That shouldn't be a problem. I imagine Victoria would only be brought along while on-the-job.IFS said:
Menaces and Mysteries: A Fallen London RP (recruitment thread)
- Thread starter IFS
- Start date
Not overtly familiar with the setting, happy to change anything that doesn't fit!
Name: Michael Key, though his employer jokingly referred to him as Mickey.
Race/species: Finished Clay-Man
Sex: Male(?)
Appearance: Michael stands at an impressive 6'8", with an enormous frame to match. Built like a literal rectangle, his shoulders and waist are equally broad, making narrow spaces a tight squeeze. The clay is a deep ocre-orange, chiseled and rigid in place of features such as eyebrows and fingernails. His face is square-lined, hard and angular; the dimensions look as if they were measured to the inch. He has taken a fond interest in tough clothing, as it tends not to split when he moves; he wears a heavy, beaten hide jacket and thrice-stained workers pants; both in varying shades of brown. His feet, however, are noticeably bare and have been darkened by the accumulative debris through which he has walked through. Michaels hands are big. Really big.
Personality: Michael is a simple thing. He will usually remain silent unless spoken too, albeit in case of emergency. However, he is brutally honest and straight-forward, and will keep the same calm, stoic demeanor regardless of topic. Versed in the fine art of lifting and moving, he is secretly intimidated by those more intelligent than himself, and will listen keenly to any discussions that take his fancy.
When push comes to shove, Michael is fiercely loyal and somewhat disturbingly obedient. Always happy to take one or five for the team, he becomes deeply troubled when his current task is delayed or obstructed, and approaches such obstacles with nonchalant, brute force.
Skills: Dangerous. Michael is ferociously strong and terrifyingly resilient. His hands can crush bones, bend iron and wreak havoc on anything not soldered to the ground. Not schooled in any form of combat or fighting, a combatant would most likely find his swings predictable; slow and crushing.
Equipment: Michael carries only his clothes and small strip of brown linen, hidden in his jacket pocket. It reminds him of his former job, when he had routine and purpose.
Bio/background: After emerging from Polythreme, Michael and several other clay-men were imported into Industrial London for work in an emerging textile factory. The owner, one John Locke had garnered his start-up through a combination of nefarious shakedowns and high-interest loans. Suffice to say, "Mickey" was working 18 hour days, shifting huge crates and other forms of manual labor. Feeling neither over or under-worked, he mostly enjoyed the order and structure of the job, perhaps somewhat more than his companions.
Unfortunately, Sir Locke ended up going bust, hastily abandoning the factory and pushing the clay-men and grime-soaked paupers back into the street. Strikingly confused and with a hint of sadness, Michael simply returned to the now desolate factory and took up residence amongst unused machinery and rotting crates. Every day, he does a full check on his previous duties; ensuring the quality of each machine, that the rot-ridden crates are well ordered and accounted for; the whole shift takes him the best part of 12 hours. The rest of his time is spent sitting still on a small, wooden stool. The street urchins that often run amok amongst this rusting playground often catch him in this meditative pose, though one unlucky rascal happened to knock a large stack of crates, disrupting the silence and causing Michael to stir. With no temper, he simply placed the enormous crates back with no effort, earning him local repute amongst the surrounding denizens. Rejecting every offer for criminal enforcing, he lives out his rudimentary schedule in relative peace.
Motive/Goal: Michael is looking for purpose. An honest job, manual work, machinery especially; anything to set him to work and give him order.
Race/species: Finished Clay-Man
Sex: Male(?)
Appearance: Michael stands at an impressive 6'8", with an enormous frame to match. Built like a literal rectangle, his shoulders and waist are equally broad, making narrow spaces a tight squeeze. The clay is a deep ocre-orange, chiseled and rigid in place of features such as eyebrows and fingernails. His face is square-lined, hard and angular; the dimensions look as if they were measured to the inch. He has taken a fond interest in tough clothing, as it tends not to split when he moves; he wears a heavy, beaten hide jacket and thrice-stained workers pants; both in varying shades of brown. His feet, however, are noticeably bare and have been darkened by the accumulative debris through which he has walked through. Michaels hands are big. Really big.
Personality: Michael is a simple thing. He will usually remain silent unless spoken too, albeit in case of emergency. However, he is brutally honest and straight-forward, and will keep the same calm, stoic demeanor regardless of topic. Versed in the fine art of lifting and moving, he is secretly intimidated by those more intelligent than himself, and will listen keenly to any discussions that take his fancy.
