OsmundCinderholt

Vic had been walking aimlessly since about 1 o'clock when the trailhead spit her out at the end of the trek, and has been actively avoiding making any real plans for the 'what now'. Now that it was 6 PM, her rumbling stomach made the first, and frankly easiest choice in her near future; Dinner. Nigh on a month of eating nothing but backpacking MRE style meals and peanut butter on crackers made anything hot and not out of packet look appetizing, and no kind of long line would deter her. The young woman looked a bit ragged, the wear and tear of the trail still apparent on her. Muddy boots, stale campfire smoke infused clothes, and the large 45 liter backpack on her back painted the picture that she was either homeless or super lost. In any case, seeing the line as it was, Vic thought to make a beeline for the bathrooms first. Shrugging off her pack off her shoulders, then sort of awkwardly shuffling past the crowd she went into the Women's room. Once inside, Vic laid her pack against the wall and fished out a few things. First she grabbed her empty 1.5 liter nalgene bottle and put it on the sink's counter, then she fished out small ditty bag. Vic drew open the drawstring of the small bag and pulled out a bottle of Campsuds, the kind of all purpose biodegradable soap that she'd been using for washing her dishes/herself for the last month now. Staring at herself in the mirror, Vic frowned as she saw who was looking back. Sighing, she turned on the faucet to hot and squirted out a fair amount of suds into her hands and began to wash her hands, then her face. The sink water ran dark with the dirt. Anyone else in the Lady's room would likely be appalled, but at this point Vic didn't care. After grabbing a wad of paper towel to dry her hands and face, Vic once more looked in the mirror and mustered a quiet "I did it Pops... now what." This whole trip was meant to be their last Father-Daughter outing before she went to college next year, but now...? Now was time for pizza. Filling her nalgene bottle from the faucet, Vic stuffed it back into her backpack and went out the door to stand in line finally.

I feel like I have everything, yeah!

Victoria "Vic" Stephens Attributes: Agility (D8) Smarts (D4) Spirit (D6) Strength (D4) Vigor (D8) Skills: Athletics (D6) Common Knowledge (D4) Fighting (D8) Healing (D6) Language-English [Native] (D8) Notice (D6) Persuasion (D4) Shooting (D6) Stealth (D6) Survival (D6) Derived Statistics: Pace: 8" Running Dice: D8 Parry: 6 (7 w/Staff both hands) Toughness: 7 (1) Hindrances: Impulsive (Major) Phobia - Dogs (Major) Edges: Extraction: When moving away from adjacent foes, one of them (player’s choice), doesn’t get his free Fighting attack. First Strike: Once per round, as long as she’s not Shaken or Stunned, the hero gets a free Fighting attack against a foe immediately after he moves into Reach. Fleet-Footed: The hero’s Pace is increased by +2 and his running die increases one step. Armor: Thick Coat/Leather Jacket: +1 Torso/Arms Weapons: Unarmed: Range- Melee, D4 damage Survival Knife: Range- Melee, 2D4 damage (Basic tools in handle add +1 to Survival rolls) Staff (Walking Stick): Range- Melee, 2D4 damage (Reach 1, Parry +1, 2 Hands) Gear: Backpack (Contains: Contains: Bedroll (sleeping bag; winterized), Canteen (waterskin), First Aid Kit (basic supplies), Flashlight (10” beam), Flint and Steel, Lighter, Rope, nylon (10”/20 yards), Whistle, Whetstone, MRE) Hiking Boots Cell Phone Current Wealth: $: 0 Background: Vic grew up on a backwoods farm property in southern Pennsylvania, where truth be told her father raised her like the son he never had. From an early age she was taught to be comfortable in the scrub and brush, learning how to hunt and orienteer maps, and how to camp. Her pops was taking her out nearly every weekend to go on camping/hunting/fishing excursions. From the time she could walk, straight through High School, Vic and her pops bonded over deeply over their shared love of the outdoors. So when Vic's father died her senior year, a massive hole was left in her heart. Before his passing, Vic's pops was planning with her a trip down the Potomac-Heritage trail, which stretched from their part of nowheresville PA, straight down to the Chesapeake bay. Not wanting to have that dream go unfulfilled, despite her father's passing, Vic planned the 20 day trek on her own. It would be her big last hurrah before she applied for University the following year. The journey down the trail was a somber one, with each mile, with each step only leaving Vic feeling all the more lonely. As the days pressed on, and the further she traveled southeast, Vic felt the love of woods leaving her, as it only too painfully reminded her of her father. When finally the trail spit her out, Vic found herself in the small coastal town of Deltaville. Her impulsive planning in the first place, coming alone, never accounted for the return journey. With no money, a backpack full of hiking gear, and a heavy heart, Vic had to come up with a plan of how to get back home... If she'd ever get home, that is...

Rosanna Freysdottir Bard 1 | Human | Revenant | AC 18 | HP 17/17 | Init +0 | Class DC 17 Fort +4 | Ref +4 | Will +5 | STR +3 | DEX +1 | CON +1 | INT +0 | WIS +0| CHA +4 IC

Rosanna is a "normal" human, more or less. Though the time in the Graveyard of Souls did change her nature, on a spiritual level. The sort of explicitly points out that I'm not undead. Just undead-adjacent I guess.

