Character backgrounds

So it seems like there are going to be a lot of characters leaving the game soon. Since their pasts can't really be used against them, I would love to read some of their backgrounds. I've learned over the years that there are few things LARPers like more than telling everyone about their characters. The trouble with this is that then everyone knows things about your character.

I also really like reading origin stories so I would love to read how characters became what they are. Keep in mind if there are things in your background that are spoilers for other characters or the game's plot it's probably best if you edit those parts out.

so to get things started:


v Born Johnny Holland on Jan 17, 1924 in Dothan Alabama.

v Did poorly in school, but excelled at athletics growing up.

v Father disappeared in 1935 during the height of the Great Depression

v “Uncle” came to live with him and his mother until Johnny left home.

v Won First team All-State and Second team All-American in Football (cornerback) during senior year of Highschool.

v Had already been offered full football scholarship to several schools when he dropped out to enlist in the marine corp on his 18^th birthday.

v Shipped out to South Pacific in March of 1942.

v By the end of the War had risen to the rank of Master Sergeant

v In fall of 1943 fell in love with a fellow marine named Henry Jeffery and maintained relationship until end of the war.

v After the war was over was devastated by the decision made by his lover of 2 years to return to the girlfriend he left behind.

v Returned to Dothan and went to work in working on a peanut farm.

v In late 1946, Johnny went to visit Henry in Charleston South Carolina. Henry would only meet with him after countless phone calls and told Johnny that as far as he was concerned nothing ever happened. The meeting ended with Henry spitting in Johnny’s face and saying if he ever saw Johnny again, Johnny would be beaten to death by him and his friends.

v Heartbroken Johnny returned home.

v Accepted a job 100 miles north of Dothan in Columbus Georgia.

v On weekends travelled to various cities in south to enjoy underground amusements.

v In June 1953 was arrested for violating Alabama’s sodomy laws when caught in a public restroom with a black man. Both he and the man he was with were beaten brutally by the police. Johnny was sentenced to 5 years in jail. The man he was with died before reaching the police station.

v By January of 1954, beatings by fellow inmates had become a typical experience. The prison guards did nothing to stop the attacks. Shattered bones, ripped open flesh, and internal bruises became part of daily life. On the day after his 30^th birthday during what was especially severe attack, things changed. It had been one of the worst beatings in months. As his head connected with the floor he could feel something snap. One more punch and his life would be over. He looked up to see a fist hurtling towards his face.



Lying there almost dead, Rada awoke. A flood of memories came back all at once. Countless lifetimes of turmoil filled his mind. A clarion call to war seemed to ring out through eternity as he was suffused with the overwhelming power of the symphony. In the moment time seemed to stop. He could feel drawn to living out the existence of a stalwart warrior constantly resisting, but striking back only as needed. Struggling with that urge there was also a seething hatred.

Thousands of years passed as these two forces struggled against one another. In the war against the Morningstar, he dimly remembered standing fast holding shut the gates of heaven, not striking back against his enemy, knowing that to do so would be releasing the gate. As a Lord in Babylon a distant memory of smashing in the skull of an assassin sent to kill him. As if through a fog, he could see himself as a Roman centurion standing at the entrance to a Gallic village dieing in battle to give the villagers time to flee from a gothic attack. In a jungle somewhere he revelled in the blood as his teeth sank into the heart of an enemy impaled body lay at his feet. A dark Spanish dungeon surrounded him as he forgave his captors while they tortured him, but still refused to betray the trusts of his parishioner’s confessions. He was in a prison in Alabama and looked up to see a fist hurtling towards his face. Thousands of years and a tenth of a second was all he had to make a decision. Roll out of the way or…

Rada reached up and grabbed the fist. Startled, his attacker tried pulling back his hand for another swing but screamed in pain as he looked down at the fleshy sack of blood and crushed bone at the end of his wrist. Rada stood up still surrounded by a half dozen men, but no longer worried for his own safety.

Three counts of murder were added on to his sentence, but Rada worried very little about that now. The knowledge of being abandoned by God was freeing for Rada. Rules that he had attempted to follow before no longer applied to him. Like the son whose parents had always said, “as long as you live under my roof…”, Rada was no longer under the roof of the Lord and even in an earthly prison, he was more free than he had ever been in all eternity.

Rada chose not to escape immediately. There was a knowledge that there were others out there like him and he wanted to gain a better understanding of his condition before encountering them. No longer the prison bitch, Rada became feared amongst everyone. Even the guards were cautious around him now. Early on some prisoners attempted to attack him as a group. The excuse to reek bloody vengeance on those who would attack him was more pleasurable that Rada would have imagined. Eventually no one attacked him any longer and prison became boring.

While working on a chain gang during the summer after his arrest, Rada decided to leave. Ripping the chains in half, Rada used the tool of his oppression as a weapon for his release. The fight was to escape was easy. Knowing what to do next was not.

This is the back-story I wrote for Shapurnippal. I'm not entirely happy about it, but I couldn't bring myself to edit it after I wrote it one afternnoon:






The swing took Shapurnippal in
the gut while he was trying to inhale. He doubled over. The world spun. He
could suddenly feel cool grass against his cheek. The White Knight loomed still
for a moment, but he still seemed to wobble in the Jester’s eyes. For a moment
he felt as if he was falling again, falling through the ground to some ancient
undergloom, and then the light hit him again.


