Lady Selune

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

@Rockerman403

The two religious people just vibrating and shouting all [[[ANGERY]]] in tbe middle of a crowd.

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

@OrkytheOrc

Considering it’s a holy axe that still has vestiges of the power of her deity, and one of the few connections she has to two weeks ago... She would actually murder the orc. No ifs or buts.

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

@FalloutJack

Wait, that isn't the obvious interpretation?

I kid, of course.

Maybe.

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

If a unicorn steps up right now and tries to calm the paladin now, that unicorn is gonna get smacked, telekinetic horns or not.

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

There was too much going on for her to care about. The orc spoke- she cared not what the beast said, it was all nonsense, and then she reached for the glass of water. It tasted filthy, but that was what she got she supposed. Filthy. Filllllttthhhhy. What else was filthy? Herself, yes that was true, her mind defiled and ruined, spinning around in an incomprehensible prison of its own making. She slammed the glass back down on the table so hard that vines of shattered glass crept up along it, and she squeezed down, the glass now actively groaning as it tried to stop itself crunching into a fistful of shards.

Luckily, she was distracted as the priest was dragged out. Much like the orc, she found this to be quite disturbing, and left the almost-destroyed glass to do whatever glasses did after surviving a near-death experience, and pounded out of the room. Her fingers clenched around the handle of her axe, she needed to enter the fray. Desperately wanted to enter the fray. Something spoke to her, in her mind, that she needed to do what she had been designed for. She was a weapon, like her axe, and she had to be used. Growling a little, she saw the dragon, holding the priest in her hand.

Tensing, she raised the axe up. There were no gods to ask for assistance before she attacked. No men that would see her glory, she supposed. She took a few steps forward, about to bring her axe down into the creature's hide, at least until that GODSBEDAMNED orc got in the way once more, and she found herself trapped behind a wall of ruddy green skin, the fury within her howling like a wolf chained.

"ENOUGH! FRIENDSHIP IS NOT MAGIC!" She pointed the end of her axe at the orc, and then towards the dragon. If she had been thinking straight, she would never have even considered this as a course of action, but she hadn't been sane. Not for a long time. "YOU! LIZARD! UNHAND THAT MAN OF THE FAITH BEFORE I TAKE IT AS A TROPHY!"

This Town of Ours

Diane Freeman

Physical Details

• Female
• 26 years old.
• Human
• 5'8"
• 130lbs

Personality:

There's a certain type of person that first becomes a police officer, and then abandons the only job and home she's ever known to hunt down bloodsucking bastards in the middle of the night with a suspicious cabal of people. Diane is such a person. She's a sarcastic, takes-no-shit sort of individual with a lot of hatred for anything that stalks the night and likes the taste of blood. Some call her brash, others call her practical, but whatever you wish to call her, there's no question that she's a very useful woman to have covering your back.

History:

Twenty-six years ago, Diane was born to a couple in Boston, Massachusetts. Her father was a professor at a local public school, with all the difficulties that such a job brought with it, and her mother worked as another peon in the corporate machine at a local publishing company. At least, she did until 2008 rolled around, and the credit crunch hit. Losing her job, and her father's pay freezed, the then-sixteen year old Diane watched as her future crumbled under the crushing weight of financial troubles.

Realising that there was no chance in hell she could ever afford to put herself through university, she instead applied herself towards an entirely different vocation. By the time she was nineteen she was walking the streets as part of the Boston Police Department, and although the pay wasn't fantastic, it was a job that she enjoyed. She took to it naturally- slotting herself easily into the excitement and action that such a job brought with it.

She was still, of course, totally unaware of vampires, at least until one fateful night. Her and her partner received a public disturbance call, and reported into the apartment. Upon entering it, they were confronted with a half-starved vampire and a corpse totally drained of all blood. She doesn't remember much of that traumatic night, except that when her backup arrived, they found her partner dead, her handgun empty and a corpse dead in its tracks, mouth covered in blood.

She was placed on paid leave whilst the authorities tried to figure out what the hell had happened, and it was there she met a rather peculiar figure. Her local Presbyterian church's minister was, in fact, a vampire hunter, and revealed to her just what had been going on in her city, and how her partner was now in the morgue. Astonished, but with the pieces clicking into place in her head, she took up the mantle of making sure that not a single goddamn person would die from a vampire if she could help it.