When push comes to shove, Michael is fiercely loyal and somewhat disturbingly obedient. Always happy to take one or five for the team, he becomes deeply troubled when his current task is delayed or obstructed, and approaches such obstacles with nonchalant, brute force.
Skills: Dangerous. Michael is ferociously strong and terrifyingly resilient. His hands can crush bones, bend iron and wreak havoc on anything not soldered to the ground. Not schooled in any form of combat or fighting, a combatant would most likely find his swings predictable; slow and crushing.
Equipment: Michael carries only his clothes and small strip of brown linen, hidden in his jacket pocket. It reminds him of his former job, when he had routine and purpose.
Bio/background: After emerging from Polythreme, Michael and several other clay-men were imported into Industrial London for work in an emerging textile factory. The owner, one John Locke had garnered his start-up through a combination of nefarious shakedowns and high-interest loans. Suffice to say, "Mickey" was working 18 hour days, shifting huge crates and other forms of manual labor. Feeling neither over or under-worked, he mostly enjoyed the order and structure of the job, perhaps somewhat more than his companions.
Unfortunately, Sir Locke ended up going bust, hastily abandoning the factory and pushing the clay-men and grime-soaked paupers back into the street. Strikingly confused and with a hint of sadness, Michael simply returned to the now desolate factory and took up residence amongst unused machinery and rotting crates. Every day, he does a full check on his previous duties; ensuring the quality of each machine, that the rot-ridden crates are well ordered and accounted for; the whole shift takes him the best part of 12 hours. The rest of his time is spent sitting still on a small, wooden stool. The street urchins that often run amok amongst this rusting playground often catch him in this meditative pose, though one unlucky rascal happened to knock a large stack of crates, disrupting the silence and causing Michael to stir. With no temper, he simply placed the enormous crates back with no effort, earning him local repute amongst the surrounding denizens. Rejecting every offer for criminal enforcing, he lives out his rudimentary schedule in relative peace.
Motive/Goal: Michael is looking for purpose. An honest job, manual work, machinery especially; anything to set him to work and give him order.
Name: Ezekiel Viktor Faustus Goldschmidt-Schirmer
Age: 56
Race/species: Tomb Colonist
Appearance: Apart from an old suit, Viktor is almost completely covered in bandages - one of the few perks of being a Tomb Colonist being that it is perfectly acceptable to have one's face completely covered by rags of white. Nevertheless, Viktor is somewhat careless when it comes to bandaging, and because of that, there are some gaps from which old duelling scars peek out from. Those alone are enough to tell that he is a dangerous individual, but no one can miss those telltale dead eyes that mark him as one of the soulless. He always carries a cane with him. As well as scarred, his face, it is weathered but clean-shaven - walrus moustaches and bandages don't go together.
Personality: Once an eccentric gentleman obsessed with the occult, now there just stands a husk where there is nothing but greed, want, desire and a driving need for one thing and one thing only: that which he lost - his soul. Viktor has no other concerns, all he does is just considered as but another step towards recovering his soul. As a result of this, he doesn't care about his status as a Tomb Colonist however, he does admit that his own recklessness was - and continues to be - the source of his own misfortune. Though, lacking a soul, that recklessness has faded into a quiet determination. On the whole, Viktor is a sour and ruthless man, with rather dubious tastes.
Skills: Watchful and Dangerous. Viktor has a lifetime's experience of both duelling with rapiers and tackling various mysteries. If it's an occult matter, Viktor's your man. His knowledge ranges from matters of alchemy, magic circles, and demons to classical civilisation, however, he has nor the time or the patience for social graces. In addition to that, while he may be a skilled fencer, his youth has long past him and like any noble Mensur fencer worth his salt, he chooses to take hits rather than dodging or parrying them. His calloused hands are no good at creating art but if it's running a finger through old tomes, digging up some old relic or even giving a scoundrel a good hiding, he can be somewhat handy.
Equipment:
- A Tassled Sword Cane,
- A decent amount of Echoes,
- Some Souls,
- A monocle,
- An Archeologist's Hat,
- And His Very Own Infernal Contract.
