Hello, darling. Seems you've stumbled across something you shouldn't have. Yet here you are. Make yourself at home, shoes off at the door. This is the home of Malcolm Ferrick, and he is not an animal.
Height: 5’3”, “but I’m 5’8” in the right heels. ovo”
Species: Spirit Walker
Powers: Her shift is that of a lovebird. Besides this, Lola has the ability to manipulate the wind and produce bursts of air; use thermals to propel herself, and a plethora of other, smaller tricks involving the element of air. She is also an expert in making perfumes, discerning different toxins/poisons, creating herbal remedies, and knows some basic hand-to-hand combat, though it isn’t her preferred strategy when it comes to fighting.
Weaknesses: She doesn’t do well when separated from nature. She has a small garden or her windows open; she goes for walks, she just. Can’t be away from it because it’s unhealthy for her. She’s also very mortal and squishy, so she very much needs to not be stabbed, shot, or have a piano drop on her. She can’t stay in lovebird form for TOO long, or else she starts feeling cramped. Moreover, she has an allergy to a couple of foods, which super bums her out. She also has a slightly-dangerous job, so she has a habit of making less friends than she thinks she does.
Personality: A bubbly, outspoken extrovert with a heart of gold, Lola is, at first glance, a socialite looking to make a difference in the world. Dig a little deeper, and you find an impish streak a mile long and a sense of humor that, at times, seems borderline cruel. She is very determined and focused, driven by her career and the desire to advance as much as possible at a young age. Her connections to social media, journalism, and public relations waver between professional and old-fashioned starlet status. Ambitious, cunning, Lola has no problem telling people how they should improve their lives; inviting others to play the game with her—or calmly putting people in their place, wherever it may be. Despite these somewhat catty qualities, Lola genuinely does try to do the right thing. It’s her competitive, headstrong nature that has a habit of getting the better of her.
Job: Head of HR [or assistant head, depending]; public relations agent for Katherine.
Residence: A really nice apartment by Normandy’s shore.
Other Odds-and-Ends: Lola is half-Mexican; half-Indian, and can cook both. \o/ or a blend, if you’re into that kind of thing. She’s very stylistically-precise and makes her own perfumes using all-natural products. She used to be close with her family, but something happened to change that—now anyone she works with, she considers family. And anyone she has to protect, for that matter. More TBA.
Name: Claire Bennett, or so she claims. It’s probably not Claire Bennett. She has many aliases.
Face Claim: Kristen Ritter
Age: 30...ish?
Eyes: Brown
Hair: It’s been a billion different colors. She’s naturally a brunette, though.
Height: 5’10”
Species: Cambion
Powers: Claire has the bare basics of being a cambion: an extended life with prolonged youth, an allure you can’t put your finger on [but probably want to], the ability to incite lust [“or a riot, yay!”] at the tap of her fingers if she so desires, some minor magical capabilities [“mostly fire for those keeping track”], and some interesting side notes she’d like to leave as a surprise for the future. She can also do parkour and some stunning acrobatics [“yoga, Hell’s gift to the inflexible and a boost for those who can already put their legs behind their head. Like yours truly, heyoooo”]. She can also draw out the truth and generate a shitton of blog posts at an alarming rate. Her hacking skills are only outmatched by the third member of this little team.
Weaknesses: Green olives, holy water, religious symbols, holy ground, and just about anything religious. “Or tacky.” She’s also surprisingly mortal for something so long-lived, but she doesn’t really like to spread that around.
Personality: Born without a filter, Claire skates by on her ability to skim, swindle, steal, barter, bargain, borrow, or coerce. She’s very smart, albeit more street-smart than anything else, with a large vocabulary and a mean pen. She’s used to being self-sufficient. She can carry a gun, but instead of fighting, almost always prefers to run away instead of engage in combat. She knows some mixed martial arts and can always whip that out if need be, but her first instinct is usually flight. Not that she CAN fly, much to her chagrin. She’s slapdash and the type to roll out of bed half an hour late, wedging frantically into tights with runs in them, or, worse/better yet: text “I’m on my way” and go back to sleep. She’ll talk during movies, she’ll insult your mother, she’ll stuff her face with your food and leave. Claire’s just…Claire. She doesn’t give a fuck what anybody else thinks as long as they keep thinking. Because the best part of Claire; in anyone’s opinion, is her ability to keep others informed. “Never leave anybody in the dark.”
Job: Investigative reporter on the same team as Lola and Belinda.
Residence: A lower-end Olympia 400-fter.