Thanks for accepting my weirdo, GM! As for those groups, no arguments from me, seems like a fun group! Dedication wise, I'm thinking of going Bastion for things like Everstand Stance for two-handed shield bashing madness. On top of the regular support minded bard skills/spells I'll be taking, Rosanna will turn out to be pretty interesting I think.

Still here!

Exciting news. Best of luck to everyone!

Rosanna Freysdottir Ancestry: Human (Versatile Heritage) Background: Class: Bard (Warrior Muse) Alignment: Neutral Ability Scores Strength: 16 (+3) Dexterity: 12 (+1) Constitution: 12 (+1) Intelligence: 10 (+0) Wisdom: 10 (+0) Charisma: 18 (+4) Adventuring & Combat HP: 17/17 Perception: +5 (Expert 5 + Wisdom 0 = 5) Speed: 25 Class DC: 17 (Trained 3 + Base 10 + Charisma 4 = 17) Longsword: +6/+1/-4 (Trained 3 + Strength 3 = 6), 1d8+3 P/S Shield Boss: +6/+1/-4 (Trained 3 + Strength 3 = 6), 1d6+3 B Armor & Shields Armor Class: 18 (Trained 3 + Base 10 + Item Bonus 4 + Dexterity Cap 1 = 18) Steel Shield: +2 AC, Hardness 5, HP: 20 (10) Weapons Proficiencies: Simple (Trained), Martial (Trained), Advanced (Untrained), Unarmed (Trained) Armor Proficiencies: Light (Trained), Medium (Trained), Heavy (Untrained), Unarmored (Trained) Saving Throws Fortitude: +4 (Trained 3 + Constitution 1 = 4) Reflex: +4 (Trained 3 + Dexterity 1 = 4) Will: +5 (Expert 5 + Wisdom 0 = 5) Skills Acrobatics: +1 (Untrained 0 + Dexterity 1 = 1) Arcana: +0 (Untrained 0 + Intelligence 0 = 0) Athletics: +6 (Trained 3 + Strength 3 = 6) Crafting: +0 (Untrained 0 + Intelligence 0 = 0) Depeption: +4 (Untrained 0 + Charisma 4 = 4) Diplomacy: +7 (Trained 3 + Charisma 4 = 7) Intimidation: +7 (Trained 3 + Charisma 4 = 7) Lore- Boneyard: +3 (Trained 3 + Intelligence 0 = 3) Medicine: +0 (Untrained 0 + Wisdom 0 = 0) Nature: +0 (Untrained 0 + Wisdom 0 = 0) Occultism: +3 (Trained 3 + Intelligence 0 = 3) Performance: +7 (Trained 3 + Charisma 4 = 7) Religion: +3 (Trained 3 + Wisdom 0 = 3) Society: +3 (Trained 3 + Intelligence 0 = 3) Stealth: -1 (Untrained 0 + Dexterity 1 - Armor Penalty 2 = -1) Survival: +0 (Untrained 0 + Wisdom 0 = 0) Thievery: +1 (Untrained 0 + Dexterity 1 = 1) Class Features Muse: Warrior Composition Spells Composition Cantrips Feats Armor Proficiency (General Feat) Viking Shieldbearer (Ancestry Feat) Shield Block (Free Feat via Ancestry Feat) Martial Performance (Free Feat via Muse: Warrior) Spells CANTRIPS Telekinetic Projectile Warp Step Guidance Detect Magic Light COMPOSITION CANTRIPS Courageous Anthem LEVEL 1 SPELLS Soothe Draw Ire Fear COMPOSITION SPELLS Counter Performance Inventory Gold: 4 gp Adventurer's Pack (Bedroll, Flint & Steel, Rope, Torch x5, Chalk x 10, Rations x 2, Soap x1, Waterskin x1) Personality Rosanna in her previous life was a very dour, by the books Ulfen Guard. She took her duty and charges very seriously, not so much as cracking a smile when on the job. Now however, back from her stay in the Graveyard of Souls, Rosanna has found a new vigor to her life, now that she's seemingly been given a second go-around. These days she is warm, caring, and tries to live the best she can while attending to her duties. She shares sagas of bravery to strengthen the wills of her scared companions, or she simply shares a quiet moment with a person in need. All together, Rosanna seemed wholly changed by her Deathly detour. Appearance Rosanna Freysdottir bears the powerful physique that the Ulfen people are known for. Powerful muscles from long years of training and battle stretch beneath her pale skin. Her flaxen blonde hair is cut in the very typical undercut, with the rest of it's length held up in either a bun or a series of intricate braids. Rosanna's blue eyes are sharp, though nowadays constantly set in deep dark sockets, likened to a person with little sleep. Her attire is foreign to the lands of Geb, just as they were foreign in the halls of Taldor. Long tunics belted at the waist, whose hems and collars are marked by intricate piping depicting Ulfen legends. Well oiled chainmail and steel bracers and boots, all nicked and dented showing their battle-history. Belted at her waist is a sword belt, off which an Ulfen styled Longsword hangs. Likewise, slung over her shoulder with similar leather straps is a huge Ulfen style round shield, made in steel instead of wood. Over the top of it all, Rosanna wears a long fur cloak that she affixes with a pin that bears a shape of a skeletal horses