vera requires more preparation. Weathering a blow from a very powerful foe, many foes at once, or very many powerful foes would require a lengthy amount of chanting or sizable stack of elaborately written spells prepared well in advance. Provided that the magical barrier holds, spells cast from outside of the barrier have no effect on creatures within the barrier and physical blows do nothing more than send sparks of magic into the air.
✧ Frigore Pyramidem (Cone of Cold)
Slinging a modified variant of the evocation spell, Vera sends a blast of cold air hurtling forward from her hands, enveloping everything caught within the cone of cold in sheets of ice. Creatures encased by the frost are significantly slowed down and suffer the ill effects of severe frostbite, receiving moderate cold damage. Surfaces or objects impacted by the icebound air are covered by a thick layer of ice that hinders movement due to a sudden, unwelcome slipperiness. The spell has a maximum range of some 60 feet.
✧ Vincula Fati (Imprisonment)
Summoning magical restraints, Vera firmly roots a target to the ground, holding them in place with the heavy ethereal binds. The target is bound until the spell ends or is dispelled, preventing any movement beyond that permitted by the spellcaster. When cast verbally, the spell takes almost a full minute for Vera to cast. Writing the spell takes significantly longer, but allows the spell to restrain much more powerful targets. Thematically, Vera prefers to inscribe the spell on objects such as chains, ropes or other bits of string. A decidedly close range spell, Vera must be within 30 feet or less to be able to magically imprison her foes. The lucky or powerful can avoid being bound by the spell by resisting the underlying magic at work.
✦ Texty Stuff:
Albert leaned against the dresser, sucking in air and wheezing. One hundred years. One hundred years of learning. One hundred years of research. One hundred years of biding his time. One hundred years of hiding. One hundred years of avoiding the monsters he knew lurked in the shadows. One hundred years of slipping away from the hunters, the collectors of the dead, the reapers, as some of his more learned brethren called them. There were obscure mentions in faded books. Whispers began to tell of figures emerging from beyond the pale. Beings without names, faceless and obscured. Small truths buried in centuries of rumors, impossible to extinguish, the stories endured. Even as evidence of the reapers presence was debated by the loose councils of wizards with the passing years.
Wasted. Wasted! Ruined by a single, momentary slip of his attention. He had felt so secure. He had been so comfortable. He had settled. He had acquired all the necessary regents. He had been so close to completing the ritual. So close! But now, now they had found him. Hunted him down. Chased him from one safe house to the next. They wouldn't stop. They didn't seem to sleep. He could see them everywhere. The same two women. A tall blonde wearing a suit. A short brunette with a pixie cut. They were walking nightmares that had invaded even his fitful rest.
He swallowed, feeling the lump growing in his throat. Tears burned at the edge of his eyes and he gasped for more air. He knew he didn't need to breath, he hadn't for some time, but he found the habit hard to break. They had been chasing him for days. He had burned his last contacts. He had called in his last favors. And still. Still, they pursued him, like bloodhounds, unwavering following his trail. They had driven him underground. They had forced their way past his wards. He had used the last of souls he had horded. They had exhausted resources acquired over long decades.
The heavy oak door splintered, flying off the hinges, as it shattered into hundreds of tiny wooden projectiles. Shadows coursed forward, a roiling wave of blackness that enveloped the room in a hazy fog. Albert felt dread poisoning him, rotting him from within as his hands began to shake.
He didn't wait to identify the solid figure that followed, bounding into the room in a fell swoop. The fireball in his hand roared across the room smashing into the door frame with a deafening boom. He dove for cover, closing his eyes, shielding them with his hands. He could feel the flames licking at him, the air being forced from his lungs by the hungry flames, and the painfully hot caress of the growing inferno as it exploded into existence. He could hear screaming, his own voice. Months of frustration and fear igniting across the surface of his spirit, a thick tar as dark as the night.
Silence. Silence followed.
Crawling from behind the charred dining room table, Albert opened his eyes, staring at a room full of ashes and crumbling cinder blocks. There was only the low flicker of the dying embers his spell had birthed. He allowed himself a smile, a brief moment of glee.
