psych0pomp

Shin Megami Tensei: Persona

| 𝖣𝖠𝖳𝖤 : 9 APRIL 2018 | 𝖨𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖠𝖢𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭𝖲 : FAMILY ► ALONE | 𝖫𝖮𝖢𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭 : HOME ► HINOTORI HIGH |

The bing sounded like a siren in the heavy silence of night. Maki crawled out from under her blankets, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She reached for her phone, the light blinding her for a moment.

[3:08 AM, 9 APRIL 2018]

Another bing erupted in the pitch darkness of her room. She tried to remember her passcode as a bing punctuated the unlock noise. Bing. Maki stumbled through a couple of the apps running on her phone. Bing. Bing. She paused her music. Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing. Closed out of a webpage. Bing. Bing. Dread built in her stomach as the notification light on her phone practically strobed. Bing. Bing. Bing. Then a message popped above the rest.

[ew. i think u better not show up tmrw 😜]
Bing.
[psycho]

Her fear roiled into anger as she no longer delayed the inevitable. And inevitable it fucking was. Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing.

It was a massive group message. Most of the recipients were phone numbers that she didn’t recognize, but betrayal came as there were names pulled from her contacts. Words. Emojis. Memes. There was a variation in the delivery of everyone’s disgust and slander, but the meaning was all the same. And at the beginning of the chain, like a crown atop a pile of filth, was the picture. Excavated from someone close to Maki, it was the final pat of the shovel on her social grave. She glared at it. Bing. Bing. Bing. Shaking, her fingers muted her phone, and she dropped to the side of her bed. Maki crawled between the sheets. Sleep probably wouldn’t come, but at least she could stew in anger—alone. Bing. Bing. Bing. And the notification light strobed.

Maki was awoken by barely muffled laughter coming from the first floor. She grabbed her phone to check the time. It was an hour before she needed to be up, but she knew that if she didn’t get up now... she wouldn't. Reo and Yuuto were her older brothers, twins because there wasn't to be silence in the Ito household, currently attending university. Still, they would show up for breakfast most mornings. And today was particularly notable considering that it was the start of the school year. She grunted as she pulled herself out of her bed and eyed the battery on her phone. In her exasperation, she'd forgotten to hook it up. It was running on electric fumes. Unfortunately, she could only get a little charge as she got ready for school.

An hour, or so, later Maki walked down the stairs to the first floor. By that time, the aroma of breakfast filled the air. She entered the kitchen to the conversation turning silent. Her father had been speaking to her brothers, but he grew silent and cold. Maki could feel him bristling from the entranceway. Her mother turned, a smile on her face before it faded. Despite spending time in the country with her aunt, Maki hadn’t changed her look. She wore the school uniform in the basest of senses. The blue pinafore dress had the top two buttons undone, her loose tie spilling from it. Her sleeves on her dress-shirt were rolled up, her wrists suffocated by black cuffs and bracelets. Her fingers were anointed by clunky rings and adorned in black paint. Black tights were ripped with fishnet hose peeking out from the tears. Black boots, speckled with a myriad of spray paint droplets covered her feet. Around her neck was a leather choker, and her black hair was pulled in a lazy ponytail with streaks of neon poking out. Her makeup was dark with thick, black eyeliner and matte velvet-purple lips. She had her jacket thrown over her shoulder, sleeves pinned up, and her bag draped over her wrist laying on the floor.

Reo and Yuuto stopped mid-bite of breakfast, glancing between Maki and their parents. The atmosphere became even colder. “Maybe you should just grab your breakfast and head out,” her mother said, stretching a smile across her face. She was already in her nursing uniform and packing her lunch. “Don’t want you to be late on your first day back. Isn’t that right?” She glanced at Maki’s father. The man said nothing.

“Sounds good,” Maki said, grabbing the toast and fruit from an empty place setting. She pocketed the apple and wrapped the toast in a napkin before sliding it into her bag. “I'll be late. Work and sh-tuff.” A lukewarm goodbye greeted her ears as she left. Maki had forgotten the state she’d left things in. Her aunt had been far more filled with laughter and smiles, and the countryside had lacked the vitriol that Kyoto contained.

Halfway out of the door, her brothers clamored out of the chairs and followed her. They called after her, and she paused. The golden children, both of them had gotten into the university of their choice on a mixture of sports and scholastic scholarships. Everyone at Hinotori High had loved them. Reo was the louder one, prone to wearing brighter clothes and dragging his brother around. Yuuto was a little more reserved but far more charismatic. Maki couldn’t count on two hands how many girls in her grade had had a crush on her brothers. A lot of weird slash fiction had crossed her desk during that time. Maki fought back a bit of stomach acid remembering that.

“Wow, Sis, you really want to piss them off, don’t you?” Reo asked, hands on his hips.
Yuuto frowned. “I don’t know why they thought anything would change. You’re just you.” He sighed. “You hear from…”
“Toyashiro?” Reo finished. “I’m still ready to kick his butt.”
“After me, of course.” Yuuto huffed.
“Thanks,” Maki said, smiling for the first time that day. “I’ll let you idiots know if I need your assistance. But I think I can manage.”
“Just don’t kill him,” Reo said, laughing.
Maki shrugged and started to walk away.
“I’m serious.”
Yuuta perked up afterward. “Seriously, Maki. Please take homicide off your to-do list.”
She continued to walk, hiding her growing smile.
“I don’t think she’s going to.”
“You still know that cute receptionist at the police station?”
There was a pause, probably punctuated by a wink from Reo if she knew her brother. “Oh, I know her alright.”
“You’re gross, Re-re.”

Used to, the walk to school was something that looked forward to. This morning, she just slid her headphones over her head and let the music drown out the world around her. Everything was a monochromatic blur as she moved through Kyoto towards Hinotori High. The occasional bing erupted from her phone. Maki knew she could silence the notifications, but they were fueling each of her steps.

Bing. Bing. Bing. Silence. Maki passed the threshold of the school, and her gaze rose until she saw the crowded schoolyard. Chatter was abundant and people clumped together in groups. Exchanges of the personal and electronic nature happened. There was a lot of catching up to do. Maki pulled her bag tighter on her shoulder.

It was then a shadow eclipsed Maki’s downward vision. She looked up to see Funai Hina standing before her. Maki sucked at her teeth. They’d never been friends, but Maki’s reputation had always kept Funai at arm's length. Now there was nothing stopping the other girl. Maki would have been an idiot if she hadn’t noticed Funai was the first to comment on the message chain.

