Magister

Lanius School of Villainy and Mischief

Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana

Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: Cain, Son of Adam. Cain, Architect of the First Murder. The Campaigner.

Age: Unknown.

Gender: Male

Division: Strength/Smarts

Powers(s):
Omni-slayer

Subcategories

The Supreme Killing/Injuring Intuition

The Supreme Killing/Injuring Instinct

The Supreme Killing/Injuring Intent

The Supreme Killing/Injuring Ability

Primordial Body: Possesses the original, perfect body of man. It was a body designed for a time when dinosaurs were the Apex predators on planet earth. He is only one generation adjacent from the Garden of Eden. As such, he is in touch with the energies of the earth. This allows him to utilise life energy, ki in a variety of ways.

The Mark Of Cain: A mark fating him to forever walk the earth.

Description: A man of dark hair, tanned skin, and stygian eyes, who is often dressed in an impeccable tailored European suit. When acting as his villain persona, he wears a black, featureless mask, a black beret, an olive green military longcoat, black fatiques, and black boots.

Personality: Keen, is perhaps the best way to describe the outer layer of what this man is. As the layers are peeled, patient, sadistic, violent, and unrelenting alternate as various points which intermix into the mystery that makes up, according to some, the most dangerous man alive. Rarely angered, he strives to strike with the precision and dispassion of a serpent. However passion lead him to the second sin, and when in the throes of passion, he has been known to kill, maim, and torture with such abandon that it demands a swift, organised, and strong response from the hero community. He is rarely chaotic however, and derives pleasure from living life, as much as he does from taking it.

Passion and Rage will always roil beneath the surface, like an evil eye separated from the waking world by the thin veneer of self control.

Crush: (Do they have a crush? Are they with anyone?)

Skills:

Savant Martial Artist: Body mechanics and fighting systems are as natural to him as breathing. After spending several lifetimes learning martial arts, he has developed his own.

Master Strategist/Tactician

Expert Espionage

Expert Weapons Handling

Expert Manipulation

Expert Escape Artistry

Weaknesses: Able, Progenitor of the The Ultimate Peace.


Brief History: The eldest Adam is ill fated union with Lilith, he was the first, and final human birthed by his mother, who would later give birth to giants and the first of the Nephilim.

Cain and his younger brother Able's ill fated relationship centered around the discordant nature of their mothers. Eve was a thing of peace and wholeness as she was taken from Adam's rib, they represented two parts of a whole. Lilith was created from the earth, separate and independent from Adam. Cain, willing to demonstrate that peace was weakness, and equal union was flawed, fought Able, believing that if Able was to fight back and kill him, his point would be made eternal. Able choose the peace of death instead, rather than subscribe to the hierarchy of man and madness.

So it was Able who won in the end, and Cain who was cursed to walk the earth.

So walk he did. Popping up in numerous conflicts around the globe, and backing discord wherever he went. Evidence of his interference in historical conflicts as all but been destroyed, but some persist including an odd photograph of the Vietnam War, and a black ink painting dating back to the Waring States period in China.

Other: Really good at darts.

Lanius School of Villainy and Mischief

The Ringmaster

Nicknames/Aliases: The Ringmaster. Alias (Emphasis on the lie) Finch

Age: 17

Gender: Male

Division: Suavity

Powers: The Strings of Fate: An infinite length of multi ended string thin cord that is telepathically manipulated by The Ringmaster. These strings have the ability to alter the mass and weight of inanimate objects it comes into contact with. The Strings of Fate also have a secondary ability. Probability manipulation. The Ringmaster can alter probability using the Strings of Fate on a quantum, and temporal level.

Description: A slender, lithe young man standing at 5'5.

Personality: The Ringmaster is a manic, narcissistic, keenly interested individual who is always more focused on the caper, than he is the prize. For him, the heist is a pageantry, one that must dazzle, excite, and all those who dare to behold. His persona is largely an act, but an act that cannot obscure his lack of empathy for those outside of his inner circle. He is a killer by circumstance, rather than joy, and while he will not hesitate to take a life or work a murder into his grand schemes, he does not kill indiscriminately. He spends the money from his heists frivolously, and often gives much of it away to the ghettos that the Crique makes their temporary home while planning their heists. This plays into his persona of mystique, which he weaves into his larger than life persona.