***


Anthony Nashton breathed the
cool, sweet air of the forest around him. It was like something out of a film,
out of a dream. A mighty glacier rose beyond the mists of the trees around him.
He paused for a moment to drink the moment in. The outlines of the Hindu Kush
Mountains hid the sun from him, making this morning feel more like a second
twilight.


Then he set off again. He wasn’t
just here for sightseeing, he repeated to himself. He was there to write a
story about some Mujahedeen group called al-Qaeda,
which had called on Muslims from all around the world to join the resistance
against the Soviets. It was all so idealistic and… romantic. Perfect for some
English Lit prairie boy to make his name. Or so he hoped.


He’d been told in Peshawar that
he could find one of the ISI’s Mujahedeen base camps around here, a few miles
from Gilgit. A lonely mountain trail about 30 miles long was the only route
he’d been given. Well, he needed the exercise.


A few miles up the road – and it
was ‘up’, in every sense of the word- a tiny hamlet that was little more than a
few log porches built onto some caves clung to the side of the Mountain.


He spoke a little Urdu- he’d always
loved the languages of Persia and India, and they seemed to come naturally to
him- and he’d picked up a couple phrases of Shina, the language of the Northern
peoples of Pakistan, during his time here.


A few squirrelly people looked on
from one of the homes. A brief argument ensued between an old crone and her
equally ancient husband, both staring at Nashton from behind an old window,
during which they seemed to be debating whether Anthony was a Russian invader
of some kind or not. After a time they sent out a young lean-looking man- their
son, probably- to –welcome? Interrogate?- the stranger. After brokenly giving
courteous greetings and giving the poor tribal the gift of some coffee beans
and a nice pen (steel, with his father’s name on it), Anthony was welcomed into
the family’s surprisingly comfortable cave. This would make an excellent book.


A few minutes later Anthony was
drinking extremely bitter tea and was delighted to know that the old man and
his daughter-in-law both spoke Urdu. He managed to adapt- badly- a George
Carlin joke he’d heard for these people.


“How does a Baltistani Tibetan
girl know when her mom is, uh,” Slang translated badly. “When her mother’s
river runs red? Her brother’s dick tastes funny!”


He laughed. Everyone laughed. The
father snorted tea.


Still, he could feel a slight
tremor in his left hand. It couldn’t still be nervousness. Anthony was the most
outgoing person he knew, and this old mountain clan was being quite hospitable.
It wasn’t cold, either.


So why did he just spill his cup
of tea all over the floor? Why was the family now looking at him like he had
just spat in their face? Why did he feel like he was falling?


***


Shapurnippal shook his head. No
blackouts. He had to stand, goddamnit. Cheriour wasn’t going to stop anytime
soon, and neither would he. He rose to his knees before he felt something heavy
collide with his back and he fell again. Goddamn. At least with this crazy
bastard the beatings were lessons in how to take beatings- and maybe give some
back by watching how it was done by a pro. Not like he was supposed to gain
some wonderful fucking personal revelations from getting his head bashed in,
like that prick Rada’d assigned to ‘teach’ him.


***


Anthony Nashton swallowed, but
his throat was dry. He was lying in a soft white bed in a nice apartment. The
.38 felt cold and heavy in his clammy hands. The 4 months-old test results lay
at his lap. He felt that it would make a good enough suicide note. Kind of
poignant, really, though he wouldn’t go so far as to say poetic. Oh, fuck it.


He remembered his doctor being
looking at him very seriously. Like a rock. Like this was ‘The hardest part of
the job’, or whatever. And then saying ‘You may have Huntington’s.”


He’d furrowed up his brow for a
moment. “What?”


He remembered hearing that it was
a genetic disorder, that it caused his ‘chorea’- that was what they called the
jerking he’d had- that it would progress…


He’d opened his mouth, and let it
hang there for a second. “Oohh… Like what Woody Guthrie got?”


They told him that they might
have tested him earlier, if his biological parents- killed in a car crash when
he’d been 8- had lived longer. They said maybe the Chorea was what caused the
crash.


How sappy.


That had been 6 months ago.


He’d read up on this stuff.
Library and everything. He’d read that it was fatal. That it was a slow, slow
wasting away. That it would start attacking his brain soon. That there was no
cure. That there was no hope.


Well, you can’t choose how you
come into the world, but you can choose how you go out.


He would not go gentle, as Dylan
Thomas wrote.


He loaded the pistol. It was a
Target-shooter. He’d been pretty good in college. Silver medalist.


He wouldn’t be a victim. He
wouldn’t become some pitiable old soul just to draw out his little life. He
didn’t want to have to be pitied for his crippled limbs, his dementia. He had
to know he would die knowing what was coming. He wouldn’t be looked down upon
as some husk of a person. No.


The safety clicked off.


This was really the best way. All
the hospital had to offer him were drugs to keep his spirits high. Fuck that.