He saw the movement too late. The blade arced towards him and he watched as it cut through the wrist connecting his left hand to his left arm. A kick smashed into his sternum and sent him crumbling backwards against the wall. Howling in a mad rage, he muttered curses, sending a scorching ray of flames across the room, chasing the shadowy figure that darted away from him.
Tracing the path of his attacker, he dragged his remaining hand across the breadth of the ruined room. The jet of flame smashed into the figure with a sudden crack of arcane energy. Dividing, the fire flattened, folding to the away from the advancing figure that seemed to be pushing back the fire. Shoving his hand forward, Albert tried to push harder, sending even more flames flowing at his obscured opponent. He could feel his fingers going numb as he burned through his last reservoirs of energy.
His mouth twisted into a stubborn sneer as she tried to stand. Shifting into a surprised O as the blade ran him through. Stumbling, Albert fell and the back of his head smashed against the burnt rubble that had once been pristine hardwood floor. Bright light faded to darkness and Albert felt himself begin to fade. Propping himself up on his elbows, he tried to speak, rasping, and desperately grasping for words.
A flicker of metal shone from the nearby darkness. A loud metallic clink summoned sparks that leapt together into a small flame.
"I knew. I always knew you were coming."
"Все это было просто сном с самого начала," came the reply, a woman's voice, not unkind, and then a metal thunk as the flame vanished. "Никто из нас никогда не был свободен."
"I'm sorry...I don't understand. What did you say? I had to try."
"It was all just a dream to begin with," the woman said, stepping closer, a circle of burning embers gentle swaying near her mouth. A puff of smoke trailed behind her as she drew closer,"None of us have ever been free."
Albert felt a pang of anger, "Don't you speak to me that way! Don't you lecture me! I was free! I lived! What do you know!? Do you know what you are doing? Do you even know who you are working for? "
The woman shrugged easily, her sword hefted in the crook of her arm seemed light despite the size of the blade,"Doesn't matter. I don't care. I'm a cleaner. In this life and the next."
"You're a killer. You're a murder, just like me."
There was a hint of anger in her eyes, a rough frown flashed over her lips,"You damaged this world. You stole from the living. You damned souls far more innocent than you. Do not play games with me, Albert Colthurst. I know you. I know what you did. I know your crimes."
Albert faltered, pulling back in a moment of abrupt regret. He tried to crawl, but found his arms were useless.
"Smoke?" he heard from above him. She stood over him, as he rolled over, holding out a pack of cigarettes.
"I...I quit thirty years ago. For my wife. She never liked the smell. She said it was a dirty habit."
"Yes," the woman agreed, offering a small smile. "Very bad."
"I don't suppose she'll know? I don't suppose I have much time left? So why not, please, hand me a cigarette if you would?"
"No, not much time," she said, nodding solemnly. He struggled to follow her hands as the lighter flashed open again. Dark drops grew into large pools of blackness at the corner of his eyes. He heard her sitting down next to him, felt the cigarette as she placed it between his lips.
"I'm sorry," he said breathing in a burning cloud of nicotine. The taste brought back memories. 1957. Happier times. He almost thought he could see her in front of him. "I- I never meant for this. I never meant for any of this to happen. I just couldn't give up. I couldn't give up when I was so close. You understand? You understand, don't you?"
"No need, I understand," his killer said. "It is alright, Albert. You are absolved."
"By who, you?" Albert managed, laughing as he fell into a fit of coughing. Another meaningless gesture for a ghost. It felt good though. It felt right. He felt human. He felt like himself.
"No," she laughed too, but she was only half smiling.
"What comes after this? A new life?"
"Maybe? Maybe something? Maybe nothing?"
"How will I know?"
"You won't."
"I want to live. I want to see my wife. I want to see my son."
"Then tell yourself you will."
Vera sat unmoving, a cloud of smoke rising to the ceiling from the cigarette slowly dying between her ash covered lips. The remains of the wizard lay next to her, smouldering in the charred table cloth she had wrapped him. Two packs of cigarettes were scattered around her, blackened firebrands fading in the uninvited wind.
She had waited long enough. It was time. She had indulged in her habit, in her vice. A small price to pay for a moment of quiet.
Rising to her feet, Vera gently slung the table cloth over her shoulder and left the wizard's crumbling home behind her.
The asphalt was the color of an abandoned tombstone, cracked, and blackened with filth.