The Ringmaster is fiercely loyal towards the other members of his inner circle, and would, despite his personality markers.

Crush: Nil.

Skills:
Adept Combatant using "The Strings of Fate."
Vocal Projection
Master Planner
Master Orator.

Weaknesses: The Ringmaster will sacrifice an easier, and safer route

Brief History: The Ringmaster was born into an Orphanage who's doors closed shortly after his fifth birthday. Homeless, penniless, but not hopeless, he found solace in his imagination, and would often regale other orphans with tales of his future heists, often drawing these wayward children in by giving them places in his group within the layers of his stories. These children took to following him around, as they were drawn in by his words and promises of the future. At a later time, The Ringmaster came into contact with an old thief who once bore the moniker "Master of Ceremonies." Amused by the lad's tall tales and penchant for the grandiose, he bestowed upon him "The Strings of Fate." With them came a promise of to continue on a legacy, to which The Ringmaster happily obliged.

From these humble beginnings, rose Cirque Du Voleurs, a family of professional thieves who's greatest question was always....what if we?

Other: Has a valid peddlers license in every country.

The Marchand Academy of Sorcery

Roderic A.M. Montana

Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: Ifirit's Bane. Roderic the Betrayer, The Denier. The Devil Himself.

Age: 40's

Gender: Male

Primary: Defense

Head Of Security

Secondaries: Shadow Step, Tracking.

Description: His high cheekbones, and overall facial structure are reminiscent of the romanticized Native American brave, which compliments his other Western European features. His hair has the same lightless quality his eyes did, both are pitch black, save for the streak of stark white that was often tucked behind his ear. His hair, shoulder length in his youth, had grown down to his chest. He stands at 5'11, with a toned, muscular frame that doesn't sacrifice mobility for mass. It, like his face was surprisingly youthful despite his advanced age, due to various healing therapies undergone at the end of the war. Most of his emotional expression is done with his eyes and eyebrows, leaving his mouth an even line.

Personality: Montana's personality is largely subdued, but perhaps best described as a malevolent or benign eye, submerged in a thick, colorless liquid that one can just make out in the depths. A roiling thing that, on some occasions, breaches the surface to fix its gaze on the looker.

Skills: Montana first and foremost is an accomplished combatant in the traditional aspect of warfare, he is extensively trained and practiced in traditional firearms and melee armaments, and is a genius tier martial artist. Battlefield strategy, and small united management are both large parts is his skill set, with a minor in espionage. In the realm of magic, Montana's Defender skill is often used in an unorthodox fashion, with a heavy emphasis on nullification fields, along with several familial arts passed down on his mothers side. An innovator of the art, he uses it to control fights, and key points on a battlefield. His Shadowstepping ability, while honed, is not as refined as the professor who teaches it, and is usually used as a complimentary measure with his other skills and magic ability. Tracking, another familial art once, and perhaps still considered spiritual in nature, is the secondary skill he excels in.

Weaknesses: Montana's demeanor, and reserved behaviour, could give off an air of mistrust that could be exploited, as well as his hardline attitude toward certain social conventions.


Brief History: His Fathers line line traces its origins to the Blackfoot tribe in Montana which became a given name was acquired over time. They were famed trackers, said to call upon the spirits to erect great walls to defend against the fire of civilization. His mothers side, of the Montbard line, were famed Defenders who aided in the rise of the Knights Templar, and eventually vanished into history after the Order's demise. Montana's noteworthy history starts during his career as a mercenary. He fought in various conflicts around the globe, ranging from the larger human wars, to pocket conflicts between powerful Mage groups and families. It was during this time he joined the war as an Acting Major, where he fought alongside various members of the faculty. It was during this conflict he picked up some of the names that would follow him for the rest of his natural life.