His fingers felt stiff. That was
another symptom. He brought the pistol to his temple. No trembling.


Jesus, he hoped he didn’t miss.
He didn’t know, his hand might jerk or tremble at the last minute. It had been
getting worse ever since it started back in that Middle-of-Nowhere hole.


Well, no more time for
remembrances and happy occasions. His index finger pulled in, he closed his
eyes. This was it. And…











Did he miss? His ears were
ringing like a gong. He didn’t think he’d missed. He pulled the trigger again,
and suddenly his hand was burning and bleeding and oh shit why would the gun
just explode in my hand?


And then it all came flooding
back.


Everything.


He was kissing the princess of
Deccan, her body robed in silk and sapphires, beneath a Crescent moon, the
scent of the blooming lotuses carried over the lake.


He was out of breath, a stampede
of bison a million strong charging towards him, his legs pumping acid, and he
knew this couldn’t last long.


He was shaking with the power of
God’s love for him, the eternity of strength encapsulated for him.


He was flying over the Himalayas,
mighty spires standing proud like the spine of the world, like a hundred hands
reaching to grasp at Heaven itself.


He was eternal. No, he had been
eternal. Now, there was a dark spot where that love had been. An emptiness
where that divine womb had been.


He was Grigori. He was Fallen.


He was Shapurnippal.


His name was whispered to him in
the rush of the Ganges, the chorus of a clan of Tigers. Writ in the ledgers
that were the spinning galaxies around him.


He breathed out.


He breathed in.


He laughed.


Now, to rage against the dying of
the Light.


He looked around. Fragments of
the pistol were lodged in the walls, in the pillow- and in his hand. Well, no
matter. However, his bed was now soaked in blood.


He heard muffled movement around
him. Someone was yelling “Was that a gun?” Another was screaming “Call the
police!” Over-reactors. Oh yeah, this building had thin walls.


Well, no way to explain this
predicament away.


He leapt out of bed and towards
his window. He’d go out though the fire escape. They wouldn’t catch him.


A dying man’s blood and bone, an
open window, a misfired pistol, one fired shot and a medical report. Let the
cops figure that one out.


He wondered what kind of friends
were to be had among the Damned.


***


Shapurnippal walked alone along
Elgin road. It was an odd sort of walk. His right leg hadn’t healed right, and
his left ankle was still sprained, so it was something halfway between a hop
and a limp that he was dancing. Fortunately he had trusty old Falstaff- a
walking stick formerly known as ‘metal bar that this dumbass construction
company isn’t watching’ (he’d thought naming it Falstaff was rather clever at
the time) - to keep him from tumbling all over the street. Today’s tutoring
session had gone… well, he supposed.


It was too bad that there was no
one around to observe this funny-walking vagrant-looking fellow.


Funnily enough, despite his left
hand being put out of commission, despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten for
three days, despite living in an abandoned warehouse that he couldn’t even call
a domus since it was shared with a couple other bums, he felt good about the
training. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. He would see this
through, and he’d be stronger for it. After all, he no longer fell in the first
two blows. He barely felt his broken ribs. He’s almost landed a couple hits on
Cheriour- he thought so, anyway.


“Hey, buddy, you need any help-“


Jesus, that guy came out of
fucking nowhere! The sharp report of Falstaff cracking against the man’s head
shook Shapurnippal from his reveries.


Hey, those were pretty good
reflexes.


He looked down. It was some
middle-aged WASPy-looking businessman type. He was still breathing. And this
would be a residential area, so somebody would see him soon and help him.
Whatever.


-However, he did have a very
fine-looking hat. A Biltmore Royal, genuine felt over leather fedora. Nice. And
it fit.


Speaking of which, he was
reminded of his distinct lack of any nice digs in this town. He’d kind of
picked up and left Saint-Boniface with nothing but a pair of jeans and a
T-shirt. Circumstances, though.


But now he had an obligation to
get something nice. All of his current clothes were torn and dirty and a little
bloody. And he was a Court dignitary, was he not? Sure, it was a joke office,
but weren’t they all? Named after goddamn chess pieces, they all were. And he
was the Jester.


He was the Jester, though. So something nice. Something colourful,
maybe. After all, he didn’t plan to just get up and hide away from this city
too. Something had to be done. After all, his position might be a joke, but
then again, at least it meant that he wasn’t just another pawn.


***


Goddamn motherfuckers.


White court and Black, both full
of assholes. Ever since that self-righteous Rook had left things had gone to
shit. Well, shit happens.


It wasn’t an easy decision to
leave his home of fourty years. But, well, he’d gotten on the wrong sides of a
lot of vengeful people. People who probably couldn’t spell the word ‘Codex’ any
longer. And he heard a voice in his head say ‘Go West, young man.” He’d go to
Regina. Maybe there things would be different. Fresh start. New faces. Hey,
maybe he’d catch up with Malicia and really, he’d only started appreciating her
work once she’d disappeared. Well, et sera, right?


