🌙 — ALL ABOARD ! The HMS PROMETHEAN welcomes ( AMBROSE SHAW ) to the expedition in their capacity of ( THE MARKED ). They are ( FORTY YEARS OLD & CISMALE ) and might be painted as ( ZACH MCGOWAN ). When you strike up an acquaintance, address them as ( HE/HIM ). Their deeds on land precede their arrival — people say they are ( COMPELLING, CUNNING, and STEEL-WILLED ) but ( VAINGLORIOUS, RECLUSIVE, DISTRUSTFUL ) when the tide turns. Their purpose aboard the Promethean falls in line with ( ESCAPING THE SINS OF HIS PAST — BY ANY MEANS ).
I. Ambrose and his younger brother are born to a woman who has fallen from grace -- Elizabeth Shaw is by no means remarkable, but she used to be something, and from what Ambrose can remember of her, she always despaired over what she could have been. Her family was quick to turn their gaze when they discover she’s been leading a married man on an affair that has ended in a swelling at her belly and no ring on her finger. She’d been no older than eighteen when the cast her out, and just like that, any mention of her was struck from the books. She pleaded with her lover to show the kindness he’d promised with gentle words in her ear, but he was too poor to even entertain the thought of ruining his own bit of kingdom to try and maintain her own. Ambrose is born not long after Elizabeth Shaw has found her place in a brothel in the slums. It is here that he grows up, an ugly and unremarkable child, running secrets back and forth from room to room in exchange for the skill to read and write. His mother does not so much as acknowledge him, or William, for that matter.
II. He doesn’t know who does it, never bothered to ask, but when Elizabeth dies -- he is twelve, then, and William is nine -- someone comes to get her. That someone is a cousin by the name of Cunningham, distant but wealthy, who’d been close to Elizabeth. Older, yes, but close. He’d been searching for her a long time, he explains to her boys, who look so much like their mother it’s almost astonishing. Cunningham takes them both under his wing and sweeps them out of the slums of London without so much as a second thought. Ambrose doesn’t trust him, and the first year is... difficult. They know their letters, but neither of them are educated, and both brothers drag their heels in the dirt trying to hold onto the rowdy beasts that have taken root in their chests. It is not until Ambrose discovers his love of history that he truly settles, and the difference is like day and night. Cunningham plies Ambrose with historical texts and novels, and in exchange, Ambrose makes the effort to learn how to be charistmatic and good and pristine. Few know about his mother, and when Ambrose meets his uncles, his aunts, his grandparents, their scarcely mention her. It is terrifying, really, how easily people are wiped from existence, just that fast.
III. Cunningham buys him his education, and from that education stems advancement. Ambrose learns, grows, works, writes, becomes a professor first of Roman history, Egyptian history soon to follow, and with every piece he publishes or collaborates on, his fame only increases. At twenty-seven he is offered an observational position on an expedition to old Roman ruins in an effort to unearth hidden treasures, and he accepts without so much as a second thought. William accompanies him for these first few journeys, although his younger brother discovers he does not quite have the taste for it. Ambrose, on the other hand, is ravenous. Forget writing; he’d much rather dig as far his own two hands will take him. The expedition returns successfully, and the pieces of old art and sword pommels are hung up in a museum, displayed for and lauded by the wealthy. Ambrose develops an appetite. He funds and embarks on another expedition, this time to the Valley of the Kings, and does not return empty-handed. He is soon sponsored by the British Archaeological Association, and archaeology becomes his life. He returns to London after every trip with some sort of piece or tale, develops a reputation as an adventurer. The airy and stiff-backed Shaws of old are buried by Ambrose Shaw: charming, handsome, daring Adventurer of the world.
IV. The glory days are by far the best. His renown grows insurmountable, the height of mountains. Most turn their gaze from his more unsavory qualities -- his temper, his ever-present status as a bachelor, his sharp tongue and tendency to remark on ugly qualities in others -- in favor of the gleaming, the gold. The stories he tells, the shape of his frame, what he gives away, the parties he hosts. For each successful expedition it is nearly a guarantee that Ambrose Shaw will return and provide nectar of the gods alongside decent entertainment, and worse still, he’s good at that too. No one can touch him, even when he wants to, and he’d like to keep it that way. Over the years William appears on his doorstep, pleads with him to give it a rest (you’ll run yourself into the ground, Ambrose), but Ambrose ignores him in favor of emeralds in the tombs of dead queens and kings, blades polished until they’re silver anew. He doesn’t even attend Cunningham’s funeral, when the old man dies -- he’s on his second world tour by that time, and there’s not much point in turning a ship around for a dead man without much to him, is there?