Bio/background: His life began a while before London fell and before all of the business with devils and other untrustworthy characters. Viktor was born a bastard of the noble Zimmern family. He was treated fairly well but was never granted the honour of the Zimmern name. Apparently the family had been too kind to bastards in the past and if any others were allowed to be uplifted to noble status, the percentage of legitimate Zimmerns would drop to an unallowable degree. Regardless, the then young Viktor was quite the bookworm - the old library had a few simply fascinating texts that captured the boy?s imagination, the Dictionnaire Infernal and The Lesser Key of Solomon, for instance. Nevertheless, he soon grew into a strapping young man.
The young man?s love of the occult grew year by year and day by day, it was simply natural for Viktor to attend University - wherein he discovered Mensur and all of its glory. The idea of a swordfight over a slight appealed to the romantic lad. From there, he delved into the depths of Classical Civilisation - to think that he got a degree because of old books! From there, he went to write and even publish some niche titles. In addition to that, he travelled the world seeing the sights and collecting whatever occult titbit he could. Though not without a few duels beforehand. Viktor was quite a firebrand, and took issue with those who took light of the occult. Nevertheless, apart from his pride and his face, the naysayers did little harm.
Suffice to say, Viktor ended up embroiled with occult research in a little home he had made for himself for quite a time. There were times where he got into such a fervour he refused to leave the house in favour of looking at obscure texts and whatnot. While he was aware of London's fall at the time, he had foolishly dismissed the idea of actually going down there. Viktor had heard strange tales of Fallen London but they didn't include any mention of artifacts or ancients texts, only of the things the rich decided were important. All in all, he decided it was nothing but a hive of villainy and hedonism. Nothing a researcher of credibility and good repute should touch. Besides, he had enough to deal with on the Surface.
Only a letter from a colleague who had relocated to Benthic persuaded Viktor to descend into the Abyss, per se. There, he was introduced to the wonders of Fallen London - the lavish parties of the rich, the strange sights of Devils, Rubbery Men, Clay Men and whatnot, in addition to the mysteries of the Forgotten Quarter. That was where he encountered the Correspondence and alongside, the mystery of the Name. Well, that started with an invitation from the colleague about dark water but that soon turned into something else. Both persons involved agreed to work together to solve the twin mysteries, however, they soon found themselves haunted by nightmares. They ended up drinking laudanum like water to combat them.
And then came Viktor?s greatest mistake. Y?see, a laudanum habit can become a very expensive thing. They were running out of Echoes, to put it mildly, not to mention the effect it had on their bodies. While on a bit of a bender, he came across an alluring young woman. She and him when on to have a wild night. By the end of it, Viktor woke up feeling rather dumb, with more Echoes in his pocket than he had started out with and a very fancy looking piece of paper in front of him. On further reading, it turned out to be an infernal contract. At first, he was angry, that was a mistake a brazen young man would make after all; however, at least the nightmares didn't sting as much.
But there were still things to gather, to buy, to trade, just to continue their research into the mysteries of the Neath. In the end, Viktor settled on duelling the Black Ribbon Society for rostygold. It was good to get back into duelling again, but it just wasn't the same - there was no passion in his parries or any satisfaction in is swings. Among with this, his style of fencing and the effects of the laudanum, he grew more and more wounded. Even died a few times as well. Eventually, Viktor became a bit... worn. He was, let's say, kindly escorted to Venderbight and even given free bandages! From then on, he's had a vacation of sorts, duelling with the other Tomb Colonists there and annoying the tourists.
However, the arrival of a certain letter has interrupted that. Fighting monsters? Well, there are just some jobs that are easier without a soul...
Motive/Goal: Viktor wants his soul back, that means delving into the Soul Trade, which requires money. He has taken up the job just as a means to an end. Though, he wouldn't mind other benefits such as specimens, etc.
Age: 56
Race/species: Tomb Colonist
Appearance: Apart from an old suit, Viktor is almost completely covered in bandages - one of the few perks of being a Tomb Colonist being that it is perfectly acceptable to have one's face completely covered by rags of white. Nevertheless, Viktor is somewhat careless when it comes to bandaging, and because of that, there are some gaps from which old duelling scars peek out from. Those alone are enough to tell that he is a dangerous individual, but no one can miss those telltale dead eyes that mark him as one of the soulless. He always carries a cane with him. As well as scarred, his face, it is weathered but clean-shaven - walrus moustaches and bandages don't go together.