skull. History Rosanna Freysdottir comes from a long lineage of Ulfen Warriors who have traveled far from their homes, pledging their services to the Grand Princes of Taldor. Her father was an Ulfen Guard, and so too her expected her to follow in those footsteps as well. From a young age, Rosanna was trained and groomed for potential service to the Primogen Crown, during which she thrived. Rosanna was particularly talented, developing her skills of arms and bardic magics so quickly, that by the age of 16 her father suggested her to be presented to the Commander of the guard for assessment. The Commander was impressed, though he wanted to train her personally, with the promise that on her 18th birthday she would be inducted into their ranks. The Commander was a man of his word, and from the age of 18 to 30, Rosanna served with distinction and honor. When the time came for her retirement, Rosanna thought what she would do with the gold she was owed. She thought that perhaps she would like to travel the world, like the hero of the Poleiheira, sailing in a ship to wonder and glory. As was tradition for the Ulfen Guard, Rosanna was given a key to the Royal Treasuries and allowed to take as much gold as she could carry. With the chests of gold, she purchased a ship, hired a crew, and said goodbye to the shores of Avistan. The Ulfen woman's ship and crew sailed southward, past the isle of Absalom, between the straits of Osirion and Qadira, setting course of the 'Impossible Kingdom of Jalmeray'. Though perhaps fate, or wildly bad luck their ship was caught in a terrible storm which blew them wildly off course. The hurricane battered their ship, pushing it westward into the Gulf of Mechitar. Rosanna and the crew thought that when they saw land it was a good omen, but they were far too distracted by the idea of land that they did not see the sharp reef that threatened to rip their hull apart. --- Rosanna didn't remember drowning, or the moment when she drifted off into death, but she DID remember waking up looking at an unfamiliar eclipsed moon. Coming to her senses, Rosanna found herself in an endless graveyard, eerily quiet, but supremely well maintained and looked after. She can't say how long she wandered in the silent cobbles, grave markers, and mausoleums either. It was either an eternity or perhaps days. What she is certain of, something that she has trouble forgetting these days, is when she came face to face with . It had the body of a white stallion, but it's head was detached and levitating where the neck should be, and above it's skull was a crown of flames. It stood and tilted it's head at her, not making a sound. Rosanna was petrified, scared motionless. Then it exhaled a sigh over her. Next thing she knew, she was gone... and something smelled. --- Back in the land of the living, Rosanna found herself in a stack of corpses in the back of a bouncing wagon. When she stirred, the human woman who was driving the cart screamed. She was alive. So she thought anyways. The wagon driver offered a seat to her up front, and took her the rest of the way to her original destination, Graydirge. The cart driver explained that this was meant to be a delivery of corpses for Blood Lord, Berline Haldoli, and that perhaps she can explain WHAT Rosanna IS. The cart driver continued to explain that this cart was most certainly filled with normal, run of the mill dead folks, and Rosanna's sudden resurrection was most unusual. When the cart arrived, Rosanna was ushered into the Blood Lord's manor and presented. Berline Haldoli inspected her, deeming that she was indeed a Mortal, living and breathing as the Quick do... but her essence was that of an Undead. Meaning to say, positive energy, vitality magic would burn her just as it did the dead. On the flipside, negative energy, void magic would be nurturing and healing for her... like that of an Undead. Rosanna was concerned, but she was simply filled with a sudden euphoria... She had been given another try at life, to continue her journey of wonder and discovery like she intended to. Though, stripped naked and with her ship sunk to the bottom of the Gulf of Mechitar, she'd have to earn the means to do it again. Rosanna shared her history of being a member of the Ulfen Guard with the Blood Lord and asked her to keep her in mind for important work, and that she was willing to serve, if she would be fairly rewarded for such leal service.

