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Realistic or Modern 𝕋𝐇𝐄 𝔻𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝕐𝐎𝐔 𝕂𝐍𝐎𝐖 (2.0, CS Thread)

OOC
Here
Other
Here
BELIAL.

BELIAL.

wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
Roleplay Type(s)
xxxx
/* credit to sugarvine*/
  • character sheet
    the sheet will be fairly simple. as a reminder, roles will not be first come first serve. apps will be due in one week! A soft deadline for those with extra energy or previously admitted apps will be Sunday, May 7th, but the hard deadline will be May 10th otherwise. If you need an extension ask, but I will only provide a couple of extra days! If you cannot complete it by then don't worry, and simply reapply when there is an opening to slot you and your character back in! It will be fairly lax, as tense as I may seem writing this, but I'm as communicative and willing as you are : )

    feel free to use code or don't, but we always enjoy a pretty layout.


    BASICS
    name: (full name, legal name, pseudonym)
    nicknames:
    age: (21+)
    p.o.b: (place of birth)
    d.o.b: (date of birth)
    occupation:

    APPEARANCE
    faceclaim: (written description is okay, aesthetic pics for 'faceclaim' works, but keep them realistic as well. )
    written description: (slightly optional: if you have an fc, feel free to omit some of the description but please provide anything that isn't pictured)
    height:
    tattoos/piercings/etc:

    PERSONALITY
    four pos traits: (traits that are considered 'positive' or otherwise agreeable or beneficial to themselves or others)
    four neg traits: (traits that are considered 'negative' or otherwise a detriment to themselves or others)
    fears: (minimum one)
    vices: (minimum one. anything that is a habit or personality trait that is particularly vice-worthy: addictions, behaviours, etc)

    BACKGROUND
    supernatural encounter: (whether they play a passive or active, whatever has got them going to these meetings and taking the job)
    personal effects: (provide whatever petty or little things that they may have on them, perhaps as a sign of personality and who they are; what they enjoy, little tidbits that need not be expressed in pure prose, but in their presence alone)
    personal history: (paragraph minimum, please give us an idea of where they came from and who they are)
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lily "love" loveday
















# moonage daydreamer




# riley keough










♡coded by uxie♡




BASICS
name: Annabel De Wolfe is long gone, where Lily Loveday stands in her place.

nicknames: Love, Lily

age: 29

p.o.b: Chattanooga, Tennessee

d.o.b: June 17th

occupation: Currently unemployed, a recent termination after arguing with a customer at a makeup counter at Macy's for the fifth time that week

APPEARANCE
faceclaim: Riley Keough

written description: Pretty red hair, a dark copper in some lights, a mulled brown in others, often scented by peroxide and dye, with long locks that dust her forehead and upper back. Lily Loveday does consider herself someone who's rather 'au naturale', though she's far from any of the truly unwashed hippies that she used to align with. The scents she wears are musky and dark, often as elusive as the glint in her painted blue eyes, better sought in the darkened lights of a bar than expressive and pained in the daylight's public eye.

Her skin is fair, quickly tarnished by the sun, though she does her best to try and keep a tan without turning into a lobster. With a thin, pointed nose and equally thin lips, she seems to permanently be posed. Long limbs and a near waifish figure are often draped in loose skirts and looser shirts, the less restricted the better, and Lily carries herself with an ethereal confidence; tirelessly trained after years of struggling to find who she is as a person.

Matching scars mar her arms, the marking of two sharp slices; one long one runs across her chest, often hidden by a plethora of necklaces or flowing clothes. They have healed some in the six months since the incident, but still seem to pucker under stress.

height: Five foot ten

tattoos/piercings/etc: A plethora of foliage and fauna related tattoos, a few shitty backroom flash designs too, winding around her arms, her back and her hip bones. Ears are pierced, often with dangly and ornamental earrings.

