Zombiedude101

Thread move please

nvm, kill this

The Borehole - A Superhuman Prison Break

redirected here at the recommendation of a friend to catch a wider audience - RP is still gonna be leaning on advanced - roleplayerguild.com/topics/186675-the…

The Sunday Group - The Flicker Cases

Clark

Name: Clark Fraser

Age: Chronologically 69, physically 12

Appearance:
Clark is what some might disparagingly refer to as a 'Pinocchio' - a vampire trapped in a child's body, allowed to turn at a young age. He carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, grey tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, cool to the touch. Though undeath leaves him relatively unblemished, he does have a rather deep gouge running along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve - acquired during an early childhood mishap.

Clothing choices deemed 'sensible' for a child tend to be limited, but Clark usually finds room to wear a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, usually with a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of fingerless gloves, if it's winter.

Concept: A responsible, pragmatic member of the group stuck in a child's body. Older than most of the group, but not old enough to shave - apparently.

Powers/skills:
Though locked in a child's body, Clark has doubtless been blessed with the unholy gifts bestowed by vampirism - particularly his senses. His eyes have adapted to maintain visibility in the dark, his ears are so fine-tuned that they could probably pick up local radio and his nose could rival a bloodhound's. If there's a trace of anything left at a scene, be it gasoline, ectoplasm or, above all else - blood - Clark can pick up its smell, even its taste from mere presence. Were he a decade older and precluded from the predatory habits of his kind, he'd have probably made Chicago's finest forensic investigator.

Perceptive capabilities aside, Clark is far more robust than his appearance would suggest, able to commit to admirable feats of speed, stamina and endurance while exhibiting a degree of strength that far exceeds what a 12 year old boy should be capable of demonstrating. He can scale steep walls and adjust his center of gravity to cling to the ceiling, too - among other troubling examples of behaviour uncharacteristic for 12 year old boys.

Sunlight, silver and other appropriately treated materials are corrosive to the touch, burning his skin upon contact and would doubtless prove fatal if exposed for sufficient duration, with fire having a similar effect. A stake or some other such implement impaled through the heart probably wouldn't do him much good either. Otherwise, he is functionally immortal, capable of regenerating from the most grievous of injuries in a matter of minutes.

Of course, all of the above does largely depend on Clark sustaining himself through feeding on the lifeblood of other living creatures. His robust capabilities wax and wane, depending on how much and often he sates the thirst, with wounds lingering and strength faltering when deprived of blood for too long. This growing weakness, coupled with the addictive nature of the thirst, is often enough to drive him to moments of frenzy if left unsated for too long.

Certain religious symbols, specifically those of the Abrahamic denominations, do produce a certain unease in him - personal scars from an unpleasant incident in the late '90s when some would-be evangelist attempted to 'redeem' his soul by locking him in a basement surrounded by silver implements and religious imagery.

Other gifts of vampirism - telepathy, shapeshifting and the power to enthrall other beings - all remain beyond Clark's reach, having little practice, understanding or awareness of the true heights of vampiric power. Perhaps, with time, he might be able to explore this ceiling, but that may take decades - centuries even, provided he even tries at all.

And unholy capabilities aside, Clark's not above using his diminuitive form to deceive or manipulate others into getting to where or what he wants - perhaps without even needing to play into the magnetism that vampirism lends its gifted. After all, nobody's likely to gun for the child as a suspect at the scene of a disaster - though it is a very, very sore spot of provocation for him.

Though not a conventional fighter, Clark has learned to be pragmatic and opportunistic where appropriate - relying on more underhanded tactics to compensate for his smaller stature on those occasions where he's needed to be forceful for his own good. He knows how to operate a firearm, but anything larger than a pistol or a plinker tends to be a little too clunky for his diminutive form and most would raise an eyebrow to the prospect of leaving a child with access to a firearm. He's a better pitcher than a marksman, anyhow - anything from baseballs to bricks.

In theory, Clark knows how to drive stick, though he can only just about reach the pedals and not without raising eyebrows. Bicycles are a little more manageable, though typically made redundant when not keeping up a public face and on occasion he's taken a dirt bike for a joyride when walking, running or climbing haven't been so convenient.

A product of his time, Clark shares an eclectic fondness for rock and heavy metal music to help him focus, with a select collection of tracks on his phone. The same applies to his tastes in media - though where video games are concerned, he struggles to appreciate anything newer than the SNES - perhaps his perspective was a little skewed by the unconventional controller layout of the then-revolutionary N64.

Across various social media outlets, Clark has established quite the footprint under various aliases, surprisingly enough - though it serves an ulterior motive that few would find as a good topic of conversation for the dinner table.

Things Your Character Wants to Happen:
Money, continued independence. A solution to the 'pinnochio' problem that doesn't see him well and truly dead.

Things You as a Writer Wants to Happen:
Interesting concept I want to give a go. I am very vaguely taking some inspiration from other media in broad strokes (think Worm/Ward/Parahumans, Fables etc) but nothing specifically derivative.

Writing Sample:

hospital visit

The faint thrum of hospital machinery, ventilators and heart monitors pulsed against his temples. A dozen footsteps and voices idly chattered outside the hospital room, unaware that an interloper had scaled the wall to clamber in through the window.

Clark blinked at the fragile creature resting on the bed, garbed in a speckled-blue gown that ran from shoulders to knees, an IV line snaking its way from the bedside stand into her sleeve. Time had robbed her of many things: her youth, her memories and now? Her health.

