Spoopy Scary

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

So Many Dunmer

@Kassarock

gonna punch em

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Ye we were, was a fun exercise.

To Survive as Chattel

The diluted buzzing of bedlam reverberated through the air, as if its pulse traveled through an ocean between the sold stone walls which separated her from her freedom. A muffled and choked sound, of the scores of faceless people with indistinct voices, like mindless drones climbing over one another vying to be heard and noticed over the thousands of other souls. And they were bloodthirsty. They were hungry and ravenous things, always scrambling and demanding for more, as if the previous meal they had only reminded them of the empty pain that wreaked acidic havoc on their innards, and in resonance with their static tempo was a single dolorous beat. It was distinctly unlike the beating of a heart; it thundered only once, and it thundered slowly. Like a giant mammoth taking slow, carefully measured steps, or like a battering ram crashing down upon the gates of the very fortress that held her. It was undoubtedly the monster of the week, the next thing held in store for her, the next challenge, and the potential cause of her death. They’ve been trying to kill a little girl for years—for many, many, agonizingly long years. The rattling of chains from her comradery barely awakened her from her mortality. They could not distract her. The leagues of human chattel within the bloodworks were like flies on the wall to her, outside of her notice until it was time to eat.

The thundering had stopped.

Far gentler steps came down an echoey corridor from the stairs, though the girl knew that there was nothing gentle about them nor what they had in store for her. A beastly looking man of stony pigment entered the bloodworks, large and barrel-chested, and his deep, grating, and blasphemous voice reached the cell before he did, “it’s your turn, Little B,” and it made the hair on her body stand on end.

“Did you hear me, Little B?” He’d repeat as he turned the corner. “I said your turn is coming up.”

The stony beast-man stared down at the young woman, barely an adult, hugging her knees in the corner of her cell. Her newly gifted quilted clothes clinging to her body didn’t make her look any cleaner or scrub the dirt and calluses from her skin, and she silently stared down her keeper from beyond the bars.

“Little Bitch,” he snarled this time as unlocked the cell and entered. He was covered in leather armor and had blades and a whip at his side, attached to his person. Dirty blood and grime were caked underneath his fingernails. He said again, “Stand up. Get ready for your turn.”

Reyna said nothing—she did nothing, remaining silent and motionless in quiet rebellion. She refused. She waited. She watched. She was testing, her eyes carefully focused on her keeper, alert to a sudden change in movement. As the two glowered at each other, the orc reached his hand down to his whip, his nails digging into the leather, and that was Reyna’s cue to stand. She did so, and the orc took the hand off his whip. This song and dance was one that they were all too familiar with, and one that had physically scarred her too many times. Still, she exercised her will when she could.

The other chattel of the bloodworks would be the ones to touch her, to fasten the buckles of her breastplate armor and her gauntlet, to fit her sandals and shin guards, and adjusting the toga underneath. There was another orc, her other keeper, who would stand on the other side of the gates holding her sword and her shield. They treated her like a wild animal with fangs and claws, letting the expendable human livestock handle her when they could. Their fingertips were like hot irons against her skin, the way it made her want to spin around and scratch their throats out, but the armed guard near her was quick, keen, and all too happy to punish her. Her armor glittered in the torchlight, its fire dancing in the reflection of her brass coating. It was an ugly thing that resembled the pretentious aesthetic of the Imperial people, something pretty on the surface under the glow of the sun, but a faux gold in reality, hiding the blood-stained steel beneath.

“You’re fitted. Go.”

Reyna was escorted up the ramp. The Basin of Renewal she walked past. It was allegedly an important ritual in the past, but now profaned by a pool of blood and pile of limbs. She thought nothing of it as the faint flicker of light approached at the end of the tunnel. It was that, if nothing else, that she lived for these days: the light of day, and as she approached it, the silhouette of her other keeper made itself distinct against the bars of the gate. Her two keepers nodded to each other, as they began to raise the gates, cuing the indistinct buzz and uproar of the crowd. The first of her keepers pushed her onto the hot sand, and the other stared her down wordlessly, tossing her shield and her sword into the center of the arena for her to retrieve. Reyna slowly walked after them, feeling the stares and spittle of the crowd on her back.

“And so here we have it,” shouted one iron-lunged Imperial on a platform that jutted into the arena by a few feet, but even with the power of his voice, it barely whelmed the chorus of drunken cheers and boos filling the seats. “I am pleased to announce that this next match will be viewed by our very own and beloved Emperor Thules! It is my greatest honor that I introduce to him our next contender! Hailing far from here in the Wrothgarian mountains, the young Reyna has carved a scarred impression upon our beloved arena! A feral girl, a child of blood and battle, she’s become more orc than human! But can she survive the strongest and ugliest of Malacath’s children?”

Reyna picked up the sword and shield embedded in the sand, dusting them off. She closed her eyes for a moment and aimed her face toward the sky to relish its warmth upon her skin. The announcer’s voice began to cause the blood to pump through her veins, drumming against the inside of her ears, its speed and intensity increasing every second.

“Reyna—”

She gripped her gladius tight in her hand, and her shield was raised, her eyes lowering down to just above its rim. The blood was growing ever louder.

“—prepare yourself!”

He and the crowd had gone silent in her ears.

“Open the gates!

The gates from across the other side of the arena exploded open as an enraged ogre charged into the clearing with blood caking its body. It wasn’t even armed with a club or weapon of any sort, just using its massive, boulder-like hands to fight and kill, and even one strike from them was surely enough to end her life on the spot. For a few muted seconds, Reyna charged forward to meet it.

It was silence in her ears. Only her breathing and the blood pounding in her ears mattered to her, and as she sprinted forward with explosive speed, she trailed her sword behind her in the sand and left a scar in her wake until she suddenly turned its flat side down and, sliding beneath a swipe of the ogre's boulder-like hand, shoveled a spray of sand into the creature's face and rolled between its legs. Its roar was quiet in her ears as she shouted and cried her own screams and grunts, swiping at the tendons behind the ogre’s knees as she landed on the other side. With a plume of dusting erupting outward as the ogre fell to one knee, Reyna swiveled around and, in one fluid motion, cut through the tissue behind its other knee, and dust erupted outward once again.

The gladiator moved to cut under the arm of the same side, but she couldn’t hear the ogre’s roar that foretold its massive hand reaching around its side to grab her, in response to which she instinctually pulled her shield up. The ogre grabbed it, and long with it her as it raised her high into the air as she hung down from its grip. The guttural snarls and its breath like death from its maw foretold an unceremonious oblivion, to which Reyna swiped wildly at its face to discourage it from taking a bite out of her. It triggered enough hesitation that it reached for her instead with its other hand, and afraid of having her limbs pulled apart, she swiped ferociously at its other hand, nicking its fingertips, and causing the creature to second-guess that option as well. In response, it much more suddenly swung its hand at her, threatening to crush her between its palms like a common fly. Reyna was forced to let go of her shield and fell, a thunderous boom coming from the clap just above her head.

Reyna hit the ground and tumbled forward and not wanting to spend any given moment mired in inaction, swiped ahead of her as soon as he felt solid ground beneath the soles of her feet again—straight into lumbering giant’s blubbery belly. The nicks and rolled edges of her imperfect weapon caught on its flesh at first, but with a shrill and agonizing roar, Reyna poured every ounce of her strength into ripping and tearing the monster’s stomach open. Suddenly she felt the give of its flesh, finally cutting through that last sinewy layer and gutting the creature wide open as the blade of her sword snapped away from its handle, and immediately sprayed and poured a deluge of blood all over her like water from a crumbling dam as Reyna's face hit the sand. Spitting out a mouthful of its viscera and grit, she looked up to see if it was still alive—barely, and in its death throes and impressive endurance, seemed to want to take her down with it.

She threw aside the useless handle and grabbed an armful of the guts that piled itself at her feet before climbing up the creature’s body, and using the folds of fat as footholds or the space between its ribs where the skin sloughed off of them, she leaped up and wrapped the ogre’s own guts around its neck. She had overshot her jump and was dangling behind the creature’s back even as the ogre choke. She dug her nails and fingers into meat of its guts, feeling the fibers tear under her weight, as she pushed her feet against the ogre’s back to tighten her hold on its neck overhead. The arms of the creature had grown too weak to resist, and eventually with one last bloodcurdling scream from Reyna, the monster had toppled over. She had crashed to the ground beside it, her chest heaving for breath and choked out by the rich smell of blood and iron that coated her from head to toe.

She tried to open her eyes but was force to shut them again beneath the radiance of the sun. What was once a merciful warmth was now a punishing heat that was beating her down harder than stones. As her pumping blood slowed, her sense of hearing seemed to as well. She tuned back into the world outside her own to clamoring crowds throwing flowers into the arena, some throwing old food. The announcer man was going ballistic over what he called an unexpected victory. She spat in the sand again at the ugliness of its sound–of course she won. She didn’t have a choice.

Reyna weakly staggered over to where the ogre dropped her shield and picked up again before heading toward the gate where she came from. Her two orc handlers were awaiting her there, standing with their arms crossed, looking proud and smug. She didn’t even have the energy to feel angry or hateful at them for it. They took her shield away and sent her down to be doffed of her armor and washed of the blood. That ogre didn’t land a single scratch on her. If it had, it would’ve killed her immediately. But this? She felt like utter and absolute shit. This was all from demanding too much of her body in a moment, probably straining something in her legs or back, and the shoulder she used to power through its stomach was screaming at her.

As the breastplate fell to the floor around her, she felt like falling with it but her legs refused to budge. No falling. Not today, not ever.

These fights just kept getting harder. Why did they keep getting harder?

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Ain't no need for that, there are plenty of alchemists in the world and plenty of ways to differentiate them from each other.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

@Peik Maybe great minds just think alike? ;D

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Hmm... I'm a little reticent to apply since I don't know all that much about the lore of TES (only game being Skyrim). But I like the concept and I would love to get involved? Debating what sort of character I'd like to play... I notice a distinct lack of a focused 'rogue' type, but I've also been on a bit of a healer kick for a long while.

@CollectorOfMyst

Perhaps a combination of both might join what you like about both archetypes? An expert or adept in stealth and restoration perhaps? Earlier games had restoration spells that allowed you to drain and absorb health, stamina, magicka, and even attributes. If you wanted a rogue type character, I can see how restoration would be useful for silent, merciful takedowns by draining their stamina and endurance to make enemies fall unconscious. It'd be a pretty unique take on a Restorationist too!

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

“Dude, I’m an informant with no one to inform. Do you know that that’s like? Do you have any idea?! Gods, help me.”

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Good luck everybody! I'm looking forward to this!