PERSONALITY
four pos traits: Lively, Deeply Creative, Honest to Others, Intuitive
four neg traits: Argumentative, Petty, Dismissive, Inconsistent

fears: Being possessed by something or anything, Hospitals, Wild Dogs, Deep Water

vices: Cigarettes (her hands refuse to be idle), General 'drug' use (of all and a pretty few things), Can't sleep alone (pursuing other means of filling said bed)

BACKGROUND
spiritual encounter: An old boy-friend-fling got himself all tangled up in things he didn't know or understand, a slow and torturous possession that made him angrier and far more violent than he ever was. After visiting him in the hospital after he'd broken both his legs jumping from a roof, she saw what she described as something foul and evil in his eyes; he attacked her then and there before seemingly taking his own life. She fled, and she hasn't been the same since.

personal effects: a small, green velvet bag of stones and gems; pack of cigarettes and a zippo lighter; a small drawstring purse with mostly nothing in it, save for a wallet with only cash and some gum wrappers; cherry scented lip-balm; and a small, palm-sized book titled 'How to Commune With the Moon'.

personal history: Born into the system, most of the childhood that 'Annabel' had was being shipped between foster homes and orphanages, never being able to settle in one place; never being adopted. A product of less than decent families, and even less than decent kids who struggled themselves, she clung to whatever pleasures a child could. She tried reading, hoping to delve into these imaginary worlds for an escape, but found the words flipping themselves on the page. It became more of a chore to read than it was fun. She tried creating her own stories with dolls, but found that her foster siblings just stomped on her hands or pulled the heads off of her dolls instead. Turning instead to lingering in the shadows of others, Annabel learned by watching.

This would, as most could expect, lead to her following the less than savoury behaviours of others. Sneaking off to smoke behind the home, breaking into nearby abandoned lots, etc. Even from a young age she found herself drawn to the older kids and the trouble they got into. With the backdrop of an America pulling itself in and out of wars, she watched a few of the older kids she knew turning 18 and being sent off. Whether or not they would come back remained to be said, but the losses were profound.

At sixteen she was finally removed from the foster home she'd been staying at and nestled into the somewhat comforting arms of her new family. They went through with the papers, got her name changed and moved her out of the city. The De Wolfe family were rather plain, an America-loving family that had been unable to have a child of their own for some time, with Mrs. De Wolfe finding herself too old to go through with raising a child incredibly young, hence them opting for an older daughter. They were alright people, at least by Annabel's measure. A well-to-do family, perhaps living in a life that Annabel never dreamed of, made her feel like she didn't belong.

They did try, giving her space and the support needed to try and integrate her into their class and lifestyle. Busy bodies, they carted the teenager around to Church on Sundays and Girl Scout meetings on Mondays. School was where Annabel felt the worst, as it was one of those private Baptist ones, and everyone there seemed a little too insufferable for the girl. She thrived on standing out at this time, priding herself on being a little rougher than the other girls, a little harder to understand to the teachers. Her vices of youth carried on, stealing cigarettes from her father and smoking them behind the school. She was almost caught more than once, but by ushering a few of the other girls who saw Annabel as someone different and exciting, they often cut the blame for her.

Entranced with the city she'd been forced to leave, and a life living on the fringes of society where she felt she belonged, Annabel convinced her parents to send her to one of the bigger universities. She lasted about a month there, keeping up appearances, before packing her things and hitching a ride elsewhere. There she fell in with a group on the back of a brightly coloured bus bound for a commune, and with it she signed her old life away. Lily Loveday was born then and there, renewed in a cool river's spring.

She found her way all around the States at that time, cruising between cities in the back of that van. They enjoyed getting odd jobs here and there, cursing out the system and moving on. Lily Loveday thrived in this condition, nursing the new self she'd grown and developed. She dyed her hair, dressed how she wanted, and lived on the world giving its spoils, and what they could return.

Life was rather 'simple' for a while for Lily, as she and the other hippies she called family cruised around the country. They lived by meagre paycheques and the generosity of others, always seeming to find themselves at some sort of protest or public gathering, and always staking their interest for the peace-loving side of things. Lily got arrested once in 1967, and it was the first time she'd seen her adopted family in years.

She took to the wind again after that, afraid of being caught by the authorities and losing the autonomy she'd managed to barely grip onto. Settling back in Tennessee, she did manage to regain some 'normalcy', even if it was complacent to the mainstream machine. She stuck out where she could, but the jobs never lasted. At some point, she figured, they'd just stop hiring her on account of the bad behaviour. It was just the system, and how it worked.