His sister wasn't long for this world, that he knew, from what he could follow of the countless conversations and private doctor's messages he'd pried upon. Illness was terminal, this time - and even if it wasn't, lucidity eluded her more days than not. Her own children couldn't bear to watch their mother fade away, seldom making personal calls anymore, and for all intents and purposes she was the last of their family.

Clark knew he shouldn't interfere. Shouldn't say anything. He was a ghost, and yet...

“Judy?“ The name slipped out of him.

His voice was barely above a whisper, yet her frail form seemed to stir in mere seconds and her withered expression seemed to light up.

"Clark?“ she spoke hoarsely, "Is that you?“

Too late to back out. "It's me, Judes..." The words spilled out awkwardly.

"Clark... where've you been, huh?" her greyed brow furrowed, leaning forward as though she wasn't aware of the IV drip feeding her fluids, "We've been worried sick." Age had robbed her of just enough lucidity to to deceive her into thinking they were just children once more.

"Mom and Dad, they've been worried sick for you.." Dad died in '91. Mom in '98.

But Clark tried to pass it off, best he could with a kind lie. "I was just with Tommy, y'know?" A retiree now, last he knew. At least he got to grow up. He knew the truth was too much to bear or believe. Far better to tolerate a gentle scolding - any excuse to spend a little time with her, face-to-face.

"Even Frank.." Judy's features creased a little more as she chided him, slowly forming the words, "H-he went looking all over for you, he can't sleep." Frank enlisted in '65 and got shipped off halfway across the world to Vietnam. In '67, they shipped him back home in a box. Clark loosened a soothing hush to try and calm her, leaning in close enough to be drawn into her embrace.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, with a childlike sincerity he hadn't felt for some time, clutching her tight as he felt her heartbeat strum a familiar, waning chord. "I didn't mean to upset you." Perhaps for just a moment, he could truly be a child again, in body and mind. Forget about what happened to him. Forget about everything he'd done - had to do, wanted to do. Forget that he was stuck somewhere between spending eternity as a child and the black oblivion which lay beyond. For a moment, Clark could be the little brother and forget.

But not the thirst. No, never the thirst. It was always with him at the best of times, like a scratch on the paintwork of a brand new Camaro. And for a brief moment, perhaps by instinct alone, he became acutely aware of her heartbeat. How even her ailing body carried blood - that it would be such a tempting moment, an opportunity. And there he was again, no longer a child.

No.

The thought shamed him, and he stiffly drew back from the thin, leathery arms that had been drawn around his shoulders. Even as that part of him tried to justify the notion, that Judy could join him - he recognised the folly of it. What life would that be? Her mind addled, her body at its final juncture. Would she have ever entertained it if her mind was her own?

He decided not. Better to let Judy rest. It was time he made his exit, before his senses failed him.

"I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes." Clark lied, turning away so she wouldn't see the black finger creeping from eye to cheek. "Just get some sleep." He didn't stop to see if she acknowledged that, but he felt the faint murmur on her lips. Goodbye.

As he left the room, he felt the reverberating thrum of the burner phone resting in his side pocket. Idly slipping it out, it took him but a few seconds to scan the SMS that had crept across the screen.

looking forward to seeing u buddy. ;)

Another matter to attend to, a friend - the kind that were easy enough to bait out if you trawled the right places. The kind that might've been a predator to some, but prey to him. Which was for the best, really.

The thirst was never truly apart from him. Self-control had its limits.

Clark keyed a few letters back in a well-rehearsed motion, then hit send.

see u soon

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

Intrigued.

INTO THE TRENCHES!!!-WWI

MUST be an infantryman or medic, MEDICS ARE WEAKER SINCE THEY HAVE MEDICAL TRAINING!!!

@Colonel

Yes, because it would make plenty of sense for a corpsman to be weaker than the men he's supposed to be able to take care of and potentially haul out of harm's way.

With all due respect, I really don't think you get a lot of the nuances invokved in, nor should you be running a setting in WWI. And using CAPSLOCK and shouting isn't exactly endearing to folks.

Black Fall: The Stargazer Project (Private/Invite Only)

**Rowan Campbell**

Processing Request for Personal Records...

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Please Login.

Username: AgentCaryl
Password: ***********

Access Granted.

NOTICE: All information is considered confidential to the Federal Agency of Metahuman Affairs. Disclosure of information is subject to disciplinary actions up to imprisonment.

Accessing Personal Records...

Open Data for (Your character name Here): Y/N?

Y.

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▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Rowan Campbell ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ═══B A S I C O V E R V I E W═══ NAME: Rowan Campbell | NICKNAMES: MAG3 | AGE: 21 | ETHNICITY: Caucasian | PRONOUNS: He/Him | HEIGHT: 5'9 | WEIGHT: 148lb | ....................................................................................................

Availible Files	PHYSICAL EVALUATION PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION BACKGROUND INFORMATION POWER EVALUATION OTHER INFORMATION

Physical Evaluation

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▼ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:

Rowan's a lightweight, topping out at 5'9. His skin bears a somewhat pasty white complexion that's only taken a light beating from the warmer climate, and fits over an almost wiry frame that's not quite muscular enough to stand out. His features are sharp, his cheeks appearing almost hollow and gaunt when viewed from the side, with oak-brown eyes.