Equipment:

• Mossberg 500. A police standard across America, the Mossberg is reliable and efficient at doing the job. Most importantly however, she knows how to refit shells, and hers are loaded with cheap, low quality silver. As it turns out, vampires don't care if they're being shot with sterling or 500, it does the exact same work on their bodies. Interestingly enough, the entire shotgun has been blessed by the same priest that got her into vampire hunting in the first place, meaning that smashing the butt into the face of a vampire has much the same effect of whacking them with a cross.
• G19. Another police standard. Not the best gun in the world, but she killed a vampire with it a long time ago, and keeps it close. If nothing else, you can't go wrong with extra firepower.
• Kevlar vest. Sure, this might technically be owned by the BPD. They don't seem to have minded when it went missing however, and so she's got it 'on loan,' for now.

Raphael Alfonso Juan Pedro Garcia

Physical Details

• Male
• 231 years old.
• Vampire
• 6'9"
• 193lbs

Personality:

Raphael has done things in his life that would make the stomachs of lesser men churn. He has killed, he has maimed, he has turned people into quivering piles of meat. Now however? The vampire is a placid, impassive figure. He's much happier to enjoy his time in his house, smoking Bliss and reading one of his many, many books than he does tearing people to small shreds. Which is excellent for anyone that happens to live near him, because he is still very, very, very good at tearing people to shreds.

History:

Raphael has forgotten more than most people have ever learned. He has lived for more than two centuries, and in that time, he has committed so many atrocities that he could be called to the Hauge, and they would likely be shocked. He grew up in a Mexico under the thumb of Spanish rule. The Mexican War of Independence was where he was forged, fighting for his nascent country... And paying for it with the ultimate price. Turned during the war by a Vampire who's face even he cannot remember, he left everything he knew behind him in his late twenties, desperately scrambling north. To the states.

The west was only just starting to become colonised, and he was not an unfamiliar face. A desperate fugitive, he fed from those that nobody cared about, the beggars, the prostitutes, the slum dwellers. Every fight saw him scurrying like a rat from town to town, until finally he had had enough. He recognised then that he was standing at the very edge of opportunity, and Raphael would quickly become a legend, if not underneath that names.

Many boomtowns will record a mysterious figure bankrolling businesses. Shops that sprung up overnight, doctors encouraged to move and given large stipends to do so, all of whom were encouraged by a different name and a concealed face. That man, of course, was Raphael. At first, he started small, but small was never enough. A businessman through and through, he made himself known as a man who palms could always use greasing, and one that could get people places secretly. He may have been a Mexican, but the West, for a time, danced to his tune.

Or, at least it did until he was confronted. Backstabbed, left to dry and betrayed, he was shot seventy-three times by his rivals and dumped where nobody could find him. They thought him dead, not knowing of his undead constitution. That was a mistake. He crawled back, clawed back, the holes in his body healing as he took his revenge one man at a time. He let his vampiric side run wild, feasting as more beast than man, tearing into his foes and leaving them to be found in the rising sun with mutilated bodies and drained veins. Once he had finally taken the entirety of his revenge, he found himself adrift, aimless.

He had recouped some of his losses, held money, but did not feel content. Slinking back to Mexico, he met a woman there. Henrietta, her name was. A beautiful flower- one he could not leave to wilt and wither as time flowed along. He pined for her, and she gave him some vague semblance of meaning. He tried, however hard, to maybe believe that even a vampire such as himself could live perhaps in peace. For a time, things were good, but then 1910 rolled around, and the vampire was summoned to violence once more.

The fighting that tore Mexico apart ruined Raphael. Any hopes of the man remaining in a peaceful existence were dashed to the side. Henrietta bowed to his fangs, and the pair became a ruthless set of vigilantes. For a decade, they fed well off soldiers, nothing but urban legends in the night, marked only by a few brutally killed scouts, obviously mutilated by the other side, left as a warning. The first of the great wars raged on around them, but neither of the pair cared, dousing themselves in Mexican blood on Mexican soil as the once-businessman carved out another niche for himself, and never stopped, his claws raking further and further even when the war finished.

He cared not who ruled the country. They cared not who ruled the country. They simply made money. They laughed at fools that thought themselves immune to the police, all the while making themselves larger and larger targets for the same authorities. In the late twentieth century, they were at the top of a crime empire that strung out tendrils across the continents. They rubbed shoulders with Pablo Escobar, sold arms to Cuban rebels, even talked to the CIA and FBI. Then, in 1982, they found themselves out of luck. The police were closing in. The hunters were closing in. Children of the night, however, are not so easy to destroy.