Personality: Once an eccentric gentleman obsessed with the occult, now there just stands a husk where there is nothing but greed, want, desire and a driving need for one thing and one thing only: that which he lost - his soul. Viktor has no other concerns, all he does is just considered as but another step towards recovering his soul. As a result of this, he doesn't care about his status as a Tomb Colonist however, he does admit that his own recklessness was - and continues to be - the source of his own misfortune. Though, lacking a soul, that recklessness has faded into a quiet determination. On the whole, Viktor is a sour and ruthless man, with rather dubious tastes.
Skills: Watchful and Dangerous. Viktor has a lifetime's experience of both duelling with rapiers and tackling various mysteries. If it's an occult matter, Viktor's your man. His knowledge ranges from matters of alchemy, magic circles, and demons to classical civilisation, however, he has nor the time or the patience for social graces. In addition to that, while he may be a skilled fencer, his youth has long past him and like any noble Mensur fencer worth his salt, he chooses to take hits rather than dodging or parrying them. His calloused hands are no good at creating art but if it's running a finger through old tomes, digging up some old relic or even giving a scoundrel a good hiding, he can be somewhat handy.
Equipment:
- A Tassled Sword Cane,
- A decent amount of Echoes,
- Some Souls,
- A monocle,
- An Archeologist's Hat,
- And His Very Own Infernal Contract.
Bio/background: His life began a while before London fell and before all of the business with devils and other untrustworthy characters. Viktor was born a bastard of the noble Zimmern family. He was treated fairly well but was never granted the honour of the Zimmern name. Apparently the family had been too kind to bastards in the past and if any others were allowed to be uplifted to noble status, the percentage of legitimate Zimmerns would drop to an unallowable degree. Regardless, the then young Viktor was quite the bookworm - the old library had a few simply fascinating texts that captured the boy?s imagination, the Dictionnaire Infernal and The Lesser Key of Solomon, for instance. Nevertheless, he soon grew into a strapping young man.
The young man?s love of the occult grew year by year and day by day, it was simply natural for Viktor to attend University - wherein he discovered Mensur and all of its glory. The idea of a swordfight over a slight appealed to the romantic lad. From there, he delved into the depths of Classical Civilisation - to think that he got a degree because of old books! From there, he went to write and even publish some niche titles. In addition to that, he travelled the world seeing the sights and collecting whatever occult titbit he could. Though not without a few duels beforehand. Viktor was quite a firebrand, and took issue with those who took light of the occult. Nevertheless, apart from his pride and his face, the naysayers did little harm.
Suffice to say, Viktor ended up embroiled with occult research in a little home he had made for himself for quite a time. There were times where he got into such a fervour he refused to leave the house in favour of looking at obscure texts and whatnot. While he was aware of London's fall at the time, he had foolishly dismissed the idea of actually going down there. Viktor had heard strange tales of Fallen London but they didn't include any mention of artifacts or ancients texts, only of the things the rich decided were important. All in all, he decided it was nothing but a hive of villainy and hedonism. Nothing a researcher of credibility and good repute should touch. Besides, he had enough to deal with on the Surface.
Only a letter from a colleague who had relocated to Benthic persuaded Viktor to descend into the Abyss, per se. There, he was introduced to the wonders of Fallen London - the lavish parties of the rich, the strange sights of Devils, Rubbery Men, Clay Men and whatnot, in addition to the mysteries of the Forgotten Quarter. That was where he encountered the Correspondence and alongside, the mystery of the Name. Well, that started with an invitation from the colleague about dark water but that soon turned into something else. Both persons involved agreed to work together to solve the twin mysteries, however, they soon found themselves haunted by nightmares. They ended up drinking laudanum like water to combat them.
And then came Viktor?s greatest mistake. Y?see, a laudanum habit can become a very expensive thing. They were running out of Echoes, to put it mildly, not to mention the effect it had on their bodies. While on a bit of a bender, he came across an alluring young woman. She and him when on to have a wild night. By the end of it, Viktor woke up feeling rather dumb, with more Echoes in his pocket than he had started out with and a very fancy looking piece of paper in front of him. On further reading, it turned out to be an infernal contract. At first, he was angry, that was a mistake a brazen young man would make after all; however, at least the nightmares didn't sting as much.
