#mock profile

Powers: Blessed with increased and youthful longevity, dexterity, the ability to scale walls like Spider-Man, and some other choice gifts, Owen is trying not to get too caught up in the whole nosferatu thing. That being said, he’s remarkably strong, incredibly fast, and more durable than your average nerd. What limits his abilities possess remain to be seen; seeing as Owen hasn’t really tested himself all that much yet. He prefers to fly a little lower on the radar than your average Dracula. Plus he doesn’t really have anyone to teach him, so. That being said, he also has a mild form of hypnosis and a few other oddities that lie outside the average vampire shtick—for example, his bites don’t hurt and his fangs are retractable; secreted in a thin layer of toxin that induces endorphins and serotonin in prey. Also he’s remarkably cold. To lay hands on him is to actually get some relief from the Californian heat, believe it or not. There may be more to be determined at a later date.

Weaknesses: First and foremost, Owen has the misfortune of being one of “those” vampires who can neither cross running water nor journey into holy places. Moreover, he can’t say the Lord’s name or any sort of prayerful statement, and he has to stop and count things if they spill [did you knock over a box of Lincoln Logs? Owen hates you. Except not really but now he’s compelled to count them and put them back]. He is also weak to the concepts of beheading; staking, burning, or dead man’s blood. The last one makes him physically ill, while those prior will actually finish him off for good. The power of prayer results in an uncomfortable outbreak of sweats, shakes, and dizziness—not recommended. There are actually quite a few ways to fuck with Owen, though why someone would want to is kind of beyond him.

Personality: A natural-born optimist, Owen always tries to look on the bright side of life—even when it continues to let him down [and, most recently, let him go]. Despite this, he is no pushover, and has a habit of sticking up for other people in a quiet, polite, yet determined way that resonates with a genuine quality: he has a good heart. That’s undeniable. But with that heart comes an excruciating amount of personal and self-perpetuated guilt; concern that he isn’t good enough, and desire to better himself which borders on dangerous obsession. He does have some OCD tendencies [brought to light by his recent transformation], a fear of failure, and most of all, a desire to make the world a better place. He is driven by a need to help people, and his cheerfulness is belied by compassion as much as it is a refusal to show weakness if he can help it. He’s honest as he can be without endangering himself, and tries his darnedest to be a support system for others to depend upon. Or at least, to lean on when they need to. Owen likes being there for people. Even when nobody is there for him; and he can’t even be there for himself.

Birthday: June 28th, Cancer.

Role/Occupation: Part-time convenience store clerk, peer mentor, and student.

Registered: Not yet. 8’|

Origin Story: Owen is currently studying linguistics with a minor in criminal justice at a community college and hopes to one day be an advocate for people who can’t afford expensive lawyers due to either language barriers, income barriers, or other issues. Born and raised in the system in California, bouncing from foster home to foster home, Owen struggled to find his place in the world, and never wants anyone to feel anything similar: that sensation of neglect, being secondhand, or overlooked really stuck with him. As a result, Owen often goes out of his way to make others feel important, and his enthusiasm for charitable behavior is more often than not what lands him in hot water [academically, out in the “real world”—you name it]. Owen grew up fending for himself and, as a result, has taught himself four languages thus far [English, Spanish, Hebrew, and German] and is working on two more [Mandarin and French]. He has a fascination for linguistics, languages, phonetics, and music that is powered by a boundless curiosity and desire to better himself for the sake of bettering the lives of others. He’s very self-motivated—and has taught himself, besides languages, guitar, chess, yoga, some very small forms of parkour, longboarding, and a few other odds and ends.

How he came to be undead is a particularly grisly tale that Owen doesn’t like sharing with people—just like he’s trying to keep the rest of himself under wraps. The long and short of it is that the convenience store Owen works at, the Fastin’ Loose, was hit by a small, but effective operation of vampires who were impatient with collecting money from local businesses. Owen got caught in the crossfire of a robbery and, for all intents and purposes, should’ve died.

