Framing A Moose

Magic in the Park

Hey! Would love to join up with y'all, though it's going to take me a bit to create a character sheet, especially since I have a deadline due Sunday night. Could I by chance reserve the Complexity Aspect?

The Dead Don't Die.

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Waverley Watts

Location: School
Skills:

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"I got ahold of her before I bumped into you. She dipped out early; girl always had good instincts," Waverley explained. She took the woman's hand - Kaitlyn, she introduced herself as - and shook it, committing her name to memory. The group made their way outside, Waverley stepping up to walk beside Kaitlyn once they were all out. As the cop approached, Waverley flinched, falling back slightly, letting Kaitlyn answer the officer's question. Her shoulders tensed, though, as he turned his attention to her - exactly what she didn't want to happen. She took a deep breath, stepping out from behind Kaitlyn, avoiding eye contact.

"I'm fine," she replied curtly, literally biting her tongue to keep herself from saying anything else. Her history with the police was less than stellar, and her personal punk philosophies usually put her in opposition with them. She managed to keep quiet for a good few beats, though she probably looked shiftier than was safe; avoiding eye contact, stiff as a board. After a moment, she asked, "Heard gunshots earlier - did any of the kids get hurt?"

Wild Beasts of the Earth (Gothic Horror)

Nelly Hacke

Name: Cornelia "Nelly" Hacke
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Nationality: American (German Heritage)
Appearance:

appearance

Personal Effects: Gris-gris, matchbox, bottle of rum, worn flat cap, heavy worn overcoat, bone-handled hunting knife, pocket change

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Background:

What is your job Beggar
Backstory: Nelly was born in New Orleans to a pair of German immigrants - her father was a dockworker while her mother did some tailoring as a seamstress when more money was needed. They lived a humble life, with a small but modern house not far from the docks. They did not live in excess, but they never dipped into poverty. Nelly's mother taught her instead of sending her to school. Like many Catholic mothers, she primarily taught her from the Bible and did the same for Nelly's little sister, Anja, when she came around.

Stable as they were economically, life was far from perfect. Nelly and Anja's father had a penchant for drinking, and when he drank, he found a penchant for violence. From a young age, Nelly learned how to read her father. Not just his expression, but his schedule. Sundays irritated him, made him feel like a failure in the eyes of God, so she locked Anja and herself up every week after church. Bigger boats sailing in meant he'd be too tired to go to the bar after, which meant they'd be safe. She got good at it. Good enough to protect her family.

Until she was twelve years old. It was a Sunday. She and Anja were huddled together in their room, waiting with dread for their father to come home from the bar. When he did, there was yelling. It wasn't angry, though. It was...absolutely jubilant. She couldn't keep Anja from racing downstairs to see the man twirling with his confused wife in his arms. He was so exuberant, so full of life. It was happier than any of them had ever seen him. The happiness was infectious. Soon Anja was dancing with her father while her mother laughed in the corner.

That evening was more joyful than any that had ever taken place in that house. They had gumbo instead of fish, told each other stories into the night. Anja fell asleep in her mother's arms in front of the fire, who eventually took her to bed, leaving Nelly with her father. She wasn't sure what it was about him - the slight smirk that played at the corner of his lips, the unprecedented sharpness behind his eye. Something about him struck Nelly with the sudden unwavering belief that this man was not her father.

She didn't tell her mother. She didn't even tell Anja, not at first. Instead, she slipped into the bed her and Anja shared to try - and fail - to sleep. They woke up to the sweet smell of baking. Cake waited on the dining room table in place of grits, with both their parents sitting at the table, silently waiting for the pair. Nelly had her suspicions immediately, but it wasn't until she was sat across from her "mother" that she was sure. The woman had that same smirk, that same sharpness. Her mother was not her mother.

Nelly slipped away as quickly as she could while still avoiding suspicion. She packed her and her sisters' things, explaining to the younger girl that they were leaving. Anja was confused, upset. Explaining it only caused Anja to grow more upset - to the point of drawing the people pretending to be their parents into their room. Nelly kicked their bags under the bed, quickly spinning a lie about hitting her sister to explain the tears she was shedding.

Nelly didn't end up leaving that night as she'd planned. Anja refused, and she couldn't bring herself to leave without her sister. The next morning, she woke up to find Anja already awake, staring at her inches away. The sharpness had been unsettling in her parents' eyes. Seeing it in little Anja's sent a stabbing terror into her heart. On her lips played that malicious smirk. That day, they had cake. They had gumbo. And when night came and the things that weren't her family were sleeping - or at least mimicking sleep - Nelly slipped out of her bed and turned on their gas stove.

The house burned, and, as far as Nelly knows, whatever they were burned with it.

There was no funeral procession, no second line. Nelly didn't have any other family in New Orleans. No one to bury her dead, no one to take care of her. So, she took to the streets. There's a lot a kid can learn on the streets of New Orleans, especially one as observant as Nelly. The stray dogs taught her how to fight, like a cornered animal without restraint. The rats taught her how to worm her way into tight places she oughtn't be in to snatch up things she oughtn't have. And cats taught her how to weave through a crowd without anyone paying her any mind. Her ability to snatch wallets and watches as she did was something she taught herself.