Perhaps one of the greatest mysteries is how the two totally vanished overnight. One day they were there, ruling and living like kings, the next their entire organisation was beheaded, lieutenants and captains left drained dry and potentially millions stashed away. They crossed the border, and once more... The two managed to find peace. Almost forty years has passed since then, and, excluding the unfortunates that he needed to feed on, he has not taken a single life. The fact that he finds himself in Massachusetts is one of life's unanswerable twists and turns, but he considers himself now in retirement- however temporarily him and his wife are no longer in action.

Equipment:

• Bliss. Lots and lots of Bliss. Manufactured by cutting tobacco, cocaine and blood together, Bliss is a truly excellent drug for vampires, and only vampires. Humans smoking Bliss will be repulsed by the blood, but for a vampire, the delicate combinations of drugs only truly found by a master of his craft are pure heaven in a cigarette. Hence the name.
• Maria. A reliable handgun that he's had for far longer than most people have lived for. A Colt New Model Revolver manufactured centuries ago, the gun is a sterling piece of work. Having been carefully modified to allow for the entire chamber to be swapped out at a time, it deals death reliably and effectively, leaving most people shot by it looking less like a human being, and more like slightly meaty, red Swiss cheese.

This Town of Ours

Raphael Alfonso Juan Pedro Garcia

Physical Details

• Male
• 231 years old.
• Vampire
• 6'9"
• 193lbs

Personality:

Raphael has done things in his life that would make the stomachs of lesser men churn. He has killed, he has maimed, he has turned people into quivering piles of meat. Now however? The vampire is a placid, impassive figure. He's much happier to enjoy his time in his house, smoking Bliss and reading one of his many, many books than he does tearing people to small shreds. Which is excellent for anyone that happens to live near him, because he is still very, very, very good at tearing people to shreds.

History:

Raphael has forgotten more than most people have ever learned. He has lived for more than two centuries, and in that time, he has committed so many atrocities that he could be called to the Hauge, and they would likely be shocked. He grew up in a Mexico under the thumb of Spanish rule. The Mexican War of Independence was where he was forged, fighting for his nascent country... And paying for it with the ultimate price. Turned during the war by a Vampire who's face even he cannot remember, he left everything he knew behind him in his late twenties, desperately scrambling north. To the states.

The west was only just starting to become colonised, and he was not an unfamiliar face. A desperate fugitive, he fed from those that nobody cared about, the beggars, the prostitutes, the slum dwellers. Every fight saw him scurrying like a rat from town to town, until finally he had had enough. He recognised then that he was standing at the very edge of opportunity, and Raphael would quickly become a legend, if not underneath that names.

Many boomtowns will record a mysterious figure bankrolling businesses. Shops that sprung up overnight, doctors encouraged to move and given large stipends to do so, all of whom were encouraged by a different name and a concealed face. That man, of course, was Raphael. At first, he started small, but small was never enough. A businessman through and through, he made himself known as a man who palms could always use greasing, and one that could get people places secretly. He may have been a Mexican, but the West, for a time, danced to his tune.

Or, at least it did until he was confronted. Backstabbed, left to dry and betrayed, he was shot seventy-three times by his rivals and dumped where nobody could find him. They thought him dead, not knowing of his undead constitution. That was a mistake. He crawled back, clawed back, the holes in his body healing as he took his revenge one man at a time. He let his vampiric side run wild, feasting as more beast than man, tearing into his foes and leaving them to be found in the rising sun with mutilated bodies and drained veins. Once he had finally taken the entirety of his revenge, he found himself adrift, aimless.

He had recouped some of his losses, held money, but did not feel content. Slinking back to Mexico, he met a woman there. Henrietta, her name was. A beautiful flower- one he could not leave to wilt and wither as time flowed along. He pined for her, and she gave him some vague semblance of meaning. He tried, however hard, to maybe believe that even a vampire such as himself could live perhaps in peace. For a time, things were good, but then 1910 rolled around, and the vampire was summoned to violence once more.

The fighting that tore Mexico apart ruined Raphael. Any hopes of the man remaining in a peaceful existence were dashed to the side. Henrietta bowed to his fangs, and the pair became a ruthless set of vigilantes. For a decade, they fed well off soldiers, nothing but urban legends in the night, marked only by a few brutally killed scouts, obviously mutilated by the other side, left as a warning. The first of the great wars raged on around them, but neither of the pair cared, dousing themselves in Mexican blood on Mexican soil as the once-businessman carved out another niche for himself, and never stopped, his claws raking further and further even when the war finished.