What happened between bleeding out on the convenience store floor and slipping nonchalantly back into his normal everyday life [with some much-needed adjustments for trial and error—sunburn, ouch, for example] is still an enigma. Owen may in fact be piecing the details together again himself…

Writing Sample:       

 “You are a good Jewish boy, no?”

               The old man with the skin like a soaked potato; all brown and white and crinkled, accepted the bowl of soup without breaking eye contact. It was not unlike being examined under two blue microscopes—rheumy as they were; in need of cleaning, the lenses saw everything.

               Most of all, I felt they saw me.

               I didn’t get noticed all that much. What’s one more poor hipster in a sea of poor hipsters in California? I’d bounced around from town to town from Los Angeles to where I was now, and it made no difference where I went—I usually got out of the way instead of underfoot and that was it for me. Invisibility cloak? Who needed that when you tanned quick enough to be another faceless—

               Okay, wow, that’s bitter. Let’s back up.

               Jonah had been hanging around the Fastin’ Loose [my Lebanese business owner-friend-boss’s idea of a joke when it came to his corner store] for about three or four months now: just another veteran who, if one looked too quickly at him, resembled a pile of uncomfortable garbage at the mouth of an alley. He was gnarled and his voice didn’t work quite right, half-whispery, half-shout-y, as if he couldn’t get it to obey his commands. He’d probably been a smoker.

               You know, before whatever war [mental or literal] drove him out onto the streets.

               Moukhtar didn’t like me talking to him—and he certainly didn’t approve of me feeding him. But it all came out of my pocket anyway, so he couldn’t say much. The boss was like that, and I couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep whatever little money he could to himself. Despite all the beauty and all the culture of the city we both resided in, people like Moukhtar and I didn’t have the luxury of throwing around even a few dollar bills.

               So I made extras of all my lunches and Jonah shared them with me during my 20-or-so minutes to myself a day. I’d sit with him in the semisunlight of the alley and converse; discussing with persistence things such as the political state of unrest in our country, love, adventure, and, upon occasion: death.

               “Yes, I try to be,” was my half-hearted response that was more joke than genuine answer. Those filmy eyes kept staring, and eventually, it was me who blinked—deciding to just run with it, as Jonah was probably in one of his moods and might not remember any of this tomorrow anyway. “Well—I’m told I am, I don’t really know.” Still the unblinking and undisturbed stare. I swallowed and tugged on my collar, finding the crude chain I’d picked up from a friend of a friend. I tugged it out to show Jonah, and he pulled me closer by the chain and a yellow-nailed, hobbled finger.

               At the end of the chain was a star, or something that at one point had been a star, but was now mostly a beat-up looking piece of metal whose silver gild had begun to rub off. It was at best a tin semblance of a symbol: King David himself would’ve face-palmed at the sight of it, or something. Jonah made a faint “hff” sound from behind his long salt-and-pepper beard and settled back with his soup, shaking his head.

               “How can you not know,” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was actually speaking to me [he did that sometimes; the rhetoric could be a bit difficult to follow]. “How can you not be sure?”

               “…Well,” I said finally, mostly to break the silence interjected only by slurping and smacking, “I didn’t grow up in a—that is, where I…er.” I sighed and pushed my glasses back up, realizing they were threatening to fall into my own soup. “I went to the—the synagogue, when I could, when I was—younger, for like. For the rec stuff and—to learn, I guess, about where I’m from, supposedly, but—I dunno, it just never felt like a thing that was necessary?” At this point I could tell Jonah had washed his hands of me. He emitted what could’ve only been described as a “grunt of disapproval” before downing the rest of his soup in one fell gulp that set him off coughing.

               Once he’d finished, he rasped:

               “How can you know what’s right with your soul, then?” Which was the equivalent, I felt, of being asked how a person could just not do their taxes or vote. I cringed a little and tucked the beat-up Star away beneath my collar, then set about fidgeting with my nametag and my glasses and anything else I could get my hands on to keep them busy. The pavement under me felt hotter than before; and I could tell, all of a sudden, that I’d sat in leftover gum.

               “I dunno,” I said finally, “I guess I feel okay.”