It's that last skill that'd lead her to her Gigi. She was weaving her way through a crowd, slipping hands into pockets. One of her marks had an envelope - not too thick, but there was something with some weight inside. Jewelry maybe? She was about to open it when she saw something that made her pause. It was addressed to her: Nelly Hacke. It shocked her enough not to notice when a figure approached her, grabbing her by the wrist. Looking up, she found a heavyset old woman with a stern face.

Nelly never understood why Gigi took her on as her ward rather than turning her in. Maybe Nelly's quick hands impressed her. Maybe she pitied the kid. Hell, maybe it was simply Nelly's last name; Gigi always seemed amused to have a girl named Hacke helping her con people. Gigi was allegedly a psychic, a fortune teller gifted with foresight. She was a fraud, of course, something Nelly discovered early in her tenure as the woman's assistant. However she'd managed to get Nelly's name, it wasn't the spirits that gave it to her. Many of Nelly's duties had to do with spying on her Gigi's clients. Hiding atop confession booths with a glass cup, sneaking into bars to hear them drunkenly spill their secrets, slipping into their houses to find any clues as to what to bring up at their next session.

As fraudulent as her sixth sense might have been, Gigi was still a spiritual woman. She taught Nelly of Vodou and the Loa. She also helped teach Nelly how to spot and avoid what she called the Otherfolk - that which appeared human but were not. The things that took her family weren't the only kind. New Orleans, as a city of the night, had plenty creatures of the night pass through, things pulled from folklore and bedtime stories. Under Gigi's tutelage, Nelly developed what could only be described as esoteric street smarts. Nelly learned how to spot them, how to avoid them, how to take notice of strange happenings long before they became deadly. She was witness to a lot - after all, few pay attention to folks like her, begging on the street.

Nelly couldn't say she was surprised when they came for Gigi. She'd been slipping, becoming soft, guiding the Otherfolk's prey out of town with her fortunes instead of keeping to herself as she'd taught Nelly to. In the end, Gigi suffered the same fate as her family - wearing that same smirk, same sharpness. Nelly left the very night she realized Gigi had been taken. She'd planned on leaving town, maybe going North. As such, she took her Gigi's coat. Slipping her hands into her jacket pocket, she found one final trick from the old fraud. Inside was the very same envelope she'd snatched from Gigi all those years ago. Same writing, same weight to it. Opening it, she found two tickets: one from New Orleans to England, and another from England to Germany, the first leaving in a week, the second in a month. Inside was also a matchbox from some German cabaret.

Gigi didn't have a gas stove, but she did have a lot of high proof liquor. Enough to set her little shack ablaze. Nelly kept a low profile the following week until her ship was scheduled to depart. The journey to and through Germany was long; Nelly managed to scrape by begging. She didn't really have anywhere to go after the second ship dropped her on German shores - she tried tracking down extended family, but never really had much luck there. Her resources were few, after all, and there weren't many interested in helping a homeless woman find her family. She was panhandling in Munich when she got it: an envelope dropped into her hat. She didn't get a good look at who dropped it into her hat, but when she dug inside, she found an invitation. An invitation to a cabaret - one with the same name she saw every time she needed a light.

Wild Beasts of the Earth (Gothic Horror)

Introducing Nelly Hacke, fortune teller's assistant! Her backstory might be a little sloppy in terms of writing since I did most of it all in one go last night, but it hits all the important points.

Nelly Hacke

Name: Cornelia "Nelly" Hacke
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Nationality: American (German Heritage)
Appearance:

appearance

Personal Effects: Gris-gris, matchbox, bottle of rum, worn flat cap, heavy worn overcoat, bone-handled hunting knife, pocket change

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Background:

What is your job Beggar
Backstory: Nelly was born in New Orleans to a pair of German immigrants - her father was a dockworker while her mother did some tailoring as a seamstress when more money was needed. They lived a humble life, with a small but modern house not far from the docks. They did not live in excess, but they never dipped into poverty. Nelly's mother taught her instead of sending her to school. Like many Catholic mothers, she primarily taught her from the Bible and did the same for Nelly's little sister, Anja, when she came around.

Stable as they were economically, life was far from perfect. Nelly and Anja's father had a penchant for drinking, and when he drank, he found a penchant for violence. From a young age, Nelly learned how to read her father. Not just his expression, but his schedule. Sundays irritated him, made him feel like a failure in the eyes of God, so she locked Anja and herself up every week after church. Bigger boats sailing in meant he'd be too tired to go to the bar after, which meant they'd be safe. She got good at it. Good enough to protect her family.