Most of her addictions came about during this time, strangely enough when she was on her own rather than with the other hippies. Her living spaces were shared, often in the bed of whomever she could date for the time, before dropping them the second she found herself getting too comfortable. It was better that way, she figured.

Lily Loveday wasn't one to believe beyond the holistic and peace-loving practices of her commune and hippie lifestyle, accepting that energies and spirits navigated the world same as the living. It was when her boyfriend at the time, a guy named Till, found some dusty old book at a yard sale that everything changed. It was something she hated on sight, knowing enough sense to know when something was bad news. But Till was entranced. In a few short weeks he began to become obsessed with the book, but she'd never learned what was in it. He became insane, or so she claimed, lashing out in ways that not even she could comprehend. The things she saw she'd hesitate to repeat, but even to the present they return every so often in a bad dream.

It was his attempt on his life that shook Lily out of her fear, and when she'd thought about really committing and helping him through it, that was when it turned on its head. The man that she saw in that hospital room was not Till, and the wounds he left on her were not from a weak, human being. Scars that have barely healed, defensive wounds on her forearms that mar what were once pretty, painful tattoos.

The encounter haunted Lily for a long, long time. Until she saw that flyer, and was drawn to the prospect of no longer feeling like she couldn't sleep in her own bed.
 
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father august
















# servant of god




# ewan mcgregor










♡coded by uxie♡




BASICS
name: Father August Kamiński

nicknames: Augie, Padre

age: 39

p.o.b: Greenpoint, New York

d.o.b: April 21st

occupation: Ordained Priest; though presently suspended by the Church for an indefinite length of time.

APPEARANCE
faceclaim: Ewan McGregor

written description:
A comparably weathered man, Father August is a keen thirty-nine. Lines define his features in maturity, youth long faded wherein the echoes relay a handsome albeit haggard appearance; still possessing a head of thick, dirty blond hair and defining smattering of stubble. Clean-cut jaw and gentle cheekbones push for a softer impression, belied by August’s scolding glare and disapproving frown, ticking over into suppressed annoyance dependent on the company⁠. Blue eyes compliment the Priest’s washed-out complexion, his genetics proffering little in the ways of swarthier tans with a Polish capacity for sunlight.

Erring on the taller side, Kamiński carries his past in the shape of his physique⁠; marching gait causing a swing in his step defined by years of service, broad shoulders caught up in the motion⁠—he’s long retained a dedicated hobby as an avid sportsman and runner, strong in arm and quick to react. However, of all the personal history a human body finds itself encumbered by, one act of a misstep lightened the burden as the Priest’s left leg below his knee is somewhere buried in the churned soil of Vietnam. Yet as the paralytic were healed at Capernaum, August has found an adequate prosthetic to restore his stride.

Leaning into his priesthood rather than shunning it in wake of his suspension, Father August prefers to keep his clerical collar and pressed-shirts, varying between an all-black ensemble or a muted cardigan. Oft smelling of Church incense, Kamiński’s own cologne creates a subtle but pleasant base of warmth; intertwined with a faint scent of wood varnish and wool as though the pews and prayer cushions of a cathedral.

height: 6'1"

tattoos/piercings/etc: Scarring from the loss of his leg has left a large part of his thigh and abdomen mauled, with an ugly web of silver-knit flesh.

PERSONALITY
four pos traits: Steadfast, Passionate, Humble, Principled
four neg traits: Paranoid, Cynical, Dogmatic, Irritable

fears: Comeuppance for his sins; driving in the rain; losing faith; paranoia of poisoned food and drink—a lingering delusion following the use of Agent Orange.

vices:
For a holy man, Father August is something of a drinker—alcohol and sealed bottles go hand in hand, making it a safe option for his latent paranoia and easy on the nerves. Equally, Kamiński's perscription sleeping medication, a tranquiliser that keeps the terrors at bay with the price of his insomnia otherwise.

