Name:Camila Yoselin Garcia Muñoz
Alias: La Muñeca
Age: 26

Occupation: Freelance Computer Consultant: emphasis on data retrieval and analysis.
Location: Mexico City, Mexico.

Supernatural Abilities:
(Prophet/Oracle) Camila can see fragments of the pattern, through blood be it animal or human. The ending of life allows Camila a broad view of events and allows her to see the pattern in general, while blood sourced from a creature that remains living creates views with specific ties its past or future. Currently, she is unaware of the role life plays in her visions and believes that the difference lies in the distinction between human and animal blood. At the moment, her visions are fragmented and do not make much sense. She has no way of telling whether the things she sees involve the past or the future. As she grows stronger, it will become easier to separate the past from the future, and the fragments will become smoother more coherent visions.

Psychological Profile:
Camila Muñoz is a hard woman. Her life is centered around the eradication of the various drug lords that torment Mexico. Having survived five years in forced prostitution, she is not free of emotional scars. While she doesn’t hate all men, she does not allow herself to grow close to any of them. As a result, any sort of intimacy is non-existent unless she feels she is in absolute control. Often described as velvet covered steel, Camila has become as cold and hard as the very drug lords she hates. However, can be calculating and is willing to obtain information on the cartels’ movements by any means necessary, not excluding taking advantage of the pretty face that had once condemned her to a life of slavery.

Biography:
Camila has a long list of reasons to hate the cartels. Not only have they poisoned her country and people for decades, but she’s fallen victim to them as well. At sixteen, Camila was rounded up along with various other girls in her town and kidnapped by the Nuevo Leon Cartel. Her family was told she was held for ransom, and were asked for an exorbitant amount of money.

In truth, while her family scraped to round up every cent they could, she was sent to Mexico City and forced into the prostitution ring. She was a victim of the human trafficking trade for five years. During this time, she observed and did as was necessary to survive, silently feeding her growing hatred each day she remained under their thumb.

She escaped five years later. After having seduced one of the overseers to distraction, Camila stabbed him with his own switchblade. The pain, anger, and trauma of five years culminated in a lack of control she hadn’t experienced before or since. To this day, the details are fuzzy to her. The woman only remembers stabbing over and over, until her hands were covered in his blood, making away with a good amount of the cartel’s money.

At the time, she suffered what she believed to be hallucinations that made little sense to her. Images of fire and people screaming overwhelmed her. It wasn’t until weeks later, after she had managed to escape, that she understood the meaning of the things she had seen. The fire that destroyed the building where she’d been kept all that time made the headlines at the time. Her heart ached for the girls she couldn’t take with her the night of her escape, but she felt the cleansing flames as surely as if she’d been standing in the midst of it all.

However, as punishment for her actions, her family was slaughtered. Perez’ men moved swiftly and no traces of her loved ones were left by the time she managed to make it home. Having nothing left, Camila used the money she stole from the cartel to finish her schooling and eventually get a degree in computer science.

Her experiences have created a deep rooted hatred for all the cartels, especially Nuevo Leon. She hopes to do all she can to eradicate them and free Mexico. In the end, she freelanced as a consultant, a career path that gave her enough free time to pursue her vengeance against the drug lords.
Edited by Camila, Oct 17 2014, 04:40 PM.

Continued from Let the show begin

Hood hadn't dallied in that shit club for long. After Jaxxen left, Hood excused himself from the ladies and took his leave. The music was garbage, the atmosphere brutally shallow, and the company entirely boring. Not the sort of place where a good brawl was likely to break out, and the only enjoyable about one happening in a place like that was watching all the rich boys try to fight. Oh sure, most of them claimed to practice some sort of martial art, but none had actually thrown a punch in anger before, and it always turned into some pansy hair-pulling homo-erotic roll-about on the floor.

The transition from shit-club to his place was a quiet one. He didn't bother with a driver to take him back, relying instead on the metro, holding some hope that some shitbird would try jacking his wallet or mugging him. But he got none of that, just an awkward conversation with an old woman rambling on about the good old days. Not a bad conversation really, and Hood put on his 'charming' face for it. No reason to be mean to a crazy old lady, right?

It took a few hours to get back, but it was still easier then trying to drive from the heart of Moscow to the outer slums. Traffic was always thick in Moscow. He did his usual circuit, walking the perimeter of his place, making sure there was no obvious signs of recent activity, then a similar circuit inside. The three dogs were present as usual, huddled under the front porch and away from the cold. They were out of the wind, and it was a fairly tight space, so they were well insulated enough to survive the night without too much gripe.

Like was proper, Hood discarded his suit and saw it properly hung. A solid half hour was spent just making sure it was free of debris, stains, and wrinkles before it was set into it's suit-bag, ready to be carted off to the dry cleaners the next day, leaving him in a pair of sweatpants and little else.