Reyna Stromfleur

R E Y N A S T R O M F L E U R

---

_{"That one. Her. The short one with the red hair. Who is she?"
"She doesn't speak much, my liege, but the orcs call her Reyna."
"Good. Good. I like that one. Buy her from them and don't take no for an answer. Have them killed if you must. I want her sent to my chambers tomorrow."
-- conversation between Emperor Thules the Gibbering and Hierem, the day before the slave revolt.}

══════ C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T ══════ _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________ ═══════ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y ══════ Reyna Stromfleur _______________________________________________ 18 | She / Her | Nord / Breton _______________________________________________ Gladiator ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Short, stocky, and wiry. ► Skin Color - Fair, but sun-kissed. ► Hair Color - Reddish ginger. ► Eye Color - Amber. ► Other - Numerous small scars from cuts, scrapes, scratches, and bites. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Jehanna, High Rock. ► Birthsign - The Warrior. ► Biggest Regret - Could she have escaped sooner? Could she have avoided all of that hardship from the beginning? Or could she have ended it herself? There's otherwise little room for regret in her life when all she was trying to do is survive. ► Reyna's Goal - She feels indebted to Isobel Aurelia and wishes to help her further her goals, as well as seeking revenge against her orc slavers and those in charge of running the Imperial Arena. ▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Major Speed ► Minor Strength ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Athletics - Expert ► One-Handed - Adept ► Block - Adept ► Medium Armor - Adept ► Light Armor - Apprentice ► Spear - Apprentice ► Hand-to-hand - Apprentice ▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Spell? Spell what? You're making fun of me because I can't read, are you? ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - An Imperial gladius. She also looted an orichalum dagger from one of her orc masters during the jailbreak. ► Armor - Brass-coated steel breastplate with a left pauldron and other armor pieces on her left arm, shin guards, and a hardened round wood aspis with a metal sheet over the front. ► Containers - A 32 oz. waterskin and a small pouch on her right side. ► Food, Drink, Potions - Venison jerky, nuts, and roots. ► Miscellaneous Reyna is noticeably void of many possession aside from what she can carry on her immediate person.

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ She's like the lapping tongue of a kindled flame, a stray spark, or the moment when a lone and flittering petal like crimson saxifrage from a spattering plume of blood scatters across the sand. She's small, short, and has a wild mass of short and unevenly cut red hair, as if cut with a sword or dagger, and is full of boundless and anxious energy. In the arena in which she made her home, with her unassuming stature and blistering agility, it is easy to mistake the top of her head from the stands for one of the larger drops and petals of spraying gore in the light of the hot, orange summer sun. It is under this blazing sun where Reyna's dirtied skin has bronzed in defiance of her Nord heritage, taking on the hue of the parched sands that never seems to drink its fill of blood. There are many streaks of color on her skin from scarring; some scars have darkened while some seem to have lost their pigment. Her face is heart-shaped, but the sharpness and width of her jawline seem as though they're constantly clenched in nervous anticipation. The thousand yard stare in her amber eyes seem to have been stuck there for a thousand years, and the dilation of her pupils appear to be a fixed feature, as though always prepared for danger around the corner. Reyna's size is probably her most significant disadvantage as well as one of her greatest strengths. She's stands only at a meager 5'1" and weighs maybe 135 lbs. at most, which is rather impressive anyways because despite having a shorter stature, she's built like a wild animal with wiry muscle and, not exactly being fed the best diet in the world by her captors (usually claiming whatever scraps she could get with ravenous hunger), has very little body fat to pad her out and making her limbs feel rock solid. The way she moves is reminiscent of a cornered animal or, depending on the circumstance, like a predator on the hunt. Each step is usually measured and intentional, as if the floor could give out from under her at a moment's notice. So though the peak of her strength is limited by her size, it is her size and reactionary disposition that allows her to move swiftly and nimbly, get into places others couldn't, and leverage her lower center of gravity. Her voice too, like her steps, is carefully measured as if to avoid offense, but the scowl on her face betrays the more callous purpose of biding her time for an opening. There's a raspy hoarseness to her voice that is hard to tell if it comes from a lack of use or not, but it sounds vaguely familiar to orcish accents. A life such as hers does not lend itself to an extensive wardrobe beyond her arming garments. She's noticeably lacking in any kind of accessories, and back in the Wrothgarian mountains, her attire and armor was mostly leather and piece-meal, but as she was shown off in the Imperial City arena and became a favorite, they were more willing to splurge a bit to make her appeal more to the general aesthetic of Imperial life. Her primary garments are black quilted linen; shorts that only run about halfway down her thighs and are sleeveless, a small reprieve for the northern girl in the much warmer Cyrodiilic climate. She also has a bundle of red fabric that is meant to serve something akin to a toga, though it reaches the same approximate length of her shorts. The toga hangs off of one shoulder, and one side is slightly longer, which she uses to wrap around her left arm to serve as a cushion between her bare skin and the armor she wears for her sword hand while her unarmored arm holds her shield, keeping her reasonably protected and nimble even despite the arena masters' taste for fashion at the expense of practicality. She wears sandals on her feet that are strapped into plated shin guards. The armor running down her left arm to her gauntlet is the same as her breast plate: heat-treated steel but coated in a brass lacquer meant to appeal to Imperial tastes, because apparently it isn't enough to die and bleed for their entertainment if you don't look good doing it. The most of what she carries for utility is a leather belt frog that holds the wooden sheath for her sword and carries her pouches. There is a peculiar function on her gauntlet just below the center of her forearm where there's a short bladed hook jutting out, and in the concave groove of the hook, there's an embedded piece of flint that Reyna can drag her blade across and release a shower of sparks for a flashier display in the arena. As an inadvertent function of flint, Reyna can use it to also sharpen her blades, or use it to lock her blade if she has it to an opponent's neck. It's a bit impractical though considering it's on her sword arm. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ If there has been frequent mention of her likeness to wild or feral creatures, that is because it is not far from the truth. Wild animals are primed for survival; to hunt and forage and defend themselves, because otherwise, they will suffer or even die. When the body and mind are young and learning, and your experiences inform your psyche that the world is bad, frightening, terrible, and dangerous, it does what it can to prepare you for the dangers and trials ahead. So in lacking the healthy development of things such as trust, temper management, or the ability to focus for extended periods of time gives the appearance of a feral child, a creature always dividing its attention between different sources of stimuli and suspiciously trying to assess the threats around them. It also hints to others a predilection for violent and unpredictable behavior, a disposition which radiates from her if you're paying attention, but often conflicts with most people's presuppositions regarding Reyna given her status as a young woman who is barely even a child anymore, and it fabricates an unnerving dissonance in how one should consider approaching her. She rarely responds when spoken to, and most requests or demands are met with a scowling stare as she watches your hands and body to see if you respond poorly to not getting what you asked of her, who is wholly and stubbornly unwilling to perform for others if the other is not willing to take action themselves.

At her heart, her very core, she's a survivor. She's been a survivor since a very young age, and maybe she isn't a survivor in the sense that you could throw her out into the wilderness for a week and expect her to know how to forage for food, but in the sense that she'll make the effort to survive regardless of her knowledge base and in spite of the circumstances. It is as if she holds a deep seated resentment towards death that, despite of all the hardships in her life, there's something that keeps driving her to live, whether its simple instinct or something deeper and philosophical. It may be going too far to say that her survivorship is driven by confidence, because there are definitely some trauma and anxiety ingrained into her psyche, but she at least faces challenges and obstacles with certainty; an awareness that although this trial, whatever or whoever it may be, has stepped its way into her path and although today may finally be the day that kills her, she will at least fight it secure in the knowledge that she has survived more than two thousand days that tried to kill her too.

She is not totally devoid of development or completely ignorant of what it means to exist in civilization, though. There have been a little more than twelve entire years previous to her current life where she lived knowing little of hardship beyond the toil of working farmland and herding little goats and sheep. Of course, life as a farm child in the cold countryside does not make for an educated child, but it does mean she is aware of a life outside of conflict, of a loving family, and of civility--but it is because all of this ended at such a young age, she may not be entirely aware of how social dynamics change with her age, making her come across as younger than she is if she's expecting civil life to be the same as it was when she was twelve or thirteen. Complicate this dynamic further with the influence and conditioning of slave life in an independent orcish tribe's stronghold, and you begin to realize her ability to adjust to different cultures is hampered. Living so long in a place where strength and toughness reigned supreme, her bluntness, callousness, bravado, and cruelty relative to the culture of a cushy Nibenese or Wayrest native can be very jarring, especially when combined with a child's entitlement and expectation for praise or affection.

Treating her as just a child however can be fatal, despite the kind of treatment she seems to angle for. The way you'd typically treat a child are often times the same cues to her that indicate dangers and threats. Whether you're licking your thumb to clean the smudge of dirt off her cheek, ruffling her hair, bending over to talk to her, pitching your voice -- all these things and more, consider what it might mean to her. Your hand is reaching for her face, her head -- a threat. Crouching or bending over, like entering a readying position or like you're reaching for her. Pitching your voice, like a taunt inviting attack, as gladiators are prone to do in their arenas to get you to drop your guard or lose your patience. When for so many years a split second can mean the difference between getting injured or killed, her reaction time is like lightning, and she may not even know what's happening or what she's doing until after its done. Those who are simply sympathetic to children and might simply wish the best for her or look out for her best interests must still remember that she is a ferocious and brutal killer and that some animals, though cute, are still wild, run on instinct, and wield dangerous claws and teeth.

This is not all to say that she is without her qualities. If you respect strength, bravery, and heart, then you'll respect Reyna--she's unflinching in the face of danger. If you admire humility, devotion, and honesty, you'll admire her and how deeply she's committed herself to Isobel and how she's never once been seduced by the allure of glory in the arena. She's accidentally honest, not really knowing any better to lie to others about problems and issues she may not recognize as problems and issues, and the only kind of deception she thinks to use is on the battlefield. If you value freedom, you'll find in her a steadfast comrade-in-arms. Even some of the orcs' positive traits have rubbed off on her, having been raised in their culture for all of her adolescence and identity forming period. She seems to value honor and strength, talks quite a bit like an orc tribal, and uses their phrases and terminology quite a bit. However, unlike them, there is something of a sympathetic streak in her (although she has long suppressed it in the face of the grim "its me or them" conundrum she's always faced with).

Now that she's a fish in a much bigger pond with more room to grow and develop, with more resources around her than she's had for a long time, there's opportunity for an innate generosity to emerge. This may manifest in giving away food or money, firewood, and luxuries that she has already learned to live without, or fighting a battle that is not her own on behalf of someone else. There's a slight cognitive dissonance presence in her mind between her long-standing nature to seek survival and avoiding danger, but with danger present with her for so long, she paradoxically seems uncomfortable in its absence, either not trusting the silence or not knowing how to operate within it. Sometimes she still jumps awake suddenly at night in a panic simply because she's been asleep for too long and immediately expects danger to jump at her as soon as her eyes open.

So she continues to fight, and if doing what she's good at and sharing her strength with others spares them from the nightmares, night terrors, and cold sweats, then that has to be a good thing, right? She's a good person... right?