Sandy-blonde hair sprouts from his head and clings to his cheeks and jaw in coarse, wiry stubble if he doesn't keep it in check. Usually, he shaves just often enough that he never really grows a proto-beard, and treats his hair the same - leaving it to grow to fringe length before running a number three razor guard over it a few times a year.

▼ ATTIRE:

Something simple - usually a hoodie or a jacket with cargo pants or something similarly utilitarian and comfortable. Rowan's not got a particularly accentuated sense of fashion and growing up on a limited budget has shaped his view to roll with whatever works. He usually does wear a rugged pair of ankle boots or sneakers though - something that gives him steady footing getting around, and he's never usually far from his canvas knapsack.

Psychological Evaluation

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"Don't get into my head."
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▼ PERSONALITY:

Rowan's mindset is one largely tempered by adifficult upbringing, manifest in the form of an inferiority complex that leaves him prone to lashing out when his insecurities are exposed. Control, or specifically being unable to control a situation where he's crucially involved is something that particularly gnaws at him. His temper flares, often manifesting in frustrated outbursts where he says or does something he might later come to regret. He's picked up bad habits. Rowan's no bigot, but he grew up amidst a real representation of the white trash stereotype with a racially bigot parental substitute who did their damnedest to instill their views upon him. That bias occasionally slips out, either in his assumptions or the wording that he uses.

Trust issues come with that too, but a fierce sense of loyalty and responsibility comes into play for things that matter to him. He might be an asshole about it, but he'll be honest where it counts.

▼ SKILLS/TALENTS:

Though no Picasso or Van Gogh, Rowan is a competent artist, at least when it comes to sketching or applying paint to a wall. He can carve out a decent stencil or throw up a graff piece without making too much a mess of it. For him, throwing up MAG3 across a billboard one night was the highlight of his career, prior to FAMA getting involved in his life. He's slowly gained a little practice with physical sculptures though - twisting metal into shapes and familiar forms.

And of course, that aforementioned need to get to high places has left him a decent climber. Granted, he's no parkour practitioner - but he's a better chance than most at clambering up the side of a building without tumbling off the edge and ending up in the morgue.

Otherwise, that's about it. He's not book smart, but he's not stupid either. He can take a punch, but he's not a big fighter either - just used to taking the abuse and limping away from it. If it came to it, he's more likely to pick up a brick and brain someone on the back of the head the moment they turned their back to him.

Background Data

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▼ BACKSTORY:

Rowan came from a blue-collar background up in Michigan, a world apart from the warmer climes of South Carolina. His father (Gabe) left the picture before he hit the toddler years and and his mother (Steph) went through a string of loose relationships before eventually settling on a blue-collar worker, Vernon Mackenzie.

Vernon was by no means a pillar of the community, a closet-bigot who regularly skirted with the local white-nationalist crowd in bars, but he was a stable source of income for Steph to latch onto and, in his own way, tried to bring Rowan under his wing and pass on the values he saw fit.

Unfortunately, that led onto a great deal of emotional, verbal and, occasionally, physical abuse along the way. This didn't improve much when Vernon fathered a child (Vernon Jr.) of his own, discarding Rowan as a lost cause at best. Rowan, for his part, was happy to recede into the background, venting his frustrations in the form of graff writing and sketching in his blackbook.

Though it doubtless contributed, the difficult home situation wasn't the catalyst that triggered Rowan's Delta traits. That came when he was jumped, beaten and mugged by a group of kids on his way home late one night; the resulting injuries that left one kid dead, two in the ICU and a fourth permanently brain damaged were misattributed to the collapse of a street light. Rowan kept a low profile after that, weary of FAMA getting involved, but it took another few months before he was forced into the open.

An argument emerged at home over Vernon discovering some letter in the trash from a collection agency that Steph had withheld from him, annd things grew physical. Rowan tried to intervene and got pushed down, which was enough to make him 'hit' back with a metal cabinet that crushed his stepdad through the drywall. Steph was horrified, siccing the authorities on her own son. FAMA got involved shortly thereafter and it took a sympathetic caseworker to interceded on Rowan's behalf and ensure that any criminal charges were dropped, in light of the circumstances. Steph signed away her parental rights to the state and he wound up getting mandated through the Academy system and transferred to 002 shortly thereafter, far away from his troubled home life. He's still a work in progress, but things have improved since then.

Power Evaluation

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▼ CLASSIFICATION:

Type-Red

▼ POWER INFORMATION:

Rowan is able to generate and manipulate a powerful electromagnetic field to exert his will upon ferromagnetic materials, in addition to holding an effect over other elements naturally influenced by magnetism (such as electrical energy or lead). Though technically manifest through thought, Rowan consciously exerts his powers through body movements, which can range from something as subtle as tightening his fingers into a fist, to swiping his arm in a particular direction to swiping his arm in a particular direction. Generally, the stronger the force he wants to exert, the more sudden and direct his movements will be.

Theoretically, the scale of his ability could range from the scale of grain-sized materials (allowing him reshape or easily move such objects) to those the size of a building (allowing him to twist or alter larger structures, possibly even pull them down one day), though how refined his control is still has yet to reach its full potential as he is still somewhat lacking the experience and tuition necessary to understand the full capabilities.

Given the nature of his power, Rowan has a permanent sense of direction that works off sensing the Earth's poles - like a human compass.

▼ LIMITS:

Rowan's abilities wane the further something moves asay from him, bottoming out somewhere after 50 metres depending on the mass he's influencing and what he's doing with it. Generally speaking, the further away, the less refined his control. Likewise, greater mass means less refinement.