The accommodations were kept cold; Hood could easily stomach a chill room, and there was no point in jacking up the heating bill. He hadn't made any major changes with the place now that the renovations were complete. The smell of fresh paint had faded, replaced with that of gun oil and a general sense of clean. The place was spotless, kept neat and tidy and hardly a speck of dust to be found. He wasn't the sort to sit idle, after all.

By then, Jaxen was either in a shall grave or had made good his escape. The man was a slimy one, and had someone survived as long as he had less from personal skill and more for luck and opportunity. Hood could attest to that luck, considering the last time he had met the man had been in the undercity, on the menu for some Rougarou.

Or, maybe they had come to realize that not everything the Atharim said was evil was actually evil. The man was greasy, sure, but about as harmless as any other spoiled rich kid. He somehow doubted they had come to that conclusion though. He had no trouble killing folks, he just generally preferred a good reason. Like they were trying to kill him, or were at the least dangerous. Wasn't any fun otherwise. Some folks out there considered humans the ultimate prey, but Hood considered them not worth the effort.

He walked barefoot into the chill night with some leftovers and a bowl of water, which were stuffed under the porch for the fleabags. The water would be frozen by morning, but they'd be able to get their fill before then.

Then he just stood on his porch, nothing but sweat pants and a cigar, puffing away and surveying the dark neighborhood around him. He made a point of not smoking inside; it was just bad manners, even in one's own home.

His phone, not a Wallet but an actual dedicated cellphone (outdated, but harder to track then a Wallet, and cheaper to toss and replace), disturbed his moment of calm and he dug it out of the pocket of his sweats, glancing at the unregistered number code before answering. The news was less then pleasing. It was all code of course, but the gist of it was a hunter was wounded. And if the voice was that Seth fellow, it probably meant that Rune was the one that was hurt.

He'd have the place ready for them when they arrived. A few more puffs of his cigar and he scowled in annoyance before extinguishing it on the rail of the deck. A perfectly good way to ruin a very excellent cigar. He brushed the ash away so it wouldn't stain the wood, then moved inside, where he began readying what he'd need to patch her up.


Edited by Hood, Jun 30 2014, 06:38 PM.

Calvin departed from the train and checked the time. Sighing in relief, he moved quickly. He should be on time, but it was always better to be early for job interviews; prospective employers loved seeing people enthusiastic to get to work on time. After the hunt with Sierra, Calvin had returned to town and ordered some dark colored contacts to hide his eye color; after a day of keeping his head down or facing the stares of people wondering what was wrong with him, Calvin had decided to keep his eye color hidden from the view of the general public. The contacts were the cause of his rush this morning. They had arrived the day before and it took him over a half hour to get the things in his eyes. Calvin had almost given up, but on second thought, the contacts would be a better choice for the interview. There was no better way to bomb an interview than to freak out the boss.

Calvin had seen the posting for a mechanic at Viktor’s Garage the day after he had returned to town. The job would be perfect for him, and Calvin wasted no time in applying for it. Two days ago, Viktor Volachov called and set up an interview with him for this morning. Calvin had time, but he wanted to arrive at least fifteen minutes early to show his punctuality.

The garage itself was located in a fairly nice part of town. It was in the business district and the white painted building, although it was old, was very well maintained. It didn’t have the look of many older car repair shops in the United States – chipping paint, with corroded engine parts scattered around. Viktor’s in comparison, appeared to be recently painted. The area around the garage was clear of debris and the sign itself wasn’t corroded and could be easily read by any passers-by. The bay doors were open, and Calvin could see the tidiness inside the garage as well. Viktor obviously took pride in his work.

Calvin smoothed a wrinkle on his light blue shirt and adjusted his tie before entering the shop. A woman sat at the desk behind the counter talking to a man. She wore a white blouse and her black hair was in a ponytail. She was surrounded by typical secretarial equipment – a computer, phone, lots of forms, and office supplies. The man stood on the opposite side of the counter. He was taller than Calvin by a couple of inches and had dirty blonde hair. The bruises on the man's face were prominent, but had partially healed. He had with him a laptop and some USB cables. As he approached, the woman caught sight of him.

”Excuse me.”
she said to the man at the counter and turned towards Calvin. ”Can I help you sir?”
she asked politely a smile on her face.

Calvin turned towards the man, ”Pardon me, I don’t mean to interrupt.”


The man’s response was courteous and professional, ”No problem. Go ahead.”


Calvin gave the man a smile and turned towards the woman. He got a glimpse of her name plate on the desk that read “Amelie Avalov.”

”Good morning. I have an interview with Mr. Volachov this morning.”


”Oh, you must be Mr. Johnson,”
she said and Calvin nodded. ”His office is right over there. He told me to send you in when you arrived. I’ll call and let him know of your arrival.”