BACKGROUND
spiritual encounter: During August’s time under the protection of the church, his encounters number more than one. From the ghosts of Vietnam, to that of his failed exorcism and subsequent death of the victim.

personal effects: August carries with him a complete Holy Bible bound in black leather with faded gilded letterings and tattered bookmark; two small, oval silver flasks containing both holy oil and water for personal use and protection; rosary with its cast crucifix pendant; a thermos often containing cold drink he considers safe and a leaflet to a veteran’s support group written over with half a phone number and eclectic shopping list.

personal history:
It is said children of tragedy are born unlucky, beginning with their conception and lasting throughout their harried lives til’ the casket catches them as once did the cot. August proved no different. An unwanted child to an unready mother, he was left under the care of his maternal grandparents, first generation Polish immigrants and of a devout catholic faith that determined the boy a bastard but a boy of their own no less. Kamiński’s grandmother named him for that of Saint Augustine, in hopes a patron ought to ward off the evil that surrounded the circumstances of his birth. His mother roaming in and out of his hazy childhood, encouraging him to call her aunt as though the guilt that sat low in her stomach could no longer fathom that strange, sullen boy was once fruit of her own womb.

Grandfather was a man of strength, one who’d fought long and hard in the Great War with embittered faith, fire and brimstone to his core and fists that made you see angels. Never one to spare the rod. As such, August was indoctrinated fiercely into the church, devout until the point he could hardly breathe for fear God was watching, that somehow the Lord could speak to his grandfather and tell him of his mistakes. However as much as religion wrapped about him as a cage, it was equal parts relief; providing a way to spend time away from home without incurring wrath, promoting study and theology as education went hand in hand.

Spending his youth in the midst of the Second World War, August recalled his grandfather’s near-angered cries as the radio relayed them the push of Germany. The soft burr of voices in the evenings as the smell of tobacco clung to the air, countries fell across the Atlantic. Perhaps the only time he saw his grandfather weep was to hear of Poland’s surrender. All for nothing.

Though the older grandfather became, the more frail and mellow, gave August the space to push back. Yet it was always grandmother who soothed either side, dispensing her attention as balm to hot tempers. Aged seventeen, perhaps at the end of each other’s tethers, August joined the armed forces in 1951 with his grandfather’s consent⁠—his words being that if Korea didn’t kill him in a years time, he shouldn’t consider returning home. Training without active duty for a year, in 1952 at eighteen and a half, August was deployed in the stalemate.

As part of the 7th Infantry Division, August found himself in the midst of the Battle of White Horse and toward the turning point of the war, the Battle of Pork Chop Hill. It proved not the blood spilled, nor the smell of war, its camaraderie and loss, senseless violence in foreign lands⁠—but the influencing decision of his future. Inspired by his Division chaplain for whom held the hands of the dying and dead; preparing their last rites, or proffering his advice to a young and anxious August, after his four years of service were up Kamiński took his wages and applied to seminary school.

Four years studying theology, as well as serving his year as a transitional deacon, August returned home briefly in 1961 to make amends with his grandparents. However the road to forgiveness never does run smooth, as his grandfather had long passed in his sleep soon after his first tour, grandmother said it was the guilt. Nevertheless, seeing him safe was enough, and how strange it was to feel as if a boy again—sitting in those last-century armchairs while the radioset buzzed. Their reunion was cut short in '62, August travelling abroad on his first mission trip to teach schoolchildren in rural India. He went on to spend three years in the country, until the Vietnam war reached fever pitch and drove the wayward soul back again to America. It was the calling he’d had since those days in ‘53, earning his chaplaincy with the infantry.

Retrained in a non-combative role, August hit the ground running within six months. Serving the faith in a place that earned its name as a green hell, things were far worse than they were ever in Korea. Hands that had killed men now sought to comfort those going through crisis, aiding local orphanages that sprung up to take in children who were victims of a war they’d had no part in, and sitting by the bedsides of those so bloodied by violence they could not speak without gurgle or gasp. It was Vietnam that saw God belonged to no side, that his blessings and psalms gave comfort but no shield⁠—in Korea he’d been a hot-blooded patriot, but ‘Nam was a violation of body and mind.