Until she was twelve years old. It was a Sunday. She and Anja were huddled together in their room, waiting with dread for their father to come home from the bar. When he did, there was yelling. It wasn't angry, though. It was...absolutely jubilant. She couldn't keep Anja from racing downstairs to see the man twirling with his confused wife in his arms. He was so exuberant, so full of life. It was happier than any of them had ever seen him. The happiness was infectious. Soon Anja was dancing with her father while her mother laughed in the corner.

That evening was more joyful than any that had ever taken place in that house. They had gumbo instead of fish, told each other stories into the night. Anja fell asleep in her mother's arms in front of the fire, who eventually took her to bed, leaving Nelly with her father. She wasn't sure what it was about him - the slight smirk that played at the corner of his lips, the unprecedented sharpness behind his eye. Something about him struck Nelly with the sudden unwavering belief that this man was not her father.

She didn't tell her mother. She didn't even tell Anja, not at first. Instead, she slipped into the bed her and Anja shared to try - and fail - to sleep. They woke up to the sweet smell of baking. Cake waited on the dining room table in place of grits, with both their parents sitting at the table, silently waiting for the pair. Nelly had her suspicions immediately, but it wasn't until she was sat across from her "mother" that she was sure. The woman had that same smirk, that same sharpness. Her mother was not her mother.

Nelly slipped away as quickly as she could while still avoiding suspicion. She packed her and her sisters' things, explaining to the younger girl that they were leaving. Anja was confused, upset. Explaining it only caused Anja to grow more upset - to the point of drawing the people pretending to be their parents into their room. Nelly kicked their bags under the bed, quickly spinning a lie about hitting her sister to explain the tears she was shedding.

Nelly didn't end up leaving that night as she'd planned. Anja refused, and she couldn't bring herself to leave without her sister. The next morning, she woke up to find Anja already awake, staring at her inches away. The sharpness had been unsettling in her parents' eyes. Seeing it in little Anja's sent a stabbing terror into her heart. On her lips played that malicious smirk. That day, they had cake. They had gumbo. And when night came and the things that weren't her family were sleeping - or at least mimicking sleep - Nelly slipped out of her bed and turned on their gas stove.

The house burned, and, as far as Nelly knows, whatever they were burned with it.

There was no funeral procession, no second line. Nelly didn't have any other family in New Orleans. No one to bury her dead, no one to take care of her. So, she took to the streets. There's a lot a kid can learn on the streets of New Orleans, especially one as observant as Nelly. The stray dogs taught her how to fight, like a cornered animal without restraint. The rats taught her how to worm her way into tight places she oughtn't be in to snatch up things she oughtn't have. And cats taught her how to weave through a crowd without anyone paying her any mind. Her ability to snatch wallets and watches as she did was something she taught herself.

It's that last skill that'd lead her to her Gigi. She was weaving her way through a crowd, slipping hands into pockets. One of her marks had an envelope - not too thick, but there was something with some weight inside. Jewelry maybe? She was about to open it when she saw something that made her pause. It was addressed to her: Nelly Hacke. It shocked her enough not to notice when a figure approached her, grabbing her by the wrist. Looking up, she found a heavyset old woman with a stern face.

Nelly never understood why Gigi took her on as her ward rather than turning her in. Maybe Nelly's quick hands impressed her. Maybe she pitied the kid. Hell, maybe it was simply Nelly's last name; Gigi always seemed amused to have a girl named Hacke helping her con people. Gigi was allegedly a psychic, a fortune teller gifted with foresight. She was a fraud, of course, something Nelly discovered early in her tenure as the woman's assistant. However she'd managed to get Nelly's name, it wasn't the spirits that gave it to her. Many of Nelly's duties had to do with spying on her Gigi's clients. Hiding atop confession booths with a glass cup, sneaking into bars to hear them drunkenly spill their secrets, slipping into their houses to find any clues as to what to bring up at their next session.

As fraudulent as her sixth sense might have been, Gigi was still a spiritual woman. She taught Nelly of Vodou and the Loa. She also helped teach Nelly how to spot and avoid what she called the Otherfolk - that which appeared human but were not. The things that took her family weren't the only kind. New Orleans, as a city of the night, had plenty creatures of the night pass through, things pulled from folklore and bedtime stories. Under Gigi's tutelage, Nelly developed what could only be described as esoteric street smarts. Nelly learned how to spot them, how to avoid them, how to take notice of strange happenings long before they became deadly. She was witness to a lot - after all, few pay attention to folks like her, begging on the street.

Nelly couldn't say she was surprised when they came for Gigi. She'd been slipping, becoming soft, guiding the Otherfolk's prey out of town with her fortunes instead of keeping to herself as she'd taught Nelly to. In the end, Gigi suffered the same fate as her family - wearing that same smirk, same sharpness. Nelly left the very night she realized Gigi had been taken. She'd planned on leaving town, maybe going North. As such, she took her Gigi's coat. Slipping her hands into her jacket pocket, she found one final trick from the old fraud. Inside was the very same envelope she'd snatched from Gigi all those years ago. Same writing, same weight to it. Opening it, she found two tickets: one from New Orleans to England, and another from England to Germany, the first leaving in a week, the second in a month. Inside was also a matchbox from some German cabaret.