"The Storm twins were at least sensational, am I right? Two hard ass Valkyries who brought lightening down onto the battlefield. Sensational. This other one they have? Let me tell you something, there's a lot of people who say he wasn't always on the right side of the war. A lot of people who talked about seeing him around the cultists and a lot of those same people are dead. Look him up, go on, try, you know what you're gonna find? Nothing. It's all redacted. If he's some kind of war hero, why is most of his record redacted. Riddle me that"- Illidal Aeorash, editor for The Sage Tablet.

Other: Really good at darts. Avoids alcohol.

Zaze Crowley

Full Name: Azaziel Jiao Trois Montague Vivian Crowley

Nicknames/Aliases: Zaze, Zazey Baby.

Age: 17

Gender: Male

Primary: Necromancy

Student Of: Necromancy, Blood Magic and Familiar Summoning

Description: Azaziel stands at five foot six-seven, with a body type consistent for a person who spends their time roughing the outdoors, studying magic in nature abandoned building, and fleeing the scene of whatever crime he had committed/got involved in. His hair is dark and usually cropped close on the sides, and left long on top, has recently grown out. The back of his head is kept in a pony tail, leaving the top itself on whichever side it chooses to at the moment. Azaziel is usually dressed what he considers a "scene-crunk aesthetic. Skinny jeans, slip ons, Jordans, and high tops and black nailpolish, all of it finds a place in his wardrobe.

Personality: Curiosity, Intensity, carelessness, Azaziel has a personality that tends to rub people the wrong way.

Skills: Azaziel possesses the born magical ability of his well-branched family line, and an astute mind that understands the nuances of magic and its properties. Blood Magic is second nature to Azaziel, and his drive to become more powerful, to learn more, helps to accelerate his learning process. The wandering life he lead, and the activities he conducted while homeless manifested as a well rounded talent pool.

Weaknesses: His curiosity, and reckless behaviour will ultimately lead to his demise.

Brief History: Zaze was born into a Mage family of notoriety, due to their open use of questionable blood magic, and their complete disregard for mage taboos. Inter marriages from discredited, and disgraced mages from other families are commonplace as their practices are less likely to disturb those who have already been shunned by the mainstream Mage families, and communities at large. In essence, they are pariahs, and welcome pariah's into their fold.

While they accept the discredited, their own process of elimination starts at a very early age. Zaze, and others once reaching the age of 12, are forcibly expelled from the family territories, and are expected to survive in the world until the age of 18. While it's not uncommon for these children to simply build camps just outside of their family territories, some choose to go roving instead. The mortality rate for these rovers is exceptionally high, so members of the family are encouraged to have anywhere between four to seven children, in the inevitable event that some will perish.

Zaze's decision to join the mages school was entirely his own. While he thoroughly enjoys his education, the restrictions on his experimentation have been difficult to adjust to.

Other: Consorts with demonic entities.

Dutch

Full Name: Dutch Dalton

Nicknames/Aliases: Dutchy, Dutchikins.

Age: 15, looks 18.

Gender: Male

Magic: Pyromancy, infusion, and levitation.

Description: Dutch is neatly coiffed hair always kept in it's perfect dimensions, his trademark leather jacket, often left open exposing his white V-neck t shirt, and black drainpipe trousers, ending with a pair of Chelsea boots. His face is well proportioned, and he’s objectively handsome. a strong, but not overpowering jawline, and deep green eyes

Personality: Dutch isn't the best with words, and can get frustrated with how people react to him. Antagonistic and brash, his finer qualities, loyalty and genuine love and care, are often overshadowed by his bull headed nature.

Skills: Dutch works very well with his hands, and has a knack for repairing and building things mechanical in nature. He has boxed for several years, and depends on it in physical altercations. Dutch is also a naturally gifted driver.

Weaknesses: His confrontational personality, and often one track mentality are his greatest weaknesses.

Brief History: Dutch was born to a loving, hard working mother, and an absent father. His youth was spent running around the streets of Brooklyn where his mother lived, and Detroit, where his aunt lived. He has largely lived away from magical society, but grew to know more mages in his area as time went on.