“I was hoping they cleaned the grounds a little better,” Funai said, glancing around at the crowd that was forming around her. “There’s still some trash here.”
Maki fully removed her headphones and stuffed them into her bag, unfortunately crunching her toast.
Funai put a hand to her ear. “I guess the trash doesn’t have a mouth… for once.” Some laughter chimed from around them both.
Maki narrowed her eyes.
“Not that we haven’t heard about she uses it.” A smug grin spread over Funai’s lips as she looked up at Maki. While shorter, Funai's stance oozed vapid superiority. That's it. The combination ofthat and Funai's words finally snapped Maki into action.
“While we're talking about it, Funai, why don’t you suck mine and move the fuck out of my way?” She smiled as she walked past the other girl, shoulder-checking her as she did. "Terribly sorry, Dog Face Funai." Now it was her turn to flash a flippant grin.
Funai whipped around, her long blonde locks cascading around her face. She was trying to hide her anger. “Your smugness won’t get you far. Wait until after school. You won't be able to engage in your favorite pastime with a busted lip.”
Maki pivoted, walking backward. She flipped the girl off with both hands, her glossy fingernails catching the sun. Figuring that she could make them really regret the “psycho” comment, she licked the length of her right extended finger and then spit to the side. Funai took a step backward as the crowd behind her was avidly filming.
“Bring it,” Maki said, turning back around and hurrying out of the schoolyard. She could already hear her phone going off. Bing. Bing. Bing. “Fuck me that was stupid,” she grumbled.

It was the beginning of the year, meaning that the authority figures needed to blow their hot air to a crowd of disinterested teens. Maki found her way to the assembly hall. She took a seat near the rest of the third years, but far away enough that she didn’t owe anyone their personal space. Dumping her bag in the seat next to her, she fished out her uneaten apple—the toast an unfortunate casualty. She kicked her feet onto the back of the chair in front of her and waited for assembly to start up. The sooner today began, the sooner it could end.

| 𝖳𝖠𝖦(𝖲) : N/A |

In This Fine Town Of Arkham - A Lovecraftian Mystery

Ignore the post. I was working on it and didn't see the new one pop up. I'll edit it, and try again later.

That's what I get for doing research on early 1900s lighters. Curse you, weird need to be somewhat historically accurate. *shakes fist into sky and all that*

UPDATE: I edited it. Trimmed out most of the dialogue as it would contradict what Madmoiselle Noir said. So, hopefully, it flows and doesn't seem too stilted.

In This Fine Town Of Arkham - A Lovecraftian Mystery

So, the mysterious figure in the woods was a woman. That being said, Moses wasn’t so regressive as to let his guard down. Anyone could be dangerous. A child with a knife and a well-placed view of one’s legs and arms posed just an equal threat as a grown man with a pistol. But it seemed as if Mademoiselle Noir was, in fact, also a guest at Wilde Hall this evening. His shoulders relaxed under his coat, and he quickened his pace to fall in step with her.

“Ah yes, let’s,” he said, agreeing that they should move a bit more briskly. Moses had to guess she was French given her accent, but he couldn’t begin to decipher what she might say in her native tongue. The only bit of French he was familiar with was from rum runners out of the French Caribbean, but the accents and dialect were so vastly different he wouldn’t know where to start. If she cursed at him, he’d know, but he couldn’t imagine that she was prone to using a sailor’s tongue.

As soon as they’d traveled a ways on the tight wooden path, another figure joined them. Moses jumped. He blushed in embarrassment and hoped the cut of his jacket had hidden the scare. Attempting to wave that off, his fingers dived into his coat in hopes of fishing out his lighter.

The next person in the woods seemed to be another guest. Mask, nice outfit, and a genteel nature that didn’t suit someone that would be idly wandering the woods at night. He searched his pockets as the man, Mister Violet, introduced himself. His nature was immediately off-putting to Moses, and the older man tried not to sigh too loudly into his unlit cigarette.

“Deacon Gray,” he said, having been spoken over by both of the other party-goers and not given a moment to label himself. Finally, he’d procured his lighter from his coat, his fingers glossed over his small bit of “protection” to get to it. With a quick, very practiced motion, Moses flicked the top on the lighter—resembling a miniature candle snuffer—open. A few metallic cranks of the flint-wheel and a small flame erupted from the nickel box. He lit his cigarette in silence before flicking the top back down and pocketing it.

It seemed as if he had all but been forgotten about as the Mademoiselle Noir honed in on Mister Violet. He let the smoke trail from his lips as he moved forward, taking the lead.

@Romero@Lady Selune

Shin Megami Tensei: Persona

The only nitpick I'd have to point out is that Nyarlathotep does already exist as a malevolent being, so unfortunately you'd need to pick out another Persona.

@Hero

Whoops. And here I thought I did my due diligence. I guess I straight missed that. Apologies. I blame the browser on my phone. It loves opening all the advertisements on that site as large as it can. Probably to slowly drive me crazy. Or maybe to coerce me into 17 new phone plans. Same thing, right?

Anyway, I changed it on my sheet and edited the skills and transformation accordingly since the vibe is less spooky demon and more death-god croc mom. Which is great.

The Tower has some interesting Personas, like sentient demon genitals and Satan on a toilet. Just to mention a couple... that confuse me.

Shin Megami Tensei: Persona

Give Them the Ole Razzle Dazzle

173cm | 62kg | Seventeen | Third Year | Female

ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡＬＩＴＹ

They say that fortune favors the bold, but when does that boldness get to be too much? Maki couldn't tell you. A vivacious person, she's quick to state her opinion and show her combative nature. If someone steps up to Maki, she returns the favor. Quick to curse words and burning insults, one would assume those were her only personality traits. She gets what she wants. Unfortunately, she may have burned some bridges via emotional Molotov Cocktails to do so. Arrogance would be a strong word for her attitude, but it wouldn't be entirely wrong. While there's not a sense of entitlement, there are definitely rungs of importance that Maki has constructed, and she puts herself on top. It's born from her independence and a wild streak. Maki likes to think of herself as an unflappable and untameable beast. Yet, that isn't the only thing that Maki is capable of. She's smart. She's intuitive. And she can sigh deeply, ruffling her bangs, and help when people really need help. Maki's not heartless. She just gives her heart sparingly.

ＡＲＣＡＮＡ

The Tower

ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡ

Ammut

ＳＫＩＬＬＳ

► Cleave [Physical - Light Damage]
► Rebellion [Support - Increases One Ally's/Caster's Critical Rate for a Brief Time]
► Counter [Passive - Low Chance of Reflecting Enemy's Attacks]

ＴＲＡＮＳＦＯＲＭＡＴＩＯＮ

A black headpiece adorns her forehead and has reptilian fang-like protrusions that lay over her brows. Her black hair hangs, bound in golden circlets for a make-shift ponytail. From there, her torso is covered in segmented golden armor with gaps that reveal black fabric underneath. Over that is a green and black biker jacket with "Man Eater" embroidered in gold. Her legs are covered in what look to be black torn jeans leading to knee-high gold plated boots with quite a heel.