Other Odds-and-Ends: Claire is from New York; Long Island, to be specific. Her mother is a Jewish woman who can’t believe her daughter is a demon when every OTHER mother’s daughter is a lawyer, or a restaurant owner, or even a CFO. “Not to mention she’s a goddamn journalist. The demon thing was bad enough; but THIS?” Claire visits her upon occasion, but only to check in and make sure her mother is still attending AA on a semi-regular basis. Her stepfather isn’t really in the picture anymore, and Claire and he didn’t really get along too much to begin with, so she doesn’t care. Just like she doesn’t care about who her dad was. None of it really matters to her, as she thrives on her work and partying. Wash, rinse, repeat. She has trouble forming attachments due to her brash personality, but, upon occasion, she does try. She’s a constant work in progress who has a soft spot for Coney Island and terrible hot dogs. More TBA.
Name: Belinda Davis
Face Claim: Aja Naomi King* [if Meg isn’t using her]
Age: 28
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Height: 5’6”
Species: A witch. Specifically, a technomancer.
Powers: Her connection to machinery, technology, networking, and more is unrivaled. She can, essentially, link herself up to the internet and absorb, channel, and use information there. She primarily monitors social media or 18+ hours a day, seven days a week, in case of supernatural activity or exposure. She’s an expert hacker, an industrial inventor, and an engineer of a great many software programs meant to protect the social lives of supernaturals everywhere. She can cast spells, too, of course, but the majority of her work comes off as…somewhat robotic; or controlled. She’s more like a machine herself, they say. The base of her magic lies in communication—her primary gift is language; which means she can speak and communicate in any and all. Including, but not limited to: binary code as well.
Weaknesses: She is v mortal as most witches are; and moreover, a little bit afraid of nature. She focuses her magical ability on more “modern” things, and doesn’t engage in other forms of magic if she can help it. She has asthma and weak knees, too, for what it’s worth. She isn’t much of a runner, so she has a tendency to avoid being outdoors if she can help it. Especially during the Spring or cold times of year.
Personality: Nervous to the point of being high-strung, Belinda is in a constant state of worry that seems to propel her forward at all times like her legs end in springs. She’s on-edge and antsy, and just wants to make sure everything is in mint condition and A-okay all the time. She wants nothing more than to have total control all the time, and is so Type A that she can’t ever truly relax. Rounding out the team that is Lola and Claire, Belinda acts as their entire nervous system, keeping them connected as much as possible. She’s always harried, but everything is “just so”. Beyond what seems to be a billion layers of anxiety, Belinda longs for genuine connection. She can talk to just about anyone, but she…can’t. Talk. To anyone.
Job: Official social media surveillance officer and underling to Katherine.
Residence: A beautiful condo on the very edge of Olympia.
Other Odds-and-Ends: Not much is known about Belinda Davis. All of her records were either sealed or deleted, nobody knows for certain. She spends a great deal of her time alone and has a small collection of Pop Vinyl figurines, her favorite being her Ursula & Little Mermaid ones. Nobody really gets to see the inside of her house because she’s just so temperamental about her space and people disturbing it. She’s also constantly absorbing and filtering information, thus going through phases such as juice cleanses, feng shui, and more. Also, Katherine assisted her in honing her abilities and Belinda pretty much considers her as her sensei.
Giving a slight start at the sound of his [father's] goddess's voice, Malcolm looked up from smoothing his cerulean tie into place, studying Cerridwen. "A hot--oh." His smile was wry when it reappeared, fingers dropping to adjust his half-moon cufflinks, then the sapphire ring on his left hand's middle finger. "On the contrary. Still in vogue. But my rendezvous ought to be a cool business meeting," he said, his smile turning cunning at the edges. "I see you've been out on another jaunt."
Her smile softened slightly. “That’s a relief,” she chuckled, “I did think it had some staying power.” She couldn’t help but notice the change in his mannerisms, as opposed to when he thought she wasn’t looking. “Well, bravo, nonetheless. I dare say you’re looking quite refined and professional.” The mending sorceress gently scanned the tidied-up mercenary’s attire approvingly, though her pale eyes flicked curiously at the twitch of his lips. “Perhaps not the word I’d use … too upbeat … but yes.” Cerridwen often found herself offering such corrections, as the poet in her returned. She sensed he was going somewhere with this line of thought, and waited for him to follow it through.
also making these character summaries isn’t too hard except finding gifs for them. my eternal struggle. half of them aren’t in anything tumblr likes to gif and the other half are just a n i m a l s whythis.
started playing knights of the old republic again, because that star wars itch is mighty indeed, and just. these graphics. this dialogue. i love the game but just. still.
Just a heads up for in regards to potential face claims. There’s a new TV show called The Shannara Chronicles with lots of nice fantasy face claims. o^o Lots of elves and demons and such.
