Mixtape Ghost NName/Nicknames
Sander Loraine
Race
Human/Possessed
Age
22
Appearance
Sander isn’t the type of guy you would spare a second look at. Standing at 6’1’’ and weighing roughly 166lbs, he is just your typical young adult. Even his eyes and hair are of an unremarkable dark brown, the latter is always left in a messy mop that cascades down his forehead. The choice of hair style fits perfectly with his wardrobe, which mostly consisted of worn t-shirts and faded jeans, all decorated with questionable stains in several different hues. On his best days, when he actually tries to comb his wild mop of hair and put on the most expensive attire he owns, he might manage to look like a college drop-out at best. Despite the abundance corpses needed to dispose, Santa Somabra does not pay its cleaners well. However, all that time spent lugging body bags around does help with his figure. Beneath the second-hand clothing, Sander is all lithe muscles and tightly coiled sinew.
While he is definitely not a combatant, several sets of impressive scars adorn his body, mostly on the forearms and upper torso. They are all knife wounds, some shallow and faded, while others deep and almost uninterrupted as they mar his skin. They seem to form a pattern of sort, if one takes the time to look. However, he makes a point of wearing coats at all time.
He is the farthest thing from intimidating though. A little creepy, maybe, as he maintains calmness and disinterest even when presented with the goriest of scenes. But then again, in this hell hole of a city, who wouldn’t? While his eyes lack the sharpness of fighters, they still have a piercing quality to them, and sometimes that is all enough to spook some people. But aside from that, his posture is hardly out of the ordinary, mostly in synch with his average appearance.
Personality
When dealing with others, Sander is all polite smiles and diplomatic responses. He does his best to remain as forgettable and insignificant as possible, rarely speaks out in the company of those he doesn’t deem trustworthy. Which is pretty much the majority of people in this cursed town, of course. While many mistook his quiet demeanor for weakness and pushed him around, he still let them, but only to some reasonable degrees. You don’t live long in Santa Somabra for being a prey, and while Sander isn’t a predator, he is, for all intent and purposes, a survivor. The burning desire to live a life free from his past’s influence, copes with steel determination and an almost infinitive amount of patient, is the only thing that keeps him going through all his trials, after all.
However, the time in Santa Somabra did stave off his naivety somewhat. He’s practical and rational in his actions, only does things that will be beneficial for himself or his business. Asides from that, he rarely cares about what doesn’t directly affect him or his life style. Despite being frequently employed by different factions, he often keeps out of their businesses and is reluctant to pick a side. After all, getting himself involved in their little tug-of-war is the last thing on his mind.
Bio
Cults aren’t exactly exclusive to Santa Somabra. And so does murderous witches with ties to murderous entities. Strangely enough, he came to this bloody city to escape both.
Sander grew up inside a trailer. In his earliest memories, he remembered moving around quite often with his mother and aunts. Their lifestyle could be compared to the nomadic gypsies of old; constantly moving and stopping only to restock and do business with the local. He never really got the details, but as far as he knew, his mother gave tarot readings in her trailer and sold strange trinkets for absurd amounts of money. Sometimes, she took men home as well, and she let Sander stay outside pass his bedtime. Most men never came out though, but he never asked. Maybe he never wanted to know the answer.
When he grew older, his mother settled down in the woods just outside Santa Somabra. She grew distant, but then again, she had never been particularly affectionate toward him. She still opened her shop, doing business with both travelers and town residents. However, the witch herself never entered the city. There was bad blood between her and some of the powerful figures within the city, and she wasn’t going to risk her head for profit. But deliveries still needed to be made and supplies still needed to be picked up, so Sander spent the majority of his formative years running back and forth between the city and his mother’s trailer. In his free time, he learnt to use a rifle and shot rabbits in his ‘backyard’. His aunts visited often enough, and sometimes they brought him gifts. Life wasn’t that particularly exciting for young Sander, but he was content.
Except the peace didn’t last. His mother’s coven was planning something big, and unfortunately for him, it involved more than just the offering of blood. He just came home one evening, a dead bird in tow for dinner, only to find his mother already at the table, waiting. She offered him a glass of juice, and after just one gulp, he collapsed face first onto the dining table.