”Thank you.”
Calvin turned towards the man, giving him a nod and a smile. ”Thank you, sir. Both of you have a wonderful day.”


Amelie smiled at him and the man responded, ”Thanks. You too man.”


Calvin offered them both a nod and moved towards Viktor’s office. He first passed through an employee break room and on the other side was an open door leading into an office. The office inside was neat and an older man sat behind the desk, talking into his phone. He wore a typical mechanics coverall with a patch on each side of the chest. The patch on the left had the same logo from the sign on it, while the patch on the right bore a stylized “Viktor.” He bore a few wrinkles and a white beard. The twinkling in the man’s eyes gave the man an even greater illusion of Santa Clause. The man was cheerful, even while talking on the phone. Calvin approached the door and saw on the window the words “Viktor Volachov” confirming the man’s identity.

Calvin waited until the man had set the phone down before knocking on the door. The man looked up, smiled, and stood. He walked with an energy he wouldn’t have expected from a man his age, reaching his arm out for Calvin to shake.

”Viktor Volachov. You are Calvin Johnson, I presume?”
Volachov asked as Calvin took his hand.

Calvin was surprised at the strength of the man’s grip. Regardless of his age, the man was very healthy and Calvin immediately liked him. The condition of his shop was a testament to the pride the man held for hard work. His demeanor made Calvin think that the man had a deep respect for those he employed. Not to mention, you can tell a lot about a man from his handshake.

”Yes, sir,”
Calvin responded returning the man’s bright smile.

Viktor nodded and gestured towards a chair, ”Good. Please sit.”


Calvin did so and Volachov sat on the other side of his desk and pulled out Calvin’s resume and application, ”So shall we begin.”

Edited by Calvin, Jul 1 2014, 03:34 PM.

Here is a list of the current Partially Playing Characters (PPCs) and their writers in case anyone would be interested in involving them in a thread

<table>
<thead><tr><th colspan="2">NOTE: Players may have no more than 3 on-going PPCs at any time. This does not include partially playing character that aren't meant to have more than one appearance.
</th></tr></thead>
<tr>
<th>PPC</th>
<th>Writer</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Scion Marveet</td>
<td>Jaxen</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
Giordano Pirozzi
Dr. Isaac Flynn
Victor Shcherbakov
Alistair Pavlo
</td>
<td>Aria</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Lucas Andreeff (Upgraded to PC)</td>
<td>Aria</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
Luciano Moretti (Deceased)</td>
<td>Giovanni</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Gustavo Perez</td>
<td>Zoya</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
Takeo Onoda Affiliates
Junichi Yamada
Kasumi Fujimoto
Sergei Braun</td>
<td>Takeo </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
Jessika James Thrice </td>
<td>Jensen</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Consul Leonid Pavlovich Bykov
Anatoly Yushakov
Elouera Galloway
Consul Alexandra Lesya Vladislavovna

</td>
<td>Marcus</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Marta Gonzales</td>
<td>Enrique</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Baron Declan Darius Ashlan Cooper Gregory</td>
<td> Dane Gregory</td>
</tr>
</table>


NOTE:
PPC's have a limited purpose: i.e. the development of a PC or their storyline. Should they expand, and start having character development and/or growing relationships with other PC's then they are approaching the realm of a PC. If you want to upgrade a PPC to a full fledged PC, a submission of a proper bio and PC application is required .


Should an on-going PPC die in the course of a storyline, then it may be replaced by another. If you let me know of any changes (PC upgrade or character death) I'll note it in the roster.

Feel Free to post a PPC on this thread and I will add it to the roster on top. Include a brief description of who they are and the basic character details like their name, age, and if you like a location. You may include an image with your 'brief', but the basic image guidelines apply:

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Quote:</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>


Keep the picture, style, dress, etc in context with our modern setting and current timeline. You picture must be of an actual person, not a drawing.

"I've been dreaming for so long,
To find a meaning
To understand.
The secret of life,
Why am I here
To try again?"
~Within Temptation, Jillian

Thin, ivory coloured fingers swept through tousled, raven black and blue hair, as a small woman ran through the dark Underground city of Moscow. Never had she thought she would be overseas, and Moscow? No. Although, it didn’t seem to matter where she went, it was always the same. Her wanting, sickly needing, for something more, and the landscape? Not surprising that the best place she fit in, was far beneath the well-to-do, and hustle and bustle of another yuppie city. Granted, she had heard that under President Brandon’s rule, things were better here, possibly better opportunities.

Breathing heavily, her chest burned, and she winced. Her new thought had been to try and engage in some type of new physical activity to get her mind off of her addiction; however, just as moving to the other side of the world had not helped, neither did running from it. Abruptly, she came to a stop, furrowing her dark brows at a gaping hole in the wall of the caved sides of the Underground city. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, to make sure her new “neighbours” weren’t following her again, she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side in wonder.