               “’Okay’,” Jonah mocked, his lips creased in a profuse scowl. “’Okay.’ I tell you what isn’t okay—not knowing. What do you think happens when you die?”

               “Hopefully nothing excruciating?” I offered, poking at a potato lump in my soup. Jonah sighed.

               “You aren’t right with you; you don’t know where you come from or where you’re going. No wonder you work in this–” he motioned vaguely to the Fastin’ Loose behind us and I heard the telltale groan of the old freezers inside as if on cue, “shithole.”

               “Jonah, I’ll have you know I totally work here to hang out with you,” I said mildly. The old vet flashed me a blackening smile and shook his head.

               “You’re too smart a boy to make up excuses. You know what’s out there, in the world.” I glanced around the street at the familiar faces; the unfamiliar—lost tourists, hipsters, a few businessmen looking no less shady here than they would in their own buildings…the usual. “You know how dangerous life can be,” Jonah went on, his weathered face lined with pain. I bit my lip to keep from offering unasked-for optimism and just slouched over my soup. If he was going to go on a tangent, I might as well make the most of the rest of my lunchtime. “I don’t want you,” Jonah continued, “to go through life lost.”

               I glanced up and his eyes struggled to find mine—not due to their approaching darkness; not due to his poor mental state, but rather, due to the fact that he seemed near-tears. I felt another familiar stab of guilt in my gut and shuffled closer on the stoop of the convenience store’s entrance, apologetic in everything but words. At least I hoped I was.

               I hoped he could tell how sorry I was: for everything.

               “You don’t wait for somebody to find you, okay?” Jonah said slowly, turning his bowl upside-down to ensure there was nothing left in it, finally looking away from me after a few painful seconds of uncertain soul-searching. “You never wait. You go out, you find yourself, and you come back when you are ready to do so. Not a moment sooner. Us orphans,” Jonah added, glancing my way, “stick together. We are not alone. And if you find God; good. But most importantly: you get out of here, and you go find you, Kit.”

               I wish I had listened.

               It was sound advice to remember when one was lying on the ground; bleeding all over the floor I just finished mopping less than fifteen minutes ago.

               Nobody was going to come to find me.

Powers: Being very stealthy and passing unnoticed if need be. Self-propelled flight, climbing walls/ceilings, having an alluring singing voice, being crafty [”I can weave, you know”], long-lived/immortal/eternal youth, some shapeshifting and illusions; magic linked most specifically to water and light, and just being someone most people feel compelled to spill their guts to.  if she doesn't want you to remember her, you won't remember her. She can become water (specifically mist or clouds); and she always smells good (is it a power or perfume). Last but not least, Hyacinth can also trap information certain ways. almost like the Pensieve from Harry Potter: she can extract truth and bottle it. She can sell you literal truth at a price.

Weaknesses: Hallowed ground, cold iron, steel, mountain ash, and a great deal many other things she’d prefer not to discuss at this particular venture. 

Personality: Being quiet, aloof, assertive, and manipulative seem to be her base values. However, she was once soft. Life was unkind to her. I know, I know, cool motive, still murder. Not that any deaths can actually be traced back to her. She’s the type of person to attend a party, stand in the back, and step in when things got bad--while making accurate snap-judgments about people. She can hone in on the insecurities of others with ease, and has a habit of collecting secrets. She’s very subtle, and a little bit snide--pride was her downfall; from Seelie to Unseelie, courtless and untethered. She’s still working out the kinks of her problematic self, but she does love herself in healthy ways. And she doesn’t let anyone else bring her down.  And she likes minimalistic things. And she is very, very dangerous. But in the underhanded political way.

Job: As of now she is an information gatherer. 

Residence: Oh, you know, somewhere in the shadows.

Other Odds-and-Ends: TBD about courtly stuffs.  I will say this though: She rarely talks out loud, though--her expression and gestures usually speak for her. When she speaks, people listen, is the thing. And she used to be a callgirl in the same place Rose (Goose) was a callboy following her banishment from whatever Court she’s coming from.