Hey! I was submitting an idea for a character but I really wasn't liking it as much. I'll regroup and think up another idea.

Listening to 'Mimi' explain that, no she isn't being hunted, but rather does the hunting makes the small hairs on Ian's neck rise. Innocent dead. Apathetic policemen. Cold silence. Then she lofts the idea that maybe this whole Coffee Anonymous front is an elaborate trick to lure us, we deeply strange people, into some sort of trap. To wipe us out. Back down the crest of the rollercoaster of emotion for you, Ian. His eyes gazed about the room a moment, once again appraising what else was in the room. SEE THOSE PILLARS? THOSE ARE STRUCTURAL. A FEW WELL PLACED CHARGES WOULD BRING 100 TONS OF BRICKS DOWN ON TOP OF YOUR F*CKED UP HEADS. "Well damn, I hadn't really considered who invited us here... I kinda have a habit of coming to these things, meeting and sh*t. I just figured this was one I just forgot about." Ian admitted, really laying it out there that this is just another weekday for him. Realizing that he's forgetting meeting etiquette, he adds "Oh, and thanks for sharing again, Mimi." --- Ian turned his attention to Mia's story, finding a whole lot in common with her predicament than he originally thought. He was constantly being bombarded with sensations, or vignettes from somewhere in the City. Things that are impossible to know, and yet he hears the heartbeat of it all. He hears the City. The talks of murder wake up the quiet woman's voice in his head. Feel... Across the city, a heavy heartbeat, thrumming hard against a chest. The rhythmic shock of footfalls running down an alleyway. The cold and solid thud of panicked hands finding a dead-end. Clambering hands grasping at a rain soaked jacket. A sudden, painful coldness jammed into a belly. The feeling of a wallet being wrenched from a jeans pocket. The heartbeat stops in a pitiful flutter. Suddenly having a very dry mouth, Ian finds it hard to swallow to clear his throat. He does muster it though, then says "That sounds really... hard, Mia. Something I can strangely relate to, too." Ian vaguely gestures to his face a moment, "I'm often uh... overstimulated too. Though it isn't quite smells and sounds. Though that can be part of it. I uh, think I can sense the City. Like all of it. She shares things about it to me, all the time." He hadn't realized he just said 'She' when referring to the City out loud, but it felt right. Afterall, it was a woman's voice. Finding a second to think how to broach the rest of his predicament without sounding like the f*cking lunatic that he felt like he was, Ian resigned with a sigh and decided to rip the bandaid off. It's hard to put the bandaid back on, mate. Those scabs are healed. Fine, you were always one to pick at scabs, may as well get in there with salt too. "About two years ago, I woke up in the hospital. Apparently I had um..." absently, Ian rubbed at his throat, feeling raw rope-burns that only hurt in memory only. "I had tried to off myself," Ian mustered, owning his trauma with a sad look in his eye, but with a determined face to get the words out. "When I woke up, a lot of my memories were missing. Holes here and there, especially surrounding..." He got quiet again. Yeah, surrounding that day. I'm not opening that box up, mate. I've told you, cold f*cking storage. Deep in the back of the freezer. Move on from that part, mate. "When I woke up, everything for me was sharpened. You know that feeling when you know you're being watched? That feeling talks to me, all the time too. Warning me to stay alert, to uh... Be ready to defend myself." Ian looked at each person gathered, eyeing them up in turn. DEFENDING YOU? I'M DEFENDING MYSELF, BROTHER. WE JUST HAPPEN TO SHARE THE SAME SACK OF F*CKING MEAT. Finally, Ian finished with this. "Lastly I guess, I have this uh... final voice. I think he's British or some sh*t," British or some sh*t? "But he um... He does his best to keep me going. When um... when things hurt. Pain, grief. He's kind of this guy who keeps it all packed up. More or less." Yeah, more or less. More like MORE a lot more, these days. "So with the voice of The City sending me feelings about what's happening around Her, me being a hyper-aware nervous wreck, and my nigh-limitless yearning for punishment, I've uh... been taking it upon myself, when I can't stand the hurt that I'm feeling... to go out in the night and try to stop wrongs." Ian blurts out. With a smirk, he puts an ironic cherry on top. "I'm like a bipolar Batman, but way worse."

The Christmas rush of life got me super sidetracked, but there's a new post up from me! Sorry about saying I'd do it on Tuesday then uh... not! Lol. Better late than never!

OH SH*T! WAIT A MINUTE.. SHE GAVE UP THAT OTHER GIRL'S FACE. IS THIS A TRICK? Ian watched in astonishment as Not-Lindsay's features melted away, and was presumably herself again. Even the lizard part of his brain wasn't nearly on edge as badly as before, so that must mean this wasn't a fake face either. Feeling less like his heart was about to jump out of his chest, and thanks to that whole cigarette that he quickly sucked down, the man was calmer. Though, his whole emotional landscape was like a rollercoaster anyway. He was just at the bottom of the last dip, climbing up the next hill. Appraising the real Not-Lindsay, he couldn't help but find a bit of recognition. The teary eyed look, the struggle to find words to express how they're feeling. Been there, still doing that. Ian shifted his bony butt off the metal folding chair a moment so he could fish out a brand new pocket-sized pack of tissues out of his left back pocket. As a serial meeting-goer, he always had a need to have these on hand. With an encouraging nod, Ian hucked the little packet of tissues over towards Not-Lindsay's table. The packet skidded to a stop right in front of her. "Now that's breakin' down the barriers, hell yeah!" he said with some vigor. --- Catching the look from Actual-Lindsay, Ian gave her an upwards nod as if to say 'I gotchu, kid.' Though, what he didn't 'got' was answers for the question of what the hell was happening to them. That was always the question of the day for him, especially on bad days where the voices in his head were being especially insidious. They weren't his own voices, that's for sure. Two were rather chatty, while the third is a woman of few words, but often full of sights and smells, feelings of places he shouldn't know about. Breathe... A chilly wind was blowing outside. It blew the clouds over the city. It blew loose garbage in the gutter, sending it clattering like urban tumbleweeds. It blew a hat off someone's head. It blew a cold dispassionate air over everyone and anything. It even blew right through Ian. Ian shivered a moment, then looked to Mia who posited that maybe we don't want the answer to the question of 'what the hell is happening'. This view of their shared situation only cemented the idea for Ian that maybe her whole deal wasn't nearly as terrible as the rest of them. Something something, don't judge a book, something something. Whatever. Didn't stop Ian from thinking that, though. --- Listening to Not-Lindsay's explanation of the origin of her predicament twinged a deep hurt in his gut. An elevator huh? Ian's first memory in the hospital was hearing Donovan coming up in the eleva--- Steady on, mate. We packed that elevator memory in deep storage, piss off. Pinch that palm of yours, that's right. Use your nails. Ian winced, realizing that he was really doing a number on that sore palm. He stopped his pinching, then crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop the fiddling. Still, the whole thing about being transported to another world, seeing that black/white bridge... It all seemed vastly different to anything he'd seen. Damn. "Damn. It's really big of you to share. Though uh... What was your name? Cuz in my head, you've been filed under Not-Lindsay, and that won't keep working for me, man." Ian started, even nodding slightly at Actual-Lindsay a moment before continuing. "As for your situation, do you feel as if like, uh... you're being hunted right now?" The follow-up question was asked, because often the other voice in his head screamed for him to be on the lookout for that kind of thing. GOOD QUESTION, CHECK THE WINDOWS. THE RAFTERS. DAMNIT, CHECK UNDER THE TABLES TOO.