ＷＥＡＰＯＮ

A weighted chain with flecks of gold coming off of it

ＨＩＳＴＯＲＹ

Maki never fell from grace, because she never had an altruistic pedestal to stand on in the beginning. Despite gossip painting her as a bad seed, she didn't have a shitty childhood. The Ito family managed to do well for themselves. Her father was a salesman, her mother a nurse, and her two older brothers were accomplished athletes. Despite her having a strong family unit she wanted so hard to stand out. Her brothers had gotten into their schools of choice with such high academics and athletics it painted them shining stars. Maki didn't want to occupy that same star-scape. Maki wanted something greater—something a little more her speed—so she ended up crossing a line. But let's back up a little bit...

As a young child, she showed a talent for art that while not prodigal, was notable. This talent cultivated more and more, and as such became more and more interesting. She started to hear that "she was following in the footsteps of her brothers," and that she was a "cookie-cutter good daughter." Maki had stood at the fringe of social acceptance before she heel-turned and shot a milquetoast life the bird.

She fell into an interesting group of peers at school. They were vagrants, at best. Prone to fist-fights, smoking, breaking and entering, and vandalism. It was this last part that caught Maki's eye. The girl moved from oil paints to spray paints. Within a few months, she'd made a name for herself as quite the alley art savant. There she met and fell deeply in love with Nakamura Toyoshiro. Honestly, love was probably too strong a word. Yet, Maki never half-assed anything. This was why she bought into this lifestyle and clique with such fervor that it got her a reputation at school. No one wanted to mess with her due to her rough nature and the rough nature of her friends. They did a good job keeping it out of sight and mind of authority figures—until, well, they didn't. A squabble with a popular girl left Maki in a meeting with her teacher and parents... and said popular girl with quite the black eye. It was around then that her parents watched her with more and more scrutiny. Their curiosity wasn't sated until one fateful night when Maki was caught.

What had she been doing? Well, that would be a tight-lipped secret kept by the Ito family. Yet, that wouldn't stop the rumor mill. The most common one would be about her and her boyfriend's promiscuous behavior. Another one detailed a nasty fight that left someone in the hospital. Yet another would state that Maki and her boyfriend burned a building down. And those were the serious ones. They only got more outlandish and cartoonish as time went on

Immediately, Maki was branded as a delinquent but not in an exciting way. A public spectacle was made of her to deter other kids from "following her path into anarchy." It didn't make her cooler. It alienated her from everyone and everything she loved from the embarrassment that now hung over her. She went from being an almost modern-day sukeban with an artistic streak to a friendless freak. In hopes of getting their daughter back on track, the Ito's had her take up a part-time job once she got back from spending the break with an aunt in the countryside.

As the new school year began, Maki still maintained her shitty job and her equally shitty reputation. Though sometimes, in quiet rebellion, she'd carve lewd sentences onto the bottom of any bench she could find. It was the small things. And she needed the small things, as those that she'd bullied in the past had turned the tables right back on her.

ＭＩＳＣ

► Despite her ousting in her social group, Maki is still a talented artist. She hasn't actually produced anything since her medium of walls and spray paints were taken from her.
► She is always wearing headphones. People assume it's some sort of emo-metal. Maybe it is. Maybe it's also pop music.
► Doesn't know what Nakamura Toyoshiro is up to. She hasn't seen him since she got in trouble. Though, Maki has noted that he's said nothing to stop the rumor mill.
► Maki's arch-enemy may or may not be the cat that runs the street by where she works.

Trash for the Trash God [Just Breaking BBCode]

words words words "Dialogue."

^{𝙏𝘼𝙂(𝙎) tag
𝙇𝙊𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 tag}

Sawyer CS

❝ 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚂! ❞

^{NAME: Sohsa'no'wyaer "Sawyer" Halycon-Sub-Prime, 24th in line for High Emperor
AGE: 34
GENDER: Mono-Gendered (looks like a human male) (they/him)
SPECIES: Arkopolis}

❝ 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄? ❞

<sup>"I'm sorry, did I not give you my business card? Have you not seen my billboards? I get it, you come from one of those backwater planets. Well, let me just introduce myself, I'm Sawyer the Space Lawyer. The only legal representation you need in the galaxy. No. Seriously. Don't get anyone else."

For an Arkopolis, Sawyer rarely wears their mask. They are a species of fully clothed aliens, from the top of their shiny masks to the bottom of their intricately booted feet. It is to help distinguish what caste they belong to. Castes are decided first upon birth and then secondly by one's ability to be charismatic. The game of social parlay is quite deadly for an Arkopolis, hence the masks. They hide their features and even alter their inflection if they can get away with it. Ambassadors, traders, weapon brokers, space bards, and so on--if it involves the gift of gab then they have the market cornered. They are ruled by a High Emperor, which Sawyer is 25th in line for. Well, 24th, as someone down in the line died from a nasty case of being poisoned by a political rival.

In social situations, Sawyer does wear a mask. Black with a fluorescent purple light that bisects the middle of it. On the top are two holes that their deep purple horns push out of, curling forward like a ram but straightening out at the metal-capped tips. Without the mask they have purple skin, an almost atrocious amount of golden jewelry, short but perfectly coiffed dark purple hair, pointed ears, and the aforementioned horns--they were not decorative. They also have liquid gold eyes and a fanged smile that would make a vampire blush. Beyond that, they stay almost decently clothed, preferring golds and fabrics that are the same hue as their homeworld. Another notable feature is the massive segmented tail that juts out of their lower back. It's as long as they are and possibly more in the way if that was possible.

They speak with their whole body, hands, feet, and tail included. As someone in the law profession, they never back down from giving their full opinion about something. If they pass on answering, you don't want to know what they were going to say. They also believe everyone is lying and is on the hunt for the truth at every given turn. Their voice is deep, smooth, and rings in dual tones.</sup>

❝ 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴? ❞

<sup>"Why did you hand me a gun? I'm more likely to shoot you and then myself with it than anything else. My weapon is my vast and startling intellect, coupled with my roguish handsome looks, and honeyed words. What? Fine, I can use magic. Just take your damn gun back."

First and foremost, Sawyer is a lawyer. Their extensive knowledge of the different laws in the galaxy and how to get by them in an entirely legal way is their bread and butter. They make sure that anything that might be pressed against the Guernica doesn't stick. Late docking fees? Poor signage and lack of a concrete due date in the contract. It contradicts itself numerous times over. Illegal drunken brawl? Actually, in the Trsuskgarian tradition, it's considered a cultural grievance not to. Oh, there were no Trsuskgarian's around? Well, my defendant practices their culture. Are you saying the Free Colony of Santivarius isn't actually free and limits individual expression? My defendant killed that man? Well. "Man" is a weird word for a robot. Do robots have a living and dead state? Or is it a variation of the flux of power that's streamed into them? It looks like my defendant just performed a hard restart on the robotic fellow and there are no laws against that.