Powers:  Long-lived and deadly. Shapeshifting from wendigo (think long; pale, scary, and antlered--with more tines the more they kill) to human shape at will; their form is lengthy, equating to how much human flesh they've consumed. If they don’t eat enough of their necessary diet, however, they tend to look less and less human. They emit sounds that strike the most primal, terrifying fear into the hearts of their intended prey. They can also imitate voices and call people away from their intended paths. They can move unseen through dark places and are notoriously quiet. They can blend in with their surroundings to a degree and are unbelievably fast. They’ve got wicked metabolism (no poison can harm them) and are impervious to just about everything. Their skin is very thick. They’re capable of voice mimicry and can invoke fear if necessary (I mean, if their true form doesn’t do it, that is). Murray possesses all this and more; as he’s an expert griller and a medical examiner/coroner by trade, so he has a lot of other smarts on top of basic predatory instinct and human nature. He’s very enduring, as most wendigo go. Wendigogo. Heh.

Weaknesses: Being a spirit of famine, they cannot breed or reproduce and as a result, are very small in number (thankfully, some might argue). They have some lesser resistance to silver, and enough of it can supposedly kill them. Fire weakens them; maybe even enough to kill them. They’re eternally hungry, never content, and restless spirits by nature. 

Personality: Have you ever met a man who is one big shrug? That’s Etienne. Or Murray, preferably. He was rough and tumble before rough and tumble was a thing. Stoic, sardonic, and capable, Murray hails from the Southern parts of Canada (”Ottawa if you wanna be specific.”) and speaks French, English, and a handful of Algonquin. He was, back in the day, ambitious to extremes, and selfish. He’s maintained some of that selfishness (and he may never lose it), but he’s also very accepting of most things and tends to roll with the punches. He’s kind of “whatever” about his situation. Survival is survival. He has some regrets but he’s not the type to linger on them. The most important thing is to keep moving. He comes off as very gruff and curt with people; or a little too sarcastic, but underneath it all is a warmth he extends to a very limited few. But it takes a lot for most to see past the monster and the rather curt man.

Job: Coroner/medical examiner and forensic consultant. Also unofficial wendadgo to a gang of wendigo.

Residence: Back home, he has a complex of trailers and cabins set up for his people interwoven with old mining caves. Here he’d stick with rural and High North or the outskirts of Olympia if necessary. 

Other Odds-and-Ends: Etienne James Murray was a hardworking pioneer in Canada who caught wind of the Klondike gold rush toward the end of the 1800's. He gathered a team of potential miners and headed out onto the rough terrain.  Crossing borders he shouldn't have out on the Glenora. He lost a lot of good men along the way, but he kept going. Driven by greed. With a woman and a child back home, supposedly, but even he isn't sure anymore.

He made it to the Klondike and scraped up his own spot of land. Worked in a mine with some men in the town who were just as eager to make it big and rich back then. They'd been warned not to mine in the area for a plethora of reasons (by Algonquins and a handful of white people with common sense) but ignored the warnings. The mine collapsed one day in mid-November and Etienne was trapped with the men down in the remnants of the shafts. He made it a few weeks, but... Eventually the air got thin. And his head got strange. And next thing he knew [he has about four or five years of broken up memories that don't make much sense] he was out in the middle of the woods, warped and starving, covered in blood. And it was Winter. And he was alone. He managed to, with the help of some of the local people and his own e x t r e m e willpower, piece together some semblance of a life. He's always a work in progress but he tries to be there for others. To be selfless, under all that outward standoffishness.

There’s more to him than that, but I’ll leave it there for now. And end by saying he started his own attempt at a “family” [re: the gang of wendigo(s)] and looking to find them a better, more sustainable life. He probably takes a trip to the Isle is to look for more wendigo and/or to chase down Verbena doctors who were actually on to something about helping his species.

Oh and he has one wendigo he’s particularly close with. One he himself knew personally one dark day he realized human science didn’t have any answers for him or his kind...

In total, his gang of wendigos consists of: 

Vega Doefield, a missionary who disappeared during the 1700′s in the Philippines.

Black Hawk, an Algonquin man who, during a particularly difficult Winter the early 1900′s, “took care” of a neighboring tribe to get by.