_{═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════}

Born in the northeastern-most region of High Rock, the kingdom of Jehanna was notable for its combined population of both nords and brains, which is where Reyna’s blood comes from. Her mother, a Nord, and her father, the Breton, found each other and planted their roots in a small settlement in the outskirts of the kingdom where they would eventually come to bear a child and with the land in view of the saxifrage fields at the base of the mountains. It was a beautiful home of course, and after a little more than a dozen years, they had an impressive farm and kept their flocks of sheep and goats during the winter months, and their little girl would help them tame the tough, wild land. Unfortunately, there are some challenges of selling so far east where your village is nestled between the Wrothgarian and Druadach mountains. Aside from supply lines being sparse and the animals wild, there is also the frequent problem of raids from the Reach and Orc tribes. Their settlement had a militia of course, and Reyna’s parents were no strangers to defending their land, but there is only so much one small village can do.

So, when an orcish raiding party showed up with a fully grown echatere, the village was stamped out in a night. Those who fought back were cut down and defeated, and those who didn’t it couldn’t were captured. Reyna, being as young as she was at thirteen years old, couldn’t fight back, and since she was captured, her family did—-well, that was the last she ever saw of them, heads rolling before she would be taken back to their stronghold. Her parents always tried to explain to her that just because there were Orc tribes who wanted to hurt people, that didn’t mean that so orcs were bad people, but those sweet sentiments couldn’t have possibly prepared her for this or what was to come. What silver lining in this horrific and bleak situation is that they didn’t violate her or anything. They had a code of honor, however foreign it was to Reyna, but that didn’t save them from her grudge or her hatred of them, and indeed, they didn’t deserve to be spared from it either, for even with their honor they still had nothing pleasant in store for the little girl. Being not an Orc as well, they likely didn’t even see her as a real person.

Eventually, when they got tired of having to feed their new pet or keeping space for her in one of their prisons, they’d escort her in chains to a makeshift arena, a fighting pit, throw in with her a sharpened stick, and released a half starved wolf into the pit with her to fight for their entertainment. They expected to see her get brutally ripped apart by a hungry wolf, an appetizer for the real fights ahead in the schedule, but Reyna was in survival mode ever since the raid began and wasn’t about to keep fear from keeping her from acting. As soon as the wolf lined at her, she held her makeshift spear up, and suddenly the wolf’s weight was on top of her, burger and heavier than she was, and she expected to feel it’s fangs tearing into her neck... but it was motionless and limp. A wet, sticky warmth spread across her abdomen. As she pushed rabid animal off of her, she found that it had unpacked itself on her weapon, halfway down its haft, and it was the blood of the wolf that had soaked her, rather than her own. Half of the spectators were silent, while a few were ranting and raving while others were whooping and cheering for the little girl who had overcome the odds. She was returned to her cell to fight another day.

The next day it was another wolf, maybe the first time was a fluke. Maybe they should have fed it first. Now blooded and determined to survive, Reyna would take that one down to. Next time it was a group of skeevers. Then it was a wild boar. Then it was two wolves. They'd throw all manner of beasts at her, each test preparing her for the next. Realizing that this child had potential to serve as real entertainment, they began to give her scraps of armor and a real weapon to fight with, as they came to respect her growing strength. She was even earning fans in the crowd, and as she got older, the challenges became more difficult. She would live this way for years, each day potentially her last, her only respite being suffering injury so that they'd allow her some time to rest and heal before fighting again at her full strength. There were times when, after slaying so many of the beasts and monsters they had captured and thrown her way, that Reyna had gotten too confident and tried to fight back against her orc captors whenever they would unlock her cell to send her out again, or go to disarm her after the fights, but she was always outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched in power and endurance. These orcs that were independent of Orsinium had the capacity to destroy her, but were simply keeping her around for sport, and it was from this she realized that the only way to survive here was to learn from them.

Four years into this hellish lifestyle, at age 17 in 4E14 -- not that she would remember her age anymore, or know what day or year it was -- she was considered a favorite. At this point, she was no longer the scrawny runt that they would try to kill with animals for their amusement, but an actual warrior, having earned the respect of the orcs as a warrior even if she was still enslaved by them and wasn't considered to be "one of them." As a warrior, they'd watch her fight for their entertainment of course, but they'd watch her to see how she'd move, how she struck, what clever tactics she might employ, and what she might take down her next challenger. The years were hard on her, forcing her to grow up and mature, her body hardened and solid and scarred, barely looking anything like the little girl who was taken from home years ago. They began outfitting her with better weapons and actual armor from the stronghold's forge. With them, she'd slain mountain lions, small bears, lesser trolls, ogres, and dreugh, and at her young age the orcs saw her as having been blessed by Malacath or something, especially since she wasn't even an orc. She was even made to fight other slaves, and after having been through this for so long, killing all manner of creatures, thinking nothing how to survive today ad how to survive tomorrow, she was able to cut them down as well with only a sliver of more remorse than she felt for the animals. Eventually, even orcish gladiators wanted to challenge her. She's still standing.

The style was uniquely hers; she could not possibly hope to overpower the hardened orcish warriors, against many of whom she only stood as tall as their shoulders or their chests, who wielded weapons as long if not longer than her own body, and were sometimes even plated in orichalum armor. While indeed her strength is nothing to scoff at, she depended more on her maneuverability, a trait that the orcs couldn't match. She was faster, wasn't weighed down with as much armor or cumbersome weapons, and her short height made her a smaller target--perhaps even smaller than what they were used to dealing with. When an orc's strength is already such they could likely kill you easily with a small, fast weapon, they were only doing her favors by weighing themselves down with the heavy material and long, heavy constructions. Dodging and weaving, sliding across the ground, moving between their legs, under their arms, in all the nooks and crannies they normally didn't account for, she could find the places where the armor was weakest, or at the very least jump onto their back and stab them in the neck or take their helmets to give herself more openings. When her life is on the line, she couldn't afford to be impatient but neither can she afford to be indecisive.

Orc culture and orc strength also meant that it usually didn't occur to them to fight dirty: throwing sand into their eyes, exploiting weak spots, aiming for joints, biting, and digging her thumbs into her enemy's eyes were all crucial tools in her arsenal. She had become more like the wild animals she had fought for so long. However, one of her weaknesses is one that is relatively common against all gladiator fighters and slave combatants: stamina. Her endurance insofar as taking a beating is impressive of course, but her exercise usually comes in the form of sudden bouts and fights, requiring explosive bursts of energy to end the fights quickly, mimicking the same kind of berserk that orcs could enter when threatened. Most fights and duels rarely last very long, as it usually takes only one shallow cut to weaken an enemy, or one well placed strike to end them, and Reyna never had the space or discipline to trek the same kind of distances and terrain as a regiment of soldiers.

The past five years as of 4E15 have also been a period of transnational turmoil with the Stormcrown Interregnum, an event to which Reyna was completely oblivious and insulated from with her capture and enslavement, in which the Imperial hold over the other provinces completely disintegrated and created instability within the Empire. With the rise of the current Emperor claiming the throne, Thules the Gibbering, the barest semblance of stability returned, but just enough that the orc tribe that held Reyna -- that which she has since learned to be called Clan Luccin, an old clan that had fallen from its former glory -- to take notice of new lands. They had a vested interest in their arena culture, to which Reyna contributed much, and it had come to their attention that there is a new leader to the south that also had a vested interest in what was possibly the greatest arena in the world near the center of the Imperial City. So, wanting more opportunities for glory, they took a caravan of slaves and beasts with them to sell and make to fight--except for Reyna, who they would keep so that she could fight on their behalf along with their own gladiators, representing Clan Luccin.

Not wanting to turn down new blood, the arena's battle master accepted the orc tribe's tributes. They initially laughed at them for wanting to submit a young girl into the arena, but after their side's silence and menacing stares, realized that the orc warriors were serious and allowed it. The match that followed was a four-person free-for-all, and naturally, all three of Reyna's opponents were men of different backgrounds who underestimated her and focused among themselves instead of paying attention to her. Once they were locked in their foray, Reyna took the opportunity to kick up a large plume of sand between them all, blinding all three of them, and cut each of them down one after the other in seconds. Barely a minute had passed and the child stood victorious as three men's blood soaked into the thirsty sand. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the people of the Imperial City had a new favorite to cheer for.

When the cells of the bloodworks became her new prison, the arena would fashion her in a custom-made raiment and armor to better appeal to Imperial tastes, especially to that of Emperor Thules. Heat-treated steel breastplate coated in brass, heavily stylized with one arm armored and the other bare, Imperial-style dress to wear beneath, and an aspis-styled shield to wield alongside a gladius. Sporting the look of a quintessential Imperial gladiator, she would fight in the Imperial City arena for another six months (with two of her orc handlers remaining with her while the rest of the caravan returned home), lasting longer than most given her prior experience over the many slaves and beasts being forced to fight, until one fated day finally arrived. There has always been one woman in the bloodworks, who was probably old enough to be her mother, who has been around probably as long as she has--Isobel. It was through her inspiration and leadership that the gladiator-slaves of the bloodworks, including the grand champion and lord of the arena, the minotaur Beordan, could be rallied and overwhelm the guards securing the dungeon. Reyna slew her two orcish handlers on her way out and followed Isobel's lead, not knowing where else she could possibly go in this strange new land, and where else would she even want to go other than with the only ally she has ever known in a world where has no home?

Reyna Stromfleur is indebted to Isobel Aurelia for the rest of her life as far as she is concerned, since before then she believed that one of these days she was going to die a slave for someone else's entertainment. Up until this moment, she fought and killed for nothing but survival and to fight another day -- it's the only thing she knows -- but thanks to Isobel, she thinks she's beginning to understand what it means to fight for something larger. Though she's still a feral young woman of erratic temperament, she feels the need to pay Isobel back in the only way she knows how, and if that means fighting for her cause and cutting down every person between her and Count Hruldan of Skingrad, then she's willing to do exactly that. Being freed from a life of violent servitude is a massive gesture and has awoken a type of unshakeable zealotry in Reyna that can't be contended with by neither word nor gesture, and it may have very well made her one of Isobel's most stalwart and fervent allies. It has perhaps also awakened an unshakeable irony in that she has traded one form of violent servitude for another, but at least this is one that she gets to choose.