It had really started that night
outside of Saint Boniface Cathedral. Shap and his Murder- his first and only
Murder, Les Cavaliers (he didn’t pick the name) had rivals to get one of their
own on the spot of Bishop- even if you had to leave your Murder, you’d still be
loyal to your comrades, right? – the Vicious Annies. Anyways, the Annies had
challenged the Horsemen to combat outside the Cathedral, the King didn’t care
about his Court eating itself- Slothful bastard- and the Horsemen’s most
commanding member was a bugged-out Wrath. He accepted before he even discussed
it with his ‘comrades’.


Man, that guy- Avrilo, was it?-
might be useful now, Shap thought. He could crack a head when he needed to. He
crunched his way over the gravel on the side of the road. It was a long way to
Regina.


Shap had split from the
honourable group combat the moment he noticed that all of his friends were in
pieces. He would have been killed too the next time the Annies- now technically
disbanded, with two dead and one given a Court position- found him, but an
incursion of the Host made him suddenly useful as another body.


That had been it. The roll of the
dice. The reason- well, part of the reason- why deep down, he couldn’t hold
onto faith. Luck. Arbitrary events outside of his control determining his fate.
Sometimes, horrible events went well for him. Other times, well… After all, it
was that very incursion when the White Knight of Winnipeg had demanded he
charge in against a rampaging angel on his own, without back-up. Refusing a
stupid suicide mission had apparently put him on that woman’s enemies list.


That had been a long time ago,
but Winnipeg is a stagnant fucking city, and old sins die hard in a place like
that. With a Prudence holding the White Court and a Sloth in the Black, nobody
ever did anything. Except that crazy Black Rook. Then she left. And everybody
wanted to take up her mantle. And all of them were united only by their grudges
against one oddball Hope with a weird philosophy of life.


Probably by now the city’d put
the fire in his domus out. He really wished he’d been able to grab more than
Falstaff before he could leave, but those Affections hanging around outside his
house shooting at anything that moved in the windows with SMGs might have been
the work of the same Fallen, or they might not have been. Anyways, it was all
nuts to him now. He could already feel the headaches coming on. His Fallen body
wanted to stay. Well, he wasn’t pressed for time now. Take time to recuperate
somewhere. Then keep going. That was it.


Life goes on.


***


The skull came off the bones with
a dull snapping sound, like bamboo breaking. Now Shapurnippal had to find some
excuse to walk out of the cemetery covered in dirt holding a human skull, since
traffic was just about to start up and he wasn’t sure about hiding in a grave
for several hours.. Hm.


He looked at his newest pet rock
from all angles, tapped it like he would a coconut. The jaw fell off. Oh well,
it looks better without it.


“Welcome to your new family,
Yorick.” He felt a little bad about that. He’d tried to find someone named
‘Yorick’ in the city, but the closest he’d come was this guy named Edward York.
Well, it was close enough, really, wasn’t it?


An idea set upon him. He took his
multi-tool- never leave home without it- and sawed a small hole into Yorick’s
bottom. He proceeded to stick the skull onto the top of Falstaff. They would be
the best of friends, he was sure of it. Now he would just look like some creepy
goth or overworked mortician or something. Or like a pimp. After all, he did
have a new hat and a new coat courtesy of 2035 Massey Road and its stupid
owners.


Shapurnippal hopped up out of the
grave with considerable grace considering his still-untreated injuries. It was
around eight in the morning. The sun was rising. Now, no doubt, things in
Regina had been truly shit so far, but hey, now he had a jester to cheer him
up, and it was a brand new day. The Black Court still made him their bitch but
he had sides they hadn’t seen yet. They’d come around. Or he’d throttle every
one of those bitchy sadistic patronizing fools. He hoped the former. After all,
this was one event he did have control over. Life had taught him that life doesn’t
hand you anything, and sometimes, it punches you in the face. But life included
him, too. And he’s always believed that together, we can change this world in
unspeakable ways.

Rada was ....a PEANUT FARMER!!????

Oh MAN.

*snort*
When Rada starts building houses for poor people, I'll be convinced.

He's kind of like a more angry but effective version of Habitat for Humanity. He just kills the previous owners (who were bad people anyways) and then gives the house to the poor (often times even former victims of the previous owners). He was like Robin Hood and Jimmy Carter all rolled into one.

I should mention that I think this thread is awesome. Rada and Shappurnipal were both so much more interesting than I knew! It's great to know where Rada got that chain; what Shappurnipal thought of Malicia's leaving; all that cool stuff. I especially liked the parts about the even older lives. I neglected that in my own backstory.

Anyway, I can't wait to see more of these, and am eager for the chance to post my own. Thanks!

Dave, that just made my day.

I aim to please.

Edward:

Innocence corrupted by demon, awakened ....awake?

studious, naive, pure. scattered, hurt, scared.

Stolen and corrupted. She saved her.

cheerful student. corrupted innocence. hope dreams.

The fallen saves those that fall.

The fallen saved she who woke.

Awaken: no doubt. Awake: not likely.

Those are way too much fun,


She was a loving daughter, worked hard at school and kept to herself, she was still pure like god intended, so why was this happening?

It all started a year ago in October when her mother passed from cancer. No to be honest it started when she was 6 when her mother married Him.