Sander woke up to darkness and pain. His memory of that event was hazy at best, and not one he wanted to dwell on. All he could recall was his mother’s face, half-shrouded in shadow and the cold bite of sharpened steel against his flesh. It went on for hours, or maybe days, or maybe just minutes. He couldn’t tell. Darkness wrapped your sense of time like nothing else could. There were noises too, hushed voices like chanting. Then they turned into blood-curling screams. Sander half-remembered crawling out of wherever he was, and when he woke up again, he was in the front seats of the trailer, still bleeding like a leaky faucet. So he did the only thing he could then: he drove. It took him five minutes to get into the outskirts of Santa Somabra, and another three to stop the trailer, kill the engine and pass out.
His story would have ended there and then, as the local wasn’t really known for their hospitality. Fortunately, the one who found him was Marco Abbateli, owner of the Abbey chapel and funeral home. As fate would have it, the old man was also a regular of his mother’s shop, often ordered charms for his chapel. He recognized Sander immediately and took him back. His wounds looked worse than they actually were though; most were just flesh wounds, and whoever inflicted them took care not to damage any tendons or sinew. Eventually, they healed and Sander got back to his full strength soon enough. But he was reluctant to leave town. He didn’t fully understand what went down that night, but whatever happened, his mother was alive. He just knew. And he wasn’t interested in meeting her again anytime soon.
So he stayed in town, where his deranged mother wouldn’t dare to tread. She could still send someone though, so he stayed low and worked the night shift at Macro’s. The old man did more than just offering funeral services to grieving families. He had ties in the underworld, and when someone somewhere needed a scene cleaned up, Marco would be there. Or sometimes, he just right up sold the corpses to some shady guy that only came at night. Sander didn’t ask. He just helped load the body bags onto the truck. He was under Macro’s employment for a couple of years, before the old man just up and kicked the bucket. A stroke, they said. Not uncommon for men his age. The old man didn’t have any family though, so in his will, he gave Sander everything, including the chapel. Many said it might have not been a stroke at all.
Sander didn’t bother to correct them. He just kept to himself, and did his work.
Other
Sander Loraine
Race
Human/Possessed
Age
22
Appearance
Sander isn’t the type of guy you would spare a second look at. Standing at 6’1’’ and weighing roughly 166lbs, he is just your typical young adult. Even his eyes and hair are of an unremarkable dark brown, the latter is always left in a messy mop that cascades down his forehead. The choice of hair style fits perfectly with his wardrobe, which mostly consisted of worn t-shirts and faded jeans, all decorated with questionable stains in several different hues. On his best days, when he actually tries to comb his wild mop of hair and put on the most expensive attire he owns, he might manage to look like a college drop-out at best. Despite the abundance corpses needed to dispose, Santa Somabra does not pay its cleaners well. However, all that time spent lugging body bags around does help with his figure. Beneath the second-hand clothing, Sander is all lithe muscles and tightly coiled sinew.
While he is definitely not a combatant, several sets of impressive scars adorn his body, mostly on the forearms and upper torso. They are all knife wounds, some shallow and faded, while others deep and almost uninterrupted as they mar his skin. They seem to form a pattern of sort, if one takes the time to look. However, he makes a point of wearing coats at all time.
He is the farthest thing from intimidating though. A little creepy, maybe, as he maintains calmness and disinterest even when presented with the goriest of scenes. But then again, in this hell hole of a city, who wouldn’t? While his eyes lack the sharpness of fighters, they still have a piercing quality to them, and sometimes that is all enough to spook some people. But aside from that, his posture is hardly out of the ordinary, mostly in synch with his average appearance.
Personality
When dealing with others, Sander is all polite smiles and diplomatic responses. He does his best to remain as forgettable and insignificant as possible, rarely speaks out in the company of those he doesn’t deem trustworthy. Which is pretty much the majority of people in this cursed town, of course. While many mistook his quiet demeanor for weakness and pushed him around, he still let them, but only to some reasonable degrees. You don’t live long in Santa Somabra for being a prey, and while Sander isn’t a predator, he is, for all intent and purposes, a survivor. The burning desire to live a life free from his past’s influence, copes with steel determination and an almost infinitive amount of patient, is the only thing that keeps him going through all his trials, after all.
However, the time in Santa Somabra did stave off his naivety somewhat. He’s practical and rational in his actions, only does things that will be beneficial for himself or his business. Asides from that, he rarely cares about what doesn’t directly affect him or his life style. Despite being frequently employed by different factions, he often keeps out of their businesses and is reluctant to pick a side. After all, getting himself involved in their little tug-of-war is the last thing on his mind.