Greta Ulrich, a teenager whose family didn’t quite survive their hiking trip in the Himalayas.

Chad Carver, a selfish young aristocrat whose plane crashed in the Alps.

and Noemi, Laura’s bb whom Murray considers his second chance at aa daughter.

I may or may not make these bbes adoptable, as I have faces in mind for all of them but also don’t wanna step on any wendi-toes. Heh.

Also, he and his gang hunt down criminals when they need fresher meat than what Murray’s job can provide.  He’s trying to help them all be better people. It’s not easy, and there’s a lot of fighting, but. 

Isn’t that what a family is?

Writing Sample:

Bear Mountain Bar.

               August 17th, 2015.

               An Excerpt from the Book of Vega Doefield.

               --Murray clasped the back of the perp’s head; like the two of them were on a date at the drive-in and things were about to get heated.

               Then, with about a third of the Bear Mountain Bar looking on, Murray slammed the man’s forehead into the actual bar itself with a prize-fighting ring that resonated with the howl the an produced. The rest of us stood there in silence; judging on a 1-10 scale. It was only a love tap, really, and a slow one at that, considering what we were all capable of.

               Murray looked ‘round  at us as the man tried to collect himself, mouthed “turkey’s on the table,” and twirled around to kick the man in the ribs when he started to rise.

               It was only Noemi who hung back as the rest of us now swooped in, rubbing her temples and apparently praying for patience.

               She was still getting used to all of this.

               But she was capable. Murray’s own little protégé, by the looks of things. He’d taken her under his wing and taught her how to shoot (shotgun and rifle alike); taught her how to hide when things got hard and how to spot trouble from a mile away (though she’d been pretty good at that on her own).

               And while our kind was never meant to be a family, we somehow made it all work and in turn made room for her in our midst. Greta, Black Hawk, myself (Vega for those keeping score), and Chad.

               We were a ragtag bunch. Running from hunters, running from ourselves, running into problems. The mostly-vacant bar had scattered its remaining patrons like ashes on the wind; nobody wanted to be involved in the beatdown of the century. Maybe they thought the grizzled vulture of a man we were tearing into owed us money, or something.

               Far from.

               Obedaiah Turner was wanted in four states for assault and worse crimes than that. He’d skipped out of many a town, broken his parole, and was living free and easy out in Colorado. When the time came to stock up on our supplies in rural Canada, we sojourned South and made a sweep of the States; our own little family vacation that conveniently led us straight to this charming character (who stank of malt liquor and bear fat). We’d tracked him down by the breadcrumbs of his crimes (thanks to Murray’s occupation) and, as always, came to break bread (break bones) and see justice done.

               I used to be all about the justice.

               As a missionary, my job had been about justice and education; conversation and hope. Faith. But everything changes; as it changed for all of us (except Chad; probably, who no doubt had absolutely no problem with his particular transformation) when the odds of nature are against you. I mean, one moment you’re sittin’ easy in the jungle preaching the Word and the next thing you know, there’s an earthquake and you’re trapped in a small space with so many people…and so little air; or water.

               Or food.

               Ah, for those of you reading this (and God help you if you are) and haven’t caught on yet, we’re not human. Not by a long shot. Parts of us still are (the worst parts, possibly, that made us this way), but for the most part, we identify as something else entirely.

               Black Hawk broke the rules first—he usually did. He’d shifted enough in the shadowy bar’s interior to sink pin-and-needle teeth into the calf of the offender, who emitted yet another howl and bucked like his life depended on it (it did, but it didn’t matter). Murray cussed quietly, grabbed Black Hawk by the back of the neck, and hauled him away like the First Nations man was a pup instead of a full-fledged wendigo.

               (And that’s what we are, coincidentally. Wendigo. Or wendigos, it doesn’t really matter.)

               “We only do take-out,” Murray muttered, pushing the bloody-lipped, surly man toward the door. “I thought I made myself clear in Wichita.”

               “That was different,” hissed Black Hawk. “I wasn’t so damned hungry.” Murray made a blasé face at the other man and shoved him again, a little more forcibly this time. Chad and Noemi slipped in to sweep the groaning fugitive off the bar floor, skirting after the other two, with Greta and myself flanking the rear.