V. It should be obvious by now that a fall always accompanies pride, and with Ambrose, his fall takes the shape of a dog-headed sculpture, painted all black, with eyes that shine like rubies in spite of the fact it lacks gems. Tucking it away without thought had been foolish, and putting it on display is worse, but it is put up in a glass case and he lays his head down on the pillow without nary a thought to his deeds. And then the restlessness comes. At first, it’s subtle. Sleep avoids him. He takes to long night walks. And then his body aches. He’s not old, necessarily, but the pains which plague him cannot be soothed even by the strongest of opium. He takes to keeping his hair down -- pulling it back reveals the strands easily pulled from his skull. And then what can only be described as moments of madness. He is always awoken from slumber by the hot breath of a hound on his face, gleaming white teeth in the dark, pink tongue lolling, its claws digging into his chest. It trails after him, from room to room, building to building, place to place. He shuts himself up in his apartments, stops hosting guests and holding parties, but becoming a glorified recluse only makes it worse. This hellhound is an awful fact of life, and in his ear it whispers every mistake he’s made, every foolish thing he’s ever said, every missed opportunity for glory. It haunts him,
I’M THE BEAST / RATTLING THE CAGE, ASKING FOR SLAUGHTER. Why would an archeologist go to a place devoid of history? And ah, there’s the rub. Why would a man who’s dedicated his entire life to keeping his head bowed towards the dirt, always digging, suddenly see fit to turn his gaze towards the sky? Rebirth, renewal, repentance. I’d love to explore (through his relationships with other characters and his developing relationship with himself) the parallels between the man Ambrose so obviously was with the man he is now.
Can others see the corpse he’s unwillingly dragging behind him? Can they see through the flecks of gold as easily as he can to the dirt underneath? I’m sure it shines through, every once in a while. He’s not always unpleasant to be around, even if he more or less shambles around like a dead man walking. I’d like to see if there’s something underneath the horror he’s encased himself in, or if the charismatic and charming Ambrose Shaw is well-and-truly-dead. He feels like a beast walking in human skin, otherworldly in his not-so-subtle bouts of madness, like he cannot control his own body in a way that means anything. Do others see this, and if so, do they confront it, or do they turn their heads?
I SEEM TO BE BUSY TEARING DOWN WHAT I WAS. I’d love for Ambrose to meet with others who have never heard of him. I know that sounds a little silly, but he craves a world in which he has not shared every piece of himself, a world in which there is no Ambrose Shaw, the archeologist of great renown, and instead… Ambrose Shaw, the man. Relationships of any kind — antagonistic, friendly, romantic — they all feel beyond him now, and I can see him clinging to any person who might see him for what he is beyond his reputation, might go so far as to say they’ll be the only ones keeping him even remotely sane.
On the flip side of this, I’d love for Ambrose to interact with characters who have similar burdens. Sometimes the truths of guilt and grief aren’t genuinely opened to you until you’ve shared them with others, and up until now, he’s found himself silenced, biting down on his own tongue.
WHAT YOU CAN’T GIVE AWAY YOU MUST CARRY WITH YOU. I think that Ambrose almost certainly has lessons he could impart upon less-experienced crewmen and guests, with stars in their eyes and metal in their mouths, searching for a taste of adventure. It might be why some of them boarded The Promethean in the first place. The unfortunate reality is that Ambrose wholly believes the adventure he once adored to be something ugly, beast-like, a journey which warps and changes you beyond recognition.
I’d like to see him impart some of his stories and lessons upon those willing to listen to what he has to say; he used to love hosting, after all, even if now he hates it when someone so much as breathes the same air as he. It might take some time, some thawing of the ice in his middle, but I think he’d share eventually.
TO FEEL ANYTHING DERANGES YOU. What does Ambrose see on the back of his lids, when he closes his eyes? Is it a place, a person, a beast, a being? There’s no doubt in my mind that the further along The Promethean’s journey extends, the deeper Ambrose is going to sink into despair, and until he finds a place he cannot dig into with his two bare hands, he will be haunted. He’d boarded the ship in an effort to run from his ghosts, only to discover they'd trailed after him, nipping at his heels like a great black dog. He is unsure of his end, and if he’s to meet it sooner rather than later, but I’d like to explore his willingness to meet it. Would he accept death, if it meant escaping what shows itself to him in his sleep, even if it meant hellfire?