Vera frowned, the dregs of her last cigarette dangling loosely between her lips. Smoking couldn't kill her, not anymore. It was a filthy habit. A filthy habit for a filthy place. She wasn't sure what she, Miss Death, saw in her, what she saw in any of them. She didn't care. Cleaning was cleaning. A job was a job. Even death couldn't change the unfairness of the world. She had no great aspirations. She nursed no great hopes. She had spent a lifetime in the shadows. She had stolen. She had threatened. She had hurt. She had maimed. And she had killed. What were the hardships of another life, this time spent in the fading light?
The gem felt weightless in her hand, held in place by the loop of silver wrapped along the length of her right arm, beneath her suit jacket and the fine cotton dress shirt that she wore. The sword had felt lighter still, made for her, sword hilt resting perfectly in her hands. She did not like the thoughts that awoke after a job. She did not enjoy the purposelessness. And she detested the peace. She needed a drink. She need another cigarette. And she needed a good f–
"Did it work?" a singsong voice interrupted. Too light. Too cheery. And much too pleasant.
"It worked," Vera replied.
"I told you it would. It took me almost a day to transcribe that spell. You can't imagine how sore my hand is. Nice illusion though, wasn't it?"
"It worked, Lucia."
"Oh, come on, admit it, you were impressed! Vera, stop being such a kill joy! We won! We did it! Another baddie bites the dust! We should celebrate! Before we head back, they won't notice if we spend a couple of more hours here. Live a little, why don't you?"
"You are crazy, you know that, yes?"
"All a matter of degrees, my sweet Vera."
"I am not sweet."
"Ah, you say that, but I know, I know that deep down you are a big softy."
@Abstract Proxy - These are looking much better! I just have to be obnoxious and nitpicky for a wee bit.
For Globus invulnerabilitatis, while I don't mind if a shield is able to defend against both physical and magical aspects, I'd like if, for the spoken version, a shield was more specialized toward one or the other per cast. I don't expect that a little rock tossed by a squirrel would break a magic-oriented shield, of course.
And for Frigore Pyramdem, I would be a bit more comfortable without the "freezing creatures solid" measure, and focusing a little more on the other aspects of movement restriction. Other than that, this seems good!
And for Imprisonment, I'll give the same heads up as I gave to Pigeon that all spells do have a lifespan and will fade if not recast/reapplied once the magic in it wears out. Again, I'm not expecting that you were thinking "and the target is bound in perpetuity", I have to give the heads up so there are no surprises.
Once those get fixed up, Vera should be good to go into the character tab!
Perfect, thanks!
Updated as per Discord.
Also, you say that about squirrels hurling rocks, but that would unironically be amazing. :D
@Abstract Proxy For Vera's spells, it'd be best if you just specified what Vera herself can currently accomplish with her spells, rather than the entirety of a spell's capabilities and intricacies. For Symbol, the way the magic system here works is that a written spell needs to be completed in whole; you won't be able to later on add an extra bit of script onto a pre-existing written spell to turn it into a trap. For Shield, both spoken and written spells are a one-and-done sort of thing, so you wouldn't be able to pump more magical juice into a Shield that's already completed in order to bolster it enough to block attacks that are tougher than they appeared.
Thanks!
Here is a more curated version of her spells (feedback is once again appreciated!).
TL;DR: Added some terrible Latin, simplified Dispel Magic, swapped out shield for a sphere (laying out some clear limitations), dropped Symbols (felt too prepared for Vera) / replaced it with a movement restricting form of cone of cold (thx, DnD), and finally simplified imprisonment a bunch.
✧ Dispellere (Dispel Magic)
Targeting a creature, object, or magical effect within 120 feet, Vera dispels active spells at work on her chosen target. The exact number of spells that are dispelled depends on the level of magic employed to cast said spells and the time Vera has to cast her own magic. Given the on the fly nature of reaping Wisps with a capital W, Vera generally favors quick off the cuff verbal applications of dispel magic. However, when there is a need for a powerful shaped charge of magic countering energy, Vera has been known to commit the spell to writing in an ornate script befitting only the finest calligraphy books.
