BigPapaBelial

Juggernauts (BigPapaBelial and kingkonrad) IC

If it weren't for the fact he had both eyes open the view at the moment would be rather myopic for Nolan. His eye set to scope, blue center dot against black target lines. And the view of the scope alone. But with his other eye open he can get a much much better view of what's going on. And at eight hundred meters it's good he did. At that distance, even with that big .50 cal Tac50 Rifle, the two shots he had to make while Andrew had made his way down to the radar dome had been muffled by distance alone. No normal sniper or marksmen would want to make a shot at that range. But Nolan like Andrew, is a breed beyond. He'd scoped on two men, both of them would have gotten views on either Andrew or Eric. The first shot had been a 900 meter shot that had pipped the ace. Punch a hole through a man that was about to round the corner on Eric, and the stealther had been busy planting charges on some AAA emplacements.

The only thing that had alerted Eric was the mean ffffwip! of the round as it sped over him and took out the man who was just coming around the corner of a barracks building. The man was luckily unwired, and the shot had pitched him back behind some boxes where he'd be hard to find. And in the cold the body wouldn't rot to quick. The second shot had pitched a man who had yet to fully wire up down off a gangway across two buildings. He'd have had a great view of Andrew as he made his way into the radar dome. The shot had traveled just over 810 meters to slam into the man, pitch him back over a railing and down between two buttress sections to the main base. Hard to see from all angles but the one looking right down it. And no one would expect him to report quite yet. Good shots all around. As he lifted his head a little to check other views his comms beep and he hums softly responding, "Ten-Four there Cordite One. I have eyes on Osprey right now."

Moments later Eric responds, "I can feel your eyes on me Cordite Two. Fantastic shot earlier. I moved that one into cover abit more. I'm about a third done right now. I've managed to wire several of these sites up together. Hidden the cords and patched them into one of four detonators I have with me. I'm moving into section Alpha one four Beta right now. Along the back of the Control tower. I saw afew SPAAG's back there. Tunguska's, Gepards, and what looked like a M6 Linebacker. I want to get rid of those things of course. They could be really dangerous."

Nolan sniffed and watched as Eric ghosted along past patrols and OpFor standing around drum fires and at security posts. It was like watching Sam Fisher or something in action. A silver, blue, grey and black one eyed ghost picking his way over the ground. Nolan was privy to a point when Eric had to unsheath a karambit and stuff it into the back of a OpFor skull. He could almost imagine the crunch. What surprised him though was the barely heard over the comms, "That's for my brother Markus." As he'd pulled the body out of sight before continuing on.

Nolan's eyes narrowed, "Amen brother..." He whispered, and unholstered his pistol pointing it in the direction that Andrew is coming just in case the foot steps he hears aren't his fellow snipers.

----------------

In the tilt-rotor Victor smiled, "I've been hoping to do this for some time my dear." He moves his paints and turns in his seat. And not caring it anyone watches, begins to apply them to Natalie's face. Deft strokes with his thumg and forefinger. The blue-black base across her face from brow to chin. Carefully applying the color of the night sky. He smiled, lovingly applying the paint. Then after that he applys a layer of white and grey, the colors of the moon. He nods as the shapes come out carefully. He takes his time, making sure it looks as good as he can get it.

As he works he whispers, "You know...there's an ancient custom, that a future married couple before going into a momentous occasion would paint each other with a chosen theme." He nods as he carefully spreads the paint, "This...could very well be our courtship painting."

He applies the last stroke then grinds the last of the paint on his finger across the back of his armor, if anyone got close enough to see the white-grey streak it'd be too late for them anyway.

He leans back and nods, "The Moons Gaze. Steadfast, strong, wise." He nods, and leans in and gives his fiancee a fierce kiss. Fuck anybody who gets uncomfortable about PDA.

Carl had watched the whole thing. Observing the moment. His own native origins saying this is a solemn and special occasion to see. When it's over he nods, "Hoka...that was magnificent."