               “You’re always so damned hungry, Hawk, or did you slip, hit your head, and forget you’re a fucking flesh-eating monster?” Black Hawk narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, grudgingly throwing the door open—

               Into the muzzle of a shotgun cocked and ready.

               We scattered like roaches when the light came on, the hunters outside missing us by a fraction of an inch and blowing a hole through the eye of the deer head mounted above the stuffy bar’s beer taps. Stuffing and taxidermy exploded in a rain of white and brown across the room, followed by splinters as the rest of the brigade open-fired into the bar’s interior.

               Our dinner not abandoned (we were many things, but forgetful when it came to preserving our groceries wasn’t one of them), Chad slung the man over his shoulders with a grimace and streaked toward the back of the bar—rounding sharply when he heard the door open and taking us out through the side like a cartoon escapee, bursting through the wood with the blunt force of a wrecking ball.

               I was distantly aware of Band of Skulls blaring in the bar’s muffled speakers behind us as we made our unexpected escape. Noemi was to my immediate right, her face stricken with fear as she booked it with the strength, speed, and stamina only our kind possessed. “I Know What I Am” followed us into the field of Nowhere and Nothing and ‘round the bar’s side to the parking lot—Murray and Black Hawk taking lead, as they always did (subtly trying to outrun one another, I’m sure) toward our bikes.

               (Now, you’re probably thinking “well that’s a cliché. Wasn’t there an awful Jason Behr movie about monsters on motorcycles called Skinwalkers?” Well, yes, there was. I’m not saying Murray probably got the idea in part from that, but I’m also telling you this dude’s been riding Harleys since the ‘60’s, or whenever they were invented. I apologize, I’ve been out in the wilderness a long time. Human timelines aren’t exactly my forte.)

               Whistling sharply, Murray turned his bike as he kicked it on, Greta scurrying to fold herself into Black Hawk’s sidecar, her small handgun clasped tight to her chest as the smallest of all of us all but disappeared into the sidecar’s interior, her helmet a camouflaged barrier that blended in with the shining black chrome of the bike. Chad sprang onto his neon green…whatever it was (Ninja?) and jammed his helmet on his head—something Murray had repeatedly advised him against, considering the “why” of why we rode bikes (re: the ease we found in shifting if necessary was enhanced considerably when on a bike as opposed to inside a car). But he said he did it for “the aesthetic” and everyone just sort of gave up when it came to Chad Carver and his “aesthetic”. It was the same reason he wore a sweater around his shoulders/neck sometimes and slung his leather jacket to the side like a…Calvin…model? I think that’s right.

               Regardless, we gunned it out of there with Turner lashed to Black Hawk’s bike like a cow at the rodeo, Murray taking up point as we sped off toward the horizon.

               The last image I have (because I knew better to look back) of that triumphant escape is Noemi rising from the back of Murray’s bike and turning smoothly; her balance perfect, her bright eyes steady, as she took aim with a gun in shockingly stable hands, and blew out the tires of the hunters’ jacked-up pickup truck, one right after the other.—

Powers:  Elongated lifespan, faster and stronger than a regular human, a fast healer, some walking up and down of walls with relative ease, the ability to fade into the background rather efficiently, an immunity to most diseases, the strong potential for blood-based magic (especially healing spells), very dexterous and adaptable. He’s also extremely graceful, as he’s a trained dancer and kickboxer, as well as having run track in high school. Plus he can speak English, Italian, and a smattering of French, all of which he’s fairly proud of. Someday Luka aspires to speak Japanese and German as well. He also has a natural affinity for canines, but maybe he’s just a dog person, like his old man. Bonus: 

Weaknesses: With a slight allergy to the sun, strong herbs of certain varieties, pure forms of silver give him rashes, and he can of course be killed like a regular human. He’s just harder to kill than most thanks to his healing and his agility. He also needs to incorporate blood into his diet to survive. At least a shotglass’s worth a day. Preferably a shot of blood at every meal instead. You know. Dietary supplements and all that.