✧ Globus invulnerabilitatis (Globe of Invulnerability)
By channeling her magic through spoken or written words, Vera creates a faintly shimmering magical barrier around herself that protects her from physical and magical damage. The magical sphere appears in a 10-foot radius around Vera and remains for up to a maximum time of a minute. To guard against more powerful attacks, Vera requires more preparation. Weathering a blow from a very powerful foe, many foes at once, or very many powerful foes would require a lengthy amount of chanting or sizable stack of elaborately written spells prepared well in advance. Provided that the magical barrier holds, spells cast from outside of the barrier have no effect on creatures within the barrier and physical blows do nothing more than send sparks of magic into the air.
✧ Frigore Pyramidem (Cone of Cold)
Slinging a modified variant of the evocation spell, Vera sends a blast of cold air hurtling forward from her hands, freezing creatures caught in the frost solid and otherwise significantly slowing down their movements. In addition, those impacted by the spell suffer the ill effects of severe frostbite and receive moderate cold damage from the icebound air that envelopes them. The spell has a maximum range of some 60 feet.
✧ Vincula Fati (Imprisonment)
Summoning magical restraints, Vera firmly roots a target to the ground, holding them in place with the heavy ethereal binds. The target is bound until the spell is dispelled or ended by the caster, preventing any movement beyond that permitted by the spellcaster. Cast verbally, the spell takes a minute for Vera to cast. Writing the spell takes significantly longer, but allows the spell to restrain much more powerful targets. Thematically, Vera prefers to inscribe the spell on objects such as chains, ropes or other bits of string. A decidedly close range spell, Vera must be within 30 feet or less to be able to magically imprison her foes. The lucky or powerful can avoid being bound by the spell by resisting the underlying magic at work.
✦ Name: Vera Andreyevna Makarova (but, Vera, Vera will do just fine) ✦ Age: 27 years ✦ Age (Appearance): 27 years ✦ Gender: Female ✦ Time in Service: X ✦ Appearance: Hard to miss in a crowd, Vera is tall, measuring well over six feet. Maintaining the habits of her mortal life, Vera remains committed to keeping herself in tip top shape, and despite the fact that it provides her little physical benefit Vera continues to dedicate a portion of each day to physical exercise. Colored by a lifetime spent getting into and out of trouble, Vera has by neccesity developed a functional, athletic build. Her movements are fluid, agile, and efficient, if perhaps a bit uncouth and surprisingly quiet.
Fond of subtle acts of defiance, Vera has a modest collection of tattoos inked across her light skin. Of particular note is the large, roaring tiger, covering most of her back. Inquiries as to the meaning of any of her tattoos is rarely well-received and Vera seems oddly reluctant to permit others, even other reapers, the briefest of glances of the symbols etched into her skin.
Her last remaining vanity from her time as a mortal is her long blond hair that reaches past her shoulders. Unless the situation demand otherwise, she keeps her hair pulled back into a well-ordered ponytail. Her pale blue eyes are far from cold and burn with a carefully contained fury. Beneath a collected exterior smoulders quite the temperament and Vera goes to great lengths to hide this usually unwelcome trait. However, woe be it to those who manage to crack Vera's mask of professionalism and see real anger in her eyes.
In death, Vera is an exceptionally formal dressers. She favors bespoke three piece suits in solid colors, cut in all manner of fashions and fabrics, but inevitably dyed in shades of gray or black. maintains a tasteful collection of ties and dress shirts. One of her most cherished possession is a pair of black 14-hole Dr. Martens boots adorned with gunmetal gray shoelaces, shaped from smooth leather, and polished until they are as spotless as a mirror.
A chain smoking fiend in life and unlife, Vera is rarely found without a pack of cigarettes and a battered Zippo lighter engraved with an enameled US military crest. The discerning customer might note that the reaper smokes a long discontinued brand of Soviet era cigarettes, simply called Laika, after the legendary space faring dog.
The Zippo lighter Vera perpetually carries on her person looks less like a well-kept museum object and more like a Zippo lighter that has been buried in the jungle for more than fifty years after being run over a couple of times by a tank for good measure. The factory engraving is worn down to the very metal, but upon a close examination it is still possible to make out the original text (SPECIAL FORCES GROUP, 1st SPECIAL FORCES VIETNAM). The lid has been hand engraved with a name (SFC Thomas E. Karlsson, 31st ENGR DET, 11 FEB 68 – FEB 69,). On the reverse of the lighter is a skillfully hand carved map of Vietnam.