The Hunt, A Modern Fantasy Smorgasbord RP

Michael Crane and Whiskeyjack

Michael gazed about the room at the assembled people. Appears to be quite the interesting group. All of them standing out to members of the OMR in some way. Quite interesting really. Why they would call up an unofficial and reserve member like him is curious. Perhaps they needed his skills. Ah well it'd come out in the open eventually. Michael took himself off to the side. Easily addressed but not too far away as to play the loner. It also afforded him an interesting view.

That being the byplay between Whiskeyjack and one Faye Hayward. See the trickster god is used to being overlooked, it's how he does some of his best work. In fact all the trickster gods work better that way. So for the teenaged looking god to suddenly have someone besides Michael walk up, look him over and speak to him. Well Whiskeyjack is taken quite a back. In fact again it takes him abit to regain his balance. Then the god walks right up to Faye and with a slightly affronted tone to be honest atleast at first starts to spin a tale.

"The story goes that it was Oymantiou who was here first. Along side others like Uranus and other creator gods. They made the world. From highest peak to lowest gorge. Light, dark, cold and warm. They did it all. But it was Oymantiou who made the first man you know. From clay and mud and sticks and berries. He formed the shape of the first man. And when Oymantiou breathed life into this first man. He named him Wesakechak. Meaning First-born. And you know what. I was right there to see it." Whiskeyjack grins. "You wanted to know stories. I have many." The trickster chuckles then dances away pulling a handdrum from the air and begins a Round Dance beat. Singing and dancing about the outer edge of the room.

Michael sighs and shrugs if he gets any looks, "He's harmless." Said moments before Whiskeyjack manages to break a coffee table. The shaman grins "Kinda?"

The Hunt, A Modern Fantasy Smorgasbord RP

Micheal Crane

Micheal had gotten some directions from a well meaning OMR agent in the foyer. He'd waited of course for the others who arrived just right ahead of him to enter first. And he's standing at the rear of the group slightly to the left, his duffle bag over his shoulder. He smiles, "Good medicine."

The reveal though is astonishing, "A living machine." Micheal's eyes wide as he observes. The initial shock broken when standing up from behind a drape Whiskeyjack mutters, "Damn! new reason to a hard life. She's all hard." Micheal growls, "I swear. I will bind you if I have too." He then turns to the rest, "My apologies. I have a trio of hitchhikers with me. usually I'd charge gas money but I came by plane." He turns to the grinning god with a stern look, "How did you get in here anyway?" Whiskeyjack grins, "There's a door, and it's not my fault if no one is paying attention to the guy in the headdress." He shrugs and gives a really good impression of the cheshire cat right then. And all Micheal can do is shrug in apology.

"But seriously, that incredible eh? And the rest of us. Quite a crew here. Makes you wonder what's we're all going to be able to bring to the table." He idly begins to flip his tomahawk in hand, almost casual in it's movements, "Hello everyone." He finally finishes with, a big grin on his face. He's about to ask for information on what is going to happen when his gaze fell on Ullross or Ross. His eyes narrowed, and gleamed. Staring right at a tall dark formless mass hovering about him. He'd seen free spirits that could walk and move and interact. He'd seen gods not quite ready to manifest. And he'd faced dark spirits, malicious and angry. But this thing hovering over Ross, is something else. For a moment he grips the handle of his tomahawk tightly, then reigns in his reactions, not a good time to react.

He gulps then looks about, regaining his composure, "Micheal Crane, pîhtokahânapiwiýin among the Shamans of Canada and the United States. Don't expect me to speak much German. It's a pleasure to meet you all."

The Hunt, A Modern Fantasy Smorgasbord RP

Micheal Crane

Six Years Ago
Somewhere in Ontario Canada

The lodge is huge about a kilometer wide by a kilometer and a half long. Just a little over a thousand shaman and shamaness were stuffed into the massive wood post, buckskin leather and pendleton blanket made structure. And it's more then enough for what they needed to do. In the center of the circular structure sat the 20 eldest currently serving shaman. And they lead the chanting of the Great Sundance ritual. In the third line out a younger Michael Crane, tomahawk on the ground in front of him, and handdrum in hand. He sang and beat his drum along with the others in the lodge. They could look up and see the moon through the open ceiling of the lodge above. They could just make out the silver of great ships far far away. So tiny are they though.