Ghosts roamed the woods, the men said. Headless women and charred men, lost children, soldiers who lead the way through minefields. Stories August only heeded too late. In the monsoons of 1968, sweat and humidity going hand in hand til’ one didn't know the difference, the company drove in a downpour until they abruptly stopped at the cry there was something in the road. Climbing out to clear the debris, a task that shouldn’t have taken long, August spied a child down behind the overflowing irrigation ditch⁠—calling out, the boy turned; hair moulded to his scalp with water, skin pulled bruisingly-tight over features that should’ve existed. A boy without a face. Straying from the convoy, it was an American landmine that stripped his leg back to the bone.

Forced to accept an honourable discharge on medical grounds, August’s rehabilitation was slow. He’d spent months mulling on the meaning of it. In some ways, it reinvigorated his faith. Returning to the congregation, time began its healing. Community and scripture, regular visits to his doctor, Kamiński showed himself the ideal posterboy for reintegrating back to the civilian humdrum. Reconnecting with those who had come home from Vietnam both prior and after, the support he gave to those he’d known out in the field had a personal touch. Heavy to bear, sharing the weight of killing.

1972, Father August Kamiński would be found at fault by his Bishop for playing a part in the death of Laurie Young. A personal affair of possession with the family known to him at the weekly service, requested his help in exorcising the spirit from their daughter that'd taken hold in the weeks prior. So twisted up he couldn't tell whether she was already dead, arms and legs splayed at awkward angles, her neck straining with it's taut tendons wriggling beneath fevered skin. The body wept, though the voice that came from her lips did not.

Suspended indefinitely, August’s progress stepped backward; failing to show for his sessions at the local Veteran’s group where he devolved into paranoia. But desperate men make good employees. And ones seeking answers, moreso.
 
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Richard “Richie” Warwick
































# the rationalist








# 32




















♡coded by uxie♡





BASICS ;;​
name: richard josiah warwick
nicknames: commonly referred to as “richie”
age: 32
p.o.b: boston, MA
d.o.b: february 14th, 1941
occupation: certified public accountant, financial advisor

APPEARANCE ;;
​
faceclaim: edward norton in the film “fight club”
written description: teetering upon the borders of carcass and man, in between flesh and in between bone, richie bears the face of a thing that once blossomed, though has now dried, become conquered by dread and the brutality of terror. like a playground now abandoned, he is the skeleton in the closet, the phantom that whirs past; listless, hardly present yet jarring all the same, with a sickly-pale face framed only by quirking eyebrows and sunken flesh, encapsulating hollow eyes that burn holes into those daring enough to look. devoid of life and unremarkable down to his very essence, he quietly unfurls in the background - prefers the solitary corners to the center stage and, carries himself as such. drifting between the margins of life, he dresses like something of a corporate jockey, another suit in a hive full of suits, his long limbs and lean muscle sheathed and tucked under crisp white shirts, well-ironed slacks and footed in polished shoes that click against the marble. some days he’ll even throw on a tie.

height: 6 foot even
tattoos/piercings/etc: a thinly-veiled scar on the right edge of his temple, faded with time and with age, telling a story he hardly even remembers anymore or perhaps, wishes to forget.

PERSONALITY ;;
​
pos traits: rational, quick-witted, level-headed, knowledgeable
neg traits: pessimistic, a frequent naysayer, sarcastic, bull-headed, dismissive
fears: the most pertinent fear that plagues his mind is the one that he has lost it - himself, his psyche, entirely. lately he’s began to see things and well, they’ve began to see him right back. a rationalist terrorized by illusions- yes, illusions he cannot quite explain is frightening in and of itself; but when the margins between the past and present become muddled, richie is most afraid that he will submerge into the dark waters of the gripping unknown, revisit what he once fled, and never return as himself, if at all.

she’s back.
Oh god she’s back.

vices: a light sleeper since boyhood, richie has always slumbered very little, and, because of this, has learned to subdue his mind in various peculiar ways, to distract himself from the chaos that wants so desperately to claw its way back into his life. but some old habits, don’t die hard, in fact, some stop working when you need them the most. pills. he started using them innocently enough, wanting nothing but a few hours of rest, of blissful sleep. but that’s how it always starts isn’t it? a toxic reliance built upon the steady increase of this so called “activity” in his lousy house, images contorting themselves into memories he’d never once wished to revisit, an old silhouette that used to stand at the edges of his bed, loom over the corridors of a cold, loveless home. richie assumes that his lack of sleep is to blame, so as to not face the obvious — and with this assumption, has stocked a medicine cabinet to the brim with both prescribed and unprescribed antidotes. it’s been five weeks, and nothing seems to be working.

also an avid cigarette smoker, though he wonders, who isn’t? in an era where people seldom question what you inhale or ingest, the colour of ash and the scent of smoke lingers about him, clings to his fingers like molasses. he’s been meaning to quit but never really does.