Gigi didn't have a gas stove, but she did have a lot of high proof liquor. Enough to set her little shack ablaze. Nelly kept a low profile the following week until her ship was scheduled to depart. The journey to and through Germany was long; Nelly managed to scrape by begging. She didn't really have anywhere to go after the second ship dropped her on German shores - she tried tracking down extended family, but never really had much luck there. Her resources were few, after all, and there weren't many interested in helping a homeless woman find her family. She was panhandling in Munich when she got it: an envelope dropped into her hat. She didn't get a good look at who dropped it into her hat, but when she dug inside, she found an invitation. An invitation to a cabaret - one with the same name she saw every time she needed a light.

Palingenesia - A Modern Greek Gods Saga

Let me know if I need to change anything - I'm going to add some inspo refs later, but for now, her description will have to do.

Britomartis

Name:

Britomartis

Titles:

Lady of the Nets, Diktynna

Appearance:

While Brit may be beautiful by mortal standards, she lacks the grace and nobility of the higher goddesses. She's sturdy and broad-shouldered, taking the form of a muscular fisherwoman. Her skin is tan, decorated with an array of freckles and scars, her hands are calloused, and her face is home to imperfections uncommon for a goddess - laugh lines, forehead creases, crow's feet. In ancient times, Britomartis' form looked to be around twenty, matching her mischievous and youthful nature. Since she's been pushed by circumstance into having to accept more responsibility, her form has aged; these days, she looks to be in her mid to late twenties.

Character Type:

Goddess

Divine Domain:

Nets, Rope, and Wire

Powers:

Britomartis has the ability to manifest and manipulate nets, rope, and wire. While not the most impressive of powers, Brit makes up for it with wit and skill, having honed her capabilities to a fine edge. She possesses divine strength as well - not enough to match the strength of some of the greater gods, but enough to outclass most demigods. The exception to this rule is when she's pulling something caught in a net or tied by rope. In such cases, she's capable of truly profound feats of strength.

Assets:

Britomartis' assets are a lot more centralized than those of some gods. Her primary asset is Caenopolis, the City of Rope. Caenopolis sits upon Mount Dikte, a place of power for Britomartis. Built into the mountain are four towers that mark the perimeter of Caenopolis, in between which lies the city itself. To an outsider, it might look slapdash; it's quite literally a city held together by rope, built from ruins dredged from the old world suspended in the air by nets and cables. It's still in development, building upwards rather than outwards, the four Towers of Dikte stretching higher and higher into the sky, with more and more being strung up between them as they rise. The city would fall apart were it not for one simple cosmic rule: ropes never fail on Mount Dikte. The people of Caenopolis take pride in their city's design, though - rope architects work tirelessly to make the city accessible, and dredgermen compete to find interesting and refurbishable old ruins to be hoisted up into the city.

Caenopolis is a city of misfits. While not widely worshipped, Britomartis is known to be much more likely to answer if called upon than some other gods, given her constant campaigning. As such, she has become the patron goddess of underdogs, those who have faced misfortune and have few others to turn to. Criminals on the run, borderline blasphemers, and refugees of all types are likely to make the trek to Caenopolis hoping for a new start.

Stationed all around the island of Crete is Caenopolis' primary defense - the Cretian Navy, which Britomartis commands. It's not large, but it's enough to protect the island of Crete and then some. Its biggest ships are former industrial fishing vessels tricked out with weaponry, with similarly makeshift armaments. While not particularly well-equipped, the Navy is skilled at incorporating nets and fishing techniques into battle.

Britomartis' mind is also worth bringing up. Her puckish wit once used to pull off all manners of pranks has been sharpened into a deadly weapon, a tool of strategy to be used to her and her people's benefit. This capacity for outside-the-box thinking trickles downward into her closest mortal cohorts and the highest commanders in her Navy.

In terms of raw divine power, Britomartis' greatest asset is the Diktaion Antron. A cave at Mount Dikte's base, the Diktaion Antron is, according to legend, the birthplace of Zeus. It thrums with power, power Britomartis has yet to figure out how to harness. Still, it sits under Caenopolis, a well of untapped divine potential.

Primary Location/Areas of Influence:

Caenopolis, Crete

Biography:

Before Britomartis was Britomartis, she was Mount Dikte. She watched over the island of Crete a silent sentinel, high and mighty at its heart. She saw a time before gods, before mortals, when titans reigned]. It all seems like a hazy dream, snippets of half-remembered feelings. She had no senses, other than the sense for power, for life, for all the things that concern a thing of earth and stone. She remembers a titaness, Rhea, coming to her island. She was already in labor; the nymphs of Mount Dikte brought her to what would come to be known as the Diktaion Antron, but at the time was just a cave.