But their song and the ritual start. As a ball of the soul of all things, magic, begins to form above the lodge. And then like a beam of blue light. It rockets skyward, the beam projected up and up, producing a strengthening effect for several dozen ships high high above.

They would sing and dance and drum until the world shook, this plane and many others shocked as the moon, broke!

But soon, a young man comes running in from outside. The beast had died! It had fallen! The joint forces of the world had won!

The lodge is silent for a time as the gathered exchange looks.

It's Micheal who breaks the silence. He surges to his feet and lets out a war whoop of joy. Soon trills, other cries and more drum beats follows as they celebrate the victory.

The now

Michael comes awake from the nap on the plane to Germany with a snort. And a grumble, as Manabozho the trickster of the Iroquoian peoples eeps and jumps back having just about to have taken a sharpie to Micheal's face. Micheal makes a grab for the god. Who jumps back and then runs back to first class at a decent clip.

The Cree Shaman groans and stretches, "Darned gods." He sighs softly and rubs his face. Looking up and down the aisle of the middle class section of the plane he's on. Elves, dwarves, orcs, one really odd looking goblin party way down the way, dressed in bright tie-dye clothing. Humans all up and down too. And atleast six spirits chilling on the plane. Connected to this or that passenger. He hums and shakes himself, nodding to the side. The flight attendant nods back thinking the gesture is for her, but it's really for the young child spirit who's standing there looking at him expectantly, just wanting some attention.

There's a ding shortly after. And the PA system starts up, "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, dieties and that techni-color sea in between. We will begin our approach to Frankfurt, Germany and the Flughafen Frankfurt am Main airport. Please observe all precautions. And be prepared to take your seats again. The attendants will be by shortly to gather garbage and any other items. Thank you for flying with us and welcome to Germany."

About 45 minutes later Micheal Crane, Canadian Indigenous Shaman and Reserve member of the OMR is retrieving his baggage. As he's grabbing a duffle bag suddenly he feels three entities approaching.

The people around him part as he pulls the tomahawk from his bag. The runes on it flaring into bright blue white flame. And a rune for lightning, is carved into the air in front of him. But soon the rune flickers and gutters away as Raven, the East Coast God of mischief, Whiskeyjack or Wisakechak from his own Cree Nations and Manabozho of the Anishinaabe, Ojibwe and Algonquian peoples are gathered about him. As one the three gods are grinning ear to ear. Raven's mismatched black and grey feather get up on a thin boyish form. Whiskeyjack's late middle aged heavily creased face on the body of a teen, and the joyful face of Manabozho at odds with the body of a women that she wears. Micheal groans, "What the hell are you three doing here?" Whiskeyjack grinning, "Wanted to make sure our best friend is okay."

Michael groans, "Well come on. We got to get to OMR headquarters. See what these moniyew want of us." The three gods cheer and follow in Micheal's wake.

It takes them some time to get there but soon the quartet are marching into the OMR building, "Great..." Micheal says under his breath as the Three Gods suddenly race off. He looks about, "Now who do I talk too."

The Crazed Kingdom, Gabaras

Banard

To his left a trio of dwarves hammered away at a wall. A very nice vein of mythril being revealed strike by strike. To his right the team leader and seven other rookies marked out part of the wall for a mining charge explosion for later. The old dwarf gruffly telling the seven young beardlings how this was going to go and detailing their individual jobs during the operation. Further to his right and left Banard could hear the strike of pick-axes, and the laughter and voices of the rest of the fifty dwarf team of deep miners working away.

Banard smiled and lifted his pick-axe again and with a grunt he brought it down. The light is ruddy right now. Orange and smoky from the lamps each dwarf wore on their helmets, burning a mix of oil and wax that is slow burning, but sheds weak light. So when his pick strikes the wall and a blaze of light flares out he shields his eyes briefly. But the call down down the shaft, "A heart of the Mountain!" Banard looks at the large head sized blue-white crystal with an internal white fire sticking into the wall. Banard gasps, "Beautiful..." Then the crystal spoke.