On the reverse of the lighter is a skillfully hand carved map of Vietnam overlaid with words in Russian, Кто не рискует, тот не пьет шампанского.
How Vera acquired a Zippo lighter of Vietnam war vintage and why she seems to guard it so zealously remains a mystery.
✦ Weapon: Banishing all thoughts of brandishing a dagger, Vera instead wields a two handed longsword that has been meticulously forged in the style of a Western European 14-15th Century blade. The sword is long, reaching well over a meter in length, and slowly tapers into an exceedingly sharp point. Despite the size of her sword, Vera's chosen weapon is no brutish, unnecessarily heavy bludgeon, but rather a precisely balanced weapon intended for medieval warfare.
An exceptional example of the latest and greatest technological innovation in the early 14th century,centering on how to cut or skewer (through gaps in plate armor), Vera's sword possesses an expertly honed flat hexagonal blade cross-section and a weight saving fuller that runs along a third of the blade. In short, beyond being the unmistakable work of a master weapon smith, Vera's personalized bit of sharpened steel represents an optimized compromise between thrusting capability and good cutting characteristics.
✦ Magic Branch: Abjuration
✧ Surprising no one more than herself, Vera has talent for the protective magic spells generally considered to be at the heart of the school of Abjuration.
✦ Spells:
✧ Dispellere (Dispel Magic)
Targeting a creature, object, or magical effect within 120 feet, Vera dispels active spells centered on her chosen target. The exact number of spells that are dispelled depends on the level of magic employed to cast said spells and the time Vera has to cast her own magic. Given the on the fly nature of reaping Wisps with a capital W, Vera generally favors quick off the cuff verbal applications of dispel magic. However, when there is a need for a powerful shaped charge of magic countering energy, Vera has been known to commit the spell to writing in an ornate script befitting only the finest calligraphy books.
✧ Globus invulnerabilitatis (Globe of Invulnerability)
By channeling her magic through spoken or written words, Vera creates a faintly shimmering magical barrier around herself that protects her from physical and magical damage. The magical sphere appears in a 10-foot radius around Vera and remains for up to a maximum time of a minute. When casting this spell using spoken magic, Vera must decide whether the magical barrier protects against physical or magical damage. Furthermore, to guard against more powerful attacks, Vera requires more preparation. Weathering a blow from a very powerful foe, many foes at once, or very many powerful foes would require a lengthy amount of chanting or sizable stack of elaborately written spells prepared well in advance. Provided that the magical barrier holds, spells cast from outside of the barrier have no effect on creatures within the barrier and physical blows do nothing more than send sparks of magic into the air.
✧ Frigore Pyramidem (Cone of Cold)
Slinging a modified variant of the evocation spell, Vera sends a blast of cold air hurtling forward from her hands, enveloping everything caught within the cone of cold in sheets of ice. Creatures encased by the frost are significantly slowed down and suffer the ill effects of severe frostbite, receiving moderate cold damage. Surfaces or objects impacted by the icebound air are covered by a thick layer of ice that hinders movement due to a sudden, unwelcome slipperiness. The spell has a maximum range of some 60 feet.
✧ Vincula Fati (Imprisonment)
Summoning magical restraints, Vera firmly roots a target to the ground, holding them in place with the heavy ethereal binds. The target is bound until the spell ends or is dispelled, preventing any movement beyond that permitted by the spellcaster. When cast verbally, the spell takes almost a full minute for Vera to cast. Writing the spell takes significantly longer, but allows the spell to restrain much more powerful targets. Thematically, Vera prefers to inscribe the spell on objects such as chains, ropes or other bits of string. A decidedly close range spell, Vera must be within 30 feet or less to be able to magically imprison her foes. The lucky or powerful can avoid being bound by the spell by resisting the underlying magic at work.