▼ WEAKNESSES:

Rowan's power can exert both a physical and psychological toll on him, with greater feats draining his batteries quicker. It also has a nasty habit of kicking in reflexively - being stomped to the ground or pushed being previous examples where he lost control and lashed out with catastrophic results. Being shocked or exposed to similarly powerful electromagnetic influences also play havoc on his senses, leaving him disoriented.

Again, Rowan's understanding of his power remains limited. He's yet to fully push himself or explore the breadth of his capabilities. Place him in an insulated set of shackles and he'll struggle to manifest his power, due to not having the understanding or even awareness of manifesting through thought alone.

Other Information

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if you reject this character I will come to your home, burn your kitchen, violate your laundry and feed your dog chocolate

Panau : Superheroes in a South American Warzone

Indeed. I'm just thinking on the cliche trope of Germans emigrating to South America Post-WWII.

Priest and Hawthorne Investigations: A Modern Fantasy Adventure!

Hello everyone! I am very sorry for the long absence, the Huge Thing I was hoping to be less involved with wound up needing my full-time involvement.

This will be delayed until late September.

Sorry again! If you're going to burn me in effigy, please only do so once or twice. <3

@Naril

Give us all a shoutout when it's time.

The Energy Storm

"Khodo hafiz, Gulbuddin."

Kandahar briefly glanced towards his hand, his own expression crinkling when reminded of the absent fingertip where once a ring had been. A glove hid the stump, but he saw where the tip wilted.

Shir O Khorshed. In retrospect, the words were meaningless now, a psuedo-adoption of a dead and dying culture that was in many respects a world apart from Pashtunwali. But it had been his. The community, everything he had helped to build - he found its loss embodied by his missing fingertip.

Now, who was he? What was he? A shadow. A ghost? No, a vengeful spirit perhaps. Like the rumours spread among the others he'd served with, of mysterious figures that wandered the hills and the mountains, leaving blood and bones in their wake.

Was he even a man, anymore? Not human, not entirely. The term they'd ascribed to those such as him was remarkably sanitised.

Altered. Different. Out of place.

A stranger.

Yes, always a stranger - he'd spent his life as a stranger. In the passes, when his father smuggled arms for the Mujahadeen to fight the Communists. Then, in America - to flee the Taliban as they tore into the withered husk of a nation ruined by war. And once more, when he returned under the American flag as an interpreter for the military, watching as other carrion eaters flocked to the dinner table. Wherever he went, he was a stranger.

So this was, in truth, his natural state - or so it seemed, now he gave it thought. Kandahar's face was ordinary, with no particularly handsome or ugly features that could be ascribed to it. Though a Pashtun, he was sufficiently light-skinned that he could pass among the crowds without standing out. His accent, or specifically his manner of speech, was somewhere between his birthplace and the Sonoran Desert. For all intents and purposes, he was nothing more than another face in the crowd.

Gulbuddin had despised the Russians - the Soviets, as he called them. Despite some arrangements, he had never loaned any trust to their lot - to the slavs. That, Kandahar understood - the old man had known Afghanistan before the Communists had thrown it into war, mourned its lost potential. It was something he could never have forgiven. Kandahar, for all it was worth, could sympathise with that position now more than ever.

For all that he'd known, the slavs were definitely involved in what had happened to the community they'd built, striking after the storm just as the plague took hold. The slavs had taken so much and more, their dogs for hire having chained him in an effort to beat the information out of him.

When that failed, they pumped their poison into him, humiliated him, made him lesser. Withdrawal had been a painful ordeal, a torment of the mind that set in well after he'd clawed his way out of the grave. Even now, he felt the pangs of the opiate's absence - the temptation to fall back into that pit and curl inwards to sleep.

It could not go unanswered. Would not.

He stood outside the building, a rather unassuming looking place that passed for a bar or a private club,with a broad signage. The Dneiper Tears. He'd seen it once, before the slavs had attacked them. It held significance to them, as the bakery had to him. Small wonder they'd congregate here, especially in such troubling times.

As he stepped inside, the obnoxious thrum of some metallic band filled his ears, the singers delivering lyrics in some screeching tone in one of the slav dialects. The body count in here was a little lower than he'd anticipated, but given wider events it was not such a great surprise - the ongoing outbreak of plague had forced varying quarantine measures, restricting movement. Still, it was enough for what he intended.

To make things right, whole again. Or get a start at it, anyhow.

Approaching the bar counter, Kandahar threw an upward nod to the barman who only barely seemed to recognise him - and slapped a crumpled wad of dollar bills on the polished surface, "That one there, there - the whole thing." He jabbed a finger at a suitably hefty-looking bottle.

It took about half a minute, but the man shrugged and did as asked, leaving it and a shot glass in front of him. Another drinker was seated a few stools away, their brow creasing as they tried to get the measure of him.

Tightening his fingers around the neck of the bottle, he realised that his neighbour's face was one he recognised.

The feeling was mutual, by the look of his creasing features and tensing posture, "You-" Kandahar didn't give him any time to react, swinging the bottle against the side of his temple. He felt the shock of it running back up his arm, saw the man crumple against the counter and topple over some stools in a heap behind him.

Like a wasp's nest that had been set alight, the denizens of the room began to stir from whatever they'd been doing, clutching at a corkscrew, pool cue or just throwing up their hands, ready to throw some punishment down on this interloper that had nearly caved their friend's head in.