---

_{"Crunzarga -- there's still a blood price to be paid. Ne gesh eb norgimin jur ubatarask!"}

---

Sample

The diluted buzzing of bedlam reverberated through the air, as if its pulse traveled through an ocean between the sold stone walls which separated her from her freedom. A muffled and choked sound, of the scores of faceless people with indistinct voices, like mindless drones climbing over one another vying to be heard and noticed over the thousands of other souls. And they were bloodthirsty. They were hungry and ravenous things, always scrambling and demanding for more, as if the previous meal they had only reminded them of the empty pain that wreaked acidic havoc on their innards, and in resonance with their static tempo was a single dolorous beat. It was distinctly unlike the beating of a heart; it thundered only once, and it thundered slowly. Like a giant mammoth taking slow, carefully measured steps, or like a battering ram crashing down upon the gates of the very fortress that held her. It was undoubtedly the monster of the week, the next thing held in store for her, the next challenge, and the potential cause of her death. They’ve been trying to kill a little girl for years—for many, many, agonizingly long years. The rattling of chains from her comradery barely awakened her from her mortality. They could not distract her. The leagues of human chattel within the bloodworks were like flies on the wall to her, outside of her notice until it was time to eat.

The thundering had stopped.

Far gentler steps came down an echoey corridor from the stairs, though the girl knew that there was nothing gentle about them nor what they had in store for her. A beastly looking man of stony pigment entered the bloodworks, large and barrel-chested, and his deep, grating, and blasphemous voice reached the cell before he did, “it’s your turn, Little B,” and it made the hair on her body stand on end.

“Did you hear me, Little B?” He’d repeat as he turned the corner. “I said your turn is coming up.”

The stony beast-man stared down at the young woman, barely an adult, hugging her knees in the corner of her cell. Her newly gifted quilted clothes clinging to her body didn’t make her look any cleaner or scrub the dirt and calluses from her skin, and she silently stared down her keeper from beyond the bars.

“Little Bitch,” he snarled this time as unlocked the cell and entered. He was covered in leather armor and had blades and a whip at his side, attached to his person. Dirty blood and grime were caked underneath his fingernails. He said again, “Stand up. Get ready for your turn.”

Reyna said nothing—she did nothing, remaining silent and motionless in quiet rebellion. She refused. She waited. She watched. She was testing, her eyes carefully focused on her keeper, alert to a sudden change in movement. As the two glowered at each other, the orc reached his hand down to his whip, his nails digging into the leather, and that was Reyna’s cue to stand. She did so, and the orc took the hand off his whip. This song and dance was one that they were all too familiar with, and one that had physically scarred her too many times. Still, she exercised her will when she could.

The other chattel of the bloodworks would be the ones to touch her, to fasten the buckles of her breastplate armor and her gauntlet, to fit her sandals and shin guards, and adjusting the toga underneath. There was another orc, her other keeper, who would stand on the other side of the gates holding her sword and her shield. They treated her like a wild animal with fangs and claws, letting the expendable human livestock handle her when they could. Their fingertips were like hot irons against her skin, the way it made her want to spin around and scratch their throats out, but the armed guard near her was quick, keen, and all too happy to punish her. Her armor glittered in the torchlight, its fire dancing in the reflection of her brass coating. It was an ugly thing that resembled the pretentious aesthetic of the Imperial people, something pretty on the surface under the glow of the sun, but a faux gold in reality, hiding the blood-stained steel beneath.

“You’re fitted. Go.”

Reyna was escorted up the ramp. The Basin of Renewal she walked past. It was allegedly an important ritual in the past, but now profaned by a pool of blood and pile of limbs. She thought nothing of it as the faint flicker of light approached at the end of the tunnel. It was that, if nothing else, that she lived for these days: the light of day, and as she approached it, the silhouette of her other keeper made itself distinct against the bars of the gate. Her two keepers nodded to each other, as they began to raise the gates, cuing the indistinct buzz and uproar of the crowd. The first of her keepers pushed her onto the hot sand, and the other stared her down wordlessly, tossing her shield and her sword into the center of the arena for her to retrieve. Reyna slowly walked after them, feeling the stares and spittle of the crowd on her back.

“And so here we have it,” shouted one iron-lunged Imperial on a platform that jutted into the arena by a few feet, but even with the power of his voice, it barely whelmed the chorus of drunken cheers and boos filling the seats. “I am pleased to announce that this next match will be viewed by our very own and beloved Emperor Thules! It is my greatest honor that I introduce to him our next contender! Hailing far from here in the Wrothgarian mountains, the young Reyna has carved a scarred impression upon our beloved arena! A feral girl, a child of blood and battle, she’s become more orc than human! But can she survive the strongest and ugliest of Malacath’s children?”

Reyna picked up the sword and shield embedded in the sand, dusting them off. She closed her eyes for a moment and aimed her face toward the sky to relish its warmth upon her skin. The announcer’s voice began to cause the blood to pump through her veins, drumming against the inside of her ears, its speed and intensity increasing every second.

“Reyna—”

She gripped her gladius tight in her hand, and her shield was raised, her eyes lowering down to just above its rim. The blood was growing ever louder.

“—prepare yourself!”

He and the crowd had gone silent in her ears.

“Open the gates!

The gates from across the other side of the arena exploded open as an enraged ogre charged into the clearing with blood caking its body. It wasn’t even armed with a club or weapon of any sort, just using its massive, boulder-like hands to fight and kill, and even one strike from them was surely enough to end her life on the spot. For a few muted seconds, Reyna charged forward to meet it.

It was silence in her ears. Only her breathing and the blood pounding in her ears mattered to her, and as she sprinted forward with explosive speed, she trailed her sword behind her in the sand and left a scar in her wake until she suddenly turned its flat side down and, sliding beneath a swipe of the ogre's boulder-like hand, shoveled a spray of sand into the creature's face and rolled between its legs. Its roar was quiet in her ears as she shouted and cried her own screams and grunts, swiping at the tendons behind the ogre’s knees as she landed on the other side. With a plume of dusting erupting outward as the ogre fell to one knee, Reyna swiveled around and, in one fluid motion, cut through the tissue behind its other knee, and dust erupted outward once again.

The gladiator moved to cut under the arm of the same side, but she couldn’t hear the ogre’s roar that foretold its massive hand reaching around its side to grab her, in response to which she instinctually pulled her shield up. The ogre grabbed it, and long with it her as it raised her high into the air as she hung down from its grip. The guttural snarls and its breath like death from its maw foretold an unceremonious oblivion, to which Reyna swiped wildly at its face to discourage it from taking a bite out of her. It triggered enough hesitation that it reached for her instead with its other hand, and afraid of having her limbs pulled apart, she swiped ferociously at its other hand, nicking its fingertips, and causing the creature to second-guess that option as well. In response, it much more suddenly swung its hand at her, threatening to crush her between its palms like a common fly. Reyna was forced to let go of her shield and fell, a thunderous boom coming from the clap just above her head.

Reyna hit the ground and tumbled forward and not wanting to spend any given moment mired in inaction, swiped ahead of her as soon as he felt solid ground beneath the soles of her feet again—straight into lumbering giant’s blubbery belly. The nicks and rolled edges of her imperfect weapon caught on its flesh at first, but with a shrill and agonizing roar, Reyna poured every ounce of her strength into ripping and tearing the monster’s stomach open. Suddenly she felt the give of its flesh, finally cutting through that last sinewy layer and gutting the creature wide open as the blade of her sword snapped away from its handle, and immediately sprayed and poured a deluge of blood all over her like water from a crumbling dam as Reyna's face hit the sand. Spitting out a mouthful of its viscera and grit, she looked up to see if it was still alive—barely, and in its death throes and impressive endurance, seemed to want to take her down with it.

She threw aside the useless handle and grabbed an armful of the guts that piled itself at her feet before climbing up the creature’s body, and using the folds of fat as footholds or the space between its ribs where the skin sloughed off of them, she leaped up and wrapped the ogre’s own guts around its neck. She had overshot her jump and was dangling behind the creature’s back even as the ogre choke. She dug her nails and fingers into meat of its guts, feeling the fibers tear under her weight, as she pushed her feet against the ogre’s back to tighten her hold on its neck overhead. The arms of the creature had grown too weak to resist, and eventually with one last bloodcurdling scream from Reyna, the monster had toppled over. She had crashed to the ground beside it, her chest heaving for breath and choked out by the rich smell of blood and iron that coated her from head to toe.

She tried to open her eyes but was force to shut them again beneath the radiance of the sun. What was once a merciful warmth was now a punishing heat that was beating her down harder than stones. As her pumping blood slowed, her sense of hearing seemed to as well. She tuned back into the world outside her own to clamoring crowds throwing flowers into the arena, some throwing old food. The announcer man was going ballistic over what he called an unexpected victory. She spat in the sand again at the ugliness of its sound–of course she won. She didn’t have a choice.

Reyna weakly staggered over to where the ogre dropped her shield and picked up again before heading toward the gate where she came from. Her two orc handlers were awaiting her there, standing with their arms crossed, looking proud and smug. She didn’t even have the energy to feel angry or hateful at them for it. They took her shield away and sent her down to be doffed of her armor and washed of the blood. That ogre didn’t land a single scratch on her. If it had, it would’ve killed her immediately. But this? She felt like utter and absolute shit. This was all from demanding too much of her body in a moment, probably straining something in her legs or back, and the shoulder she used to power through its stomach was screaming at her.

As the breastplate fell to the floor around her, she felt like falling with it but her legs refused to budge. No falling. Not today, not ever.

These fights just kept getting harder. Why did they keep getting harder?

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Ay buddy! As we’ve discussed, I’ll be coming out of retirement for one last rodeo now that the spring semester has just about ended. Looking forward to writing with some old buddies again and maybe making new ones!

Recollections: Magnanimous (Cancelled)

Basil Baker

"10-23 on the 10-5 at 16th and Shipper. I'll make this quick."