"So bright...Banard...can you hear me?"

Banard came awake. Laying on his back. He coughed and groaned then remember what they had been doing he almost kips to his feet. His axe in hand and he gropes for his tankard that had fallen near by. He looks about rubbing at his eyes to clear them of the blurriness of having been knocked out? Had he been knocked out? He shakes his head. Then takes a good look around, "Where the feck are we?" He growls out, and looks around the clearing. His eyes spotting Wender first. Remembering him from earlier, "The plant lad? What the hells? What's going on?" He spots the others next.

Banard takes a moment before sliding his axe away figuring they're safe for now. He sniffs, "We better get them up out of the wet." He takes a step forward and his legs protest. He growls, "Fecking! I'm Dawi! Stone Folk!" He takes another step forward and sighs, "Come on then lad, grab one or two, then let's move them to high ground of some sort. That or start slapping them." He stops though as he spots the being with the wings, "What in the actual feck is going on here? Better yet, where the hells are we?" It finally hitting the dwarf that something is really off.

The Hunt, A Modern Fantasy Smorgasbord RP

Micheal Crane

Micheal Crane aka pîhtokahânapiwiýin

In Shaman Gear

Age:36

Gender Identity: Megaphone (Male)

Species: Human

Appearance: Standing about 6 feet tall, with a chiseled form, shoulder length black hair kept back by the dreadlocks he has his hair styled into. The familiar Indigenous red skin, stretched over a fit form. His eyes are piercing bright blues that seem to have bolts of lightning flicker within them. His magical focus is a tomahawk made from an old spruce tree for the handle and a mighty piece of meteoric iron for the head. When in his gear he wears a leather vest, with iron adornments at the shoulders. A pair of khaki trousers and heavy swat boots on his feet. The back of the vest is beaded and quilled with the circle of life. His tomahawk also adorned with feathers and bead work. It's less a weapon and more a focus after all. When not in his gear he can usually be found in a hoodie, and jeans with a casual t-shirt of somekind on.

Height/Weight: Six feet tall even, and 231 pounds

Agent of the OMR(yes/no), if yes, describe position and responsibilities: Technically No, a member of the OMR Reserve, off the list, but ostensibly employed to watch over the Trickster Gods of the Indigenous Peoples, and to keep them in check and corraled...just in case.

Biography:

"It's the drum that is the heart beat of the Native people!"

Those were the words that were said to him in his teens, it was those words that had sparked an awakening in several generations of Shaman. It was the words of the Great Shaman Thomas "Joyous Crow" Kannatariio, one of the first Indigenous Shamans to answer the cal of the Early OMR. These words were told to every young man and woman. And they helped to bring about the current Shaman Community of the North and South Americas and Australian and New Zealand lands.

Among those who heard those words as the old Shaman died. Was Micheal. He was a young Reserve Hood, a tough and rumble young teen on the Reserve of Saddle Lake in Mid-Northern Alberta. But those words woke something. As he was raising a bottle of beer to his lips the old Shaman breathed his last and his power flashed across the nations. And opened the doors for thousands of new shaman. Micheal was one of them. As he raised the bottle to his lips the power woke. And the bottle imploded. The glass becoming an orb of nearly smooth glass. The alcohol boiling away in the face of the awakening of a Shaman. His eyes flashed and Micheal knew. As he watched his own grandfather, standing before him in the form of a spirit shaking his head at him for the way he was living his life. He saw legends like Poundmaker, Joseph Brant and others who have passed but had lead the First Nations people through the worst standing and watching.

He turned his life around. He found elders who taught him, he learned the ways of the Oska-peyos. He resumed his schooling. He tried to make a better person out of himself. Not that he left everything of his old life behind. HE was no longer a hoodlum but he kept in touch and still retained some of his skills.