Once voice barked behind him, "Stupid whoreson, should've stayed at your bakery!", a patron had circled around to the entrance, sliding the lock shut. Good. No exit for them, either. Kandahar didn't give them time to react, throwing the bottle at the closest of the men and charging forward, driving a hard elbow into their jaw before they could swing the pool cue at him. Another, wielding a corkscrew, tried to drive it into his throat from the side but he'd moved just enough that it merely grazed his jacket, giving him a window to shove him into the pool table behind him.

Suddenly, a weight was on his back - a larger man grappling, restraining his arms in an almost vice-like grip and hauling him back, leaving him open to the cue-man, who started raining blow after blow upon him. He felt his own teeth crack, the coppery tang of blood washing over his tongue - and perhaps it was the adrenaline surging through him, or perhaps it was the curse the plague had left behind, but he hadn't felt the corkscrew punture through his ribs as the other man recovered.

Kandahar spat blood into the corkscrew-wielder's face, blinding him for just a second - it gave him a window to drive his knee forward into the cue-man's groin, and slam the back skull against the nose of the big man restraining him, hard enough to break it. That worked enough, giving him a window to pull free - and he threw his weight forward like a man possessed, sending a hard strike for the corkscrew-wielder's temple, then another until he crumpled over and didn't get back up. Cue-man came up once again and got glassed in the eyes for his troubles, which left only one-

Kandahar felt the larger man grasping for him once again, raining more blows down upon his head in a dizzying, white-hot rage. This time, he lost his footing and was forced to the ground, the big man's weight atop and pinning hin down. As they grappled, he could feel the big man clutching for the pistol that he'd kept concealed just beneath his waistline but had been jarred loose in the commotion. With no alternative, he lunged forward and sank his teeth into the man's throat, as hard as he could, and a muffled shriek loosed from his lips.

Kandahar spat a chunk of torn tissue off to one side, snorting as the bigger man rolled off him...

---

It had taken a few minutes to wash the blood away, giving him time to contemplate and collect his thoughts.

Kandahar's fingers tightened around the faucet, closing it shut. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror one last time, finding almost a stranger staring back at him, then fastened up his jacket to hide the crimson blotch which had formed around the gash in his shirt.

Stupid. Reckless. The big man had almost stolen his pistol from him. Not that it would've mattered, but a gunshot would've drawn undue attention. Slowed him down. And considering the position that the government were taking on his kind, it was not a situation he cared to deal with.

In the front end of the bar, the tang of blood, sweat and piss lingered in the air. And alcohol - in the absence of gasoline, he'd poured whatever flammable spirits he could find across the floor. A few crates and barrels in the backroom, now overturned, had served as ample substitute - and the wooden furniture here would catch quickly enough.

It was time he made his exit, Kandahar decided. He'd made sure his hosts weren't in a position to walk away from what they'd done and had taken what he wanted, payment for services rendered in the form of a dufflebag slung over his shoulder.

With a lighter generously donated by the big man, Kandahar lit the end of a soaked rag that he'd stuffed into a full bottle and tossed it at the wooden counter - peeling out of the building's rear exit just as the smell of smoke begin to reach his nostrils.

Priest and Hawthorne Investigations: A Modern Fantasy Adventure!

Two (technically 3) character concepts I was evenly fond of, open to you picking out whichever one you'd rather have aboard the RP.

Nate Bishop

Name: Nathan Bishop

Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Male - He/Him

Race/Species: Human

Age (Real and apparent): 34

Appearance:

Nate doesn't carry a particularly imposing figure: a wiry frame that tops out at 5'9 and a sharp, thinly-rounded face with a low-cut shaven head and closely cropped beard of coarse, black hair. His bronzed skin is the only other feature indicative of his Afro-Cuban heritage. Though his eyes are normally a deep brown, there are periods where the colour seems to periodically flicker to a lighter tone. Or maybe it's just an optical illusion, a trick played by the mind.

A man of practical habits, Nate dresses for comfort - usually throwing on a hoodie or a jacket over a t-shirt, with a sturdy pair of cargo pants and rugged hiking-boots serving as his go-to choices for leg and footwear respectively.

Personality:

A firm work ethic and sense of diligence steer Nate on a path towards professional and overall good conduct in the workplace, much to the extent that he sometimes forgets that he's not carrying a badge anymore - he retains a good sense of what he thinks is right and wrong and near-exclusively sticks to the former in his actions. Though attentive to work, he's not an exceptionally difficult person to speak to, generally exhibiting a sociable if not friendly disposition towards others.

Being exposed to the reality of the world, where matters are not quite so mundane, remains an ongoing experience for him - he's not entirely comfortable in his own awareness of things like eldritch monsters and overgrown arachnids and it shows on some of these occasions, often making him seem like the rookie to his more seasoned, senior coworkers in PHI.

And it would not be wrong to suggest that Nate has found life as a living anchor for the spectre of his dead coworker, Detective Gabriel Ward, to be a challenging experience - indeed, there are periods where he feels the stress and trauma of the original experience bubbling to the surface, culminating in moments of frustration or despair.