_______________________________________________ Basil A. Baker Male | 28 | Caucasian | 5’11” | 173 _______________________________________________ Dissonance _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Touch my kid and I will Liam Neeson your ass." ___________________________________ Skills and Talents Firearms and ACT Training ⫻ As expected of any person who graduates a police academy, he spent a minimum of 110 hours at the firing range and sparring floor, after a good 4-5 years on the force as a trooper and beat cop, Basil has spent countless more in maintaining those skills. Nowadays he’s a bit more idle so he may not be as sharp as he once was but remains very practiced compared to the citizenry. Other police training also includes perceptive investigation and driving ability. Street-Smarts ⫻ Okay, so Basil may not be an incredibly clever or well-read guy, but he’s got street cred, a sort of urban savoir-faire that lets him walk around the city with a sort of swagger and confidence that other officers wouldn’t have. What’s more, he knows the people on the streets. People who owe him favors, people he owes favors to, and people who both respect and are afraid of him. His under-the-table connections and contacts let him in on the know of things that his colleagues aren’t privy to. It’s not kosher or scrupulous, but it works. He has a mind for crime because he's been on the other side before. Fatherhood ⫻ Fuck the haters, ain’t no one in the world who can convince him that it takes chops to raise a kid. Chops he isn’t sure he has, but he’s trying his damnedest and he’s convinced it’s made him a better person too. He’s actually a good and nurturing father to his daughter, a testament to his commitment to being better than he was yesterday, to atoning for his past failures, and to raising her into becoming a good person. He's also gotten pretty good at braiding hair, making ponytails, and dressing Abby up in cute, clean clothes.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Yeah, I get it. I look like shit. Fuck off." He’s a pretty person to read insofar to his outward disposition; he’s kind of a scowling bastard with resting bitch face, an unshaven five o’ clock shadow on his usual day, clean shaving probably once a week. His brown hair and sideburns look similar unkempt and cut short for minimal maintenance. There are probably bags under his green eyes, and he probably smells like a mix of old ashtrays, alcohol, and coffee. Hell, by the pallor of his skin, it is probably safe to assume that it requires all three to keep him going. His ears have the tell-tale scars of having once been pierced and stretched, and he has plenty of scars from nicks on his lips and eyebrows to a shallow cut on his narrowed chin, and the multitudes of indistinguishable scars on his knuckles. It’s safe to gauge from these that he has seen plenty of scrapes. He’s not a giant, seemingly built more for dexterity than he is for powerlifting, but his height is nothing to scoff at. He might be an inch shy of six feet, a fact which he resents, but still puts him above average, and he’s solidly built after years of duty and physical conditioning from obstacle courses, drills, foot pursuit, and wearing twenty extra pounds of gear all throughout. His build can be inferred from this as physically fit and capable, perhaps even imposing if you’re someone who doesn’t work out regularly. If you’re looking at his arms though, it wouldn’t be his muscles that grabs your attention, but the intricate artistry of tattoo sleeves stretching from his collarbones to his wrists. They’re vividly colored, ebony branches dressed with green foliage and red pomegranates, some split open with their crimson seeds scattering across his arms almost like a splatter of blood. On each arm, a bronze colored snake coils itself around the branches, fangs hidden behind pursed lips. There's a scar on his left forearm from a dog bite that's hard to notice in the sea of ink. His choice of clothing is typically rather plain. Given that he has a career to think about, and doesn’t have that much money, he can’t exact go out with the apparel that’s a bit more his style like band shirts and leather jackets. Unimpressive t-shirts, tank tops and wife-beaters make up most of his wardrobe, shirts he got through working at his precinct, and some clothes he got from thrift stores like old, worn-out flannels. Jeans and work pants, and wears old black boots he got from old warehousing jobs or old boots that were worn out that were given to him by the precinct are worn as his off-duty clothes whenever the budget is renewed and he’s issued a new pair of boots. He’s generally always seen with a brown, weathered, woolen cadet cap that keeps his head warm. Matching it is a brown denim jacket that he’s always seen with, as if it’s the only one he owns. Naturally, he also has his black on-duty uniform and the windbreaker, but he tries not to brand himself if he can help avoiding it while he’s off-duty. He is markedly untouched by jewelry and most accessories, except for a digital watch he wears on his left wrist.

_{Psychology
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"If you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Basil wants to turn his life around. He knows he’s been a piece of shit in the past, a mightily terrible person who doesn’t deserve forgiveness and he doesn’t ask for it, and there are problems with him he’s still trying to work out. But if for no one else, he wants to be better for his daughter and to keep her safe from it all so that she can grow into a genuinely good person. If that means finding a way to get her out of this town, then so be it.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Two things are simultaneously true: bad people can and do improve themselves and deserve the ability to do so, but even if they improve themselves, they are not entitled to the forgiveness or second chances of those they’ve hurt.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Heterosexual

FEARS ⫻ He's really just afraid for the safety of his daughter and the possibility that she might inherit the mistakes of her parents. This extends to him being afraid for his own life, because if he dies, then what does that leave for Abby? Also cockroaches. He fucking hates cockroaches.

REPUTATION ⫻ Among Araminta? Mixed, probably. He's on the good side of some people, on the bad side of quite a few. However, that's just on the east and west ends of town who know him as kind of a bastard, but also as a bastard you can bargain with. The folks on the North and South sides don't need as much policing and haven't seen him nearly as often and don't know much about them; and there's something to be said about the privilege of not having to interact with the police very often and the luxury of being able to greet them with a wide, happy smile. As far as the Vanburens? No personal connections with any of them except for Eve, who was estranged from the family. He doubts they have much of an opinion of him. It might be a sore awakening for them to find out he doesn't bend the knee to the family name.

THOUGHTS ABOUT FATHER ⫻ Well James ain’t his dad, so he ain’t got much reason to care for him aside from the man being Abby’s grandfather. The street says he’s good, Eve says he ain’t shit; neither one is necessarily a reliable source of information.

FLAWS ⫻ Basil’s just a piece of shit. Granted, he’s getting better. He’s a far cry different from the abusive drunk he was back in the day, but he still has issues with his temper, and he finds himself bending the rules and being far more morally flexible than he ought to be. He makes snap judgements about people, he’s difficult to befriend, has trust issues, and he relies on alcohol, caffeine, and cigarettes to get through the day. Just because he found his nurturing, softer side for his daughter doesn’t mean he wouldn’t put the fear of pain into someone if it meant getting what he wanted.

_{Backstory
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"Eve always did call me a real charmer..."

Basil was a runaway kid. A violently abusive and later absent dad and drug-abusing mother does not lend itself to a happy childhood. Apparently pops left a trail of kids in his wake, including a pair of half-sisters he didn’t know very well. Having to take care of himself while mom was high didn’t leave much energy for caring about his school grades, and he fled Maine, and ended up being picked up by officers in Massachusetts to be put into a foster care program when he was around 15 years old. He was a difficult kid to wrangle and get to behave, he had an attitude even when he was this young and he made it deliberately difficult for foster parents to take care of him because, in his experience, he couldn’t rely on authority figures and caretakers. The kids he associated with weren’t that different from him either; they all had troubles at home and hated being told what to do by adults who were ruining their own lives—what could they possibly know? So, when you’re told not to smoke when you’re 16 years old, you take that as a challenge and as an order to blatantly refuse.

Having teenage gangs skating downtown on skateboards who break into cars to steal shit they can pawn off isn’t a rare occurrence. Running interference for actual crooks was part of the gig. Basil wasn’t much of a brain for these types of ops, and he wasn’t much of a muscle; he was just one of the goons who was willing to do the stupid shit, like being a distraction or taking the fall for others. The very least he managed to do was study enough to get his GED, because as he started getting older, he had to have an actual job because foster agencies let you out on the street when you’re 18, and as reality began to sink in and hit him, it took at least a GED to get any decent-paying, braindead job. So, for a few years he managed to land a dockworker job driving forktrucks out in the cold and moving shipments back and forth. This was supplemented by his more illicit activities on the side, such as playing enforcer or thug for some slighted crook and collecting debts via intimidation, vandalism, or roughing someone up. Basil’s street smarts helped him here though, always being able to play the card of plausible deniability. The local cops knew of course he was no good, but without catching him in the act of having evidence of wrongdoing, they couldn’t arrest him for anything.

He never worked the same job for very long. Coming into work either intoxicated, shitty behavior, or simply not doing his work would find him fired after a few months, and he’d find someplace else that would take him. A warehouse or a dock of some kind since they pay better than most beater jobs with low requirements. He’d eventually find his way into the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania looking for work, eventually finding it in West Araminta when he was just a little older than 22 years old. The problem though with living the kind of life Basil has in a smaller town like Araminta is that people notice when you’re an outsider, and they notice quickly. One of the first of these people was one beautiful mistake by the name of Eve Vanburen. Apparently, she was one of the many kids of some big shot Basil didn’t know or care about, a man not so different from his own father, and she was estranged from the family for a very long time. She was a mixed woman about as inked up as he was, and at first it was simply a physical relationship. Then it went on to be his first long-term relationship. Then it became his worst relationship.

It turns out that putting two people together who’ve never had long-term relationships, both had family traumas, and unhealthy coping mechanisms, poor communications, and a reliance on soft drugs, it doesn’t lend itself to a healthy relationship. Full of yelling, manipulation, hurtful words and tears, stealing from each other, breaking up and hooking back up again—but it wasn’t physical then. Not that it made the relationship any healthier of course, they were both awful and spiteful people and perhaps they deserved each other in that regard. Besides that, the makeup sex was always pretty amazing. To think that they lasted year without throwing hands was a miracle.

The second time someone noticed him, after a life of being a professional piece of shit, he and a friend got caught stealing a package from someone’s porch. The po-pos start blaring their whoop-whoop horns. He takes the package to let his buddy get away, he gets tackled, and put in handcuffs. He’s been in them before, but he was a kid all those other times and they returned him home, to foster care, or let him off with a warning or something. The adult world was different—had consequences, and he spent the night in the city jail.

The third time someone noticed him was when he was approached by Lieutenant Kreese while sitting behind those bars. He kept asking Basil for the name of his buddy in exchange for going easy on him, but Basil didn’t budge. When asked why he wouldn’t turn in a good-for-nothing like the guy who left him behind, and why Basil would take the fall for someone who didn’t think twice about him, he answered it was because you don’t turn on a brother. This prompted a sympathetic nod of respect from the lieutenant, and it was then he learned that they ran his name through the system and found the trail of misdemeanors he left as a kid, but more importantly, Kreese was interested in the backgrounds of people like him. Found everything he could ever want on his parents—his father the abuser, his mother the vegetable stoner—and suddenly Basil found Kreese’s sympathy that he didn’t really deserve. Sacrifice was an admirable trait, he said, but only if it’s in service to something greater, and the past doesn’t have to define your future.

“I think you’re here because no one’s ever given you a chance,” he said, “and I want to be the one to give you that chance.”

It was probably the most memorable thing anyone’s ever said to him, and since the package as returned and no harm was done, he was offered to let this whole ordeal pass by without going on his record and personally appeal to waive his past misdemeanors as a kid if he made an attempt at attending the police academy. He didn’t even have to pass—just make an honest effort, and if he failed, he would at least walk away with a tempered discipline and self-respect, and if he failed, he’d have a promising career ahead of him. Either way, it was an opportunity to live honestly.

So, he took Kreese up on the offer. The report was basically thrown out, and Kreese would send a trooper out to make sure Basil attended the academy. Which he did as he worked his dockworker job. His relationship with Eve was as tumultuous as ever, the stress of what was basically two jobs weighing on, but before the year ended, he graduated the academy as a cadet. By no means was he the top of the class, and it was incredibly grueling, but he was already physically active and that gave him a slight edge relative to some other cadets. He finished out that year with additional training as an officer under sergeant Kreese. He stopped hanging around the bad influences of his life which helped his mental state and the camaraderie of the police force was a refreshing feeling for him—it was like having a family. There were some negatives of course; suddenly he wasn’t welcome at his regular haunts since he was the new bad guy.