She remembers the sense of power she felt when Zeus was born, the significance of him. She had little knowledge at the time of context, but she could feel in her veins that he was fated to change the world. He stayed with her for years, nursed by Amalthaea, one of her nymphs, growing into the god that would one day destroy Cronos. After he left, it was centuries before she'd feel him again. When he returned, he returned the King of Gods, his destiny fulfilled. Visiting Caeno, a town in Crete, he met Karme, daughter of Amalthaea. The two became close, and in the end, he couldn't help but once again betray his marital vows.

Britomartis was born of this union. She grew up around her nymph sisters, never knowing her father, only knowing of him. She'd always been told that it was some great plan on his part - that he had given the mountain that had sheltered him for so long a physical form as a way of giving back. She always figured he just couldn't keep it in his pants. She didn't much care, though. Even if her past as Mount Dikte lingered in the form of phantom memories, and even if her connection to it remained strong, she never felt like a continuation of it. She felt separate, but not detached. A new chapter to an old story.

When she grew into a young woman she caught the attention of Minos, king of Crete. He was relentless in his pursuit of her. First, he simply asked for her hand, which she'd always reject with a laugh and a dismissive flit of her wrist. She was young! She wanted to spend her days frolicking on her mountain, entangled in the arms of the other nymphs. Why would she want to be tied down by a pompous old king? Soon, though, saying no ceased to be enough. Proposals turned to demands turned to soldiers seeking to take her by force. She spent nine months evading Minos' forces, culminating in the king himself cornering her on a cliff.

She could either jump or she could marry him.

To this day, Britomartis maintains that it was the easiest choice she's ever made. After throwing herself from the cliff, she plunged into the sea, quickly finding herself entangled in a fishing net. She was pulled onto a ship to find an irritated Artemis, on a hunt with her huntresses. When Britomartis explained the situation to Artemis, annoyance gave way to amusement - the virgin goddess was appreciative of the lengths Britomartis went to to keep her dignity, keep her freedom. She offered her a place with her huntresses. Later, when she learned of their shared heritage, Artemis offered her true divinity, minor as it may be; and thus, she was the Lady of the Nets.

Britomartis traveled with Artemis on and off after that. She enjoyed hunting, but she also had to attend to those who worshipped her separate from her relationship to Artemis. Fishermen, mostly. This ended with her and Poseidon having a...somewhat tense relationship. She'd often get in the way of his great duties with her puckishness, pranking those who'd devoted themselves to Poseidon and forgotten to pay homage to her, and helping those who earned Poseidon's ire. She shouldn't have; he was much greater than she was, much more powerful, but she'd mastered the art of not being worth the trouble.

Until the gods died, that is. The time between death and rebirth is a blind spot for Brit. If she once again became one with Mount Dikte, she doesn't remember any of it. All she knows is that she awoke to a world destroyed - and a world at war. By the time she was reborn, the gods were already at war with one another. She tried to find Artemis when she woke, but unfortunately for her, she found Poseidon instead. It was him who told her what had happened while they slept. The mortals had decimated themselves, and the sea with them.

Diktynna's nets had played a part in that decimation. A small part, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, but a part well beyond the station of the petty Goddess of Nets. And it wasn't as though there was a god of plastic, of pollution, of nuclear energy and waste for him to take his rage out on. So, the Lady of the Nets would have to do - perhaps he could squeeze what little power she had from her in the process as a trophy.

Brit only managed to escape thanks to a dash of wit and a massive amount of luck - as Poseidon's waters thrashed her to near death, she hitched herself to a strange relic of the old world floating in the sea. A buoy, Brit later learned. She went into hiding after that, putting on the guise of a mortal as the Olympian Strife waged around her. She found herself traveling from refugee camp to refugee camp amidst the mortals. In such time, she gained sympathy for them. More than that, though, she gained some amount of respect for them. They were like cockroaches in their unwillingness to die, even as beings so much greater than them fought battles of which they were the primary casualties. Enough humans at the ends of their rope could do great and terrible things in the name of desperation.

By the time the Accords were put into place, Brit had gathered herself a large group of refugee followers. Once murder among Olympians was outlawed, she revealed herself, and she led her people back to Crete, where she began to build Caenopolis. What began as a safe haven for her band of refugees became something more - an attempt to claim the domain of Sky for herself. It's an attempt rooted in fear, of course. She doesn't believe the Accords will hold forever, and she's afraid of what Poseidon might do once her protection is gone. She became something of a celebrity politician for the people of Caenopolis and even those outside, constantly vying for their faith. She and her people began to build upwards, climbing towards the sky in what's known as Britomartis' "Catch the Clouds," campaign. It's a rather blunt strategy, supposedly trying to climb high enough to throw a literal net over the sky. Behind this brutish explanation, though, is a subtler hidden agenda; if enough people believe it is Britomartis' destiny to claim the sky, then perhaps it shall become her destiny to do so.

The Dead Don't Die.

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Waverley Watts

Location: School
Skills: Perception

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Waverley winced as the stranger tossed her chair at the sick student, causing him to fall to the ground. She didn't say anything - there was reason to be scared. Whatever was happening, there was a violence to it. She'd picked up that much from the police broadcasts. Still, she hadn't seen any of it with her own eyes, and she couldn't help but feel sympathy for the sick student as they shambled back onto their feet. Waveley followed the stranger, heading towards front of the school. Waverley brought up the rear, so the children were sandwiched protected from front and back.