The experience was a traumatic one, which ultimately forced him out of Chicago PD when his attempts to investigate Gabe's death and subsequently 'erratic' behaviour demonstrated in view of other cops led to his being placed on an indefinite leave. Though he respected and considered Gabe a good friend, there are moments where he resents involuntarily becoming an anchor to the mortal world for his dead coworker and the toll it's taken on him.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:

If it wasn't already clear, Nate is the living anchor to the mortal world for the spirit of his late coworker, Detective Gabriel Ward. Wherever he goes, Gabe's spirit is linked to him and manifests in the form of his old likeness, perceptible only to him and those privileged few capable of sensing spiritual entities such as the undead. In practice for Nate, this link gives him a certain sixth sense that's not wholly infallible, occasionally giving him an eye for certain illusions concealed in plain sight or letting him pick up a hint of spiritual residue, even letting him see whatever Gabe can. It's not cut and dry - he's still a rookie at this gig, after all.

This link also has its drawbacks - traumatic experiences aside, there is a certain personality bleed which has seeped through, causing Nate to recall slivers of memory and adopt a few curious habits which once belonged to Gabe - drinking as a coping mechanism. He's not quite aware of it yet, though Gabe hasn't missed it.

Though he's but a man, Nate brings just under a decade of Chicago PD experience under his belt, having passed the detective examination a good few years prior to his life jumping off-track. He's not necessarily as seasoned as some, but he's got some solid instincts that serve him well enough, with some added guidance from the spirit anchored to his own.

He's in fairly good shape, can manage a lengthy sprint and take care of himself in a physical confrontation with the average streetwalker, but he's no prizefighter. Likewise he can competently handle most conventional firearms and handles driving exceptionally well, having once attained a Precinct record for an advanced driving course back in his CPD days. He's also a moderately fluent Spanish speaker.

When Nate isn't out on a job, he's either drinking somewhere quiet, perusing through casefiles at the office or otherwise trying to keep his mind occupied and away from less pleasant matters. His social media presence is minimal at best, just enough to keep in touch with a few friends and family when he's not busy at work - that, and occasional checking in in Gabe's two daughters to see how they're doing. Otherwise, he's spending his time checking on the news or listening to policing documentaries.

Nate's performance at Skee-Ball leaves much to be desired; it's just not something he's had a lot of time for. He prefers ice hockey, personally. That, or foosball - and that's assuming he's not busying himself with one of the racing cabinets at the arcade.

Gabe

Name: Gabriel Ward

Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Male - He/Him

Race/Species: Spectre

Age (Real and apparent): 50 (48 at death)

Appearance:
Most people can't see Gabe unless they've got some form of innate connection to the spiritual or otherwise magical realms. Those who do, however, see the shade of a stocky, middle-aged male with sharp features and a cropped salt-and-pepper beard, typically wearing a grey sports jacket. On a bad day, his form takes on a more haggard approach - his wrists and throat carved open and his clothes spattered with dried, black blood. On the worst, that decay is amplified - depending on the situation and Gabe's frame of mind.

Personality:
Death has an unusual way of altering someone. In Gabe's case, it exaggerated certain aspects of his personality - partially as a coping mechanism, and partially on the basis of death being a life-changing, traumatic experience.

A sharp, dry wit and an overall sarcastic demeanour can colour his interactions with Nate anyone else in his presence. Being dead certainly amplified his sense of gallows humour, giving him an edge rivalled only by the underworld. Otherwise, he has a good sense of what's right and wrong and the varying grey areas inbetween, even if his work ethic isn't quite as diligent as others.

Buried beneath this front is the shade of a man somewhat embittered by his predicament, unable (and subconsciously unwilling) to move on and trapped as an echo of his former self, unable to experience something as simple as the taste of good liquor, or the warmth of another human being. Periodically, this frustration surfaces, usually in the form of outbursts lashing out at anything or anyone he can - usually leaving Nate to serve as the emotional punching bag.

Gabe does truly care, though - though loathe to admit it - and deeply misses the connections he lost, including those he had with his (now-adult) daughters.

Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Being a spectre with some limited grounding in the mortal realm, Gabe is particularly limited in what he can do - or be seen by, given that only the most perceptive or circumstantially positioned (ie, undead) are just about the only people who might be able to perceive him, apart from Nate. Having a non-corporeal form, he can pass through most forms of matter that don't have any form of spiritual protection placed upon them to ward off spirits, which does allow him to survey Nate's surroundings. But as Nate is his anchor to the world, he can't stray too far away without encountering great resistance, akin to having an invisible leash fixed around him.

When focused, Gabe can interact with certain objects and aspects of his surroundings on a limited basis - knocking over a glass here, leaving a handprint on a window there. And in the presence of the recently deceased, he can inhabit and puppeteer their corpses for a limited period, akin to hotwiring a car and taking it for a joyride before the anti-tamper system kicks in, though his senses remain dulled - like pressing through latex. Technically, he could possess Nate and use him as a proxy - but he's never figured it out, nor would he test it.

A 24-year veteran of the Chicago Police Department at the point of his death, Gabe has a few good decades' worth of policing experience under his belt and then some, having enrolled in the academy not too long after some brief service as a tanker in the Gulf during Operation Desert Storm. Casework and filings were his bread and butter, something which hasn't dulled despite several years of being dead.

Apart from that, he used to be a competent cook. Nothing fancy, but many at the old office could've attested that his fried chicken and waffles recipe was to die for, getting the batter just light enough that it was just the right amount of crispy. He also had a soft spot for a few classic 80s-90s scifi movies, particularly Aliens and the Terminator.

Skee-Ball? Yeah, he used to be a pretty good shot at that - better than Nate for sure. Even now, he could probably give the rest of PHI a run for their money, provided nobody cheats by placing some form of barrier spell against the balls.