The Runes- A Norse Anime Roleplay (NEED ROLES!)

Ansuz

Full Name: Makorai Saika

Nicknames/Aliases: Mako, Lucky, "Where's my money?" "You haven't paid off your bar tab in a year!"

Age: 26

Gender: Male

Rune/Location: Forehead, where the third eye is said to sit. It's often covered by his hair.

Rune Powers: The vision beyond sight, the ability to divine the future and see between the lines in the present. The ability to influence reality, and people through speech, and to ascribe special power to words, spoken or written.

Description: Makorai is a slim, muscular male, standing at 5'9. A near permanent flush around his nose and cheeks, due to his love and consumption of alcohol. His hair is brown, and medium length at the top. This is function rather than fashion, as it serves the purpose of hiding his rune. Usually, he can be found wearing a v-neck t shirt, slim jeans, and slip on shoes, with a manderin collared coat.

Personality: Hedonism is a word that best describes Makorai. His life is ruled by earthly pleasures. May that be the buzz of a drink, the warm flesh of a woman or the thrill gambling. The culture that surrounds all of it is a comfortable place for him. It's a space where judgement is reserved only for the most vile, and vices are encouraged, rather than discourged. On the surface, he seems like an entertaining, but ultimately self interested individual. One who lives only for the next bedrest, but beneath all of the bravado is a man who is deeply sensitive, and very effected by the sadness around him. He values friendship more than he cares to articulate, but he'd lay his life down for someone he loves without hesitation.

Skills: Makorai is a sharpshooter of near peerless skill. He is able to employ the use of both eyes while sharpshooting. This means he can aim, and shoot without needing a spooter to find new targets. He has a strong, unconscious understanding of mathematics, which allows him to calculate the distance, speed, and drop off of the bullets he fires, relative to his target.

This ability had been supercharged by his rune, which influences his cognitive ability. Future vision allows him to place is shots not only where is target is, but where they are going to be.
He names things with confidence, and imparts his power onto the lives of others.

Weapons: Makorai favours a high caliber rifle, but prefers to use iron sights on shots a mile and under, citing 'easier to move around and whatever' as his reasoning behind it. Over a mile, he will attatched a low powered scope, depending on conditions and terrain. On the front of his sniper is a mounted knife, with enough length to easily pierce a vital organ. For closer combat under a mile, he uses a Mauser style pistol with a rifle stock.

Weaknesses: His lack of discipline, and adherence to his base desires can be exploited by the right person.

Brief History: Makorai's early life was marked with tragedy leaving his memories of them faint, mostly smells and colours. They had fallen victim, along with the rest of his town, to opportunistic beasts after a storm had laid waste to their wards and defenses. He, and a few others were found among the wreckage of the town. Found by a group of roving mercs, they took him, and what they could salvage of his parents belongings, and dropped him off in a nearby settlement, offering the belongings as payment to a woman.

The woman took him in, and cared for him for a while, but ultimately sold his parents things, and promptly dropped him off at a nearby orphanage.

It was here that Makorai spent most of his early days under the oppressive, but well meant thumb of the orphanage. He often found himself at odds with the strict rule of the faculty, and at the age of 15, decided to strike out on his own, where he felt he'd be able to live by his own rules.

He found friendship in the forggoten places of society, where he learned that being charming got you much farther than being violent. He also learned that he was quick with his hands, and had an uncanny ability to hit whatever it was he needed to hit.
As time passed, he purchased his first rifle, and decided to try his hand at hunting.
He found that through creature bounties, often found on town and city notice boards, he could make himself a decent living. Makorai roved, killed things, got paid, and spent it all at the bar. The sharpshooter was happy with that, and his life was relatively simple, and happy, before the incident.

He had been atop a grassy knoll, checking the surrounding fields for any sign of life, a pretty standard recon gig for a town, when a young woman caught his eye. She was short, blonde, and seemingly oblivious to the world around her. Before he could even muster a perverse thought, he was overtaken by a vision of the girl being grabbed, and crushed by a giant.