The memory of the gunshots outside resurfaced in Waverley's mind, prompting her to tilt her head slightly, listening out for anything out of the ordinary. She could still hear the bustle of a crowd outside, but the commotion had lessened since they'd entered. The gunshots had gone quiet too - which was particularly relieving for Waverley. She let out a sigh, turning her gaze forward, past the kids to the stranger leading their little group.

"I'm Waverley, by the way. Waverley Watts," Waverley introduced herself - since things had calmed down, it seemed like as good a time as any. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea for her to explain why she was at the school. "My sister goes here - Riley. Kinda short, kind of a genius, kinda smug about it."

The Dead Don't Die.

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Waverley Watts

Location: School
Skills: Morale Boosting

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Waverley was just as intent on helping the kids as Kaitlyn seemed to be, but she wasn't sure provoking the ill student was a great idea. She was about to voice this opinion, only for the stranger to slip into the room and begin screaming at the sick kid. Waverley wasn't opposed to winging it - in fact, it tended to be her primary strategy for most problems. As such, she didn't hesitate when the stranger made her move, instead ducking down, quickly looping around the side of their little fortress opposite to that of the kids' shambling peer. She pushed a pair of the desks apart, making an opening for the pair to slip out of.

"Come on - there are some paramedics outside; we can get you to them," Waverley promised, reaching her arms out to the kids. As soon as she had their hands in hers, she helped them out of their little barricade, guiding them out of the classroom. Once they were out, she turned back to the stranger, putting herself between the kids and the sick student still inside. Her eyes fixed onto the stranger. "I got 'em! Come on!"

The Dead Don't Die.

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Waverley Watts

Location: School
Skills: N/A

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Waverley turned her attention to the younger of the two women, her lips parting to answer the question. No words immediately came out from them, though; it was a bit hard to explain, after all, that Waverley was neither teacher nor student, just some rando who came to this school on a hunch. Then, the other began to them down the hallway. Her companion followed immediately. Waverley hesitated - the alternatives were few. If she didn't follow her only other option was the cop on the loose outside, or the creepy teacher. One last look at him, and Waverley quickly caught up with the others.

"Neither," Waverley finally answered as she fell in behind Kaitlyn. She seemed disinterested in explaining why she was there, instead trying to put together a semi-clear understanding of what was going on. "Whatever's happening, I think it's happening all over Manhattan. The cops have been all over the place, trying to tackle something I don't think they understand."

Waverley tensed up as an ear-piercing scream wrung out. Waverley kept pace with Kaitlyn, speeding to see who the cause was, and help them if at all possible. When the pair arrived at the source, they found a pair of students defending themselves with a makeshift barricade in hopes that it'd stop the one that held that sickly pallor the teacher had had. She tensed up, not entirely sure of what she could do to help.

"Hey, kid, uh," she called out, her attention on the seemingly sick student. Her eyes were cautiously fixed on the kid, her foot scooting backwards. "There are some ambulances outside - maybe there's someone who can help out there?" It was not Waverley's predisposition to be afraid of the ill, but even she couldn't stop a feeling of creeping fear from crawling up her back. It was a fear that caused her to step back, nervously preparing to stumble back if necessary.

The Dead Don't Die.

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Waverley Watts

Location: School
Skills: N/A

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Cops, Waverley found, were a lot like rats. Like rats, if they start acting strangely, there's likely to be trouble ahead. This was what had drawn her out of her cozy little apartment around what would usually be her bedtime. After a late gig at Beyond the Veil, she'd come home with sleep on her mind. She hadn't been able to sleep for long, though - in part thanks to her god-awful sleep schedule, and in part thanks to the screeching and honking brought on by the fact a stop sign had recently been stolen right out front of her apartment. She'd never been good at getting back to sleep once awakened, so she did what she always did on nights like that one: she started a broadcast.

It started out normal enough; cop forecasts between recent indie bands Waverley had discovered, a few prerecorded interviews, and an update on a community garden project a friend of hers had been doing. Then, things started to take a turn. Panic, uncertain reports, calls for backup. All happening consistently. Some very weird shit.

Then, Riley's high school was mentioned. Very little would have drawn Waverley away from such a broadcast. Her sister potentially being in danger? It was enough for her to chug the last bits of her coffee and make a beeline for the bus stop. She kept an ear to her police scanner the whole ride, waiting for updates on what was happening at her sister's school - not that she could hear much over the guy practically coughing up a lung behind her. Texting her sister also didn't yield much in the way of results. Riley was a notoriously bad texter - perhaps that was why she hadn't texted back? It's what Waverley told herself on loop in her mind as the bus rolled its way ever closer.