Her mother was always sick, her step father always lazy, cruel and abusive, but Lily worked hard to keep their family together, safe, fed and happy. For years she worked hard for her family, going to school working two jobs, and helping out at the church when she could. She tried to be the picture of what God wanted in his children. Then her mother took a turn for the worse, the cancer eating away at her mind and body, she tried harder but there was a limit to what she could do, soon her Step-father turned on her as well, Anger and blame being directed at her. He beat her daily making her do things she never wants to remember and sending her to that awful job where she had to exhibit herself for the pleasure of men. dropping out of school with only a little more to go for her full psychology degree she took the time to care for her mentally and physically ill mother and work another job to pay the medical bills and support her step-monsters new drug habit, she felt like she was going to fall apart but the love of God and the hope for the future held her together.

"Get out! Don't come back unless you have money with you, you little slut!" his voice rang with fury and was slurred from the alcohol that he had taken, as he took her by the hair and threw her out of the house throwing her work clothes after her. standing in the doorway he took a pose and smiled cruelly.
"that is unless you want to take your mothers place in my bed little whore."

Scared she ran off his cruel laughter following her into the night. As she ran to work her mind drifted again, she was always a bit of a dreamer. This time to when she was young and found a poor little kitten, it was in a box crying for help, poor thing was soaked to the bone and hadn't been fed for a while so Lily took it in, hid it in her closet feeding it her supper when she was fed, her mother forgot to feed her sometimes, but that was because of the sickness. It grew to 8 months before it was discovered, no she wouldn't think about what that monster did, she would think about how that kitten was better off in gods arms than in the streets, and how it reminded her of hope and how no matter how hard things got there was good in the world and someone would need you. This brought up a debate she had often with herself, about how useful she really was, and how the world would be without her, would it be better or worse? would someone else have found the kitten, or would it have died cold and unloved, no it's life was better for her, and inside she knew god had her here for a reason, to help any who need it, and God was making her face her trials so she would be able to help others. She knew in her heart that God loved her and that was enough, the warm glow that entered when she thought of him made her feel light and happy, she really was fortunate after all she knew gods love, and had a roof over her head, and jobs, it could be worse, someone else no doubt had it worse, perhaps someday she would be able to help them.

When she returned to that place of sin from work; he was passed out on the couch a bottle tipped on the floor and his crack pipe in his hand still. Snoring loudly she crept to her room and got ready for bed. Though she was not happy she knew everything would be okay, she would make them okay, when her mother got better the house would smell like cookies again and they could go to bingo together, her mother loved bingo. They even won once in a while. A soft smile played on her lips the taste of hope sweet on her lips and reminding her that no matter what they could overcome that no matter what she faced she would take care of those she loved and hold compassion for all of Gods children no matter how vile.

Almost as soon as she thought that did she feel the pressure of another person in her bed, the smell of old booze and bile flowing over her in a nausating way. So lost in her sweet memory and dreams she didn't even hear him come in.
"So where is the money? or did you decide to keep me company after all?" his breath was rancid and the way he moved behind her sickening. Coldly and cruelly she reached under her pillow and shoved her tips at him about $80 in small bills. "get out now or i will tell my mother how you are behaving and you will lose all her benefits." a strange feeling of strength entering her voice and her newfound defiance knocked him off guard, long enough for her to get up and move away. Getting comfy on her bed he chuckled.
"Really you will tell your mother, since when, and will you also tell her that you sucked my cock at night? that you work at a strip joint and dance for the pleasure of strangers. HA! I think not, so don't make idol threats little bitch, i might just take you now no one would stop me, no one cares, I can tell you now that even if you went to tell her it is too late! She has passed on while you were dancing your little slutty heart out. So what do you think now does my company seem more inviting?" his tone was cruel as was the laughter that followed his rancid words.
Taken aback litterally Lily stepped back her hands flying to her mouth as tears streamed down her face soft little no's flowing out of her mouth. then shaking her head forcefully she yelled at the top of her lungs in a voice of pure dispare "No! You lie!! All you do is lie!! " taking off she ran into the night, no shoes or even a sweater, just in her teeshirt and shorts. the cold october air stinging her flesh but she ran all the way to the hospital.

Running into the emegency room she demanded to know her mothers condition, but the slug didn't lie, she was gone, God had taken her into his arms.
Slowly and dejectedly she walked out of the hospital and wandered into the night her mind going over everything, all the memories of her soft mother, who always had a smile even if it wasn't for her, a woman who smelled of cookies on good days, and vodka on bad days. though she wasn't the perfect mother far from it she was still her mother, and the pain was so sharp, her only solace the fact that she was in Gods hands., needing to stay away from the place she once called home she walked to the west end to find a empty building to sleep in, that was when she was taken, she never even noticed till it was too late that she was surrounded, by sneering jeering men who had a nasty air to them, they looked like demons out of the bible. their voices cruel as the snatched at her, eventually catching her and dragging her into a building. Groping and grabbing tearing her flesh and her clothes before they tied her up and took her, they took turns beating her and raping her till they all had their fill and she thought she was going to die, to finally be embraced by His loving arms, it was only on the last one that she stopped crying and started to beg for them to end it in a small voice with no hope left in it true despair. When the last one came to her and she gave up the hope of living and things getting better, even questioning Gods love for her, only then did she feel true pain, her mind broke and she felt different she knew she was different, and it seemed the ones around her knew what had happened to her for they all gasped and then grinned their lost vitality regained, her head splitting and her mind messed she blacked out as they started a new round even more vicious than the one before, the last words she heard were from the leader saying in his weird way "we should keep this one for it will last forever. What will their special group think when they find out we have one of theirs! Ah! This night holds so many pleasant surprises!"