Training drilled into his head a “me-versus-them” mentality against the citizenry, and he started off with a chip on his shoulder already, and here he was with a gun. Having been on the opposite side of the police, it was a moment of cognitive dissonance for him. He knew what it was like on being the other end of pepper spray and the like. His career began as a beat cop, where he’d walk around the poorer parts of town and getting to know the community, stationed at a different location from Kreese. He had a regular set of rounds, and here Basil’s street-smarts payed off, because he had an empathy for people on the west and east ends that other officers on the force didn’t have. The ability to make friends with even the slimiest meant he had his back covered, and if he needed something, he knew who to talk to. It wasn’t even a year into new career though did things begin to go south for him.

He was dispatched at night to answer an emergency call. Someone brandishing a knife broke into a woman’s house. Basil and his partner, Officer Dennings, were the first ones at the scene with sirens in the distance. The front door was broken down and there was a commotion inside, which meant that there might’ve still been someone inside. Hands on their guns, they approached, and Basil announced their presence, trying to coax everyone out. Only one man answered, and it was by sprinting around the corner, covered in blood, and lunging straight toward him. Hundreds of hours of muscle memory spurred Basil to drawing his gun and firing half of his magazine into the man’s body in a second before they were on top of each other, the former apparently unable to feel the pain. Basil barely managed to disarm him and throw him off with the help of his partner, and, driven by fear, adrenaline, anger, and a desire to survive the night, beat the man to death with his baton. Then came an inexplicable guilt. Even with all the adrenaline pumping through his body and emotions swirling onto him, he could feel as if something latched onto him. They later found out that night that the woman who called the emergency line was dead.

So that is when his life and relationship went from shit to worse. He was increasingly irritable and short fused, and the stress of policing was slowly taking its toll on him. He’d find ways to blow off the steam whether it was at the gym, tracking down suspects, or an increased use of force. At first it was on drunkards and thieves and the like—people he could get away with it on, with practiced plausible deniability and a culture of brotherhood on his side of the force to help him get away with it. “Those bastards had it coming,” they’d say. He had dozens of people behind his back, even if they understood him as the precinct’s resident “bad boy.” He was offered to be put on light duty, but Basil insisted he’d be too restless.

Worse yet, he’d come home and release his stress on Eve. As if following in the footsteps of his father, the fights intensified as he became physically abusive. It was a trend that became more frequent, and occasionally fueled by alcohol. She’d fight back too, sometimes even starting the fights, but never able to fend off Basil who was much larger than she was. Stealing and cheating became more frequent as well, which in turn fed itself into more fights. With either one too afraid to leave, this cycle of abuse would continue for two years. The number of times he’d walk into work with bruises on his face and been asked if he was alright and needed to be checked on, he lost track, but he always declined their offers and said everything was fine. Occasionally, he’d tell them it was a sex thing and that’d be enough to get those squares to shut up for a week or so. Mostly he just didn’t want them to see the sort of shape he left Eve in.

Then, of course, Eve got pregnant. It was enough to spook him, and he suggested to Eve that she should get an abortion, but she felt too afraid and too guilty to follow through with it. So, halfway through the pregnancy, Basil chickened out and bailed, leaving Eve to deal with the coming child on her own—just like his own father did with his own mother. To distract himself from that reality, he drowned himself in his work. He isolated himself from others to try to get a hold of his emotions now that it was clear that leaving Eve didn’t help him at all, and he was finding other people’s voices to be an irritating itch he wanted to scratch out. Being alone was the safest option, but in drowning himself in work, he managed to bring in a record number of criminals, getting him a reputation for being a VPD hound dog.

His previously built rapport with the community, including its rotten parts, meant people owed him favors for looking the other way over petty drug use, spray-painting a building. He was in business with some crooks who’d pay him to stay off their backs and occasionally thin out the competition with anonymous tips—his corruption ran deep. He had a nose for trouble, having been on the other side of the chase before, too. Also helping him was a liberal use of force, having brought in more than just a few guys with black eyes. He was as guilty of profiling as any other cop, and one of his chief strategies was making one of his suspects a living hell by writing citations, tickets, or even slashing tires (and when confronted about it, he simply told them to come down to the station and write a police report) until they finally gave him a confession or the information he wanted. Any one of the multitudes of Vanburen kids running around, still embittered by his relationship with Eve, Basil had a tendency for treating them worse than the usual citizenry.

A turning point in his life was when he received a call about a little over a year later. Eve Vanburen was in the hospital for drug-overdose, then currently comatose. Assuming she wakes up, she was to be forcibly admitted to a strict rehab facility. Leaving behind her a baby, barely a year old: Abby Baker. Apparently even after everything Basil’s done to her, she’d still rather the child have his name before her father’s, but more glaring to him was the chain of events that ran parallel to his own life: absent, abusive dad and a drugged-out mom. The guilt was… overwhelming, and now that life had finally caught up with him, it was time he faced some consequences and accepted responsibility. The child was to be under his custody, and he submitted himself to becoming a father at 25—not that the courts would’ve given him an option anyways.

The next three years had its ups and downs. Basil had no idea how to be a father while starting out, and he spent his only two paid vacations weeks that year trying to learn how to be one. He spent quite a few sleepless nights trying to do his research while Abby ate baby food from a little jar on top of his lap, carrying her everywhere he went before he learned to buy a stroller—but it was a long three years, and he had a lot of time to think about himself and his life up to this point. Becoming a father? It changed him. At least that’s what he wants to think. That guilt he remembers feeling when that child was left alone reminded him of himself, and if he didn’t do something about it, Abby could one day end up just like him.

So, even if fatherhood didn’t change him, he forced himself to change. Just because he was a piece of shit didn’t mean he had to pass that on to an innocent little girl. He grew to love her. That much was clear when he nearly had his head cleaned off his shoulders when he was dispatched to remove a fired worker refusing to leave company property while he was taking a joyride in a forktruck. Suddenly, he finally felt the fear of mortality since it would have meant leaving the kid behind. He was put on light duty ever since then and worked primarily as a dispatcher for the last two and a half years. He relies quite a bit on babysitters to take care of Abby while he’s at work, and he makes sure to let Abby visit Eve every week or two in the rehab facility, and although he still hated the woman and she rightfully hated him back, they were at least civil while in front of the child. He just couldn’t bring himself to forgive her, as hypocritical as it was, for leaving the child the way she did. He might’ve failed Abby, but he thought that didn’t give Eve the right to neglect her too in the way she did.

Some weird things happened a year ago though. It started with some strange reports—crime scenes that didn’t make sense. Stolen goods with no signs of forced entry and the store workers themselves having alibis. Crime scenes that left no clues. Arson without evidence of accelerants or electrical malfunction. People appearing in places they shouldn’t be in. The force was stretched thin and it was one of those rare occasions that Basil had to be put to work in the field again. All evidence pointed to an animal mauling, but there were no animals around here who could do that much damage. The only thing that came close was a black bear, but they typically came nowhere within city limits. Stomping through the forest to the east, it seemed he came across the suspect: there was a rabid dog covered with blood from its face to its shoulders. It lunged, and Basil discharged his firearm as it bit into his arm. From that moment, he felt something latch onto him. That was his first experience with an apparition.

He could see it whenever he gazed into a mirror. It looked like a dog… sort of. It was at least dog shaped. Whatever he was seeing, it didn’t go around hurting people around him, but he did feel something in himself change. Not bad or evil necessarily, just different. He was a bit hungrier, ran a little hotter, but he hadn’t felt so physically strong in a long while, if ever. He could eat just about anything, but vegetables never did sit quite right with him again. He has no idea what the hell happened to him since then, but it’s been nearly a year ago from today and things are just getting weirder in Araminta, and he’ll be damned if he lets anything happen to Abby. With this weird shit happening to the Vanburens suddenly turning to stone around the city limits, he’ll have to sit tight in town until he figures out a way to get Abby out of here. That is one risk he is not willing to take.

_{Abstraction
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"Listen, I don't know anything about this dumb 'magic' nonsense. All I know is that I could go for a big rare steak right about now."

TYPE ⫻ Affixed Aberrant

ABSTRACTION ⫻ Predation

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ Predation is a type of Abstraction where the apparition affixes itself to the aberrant and usually imbues them with rabid aggression and ravenous hunger; where seemingly anything can provoke and light the aberrant’s shortened fuse and cause them to violently lash out at others. This was seen when the apparition affixed itself to an animal, being attracted to adrenaline, hunger, and survival. It affixed itself to Basil the moment the dog was killed as it bit him, drawn to his own survival impulse. Being a human with greater control over his base instincts and impulses, Basil doesn't suffer the same consequences as an animal would, and he has learned how to managed his own aggression even before becoming affixed.

The Abstraction comes with a set of benefits too: The apparition imbues the aberrant with a highly corrosive digestive acid that can enable them to digest nearly anything, a stronger, break-resistant skeleton including his teeth to endure greater bite forces that can shatter bone, and a denser muscular system which grants greater power and speed. He also has a sharp sense of smell that is sensitive enough to detect and differentiate the differences in sweat. This essentially enables him to become an apex predator to hunt down prey, which is also useful for literally sniffing down criminals and suspects. On the flip side, he can't stomach fruits and vegetables like he used to, and anything that's overcooked tends to give him a stomach ache too. So, he uses drugs like alcohol, caffeine, and cigarettes to help him suppress his appetite. He can recover from injury faster if he eats raw meat or blood, but because the thought of it makes him gag, that's a facet of his abstraction he will likely never utilize.

AURA SENSING ⫻ Basil senses people by smell, and he smells people through fear and adrenaline. While ordinarily he could do this anyway, its usually a subtle difference. A change in acidity, slightly sour. But when that person has an aura, it is distinct, pungent, and nearly overwhelming. It weakens with distance, but he can smell a fearful aura from a half-mile away.

LIMITS ⫻ Predation is a curse that isn't inhibited by Emotional Fields in any way. Basil has similar abilities to that of predators with this abstraction. His muscular system makes him strong and durable as a grizzly bear and fast as a coyote (but on two legs, don't think too hard about it). He can also smell twice as good as a bloodhound. Basil's Affixation also drives him to hunger the longer he has gone without eating meat... a few hours at most before he can no longer ignore it. If he goes a few days then he's probably going to eat somebody alive.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ There isn't a particularly large amount of weaknesses of the ability, however Basil is more susceptible to poison or other such things if consumed.

^{Other
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"A cop listenin' to music about how all cops are bastards, imagine that."

Basil drives a shitty old beater car with a child seat in the back, and he likes to play music like...

Recollections: Magnanimous (Cancelled)

Who would've thought I finally ended up here??

Basil Baker

"10-23 on the 10-5 at 16th and Shipper. I'll make this quick."