Excerpt from a Bureau of Internal Affairs report on Detective Nathan Bishop.

Det. Bishop's personal integrity and commitment to law enforcement is without any doubt, and his service record warrants no further question. My concern, rather, lies in his fixation on events surrounding the death of his former co-worker, the late Det. Gabriel Ward. For context, Det. Ward was found dead under unusual circumstances that were ruled to be suicide by the Medical Examiner's Office. Det. Bishop has insisted on several occasions that the death was a homicide and, despite multiple warnings from their superior, has continued on several occasions to pursue an extrajudicial investigation in contradiction to Department regulations, including the misuse of Department resources to continue said investigation.

It has also been brought to the attention of the Department that several of Det. Bishop's co-workers have anonymously come forward to report instances of erratic behaviour on his part, including the consumption of alcohol while on-duty and engaging in conversations and 'arguments' with the late Det. Ward - though Det. Bishop has firmly denied such allegations.

It is for this reason that I recommend Det. Bishop be placed on indefinite paid leave, pending referral to PCD under TISMP and post-counselling assessment.

Clark Fraser

Name: Clark Fraser

Gender/Pronouns (as applicable): Male - He/Him

Race/Species: Vampire

Age (Real and apparent): Chronologically 69, physically 12

Appearance:
Clark is what some might disparagingly refer to as a 'Pinocchio' - a vampire trapped in a child's body, allowed to turn at a young age. He carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, grey tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, cool to the touch. Though undeath leaves him relatively unblemished, he does have a rather deep gouge running along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve - acquired during an early childhood mishap.

Clothing choices deemed 'sensible' for a child tend to be limited, but Clark usually finds room to wear a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, usually with a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of fingerless gloves, if it's winter.

Personality:
To say the least, Clark is frustrated by his predicament - stuck in a child's body, unable to enjoy the 'perks' of an unholy immortality by virtue of being too underdeveloped to experience the world. No room for any form of intimacy, or even joining others for social occasions at the bar. It leaves him with a certain bitterness at times, typically reflected against those beneficiaries of unnatural longevity with none of the drawbacks of perpetual childhood.

Being dismissed or mistaken for a child agitates him, and he bristles at the mere mention of the phrase 'kid' or other such diminutives, particularly when speaking to people who by all rights may be several decades younger than him. This sore spot, especially around his peers, drives Clark to subconsconsciously compensate for this by behaving in an egregiously unchildlike manner whenever it's not absolutely necessary, demonstrating a firm commitment to good work ethic and an overall serious if not professional demeanour when on the job.

Though not an extrovert, he reciprocates a mutual respect towards those who treat him as a peer, even demonstrating sprinkles of dry wit and sarcasm while steering away from the cold, callous behaviour that others of his kind have been reputed for. That's not to say he's without any skeletons (or exsanguinated corpses) in his closet though, but he keeps such matters close to his chest and takes a ruthlessly pragmatic approach to being a 'predator'. At least, so long as the thirst is kept in check.

Powers, Traits and Abilities:
Though locked in a child's body, Clark has doubtless been blessed with the unholy gifts bestowed by vampirism - particularly his senses. His eyes have adapted to maintain visibility in the dark, his ears are so fine-tuned that they could probably pick up WBBM-AM and his nose could rival a bloodhound's. If there's a trace of anything left at a scene, be it gasoline, ectoplasm or, above all else - blood - Clark can pick up its smell, even its taste from mere presence. Were he a decade older and precluded from the predatory habits of his kind, he'd have probably made Chicago's finest forensic investigator.

Perceptive cabilities aside, Clark is far more robust than his appearance would suggest, able to commit to admirable feats of speed, stamina and endurance while exhibiting a degree of strength that far exceeds what a 12 year old boy should be capable of demonstrating. He can scale steep walls and adjust his center of gravity to cling to the ceiling, too - among other troubling examples of behaviour uncharacteristic for 12 year old boys.

Sunlight, silver and other appropriately treated materials are corrosive to the touch, burning his skin upon contact and would doubtless prove fatal if exposed for sufficient duration, with fire having a similar effect. A stake or some other such implement impaled through the heart probably wouldn't do him much good either. Otherwise, he is functionally immortal, capable of regenerating from the most grievous of injuries in a matter of minutes.

Of course, all of the above does largely depend on Clark sustaining himself through feeding on the lifeblood of other living creatures. His robust capabilities wax and wane, depending on how much and often he sates the thirst, with wounds lingering and strength faltering when deprived of blood for too long. This growing weakness, coupled with the addictive nature of the thirst, is often enough to drive him to moments of frenzy if left unsated for too long.

Certain religious symbols, specifically those of the Abrahamic denominations, do produce a certain unease in him - personal scars from an unpleasant incident in the late '90s when some would-be evangelist attempted to 'redeem' his soul by locking him in a basement surrounded by silver implements and religious imagery.

Other gifts of vampirism - telepathy, shapeshifting and the power to enthrall other beings - all remain beyond Clark's reach, having little practice, understanding or awareness of the true heights of vampiric power. Perhaps, with time, he might be able to explore this ceiling, but that may take decades - centuries even, provided he even tries at all.

And unholy capabilities aside, Clark's not above using his diminuitive form to deceive or manipulate others into getting to where or what he wants - perhaps without even needing to play into the magnetism that vampirism lends its gifted. After all, nobody's likely to gun for the child as a suspect at the scene of a disaster - though it is a very, very sore spot of provocation for him.