Possibly, it was just another old subway tunnel...or maybe, it was something more. Inhabitants of the “city”, ranted and raved about the things they had seen in these parts: Reptilian-like creatures, cloaked monks, monsters, altars to Gods unknown. When stories like this crossed her ears, she often smirked, titled emerald eyes glittering, and said something like,

“Yeah, I’ve seen weird shit in my life too.”


It wasn’t that she didn’t believe, her early life had been based around mythology, but hearing it from one drug addict to the next? Her sources weren’t reliable.

Pursing her lips, she studied the entrance to the tunnel, and ran her fingers along the dirt encrusted wall, her wan fingers began to shake slightly and she pulled them back from the wall. Biting her lower lip, she shook her head, and looked back at the tunnel.

If there IS something down there, I HAVE to know what it is
. Her lips quirked in a half-smile, and she slipped into the tunnel. The rustling of her long, tight-fitted blue coat was all she could hear, and she suddenly began berating herself for not bringing a source of light with her. The heels on her boots clicked loudly on random pieces of what she thought must have been metal.

Gods, I’m stupid, coming in here alone.
She felt like a rabbit climbing into a fox den. Serena closed her eyes, as she suddenly felt the tightening of her chest grasp at her lungs. No, no, no. Not now..You idiot, Serena. Keep it together!
But she couldn’t, sweat began to bead on her brow and upper lip, her knees locked as her calf muscles cramped. The large, steel-toed boot of anxiety crashed into her chest as she hit the ground.

“Dammit!”
She yelled in frustration and self-hatred. How long had it been since she had used? Surely, she had something left, something hiding in the small secret pocket of her coat. Tingling fingers fumbled into her jacket, only to find her pocket empty. The familiar tightening in her throat, the thick ball of tears that would never come, threatened to cease her breathing.

“Right here? Right now?”
Her eyes opened to reveal the same darkness that had hidden behind her lids. She felt utterly alone, yet...the fear of the unknown clung to her like a thick fog in the heavy darkness.

Panicking, she shook, and reached within, grasping at whatever she could, she needed help!

And there it was, flowing swiftly through her. The same powerful, euphoric feeling that made her feel more alive than anything artificial. She latched onto it, somehow pulling it towards her, trying to will it to do something, anything!

Light! I need light!


What she got, was a fire. Near by debris, burst into flames, and Serena screamed.

Edited by Serena Morrigan, Jun 28 2014, 11:05 PM.

Character Name: Serena Morrigan

Age: 20

Origin: New York City

Occupation/Skills: Serena is a homeless drug addict; however, she used to be one of the top dancers at an underground club

Psychological Description: She has an addictive personality, and she tends to be manipulative. Serena is mischievious, and one can often tell by what seems like a spark ignited behind her eyes. Her sense of humour can often be odd, and sometimes dark

Physical Description: She stands at 5 feet 2 inches, which she often hides by wearing high heeled boots that come to her knees. She has a small build, and often attempts to accentuate the curves she has but wearing a long, tight-fitted coat, that buttons just below her chest. She contains pixie-like qualities, her eyes are emerald in colour and slightly tilted, and her hair is short, blue and black

Powers: Channeler

Current Strength Level: 6

Potential Strength Level: 21

Experience Level: New

Reborn God: The Morrigan- Triple Goddess. First Incarnation: Maeve


Biography:

Tilted emerald eyes stared up at what could be seen of the starlight, between two large brick buildings. A glaze deadened them from their usual mischievous spark, as they searched the night sky. There was something out there, something bigger than her, something she seemed to be grasping at her entire life. But what? This can’t be it. Cool, wet bricks seemed to support the deadweight of her small body, as if it was the only thing keeping her from sinking into the ground. She willed it, weakly, to happen. Slowly, her heavy lids closed, merely to blink, and it seemed like a great feat in itself.

Just die, already! She cursed herself silently, and tried to move the muscles in her neck to shake her head in disbelief and it caused a series of cramps to erupt along her spine and shoulders.

Ok, no moving. Moving is bad.

The small woman let out a soft snort, and her lungs seemed to burn with the same pain that had wracked her back. Then it happened, the emptiness, the chills, sweating profusely, the uncontrollable convulsing and cramping of her legs, and the familiar stinging need. She opened her mouth to scream, and nothing came out. She tried to turn to her side, pulling her legs to her chest, and whimpered as she clasped her arms together, cradling herself in the fetal position.

“No…” She managed a moan, and she ached to feel, to cry, but she couldn’t. She was the shell of a human, breathing other people’s air, merely existing just to get her next fix.