Personality: Luka is a very happy-go-lucky, family-oriented person with a heart of gold, generous spirit, and temper that is...virtually nonexistent. Unless of course you offend his mama. Then he flies off the handle like any good Italian boy, usually jumping to her defense. But his anger is usually forgotten within ten minutes. He’s very forgiving and good-natured. He’s fondest of moments of adrenaline, like a spar or a dance. He’s a lover, not a fighter, though. He spends most of his time defending others. He’s nurturing, with a gentleness to him that comes ouut in the way he spends his time. Which is usually volunteering at local shelters; Boys and Girls clubs, and other charitable events. Of course, when Luka isn’t involved in those, he’s...immersed in the seedier aspects of his family’s business. #cliche? Possibly. But he tries not to focus too much on that. Luckily, school  has proven a good distraction in that regard. He’s super polite and respectful of authority/elders though. He always looks up to people older than himself, which is why he is often let down by the mistakes they tend to make. #governmentproblems

Job: Until June, student. After that, he’s pretty sure he’ll get cornered into joining the family “firm”.

Residence: N/A yet, he’s currently located in Boston.

Other Odds-and-Ends: Besides being very, very Italian and coming from an enormous family, Luka grew up in the North End and went to school at BU for liberal arts & leadership-based majors. His mother and he are close, and Luka also shares love & common ground with a great deal of cousins, half-siblings, his grandmother, his uncles, and a few people he isn’t sure is family, but they are famiglia. 

Speaking of famiglia, Luka has no idea who his father is. But you guys do. Lorenzo Borgnino, of course. Except Lorie (and Luka’s mother, Francesca)’s affair was swept under the rug when Carlo, Lorie’s dad, found out about it. 

Francesca was paid off to go away, with the threat that if she ever contacted Lorenzo again, she and her entire family would suffer. Too bad for Carlo, he didn’t know Francesca was already, you know, with child. 

So Luka grew up oblivious, immersed in a world of various cultures, Italian love, and hard crime. Because Francesca can handle herself. It was hardly coincidence she and Lorenzo found one another.

Powers:  "Thanks to this little microchip, I daresay I’ll live forever.” Besides her artificial immortality, Helena of course has the typical Sesharrimian abilities: including a sonic scream, which all of their kind can emanate, Helena has the gift of a manipulative voice. Literally. She can make you fall in love with her--or at least, produce a chemical reaction in others that resembles love, or even obsession. Sometimes she can even elicit a physical response so intense it actually makes people pass out from pleasure. Besides this, she also has a lot of connections with the entertainment network on the homeworld. I like to think she’s their equivalent of a TV spokeswoman. Or a TV personality, if you will. Shelly permitting, of course. And she has aristocratic ties, though nothing so high and glorious as Angel. 

Weaknesses: She CAN be killed, probably, if you disable her chip. She’s also too nosy for her own good. And is probably allergic to Earth’s seafood, so she’ll need to steer clear of all that. She’s not too much of a physical fighter--in fact she’s rather frail. She would’t withstand much of a beating.

Personality: Mean Girl from Outer Space(TM). You’ll never know if she’s being serious or facetious. She’s very sweet externally, but there’s strong belief she hides a rotten core. She is graceful, fashionable, almost always late, effervescent, seemingly untouchable, friendly, yet aloof. She’s essentially a feline in people skin, as it were. She always has something nice to say--at least it seems that way. She’s also a gossip, a snoop, and a daydreamer--clearly with more on her mind than the average air-head. She takes her job surprisingly seriously, and enjoys her influence over people far too much.

Job: Entertainment personality if possible?

Residence: "A little loveshack just for me--and my friends! I’m sure I’ll make so many.” [a luxurious penthouse no doubt]

Powers: Persuasive and influential behavior, communication with animals such as wolves, bats, rats, and cats, being able to dissolve into a thin trickle of mist, minor dreamwalking capabilities, immortality and youth, speed, stealth, endurance, strength, agility, and enhanced reflexes, heightened senses, some shapeshifting, wall-scaling, and more.