When she awoke finally she was still tied, but each time they tried to touch her they couldn't it was like she was in a bubble and they couldn't harm her anymore They also looked different they really were demons she could see it now, and she was terrified. Ripping the clothes that tied her up tearing flesh at the same time she stumbled out running and crying eventually finding the police, but by then her mind was gone and all they heard was her go on about demons and angels and how she was one who had fallen and that there were demons in the west end she could see them. Of course the police took her to the hospital and she was taken care of and put into the psychiatric ward, where her step monster signed over custody.

That was where she met Her, so Beautiful and Wise and understanding she saw Her, and she knew what to say and how to treat lily, it was as if she wasn't alone anymore. The priestess named Sophiel told her she wasn't in her sweet motherly voice, unlike anything she had ever heard before. she wasn't alone, nor was she strange. Sophiel told her so. And when the dreams came she was there, holding her and praying with her. But she could not be who she was, who she was could live no longer, her heart broken and body ruined, so Lily was no more Edward stood in her place a new person a new creature. Sophiel helped shape Edward and aided lily in casting off her horrid existence... Lily was no more after that. Only Edward.

So now even Edward refuses to remember, for to remember is to acknowledge Lily, the small child within who did what she had to for her mother, and was ruined by demons, both mortal and immortal.

No one need know the past.

It was rattled off pretty hurriedly, so not so dramatic as some, but if anyone is curious where and whence Bal came from I figured I would post it. Short from: It is all Tara's fault.








If you'd met Balthiel back when he Reckoned, you probably wouldn't recognize him. His last mortal name was Bernard Gray, and he grew up in a small mining town in northern BC, and in 1952 he enlisted to go fight in Korea, neglecting his last year of high school to do so. He saw some combat against communist troops, but what he remembers most from that time was the harsh terrain and brutal conditions. Later on he would credit his service in Korea with forging an iron sense of discipline and acclimating him to deprivation and hardship, though perhaps even then the angel of Temperance he once was and would become again showed through in the young man's personality.

When he left the army, he went on to join Vancouver's municipal police force. He did well in policing work - he wasn't the most ambitious or creative man, but he was tough, hard-working, and almost impossible to get riled up. He did his job, and he went home without much thought about what he'd been doing during the day. He might have lived an entire mortal lifetime like this, were it not for a chance incident while he was working crowd control at an anti-nuclear proliferation protest in 1969. He and his fellows were ordered to remove some of the "hippies" from the path of some VIPs, and they went in dutifully swinging their clubs. The protesters fought back, and things turned a little bit ugly. All throughout, he never lost his cool - neither he nor any of his fellow officers were injured that day. It wasn't the violence itself that shocked him, it was the faces of the protesters after they had all been handled, some of them bloody, others crying, others still swearing at the police. He knew people were afraid of the police sometimes, but the inequity of the situation truly struck him then, and he realized for once that what to him was just doing his job might be formative and traumatic moments those he encountered each day would remember for the rest of their lives. He'd never been so shaken on the job before, and other feelings that he couldn't understand at the time started flooding in as well as he stumbled home.

Kasael, the White Regent of Vancouver, found the newly Reckoned Balthiel a few days later. The young Fallen of Temperance adapted quickly, and found a home amongst the Divine quite quickly. He knew that his nature was that of mastery and self-discipline, but he determined as well to always think about the consequences his actions would have on others. He would be once again a soldier, this time fighting for the possibility of redemption in god's eyes. But he would not forget that though he had learned to master his own fears, desires, and rage, not all were so strong. He gradually grew into the ascetic warrior monk that is so typical of Temperance, sacrificing his own desires in order to defend those weaker than himself. He was strong so others didn't need to be. He quickly became well-regarded by the Vancouver Divine, and when Kasael assumed the post of King in 1981(after an unfortunate incident involving the previous King), he made Balthiel the new White Rook.

Balthiel served selflessly for over a decade, and likely would have continued doing so til he fell in battle, were it not for making the acquaintance of Taharial. A newly arrived Infernal Envy, Balthiel thought he sensed in her a potential for redemption. Perhaps it was the slight hesitation she seemed to show sometimes, just a little hint of reluctance. Perhaps it the youthful appearance of her body of clay. Most likely it was because Taharial was a skilled manipulator who was more than willing to use Balthiel's martyr-drive against him by appearing as the reluctantly damned soul just waiting for a savior. But just maybe it was because she just had a chance resemblance to one of those bloodied and beaten hippies almost two decades ago.