They're fabulous at getting themselves and others out of sticky situations. It also doesn't hurt that they have diplomatic immunity for being in the top 1% of Arkopolis's that are in line for the throne. Just 24 more to go!

Sawyer's aura abilities are sonic-based. They can alter their voice, creating a more soothing or anxiety-inducing pitch. More taxing, they can make someone nauseous or lose their balance by messing with vibrations in the air through sound outside one's hearing range. They can also inflict damage with a sonic scream that acts like a blunt shockwave, which is incapable of killing but definitely can clear a room. Unfortunately, they can only do this once before they completely lose their voice. And once they've lost their voice, they cannot use their aura until they get it back. Also, it makes them a piss poor lawyer.</sup>

❝ 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙱𝙻𝙴𝙼? ❞

<sup>"I am unflappable and untouchable. There's nothing in this galaxy that can twist my hide. Well... except... I mean it has to do with the Imperials. It's nothing big though. I wouldn't worry your tiny little brain about it. Awe. Look at that brain. So itty-bitty."

Sawyer pissed off a good handful of Imperial lawmakers to the point that if they try to attend court within Imperial space, they would be fined and held in contempt. They'd still be allowed to represent their client, as long as they knew if they didn't get a favorable verdict, they'd be joining them. It had started with Sawyer winning a fairly decisive trade case involving the containment and shuttling of aura. Things then got worse when they fought a copyright lawsuit that was won sheerly through the Imperial's sluggish bureaucracy. Then there was the time that they got a young Imperial woman a "not guilty" verdict for several murders. It then turned out that she was a serial killer, but she hadn't committed all the ones they had tried her for... just most of them. Honestly, that was not one of Sawyer's finest moments.

Yet, the biggest one had to be when they kept the Vangarian Empire from settling a small mining colony that had been mostly abandoned except for one old Formokian that had gotten stuck in a rockslide but was still very alive--being mostly rock himself. Sawyer's defense said that since the old man wasn't technically a "squatter" since he couldn't technically "squat," he did fall under the "Rights to Land Act." It was created hundreds of years ago for the Vangarian Empire to exploit itself. Throw a "research base" on a possibly inhabitable planet, stay there for a year, and bang the planet was yours.

Apparently, that mining colony would have been a massive resource grab for the Empire. Without it, a massive project (Sawyer didn't know what) was stunted until the Vangarians could find another source of materials. Hence the hate... so it's a mutually beneficial relationship for Sawyer to stay on the Guernica. That way, they can't be subpoenaed if they are never in one place.</sup>

❝ 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝚁𝙴𝚆. ❞

<sup>"Someone is always stepping on my tail, eating my snacks, messing with my work, or petting my cat. How dare they. Bartholomew Von Toe'Beans is my cat. Only I get to pet his entirely metal carapace."

Sawyer thinks they're all idiots, and they're blessing them with their presence. That doesn't mean that they don't interact with the rest of the crew, quite the opposite actually. They're in everyone else's business except their own. The thrill of listening to their unnecessarily dramatic lives is absolutely intoxicating. It's like slipping on your favorite slippers and grabbing a warm mug of tea/wine/spacer fuel. They've made a few friends in their years aboard the ship, having taken up residence on it when they offered the captain a handful of cash to get them off an Imperial planet. And... they never left.</sup>

Maki CS

173cm | 62kg | Seventeen | Third Year | Female

ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡＬＩＴＹ

They say that fortune favors the bold, but when does that boldness get to be too much? Maki couldn't tell you. A vivacious person, she's quick to state her opinion and show her combative nature. If someone steps up to Maki, she returns the favor. Quick to curse words and burning insults, one would assume those were her only personality traits. She gets what she wants. Unfortunately, she may have burned some bridges via emotional Molotov Cocktails to do so. Arrogance would be a strong word for her attitude, but it wouldn't be entirely wrong. While there's not a sense of entitlement, there are definitely rungs of importance that Maki has constructed, and she puts herself on top. It's born from her independence and a wild streak. Maki likes to think of herself as an unflappable and untameable beast. Yet, that isn't the only thing that Maki is capable of. She's smart. She's intuitive. And she can sigh deeply, ruffling her bangs, and help when people really need help. Maki's not heartless. She just gives her heart sparingly.

ＡＲＣＡＮＡ

The Tower

ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡ

Ammut

ＳＫＩＬＬＳ

► Cleave [Physical - Light Damage]
► Rebellion [Support - Increases One Ally's/Caster's Critical Rate for a Brief Time]
► Counter [Passive - Low Chance of Reflecting Enemy's Attacks]

ＴＲＡＮＳＦＯＲＭＡＴＩＯＮ

A black headpiece adorns her forehead and has reptilian fang-like protrusions that lay over her brows. Her black hair hangs, bound in golden circlets for a make-shift ponytail. From there, her torso is covered in segmented golden armor with gaps that reveal black fabric underneath. Over that is a green and black biker jacket with "Man Eater" embroidered in gold. Her legs are covered in what look to be black torn jeans leading to knee-high gold plated boots with quite a heel.

ＷＥＡＰＯＮ

A weighted chain with flecks of gold coming off of it

ＨＩＳＴＯＲＹ

Maki never fell from grace, because she never had an altruistic pedestal to stand on in the beginning. Despite gossip painting her as a bad seed, she didn't have a shitty childhood. The Ito family managed to do well for themselves. Her father was a salesman, her mother a nurse, and her two older brothers were accomplished athletes. Despite her having a strong family unit she wanted so hard to stand out. Her brothers had gotten into their schools of choice with such high academics and athletics it painted them shining stars. Maki didn't want to occupy that same star-scape. Maki wanted something greater—something a little more her speed—so she ended up crossing a line. But let's back up a little bit...

As a young child, she showed a talent for art that while not prodigal, was notable. This talent cultivated more and more, and as such became more and more interesting. She started to hear that "she was following in the footsteps of her brothers," and that she was a "cookie-cutter good daughter." Maki had stood at the fringe of social acceptance before she heel-turned and shot a milquetoast life the bird.