He cared not who ruled the country. They cared not who ruled the country. They simply made money. They laughed at fools that thought themselves immune to the police, all the while making themselves larger and larger targets for the same authorities. In the late twentieth century, they were at the top of a crime empire that strung out tendrils across the continents. They rubbed shoulders with Pablo Escobar, sold arms to Cuban rebels, even talked to the CIA and FBI. Then, in 1982, they found themselves out of luck. The police were closing in. The hunters were closing in. Children of the night, however, are not so easy to destroy.

Perhaps one of the greatest mysteries is how the two totally vanished overnight. One day they were there, ruling and living like kings, the next their entire organisation was beheaded, lieutenants and captains left drained dry and potentially millions stashed away. They crossed the border, and once more... The two managed to find peace. Almost forty years has passed since then, and, excluding the unfortunates that he needed to feed on, he has not taken a single life. The fact that he finds himself in Massachusetts is one of life's unanswerable twists and turns, but he considers himself now in retirement- however temporarily him and his wife are no longer in action.

Equipment:

• Bliss. Lots and lots of Bliss. Manufactured by cutting tobacco, cocaine and blood together, Bliss is a truly excellent drug for vampires, and only vampires. Humans smoking Bliss will be repulsed by the blood, but for a vampire, the delicate combinations of drugs only truly found by a master of his craft are pure heaven in a cigarette. Hence the name.
• Maria. A reliable handgun that he's had for far longer than most people have lived for. A Colt New Model Revolver manufactured centuries ago, the gun is a sterling piece of work. Having been carefully modified to allow for the entire chamber to be swapped out at a time, it deals death reliably and effectively, leaving most people shot by it looking less like a human being, and more like slightly meaty, red Swiss cheese.

This Town of Ours

Diane Freeman

Physical Details

• Female
• 26 years old.
• Human
• 5'8"
• 130lbs

Personality:

There's a certain type of person that first becomes a police officer, and then abandons the only job and home she's ever known to hunt down bloodsucking bastards in the middle of the night with a suspicious cabal of people. Diane is such a person. She's a sarcastic, takes-no-shit sort of individual with a lot of hatred for anything that stalks the night and likes the taste of blood. Some call her brash, others call her practical, but whatever you wish to call her, there's no question that she's a very useful woman to have covering your back.

History:

Twenty-six years ago, Diane was born to a couple in Boston, Massachusetts. Her father was a professor at a local public school, with all the difficulties that such a job brought with it, and her mother worked as another peon in the corporate machine at a local publishing company. At least, she did until 2008 rolled around, and the credit crunch hit. Losing her job, and her father's pay freezed, the then-sixteen year old Diane watched as her future crumbled under the crushing weight of financial troubles.

Realising that there was no chance in hell she could ever afford to put herself through university, she instead applied herself towards an entirely different vocation. By the time she was nineteen she was walking the streets as part of the Boston Police Department, and although the pay wasn't fantastic, it was a job that she enjoyed. She took to it naturally- slotting herself easily into the excitement and action that such a job brought with it.

She was still, of course, totally unaware of vampires, at least until one fateful night. Her and her partner received a public disturbance call, and reported into the apartment. Upon entering it, they were confronted with a half-starved vampire and a corpse totally drained of all blood. She doesn't remember much of that traumatic night, except that when her backup arrived, they found her partner dead, her handgun empty and a corpse dead in its tracks, mouth covered in blood.

She was placed on paid leave whilst the authorities tried to figure out what the hell had happened, and it was there she met a rather peculiar figure. Her local Presbyterian church's minister was, in fact, a vampire hunter, and revealed to her just what had been going on in her city, and how her partner was now in the morgue. Astonished, but with the pieces clicking into place in her head, she took up the mantle of making sure that not a single goddamn person would die from a vampire if she could help it.

Equipment:

• Mossberg 500. A police standard across America, the Mossberg is reliable and efficient at doing the job. Most importantly however, she knows how to refit shells, and hers are loaded with cheap, low quality silver. As it turns out, vampires don't care if they're being shot with sterling or 500, it does the exact same work on their bodies. Interestingly enough, the entire shotgun has been blessed by the same priest that got her into vampire hunting in the first place, meaning that smashing the butt into the face of a vampire has much the same effect of whacking them with a cross.
• G19. Another police standard. Not the best gun in the world, but she killed a vampire with it a long time ago, and keeps it close. If nothing else, you can't go wrong with extra firepower.
• Kevlar vest. Sure, this might technically be owned by the BPD. They don't seem to have minded when it went missing however, and so she's got it 'on loan,' for now.