BACKGROUND ;;
​
supernatural encounter: ; inspired by the haunting of hillhouse, richie essentially has his own “bent-neck lady” who’s been haunting him since childhood ; though disappearing for some number of years she’s since returned and he can’t fathom why ; a recent encounter with him seeing her somewhere in a public space (?) and losing his composure entirely — therefore thinking he’s lost his mind ; seeks not answers but an explanation ; an unbelieving and unreligious man who is using this as a final resort - if they don’t know how to solve this than maybe he can find someone who does.
personal effects: (provide whatever petty or little things that they may have on them, perhaps as a sign of personality and who they are; what they enjoy, little tidbits that need not be expressed in pure prose, but in their presence alone)
personal history: ; born to a mortician father and a hairdresser mother ; father was cold and not outrightly demeaning but dismissive nonetheless ; mother was more loving but distracted (or perhaps trying to distract herself?) majority of the time ; richie was a sickly boy always plagued by some illness or the other and often spent his time locked away at home - a funeral home ; he began to start seeing things around the age of 7 or 8 — but specifically began to start seeing her ; the spirit (?) doesn’t possess a voice but makes sounds that have terrified him since he first saw her at the corner of his room ; his parents always chalked these tellings up to feverish delusions or a bored, boyish imagination ; this continued on for about a year or two until richie saw her and fell from the ladder of his treehouse, she’d left a scratch across the right side of his temple ; he broke an arm and his mother was furious at his father for not having watched him more closely ; this dissolved into further argument about richie’s well-being, the fact that he was always sick and used to be a much more lively boy before moving to the new house ; shortly after his mother finally confessed that she’d been seeing things too and proclaimed that they would be leaving by nightfall ; for once richie had peace as they moved to the other side of town, his father no longer part of their little family; yada yada

 
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FOR SOME A PROLOGUE
FOR SOME AN EPILOGUE.


— DOSSIER

NAME: Dorothy Louise Honoré
NICKNAME: Dorothy-Lou , Doe
AGE: 24 years old
P.O.B: Natchitoches, Louisiana
D.O.B: January 25th
OCCUPATION: Aspiring Author & Journalist


— VISAGE

FACECLAIM: Brenda Sykes.

HAIR: A head of wild curls that glistens in the sun, a brown so deep that only the light reveals its earth tone hues. The shape and texture holds all the similarities of a cloud.
EYES: Playful locks cover big, brown eyes as though playing a game of guess who. When brushed it reveals the gems underneath. They pop with the mascara that lines them. It’s funny how they draw attention yet remained vague. Sometimes she watches, shrewd and hawk-like behind those bangs of hers.
SKIN: Deep brown skin shines with the shea butter she was taught to use. Gentle hands guided hers until she was able to apply herself. She does so religiously, taking care of her skin meticulously each morning and night when she can.

HEIGHT: 5’7” | 153 cm
WEIGHT: 128 bs | 56 kg

BUILD: Tall and slender are the exact words to describe her physique. Her body speaks of one that had never known hard labor. There is a fragility to her that doesn’t seem to match the fire and drive in her eyes.


— PERSONA

PERSONALITY: Little Dorothy-Lou has a certain reputation around the town she grew up in. A sweet little thing with big brown eyes often hidden behind curls. A child who was not like the others, who kept her nose stuck in books and out of trouble. That reputation came with certain perks, even now. Dorothy has never been shy or timid, instead she’s quite the sneaky young woman. Trouble has a way of finding her and she has a way of engaging yet avoiding the consequences so far. Dorothy is careful with how she presents herself. Behind that modest clothing and big hair is an observant and ambitious young woman. She is not afraid to make others uncomfortable with her stories, her questions. Most would never expect someone like her to have a fire within and a smart mouth made for spitting flames. It’s true, what they say about the quiet ones. She uses her ability to blend in to her advantage, letting others look over her with no problem.