✦ Texty Stuff:
Albert leaned against the dresser, sucking in air and wheezing. One hundred years. One hundred years of learning. One hundred years of research. One hundred years of biding his time. One hundred years of hiding. One hundred years of avoiding the monsters he knew lurked in the shadows. One hundred years of slipping away from the hunters, the collectors of the dead, the reapers, as some of his more learned brethren called them. There were obscure mentions in faded books. Whispers began to tell of figures emerging from beyond the pale. Beings without names, faceless and obscured. Small truths buried in centuries of rumors, impossible to extinguish, the stories endured. Even as evidence of the reapers presence was debated by the loose councils of wizards with the passing years.
Wasted. Wasted! Ruined by a single, momentary slip of his attention. He had felt so secure. He had been so comfortable. He had settled. He had acquired all the necessary regents. He had been so close to completing the ritual. So close! But now, now they had found him. Hunted him down. Chased him from one safe house to the next. They wouldn't stop. They didn't seem to sleep. He could see them everywhere. The same two women. A tall blonde wearing a suit. A short brunette with a pixie cut. They were walking nightmares that had invaded even his fitful rest.
He swallowed, feeling the lump growing in his throat. Tears burned at the edge of his eyes and he gasped for more air. He knew he didn't need to breath, he hadn't for some time, but he found the habit hard to break. They had been chasing him for days. He had burned his last contacts. He had called in his last favors. And still. Still, they pursued him, like bloodhounds, unwavering following his trail. They had driven him underground. They had forced their way past his wards. He had used the last of souls he had horded. They had exhausted resources acquired over long decades.
The heavy oak door splintered, flying off the hinges, as it shattered into hundreds of tiny wooden projectiles. Shadows coursed forward, a roiling wave of blackness that enveloped the room in a hazy fog. Albert felt dread poisoning him, rotting him from within as his hands began to shake.
He didn't wait to identify the solid figure that followed, bounding into the room in a fell swoop. The fireball in his hand roared across the room smashing into the door frame with a deafening boom. He dove for cover, closing his eyes, shielding them with his hands. He could feel the flames licking at him, the air being forced from his lungs by the hungry flames, and the painfully hot caress of the growing inferno as it exploded into existence. He could hear screaming, his own voice. Months of frustration and fear igniting across the surface of his spirit, a thick tar as dark as the night.
Silence. Silence followed.
Crawling from behind the charred dining room table, Albert opened his eyes, staring at a room full of ashes and crumbling cinder blocks. There was only the low flicker of the dying embers his spell had birthed. He allowed himself a smile, a brief moment of glee.
He saw the movement too late. The blade arced towards him and he watched as it cut through the wrist connecting his left hand to his left arm. A kick smashed into his sternum and sent him crumbling backwards against the wall. Howling in a mad rage, he muttered curses, sending a scorching ray of flames across the room, chasing the shadowy figure that darted away from him.
Tracing the path of his attacker, he dragged his remaining hand across the breadth of the ruined room. The jet of flame smashed into the figure with a sudden crack of arcane energy. Dividing, the fire flattened, folding to the away from the advancing figure that seemed to be pushing back the fire. Shoving his hand forward, Albert tried to push harder, sending even more flames flowing at his obscured opponent. He could feel his fingers going numb as he burned through his last reservoirs of energy.
His mouth twisted into a stubborn sneer as she tried to stand. Shifting into a surprised O as the blade ran him through. Stumbling, Albert fell and the back of his head smashed against the burnt rubble that had once been pristine hardwood floor. Bright light faded to darkness and Albert felt himself begin to fade. Propping himself up on his elbows, he tried to speak, rasping, and desperately grasping for words.
A flicker of metal shone from the nearby darkness. A loud metallic clink summoned sparks that leapt together into a small flame.
"I knew. I always knew you were coming."
"Все это было просто сном с самого начала," came the reply, a woman's voice, not unkind, and then a metal thunk as the flame vanished. "Никто из нас никогда не был свободен."
"I'm sorry...I don't understand. What did you say? I had to try."
"It was all just a dream to begin with," the woman said, stepping closer, a circle of burning embers gentle swaying near her mouth. A puff of smoke trailed behind her as she drew closer,"None of us have ever been free."
Albert felt a pang of anger, "Don't you speak to me that way! Don't you lecture me! I was free! I lived! What do you know!? Do you know what you are doing? Do you even know who you are working for? "
The woman shrugged easily, her sword hefted in the crook of her arm seemed light despite the size of the blade,"Doesn't matter. I don't care. I'm a cleaner. In this life and the next."