Please do watch it I’m really enjoying it so far, I think you’d like it! Plus Manu Bennett, I mean c’mon. It’s very very beautiful, almost Lord of the Rings like in terms of production quality.
The mist that rolled into the barren, chemically-clean rooms was an unstoppable wave of silver and suspense. The enchantment blistered as it flowed, long tendrils of platinum striking like serpents made of smoke into the open eyes of their foes. Yes, their foes, though, if Malcolm had had his way, he would’ve happily kept his status as a wanted man in the low hundreds, rather than be put on the radar of an enormous, obviously corrupt and extremely powerful anti-supernatural establishment.
Shrieks followed in the frosty wake of Ceridwen’s wrath as Malcolm, nonplussed, looked from the goddess in his arms to the guardians of this purgatory as they clutched their skulls and clawed at their sightless eyes.
Perfectly ordinary deity behavior, then. The smiting and blighting and all.
He was stunned for only the briefest moment until his goddess turned to him with eyes like twin cinders to ignite their way. Her deliberate order—“get us out of here”—was the spark he needed to shoot off into the hallway, guns blazing (or at least, safeties off).
The corridors, crowded as they were, were much easier to navigate—despite stray bullets and the occasional burst of electricity from, gods help them, the people still trying to do their jobs despite being temporarily blinded by his father’s goddess. Malcolm managed to disengage two firearms, a flash grenade, two tasers, a cattleprod, and what he could only presume was a last-defense effort in the form of a rocket launcher. All this he did with one hand and a clenched jaw, protectively shielding the woman who was known to ruin men and raise the tides with his frame.
A new high, even for him. He ought to be commemorated for this, honestly. Better to be commemorated whilst living than be renowned in one’s eulogy, though—he ducked a wildly swinging arm and, in turn, swung Cerridwen up in both of his own, charging the remaining length of the too-clean hallway at a steady pace.
“Sorry for the indignity of your position, Madam Moon,” Malcolm muttered at Cerridwen’s subtle sound of annoyance against his neck, “but there’s not much time to waste—“ he shifted sharply out of the way of a thin red line, the wall where his head had previously been exploding in a shower of cement dust and flaking pale yellow paint. Sucking in an irritated breath of his own, the mutt worked his jaw and kept his back to the wall. He had to turn the corner to at least get to the window above the stairs at the end of the next hallway—but he could hear heavily-booted footsteps pounding up said stairs, and, if the gunfire was any indication, these people knew what they were doing. Blinded or otherwise—he had no idea just how far the goddess’s curse extended, nor how long it would last with her in this condition.
All he could do, ironically, was pray.
And prepare to act, of course. After all, his faith (unlike his father’s) was first and foremost in himself. The gods and goddesses came second. It was cyclical; symbiotic, really. Malcolm didn’t have time to divvy out a detailed explanation at present. He’d reflect on this later, perhaps—over a tall glass of brandy and a cigar, surrounded by beautiful people with a will to live again.
Cheery. Motivational. Almost as motivational as the next burst of rapid fire that tore into the wall, punching chips and fragments into the air with the stink of smoke and sulfur.
“You’re going to need to hold on,” Malcolm said abruptly, twisting with a roll of his big shoulders to prop Cerridwen on his back. The goddess scrambled to wrap weakened arms around his tattooed neck, sputtering softly, the lighter she’d snagged back earlier still stubbornly clutched in her trembling fingers.
“Wh-what? Hold on?” Malcolm nodded once, and, adjusting her legs around his waist (“another indignity for which I heartily apologize and will certainly make up for later”), pulled a pistol out from under his shirt in one hand, the other free—save for the fistful of glittery gray dust he clenched; worrying, between his fingers in a fist that bulged like a bare-knuckled boxer’s. “Please tell me this is a p-part of your—” Cerridwen winced faintly, the energy she’d exerted having taken its toll on her—she felt heavy, estranged from her body, as if she were slowly filtering into moonlight herself. She clung to Malcolm a little harder, just to remind herself she was there. “Elaborate plan,” she finished faintly, head resting against the back of her unlikely savior’s neck.
Malcolm thought it over. Was this a part of his plan? The dragon dust in his fingers began to burn, affected by the friction of his digits. The gun in the hand opposite, catching the glimmers of moonlight through the thin slats that passed for this institution’s windows pointed its snout toward the sound of a well-oiled, mostly-human machine waiting for them mere yards ahead.
“More or less,” he replied mildly at long last. Cerridwen started to protest, but Malcolm had tensed; coiled beneath her—all muscle and malice, his fingers tightening with the rest of him. “Hang tight,” he ordered softly, and Cerridwen did as she was told.