Twenty years of life on this earth, and this is what it had come to. Laying practically unconscious in dark alleyways, yearning for a substance that would take her away from all of this. It would wash away the pain, physical AND emotional.

Once, she had had a family, and a glorious job that made her feel like a celebrity. The young woman closed her eyes, attempting to hold onto her memories, but only caught glimpses of the positive moments, and recalled with a movie-like quality, the pain and anguish of so many others.

Serena’s family had originated in Ireland, and had immigrated to the United States fifty years before she had been born, long before the tumultuous and unpredictable natural disasters had begun to consistently tear at the world. She had been born into a middle class family, both parents were kind, hard-working individuals.Her older sister was the type that was good at everything she did, especially scholastically. Serena had been the troublemaker, the athlete, the “artistic” one. She never finished anything, even if she was incredibly good at it.

The Morrigans were Wiccan, and practiced their craft in a small community of gatherers in upstate New York. They had freedom, as long as they kept their practice to themselves. Serena had never questioned their faith, it was what they had always done. As far as she knew, she was part of a line of hereditary witches, that traced back as far as what she had learned of the Inquisition and Witch Trials. She knew she had had ancestors that had been burned at the stake, and that was all that she needed to fuel her fire to keep her faith.

It was not until she was 17, that she learned how dangerous it was to be Wiccan. Her faith and family were hunted, and now, all she could recall was the heat of the flames licking at her window pain, crawling up the walls, and she...running faster than the wind, only to look back at her sister’s face, gasping for air, hand outstretched clawing for someone to help her...And Serena, did not.

A week later, the small teenager found herself sick, feverish, and leaning against a cool brick wall in the heart of New York City. A young man had taken her in, thinking she was withdrawing from a binge. He took care of her, nursed her back to health, and implanted the glorious of dreams of fame, fortune and beauty into her mind. He promised her wealth, and the love of many. He promised her the magical world of the underground. She could become whatever character she wanted, as long as she danced.

And so it was, for the next two years, Serena became a beautiful blue haired pixie, adorned with wings and sparkling with glitter. She had always been able to dance, and moved her body in the most seductive of ways, always in tune with the music. She became a celebrity in the underground club scene, and she reveled in every moment. The magic, they mystery of each night was never enough for her, until she was given a small little pill, and that was all it took…

Her journey within was even more tumultuous, than the one without. Her disease of addiction, increased with every pill, line, or needle. All she cared about towards the end, was her next fix. She could not eat, sleep, or function without something to take her out of her own mind. It was her constant search, her need for something greater. As the rest of the world was wracked by earthquakes, floods, political uprisings, civil wars, she became too withdrawn to see anything past her own eyelids. She was selfish, ruthless, manipulative and bitterly lost.

It was to this end, coming to in the alleyway, where she ended up. One last hurrah, that should have killed her, but didn’t. Here she lay, cold, alone, hungry, and completely unaware of any other danger than herself.

“Well, hello there, little lady.”

Serena shivered, and slowly opened her eyes, standing above her were two large men. One grinning a slimy, greedy smile; The other, straddling over her curled legs, twirling a knife in his hands.

Whimpering, Serena shook her head. “Please, don’t.”

The man standing over her, reeked of alcohol, stale urine, and sweat. He grasped at her short raven and blue coloured hair, his thick fingers tugging on it, so her head lifted off the ground.
“A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be laying all exposed out here.” He traced a chubby finger down her luminescent cheek.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Serena looked up at the full moon, peering out from behind the roof of one of the buildings next to her. She closed her eyes tightly, and bit down on her cheek. The rusty taste of blood dancing around her tongue.

“Aw, look at that. So easy, not even a struggle.” The raspy voice of the first man, crept closer to her, and his breath was thick in her ear, causing her to shudder.

A strong hand grasped at her left leg and pulled it away from her other one. The man that had whispered in her ear had moved to the lower part of her body, and his thick fingers reached their way up to her thigh.

Serena screamed silently, infuriated and afraid.

And for the first time, in a long time, the young pixie-like woman reached out. Goddess, if you are still there, if you still even exist. Help me….NOW! Something seemed to well inside of her, it grew with each thought, each feeling she fed into it. It swirled within every part of her body, her mind filled with ecstasy, with inexplicable joy, with what felt like the strength of the Gods she had only read about. She slammed her fists into the ground, and let out a growl. The bricks erupted around her, and tossed her assailants back against the wall. Concentrating, the pools of water, that had filled in the alley from the earlier rainstorm rippled, and the gutters on the building shook, as she lashed out towards the men with her hands. Water seemed to seep out from the earth, the air, and a loud crash from an erupting fire hydrant echoed in the night. She felt alive, a power coursing through her veins that she could never have injected there. A spiral of water, like a strange oceanic tornado, plummeted towards the large men, pushing them back into the street, into traffic.