Balthiel made Taharial's redemption his priority even before he realized what he was doing. Some Divine are very well suited to wooing the lost into the light, Codex be damned. Balthiel was not one of those, and he had little talent for persuasion. But he seemed to achieve rapid initial success in befriending his charity case. She showed just enough promise to give him hope, but just enough evil to make the thought of her never finding salvation a very painful one for him. He was driven on to get closer to her in hopes of truly making a connection and thus save her soul. He began spending more and more time with her, both to protect her and to give her a chance to learn from his example. But it was he who was learning from her, and the lessons were not virtuous ones.

He found that in order to get closer to her, he needed to adopt more and more of her lifestyle. Bit by bit the code of ascetic self-deprivation he lived for slipped. At first, just a few drinks to fit in with her and her friends and make him stand out less. Then it was indulging in the luxurious accommodations at the homes she seemed to acquire. It was easy to tell himself he was merely adopting a mask, that he was only doing these things because they were necessary to save a soul. Things progressed, and his vows were broken one by one. He grew to believe Taharial when she intimated that her own moral weakness stemmed from loneliness and solitude, despite having plenty of mortal playmates. He sensed he was crossing lines when, with the noble purpose of giving her someone stable she could emotionally rely upon, he allowed himself to be seduced into her bed. He began to do more and more under the guise of what was essentially a cover-identity, all reasoning that if he lounged about for days, neglected his duties, let his temper go uncontrolled, and indulged in sex, drugs, and rock and roll, that it was all necessary, serving the greater purpose of putting him in a position to save a soul.

The breaking point came when Kasael, Balthiel's King, grew tired of his Rook's indulgences and came to Taharial's home to confront him. The argument became heated, but might still have been resolved peacefully had Kasael not blamed Taharial for Balthiel's state, and threatened to forcibly remove Balthiel and then see Taharial punished under the Codex for attempting to poach from opposed conviction. Even while telling himself he was still in control, Balthiel lashed out at his King, injuring him and driving him from the house.

It was only afterward, when he had time to calm down, that Balthiel asked Taharial if what Kasael had accused her of was the truth. She told him plainly that it was - that she had known his purpose, transparent as it was, and decided to play the same game. To Balthiel's surprise, he didn't know how to answer when she asked him if he wished to leave and go to repent before his King. Hurt and confused, he answered the question with a nightlong bender of indulgence that left Taharial badly battered and bruised, the stocks of food, booze, and drugs empty, and the house nearly destroyed the next morning. With a sick feeling, he faced the sunrise and forced himself to admit that whatever his motives going in, it had long ago ceased being about saving anyone. His justifications were weak and empty, and he did these things because he enjoyed them, because he had always wanted them but that he had been hiding behind his vows and his determination to live for other people. He resolved that if he could not be virtuous, he would at least be honest, and to stop hiding from his desires. It was only then that he realized the sick feeling he had felt was his Embodiment shifting from Temperance to Gluttony.

He fell further, and he fell fast. Further and faster than even Taharial could have hoped for.

In 1992, Bal formally resigned his allegiance to the Divine. Bal(the shortened name he now went by) quickly shed all the previous limits he had put upon himself. There is no fanatic like a convert, and as Bal became inducted into the Infernal he proved this true. Whereas so many kept a chain on their sinful impulses out of pride, self-integrity, or self-preservation, Bal's self-integrity was all tied up in his honour, which had discarded, and even as a self-martyring divine he had never had much of a sense of self-preservation. He collected vices with a passion, every passing day cutting the gap between impulse and fulfillment more and more. Taharial was the only one really able to control him, for he was not willing to control himself. Her willingness to take a firm hand with him seemed to accelerate his own lack of self-control, since he seemed so eager to discard his own abilities at impulse-management. No depravity was too low for Bal, and sex, drugs, and rock and roll mixed seamlessly with murder, rape, torture and cannibalism til the point where it seemed at times Taharial had very good cause to regret her accomplishment.

Many of the Fallen of Vancouver were disgusted by him, and even some of the Infernal quietly talked about dealing with him. But while Bal was rightly feared as the implacable Temperate White Rook, it seemed his fall had robbed him of none of his martial abilities, and indeed his loss of self-control gave him a vicious savagery that made him more fearsome than ever. When they saw him in battle with the demons who troubled the city during the Last Crusade, ideas of doing away with him went away, although many quietly hoped it would be only a matter of time since Bal fell in battle with the Host or the Horde. In the meantime at least, the Infernal always had use of a monster willing to kill casually, at least so long as Taharial could retain a rapport with him.

Bal has only become more unmanageable with time, and now is almost completely unrecognizable as the man who was once Bernard Gray, having put on over an hundred pounds, and the years of indulgence having warped his features. Almost a decade back, Balthiel was involved in the defeat of a Choir of Angels who had been exterminating Vancouver's Fallen, and managed to tear off and consume a goodly quantity of an Angel's flesh before it could be banished - since then, his penchant for cannibalism has become more of a need, and Bal even eyes up his fellow Fallen hungrily now. With Vancouver's Fallen population shifting with recent losses, Taharial felt their acceptance might finally be fading, and headed out East to find a smaller center to make a residence in, bringing her monstrous creation with her.

Hrm. The way I played it later, she was not 35 when she reckoned. More like 20. Oops.