I was much more active on the weekend. Things slowed down here during the weekday. I'll work on a post soon.

Absently rubbing his sore hand, Ian listens to Not-Lindsay, giving her his full attention. He couldn't help but make faces at a few things she said, namely the parts about our lives sucking and having the alleged power to change it. Scores of psychologists, whole sacks of prescription medicines, and a piece of rope couldn't fix that problem. Never solved the whole liking himself part either. No mate, don't you dwell on that now. B r e a t h e. Have a cigarette. As he begun patting himself down for where he hid his smokes, Actual-Lindsay responded, rather sharply too. Rather insightful for a teen, granted Ian wasn't really interacting with teenagers these days, being nearly two decades out from high school himself, so it's not like he had a modern barometer for that. Anyways, Ian found a loose cigarette that was semi-smooshed in his flannel breast-pocket, which he lazily flicked into his lips. There was one thing he didn't agree with Actual-Lindsay about though. Letting Not-Lindsay keep using the real one's face. That sh*t was f*cked. "Naw, f*ck that, kid. Not-Lindsay can pick another face," Ian shook his head at the Actual-Lindsay, then sent a withering look at the fake. "I can get the whole thing she's uh, you know, working through, but we're all sorts of f*cked up here, me in included, so like... to respect the vibes, and you know, uh... for Actual-Lindsay's sake, why don't you pick someone else?" Finding his lighter, Ian lit the cigarette hanging from his lip without really thinking about if he's even allowed to smoke in here. "Be like... Taylor Swift or something." A small grin formed a moment on Ian's face, quite tickled by the idea. --- Hearing Mia speak was nice. Being in a room of f*cked up people, she seemed like the most put together. Her and Donovan should get jackets for their meetings of 'Associates with F*ckups' Club. Though, maybe it's not so peachy with her either, since she mentions the whole 'superpower' thing. Ian doesn't feel like Superman, well maybe if Supes had a chunk of Kryptonite embedded in his chest. SPEAKING OF EMBEDDING THINGS IN CHESTS, FIND SOMETHING SHARP. THE FACE STEALER COULD STILL GET YOU. Ian took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling as he sunk into his chair a bit. Exhaling was shaky, as his eyes still watched Not-Lindsay, seeing how she took his suggestion. He was doing the best he could not to clamber backwards out of his chair. The nicotine hit a moment later, chilling him out. Another impossibly long drag, and the stick was burnt to the butt. Ian pressed the hot butt end into his sore palm, putting the thing out with quick sizzle. Good thinking. That burn will distract ya, mate.