But there were still things to gather, to buy, to trade, just to continue their research into the mysteries of the Neath. In the end, Viktor settled on duelling the Black Ribbon Society for rostygold. It was good to get back into duelling again, but it just wasn't the same - there was no passion in his parries or any satisfaction in is swings. Among with this, his style of fencing and the effects of the laudanum, he grew more and more wounded. Even died a few times as well. Eventually, Viktor became a bit... worn. He was, let's say, kindly escorted to Venderbight and even given free bandages! From then on, he's had a vacation of sorts, duelling with the other Tomb Colonists there and annoying the tourists.
However, the arrival of a certain letter has interrupted that. Fighting monsters? Well, there are just some jobs that are easier without a soul...
Motive/Goal: Viktor wants his soul back, that means delving into the Soul Trade, which requires money. He has taken up the job just as a means to an end. Though, he wouldn't mind other benefits such as specimens, etc.
Name: Aidan Pottinger
Race/species: Human
Sex: Male
Appearance: 6'3", stalky, pale complexion, medium untidy reddish-brown hair, scraggly facial hair, green eyes, scars and burn marks almost cover his arms entirely. Wears thick gold-rimmed spectacles, white button-up shirt (with a black bow tie that's always noticeably askew) underneath a black vest, black slacks and black leather shoes. The few times he does go out, he generally covers up with a black overcoat.
Personality: Although Aidan hasn't spent much time around people in recent years, it hasn't been detrimental to his confidence around others. That isn't to say he enjoys the company of others. He just tolerates them more than most unsociable people. He's willing to carry on a conversation if someone engages in one with him. He does, however, tend to dance around questions about his past. He greets new things with an almost childlike excitement and becomes giddy when making a new discovery. His excitement usually leads him to delve too far into an experiment before considering all the potential outcomes.
Skills: Watchful. Aidan considers himself an intellectual and his expertise lies mainly in chemistry. During his time in the Neath, he's had plenty opportunity to study many of the stranger aspects of his preferred science. Very few hours of his day aren't spent conducting experiments and studies. While there are many things he understands regarding the formerly foreign materials, there's still a wealth of knowledge he has not obtained.
Equipment: Whenever Aidan is out and about, he always has a rather large satchel on him. It is almost entirely made up of dozens of pockets which hold vials and bottles of varying sizes, many with unique ingredients and some empty. He has Polythreme chemist's toolkit he keeps in its own case (soundproofed so he doesn't have to listen to the seemingly endless drivel) in the satchel's main pouch. Initially, it seemed like a great novelty to possess, but the charm quickly wore off in a matter of weeks. At this point, Aidan isn't honestly sure why he keeps the kit, though he would probably attribute it to the simple lack of any other form of social interaction.
Bio/background: Aidan grew up from a family of respected Scottish professors and was well on his way to continuing the line before he set foot in the Neath. He was in a family of affection, wealth, and opportunity. None of that helped his curiosity, however. As a child, Aidan was told to simply keep away from London, that there was nothing for him there, that it was just den for all manner of miscreants and malcontents. It was dangerous, it was poison.
For Aidan, it wasn't that he didn't respect his parents or didn't value their opinion, it was the simple fact that he was the most curious of Pottingers that made London so tantalizing. There was more than enough rumors going around in school to pique his interest. But he was patient. It was only a matter of days after having graduated from secondary school that he decided to make the trip to London. He convinced his parents he would be spending a few days in celebration with his friends, of which he had few. He should've considered the potential dangers of going alone, but he was led purely by the city's intrigue.
Nothing could have prepared Aidan for the wondrous things he saw in the Bazaar. The stories told of fascinating merchants with even more fascinating wares; odd trinkets and beings that were one only possible in the imaginations of novelists and dreamers. As he delved deeper into the city, he couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to avoid the place. He thought that if only his parents could see the place with their own eyes, breathe the different air, they'd change their opinion in an instant.
There should have been a time in his venture for him to consider the fact he'd need a place to stay, and that he should get something squared away as soon as he could. But he was overwhelmed by everything the city had to offer. There was so much for him to see, and he saw far too little than he would've liked to even begin to think about turning in for the night. He never stopped to consider the very real dangers of the Neath. Yes, it was altogether wondrous, but it was essentially like any other city with all sorts of bad eggs. Aidan had the misfortune of realizing this firsthand when he took a turn into the wrong alleyway.
The streets were bustling, and Aidan needed a brief rest from all the commotion. It was unlike him to wander into such a dark, empty lane, but he hadn't even begun to come down from the rush of dopamine all the excitement gave him. He felt more alive than he had in his entire life, and it was a truly unfortunate time for the young man to die.