She fell into an interesting group of peers at school. They were vagrants, at best. Prone to fist-fights, smoking, breaking and entering, and vandalism. It was this last part that caught Maki's eye. The girl moved from oil paints to spray paints. Within a few months, she'd made a name for herself as quite the alley art savant. There she met and fell deeply in love with Nakamura Toyoshiro. Honestly, love was probably too strong a word. Yet, Maki never half-assed anything. This was why she bought into this lifestyle and clique with such fervor that it got her a reputation at school. No one wanted to mess with her due to her rough nature and the rough nature of her friends. They did a good job keeping it out of sight and mind of authority figures—until, well, they didn't. A squabble with a popular girl left Maki in a meeting with her teacher and parents... and said popular girl with quite the black eye. It was around then that her parents watched her with more and more scrutiny. Their curiosity wasn't sated until one fateful night when Maki was caught.

What had she been doing? Well, that would be a tight-lipped secret kept by the Ito family. Yet, that wouldn't stop the rumor mill. The most common one would be about her and her boyfriend's promiscuous behavior. Another one detailed a nasty fight that left someone in the hospital. Yet another would state that Maki and her boyfriend burned a building down. And those were the serious ones. They only got more outlandish and cartoonish as time went on

Immediately, Maki was branded as a delinquent but not in an exciting way. A public spectacle was made of her to deter other kids from "following her path into anarchy." It didn't make her cooler. It alienated her from everyone and everything she loved from the embarrassment that now hung over her. She went from being an almost modern-day sukeban with an artistic streak to a friendless freak. In hopes of getting their daughter back on track, the Ito's had her take up a part-time job once she got back from spending the break with an aunt in the countryside.

As the new school year began, Maki still maintained her shitty job and her equally shitty reputation. Though sometimes, in quiet rebellion, she'd carve lewd sentences onto the bottom of any bench she could find. It was the small things. And she needed the small things, as those that she'd bullied in the past had turned the tables right back on her.

ＭＩＳＣ

► Despite her ousting in her social group, Maki is still a talented artist. She hasn't actually produced anything since her medium of walls and spray paints were taken from her.
► She is always wearing headphones. People assume it's some sort of emo-metal. Maybe it is. Maybe it's also pop music.
► Doesn't know what Nakamura Toyoshiro is up to. She hasn't seen him since she got in trouble. Though, Maki has noted that he's said nothing to stop the rumor mill.
► Maki's arch-enemy may or may not be the cat that runs the street by where she works.

| 𝖣𝖠𝖳𝖤 : 9 APRIL 2018 | 𝖨𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖠𝖢𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭𝖲 : FAMILY ► ALONE | 𝖫𝖮𝖢𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭 : HOME ► HINOTORI HIGH |

“Maki Dialogue.”
“Reo Dialogue.”
“Yuuto Dialogue.”
“NPC Dialogue.”

| 𝖳𝖠𝖦(𝖲) : N/A |

| 𝖣𝖠𝖳𝖤 : 11 APRIL 2018 | 𝖨𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖠𝖢𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭𝖲 : COUNCIL MEMBERS & THE HAWKGUYS | 𝖫𝖮𝖢𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭 : HINOTORI HIGH |

“Maki Dialogue.”

| 𝖳𝖠𝖦(𝖲) : N/A |

Relics of the First Age

Fygawren Aescau

NAME | Fygawren "Fyg" Aescau
AGE | 31
GENDER | Female
FACTION/ALLEGIANCE | No faction, but she has juxtaposed herself against the Order of the Third Moon
APPEARANCE |
Fyg stands a little under six-feet but hunches underneath her worn but well-hewn red cloak. She lets her long silvery locks hang down away from the hood as to give the appearance of a crone. Usually, only her tanned chin and full, but chapped, lips are showing. She leans heavily on a sturdy and gnarled staff with a thick amber-hued crystal embedded into the top of it. It has no luster when the sun hits it. Instead, it's heavy and provides quite the knock if swung at someone. People seem to leave her alone. Especially if she is coupled with a handful of homemade poultices and the unfortunate flock of birds that enjoy using her shoulders and staff as a perch. It'd help if she wouldn't feed them every chance she got.

When Fyg isn't trying to act with discretion, she abandons the shroud of the cloak to show her full form. Her silver hair is tied behind her in a long braid and wreathed with pretty, but terribly intrusive, flowers. Her skin is a deep tan, and her one visible eye is the same color as the crystal on her staff. The other is hidden behind an eyepatch. Of course, when the sun hits it just right it becomes evident that it's see-through. Her armor is a dusty, reinforced leather that she takes care of. Around her waist is an assortment of colorful clothes and scarves that are haphazardly woven together in some semblance of a belt. Her pants are a thick canvas with high leather boots that match her asymmetrical gloves adorning her arms. Yet, they cannot hide defined musculature from years of harsh living.

RELIC DESCRIPTION | THE IRIS / Elemental - Plant 🌿

APPEARANCE The Iris is not only named as it allows one to harness the power of vegetation, but it is also ocular in shape and size. It has flowers and leaves embossed on its white surface. It's meant to be worn much as it appears.
ABILITIES

• Plant Growth - Capable of causing rapid production of plants from seeds, ground, or inert vegetative material (i.e. her wooden staff.) The size and type of plant depends on how much power she expends. Fyg is quite fond of vines and nicely calls them 'her little helpers.'
• Restoration - Fyg can rejuvenate or revive a dead plant. She can even go as far as to remove pestilence and plague. That being said, she couldn't cure an entire field, but she could do enough for someone to survive off of.
• Speak with Plants - It works just as it sounds. Of course, the information exchanged is incredibly elementary, but it's good enough to not get lost in the woods.

FLAWS |

• Flighty
• Fickle
• Unkempt
• Incessant Talker
• Blunt & Crass
• Untrusting
• Argumentative
• Headstrong

SKILLS|

• HEDGE ALCHEMY While nothing that could rival a well-tended lab, Fyg concocts her own poultices and elixirs. They're mostly for tending to wounds and ailments, but she knows a few that could wreak havoc on one's body. She's also aware of certain volatile mixtures.
• MERCANTILE One might argue that talking circles around someone and goading them into lowering the price or changing the exchange rate might not be the most important skill. Still, it's kept Fyg alive.
• APPRAISAL A bit of spit and a good shine, and Fyg can give a decent prediction about varied and numerous valuables. If she tells you it's worth nothing, be skeptical.
• ACROBATICS To traverse the ruins of the Great Plains, one needs to be fleet of foot and agile of fingers. Fyg is quite nimble and graceful when she needs to be.
• CARTOGRAPHY & MINOR STAR READING This is the only skill that Fyg cultivated out of a curiosity instead of a necessity. She loves making maps and star charts. They may not be entirely accurate, but they're better than a blank sheet of parchment and your head in the sand.
• FIGHTING DIRTY Sure, she can summon plants to her side, but a show of magic is not always needed or warranted. Fyg knows her way around taking out opponents without too many moves wasted. Does she feel good about it afterward? Sure. Why wouldn't she?
• BOTANY She can summon and speak with plants. This skill comes with the territory.