Listen.... A bell tinkles on a door, leading into the quiet murmur of voices and keystrokes on laptops. The whirring of machines grinding beans, each bean being pulverized into a fine dust. Hissing steam of a bubbling coffee machine, ready to boil over. A bell on a counter is hit, and the sounds of steamy sloshing and the dull screeching of a paper cup sliding across a counter. But then, Ian is still standing here in the door and the face stealing demon was in front of him still. --- Ian's eyes widened as he stared at the approaching clone, the one who flipped the lizard brain switch in him. He's felt this kind of fear before, usually when he's out on the streets at night getting his ass kic-- I mean, trying to save people from the strangeness and weirdos of the city. "Right, I knew that. Coffee Anonymous, that makes sense... it was on my calendar." As the imposter teen goes on, pointing out how manic he's acting and suggests that he's hallucinating... the other hallucinated twin who's still sitting says that the one in front of him is a liar and is a face stealer. Classic strategy to calm an already on edge person down. SHE WANTS TO RIP YOUR F*CKING SKIN OFF AND WEAR IT. GO ON, SLUG HER. YOUR KNOW HOW TO THROW A PUNCH. SHE'S A KID, IT WOULDN'T EVEN BE THAT HARD. Then the one clone who approached him retreated, slinking into her seat. She went on to admit that she is indeed a face stealer, making Ian feel better(?) knowing which one of the girls is the original. Face stealer also claims to be a friend, yet to be proven. Sunken eyes dart to appraise the other girl who called out the other one, trying to gauge if she's just as freaked out as he is. Ian shoots her the classic look that teens everywhere learned when they wordlessly communicate with each other across a classroom, 'WTF is this'. "Listen, I've heard enough therapists say this kind of sh*t before, but uh... These kind of spaces only work if you aren't hiding behind barriers. F*ckin' uh, you know, just be yourself and sh*t." Ian word-vomited towards the face-stealer, still gripping the door frame with the iron like vice grip, which will undoubtedly leave a mark on his palm if he ever musters the courage to let go. Smell... The very same coffee cup he heard being served across town was now fast approaching. Roasted darkness. Steamy milk. Sickly sweet syrup. Then an attractive young woman brushes past him, holding the very same cup. That sort of threw him off, and his grip finally loosened on the door frame. "Oh uh, sorry... I'll take a seat I guess." Ian waited a beat after the woman found her own seat, then slinked across the room, making uneasy eye contact with each person before finding a spot opposite them in the table situation. "I'm Ian Bloom, by the way.", he offered as he looked down at his palm. Deep red marks from the metal weatherstripping of the door frame had dig into his hand. They stung. Nice one, mate.

Today was a light day, as far as days go. Meaning to say, the constant sensory overload only made Ian cry a few times. But that's okay, he slept in most of the day today, and it was only when Donovan returned from the shops early in the evening that he really woke up properly. Sh*t. I was meant to change the laundry... hours ago. His back was sore from the impossible angle in which he was passed out on the sofa in the living room, and he was in the middle of cracking his back when Donovan came in with the two paper bags of groceries for what was undoubtedly tonight's dinner plans. "Ian, I bought some bok choy and mushrooms to go with a stir-fry tonight," Donovan said in passing, pausing in brief to playfully throw a light elbow into Ian's ribs who was in another yoga-esque twist to unf*ck his back. The elbow poke was a surprise enough to actually spook Ian enough that he exhaled "Jesus man, watch those daggers of y-- Wait, you fixed it! HELL YEAH!" Like a beanstalk given form, Ian stretched his arms up straight up the ceiling feeling relief for this particular ache. It wasn't unusual for Donovan to be the one to take one look at a problem of Ian's and find the simplest solution. That's what makes them such a great couple; Ian brings the chaos and uh... And well Donovan is put together. Bad explanation, but you get the gist. Ian shuffled into the kitchen, where Donovan was nearly done putting everything away. He wrapped his noodly arms around Donovan's waist and hugged himself flat against his back, resting his scraggly beard in the nape of his beloved's neck. "Was it another bad day?" Donovan asked and twisted in the hug, now facing Ian, allowing the hands to now hang from his hips. Was it a bad day? Such a difficult question, or a poorly framed one at least. Ian often lacked the proper explanation for what was going on in his head, the three competing voices, the feelings. In a vacuum, they're maddening. We aren't lucky enough to live in a vacuum though, are we? Instead of doing the healthy thing of airing out his frustrations, Ian did his usual cop-out response, "Mm. Manageable. Sleeping helped." This wasn't a lie, his regular subconscious could be quieted with meds and his dreams were hazy. It's whatever they were that seemed to never stop, day or night. Looking at the closed refrigerator door, Ian noticed that on the calendar was another meeting scheduled. It wasn't one of the usual addiction meetings, alcohol or drugs, or the group therapy gatherings. Coffee Addiction. Huh. "Hey, I forgot I have a thing, another meeting, apparently." Ian sighed. "Promise you'll pack up some of that stir-fry, I want to eat the sh*t out of that," he said, quickly pecking Donovan on the forehead before peeling himself out of the kitchen in the gangly non-grace that only Ian Bloom possessed. --- Walking the street at night game extra life to them. Feel... As he walked down the road to the bus stop, Ian felt the water rushing 12 feet below him, the sewer. A child had tearfully flushed a dead goldfish just now, and the descent into the watery underworld was noticed in excruciating detail. Among the detritus of the usual human waste was a city worker, who in hazmat suit, was clearing a sh*tberg, freeing up the flow to this smelly river Styx. There was a metaphor hidden in there somewhere, but Ian tried his best to clear his head of this useless oversensation. A valium was slid out of his breast pocket and into his mouth, swallowing dry. Having to wait only a few moments, the bus pulled to a stop and Ian joined the few others to board. Sliding his card over the fare-reader, Ian quickly found a seat near the back of the bus and pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes a moment. More feelings rumbled into his head as the bus pulled away from the curb. Upwards and upwards his feeling went, until he was looking down at the busy intersecting streets of New Dunkirk. The buses and cars all looked like ants crawling in a massive ant-farm, and he felt just as small. A few stops later and he was outside the church. --- The door to the meeting room was pushed open slowly, revealing a worryingly skinny man with pale skin, thinning red hair, and a scraggly beard. He had circles so deep under his eyes that they seemed like blackeyes (which isn't out of the question). He stood there like a lamp post for a moment. Ian noted the usual geography of these kind of rooms, being no stranger to these kind of get togethers. Folding chairs and plastic tables, all laid out in an oppressively inclusive way, where no matter where you sit, everyone else can see you and you can see them. A space so devoid of comfort, which ironically was meant to be a place of vulnerability. Though Ian didn't have a chance to feel vulnerable, because as he saw the people inside the room, that all too familiar icy dagger of hyper-attention stabbed into his increasing heart-rate. Before his eyes were a pair of carbon copies of a girl. The thing is, Ian couldn't play it off as a case of quirky twins who coordinated their outfits. A primal fear, that uniquely human reaction of uncanny valley was tickled in the lizardy parts of his brain. OH WHAT THE F*CK, BE ON GUARD. DANGER, DANGER, DANGER. In his panic, Ian had hardly noticed that he was grasping the door frame so tight his knuckles went white. "What the hell kind of meeting is this?" was the only thing he managed to bark, still frozen. Quite the grip there, mate. If you squeeze hard enough, I bet you'll crack the doorframe.