Aidan was too shocked at first to feel the blade that slipped into his back and through his heart. The blinding agony that followed forced sharp, choked gasping enveloped him for a moment before everything around him blurred and faded. The last thing he heard before being cast into the black was a soft laughter that was dripping with malice.
When he awoke, Aidan was in a gutter, groggy, and there was a burning sensation in his chest and back. It was a bit of a struggle to remember what had happened, but from the bloodstained clothes and the mottled flesh that looked like it was, for lack of a better term, a rushed healing. He didn't know how, he should have been dead, but he was alive and breathing. Though something was still amiss. There was an emptiness that he could feel, like a part of him just simply wasn't there. He had to get home, he didn't belong. That place was nearly the end of him and he didn't intend on staying long enough to let it happen again.
As Aidan approached the airship docks, he was stopped in his tracks. There was no explanation he knew as to what kept him there. He desperately wanted, needed to leave, but he couldn't step one inch further. It was as if the young man's feet were firmly embedded into the street. A passerby noticed the newcomer's predicament and reluctantly informed Aidan that he definitely wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. Resurrected and soulless was a terrible combination for any traveler. It seemed that Aidan would be there for quite a while.
It wasn't easy for the new and hopefully temporary resident of the Neath to get settled in. After much trial and error, Aidan found some work doing menial labor. Within a few month's time, he found a place to stay and study. He only worked a few more months until he could gather enough materials to conduct research and really put his skills to use. The odds of finding a stolen soul with absolutely no clues as to where it may be was so astronomical, the only viable means of getting home was earning enough to obtain even just a flask of Hesperidean Cider. In his efforts to do so, Aidan toils away.
Motive/Goal: Getting home is Aidan's main focus. It's kept him going for the most part dieting the three years he's spent in the Neath. He's been saving as much money as he can, knowing he'll need anything he can get.
Race/species: Human
Sex: Male
Appearance: 6'3", stalky, pale complexion, medium untidy reddish-brown hair, scraggly facial hair, green eyes, scars and burn marks almost cover his arms entirely. Wears thick gold-rimmed spectacles, white button-up shirt (with a black bow tie that's always noticeably askew) underneath a black vest, black slacks and black leather shoes. The few times he does go out, he generally covers up with a black overcoat.
Personality: Although Aidan hasn't spent much time around people in recent years, it hasn't been detrimental to his confidence around others. That isn't to say he enjoys the company of others. He just tolerates them more than most unsociable people. He's willing to carry on a conversation if someone engages in one with him. He does, however, tend to dance around questions about his past. He greets new things with an almost childlike excitement and becomes giddy when making a new discovery. His excitement usually leads him to delve too far into an experiment before considering all the potential outcomes.
Skills: Watchful. Aidan considers himself an intellectual and his expertise lies mainly in chemistry. During his time in the Neath, he's had plenty opportunity to study many of the stranger aspects of his preferred science. Very few hours of his day aren't spent conducting experiments and studies. While there are many things he understands regarding the formerly foreign materials, there's still a wealth of knowledge he has not obtained.
Equipment: Whenever Aidan is out and about, he always has a rather large satchel on him. It is almost entirely made up of dozens of pockets which hold vials and bottles of varying sizes, many with unique ingredients and some empty. He has Polythreme chemist's toolkit he keeps in its own case (soundproofed so he doesn't have to listen to the seemingly endless drivel) in the satchel's main pouch. Initially, it seemed like a great novelty to possess, but the charm quickly wore off in a matter of weeks. At this point, Aidan isn't honestly sure why he keeps the kit, though he would probably attribute it to the simple lack of any other form of social interaction.
Bio/background: Aidan grew up from a family of respected Scottish professors and was well on his way to continuing the line before he set foot in the Neath. He was in a family of affection, wealth, and opportunity. None of that helped his curiosity, however. As a child, Aidan was told to simply keep away from London, that there was nothing for him there, that it was just den for all manner of miscreants and malcontents. It was dangerous, it was poison.
For Aidan, it wasn't that he didn't respect his parents or didn't value their opinion, it was the simple fact that he was the most curious of Pottingers that made London so tantalizing. There was more than enough rumors going around in school to pique his interest. But he was patient. It was only a matter of days after having graduated from secondary school that he decided to make the trip to London. He convinced his parents he would be spending a few days in celebration with his friends, of which he had few. He should've considered the potential dangers of going alone, but he was led purely by the city's intrigue.