Quickly, she turned to run, leaving the devastation behind her. Sprinting, her legs seemed to carry her with her new found strength, however momentary it would be, she did not know; but, she ran until she no longer could. She immersed herself in the concrete jungle.

In a weeks time, she found herself dragging her feet, running her hands along the same cool bricks of the alleyway. She pressed herself against the building wall, and sunk down to a crouching position. Tremors engulfed her body once more, her eyes burned with fever, and she leaned forward to empty her stomach. Shaking her head in disbelief, she smirked as she thought how ironic it had been that she had not taken a single drug, nor injected anything since that night. The pure, invigorating euphoria she had tapped into could not be compared, and now, she was still suffering from what felt like withdrawal symptoms.

Dizzy, she leaned forward to empty her stomach again, tears forming in her eyes, she wretched uncontrollably. A gentle hand reached out to her, and ran soft fingers through her hair. A cold, wet cloth was applied to her neck, and a soft voice spoke to her,

“Come, child. There is much I have seen, and much you must learn. There are others like you…”

Edited by Serena Morrigan, Jun 28 2014, 08:55 PM.

Character Name: Jared Vanders

Age: 30
Birthday: August 1 2015

Origin: Roswell, New Mexico – Currently – Sierra Leone

Occupation/Skills: Soldier/Mercenary – A reconnaissance expert and good at collecting information from computer systems – 2nd Dan Black Belt in Aikido (Nidan)

Psychological Description: Jared enjoys having a good time and getting to know new people. Due to experience, he responds well in crisis situations and is able to keep his head and make good choices. He is willing to do potentially bad things in order for the good of all believing that often times, the end justifies the means. He has a strong love for his brothers and sisters in arms as they are his family.

Physical Description: He stands 6 feet tall and weighs 180 pounds. His hair and eyes are both dark. He is strong, but not overly muscular.

Powers: Channeler

Current Strength Level: 15

Potential Strength Level: 38

Experience Level: Adept

Reborn God: Osiris

Biography:

Early History
Jared was a child prodigy. He excelled at most things that he put his mind to. He was also very intelligent, skipping two grades in school and graduating from High School at age 16. Growing up in Roswell, he had an interest in stories of aliens and UFOs and enjoyed attending the local conventions. While he was interested in many things, such as video games, reading, math, and science, he had two main areas of study that he really enjoyed and focused on: computers and martial arts (aikido to be specific). At age nine he began studying aikido at a local dojo and he had made his first app by age 10 (a math game to help younger kids learn how to add and subtract). By sixteen he had graduated from High School at the top of his class and had begun attending the University of New Mexico. At 20 he received a Bachelors of Science in Computer Engineering with a specialization in coding, cryptography, and information protection. He also received his second Dan Black Belt (Nidan) in aikido at this time. As his college graduation neared, Jared came across a recruiter for the Marines. After speaking with him for some time, and learning the opportunities he would have to utilize his degree in information gathering, Jared signed up, much to the dismay of his parents.

Life in the Marines
Jared joined up as a member of the MARSOC. He was assigned to be a part of the Special Reconnaissance Division and as such underwent training for working behind enemy lines. Training included deployment of sensors, commando operations, signals intelligence and unconventional warfare. As a result, he spent time working with computer systems, but also underwent a strict combat training program.

After training, Jared was deployed to several areas, but had little real combat experience. He kept up a strict training regimen, however, keeping up his skills in marksmanship, martial arts, and computer engineering. At 25, something happened that would change his life forever. His unit was doing a training exercise and one of his close friends and partner in the exercise, Michael James, was accidentally injured. It was a simple accident that had been caused by a piece of wood that was hanging out in the open in the building they were using. He would have been fine, but Michael’s hand landed on a nail as he tried to gain his balance. The wound wasn’t bad, but it was bleeding.

Jared reached for his radio, “Sergeant Castle…”


Suddenly Jared felt a power filling him inside. Michael began to shudder as the wound on his hand closed before their very eyes.

“Vanders, is that you? Respond!”
Jared heard his sergeant say through the radio.

“Nothing, sir. James had a dizzy spell, but seems to be okay now. I’m bringing him outside.”


James felt a little tired from the ordeal, but agreed to keep silent on the matter. Both men had no idea what had happened.

They exited the building and the medical team checked out James and all turned out okay. Sergeant Castle gave Jared a strange look as he walked by.

The next day, Jared was sick with flu-like symptoms. He had a fever, was vomiting, and could barely stand. He was sent to the infirmary and was commanded to stay in bed until the symptoms had passed.
He had a few visitors come in throughout the day to wish him well, but Jared was surprised to see Sergeant Castle come in.

“Hi Sarge. Forgive me for not standing and saluting.”
Jared said before coughing.