As the years got on, he learned what he could the Elders awarded him his own drum, and his own pipe. Seeing in him the growing Shaman. His new abilities growing stronger. He was privy to the fight that occured above in the heavens. The great Beast struck down. He was in attendance when 400 Shaman and Shamaness held a Great Sundance to help empower those who had gone up there to help. He raised his voice and beat his drum, while his pipe rested beside him as they looked to the heavens. They would raise their voices in whoops of glory and joy as the news came back that the beast had fallen.

After he would continue his work from his Lodge on the banks of the Saddle Lake on the Saddle Lake Reserve. Keeping an eye on those ever moving Trickster Gods. The OMR came on his thirtieth birthday to ask him to join and like many Shaman he said he'd help, but the independence in him and in all Indigenous Shaman was too strong. Years of being coralled on Reserves had left them distrustful. But he'd still come when called. He did agree to help the OMR and watch the Tricksters closer. To make sure the Gods didn't do something crazy.

He was picking sweetgrass when an OMR agent in SWAT boots, and a three piece suit tramped up to him, scaring the Fox that was nestled up to him to tell him they needed him in Germany. He'd quirked an eyebrow then nodded. Leaving one of his Shaman teammates in charge of his section of the God Watch. He'd booked a flight and boarded up. Then heaved a massive sigh when he spotted a giant black raven flying along side the 747. A Iroquoian man sitting down the way with a headdress on up in first class. And another with a bungee cord riding the left wing of the plane. Seems he has some hitch hikers following him. Too late to turn back now though.

Reason to be chosen for the mission: An excellent scryer, Ritualist and Indigenous Rune Mage. Called up out of the Reserves and asked to help out perhaps use his abilities to find information or track down perpetrators. Not to mention Whiskeyjack, Raven and Manabozho kinda like him.

All weapons and equipment must be registered: A medicine pouch holding a days worth of ritual materials, this being chalk, charcoal sticks, medicine water, whiskey, fetish items, sage, sweatgrass and Elder's Fungus, just to name a few things. His Tomahawk focus, which can be used for casting, carving runes or helping in ritual. A hand drum for ritual purpose. A ritual long pipe, with pure tobacco again for ritual purpose. Black Glass ball, used for Scrying and Seeing.

Magical Abilities:

Ritual Magic: From the Sweat Lodge, to the Sundance, around on to the Horse Dance and the Ghost Dance. The Indigenous Shaman do most of their work through song and word and chant and music. Ritualized magic that produces expected results every time. The more shaman taking part the stronger. At it's pinnacle are the Pow Wow, the Great Ghost Dance and the Great Sundance that can change weather patterns or contain gods.

Rune Magic: Not every shaman practices this, but it's become one of Micheal's chosen forms of magic. Carving out specific Cree Syllabic runes into runic arrays can produce some pretty strong and lasting effects. The Runes of Wind and Rain, can cause a localized mist to lower visibilty, the runes of Wind and Fire, calling up a cyclone of flames. As just a few examples.

Scrying: Peering into a large black glass ball, allows Micheal to see things others can't, gain information on a situation, or seek inspiration in the moment. Careful use can even create new oppurtunities. Or catch his three godly tails in the act.

The Sight: A limited ability to see entities and beings that aren't on the same plane as the normal. Allowing him to see Spirits, Ghosts and other beings that can't cross over to the mortal plane.

Miscellaneous Facts:

He's not sure when he got the attention of Whiskeyjack, Manabozho and Raven, but he's gotten used to it.

The OMR and the Indigenous Shamans and Mages Community act as partners.

Currently the 20+ Trickster Gods of the Indigenous Peoples are not directly registered with the OMR, but kind of cooperate. Micheal and the Shaman's don't really try to change the dynamic any.

Likes:

The Full moon on a clear night

A fine rain and the smell of purity afterward

Sitting and listening to the night creatures. A Wolfs call, a coyotes yip and a deers din.

Good friends, the laughter of family and friends and the ability to see them well and happy.

Dislikes

Pollution of the environment, Protectors of Mother Earth, he believes this whole heartedly of the First Nations of all Continents.

Discrimination, bigotry and racism. He's decked more then a few people for pulling this. He's got atleast one righteous assault charge on his record to prove it.