He was so profoundly disturbed by this vision, all ideas of romance had left his mind, and he no longer watched her with the eyes of a womanizer, but the eyes of a sniper.

A moment later, a head emerged from the trees.

Another moment, a single shot rang out across the fields.
All was still.

He had left the area without a word, the blonde girl forgotten, ans the anwser to his questing burned onto his forehead.

Other: Probably wont pay you back if he borrows money.

♠♥♣♦ Welcome to Wonderland (CLOSED FOR NEW REBOOT) ♢♧♡♤

Hider

Name: Roderic,(redacted)
Nickname: The Hand, The Fourth Man.
Gender: Male
Age: 34
Looks: Roderic's features hearken from a position on the globe far away from his current area of operations. His strong, linear jawline, full lips, black hair and high cheekbones are reminiscent of the romanticized Indian brave. These features are muted slightly, lacking the extreme proportions of the pure blooded, rendered subtle by distinct European ancestry. Mirroring the ink blackness of his locks, Montana's eyes are the colour of the night sky, with pupils indistinguishable from the shade of his Iris. Standing at 5'10, he boasts a figure honed by martial and strength training. Hard bodied with compact muscle, he prefers to keep his figure trim and functional.

Personality: Roderic's real world persona was that of Janus, Greek God of January. Many faces, many personalities, many names and many reasons. His line of work called for it. The man he was, the essence of his being was made redundant in the ever changing tide of intelligence. He didn’t simply adopt a role, he became his role. The the expat, the engineer, the bodyguard, the specialist, in many ways falling into wonderland for the first time, barring the initial confusion was more of the same for Roderic. Ever the Intelligence operative he could adopt a role, and live in it, minus the headache maintaining cover at all times. In this world, it had seemed almost taboo to ask someone who they truly were, to dig past the the person they had become in this queer land.

Beneath it all however, is calculating man. One who is verbally reserved, and opts for bouts of extreme violence over vulgarities and shouting. Roderic seems flirt with sociopathy, being largely unmoved by death and suffering, along with a remorseless attitude toward taking life himself. All things considered, he operates within a code of ethics, and has a soft spot for children.

History: Roderic's childhood was both eventful, and uneventful, but irrelevant to the man he is now. He found combat a closer draw to his true card than a classical education, and more visceral than mixed martial arts had proven to be. After serving a few years in the armed forces, he grew disillusioned with being a pawn to Government policy he often opposed, and left. He started a private security company soon after, which dappled in mercenary work, and counter-intelligence, the latter being what required his attention in recent years.

Perhaps that is what drew him to this land, after all, if he hadn't crashed through that window in Dubai, he might not have made it to Wonderland at all.
Occupation: Private Security, Intellgience Operative
Job: Jobless, looking to apply his unique skill-set where it will be most rewarding.
Crush: None
Other: Really good at darts. Not very good with liquor.
Played by: Magister

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

"You see Mags, they only, really, listen, when you grab them by the balls; grasp them by the jewels and squeezeee. Squeeze like this. Johnny, for a good forty seconds after Spire had finished talking continued to say 'Squeeze' as he mimicked mushing another man's testicles in his outstretched hands. "But gat DAMN if I ain't anything but philanthropic." John took a deep breath in, and raised his arms as his lungs filled with oxygen. Then, he exhaled. His arms followed the flow down to his hips.

"Let me lay it all out for you. You and your friends fucked up. Right. Mag's, that sweetheart, tried to tell you. You all done FUCKED up. Right, but I'm a philanthropist. John Phil Bellataire is what they call me. Your brother? Is a slave, story done. Now, if you join up, same package applies, cept your brother won't be getting paid. However~, I'll let him work with you, and pay off his debt. I won't be selling him off. You can feed and clothe him out of your salary. The girl? Like her moxie, teach her to have some manners for your boss, do whatever the hell you want with her."

A 'shit eating laugh' was what best described the sound that came out of Johnny's mouth.