Nothing could have prepared Aidan for the wondrous things he saw in the Bazaar. The stories told of fascinating merchants with even more fascinating wares; odd trinkets and beings that were one only possible in the imaginations of novelists and dreamers. As he delved deeper into the city, he couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to avoid the place. He thought that if only his parents could see the place with their own eyes, breathe the different air, they'd change their opinion in an instant.
There should have been a time in his venture for him to consider the fact he'd need a place to stay, and that he should get something squared away as soon as he could. But he was overwhelmed by everything the city had to offer. There was so much for him to see, and he saw far too little than he would've liked to even begin to think about turning in for the night. He never stopped to consider the very real dangers of the Neath. Yes, it was altogether wondrous, but it was essentially like any other city with all sorts of bad eggs. Aidan had the misfortune of realizing this firsthand when he took a turn into the wrong alleyway.
The streets were bustling, and Aidan needed a brief rest from all the commotion. It was unlike him to wander into such a dark, empty lane, but he hadn't even begun to come down from the rush of dopamine all the excitement gave him. He felt more alive than he had in his entire life, and it was a truly unfortunate time for the young man to die.
Aidan was too shocked at first to feel the blade that slipped into his back and through his heart. The blinding agony that followed forced sharp, choked gasping enveloped him for a moment before everything around him blurred and faded. The last thing he heard before being cast into the black was a soft laughter that was dripping with malice.
When he awoke, Aidan was in a gutter, groggy, and there was a burning sensation in his chest and back. It was a bit of a struggle to remember what had happened, but from the bloodstained clothes and the mottled flesh that looked like it was, for lack of a better term, a rushed healing. He didn't know how, he should have been dead, but he was alive and breathing. Though something was still amiss. There was an emptiness that he could feel, like a part of him just simply wasn't there. He had to get home, he didn't belong. That place was nearly the end of him and he didn't intend on staying long enough to let it happen again.
As Aidan approached the airship docks, he was stopped in his tracks. There was no explanation he knew as to what kept him there. He desperately wanted, needed to leave, but he couldn't step one inch further. It was as if the young man's feet were firmly embedded into the street. A passerby noticed the newcomer's predicament and reluctantly informed Aidan that he definitely wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. Resurrected and soulless was a terrible combination for any traveler. It seemed that Aidan would be there for quite a while.
It wasn't easy for the new and hopefully temporary resident of the Neath to get settled in. After much trial and error, Aidan found some work doing menial labor. Within a few month's time, he found a place to stay and study. He only worked a few more months until he could gather enough materials to conduct research and really put his skills to use. The odds of finding a stolen soul with absolutely no clues as to where it may be was so astronomical, the only viable means of getting home was earning enough to obtain even just a flask of Hesperidean Cider. In his efforts to do so, Aidan toils away.
Motive/Goal: Getting home is Aidan's main focus. It's kept him going for the most part dieting the three years he's spent in the Neath. He's been saving as much money as he can, knowing he'll need anything he can get.
Looks good, the only comment I have is that travel between the Neath and the Surface is done via dirigibles that navigate the tunnels upwards, which doesn't affect your sheet much outside of one line about him reaching the edge of the Neath.Mortis Nuncius said:
Great, I'm happy to hear that. I changed that conflicting line "edge of the Neath" to "airship docks".IFS said:
Recruiting is closed! The accepted players are quoted below. Apologies to anyone who didn't make it in or didn't get their sheet up in time, I will try to keep you in mind if the RP needs to start recruiting again.
I'm sadly pretty busy today, and actually have to leave soon, so I might not be able to get the OP or up until later tonight. In the meantime feel free to discuss here. Let me know if you were accepted but didn't get a group invite.
Mortis Nuncius said:stop screwing up birthday parties full of teenagers
Terratina. said:Stop making Ron jealous
Green Shoes said:Forgot to bring Donald and Goofy
Texas Joker 52 said:
sage42 said:...shouldn't throw stones
DarkRawen said:
Quintley said:
MortifiedPenguin said:
Congratulations!SamtheDeathclaw said:
I'm sadly pretty busy today, and actually have to leave soon, so I might not be able to get the OP or up until later tonight. In the meantime feel free to discuss here. Let me know if you were accepted but didn't get a group invite.