What the mortals know: Corral Hampton, a 35 year old accountant from
New Jersey, went missing in June of 1994. Several days later, the
body of one Stuart Sutherland was found dead in his apartment. The
police investigated and discovered the remains of several women
throughout his apartment. Stuart himself seemed to have died from
natural causes. Throughout the next year, graves were found and the
deaths of young women around the area were attributed to him. The
case of Corral Hampton was never completely closed, but given that a
neighbour of Stuart had seen the two of them enter his apartment
shortly before his death, it seemed safe to assume that she was his
last victim, even though her grave was never found.

What really happened: Corral had 4 brothers, 3 of them older than
herself. Her whole life was, to her, one injustice upon another. Her
parents paid for her three older brother's college degrees, but she
had to work through on her own. Her youngest brother never went to
college, so she never realized that the truth of it was that her
parents paid less and less as the years went by, and did not have
enough money to help her do her education. They tried to explain it
to her, but she didn't believe them. They had always liked her less,
she thought. Her brothers were allowed out later, given more
freedoms, forgiven more easily. Some of these slights were real, but
many were imagined. When Corral entered the world of business after
university, it was to discover that men everywhere were treated better
than women: they made more money, were promoted more quickly, were
friendlier with the bosses. Again, not everything she saw happened
the way she saw it, but enough of the injustices were true that they
lent credence to her perceptions of the others. She began to believe
that everything in the world was unfairly balanced for men, and all
men took advantage of this. When she was abducted by the serial
killer Stuart Sutherland, everything crystallized for her and she
underwent her reckoning, becoming a Judicious Fallen with strong
leanings to Envy. She used her newfound powers to kill the man who
had stolen her, and immediately fled to Winnipeg, a good-sized city in
Canada in which she hoped to erase her own past. Not knowing anything
yet about the Fallen, she chose for herself the new human name Tristan
Grey and tried to assume that identity, not understanding her new
difficulties using technology and travelling until she was discovered
by the Fallen of the city.

The Divine Fallen of Winnipeg took a dislike to Malicia immediately.
It was obvious to them as well as to Malicia that her beliefs were not
in alignment with theirs. No, a benevolent God was out of scope of
Malicia's faith. She believed too strongly in justice, and saw too
many injustices in the world. If God still cared about either the
Fallen or humanity, he would not have allowed things to become as they
were. The Deistical's beliefs were more understandable, but the Black
Court drew her in from the start. They had a fire in them, each and
every one, and she found that she readily agreed with their assessment
of the state of the world. She even admired Deran, the slothful Black
king, for he was adept at seeing to the heart of any issue, and of
commanding his inferiors. The longer she stayed, though, the more she
felt that his guidance was holding them back. His attitude was
seeping into the others, and they would too readily let things sit in
favour of immediate action. This change of opinion, perhaps, came at
least partially because her own desire for action was rising as time
went by.

Every year that went by saw Malicia more involved in the city's
affairs. She began to see herself as both guide and avenger, aiming
to keep equality, especially of the sexes. It was her right and duty
to seek out those men who had more than they had earned, and put them
where they belonged. She would destroy their homes, or hurt their
kin, or end their careers. More often of late, she would kill them
outright, either unable to contain her anger, or because it seemed the
only way to right the wrongs she saw. If the man was simply lucky in
life, she emotionlessly cut him down to where he belonged. If he had
arrived at his lot in life by deception or ill-gotten gains, she took
a more personal interest in him, taking pleasure in seeing him lose
everything before finally murdering him. She focussed more on these,
even above and beyond those men who were standing in the path of
industrious women.

Five and a half years ago, Reowan, Winnipeg's Black Rook, was slain by
an angel. Malicia was chosen to take his place.

Three months ago, Malicia had been tracking a man by the name of
Ramiro Vargas. He was a pimp, a pusher, and all-around slimeball.
She was in the firmament, descending on his place with the intent to
punish and then kill him, when she ran into two others outside his
door. By the sounds of it, they had also just met - and both were
there for Ramiro. Malicia stepped out of the firmament and asked in a
dangerously soft voice, "Do you mean to kill this man?"

"Why yes," replied Cherior, a heavily tattooed man, ornamented in crosses.

"Of course," said <Chris>, taken aback. "He deserves to die."

"Death is too easy," spat Malicia. "He deserves to be tortured for his sins!"

"But he must die," insisted Cherior.

"Oh, he can die. But he must be made to hurt, first. He must be made
to pay for his sins."

The others readily agreed to this course. Cherior, a Divine Justince,
and <Chris>, Deistical Justice, both had much in common with Malicia's
goals and beliefs. After working together to torture and kill Ramiro,
they talked a bit, and when Malicia discovered Cherior's intent to go
to Regina, she decided that she would go with him. <Chris>, too,
would follow, and in their time in Winnipeg and their travels to the
city of Regina, the three formed strong bonds, solidified in the form
of the congregation "The Lawmakers".



PS. Her affection weapon was a letter opener from the house of the man she killed while Reckoning. Later, Corral switched that out for a spade from the garden of an Affection who died for her.

I could give you pages and pages on Corral becoming aware of herself, if anyone wants, but I doubt it.