BIOGRAPHY |
Fyg grew up in the Great Plains underneath an old stone structure of hands, their moss-covered digits reaching towards the skies. Her mother, a strange woman by the name of Bautild, always told her that it was a monument to the old, believed to be false, god Kheris. The older woman would then spit the seeds of her fruit to the ground and wipe her lips before laughing. “Leave the men to their gods, and let them eat each other from the starvation of that divine grace.”

The young girl was a spry thing of curiosity and tangled silver hair. She’d climb ruins, run across the plains, and “tame” any animal she came across. Her mother taught her the ways of her people, how to survive and thrive in an environment filled to the brim with consequences. While the two lived alone, traveling caravans would stop by often to trade goods. Fyg would hear stories of the world. She’d hear about the dwarves of the mountains, the great Etrid, the destroyed throne of Kheris, the deep woods of the druids and long-forgotten elves, and the haunted ruins that dotted the plains. Having received a map from one of the merchants, she marked all these fantastical spots for further exploration. Her mother watched her and said nothing, except for when Fyg became curious about the forests. Bautild would always shush her with stories of relics and formulas for various “potions” that she crafted.

Fyg was a teenager when she came across a settlement south of one of her favorite ruins by the Hands of Kheris. There she became fast, if not chatty, friends with several of the villagers and entreated them to the secrets that her mother shared. When she returned home, the pitch of night clawing at the sky, Bautild chastised her with vitriol that had never graced her voice before. She grabbed Fyg’s chin and held it tight as her golden eyes pressed into her daughter’s. She begged the girl to never return to the village and never speak of their life again. Fyg nodded, eyes filled with tears. She’d never seen her mother so scared before.

Unfortunately, it only took that fateful day to incite flames upon their quaint home. It came, months later, in the form of figures bearing torches. Fyg didn’t remember much of that night, sleep and terror taking an equal part of her memory. What she did remember was her mother’s hands feverishly shaking her awake and telling her to grab what she could. Then there was their hurried sprint across the plains. Fyg turned back once to see her mother face the figures in the darkness. She could have sworn that light both otherworldly and natural poured from Bautild. The shadows called her a “wytch” and Fyg her “wytch spawn.”

They took shelter in some labyrinthine ruins far from where Fyg grew up. In the hazy light of the morning, Bautild kissed her daughter’s forehead before wrapping her in her old red cloak. That would be the last time Fyg would see her. The bleary image of her silhouette against the horizon before nothing. Fyg would spend the rest of the week numbly wandering the ruins around her, doing the bare minimum to take care of herself. One day, an old stone pathway gave way and sent her plummeting into the depths below. The incline was too steep and slick for her to climb back up, and so she had to traverse the ruin's innards to find her way out.

Of course, there wouldn't be a story if she didn't find something down there. After some time, there was a light at the end of a long stone tunnel. She found herself in an ancient arboretum. In the middle was a massive tree that poked out above the ceiling and into the sky above. That was her way out. Unfortunately, the branches were too high for her to reach. In her desperation, she caught sight of something that didn't belong. A skeleton jutted out from the trunk of the tree itself. It was only visible from the waist up, and its boney arm was outstretched and held aloft by vines. In its hand was a gorgeous wooden staff, seeming to sprout from the tree itself. Yet, what caught Fyg's attention was a glowing object in the skeleton's eye socket.

Assured that she had no other choice, she grabbed it. It was warm in her hand, and the grass underfoot awoke and sprouted anew. Yet, nothing else happened. Fyg stared between the skeleton, the tree, the staff, and her escape. She could die down here, or she could... one has to remember that she was a teenager in the middle of the Great Plains just having lost her mother to the faceless hunters in the night. Reason wasn't her bedfellow as she did what she had to to survive.

That day changed Fyg. She transitioned from a wide-eyed youth interested in what the world had to offer into a wry adult that wanted to take those offerings from the world. This was set in motion by a traveling grifter by the name of Fergus Nort who thought her powers and skills were useful. She made a living off brewing the alchemical elixirs and poultices that her mother showed her as a child, looting ruins she came across, selling coordinates of said looted ruins (omitting that she had removed the valuables,) and selling said valuables to the highest bidder. It helped her carve out a living amidst the transient turmoil of the Great Plains. Fyg was referred to by the loving moniker "Grass Wytch," which she denied vehemently while secretly reveling in such a title.

Time passed as it was wont to do, if anyone knew how to make it stop Fyg would be interested in having a word. After a while, shady business tactics became notoriety and said notoriety became problematic. Fyg decided to let her hustle across the Great Plains air out and head South. Of course, this wasn't entirely by coincidence. During the years that followed Bautild leaving, she'd learned of the ones responsible for her mother's disappearance all those years ago. The Third Moon had made an enemy, even if they didn't know or care.

Upon hearing of the Inquisitor's abdication of the throne to the prince, soon to become King, Fyg needed to see the entire thing for herself. A part of her wanted revenge. Another part wondered if her mother would be there. And the last part of her, the strongest instinct she possessed, wanted to make some more coin from the fools of Etrid.

PERSONALITY/MOTIVATION | Fyg is an odd duck. Which is ironic, because sometimes ducks find her interesting. It may be her proclivity to create fruit and seed-bearing plants and feed fowl, bird, rodent, or otherwise from the bounty. She's quite close to being known as a "pigeon wytch." Yet, it's those actions that offer true insight into herself as a person.

She isn't cruel or corrupt, but her nature is much like running your hands harshly over bark. It may be uncomfortable and a little painful, but it doesn't provide any lasting damage and may take care of a forgotten itch. Fyg is slow to make friends but quick to make associates and "meat shields." A fast talker and even quicker with her hands, she can weave a ring of words around anyone with the competency of a scholar. Are those words born from eloquence and sensible sentence structure? Maybe one shouldn't listen too closely.

Fyg is slow to anger, hard to trick, and very hard to love. It might have to do with her fondness for the dirtiness of nature, proclivity to have heated discussions with trees, and tendency to be a roost for an exceptional amount of city birds.

RELATIONS |

• BAUTILD AESCAU Mother Despite their separation at Fyg's formative years, she still holds her mother in the highest esteem. She has no idea where to look for her, and fears that finding her would only provide problems for Bautild. Still, they did not part on harsh terms.
• FERGUS NORT Partner in "Crime" Someone had to teach Fyg to be a shady grifter. Yet, little did Fergus know that Fyg would become even shadier than himself. While they are friends, there's a bit of a rivalry there.
• ORDER OF THE THIRD MOON Religious Organization Can suck an anatomical part that she doesn't seem to own, but it's honestly anyone's guess on whether she's bluffing or not.
• PIOTR Her Animal Familiar? A fat, gray dove with a black beak and even blacker eyes. He finds himself a traveling companion of Fyg. He's quite judgemental of her decisions, or at least that's the entitlement Fyg imposes onto him.