“I know what happened, Jared.”
Castle said matter of factly.

Jared coughed again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”


“Come on. James was injured wasn’t he? And you did something and healed it.”


Jared paused a minute before answering,“Yes, sir.”


“You have a special gift Jared. One I have as well. It’s also why you’re sick today. People like us disappear if others find out. If the sickness continues they’ll find out. I can help teach you to control it. Then you will be fine. You have a talent for healing, and although my talents are different, I think I can help you. We’ll start practicing as soon as you’re well…got it?”


Jared moved his mouth without speaking for awhile, still figuring out what just happened before answering, “yes, sir.”


The next day, Jared was up again and he began training with Sergeant Castle. Castle taught him some basic exercises, but they soon found out that Jared could only channel if someone was hurt. This posed to be a serious problem as neither one of them wanted to hurt someone just so Jared could heal them. Castle thought of the problem and soon came up with an idea. He faked an injury, putting fake blood and a slash in his pants, and went to find Jared.

“Jared,”
Castle said, walking in. “I’ve cut my leg. It’s not bad, so it would be good for you to practice. Now just as I taught you.”


Jared went though the exercises, and felt the power flowing through him (due to his love of video games, he referred to seizing the power as collecting mana), and channeled (which he calls using magic or spell casting).

“Stop!”
Castle said as the spell began to touch him. He raised his pant leg to show Jared that his leg was fine.

Jared had stopped immediately, his military training obeying the order as soon as it was issued and then he laid his eyes on the leg. His eyes widened as he realized what the sergeant had done.

“Good,”
Castle said sitting up. “Now watch and do what I do.”


Castle made of ball of light that floated above his hand. Jared copied it. The exercises continued, Jared, now unblocked, was able to copy Castle’s spells. They continued practicing. Through practice, they learned Jared was not able to just use healing magic, but he could also use combat magic. His ability to use combat magic, was smaller than Castle’s (who specialized in combat magic), and they came to the conclusion that his abilities wouldn’t be as strong in each area, but he could do more than most.

Eventually Castle got sent to Officer Training School and Jared was promoted to Sergeant. He remained in MARSOC until he was 27 and then decided to go into civilian life.

Civilian Life
Jared returned to Roswell, his military experience earning him a spot in the Roswell Police Department. He soon moved up the ranks and joined the SWAT Division. For the next year and a half, he would live the quiet life of a civilian. He practiced his magic occasionally, keeping his skills up as he did everything else. He joined an aikido dojo and continued practicing that as well, but he found civilian life rather boring compared to military life, although he did find some friends in the police department. Jared began to realize that he was a soldier and he wouldn’t be happy until he rejoined that life and was fighting for a good cause.

When Jared was 29, he ran across a rerun of Bear Grylls' Escape to the Legion documentary. He did more research on this Legion, now called the Légion Première. Without hesitation, Jared submitted an application to join. Upon receiving confirmation that he had been accepted into their training program, he met with his parents to tell the news. They were less than enthusiastic.

“What the hell do you want to go doing this for,”
his dad asked between bites. “You’re a genius. You can do whatever you want and you choose to go around getting yourself killed.”


“I’m not getting myself killed dad, and besides, it’s not your choice. It’s mine.”


“Doesn’t mean I have to like it, boy.”


The words hurt. Jared did want his parents’ approval, although he would do this without it if needed. What seemed like a long silence passed in the room, his mother quietly sobbing as if making a louder sound would cause more tension.

Jared broke the silence, “Dad, what do you do? I mean, what’s your job?”


His dad spoke without looking up, “I’m an electrical engineer, you know that, boy.”


“What would you say if I told you that you should go work as car salesmen?”


“That’s silly, I’m an electrical engineer.”


“Dad,”
Jared waited until his dad looked up and met his eyes. “I’m a soldier.”


A glimmer came into Jared’s dad’s eyes and his mother’s sobbing abruptly stopped. His father looked at him differently than he ever had before. There was a deep respect in his eyes that Jared had never seen before.

His dad put down his fork and gestured for his wife to stand up. They both moved towards Jared and he stood to meet them and as a family, they hugged.

“Know, son that we are only concerned for your safety. We can’t prevent you from being who you are. Keep safe. We’ll pray for you and write. Please write.”
His dad said.

His mother kissed him on the check and his dad stuck out his hand for shaking. Jared took it, but brought his father in for a hug.
He hadn’t expected his parents to be there when he left for training, but they drove him to the airport themselves and stayed until the flight left.

Légion Première
The training was brutal. Nothing in the Marines compared to the three months of training he had for the Légion Première. There were constant psych-evaluations, the field training seemed to continue forever, and despite growing up in New Mexico, it was hot. Jared woke up early, trained all day, and then was glad to get to bed at night.