_______________________________________________ Basil A. Baker Male | 28 | Caucasian | 5’11” | 173 _______________________________________________ Dissonance _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Touch my kid and I will Liam Neeson your ass." ___________________________________ Skills and Talents Firearms and ACT Training ⫻ As expected of any person who graduates a police academy, he spent a minimum of 110 hours at the firing range and sparring floor, after a good 4-5 years on the force as a trooper and beat cop, Basil has spent countless more in maintaining those skills. Nowadays he’s a bit more idle so he may not be as sharp as he once was but remains very practiced compared to the citizenry. Other police training also includes perceptive investigation and driving ability. Street-Smarts ⫻ Okay, so Basil may not be an incredibly clever or well-read guy, but he’s got street cred, a sort of urban savoir-faire that lets him walk around the city with a sort of swagger and confidence that other officers wouldn’t have. What’s more, he knows the people on the streets. People who owe him favors, people he owes favors to, and people who both respect and are afraid of him. His under-the-table connections and contacts let him in on the know of things that his colleagues aren’t privy to. It’s not kosher or scrupulous, but it works. He has a mind for crime because he's been on the other side before. Fatherhood ⫻ Fuck the haters, ain’t no one in the world who can convince him that it takes chops to raise a kid. Chops he isn’t sure he has, but he’s trying his damnedest and he’s convinced it’s made him a better person too. He’s actually a good and nurturing father to his daughter, a testament to his commitment to being better than he was yesterday, to atoning for his past failures, and to raising her into becoming a good person. He's also gotten pretty good at braiding hair, making ponytails, and dressing Abby up in cute, clean clothes.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Yeah, I get it. I look like shit. Fuck off." He’s a pretty person to read insofar to his outward disposition; he’s kind of a scowling bastard with resting bitch face, an unshaven five o’ clock shadow on his usual day, clean shaving probably once a week. His brown hair and sideburns look similar unkempt and cut short for minimal maintenance. There are probably bags under his green eyes, and he probably smells like a mix of old ashtrays, alcohol, and coffee. Hell, by the pallor of his skin, it is probably safe to assume that it requires all three to keep him going. His ears have the tell-tale scars of having once been pierced and stretched, and he has plenty of scars from nicks on his lips and eyebrows to a shallow cut on his narrowed chin, and the multitudes of indistinguishable scars on his knuckles. It’s safe to gauge from these that he has seen plenty of scrapes. He’s not a giant, seemingly built more for dexterity than he is for powerlifting, but his height is nothing to scoff at. He might be an inch shy of six feet, a fact which he resents, but still puts him above average, and he’s solidly built after years of duty and physical conditioning from obstacle courses, drills, foot pursuit, and wearing twenty extra pounds of gear all throughout. His build can be inferred from this as physically fit and capable, perhaps even imposing if you’re someone who doesn’t work out regularly. If you’re looking at his arms though, it wouldn’t be his muscles that grabs your attention, but the intricate artistry of tattoo sleeves stretching from his collarbones to his wrists. They’re vividly colored, ebony branches dressed with green foliage and red pomegranates, some split open with their crimson seeds scattering across his arms almost like a splatter of blood. On each arm, a bronze colored snake coils itself around the branches, fangs hidden behind pursed lips. There's a scar on his left forearm from a dog bite that's hard to notice in the sea of ink. His choice of clothing is typically rather plain. Given that he has a career to think about, and doesn’t have that much money, he can’t exact go out with the apparel that’s a bit more his style like band shirts and leather jackets. Unimpressive t-shirts, tank tops and wife-beaters make up most of his wardrobe, shirts he got through working at his precinct, and some clothes he got from thrift stores like old, worn-out flannels. Jeans and work pants, and wears old black boots he got from old warehousing jobs or old boots that were worn out that were given to him by the precinct are worn as his off-duty clothes whenever the budget is renewed and he’s issued a new pair of boots. He’s generally always seen with a brown, weathered, woolen cadet cap that keeps his head warm. Matching it is a brown denim jacket that he’s always seen with, as if it’s the only one he owns. Naturally, he also has his black on-duty uniform and the windbreaker, but he tries not to brand himself if he can help avoiding it while he’s off-duty. He is markedly untouched by jewelry and most accessories, except for a digital watch he wears on his left wrist.

_{Psychology
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"If you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Basil wants to turn his life around. He knows he’s been a piece of shit in the past, a mightily terrible person who doesn’t deserve forgiveness and he doesn’t ask for it, and there are problems with him he’s still trying to work out. But if for no one else, he wants to be better for his daughter and to keep her safe from it all so that she can grow into a genuinely good person. If that means finding a way to get her out of this town, then so be it.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Two things are simultaneously true: bad people can and do improve themselves and deserve the ability to do so, but even if they improve themselves, they are not entitled to the forgiveness or second chances of those they’ve hurt.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Heterosexual

FEARS ⫻ He's really just afraid for the safety of his daughter and the possibility that she might inherit the mistakes of her parents. This extends to him being afraid for his own life, because if he dies, then what does that leave for Abby? Also cockroaches. He fucking hates cockroaches.

REPUTATION ⫻ Among Araminta? Mixed, probably. He's on the good side of some people, on the bad side of quite a few. However, that's just on the east and west ends of town who know him as kind of a bastard, but also as a bastard you can bargain with. The folks on the North and South sides don't need as much policing and haven't seen him nearly as often and don't know much about them; and there's something to be said about the privilege of not having to interact with the police very often and the luxury of being able to greet them with a wide, happy smile. As far as the Vanburens? No personal connections with any of them except for Eve, who was estranged from the family. He doubts they have much of an opinion of him. It might be a sore awakening for them to find out he doesn't bend the knee to the family name.

THOUGHTS ABOUT FATHER ⫻ Well James ain’t his dad, so he ain’t got much reason to care for him aside from the man being Abby’s grandfather. The street says he’s good, Eve says he ain’t shit; neither one is necessarily a reliable source of information.

FLAWS ⫻ Basil’s just a piece of shit. Granted, he’s getting better. He’s a far cry different from the abusive drunk he was back in the day, but he still has issues with his temper, and he finds himself bending the rules and being far more morally flexible than he ought to be. He makes snap judgements about people, he’s difficult to befriend, has trust issues, and he relies on alcohol, caffeine, and cigarettes to get through the day. Just because he found his nurturing, softer side for his daughter doesn’t mean he wouldn’t put the fear of pain into someone if it meant getting what he wanted.

_{Backstory
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"Eve always did call me a real charmer..."

Basil was a runaway kid. A violently abusive and later absent dad and drug-abusing mother does not lend itself to a happy childhood. Apparently pops left a trail of kids in his wake, including a pair of half-sisters he didn’t know very well. Having to take care of himself while mom was high didn’t leave much energy for caring about his school grades, and he fled Maine, and ended up being picked up by officers in Massachusetts to be put into a foster care program when he was around 15 years old. He was a difficult kid to wrangle and get to behave, he had an attitude even when he was this young and he made it deliberately difficult for foster parents to take care of him because, in his experience, he couldn’t rely on authority figures and caretakers. The kids he associated with weren’t that different from him either; they all had troubles at home and hated being told what to do by adults who were ruining their own lives—what could they possibly know? So, when you’re told not to smoke when you’re 16 years old, you take that as a challenge and as an order to blatantly refuse.

Having teenage gangs skating downtown on skateboards who break into cars to steal shit they can pawn off isn’t a rare occurrence. Running interference for actual crooks was part of the gig. Basil wasn’t much of a brain for these types of ops, and he wasn’t much of a muscle; he was just one of the goons who was willing to do the stupid shit, like being a distraction or taking the fall for others. The very least he managed to do was study enough to get his GED, because as he started getting older, he had to have an actual job because foster agencies let you out on the street when you’re 18, and as reality began to sink in and hit him, it took at least a GED to get any decent-paying, braindead job. So, for a few years he managed to land a dockworker job driving forktrucks out in the cold and moving shipments back and forth. This was supplemented by his more illicit activities on the side, such as playing enforcer or thug for some slighted crook and collecting debts via intimidation, vandalism, or roughing someone up. Basil’s street smarts helped him here though, always being able to play the card of plausible deniability. The local cops knew of course he was no good, but without catching him in the act of having evidence of wrongdoing, they couldn’t arrest him for anything.

He never worked the same job for very long. Coming into work either intoxicated, shitty behavior, or simply not doing his work would find him fired after a few months, and he’d find someplace else that would take him. A warehouse or a dock of some kind since they pay better than most beater jobs with low requirements. He’d eventually find his way into the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania looking for work, eventually finding it in West Araminta when he was just a little older than 22 years old. The problem though with living the kind of life Basil has in a smaller town like Araminta is that people notice when you’re an outsider, and they notice quickly. One of the first of these people was one beautiful mistake by the name of Eve Vanburen. Apparently, she was one of the many kids of some big shot Basil didn’t know or care about, a man not so different from his own father, and she was estranged from the family for a very long time. She was a mixed woman about as inked up as he was, and at first it was simply a physical relationship. Then it went on to be his first long-term relationship. Then it became his worst relationship.

It turns out that putting two people together who’ve never had long-term relationships, both had family traumas, and unhealthy coping mechanisms, poor communications, and a reliance on soft drugs, it doesn’t lend itself to a healthy relationship. Full of yelling, manipulation, hurtful words and tears, stealing from each other, breaking up and hooking back up again—but it wasn’t physical then. Not that it made the relationship any healthier of course, they were both awful and spiteful people and perhaps they deserved each other in that regard. Besides that, the makeup sex was always pretty amazing. To think that they lasted year without throwing hands was a miracle.

The second time someone noticed him, after a life of being a professional piece of shit, he and a friend got caught stealing a package from someone’s porch. The po-pos start blaring their whoop-whoop horns. He takes the package to let his buddy get away, he gets tackled, and put in handcuffs. He’s been in them before, but he was a kid all those other times and they returned him home, to foster care, or let him off with a warning or something. The adult world was different—had consequences, and he spent the night in the city jail.

The third time someone noticed him was when he was approached by Lieutenant Kreese while sitting behind those bars. He kept asking Basil for the name of his buddy in exchange for going easy on him, but Basil didn’t budge. When asked why he wouldn’t turn in a good-for-nothing like the guy who left him behind, and why Basil would take the fall for someone who didn’t think twice about him, he answered it was because you don’t turn on a brother. This prompted a sympathetic nod of respect from the lieutenant, and it was then he learned that they ran his name through the system and found the trail of misdemeanors he left as a kid, but more importantly, Kreese was interested in the backgrounds of people like him. Found everything he could ever want on his parents—his father the abuser, his mother the vegetable stoner—and suddenly Basil found Kreese’s sympathy that he didn’t really deserve. Sacrifice was an admirable trait, he said, but only if it’s in service to something greater, and the past doesn’t have to define your future.

“I think you’re here because no one’s ever given you a chance,” he said, “and I want to be the one to give you that chance.”

It was probably the most memorable thing anyone’s ever said to him, and since the package as returned and no harm was done, he was offered to let this whole ordeal pass by without going on his record and personally appeal to waive his past misdemeanors as a kid if he made an attempt at attending the police academy. He didn’t even have to pass—just make an honest effort, and if he failed, he would at least walk away with a tempered discipline and self-respect, and if he failed, he’d have a promising career ahead of him. Either way, it was an opportunity to live honestly.