Corruption of the Natural Order. He's taken part in five Great Ghost Dances to fix a corruptive force within the natural order of things.

Sexual Preference and Orientation: Bisexual, with no serious lean, and a rather clear Dom/Sub fetish

The Hunt, A Modern Fantasy Smorgasbord RP

Micheal Crane aka pîhtokahânapiwiýin

In Shaman Gear

Age:36

Gender Identity: Megaphone (Male)

Species: Human

Appearance: Standing about 6 feet tall, with a chiseled form, shoulder length black hair kept back by the dreadlocks he has his hair styled into. The familiar Indigenous red skin, stretched over a fit form. His eyes are piercing bright blues that seem to have bolts of lightning flicker within them. His magical focus is a tomahawk made from an old spruce tree for the handle and a mighty piece of meteoric iron for the head. When in his gear he wears a leather vest, with iron adornments at the shoulders. A pair of khaki trousers and heavy swat boots on his feet. The back of the vest is beaded and quilled with the circle of life. His tomahawk also adorned with feathers and bead work. It's less a weapon and more a focus after all. When not in his gear he can usually be found in a hoodie, and jeans with a casual t-shirt of somekind on.

Height/Weight: Six feet tall even, and 231 pounds

Agent of the OMR(yes/no), if yes, describe position and responsibilities: Technically No, a member of the OMR Reserve, off the list, but ostensibly employed to watch over the Trickster Gods of the Indigenous Peoples, and to keep them in check and corraled...just in case.

Biography:

"It's the drum that is the heart beat of the Native people!"

Those were the words that were said to him in his teens, it was those words that had sparked an awakening in several generations of Shaman. It was the words of the Great Shaman Thomas "Joyous Crow" Kannatariio, one of the first Indigenous Shamans to answer the cal of the Early OMR. These words were told to every young man and woman. And they helped to bring about the current Shaman Community of the North and South Americas and Australian and New Zealand lands.

Among those who heard those words as the old Shaman died. Was Micheal. He was a young Reserve Hood, a tough and rumble young teen on the Reserve of Saddle Lake in Mid-Northern Alberta. But those words woke something. As he was raising a bottle of beer to his lips the old Shaman breathed his last and his power flashed across the nations. And opened the doors for thousands of new shaman. Micheal was one of them. As he raised the bottle to his lips the power woke. And the bottle imploded. The glass becoming an orb of nearly smooth glass. The alcohol boiling away in the face of the awakening of a Shaman. His eyes flashed and Micheal knew. As he watched his own grandfather, standing before him in the form of a spirit shaking his head at him for the way he was living his life. He saw legends like Poundmaker, Joseph Brant and others who have passed but had lead the First Nations people through the worst standing and watching.

He turned his life around. He found elders who taught him, he learned the ways of the Oska-peyos. He resumed his schooling. He tried to make a better person out of himself. Not that he left everything of his old life behind. HE was no longer a hoodlum but he kept in touch and still retained some of his skills.

As the years got on, he learned what he could the Elders awarded him his own drum, and his own pipe. Seeing in him the growing Shaman. His new abilities growing stronger. He was privy to the fight that occured above in the heavens. The great Beast struck down. He was in attendance when 400 Shaman and Shamaness held a Great Sundance to help empower those who had gone up there to help. He raised his voice and beat his drum, while his pipe rested beside him as they looked to the heavens. They would raise their voices in whoops of glory and joy as the news came back that the beast had fallen.

After he would continue his work from his Lodge on the banks of the Saddle Lake on the Saddle Lake Reserve. Keeping an eye on those ever moving Trickster Gods. The OMR came on his thirtieth birthday to ask him to join and like many Shaman he said he'd help, but the independence in him and in all Indigenous Shaman was too strong. Years of being coralled on Reserves had left them distrustful. But he'd still come when called. He did agree to help the OMR and watch the Tricksters closer. To make sure the Gods didn't do something crazy.