Despite the toughness of the situation though, Jared quickly found himself accepted as one of the trainees. He had a new family, and they become quite close knit, relying on each other for morale support and a good kick if it was needed.

Jared made it through training and was a member of the Legion for a year when the Sierra Leone Crisis started. He was then shipped off to Sierra Leone to help.

Other Notes
As Osiris reborn, he takes the form of Osiris the god of death and rebirth, which is why he is able to use both combative and restorative magic. However, as a “jack-of-all-trades” of channeling, he excels at none of them; rather he has a moderate ability in each. For example, he can do typical “battlefield” healings, but is unable to heal more mortal injuries. Because of this, he refers to himself as a "Red Mage" Given his training in more "traditional" forms of combat, he prefers to use his hands to channeling.

Assigned to the 4th Platoon, 1st Company, 1st Battalion






Edited by Jared Vanders, Aug 1 2014, 03:21 PM.

Who wants to add it to the Norse section? Doesnt' really fall under godwars, but is interesting stuff.

She was offered the chance to be dropped at her apartment. Torri thought about it a good, long minute too. There was nothing she wanted more than to strip her socks, stand in a hot shower, and sleep in her own sheets.

She curled her hand around the plastic bag that held her tooth. "Take me to the Facility,"
she said with a sigh. She'd slept there often enough in the past. Sure the bunks were cold and the clothing standard, but there were also kits that could see to patching up her face. If the dentate printer didn't jam again, she'd have a new tooth by morning.

She'd been given a temporary Wallet until a new one could be issued. It buzzed in her hand and she shot awake.

She was still in the back seat of the car.

She cleared her eyes and frowned at the message.

"I'm on my way in."
She tapped out a brief reply. It was a good thing she wasn't going home anyway. It would have been a bitch to have gotten her hopes up for nothing.

This was his twenty-fifth Christmas in the Kremlin.

The first one was clear as yesterday in his mind. At the time, he was the newly elected president of the Russian Federation. What struck him at the time was the scale of the scenery. The tree in the Red Square was a perfect cone that dominated the foreground of St. Basil's Cathedral. Every ornate corner of GUM was illuminated by a miles and miles of lights. He recalled the sound of his footsteps muffled as he strode the red carpets of the Grand Palace and trying not to gawk at the decor. The Russians bathed him in luxury at first, trying to win the heart of their new president like he was a Tsar reborn.

Twenty-five years later, the Ascendancy stood in the same Grand Palace hours before his twenty-fifth state Christmas dinner, although it was still days before Christmas. December twenty-fifth; his twenty-fifth state-dinner; twenty-five years in the Kremlin. Forty-three years after Bologna; after the car park and the Dreyken, after the Atharim and Rome, after Garret tried to kill him for saving their lives in a way Nik knew not how.

He closed his eyes and swallowed the sting of emotion. The hurt was an old wound now but fresh as his memory of that first Christmas in Moscow... and Rome.

He absently rubbed his arm. The scars were covered by the pristine sleeve of a white dress shirt but he could feel five ridges beneath his fingertips. He would be wearing a tuxedo tonight. The affair was white-tie, opulent and gaudy, but Nik tolerated it for the necessity it was. People needed to see the CCD celebrate their power, to see the Ascendancy calm and collected; confidence in his authority kept him in authority. There were many an instance of men coming into power who knew not how to keep their power. That's what the dinner was about: Christmas happened to be the excuse.

A quiet ding drew his attention to a glass workstation suspended from the ceiling. When powered down, the glass glittered like a crystalline work of art. Everything in the god-awful room was art. The Grand Palace itself was a show of force, but the Royal Apartments were built for Tsars, for the gods of the Russian empire.

Alek Brandon, Nikolai's father, was of Russian descent, but when Nik swept his gaze across the wider room to reach for the tuxedo jacket, he felt little connection to the suite. Mosaics of jade, topaz and gems adorned the walls like jewelry. A panel in the reception room contained thousands of precious stones dripping forever in a waterfall of riches. Antique Parisian clocks ticked on marble mantles. Fireplaces of alabastar or malachite blazed with fires large enough to stave the chill off the harsh Russian winters. A swirling sky of chandeliers scattered drops of light like the beams themselves were bent to the will of the empire. A box stamped with the gold leaf of the Imperial Treasury waited on a table. He had yet to decide if he could bring himself to wear what was within.

The glass workstation brought up the image of a staffer. "Commander Vellas has arrived, sir."


"Let him in."


"Yes, Ascendancy."


Why bring Michael to the Royal Apartments rather than the executive offices in the Armory building?

Nik settled his tuxedo jacket on a suit rack and muted the work station of all its screens. With the glass quiet, they might as well have been plunged into the middle ages. It was a fitting place for the greats to convene.