Bio
Cults aren’t exactly exclusive to Santa Somabra. And so does murderous witches with ties to murderous entities. Strangely enough, he came to this bloody city to escape both.
Sander grew up inside a trailer. In his earliest memories, he remembered moving around quite often with his mother and aunts. Their lifestyle could be compared to the nomadic gypsies of old; constantly moving and stopping only to restock and do business with the local. He never really got the details, but as far as he knew, his mother gave tarot readings in her trailer and sold strange trinkets for absurd amounts of money. Sometimes, she took men home as well, and she let Sander stay outside pass his bedtime. Most men never came out though, but he never asked. Maybe he never wanted to know the answer.
When he grew older, his mother settled down in the woods just outside Santa Somabra. She grew distant, but then again, she had never been particularly affectionate toward him. She still opened her shop, doing business with both travelers and town residents. However, the witch herself never entered the city. There was bad blood between her and some of the powerful figures within the city, and she wasn’t going to risk her head for profit. But deliveries still needed to be made and supplies still needed to be picked up, so Sander spent the majority of his formative years running back and forth between the city and his mother’s trailer. In his free time, he learnt to use a rifle and shot rabbits in his ‘backyard’. His aunts visited often enough, and sometimes they brought him gifts. Life wasn’t that particularly exciting for young Sander, but he was content.
Except the peace didn’t last. His mother’s coven was planning something big, and unfortunately for him, it involved more than just the offering of blood. He just came home one evening, a dead bird in tow for dinner, only to find his mother already at the table, waiting. She offered him a glass of juice, and after just one gulp, he collapsed face first onto the dining table.
Sander woke up to darkness and pain. His memory of that event was hazy at best, and not one he wanted to dwell on. All he could recall was his mother’s face, half-shrouded in shadow and the cold bite of sharpened steel against his flesh. It went on for hours, or maybe days, or maybe just minutes. He couldn’t tell. Darkness wrapped your sense of time like nothing else could. There were noises too, hushed voices like chanting. Then they turned into blood-curling screams. Sander half-remembered crawling out of wherever he was, and when he woke up again, he was in the front seats of the trailer, still bleeding like a leaky faucet. So he did the only thing he could then: he drove. It took him five minutes to get into the outskirts of Santa Somabra, and another three to stop the trailer, kill the engine and pass out.
His story would have ended there and then, as the local wasn’t really known for their hospitality. Fortunately, the one who found him was Marco Abbateli, owner of the Abbey chapel and funeral home. As fate would have it, the old man was also a regular of his mother’s shop, often ordered charms for his chapel. He recognized Sander immediately and took him back. His wounds looked worse than they actually were though; most were just flesh wounds, and whoever inflicted them took care not to damage any tendons or sinew. Eventually, they healed and Sander got back to his full strength soon enough. But he was reluctant to leave town. He didn’t fully understand what went down that night, but whatever happened, his mother was alive. He just knew. And he wasn’t interested in meeting her again anytime soon.
So he stayed in town, where his deranged mother wouldn’t dare to tread. She could still send someone though, so he stayed low and worked the night shift at Macro’s. The old man did more than just offering funeral services to grieving families. He had ties in the underworld, and when someone somewhere needed a scene cleaned up, Marco would be there. Or sometimes, he just right up sold the corpses to some shady guy that only came at night. Sander didn’t ask. He just helped load the body bags onto the truck. He was under Macro’s employment for a couple of years, before the old man just up and kicked the bucket. A stroke, they said. Not uncommon for men his age. The old man didn’t have any family though, so in his will, he gave Sander everything, including the chapel. Many said it might have not been a stroke at all.
Sander didn’t bother to correct them. He just kept to himself, and did his work.
Other
- Sander didn’t escape his mother’s ritual unscathed. He knows something was wrong with him. There is always this shadow thing, for the lack of better word, that hovers at the corner of his eyes, but always disappears into thin air when he turns to look.
- Sander seems to have a mild case of insomnia.
- He doesn’t like the dark, always makes sure to have at least one light on at all time.
- He is quite good with a hunting rifle, but has little real combat experiences, as the most aggressive thing he ever shot was a wild dog. Like many residents of Satan Somabra, he keeps guns inside his home: a hand gun that he usually takes with him and a hunting rifle taped under his paper desk at the office.