Hey why not be a Rift of a character from Disco Elysium! Comments/questions/concerns welcome!

Ian Bloom Rift of Harrier Du Bois, AKA Tequila Sunset - Madman Personal Details Age - 35 Occupation - Jazz Musician Hobby - Mini-golf, knitting Likes: Drinking, Smoking, Valium, Sleeping in, Live music, Cats Dislikes: Early mornings, Physical touch (strangers), Being alone, Dogs Background Ian's memory is like a piece of swiss cheese these days. Since the incident, parts of his life are simply voids missing in the greater tapestry. Though, thanks to some therapy, and the gentle reminding by his boyfriend, major landmarks have been reestablished. He had a typical childhood with loving parents, who though they were fairly poor, they never let Ian starve or face any real neglect. Despite his lower class upbringing, younger Ian showed a great interest in the performing arts and wished to display his skills to an audience. All throughout primary/secondary school Ian took music classes, and when he was a senior in high school he decided to apply for colleges with robust music programs. Here are more holes, but shining amongst the missing spots are memories of meeting Donovan. Ian was wild and uncouth, while Donovan was a cool collected cucumber, and yet they harmonized like no other, musically and otherwise. The two of them both pursued a Master of Music (Jazz Studies) degree, playing in many ensembles, living together, and even traveling the country together after graduation. The closer to the present and the incident, the less and less Ian recalls. There must have been a dark stretch, one that really tore him apart to where he felt no other escape than to take a final bow. No matter how hard he tries to remember, the worse his heads hurts, like his whole persona is trying to save him from remembering something. Then there's the hospital bed. His throat hurts, his voice is raw... and he has a searing headache. The doctors say that due to the hypoxic brain damage sustained during his suicide attempt, that he's suffering from retrograde amnesia Awakening Event Sense... Cool air danced across Ian's face, wafting down from the air ducts in his hospital room. Outward into the hall, the hustle and bustle of attending nurses and squeaking wheels of med-carts, beyond that, the bell dinged in the elevator. Metal doors creaking open, and the sound of familiar shoes hurriedly beating on the tile. Ian could smell the aftershave of his long-time boyfriend. He could hear the thrumming of a deeply worried heart, a heart who once beat in time with his. Salt. Ian tasted salty tears streaming down a soft and familiar cheek. How? That was a whole floor away, on the opposite side of the ward. Suddenly his heart twinged with an icicle like pain, and his eyes darted towards the door. THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU, IAN. THE ONES WHO RESTRAINED YOU, SHACKLED YOU LIKE A DOG. Looking down at his wrists, Ian noticed that he was indeed restrained in his hospital bed, padded cuffs to the frame. Tugging a moment in panic to no avail. Just then, the attending Doctor opened the door after knocking. "Mr Bloom, my name is Doctor Klein, you're in the emergency department. Those restraints are to stay in place until we feel that you are no longer a threat to yourself." the Doctor explained, making his way from the doorway towards the bed. Ian's eyes were wide, manic, the icicle still twisting in his heart. THE ONLY ONE THAT IS A THREAT IS HIM, IAN. "Once we've done a 24 hour observation, and have you assessed by our psychologist, we'll discuss the next steps. In the meantime, we called your emergency contact, Mr Donovan Mitchell." The icicle melted in his chest, and his breathing slowed down. "Mr Mitchell, you may come in now. I'll leave you two alone." The Doctor moved out the door, and coming directly in next was who Ian had sensed well before he came. Puffy red eyes, but still the same eyes he felt safe looking into before met his at the door. Brace yourself mate, this is going to be a f'ing DOOZY. In mere moments, Donovan crossed the room and sat next to the bedside, laying his head on Ian's chest. Donovan quietly sobbed will gripping Ian's hands for a while. Go on, try to say something Ian. Really push through it, mate. With a severely collapsed and bruised windpipe, Ian finally agonized out a few words "I'm so sorry." LOGOS- Mission: Like Batman, but like, way worse. Identity: "Ever since surviving the attempt on my own life, I've wanted to find reasons to matter to people, and thereby give me reasons to... stick around. Protecting people could give me that reason." Power Tags WHAT DO YOU NEED MOST IN ORDER