SECRETS |
Bautild has kept many things from her, and she in turn has kept many things from Piotr.

In This Fine Town Of Arkham - A Lovecraftian Mystery

The light of Arkham was at Moses’s back, literally and figuratively, as he made his way towards the Wilde Woods. He pulled his coat tighter around him. It had been his father’s, but one couldn’t tell looking at it. There was one thing that Callum Reaves had cared for as equally as his family, and it was this garment. And for good reason too, it was quite the bulwark against the elements.

Moses dressed as well as he could. While not a rich man, he was one of decent means. It was like his wife, Magdalene, would always say, “one needs a nice suit for weddings, wakes, and getting back anything life takes.” He smiled at that thought, his chapped lips growing tight. That motion ticked a little box in his head, and his fingers instinctually went for his cigarettes—neatly placed inside an ornate, metal carrying case. He slid one between his lips before clicking the container closed. Moses instinctually reached for his lighter when his fingers went still.

Dark brown eyes glanced at a figure painted against the lights that hung in the woods. It seemed to be an odd place for lamps and an even odder place for a person. Wilde Hall was wreathed by the Wilde Woods, of course, but he hadn’t expected anyone else to take the back road there. Moses had his reasons. While many people didn’t know who he was those that did had a hard time not staring. He was a man of decent means.

He slid his calloused hands through his black hair, salted at the temples and spilling into his tight beard. Moses hesitated. He had no reason to assume this was a move against him. If so, the person would have tended to their presence better. Another party-goer, perhaps?

In his deliberation, the figure turned away from whatever they were facing and made their way down the well-lit path. Moses, realizing that he was staring and dawdling in equal measure, moved to catch up. He dropped his careful steps, letting his boots slap against the hard ground. “Ah good,” he said, balancing the cigarette between his lips. “An audience to tell the tale of how I get eaten by wolves out in these woods. Make sure to add that I was brave before I shat myself and died.” He chuckled.

Moses’s face was mostly hidden behind a plain, gray mask tied around his head with a thick cloth. It wasn’t mean to be fancy, but it would stay in place. “Headin' to the Wilde Hall, too, I’m guessin'?”

@Lady Selune

Relics of the First Age

Fygawren Aescau

NAME | Fygawren "Fyg" Aescau
AGE | 31
GENDER | Female
FACTION/ALLEGIANCE | No faction, but she has juxtaposed herself against the Order of the Third Moon
APPEARANCE |
Fyg stands a little under six-feet but hunches underneath her worn but well-hewn red cloak. She lets her long silvery locks hang down away from the hood as to give the appearance of a crone. Usually, only her tanned chin and full, but chapped, lips are showing. She leans heavily on a sturdy and gnarled staff with a thick amber-hued crystal embedded into the top of it. It has no luster when the sun hits it. Instead, it's heavy and provides quite the knock if swung at someone. People seem to leave her alone. Especially if she is coupled with a handful of homemade poultices and the unfortunate flock of birds that enjoy using her shoulders and staff as a perch. It'd help if she wouldn't feed them every chance she got.

When Fyg isn't trying to act with discretion, she abandons the shroud of the cloak to show her full form. Her silver hair is tied behind her in a long braid and wreathed with pretty, but terribly intrusive, flowers. Her skin is a deep tan, and her one visible eye is the same color as the crystal on her staff. The other is hidden behind an eyepatch. Of course, when the sun hits it just right it becomes evident that it's see-through. Her armor is a dusty, reinforced leather that she takes care of. Around her waist is an assortment of colorful clothes and scarves that are haphazardly woven together in some semblance of a belt. Her pants are a thick canvas with high leather boots that match her asymmetrical gloves adorning her arms. Yet, they cannot hide defined musculature from years of harsh living.

RELIC DESCRIPTION | THE IRIS / Elemental - Plant 🌿

APPEARANCE The Iris is not only named as it allows one to harness the power of vegetation, but it is also ocular in shape and size. It has flowers and leaves embossed on its white surface. It's meant to be worn much as it appears.
ABILITIES

• Plant Growth - Capable of causing rapid production of plants from seeds, ground, or inert vegetative material (i.e. her wooden staff.) The size and type of plant depends on how much power she expends. Fyg is quite fond of vines and nicely calls them 'her little helpers.'
• Restoration - Fyg can rejuvenate or revive a dead plant. She can even go as far as to remove pestilence and plague. That being said, she couldn't cure an entire field, but she could do enough for someone to survive off of.
• Speak with Plants - It works just as it sounds. Of course, the information exchanged is incredibly elementary, but it's good enough to not get lost in the woods.

FLAWS |

• Flighty
• Fickle
• Unkempt
• Incessant Talker
• Blunt & Crass
• Untrusting
• Argumentative
• Headstrong

SKILLS|

• HEDGE ALCHEMY While nothing that could rival a well-tended lab, Fyg concocts her own poultices and elixirs. They're mostly for tending to wounds and ailments, but she knows a few that could wreak havoc on one's body. She's also aware of certain volatile mixtures.
• MERCANTILE One might argue that talking circles around someone and goading them into lowering the price or changing the exchange rate might not be the most important skill. Still, it's kept Fyg alive.
• APPRAISAL A bit of spit and a good shine, and Fyg can give a decent prediction about varied and numerous valuables. If she tells you it's worth nothing, be skeptical.
• ACROBATICS To traverse the ruins of the Great Plains, one needs to be fleet of foot and agile of fingers. Fyg is quite nimble and graceful when she needs to be.
• CARTOGRAPHY & MINOR STAR READING This is the only skill that Fyg cultivated out of a curiosity instead of a necessity. She loves making maps and star charts. They may not be entirely accurate, but they're better than a blank sheet of parchment and your head in the sand.
• FIGHTING DIRTY Sure, she can summon plants to her side, but a show of magic is not always needed or warranted. Fyg knows her way around taking out opponents without too many moves wasted. Does she feel good about it afterward? Sure. Why wouldn't she?
• BOTANY She can summon and speak with plants. This skill comes with the territory.

BIOGRAPHY |
Fyg grew up in the Great Plains underneath an old stone structure of hands, their moss-covered digits reaching towards the skies. Her mother, a strange woman by the name of Bautild, always told her that it was a monument to the old, believed to be false, god Kheris. The older woman would then spit the seeds of her fruit to the ground and wipe her lips before laughing. “Leave the men to their gods, and let them eat each other from the starvation of that divine grace.”