She'd bolted through the doors as soon as they'd opened. When she'd gotten to the school, it looked as though most of the students were already out, something seemingly facilitated by the cops on scene. Waverley glanced through the crowd, but couldn't spot her - and, as soon as gunshots rang out, she instinctively ducked down. Certain Riley wasn't in the crowd, she rushed past the crowd Another way cops are like rats - approaching one without vetting it first can be hazardous to one's health. She wasn't sure what they were firing at, but she knew not to get closer than she had to.

She didn't expect Riley to still be on the school grounds, but she knew she had to check. Not to mention that it was probably the safest place to hide out from the cop outside. The halls were mostly quiet, save for the echoing of Waverley's feet on the polished wooden floor. And, after a moment, a ding from Waverley's phone. She quickly pulled it out, seeing the message from her sisters.

'Good - be safe and be smart. Something weird is going on.' She type out, before hitting send. After a moment, she added, 'Love you,' before sending that off as well. Her head shot up from her phone when she heard something else - a pair of women stumbling out of a door and slamming it shut behind. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"Hiding from the lunatic cop outsi-" Waverley began to ask, quickly closing the distance between them. She stopped behind the pair, though, when she caught a glimpse of the man just past the glass. She flinched back, eyebrows knitting together. "Jesus, what in the Romero is his deal?"

The Dead Don't Die.

Waverley Watts - Host of Manhattan Underground Radio

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Waverley Watts

Character Quote:
"At least radio's set to make a comeback!"

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Character Summary

Name: Waverley Linn Watts
Aliases: Waves, Feedback
Age: 23
Birthday: February 11th, 2001
Ethnicity: African American
Birth Place: Manhattan
Gender: Female
Pre Outbreak Occupation: Stage Technician / Pirate Radio Host
Languages: English, Morse Code, semi-fluent in ASL

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Appearance

Height: 5'6
Weight: 121 lbs.
Body Type: Slim
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Dark Brown and Purple
Skin Tone: Light Brown
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Rose on her chest, Illuminati triangle on middle finger, Foreign script going down her bicep, Pierced ears
Personal Style: True to her history, Waverley's style could best be described as grunge. Her closet is filled with a mix of thrifted clothes and merch for indie bands she knows. She tends to dress for durability, buying clothes that'll last so she doesn't have to worry about updating her wardrobe too often. Her usual go-to is a band t-shirt, a sturdy military jacket, a pair of jeans, and running shoes or boots.

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Psychology

Dependable * Trusting * Friendly * Restless * Lighthearted * Awkward

Sexuality: Homosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Once a socially anxious, dorky mess, Waverley's grown into a much more self-assured version of herself. While she's by no means suave, she tends to bumble her way through conversations with a confidence that often forgives her her dorkiness. Waverley's primary tool in social situations is her overwhelming affability. Thanks to her time at Beyond the Veil, she believes in the good of the collective, community being among her highest of virtues.

Having spent her late teens and early twenties largely on the wrong side of the law, Waverley doesn't have much respect for authority. She'll tend to stick up for the underdog and has trouble putting away her morals in the name of practicality or safety. She also has trouble sitting still; if she falls into a routine, she'll start to feel the itch to move onto the next thing. Her broadcast helps with this, as she's able to use it to explore pretty much anything she's interested in.

Character Alignment: Chaotic Good
Habits: Biting things (Earphone wires, erasers, ect.), talking to herself as if she’s on air (especially when nervous)
Hobbies: Pirate Radio, People-Watching, Comic Books, Music Discovering and Reviewing
Fears:

• Cats: Her family had a mean cat when she was a little girl - she's been wary of them since.
• Rising Fascism: Every punk's biggest fear.
• Law Enforcement: Anyone with a gun and the legal backing to kill is someone worth fearing.

Likes:

• Music
• Dogs
• Coffee
• Watching People Make Art
• Rats
• Nerd/Punk Culture
• Abandoned Places

Dislikes:

• Police
• Reality Television (will still hate watch)
• Math
• Bigots
• Landlords
• The Ultra Wealthy
• Selfish People

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Skills

Pre Outbreak Skills: (Pick five skills that they had before the outbreak happened.)

• Radio Knowledge
• Tinkering
• Improvisation
• Morale Boosting
• Perception

Post Outbreak Skills:

• TBD
• TBD
• TBD
• TBD
• TBD

What Do They Carry On Them:
This includes your clothing, jewelry, your wallet, your id, your keys; cash (denote which country), a picture, lighter, cigarettes, weapons you may carry, shoes, purse, bag, pistol and so forth. If it is not listed you are not carrying it. Again, keep it grounded in the real world. Limited to spots provided.