There was a moment wherein the world seemed to hold its breath. The hallway seemed to yawn before them as Malcolm began his gradual rounding of the corner, and everything slowed to a crawl.
Then, it exploded.
Like, it literally exploded. Malcolm tossed the handful of dragon’s ash into the fray of the black-armored men waiting with firepower enough to fell a small army, and, with a single shot from the gun that turned out to be a flare, he ignited the ash with a roar of flame as luridly white-blue as one could possibly imagine. It burned with a force like no other, swallowing the hallway in a cosmic roar; a chasm of hellfire and brimstone that engulfed the men in black till they were naught but mere shadows among the dancing flames.
And then Malcolm fired his gun again.
Another flare and the walls themselves exploded, the dragon’s dust drawn to fire, consuming everything with a hunger that made the flames seem as though they themselves were alive. Cerridwen buried her face against Malcolm a bit more, her fingers tightening on the lighter. The men were howling in the flames, beating them out of their surprisingly-durable clothes. Some already lay scattered on the ground; slashes of darkness in a field of nothing but burning light and peeling, blistering linoleum. Malcolm glanced back at her as he tossed his empty flare gun aside, and, with a look that was more verbose than his usual cagey expression. Cerridwen understood as he turned his hand over, revealing a thimble’s worth of dragon’s ash left behind.
They turned together as Malcolm put his back to the flames, in one smooth gesture distributing a protective ripple of fabric over Cerridwen to keep the fire from reaching her. The cold ripple of enchanted cotton flowed across her frame like ink, and the goddess flicked the lighter with a shaking thumb until it burst. Only then did she toss it like a shooting star toward the line of ashes Malcolm flung at the hallway they’d just come from.
More succinct and terrifying than gunpowder, the ripple of drifting particles exploded, darting off into the hallway of the Unseeing, cascading and flowing across the tiled floor and up the battered walls, until all was sapphire flame and white, white smoke like the light of the moon.
Stray bullets rained. The floor caved. Malcolm swiftly shifted on his heel and booked it for the window above stairs that had begun to sag and collapse, his hands gripping Cerridwen’s legs as he reached the landing of the stairs—
And jumped.
In a brief moment of suspension, Cerridwen watched the burning world of chemicals and cadavers fall away, spirals of cerulean and silver ripping their world apart—as they’d ripped hers apart in turn. There was a brief moment of feral triumph in her gut that burned all on its own, a candleflame of hope that conjured itself into a bonfire of belief: belief she could be free, belief in herself and her followers, belief…enough to strengthen her hands until she gripped Malcolm tight; held him close, even as his frame cracked with bone and became smattered with fur…
He had changed, midair, from man to beast, a great, grayish wolf the size of three, his stoic face dissolving into a snarl of teeth and spittle, his frame rippling with replaced muscles and extended tendons. He was enormous, bristling with fur and claws, clearing the jump from the landing of the dissolving staircase to the one window wide enough to exit. Cerridwen, catching herself in the nick of time, pulled the protective coat he’d produced from seemingly nowhere over herself, head tucked against shoulder blades swathed in nickel-rust fur and old, old scars.
The window burst; a firework of glassy diamonds, and Malcolm changed back, curving to grasp Cerridwen in both arms; once more in midair (“the showoff,” some might exclaim later with great exasperation), shouting soundless Gaelic into the void as the building beyond them rumbled and cracked, flames licking at the edges of the wing they’d just left—
Until the world itself was a mirage of hallucinatory distortion, a warped view through a lens rapidly shrinking, shrinking—until it was gone.
Malcolm landed square on his back on his sofa in the middle of his lodge, a spray of glass, ash, and debris raining down around him in a hurricane frenzy of destruction. Cerridwen, stunned and reeling beneath a coat that now smelled suspiciously of gasoline and magic, sat up sharply and stared down at the battered figure still vaguely smoking beneath her on the now-sagging sofa.
Coughing a thin line of smoke into the air, Malcolm flashed his goddess a cocky half-smile, flicking heavy, tired brows at the thin moonbeam with a temper.
“There now,” said the mercenary breezily, rolling his shoulders and sniffing a little, settling back on the couch. “Wasn’t so bad, was it? I told you I had a plan.”
It seemed only poetic justice for Cerridwen to turn and throw up on his floor.
Icing on the cake, really.
Another flawless effort for the books of Malcolm Ferrick.
Just a heads up for in regards to potential face claims. There’s a new TV show called The Shannara Chronicles with lots of nice fantasy face claims. o^o Lots of elves and demons and such.
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romaincrisis
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