*These are purposefully vague, and by no means set in stone. I’m absolutely willing to adjust accordingly with whatever plots and relationships The Marked may have had beforehand! I did one for every skeleton, in hopes of providing a jumping-off point for plotting! If you’re looking for your character, CTRL+F and type in their skeleton title!
I. THE VETERAN: They are similarly haunted, even if the shape their ghosts take the form of is different by a wide margin. Their suffering does not appear to be quite so physical, in Ambrose’s eyes, although he recognizes their stiff-legged gait and paranoid gaze as well as he recognizes his own. I could see the two of them growing close, in the fleeting way that friendships through trauma and regret are forged.
II. THE DOE-HEARTED: In her, Ambrose sees the faces of his own family. His brother tried to sway him from his path, time and time again, and he ignored him in favor of grit beneath his nails and the taste of glory. He wants to tell her there might be no hope at all: once a man is swayed towards the path of hubris, it’s difficult to pull him off of it, and if you do manage, the consequences are often dire.
III. THE IDOL: In them, there is the spirit of expedition, the same spirit he’d harnessed in his youth to carry him far and wide. Their fire is by no means unfamiliar, although they have a different flavor than the usual doe-eyed naivete he encounters from men and women too young. They carry a ghost in the shape of their superior with them, and Ambrose can’t help but feel a streak of pity for them, the same pity he holds for himself.
IV. THE CAPTAIN: Pride makes men cruel, angry, ugly, and so does ambition. It’s… odd, this need to shake them by their shoulders and tell them they’re being a fool, but it’s there nonetheless. He doubts he’ll ever work up the courage, but if there were ever a mirror-image of his old self atop The Promethean, Ambrose fears it takes shape in the form of The Captain.
V. THE SCION: He circles The Scion like a bird of prey because he knows of nothing else to do. They were both caught in the throes of London’s glory, both caught up in the pride that comes from being something. But The Scion was kind-hearted, even if they now find themselves setting it aside, where Ambrose certainly wasn’t. He was nasty, cruel-mouthed and sharp-tongued, basked too much in his glory to bother extending his reach to the common people he once worked alongside. His ghosts and his guilt make him similarly ugly, and I’d like to explore if this is any different from the implied connection he and The Scion had beforehand, if their interactions were surface-level or went beyond that.
VI. THE SHADOW: A wolf is a wolf is a wolf, and in them, Ambrose sees hunger that stems neither of eagerness or inexperience. Their hunger is borne from desperation, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t unsettle him. He, too, has donned sheep’s clothing time-and-time again, lied and cheated and stole to get his hands on the fingerbones of corpses and through the doors of old tombs. He used to be just as hungry, but now his belly has been slit, filled with stones, and any appetite he once had is gone… but The Shadow might reawaken old cravings.
VII. THE IDOL: In them he sees exactly the sort of thing he would have been digging for. Grief, sorrow, and ambition forged into one being, coated in gold and perfect to be put up in a museum. It makes sense, then, given his pretenses, that he would do his best to keep his distance, at the cost of several potentially awkward interactions.
VIII. THE CLAIRVOYANT: They see the thing that hangs around Ambrose’s head. They see the great, hulking wolfhound he has become, alongside the pale imitation of himself that lurks in his shadow. Make no mistake: he may be more terrified than they are, fears answers as much as he seeks them. He dances around the confrontation, skirts around the truth, knows it will find him eventually, knowing they might be the one to bring it.
VIX. THE NOBLE: Their voice refused to harmonize in much the same way his did. They have probably encountered each other, at some point or another, and it seems to be some cruel joke, the way he cannot escape from the very people he once used to entertain. He tries to weave them stories, in the way that he used to, but the words never seem to fit the right way in his mouth.
X. THE COMMANDER: Enough of humility, they declare, and Ambrose wants to tell them he’ll trade his pride for their humility, but he’s seen their silent companion called insecurity dog after as many as twenty men, men he’s dragged around on expeditions and men he’s dug up from graves. Most kings die from insecurity, from a want to be something bigger themselves. Ambrose himself is in the process of decay; he can’t help but wonder if The Commander might follow suit.