• Clothing: Dark green military jacket, jeans, black concert tee with the words 'Echo 2020 Tour' emblazoned on it, military surplus combat boots, socks (worn thin), bra, and underwear.
• Wallet: New York State ID, $17.25 USD, Debit Card ($47.38), magnifying card, Allen key, bottle opener
• Old Purple Jansport
• Park Bench Armrest
• Old iPhone (8) With Lightly Cracked Screen (loaded with tons of music)
• Cheap Mobile Police Scanner

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History

Life Before The Outbreak Waverley Watts was born to a middle-class pair in a relatively well to do neighborhood in Manhattan. Her mother was a police officer, while her father worked in distributions, though of what, she never knew. He died when she was young, not long after her little sister, Riley was born. She was too young to remember the specifics of his death, and her mom refused to talk about her daughters' father much at all; a stoic woman by nature, she tended to avoid showing emotion like the plague. They had to downsize after his death - move into a smaller apartment in a more affordable neighborhood. This is the life Waverley remembers growing up; a small two bedroom where the upstairs neighbors often wore heavy work boots, and the downstairs neighbors played their music too loud. Life was always so loud for Waverley. Her mother was gone enough that she didn't have to deal with it, and it didn't seem to bother her sister, who had a talent for blocking out the noise with her schoolwork and her projects.

It shouldn't be any surprise that Waverley glommed onto music at a young age. First it was her mom's old radio, then eventually an iPod shuffle, then touch, then eventually an iPhone once she got to her teenage years. She always kept the radio, though - something about it always made her feel less alone, like she was a member of a collective, all tuning into the waves as one. It was how she'd discovered she was a lesbian, and how she found her first girlfriend. She'd been fifteen, freshly off the high of buying a cheap walkie talkie with some money from her first job - scooping ice cream down at a local shop. She'd been switching between channels when she first heard her: Rose. Waverley could hear her braces in her voice, the light impediment they caused. She'd had crushes before, but she'd always just written them off as friendships. With Rose, from the very beginning, it was undeniable.

The pair quickly became each other's best kept secret. They lived close by, but rarely were able to meet - they lived close to one another, but Rose's parents were rich and overprotective, and Waverley usually had to stay at home to help take care of her sister. They might as well have lived across the country from one another. But they both had their walkie talkies, and their phones too, when Waverley finally got hers.

When Waverley was seventeen, her mom found out about the two of them. She'd raised her daughters Catholic just as she'd been raised, so to say she took the news poorly would be an understatement. It quickly devolved into a fight, one that lasted for hours. The final straw was when Riley stepped in to defend her sister. It was a well-intentioned act, but it pushed their mother over the edge. She went on a rant about how Waverley had turned Riley against her, about how she was infecting the younger girl. She swore that she'd do whatever it took to protect Riley.

Which in this case meant kicking Waverley out.

Waverley packed the few things she had, including her walkie talkie. She thought about asking Rose if she could stay with her, but she knew it wouldn't be fair. Coming out for Rose meant two kids becoming homeless that night, and she couldn't ask her to do that. So instead, she told Rose that she was going to be gone for a while, but that she loved her. There was a finality in that call, they could both feel it. So, they stayed on the channel as long as they could, until the bus carting Waverley away from home drove out of range. That was the last time Waverley talked to Rose to this day.

Waverley spent a few months homeless, drifting from place to place, shelter to shelter. She stayed in Manhattan, not wanting to move too far away from her sister. Eventually, she found herself drifting in the Lower East Side. It was there she discovered Beyond the Veil, a dodgy bar and music venue. The owner took pity on Waverley, offering her a job. She started out as a waitress, but not long after, she showed proficiency with the bar's sound equipment and scored herself an unofficial apprenticeship from the bar's sound crew.

Beyond the Veil was the kind of punk venue that valued community aid, and they were able to offer Waverley exactly that. She bounced around on a few couches until she was able to afford rent, moving in with a girl from the bar, another homeless teen. Over the next few years, Waverley got pretty good at working the bar's tech - as well as other electronics. While she was usually able to keep herself afloat on the money she made at the bar, this wasn't always the case. She often had to take part in more elicit business when rent money was due, fixing up stolen and salvaged electronics for cash. She never really felt guilty about it; usually the folks she helped needed the money more than whoever they stole from needed their stereo or what have you - at least that's what she told herself. Plus, it wasn't like she wasn't already a criminal, between the vigilante vandalization and her illegal radio broadcast.

Waverley started Manhattan Underground Radio when she was twenty-one - what started as Waverley fucking around with old second-hand broadcasting equipment gradually grew into a full-on hobby. The Manhattan Underground, hosted by Waverley's radio alter ego Feedback, became somewhat well-known in the Manhattan punk scene for its music, reviews of indie bands, political rants, tips on community aid, and its tracking of local police communications and patrols. It streams online as well as on air, with the Manhattan Underground Radio website also displaying whatever otherwise unused radio frequency Waverley's using for the current broadcast. While she's had a few close calls, she's yet to run into any trouble she couldn't dodge.

Survivor's Personal Journal:

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Additional Information

Theme Song: Io Wants a Gun by Gina Young

Extra Information: Leandra Sticks it to the Man
Got a soft spot for Shaun of the Dead - was one of my favorite movies when I was a kid.
I agree to follow the rules for this RP and understand that if I do not follow the rules, the GM or Co-GM may kick me out of this roleplay.