Weaknesses: He is a man who avoids most things holy. If you burn him or cut off his head, he will die. Stakes might do the trick as well. "Though, er. Please don't do the thing. I'm really not overly-fond of these ideas." He's also got a minor allergy when it comes to silver. "Rashes. Rashes everywhere. Rashes in places you don't even wanna know about." He also needs a handful of dirt from his homeland to feel comfortable on him/near him at all times or. Well. It's not good.

Personality: Lenny is a pretty easygoing guy. But he's also efficient. He's a mover. Not so much a shaker. But he gets the job done. And that job is helping people. At the end of the day, he's a helper. He does outreach and makes sure nobody ever feels alone. Despite this he's also extremely humble, generous, and lives a modest, minimalist lifestyle. He's pretty fearless when it comes to scary things, but he doesn't go looking for trouble. Rather, Lenny's learned how to avoid it. If only because he's been around for such a long time. He is also pretty rambly and doesn't have a problem speaking his mind--but he does spend a lot of his time apologizing because of it. End of the day, he means well.

Birthday: April 25th. Taurus.

Role/Occupation: He has two jobs: he works the graveyard EMT shift protecting potential supernaturals/victims of supernaturals and getting them where they need to be, and if he's not working as an EMT, he's driving a private taxi for the same reason.

Registered: "Please." Definitely not.

Origin Story: He's covenless. But he thinks of the people who ride in his cab or the ambulance as family. He'll treat you/them as such. /flower emote. 

Lenny's been alone for a long time.

He has a cat he loves very dearly, though, who lives with him at the moment in his sunny apartment.

  Powers: The usual! Inducing lust via touch, flight and some shape-shifting, a good hold over magic and the use thereof. Jericho can dream-walk and get people to tell the truth if he adjusts his powers a little. He can glamour himself to pass as human visually. Without his glamour he has wings, forked tail, claws, and a pretty impressive set of horns. He is most comfortable with the elements of fire and earth, and most of his spells are based in those areas. He’s also trained himself in physical arts, from yoga to acrobatics and hand-to-hand, and has a knack for hypnosis/hypnotherapy. He can divine things from tea, cards, etc. He’s well-versed in the occult and you might say he has a real gift for its darker elements. And one more thing: he’s long-lived and pretty immortal.

  Weaknesses: Holy or blessed items are not his friend. He can be killed, and he doesn’t like prayer or sacred ground. Makes him feel sick. He’s also not exactly charmed by cats, for one reason or another. He WANTS to like them, but he doesn’t trust them. It’s a bit of a long story. He also dislikes too much loud noise over a long period of time, which sucks because he lives in a city, now. But an incubus has gotta eat, so. He puts up with it. He’s especially not fond of the sound of church bells/bells tolling, or horns/brass instruments.

  Personality: Superficially, he is extremely polite and always interested in what people have to say. He is a quietly sarcastic person underneath that, however—but he’s capable of covering sarcasm up with charm so thoroughly that people rarely realize what’s happening until they part ways. Like most incubi, he is pretty territorial, and doesn’t take well to his own kind. He has refined tastes and an extreme need for luxury. It’s almost an obsession. And he is definitely working on his obsessive behavior, but it’s been a part of his character for quite a long time. However, he has done some therapy for it. He’s seeing a shrink right now, in fact. Jericho is meticulous, guarded, but lonely. He likes meeting new people until they bore him, and then he makes his exit as subtly and politely as possible. When you’ve lived as long as he has, it’s hard to be surprised or keep up with one’s own emotions. As a result, Jericho is slightly detached from reality outside of his own little bubble of wealth. But he does try to immerse himself in as many affairs as possible. He has a lot of influence in various governments, organizations, and committees of the more secret variety.

  Birthday: November 28th. Sagittarius.

  Role/Occupation: The wealthy elite. The 1%. The guy Wall Street loves and the hipsters love to hate. He’s anything from a “private donor” for art to a “charitable auctioneer” to “silent partner”. “I’m anything you want me to be, darling.”

  Registered: Definitely not. He didn’t live this long by being careless.