XI. THE EMPRESARIO: In them he sees his old self, and when they share the same space, it’s something like a light trying to spark on in the dark. Their ambition is familiar, as is their eagerness to forge a new path ahead. He, himself, had been much the same, in his fleet-footed days as a professor, and he seems to mirror their attitudes and somehow encourage them with ease even with the warning tugging at his tongue, begging to fall from his lips.
XII. THE ROMANTIC: If their brother is a soothsayer, then they themselves are just the opposite. Ambrose takes an admitted comfort to the fact they seem to denounce their sibling at every possible turn, if only because it means there’s a chance his affliction (ghosts, always ghosts) are just… figments of his imagination, lies he tells himself.
XIII. THE LOVER: Beauty is nothing without dread. If history has taught Ambrose anything, it is to fear those who are beautiful above all else, and in that vein, the ghost at his ear whispers to fear The Lover, who has clever eyes and a clever heart. Were he his old self, he thinks he could easily go toe-to-toe with them, but he finds himself older, weary, less capable, and so he holds his tongue.
XIV. THE ENIGMA: He would have trusted them on an expedition in a heartbeat, there’s no doubt about that. They’ve certainly got capable enough hands to do well in a career of bloodshed for a little bit of kingdom. He feels compelled to trust them now, might share a piece of himself here and there, were they willing to let him do so, although he heels more often than he howls.
XV. THE PURSER: They value money the same way he once valued glory, and frankly, that might be all there is to it. By default these days he’s cautious around those who make him think too much of himself, and as someone who vaulted similarly from the slums of London to a position of power, he is waiting for them to meet their Icarian downfall in the same way he did.
XVI. THE DOCTOR: Opium addiction is not uncommon among men in Ambrose’s old circles, and it’s not unfamiliar to him. In fact, these days it’s the only thing keeping Ambrose afloat. I’m not totally sure as to whether or not it’s accessible, but if The Doctor will provide the one thing… that wins him a few sacred minutes of sleep? He’ll be certain to make himself familiar.
XVII. THE CHRONICLER: Theirs is the pursuit of truth, and there’s no doubt in my mind that at some point or another at the height of his fame, they published something unsavory about Ambrose’s endeavors. Something ugly about the way he relished in digging for the dead. He doesn’t much like them, I figure, and he’d rather avoid them than he would hold a conversation, but… some things are just unavoidable, aren’t they?
XVIII. THE STOWAWAY: When given a choice, Ambrose chose to claw and climb his way to the top, at the cost of his relationship with his mentor, his old friend, his colleagues. He had once been nothing, and given the chance to be something, there was no hesitation at all. He understands them, but once again cannot put words to his understanding. They are lost on him, as most things these days are.
XIX. THE SOCIALITE: He entertained them and their family, once or twice. In fact, it might have been the case there was something between them, every blue moon, when hunger of a different kind struck. But the man he used to be and the man he is now are different creatures, and whatever capacity in which they knew each other has surely changed as a result.
XX. THE SONGBIRD: He’d enjoyed their singing, at one time, when he’d stood at the peak of London’s mountains, but a lark is still a lark, and even the most beautiful of songs can sound sour to the wrong ears. Their fall from grace seems to mirror Ambrose’s, however, and the notion makes him uncomfortable.
XXI. THE HARUSPEX: Regret tinges each and every one of his interactions with The Haruspex, no matter how much he wishes it were otherwise. He might be an old dog, but he is a dog with teeth, and The Haruspex reminds him of a whelp that doesn’t know any better. He wishes he could guide them towards a prosperous future in the way he used to guide his students, but his hostility is now reflex, and he doesn’t know how much it’s going to take to shake them off before he outright tears their throat from the rest of them so they’ll stop yapping.
XXII. THE CHAPLAIN: Faith has no power over terror, but he is willing to try, for the sake of achieving the silence he so desperately yearns for. He will pray, repent, confess, do whatever it takes, but there’s something that wonders in the back of his head if The Chaplain can see through this facsimile of worship as easily as he does.
XXIII. THE WILDCARD: It’s a true tragedy to watch someone who is never wrong make mistakes, but Ambrose keeps an eye from a distance anyways. He could attempt to warn them, if he chose to. He does not, and the reasoning for why that is is unbeknownst to him.