So, he took Kreese up on the offer. The report was basically thrown out, and Kreese would send a trooper out to make sure Basil attended the academy. Which he did as he worked his dockworker job. His relationship with Eve was as tumultuous as ever, the stress of what was basically two jobs weighing on, but before the year ended, he graduated the academy as a cadet. By no means was he the top of the class, and it was incredibly grueling, but he was already physically active and that gave him a slight edge relative to some other cadets. He finished out that year with additional training as an officer under sergeant Kreese. He stopped hanging around the bad influences of his life which helped his mental state and the camaraderie of the police force was a refreshing feeling for him—it was like having a family. There were some negatives of course; suddenly he wasn’t welcome at his regular haunts since he was the new bad guy.

Training drilled into his head a “me-versus-them” mentality against the citizenry, and he started off with a chip on his shoulder already, and here he was with a gun. Having been on the opposite side of the police, it was a moment of cognitive dissonance for him. He knew what it was like on being the other end of pepper spray and the like. His career began as a beat cop, where he’d walk around the poorer parts of town and getting to know the community, stationed at a different location from Kreese. He had a regular set of rounds, and here Basil’s street-smarts payed off, because he had an empathy for people on the west and east ends that other officers on the force didn’t have. The ability to make friends with even the slimiest meant he had his back covered, and if he needed something, he knew who to talk to. It wasn’t even a year into new career though did things begin to go south for him.

He was dispatched at night to answer an emergency call. Someone brandishing a knife broke into a woman’s house. Basil and his partner, Officer Dennings, were the first ones at the scene with sirens in the distance. The front door was broken down and there was a commotion inside, which meant that there might’ve still been someone inside. Hands on their guns, they approached, and Basil announced their presence, trying to coax everyone out. Only one man answered, and it was by sprinting around the corner, covered in blood, and lunging straight toward him. Hundreds of hours of muscle memory spurred Basil to drawing his gun and firing half of his magazine into the man’s body in a second before they were on top of each other, the former apparently unable to feel the pain. Basil barely managed to disarm him and throw him off with the help of his partner, and, driven by fear, adrenaline, anger, and a desire to survive the night, beat the man to death with his baton. Then came an inexplicable guilt. Even with all the adrenaline pumping through his body and emotions swirling onto him, he could feel as if something latched onto him. They later found out that night that the woman who called the emergency line was dead.

So that is when his life and relationship went from shit to worse. He was increasingly irritable and short fused, and the stress of policing was slowly taking its toll on him. He’d find ways to blow off the steam whether it was at the gym, tracking down suspects, or an increased use of force. At first it was on drunkards and thieves and the like—people he could get away with it on, with practiced plausible deniability and a culture of brotherhood on his side of the force to help him get away with it. “Those bastards had it coming,” they’d say. He had dozens of people behind his back, even if they understood him as the precinct’s resident “bad boy.” He was offered to be put on light duty, but Basil insisted he’d be too restless.

Worse yet, he’d come home and release his stress on Eve. As if following in the footsteps of his father, the fights intensified as he became physically abusive. It was a trend that became more frequent, and occasionally fueled by alcohol. She’d fight back too, sometimes even starting the fights, but never able to fend off Basil who was much larger than she was. Stealing and cheating became more frequent as well, which in turn fed itself into more fights. With either one too afraid to leave, this cycle of abuse would continue for two years. The number of times he’d walk into work with bruises on his face and been asked if he was alright and needed to be checked on, he lost track, but he always declined their offers and said everything was fine. Occasionally, he’d tell them it was a sex thing and that’d be enough to get those squares to shut up for a week or so. Mostly he just didn’t want them to see the sort of shape he left Eve in.

Then, of course, Eve got pregnant. It was enough to spook him, and he suggested to Eve that she should get an abortion, but she felt too afraid and too guilty to follow through with it. So, halfway through the pregnancy, Basil chickened out and bailed, leaving Eve to deal with the coming child on her own—just like his own father did with his own mother. To distract himself from that reality, he drowned himself in his work. He isolated himself from others to try to get a hold of his emotions now that it was clear that leaving Eve didn’t help him at all, and he was finding other people’s voices to be an irritating itch he wanted to scratch out. Being alone was the safest option, but in drowning himself in work, he managed to bring in a record number of criminals, getting him a reputation for being a VPD hound dog.

His previously built rapport with the community, including its rotten parts, meant people owed him favors for looking the other way over petty drug use, spray-painting a building. He was in business with some crooks who’d pay him to stay off their backs and occasionally thin out the competition with anonymous tips—his corruption ran deep. He had a nose for trouble, having been on the other side of the chase before, too. Also helping him was a liberal use of force, having brought in more than just a few guys with black eyes. He was as guilty of profiling as any other cop, and one of his chief strategies was making one of his suspects a living hell by writing citations, tickets, or even slashing tires (and when confronted about it, he simply told them to come down to the station and write a police report) until they finally gave him a confession or the information he wanted. Any one of the multitudes of Vanburen kids running around, still embittered by his relationship with Eve, Basil had a tendency for treating them worse than the usual citizenry.

A turning point in his life was when he received a call about a little over a year later. Eve Vanburen was in the hospital for drug-overdose, then currently comatose. Assuming she wakes up, she was to be forcibly admitted to a strict rehab facility. Leaving behind her a baby, barely a year old: Abby Baker. Apparently even after everything Basil’s done to her, she’d still rather the child have his name before her father’s, but more glaring to him was the chain of events that ran parallel to his own life: absent, abusive dad and a drugged-out mom. The guilt was… overwhelming, and now that life had finally caught up with him, it was time he faced some consequences and accepted responsibility. The child was to be under his custody, and he submitted himself to becoming a father at 25—not that the courts would’ve given him an option anyways.

The next three years had its ups and downs. Basil had no idea how to be a father while starting out, and he spent his only two paid vacations weeks that year trying to learn how to be one. He spent quite a few sleepless nights trying to do his research while Abby ate baby food from a little jar on top of his lap, carrying her everywhere he went before he learned to buy a stroller—but it was a long three years, and he had a lot of time to think about himself and his life up to this point. Becoming a father? It changed him. At least that’s what he wants to think. That guilt he remembers feeling when that child was left alone reminded him of himself, and if he didn’t do something about it, Abby could one day end up just like him.

So, even if fatherhood didn’t change him, he forced himself to change. Just because he was a piece of shit didn’t mean he had to pass that on to an innocent little girl. He grew to love her. That much was clear when he nearly had his head cleaned off his shoulders when he was dispatched to remove a fired worker refusing to leave company property while he was taking a joyride in a forktruck. Suddenly, he finally felt the fear of mortality since it would have meant leaving the kid behind. He was put on light duty ever since then and worked primarily as a dispatcher for the last two and a half years. He relies quite a bit on babysitters to take care of Abby while he’s at work, and he makes sure to let Abby visit Eve every week or two in the rehab facility, and although he still hated the woman and she rightfully hated him back, they were at least civil while in front of the child. He just couldn’t bring himself to forgive her, as hypocritical as it was, for leaving the child the way she did. He might’ve failed Abby, but he thought that didn’t give Eve the right to neglect her too in the way she did.

Some weird things happened a year ago though. It started with some strange reports—crime scenes that didn’t make sense. Stolen goods with no signs of forced entry and the store workers themselves having alibis. Crime scenes that left no clues. Arson without evidence of accelerants or electrical malfunction. People appearing in places they shouldn’t be in. The force was stretched thin and it was one of those rare occasions that Basil had to be put to work in the field again. All evidence pointed to an animal mauling, but there were no animals around here who could do that much damage. The only thing that came close was a black bear, but they typically came nowhere within city limits. Stomping through the forest to the east, it seemed he came across the suspect: there was a rabid dog covered with blood from its face to its shoulders. It lunged, and Basil discharged his firearm as it bit into his arm. From that moment, he felt something latch onto him. That was his first experience with an apparition.

He could see it whenever he gazed into a mirror. It looked like a dog… sort of. It was at least dog shaped. Whatever he was seeing, it didn’t go around hurting people around him, but he did feel something in himself change. Not bad or evil necessarily, just different. He was a bit hungrier, ran a little hotter, but he hadn’t felt so physically strong in a long while, if ever. He could eat just about anything, but vegetables never did sit quite right with him again. He has no idea what the hell happened to him since then, but it’s been nearly a year ago from today and things are just getting weirder in Araminta, and he’ll be damned if he lets anything happen to Abby. With this weird shit happening to the Vanburens suddenly turning to stone around the city limits, he’ll have to sit tight in town until he figures out a way to get Abby out of here. That is one risk he is not willing to take.

_{Abstraction
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"Listen, I don't know anything about this dumb 'magic' nonsense. All I know is that I could go for a big rare steak right about now."

TYPE ⫻ Affixed Aberrant

ABSTRACTION ⫻ Predation

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ Predation is a type of Abstraction where the apparition affixes itself to the aberrant and usually imbues them with rabid aggression and ravenous hunger; where seemingly anything can provoke and light the aberrant’s shortened fuse and cause them to violently lash out at others. This was seen when the apparition affixed itself to an animal, being attracted to adrenaline, hunger, and survival. It affixed itself to Basil the moment the dog was killed as it bit him, drawn to his own survival impulse. Being a human with greater control over his base instincts and impulses, Basil doesn't suffer the same consequences as an animal would, and he has learned how to managed his own aggression even before becoming affixed.

The Abstraction comes with a set of benefits too: The apparition imbues the aberrant with a highly corrosive digestive acid that can enable them to digest nearly anything, a stronger, break-resistant skeleton including his teeth to endure greater bite forces that can shatter bone, and a denser muscular system which grants greater power and speed. He also has a sharp sense of smell that is sensitive enough to detect and differentiate the differences in sweat. This essentially enables him to become an apex predator to hunt down prey, which is also useful for literally sniffing down criminals and suspects. On the flip side, he can't stomach fruits and vegetables like he used to, and anything that's overcooked tends to give him a stomach ache too. So, he uses drugs like alcohol, caffeine, and cigarettes to help him suppress his appetite. He can recover from injury faster if he eats raw meat or blood, but because the thought of it makes him gag, that's a facet of his abstraction he will likely never utilize.

AURA SENSING ⫻ Basil senses people by smell, and he smells people through fear and adrenaline. While ordinarily he could do this anyway, its usually a subtle difference. A change in acidity, slightly sour. But when that person has an aura, it is distinct, pungent, and nearly overwhelming. It weakens with distance, but he can smell a fearful aura from a half-mile away.

LIMITS ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)

WEAKNESSES ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)

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"A cop listenin' to music about how all cops are bastards, imagine that."

Basil drives a shitty old beater car with a child seat in the back, and he likes to play music like...