"I'm an investor. I invest in people. I give them a good deal, they make more money for me. You two brothers can net met some particularly elusive game. With the right resources behind you, I can make more over a year than I'd make just selling you off. You hear me? The girl? She'll learn. Give her her own room and some good ass food. Keep in mind Mag's is my secretary. So you might want to work out an apology for the girl. She gets fucked, she can fuck you right back in the books. Yeah? It's the same deal I gave the group there. Plus a little live in for you. You get me?"

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

His private contractors advanced in teams of six, tight knit with each accounting for the blind-spot of their fellow. The threat of gifts had been removed, yes, and that had been the encouraging portion of nabbing the Wanderers given their fearsome reputation, but their boss didn't negate the danger of a bullet. A bullet, while much less exciting than a gift, could kill you just as dead as anything else. So they were on high alert, their scopes snapping from spot to spot, ready to fire at the slightest provocation.

One such group was trailing Specter, Spire, and Hel. Red dots followed their tails like spots on peacock. Had a gun not been trained on them, they would have long fired. They would have killed Specter, saved their non lethal rounds for the other two. To them, he was a persona non grata. A deviation from the plan to be squashed at the first chance. They decided to wait instead. Ash types like this were ornery bastards. No need for the added risk.

The teams began to split, six to three, maintaining a formation like a triangle, each taking a secured position surrounding the house. Two sets four of three had decided to sweep the surrounding area. One such team headed to where Oren was held, the rest moved to sweep the surrounding area.

It was one of these teams assigned to sweep that descended on Toby with a brutal efficiency that showcased they weren't your standard guys with guns. The point man, one Spencer Regoli, shoved Nicodemus from atop Toby, just before the man would have likely gained the upper hand. Spencer was unconcerned with where the small framed writers body would go. He immediately dropped his knee into Toby's chest, and a small device into his neck. A shock would move through Toby's body, temporarily locking his muscles in place. Spencer stood, and allowed the other two to turn Toby onto his back. A collar was snapped around his neck, locking into place with an audible click.

Nicodemous would find himself falling into the waiting arms of Sweet Johnny, caught under the armpit and the back of his head level with John B's abdominal region.

"Look what the writer caught." His eyes gleamed like greedy pearls beneath his shades. "Well I'm surprised and fucking impressed. The loyalty thing, got you in. This though, capturing the stutter brother right here? Fucking gold. My dick is like diamond right now."

"I underestimated you Nico, me, the guy with an eye for talent." Bellataire let the writer go, and approached Toby, settling on his heels.

"Hey. Hey, bet you feel pretty fucking stupid right now." He placed his hand on the back of Toby's head, using it to stand back up.

"Two Dawn. You're now asking me for two of your friends back, and I..I don't think you're grasping how this works. Right? They are MINE. I OWN THEM. You get me? 1+1=2, quick math. Now. Like I've been saying. I'm a business man, not some fucking sadist. Right. He had his choice. He chose that collar. Chose that,"Johnny put his hands around his neck."Shit he's wearing. Now. I'm going to give you guys another chance, because I'm so fucking generous like Mag's here keeps trying to tell you. You can buy this one back. Toby. Buy him, transaction."


"From the looks of things, you all are dead broke. You know what gets you money? Jobs. So, this is Sweet Johnny's last offer. Sign up, or you join Toby instead of buying him. Choice is yours."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Johnny post will be up tomorrow.

Sorry for the wait, I've had family visiting.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

John B waved Mag's forward when she appeared. Good girl, hard worker and top notch stress relief when the finer points of his work began to encroach on his emotional well being. Perfect example of how hard work reaped rewards in his company. It would be a stretch to think that these folk of the ash catch on to the obedience. Johnny knew these lost sheep needed a Shepard. Ignorant to the joy and power of wealth, only used to this baser living off of whatever scraps the humans had left behind. There was a world beyond this poverty and filth. He'd lead them there, kicking and screaming if he had to.