The young girl was a spry thing of curiosity and tangled silver hair. She’d climb ruins, run across the plains, and “tame” any animal she came across. Her mother taught her the ways of her people, how to survive and thrive in an environment filled to the brim with consequences. While the two lived alone, traveling caravans would stop by often to trade goods. Fyg would hear stories of the world. She’d hear about the dwarves of the mountains, the great Etrid, the destroyed throne of Kheris, the deep woods of the druids and long-forgotten elves, and the haunted ruins that dotted the plains. Having received a map from one of the merchants, she marked all these fantastical spots for further exploration. Her mother watched her and said nothing, except for when Fyg became curious about the forests. Bautild would always shush her with stories of relics and formulas for various “potions” that she crafted.

Fyg was a teenager when she came across a settlement south of one of her favorite ruins by the Hands of Kheris. There she became fast, if not chatty, friends with several of the villagers and entreated them to the secrets that her mother shared. When she returned home, the pitch of night clawing at the sky, Bautild chastised her with vitriol that had never graced her voice before. She grabbed Fyg’s chin and held it tight as her golden eyes pressed into her daughter’s. She begged the girl to never return to the village and never speak of their life again. Fyg nodded, eyes filled with tears. She’d never seen her mother so scared before.

Unfortunately, it only took that fateful day to incite flames upon their quaint home. It came, months later, in the form of figures bearing torches. Fyg didn’t remember much of that night, sleep and terror taking an equal part of her memory. What she did remember was her mother’s hands feverishly shaking her awake and telling her to grab what she could. Then there was their hurried sprint across the plains. Fyg turned back once to see her mother face the figures in the darkness. She could have sworn that light both otherworldly and natural poured from Bautild. The shadows called her a “wytch” and Fyg her “wytch spawn.”

They took shelter in some labyrinthine ruins far from where Fyg grew up. In the hazy light of the morning, Bautild kissed her daughter’s forehead before wrapping her in her old red cloak. That would be the last time Fyg would see her. The bleary image of her silhouette against the horizon before nothing. Fyg would spend the rest of the week numbly wandering the ruins around her, doing the bare minimum to take care of herself. One day, an old stone pathway gave way and sent her plummeting into the depths below. The incline was too steep and slick for her to climb back up, and so she had to traverse the ruin's innards to find her way out.

Of course, there wouldn't be a story if she didn't find something down there. After some time, there was a light at the end of a long stone tunnel. She found herself in an ancient arboretum. In the middle was a massive tree that poked out above the ceiling and into the sky above. That was her way out. Unfortunately, the branches were too high for her to reach. In her desperation, she caught sight of something that didn't belong. A skeleton jutted out from the trunk of the tree itself. It was only visible from the waist up, and its boney arm was outstretched and held aloft by vines. In its hand was a gorgeous wooden staff, seeming to sprout from the tree itself. Yet, what caught Fyg's attention was a glowing object in the skeleton's eye socket.

Assured that she had no other choice, she grabbed it. It was warm in her hand, and the grass underfoot awoke and sprouted anew. Yet, nothing else happened. Fyg stared between the skeleton, the tree, the staff, and her escape. She could die down here, or she could... one has to remember that she was a teenager in the middle of the Great Plains just having lost her mother to the faceless hunters in the night. Reason wasn't her bedfellow as she did what she had to to survive.

That day changed Fyg. She transitioned from a wide-eyed youth interested in what the world had to offer into a wry adult that wanted to take those offerings from the world. This was set in motion by a traveling grifter by the name of Fergus Nort who thought her powers and skills were useful. She made a living off brewing the alchemical elixirs and poultices that her mother showed her as a child, looting ruins she came across, selling coordinates of said looted ruins (omitting that she had removed the valuables,) and selling said valuables to the highest bidder. It helped her carve out a living amidst the transient turmoil of the Great Plains. Fyg was referred to by the loving moniker "Grass Wytch," which she denied vehemently while secretly reveling in such a title.

Time passed as it was wont to do, if anyone knew how to make it stop Fyg would be interested in having a word. After a while, shady business tactics became notoriety and said notoriety became problematic. Fyg decided to let her hustle across the Great Plains air out and head South. Of course, this wasn't entirely by coincidence. During the years that followed Bautild leaving, she'd learned of the ones responsible for her mother's disappearance all those years ago. The Third Moon had made an enemy, even if they didn't know or care.

Upon hearing of the Inquisitor's abdication of the throne to the prince, soon to become King, Fyg needed to see the entire thing for herself. A part of her wanted revenge. Another part wondered if her mother would be there. And the last part of her, the strongest instinct she possessed, wanted to make some more coin from the fools of Etrid.

PERSONALITY/MOTIVATION | Fyg is an odd duck. Which is ironic, because sometimes ducks find her interesting. It may be her proclivity to create fruit and seed-bearing plants and feed fowl, bird, rodent, or otherwise from the bounty. She's quite close to being known as a "pigeon wytch." Yet, it's those actions that offer true insight into herself as a person.

She isn't cruel or corrupt, but her nature is much like running your hands harshly over bark. It may be uncomfortable and a little painful, but it doesn't provide any lasting damage and may take care of a forgotten itch. Fyg is slow to make friends but quick to make associates and "meat shields." A fast talker and even quicker with her hands, she can weave a ring of words around anyone with the competency of a scholar. Are those words born from eloquence and sensible sentence structure? Maybe one shouldn't listen too closely.

Fyg is slow to anger, hard to trick, and very hard to love. It might have to do with her fondness for the dirtiness of nature, proclivity to have heated discussions with trees, and tendency to be a roost for an exceptional amount of city birds.

RELATIONS |

• BAUTILD AESCAU Mother Despite their separation at Fyg's formative years, she still holds her mother in the highest esteem. She has no idea where to look for her, and fears that finding her would only provide problems for Bautild. Still, they did not part on harsh terms.
• FERGUS NORT Partner in "Crime" Someone had to teach Fyg to be a shady grifter. Yet, little did Fergus know that Fyg would become even shadier than himself. While they are friends, there's a bit of a rivalry there.
• ORDER OF THE THIRD MOON Religious Organization Can suck an anatomical part that she doesn't seem to own, but it's honestly anyone's guess on whether she's bluffing or not.
• PIOTR Her Animal Familiar? A fat, gray dove with a black beak and even blacker eyes. He finds himself a traveling companion of Fyg. He's quite judgemental of her decisions, or at least that's the entitlement Fyg imposes onto him.

SECRETS |
Bautild has kept many things from her, and she in turn has kept many things from Piotr.

Ready for ye olde judgment.
I swear this character got weirder the longer I worked on them. I think I may just want to play a sentient raccoon.