TO CARRY OUT YOUR MISSION? Brawling WHAT KNOWLEDGE DO YOU HAVE ABOUT THE TARGET OR GOAL OF YOUR MISSION? Urban tales and legends WHAT SORT OF TACTICS OR METHODS DO YOU EMPLOY TO REACH YOUR GOAL? Interrogation Extra Tag - WHAT USEFUL POSITION OR STATUS DID YOU HAVE TO EARN FOR THE MISSION TO SUCCEED? Street Cred Weakness Tags WHAT ARE THE SIDE EFFECTS OR BURDENS OF PURSUING THE MISSION? Domestic problems Extra Tag - WHICH APPROACH OR PSYCHOLOGICAL DISPOSITION WILL GET IN THE WAY OF YOUR ENDEAVORS? Bouts of Despair LOGOS- Defining Event: Amnesiac Identity - "Had a mental breakdown and tried to end it. Survived the attempt, but now have retrograde amnesia surrounding the circumstances of the attempted suicide." Power Tags WHAT KIND OF STRONG EMOTION DID YOUR DEFINING EVENT LEAVE YOU WITH? Nihilism WHAT PART OF YOUR OLD SELF, WHILE DEEPLY CHANGED, STILL SERVES YOU? Famous Jazz musician (Niche, jazz fans only) WHO DID YOU BOND OR CONNECT WITH IN THE AFTERMATH OF YOUR DEFINING EVENT? My longtime boyfriend and bandmate, Donovan Weakness Tags WHAT IS NOW BROKEN WITHIN YOU, PHYSICALLY OR MENTALLY, DUE TO YOUR DEFINING EVENT? More distant LOGOS- Defining Relationship: In Harmony Identity - "Donovan is a saint for dealing with me." Power Tags WHY IS THIS RELATIONSHIP SO IMPORTANT TO YOU? Keeps me tethered to the "real world", reminds me that I matter NAME A USEFUL QUALITY OR SKILL THEY HAVE AND THAT THEY CAN USE TO HELP YOU. Love can heal anything NAME AN ACTIVITY THAT YOU SHARE. Play in band together Weakness Tags WHAT NEGATIVE EFFECT DO THEY HAVE ON YOU? Always checking up on me during inopportune times, especially times where I'm in danger. MYTHOS- Bastion: Madman Mystery- "What kind of person needs so many ways to protect themselves? What are they so afraid of?" Power Tags WHAT QUALITY OR ABILITY GRANTED BY YOUR MYTHOS MOST OFTEN PROTECTS YOU? Pain Threshold: "Pain Threshold ignores damage so you can push on, bloodied and crawling, to the bitterest end. It enables you to negate damage you would otherwise take. Even mental pain – heartache and loneliness. In fact, these things can become a thrill you seek out and perversely revel in. Pain Threshold turns in on itself in seriously unhealthy way, with full-on self-destructive behavior. " WHAT OTHER EFFECT OR QUALITY, NOT NECESSARILY DEFENSIVE, CAME WITH YOUR DEFENSE? Shivers: "Shivers come when the temperature drops and you become more keenly aware of your surroundings. It enables you to hear the city itself, to truly belong to the streets. It is a supernatural ability; old wrongs play out in present time, scenes across the city happen in front of you. But who is speaking to you? Shivers may make you seem mad to the outside world – as you listen to the city, you don’t listen to others." WHAT TACTICS DO YOU EMPLOY WHEN YOU USE YOUR DEFENSE? Half Light: "Half Light is your fight-or-flight response. It enables you to sense the way situations are about to turn. It injects palpable fear into your heart – fear that urges you act before it’s too late to act ever again; fear that makes you frighten others. It is the aggression that lets you squeeze every last drop of information out of a witness. Half Light makes you ultra-attuned to the world. It is perpetual fear – of your own shadow, of someone else’s name or scent. You’ll be ready, always, to pounce and physically interrogate passersby." Weakness Tags WHAT PERSONALITY TRAIT DERIVED FROM YOUR DEFENSE GETS YOU INTO TROUBLE? Self-deprecating attitude, with little regard for own well being.

I think the alumni of the Academy would have a fairly good view of Clovis', given that he's been there for such a long time. I'd like to think he had an open door policy, and often helped out anybody who came to his office. Though, once Estelle started her work on the cursed ring, Clovis' effectively closed himself off. A lot of Academy usuals were brusquely shoved off while he was desperately searching for the cure. As for the kind of place the Academy is? I imagine it had departments for most every type of adventuring skill. Probably having a military college, an alchemy department, elementalists, spiritists. Maybe it was the type of school that sent out students on work-study missions around the Four Towers area, taking up odd-jobs to get practical real world chances to apply their studies. As I suggested in my Origin section, domestic/foreign powers would call on the Academy experts for jobs. I'm sure Clovis would be pretty well known, and decently connected being a tenured professor and a minor noble. Of course, there would be people who would resent him and have it out for him, but I haven't thought out a who/what yet.