Or in slave collars, wishing they had taken the offer. If they were stupid enough to ignore his offer the mighty Wanderers would serve as a reminder to the rest of the ash he placed under his boot-heel of what arbitrary things like 'values' and 'ego' earned you when one found themselves faced with an unstoppable force.

Johnny's eyes followed the screaming child as she rushed forward. Spunky little shit. His secretary had stopped her, but not before receiving a wooden stake to her arm. Johnny's teeth clacked together in amusement. She showed some potential. Wouldn't need too much training to be turned into a killer. Pain was apparent and pain was something he could capitalize on.

Kids were easy enough to control. Even the strange ones.

Drake spoke up, the one with the wings, it drew his attention, not because he was talking, but because of what came out of his mouth. Some ideological bullshit, musing about something the boy obviously didn't understand.

"Slavery, AH." "You speak like those academics begging for a handout from whichever ignorant Lord finds their prattling 'interesting. John grew breathless. running his hand through his slick backed hair. "No this is living a life where you earn for yourself instead of digging through human hand me downs. This is SELF RE FUCKING SPECT.

"Don't tell me you don't want some R E S P E C T, Drake. Don't tell me you don't want to work for the company that own the air you're breathing, the ground beneath your feet. Don't tell me you're stupid, you don't look stupid, not stupid like Toby here, who thinks he speaks for ALL of you"

He knew all their names. Their history. No expense had been spared on that.

He also wanted the brothers. A lot of money in them. Good pair to build a little branch of snatch and grab off of. Worst came to worst tho, he'd just slap a collar on them both and sell them to some Lady who wanted some pretty looking lap dogs.

"You got the memo, you know what a once in a shitty existence digging for scraps offer this is. Tell your friends, tell stutters over here that there's more to life than whatever he has going on."

Wait.

"Drake, you said something. Freedom. Let me tell you something. Freedom belongs to those who have power. Freedom is what people like me have. Winners. When you live life like a loser, freedom is always in someone else hands. Your freedom is in my hands, because I'm the guy with power. You ain't anything, until you have power."

That's when that ash rat he had ignored before yelled.

As if a rat would dare to interrupt a King.

It was that arrogance that removed any fear of death from Sweet Johnny as Specter threw the object into his vicinity.

All he did was jut his chin forward in defiance.

The flashbang did little. Shades paid for by top dollar went beyond a little bit of gold.

That didn't stop him from snapping his fingers, high above his head. Johnny's men reacted immediately, the armoured truck behind him hissed as hydraulic doors opened, loosing professionals from its innards, met by those who had been lurking in the trees.

They were fitted like private security officers. Ballistic and energy resilient vests, visors that put old world night vision goggles to shame with their ability to switch between the spheres of vision.

Their weapons were set to stun, because to John, their lives were expendable in the face of capturing the Wanderers alive.

Why would they accept? To them, nix powers, the job was easy and the pay was fantastic.

Now, that wasn't to say they wouldn't switch to the kill setting to save their own skin, only that option one was tag and bag.

They advanced through the smoke, some pursuing Specter, slow and steady. Some flanked the house, a detachment moved to sweep the premises, their aim to leave no crevice unchecked. There was a bonus for those who managed to capture the Wanders, and that bonus was generous.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Just like that, immortality slipped through his fingers, and mortality took its place. The endless pool of stamina that fueled his keen observance had formed a hole, and would drain away with time, as it did with most mortals. A stomach that had never needed victuals now groaned with the need for nutrients. His body, through his gift had been honed beyond that of an Olympic athlete, and thus, needed nutrition far beyond that of a normal person.

He didn't feel he had too much time.

The amoured truck was an unassailable monument to Bellataire's preparation from where he stood. The weapons he had kept stashed around the Wanderers residence held no hope in piercing its hull.

The inklings of a plan had begun to form in his mind. He needed to move. Specter's services would be needed as well.

Luckily for him, Eld's transformation had caught the slavers attention.

"Specter."

He beckoned the other merc, and used the surrounding flora to obscure his retreat to where he had begun his day. The basement. If Specter had gotten the hint, he would follow him down the descending staircase, where Dawn had left.