"You're a killer. You're a murder, just like me."
There was a hint of anger in her eyes, a rough frown flashed over her lips,"You damaged this world. You stole from the living. You damned souls far more innocent than you. Do not play games with me, Albert Colthurst. I know you. I know what you did. I know your crimes."
Albert faltered, pulling back in a moment of abrupt regret. He tried to crawl, but found his arms were useless.
"Smoke?" he heard from above him. She stood over him, as he rolled over, holding out a pack of cigarettes.
"I...I quit thirty years ago. For my wife. She never liked the smell. She said it was a dirty habit."
"Yes," the woman agreed, offering a small smile. "Very bad."
"I don't suppose she'll know? I don't suppose I have much time left? So why not, please, hand me a cigarette if you would?"
"No, not much time," she said, nodding solemnly. He struggled to follow her hands as the lighter flashed open again. Dark drops grew into large pools of blackness at the corner of his eyes. He heard her sitting down next to him, felt the cigarette as she placed it between his lips.
"I'm sorry," he said breathing in a burning cloud of nicotine. The taste brought back memories. 1957. Happier times. He almost thought he could see her in front of him. "I- I never meant for this. I never meant for any of this to happen. I just couldn't give up. I couldn't give up when I was so close. You understand? You understand, don't you?"
"No need, I understand," his killer said. "It is alright, Albert. You are absolved."
"By who, you?" Albert managed, laughing as he fell into a fit of coughing. Another meaningless gesture for a ghost. It felt good though. It felt right. He felt human. He felt like himself.
"No," she laughed too, but she was only half smiling.
"What comes after this? A new life?"
"Maybe? Maybe something? Maybe nothing?"
"How will I know?"
"You won't."
"I want to live. I want to see my wife. I want to see my son."
"Then tell yourself you will."
Vera sat unmoving, a cloud of smoke rising to the ceiling from the cigarette slowly dying between her ash covered lips. The remains of the wizard lay next to her, smouldering in the charred table cloth she had wrapped him. Two packs of cigarettes were scattered around her, blackened firebrands fading in the uninvited wind.
She had waited long enough. It was time. She had indulged in her habit, in her vice. A small price to pay for a moment of quiet.
Rising to her feet, Vera gently slung the table cloth over her shoulder and left the wizard's crumbling home behind her.
The asphalt was the color of an abandoned tombstone, cracked, and blackened with filth.
Vera frowned, the dregs of her last cigarette dangling loosely between her lips. Smoking couldn't kill her, not anymore. It was a filthy habit. A filthy habit for a filthy place. She wasn't sure what she, Miss Death, saw in her, what she saw in any of them. She didn't care. Cleaning was cleaning. A job was a job. Even death couldn't change the unfairness of the world. She had no great aspirations. She nursed no great hopes. She had spent a lifetime in the shadows. She had stolen. She had threatened. She had hurt. She had maimed. And she had killed. What were the hardships of another life, this time spent in the fading light?
The gem felt weightless in her hand, held in place by the loop of silver wrapped along the length of her right arm, beneath her suit jacket and the fine cotton dress shirt that she wore. The sword had felt lighter still, made for her, sword hilt resting perfectly in her hands. She did not like the thoughts that awoke after a job. She did not enjoy the purposelessness. And she detested the peace. She needed a drink. She need another cigarette. And she needed a good f–
"Did it work?" a singsong voice interrupted. Too light. Too cheery. And much too pleasant.
"It worked," Vera replied.
"I told you it would. It took me almost a day to transcribe that spell. You can't imagine how sore my hand is. Nice illusion though, wasn't it?"
"It worked, Lucia."
"Oh, come on, admit it, you were impressed! Vera, stop being such a kill joy! We won! We did it! Another baddie bites the dust! We should celebrate! Before we head back, they won't notice if we spend a couple of more hours here. Live a little, why don't you?"
"You are crazy, you know that, yes?"
"All a matter of degrees, my sweet Vera."
"I am not sweet."
"Ah, you say that, but I know, I know that deep down you are a big softy."
wanderingwolf,
Red Wizard,
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BunniesOfDoom,
Dark Light,
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Guardian Angel Haruki,
wintersoldier,
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