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

"Acceptance," She howled outwards, even as the orc lifted her up. Beast! She thought to herself, but her limbs refused to act, to show the creature the might with which she... No longer wielded. "I aught to accept what the world has thrown at I?" She wasn't making proper sense any more, but the words kept coming out, stumbling over one another even as the greenskined... Creature hefted her up and dumped her on her feet. She hissed at it, or at least she thought she did, it probably sounded more like she had almost sneezed. "My senses dulled! My divine gone! I stand here, prostrating myself to mortals for coin! Where aught I go for this acceptance?" She slammed her fist down against the top of the bar, stumbling back and away from the man offering out a job. The sheer force of her fistfall caused the stone to groan at the impact, and she had only just restrained herself from slamming the sharpened end of her axe down again.

She turned to the orc, inebriated to the point where obscenities wouldn't come out of her mouth, and nothing but obscenities. "Your... Mother sounds capable for an orc." She hiccuped unexpectedly, and then groaned. Why did this have to happen? "WHY?!" She spoke again when she intended to keep her mind and mouth closed. Damnations. DAMNATIONS. She managed not to say that one, thankfully.

Then her head whipped about. "The earthmother? One of the forest? Oh a cruel trick the world likes to play! I am of the field. Was of the field? I know not if I am or was or will be. " She reached in to her armour and yanked out her holy symbol, practically shoving it in his face, before turning back to the job-giver, the amulet clinking against her mail. "A job! Yes! A job. That is the one thing I require, a way to escape this inescapable. Lethargy! Yes, that is the word and the world that I inhabit. Lethargy, lethargy lethargy, it sticks to me like a parasite, I wish to strip it, exorcise it out of me in its entirety."

Gurr'Kha - The Dead World

Galdari Thornmyre

Name: Galdari Thornmyre
Age: 23
Race: Human
Sex: Female
Description: Once, not so long ago even, Galdari was a warm and smiling face. Homely, even, if one could ignore the muscles that were required of a warrior of the faith. Twinkling eyes and a slight ruddiness to her cheeks not brought about by alcohol, but by mirth. That was a week ago. Not to mention the fact that she was definitely eating well- plenty of muscle and fat alike on her bones. A lot has changed in a week however. Where once there was mass, already it is now horrifyingly skinny. Her long brown hair, once shiny and lustrous, is now half-shaved and sickly. The half of her head that wasn't shaved has been left long, leaving it to tumble down the bare side in a strange style.

Ideally, a paladin's armour should never be stained. Hers, even before the apocalypse arrived, was slightly dinged up and dirty, but now is truly showing wear. The plate is gouged and some of the chain links are busted, but much of it is still relatively shiny and clean. The nicest of her equipment still is her weapons- a one-handed axe and her circular shield. She clings to these like a drowning man does a piece of wood, the holy symbol once proudly displayed around her neck now hastily stuffed and concealed away.

Those same eyes that once twinkled so brightly have been turned into sunken messes. Her mind is fragmented- held together by the barest string of sanity, but still she perseveres. For what reason she does not know, but as long as she can hold her tools, she perseveres.

Notable Belongings:

• Dustbringer, a plough reforged into a once-holy axeblade. Now reflects Galdari’s mind, in that it’s jagged and not quite right. Still holds some magic.
• A shield made from the wood of a cart. Circular, bossed and sturdy. Nothing magical about it.
• Full plate. A simple, steel set of armour.
• Symbol of the Goddess of Farming.

Backstory: Every child born into a farming community knows that they live and die on the harvest. The goddess of the farm then, is one of the most important to almost every peasant evet to live. Galdari was the daughter of a miller- growing up on a diet that allowed her to pack on some weight, and with enough physicality that she could hold her own in an arm wrestle. Pious and relatively pure, she was signed on to her local temple when she was twelve, and served there faithfully.

At first, her duties were mundane and boring. Scrubbing the temple floors. Replacing the rushes. Then they got more complicated. She sharpened blades for the paladins, mended the tapestries on the walls and ferried meals to and fro about the temple. When she was sixteen, she took up the mantle of a paladin-in-training, a role that mostly required her to walk about a lot around fields and occasionally kill the odd wolf or bear that poached from the flocks.

Now however, the warrior is anything but holy. Without her goddess, she wanders lost, no faith to cling to or temple to fall back on. Anything, however, is better than staying home. She must press on.

SPECIAL
Strength: 8
Perception: 6
Endurance: 7
Charisma: 4
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 4
Luck: 6