I Do What I Can

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: Okay so. The very core of Marlowe's abilities lies in balance. He can balance things or send them spinning out of balance just as easily. Essentially, he can rearrange matters on a universal level. Beyond this, he is skilled in the arts of conjuring, nature magic, necromancy, scrying, empathy/telepathy, divination, and many other aspects of the craft. He is familiar with the art of Guatemalan voodoo and Southeast American practices with the Creole. He Is very well-versed in the brewing of potions, ointments, and poultices. His protective magic skills outweigh his offensive ones, to a degree. He is more about affecting the world around him to aid him, e.g., having a rainshower to cover his tracks or wind to blow sand into the eyes of his enemies. Visually, his magic, when being channeled, isn't the usual light and sparkles one might know from displays of magic on television or other forms of visual media. Rather, Marlowe's magic is a royal blue that seeps up from under his skin like a watercolor stain. It likewise dyes all it touches for a brief span of time, should he choose to enchant it. Just a random fun fact. Marlowe is also aware of his past lives; though not to a great extent as of yet. Likewise, he seems to have connections with just about everyone--Marlowe just Knows Things about people. And sometimes that knowledge leaks out (he's got a heck of a mouth and a temper, but we'll get to that later).

Weaknesses: Despite his phenomenal cosmic powers, Marlowe is very much a squishy human and can be effectively offed by the usual means: being kicked in front of a moving car, getting himself shot, walking into Hell itself...well, maybe not the last bit. Marlowe also has a somewhat addictive personality. Veering off too much to the darker side of his magic has a tendency to have a negative; obsessive effect on him. Moreover, he is also a prone alcoholic to a small degree and has a penchant for being too stubborn for his own good. He's also been tagged, and therefore, his use of magic of late has been limited profusely. He is also extremely careful in the words he uses, as any particular emphasis could mean an unwarranted hex, jinx, or curse, just as much as a nonchalant "bless you" could be a blessing indeed. And he needs a connection with the Earth for his powers to truly be at their strongest. That's why you might find him barefoot on good days. Break him from the ground or keep him from nature for too long and he'll sicken; weaken, and most likely, lose a lot of his fiery light. Just ask the MEDs team. They know.

Personality: Did I mention yet the "too stubborn for his own good"? That's Marlowe in a nutshell. Besides having what can only be described as "a cantankerous old-man temper", Marlowe is brash, yet cautious--he'll snap first and work schemingly to make up for it later. He's petulant and prone to sulking, but also has a myriad of talents that lend themselves to an expression of innermost emotions--talents such as pottery, or tango dancing, reading, microbrewing, and, of course, his magic. He's a very solitary person, half-choosing to isolate himself and half doing so out of habit from how often people have severed ties with him. Underneath his gruff exterior, however, is a man of Southern hospitality and a sort of...well, if it isn't charm, it's certainly something equally magical. Although Marlowe would argue that he's just fascinating in the way a puddle of pond scum is fascinating. "Yanno it has culture but ya just dunno how."

Birthday: July 20th; Cancer.

Role/Occupation: He has been "gifted" a job by the Handling Station as a bartender; working alone, at a bar called "Brew".

Registered: Oh, yes. He's tagged and in the capable hands of a one Jeremy Shrike. Courtesy of Angela Dourly; who had Marlowe transferred from their Seattle base to San Francisco just for the occasion.

Origin Story: Marlowe was brought up by a single mother and a golden retriever in the Louisiana boonies (re: the bayou). His mother ran a bed and breakfast, and, on moonlit nights, she'd convene with her coven and bring home new knowledge with which to teach young Kaz. The two were often at each other's throats, however, as it was difficult for Mrs. Marlowe to run a business with a gangly boy running underfoot getting in the way; trying to FIND his way. Moreover, raising a mixed child in the South was not exactly ideal. Mrs. Marlowe; French with a smattering of other genes (Israeli; supposedly, or at least, Middle Eastern) found it difficult to connect with Kaz at times--the boy looked more like his father, the soldier who went off to the Gulf and never returned.

Kaz later found covens of his own to commune with, after leaving home during a particularly bad spat with his mother. He got swept up in the Big Easy life; as New Orleans opened her arms to welcome him. Magic became an all-consuming, all-important force in Marlowe's life, a means to get by, a job, a gift. 

Getting carried away by it all during his adolescence and into adulthood, Marlowe made many a wrong turn on the magical path. Instead of pursuing the understanding of his gifts, he began to warp them for his own use and the use of others--going so far as to fuck with the natural order of the World; to raise the dead, and to fall into such dark places none ever expected to see him again.

His covens denied him. He was thrown out of New Orleans without mercy; the crimes he'd committed beyond retribution. By all accounts and purposes, Marlowe should have died.

Instead, he got up. He rose again. He wandered the world (or at least; sojourned the U.S. of A.); purifying himself again. Trying to go back to purer magic. To find his balance. To find a purpose.

And, just as he was settling into a good routine; just when he felt well enough to begin again somewhere new, he was captured by the MEDs team in Portland and dispatched to Seattle. There; separated from nature and the goodness of the Earth, the Handlers attempted to drain the dangerous witch of his magic. Unsuccessful, they had him tagged, marked, and shipped to San Francisco to be somebody else's problem.

Now he works as a bartender in a prison shaped like a pub, blessing beer on the sly when he can, and just trying to keep his head down.