He was picking sweetgrass when an OMR agent in SWAT boots, and a three piece suit tramped up to him, scaring the Fox that was nestled up to him to tell him they needed him in Germany. He'd quirked an eyebrow then nodded. Leaving one of his Shaman teammates in charge of his section of the God Watch. He'd booked a flight and boarded up. Then heaved a massive sigh when he spotted a giant black raven flying along side the 747. A Iroquoian man sitting down the way with a headdress on up in first class. And another with a bungee cord riding the left wing of the plane. Seems he has some hitch hikers following him. Too late to turn back now though.

Reason to be chosen for the mission: An excellent scryer, Ritualist and Indigenous Rune Mage. Called up out of the Reserves and asked to help out perhaps use his abilities to find information or track down perpetrators. Not to mention Whiskeyjack, Raven and Manabozho kinda like him.

All weapons and equipment must be registered: A medicine pouch holding a days worth of ritual materials, this being chalk, charcoal sticks, medicine water, whiskey, fetish items, sage, sweatgrass and Elder's Fungus, just to name a few things. His Tomahawk focus, which can be used for casting, carving runes or helping in ritual. A hand drum for ritual purpose. A ritual long pipe, with pure tobacco again for ritual purpose. Black Glass ball, used for Scrying and Seeing.

Magical Abilities:

Ritual Magic: From the Sweat Lodge, to the Sundance, around on to the Horse Dance and the Ghost Dance. The Indigenous Shaman do most of their work through song and word and chant and music. Ritualized magic that produces expected results every time. The more shaman taking part the stronger. At it's pinnacle are the Pow Wow, the Great Ghost Dance and the Great Sundance that can change weather patterns or contain gods.

Rune Magic: Not every shaman practices this, but it's become one of Micheal's chosen forms of magic. Carving out specific Cree Syllabic runes into runic arrays can produce some pretty strong and lasting effects. The Runes of Wind and Rain, can cause a localized mist to lower visibilty, the runes of Wind and Fire, calling up a cyclone of flames. As just a few examples.

Scrying: Peering into a large black glass ball, allows Micheal to see things others can't, gain information on a situation, or seek inspiration in the moment. Careful use can even create new oppurtunities. Or catch his three godly tails in the act.

The Sight: A limited ability to see entities and beings that aren't on the same plane as the normal. Allowing him to see Spirits, Ghosts and other beings that can't cross over to the mortal plane.

Miscellaneous Facts:

He's not sure when he got the attention of Whiskeyjack, Manabozho and Raven, but he's gotten used to it.

The OMR and the Indigenous Shamans and Mages Community act as partners.

Currently the 20+ Trickster Gods of the Indigenous Peoples are not directly registered with the OMR, but kind of cooperate. Micheal and the Shaman's don't really try to change the dynamic any.

Likes:

The Full moon on a clear night

A fine rain and the smell of purity afterward

Sitting and listening to the night creatures. A Wolfs call, a coyotes yip and a deers din.

Good friends, the laughter of family and friends and the ability to see them well and happy.

Dislikes

Pollution of the environment, Protectors of Mother Earth, he believes this whole heartedly of the First Nations of all Continents.

Discrimination, bigotry and racism. He's decked more then a few people for pulling this. He's got atleast one righteous assault charge on his record to prove it.

Corruption of the Natural Order. He's taken part in five Great Ghost Dances to fix a corruptive force within the natural order of things.

Sexual Preference and Orientation: Bisexual, with no serious lean, and a rather clear Dom/Sub fetish

The Hunt, A Modern Fantasy Smorgasbord RP

Morning folks reaffirming my interest. Sadly trying to write a VS on a phone is silly sorts of stupid hard so I will start writing later after work.

Thank you kindly see you all later.

The Hunt, a Smorgasbord Fantasy RP

@Kumbaris

So Magic is flexible? We're not talking just casting right? Like Harry Potter style?

Is Ritualism and Runic Magic on the table?

If I join, maybe When I join, I may already have an idea. And I just want to make sure well before hand if it might work.

What's your take on that?

The Hunt, a Smorgasbord Fantasy RP

Oh I'm not worried about that. The setting looks pretty cool. And I may even have an idea for a character. i just want to see where this might go.