Though not a conventional fighter, Clark has learned to be pragmatic and opportunistic where appropriate - relying on more underhanded tactics to compensate for his smaller stature on those occasions where he's needed to be forceful for his own good. He knows how to operate a firearm, but anything larger than a pistol or a plinker tends to be a little too clunky for his diminutive form and most would raise an eyebrow to the prospect of leaving a child with access to a firearm. He's a better pitcher than a marksman, anyhow - anything from baseballs to bricks - and Skee-Ball, naturally. The rest of PHI found a worthy opponent when Clark came aboard, on the occasions he actually bothers to participate.

In theory, Clark knows how to drive stick, though he can only just about reach the pedals and not without raising eyebrows. Bicycles are a little more manageable, though typically made redundant when not keeping up a public face and on occasion he's taken a dirt bike for a joyride when walking, running or climbing haven't been so convenient.

A product of his time, Clark shares an eclectic fondness for rock and heavy metal music to help him focus, with a select collection of tracks on his phone. The same applies to his tastes in media - though where video games are concerned, he struggles to appreciate anything newer than the SNES - perhaps his perspective was a little skewed by the unconventional controller layout of the then-revolutionary N64.

Across various social medisla outlets, Clark has established quite the footprint under various aliases, surprisingly enough - though it serves an ulterior motive that few would find as a good topic of conversation for the dinner table.

Background:

The faint thrum of hospital machinery, ventilators and heart monitors pulsed against his temples. A dozen footsteps and voices idly chattered outside the hospital room, unaware that an interloper had scaled the wall to clamber in through the window.

Clark blinked at the fragile creature resting on the bed, garbed in a speckled-blue gown that ran from shoulders to knees, an IV line snaking its way from the bedside stand into her sleeve. Time had robbed her of many things: her youth, her memories and now? Her health.

His sister wasn't long for this world, that he knew, from what he could follow of the countless conversations and private doctor's messages he'd pried upon. Illness was terminal, this time - and even if it wasn't, lucidity eluded her more days than not. Her own children couldn't bear to watch their mother fade away, seldom making personal calls anymore, and for all intents and purposes she was the last of their family.

Clark knew he shouldn't interfere. Shouldn't say anything. He was a ghost, and yet...

“Judy?“ The name slipped out of him.

His voice was barely above a whisper, yet her frail form seemed to stir in mere seconds and her withered expression seemed to light up.

"Clark?“ she spoke hoarsely, "Is that you?“

Too late to back out. "It's me, Judes..." The words spilled out awkwardly.

"Clark... where've you been, huh?" her greyed brow furrowed, leaning forward as though she wasn't aware of the IV drip feeding her fluids, "We've been worried sick." Age had robbed her of just enough lucidity to to deceive her into thinking they were just children once more.

"Mom and Dad, they've been worried sick for you.." Dad died in '91. Mom in '98.

But Clark tried to pass it off, best he could with a kind lie. "I was just with Tommy, y'know?" A retiree now, last he knew. At least he got to grow up. He knew the truth was too much to bear or believe. Far better to tolerate a gentle scolding - any excuse to spend a little time with her, face-to-face.

"Even Frank.." Judy's features creased a little more as she chided him, slowly forming the words, "H-he went looking all over for you, he can't sleep." Frank enlisted in '65 and got shipped off halfway across the world to Vietnam. In '67, they shipped him back home in a box. Clark loosened a soothing hush to try and calm her, leaning in close enough to be drawn into her embrace.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, with a childlike sincerity he hadn't felt for some time, clutching her tight as he felt her heartbeat strum a familiar, waning chord. "I didn't mean to upset you." Perhaps for just a moment, he could truly be a child again, in body and mind. Forget about what happened to him. Forget about everything he'd done - had to do, wanted to do. Forget that he was stuck somewhere between spending eternity as a child and the black oblivion which lay beyond. For a moment, Clark could be the little brother and forget.

But not the thirst. No, never the thirst. It was always with him at the best of times, like a scratch on the paintwork of a brand new Camaro. And for a brief moment, perhaps by instinct alone, he became acutely aware of her heartbeat. How even her ailing body carried blood - that it would be such a tempting moment, an opportunity. And there he was again, no longer a child.

No.

The thought shamed him, and he stiffly drew back from the thin, leathery arms that had been drawn around his shoulders. Even as that part of him tried to justify the notion, that Judy could join him - he recognised the folly of it. What life would that be? Her mind addled, her body at its final juncture. Would she have ever entertained it if her mind was her own?

He decided not. Better to let Judy rest. It was time he made his exit, before his senses failed him.

"I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes." Clark lied, turning away so she wouldn't see the black finger creeping from eye to cheek. "Just get some sleep." He didn't stop to see if she acknowledged that, but he felt the faint murmur on her lips. Goodbye.

As he left the room, he felt the reverberating thrum of the burner phone resting in his side pocket. Idly slipping it out, it took him but a few seconds to scan the SMS that had crept across the screen.

looking forward to seeing u buddy. ;)

Another matter to attend to, a friend - the kind that were easy enough to bait out if you trawled the right places. The kind that might've been a predator to some, but prey to him. Which was for the best, really.

The thirst was never truly apart from him. Self-control had its limits.

Clark keyed a few letters back in a well-rehearsed motion, then hit send.

see u soon