VIRTUES: Insightful, Persuasive, Humanitarian, Spiritual, Liberated
VICES: Characterless, Emotional, Restless, Calculating, Superstitious

FEARS: Dorothy is afraid of dogs after nearly being attacked by a loose pitbull. She had been visiting a cousin and they were playing outside when it came for them. She’s also scared of failure, that her mother’s words of doubt will be right and that she’ll never make her own path in life.

SUPERNATURAL ENCOUNTER: While staying with her grandmother Dorothy had a run-in with a rather terrifying spirit. At the tender age of ten she witnessed the spirit that she later dubbed as the hangman, hanging from a large oak tree outside of the guest bedroom window. Her grandmother could sense that something was wrong and performed some type of ritual to keep the entity for reaching her. It did not stop her from seeing it however. Dorothy had to endure seeing the being outside her window, even when not at her grandma’s. At home the spirit would simply stare at her or hang outside of her window. It took a stronger ritual from stronger root worker to help her.
PERSONAL EFFECT: Dorothy always has her messenger bag on her. Inside are numerous pens and a fresh notebook, as well her essentials like her ID and wallet that contains cash, her social security and driver’s license. Some none essential things include her favorite brand of chapstick, an afro-pick, hair pins, and a mojo bag given to her by her grandmother.

BACKGROUND: To the residents of Natchitoches Parish, their little hometown is nothing special. Unlike the bustling tourist filled city of New Orleans, there was nothing that made it unique. It was filled with families who had lived there for generations and thus the citizens knew one another well. Natchitoches was a place that people left in hopes of finding something better, as it seemed to be forever stuck in the past. Dorothy Honorè was one of those individuals who dreamed of leaving Natchitoches in search of something more.

But before that, she was the same as any child growing up in a small town. Little Dorothy was a quiet child who grew up under the care of two loving parents and grandparents. Her childhood consisted of sleepovers with cousins, playing until the street lights dimmed and the sound of her mama calling home. There was no little amount of love within her house. Older members made sure to teach the children that family was everything, that the love they shared was like no other. It took a village as the saying goes and there was none stronger than the Honoré family.

Dorothy was a quiet little thing growing up but she was not timid. No, she was the type of quiet that hides a sneaky character. Adults would praise little Dorothy-Lou for being a well behaved child. It was how she got away with being all up under them, listening with keen ears as they gossiped and spoke about matters not meant for her ears. Her mama knew better though and would scold her for being in grown folks mouths. She was a nosey being since the very beginning. To make matters worse, she was as blunt as any child. Dorothy had a habit of outright asking things that ought not to be asked or said.

Her habits were only quelled by her grandmother, Anette, who would sit Dorothy in her lap and tell her stories. From stories of her life to folk tales, it was then that Dorothy discovered her love for the spoken and written word. With attentive eyes and ears she gave her grandmother her full attention. Her love grew and turned into a passion that would follow her throughout the years. Much to her mother’s dismay Dorothy began to ask more questions. Though some couldn’t help but indulge her. Little Dorothy-Lou, with her notebook and pen in hand, speaking of her dreams of creating stories and giving a voice to others who had no other way of sharing.

Dorothy would have never expected that she would have her own story to tell. Though it was easy for the adults around her to call what happened the lies of a child in search of attention or the work of the devil by the religious type. For years she stuck to the same story, never changing it even when asked again and again. Those around her usually treated it as a simple scary story created by a bad dream.

It came as no surprise when she grew up and attended Southern University for Literature and Journalism. Dorothy spent her years working for her local paper. Years were spent working under others and not getting the chance to prove yourself, her work stolen because apparently she didn’t have the right “look” or enough experience to be given the recognition she deserved. She was told that her content was not the type of material that the targeted audience wanted to hear about.

It was during a family trip that Dorothy found the flier. Hope surged through her like an electrical current and she decided to take a chance. Her family could do little to stop her as she’d already made her decision. Saint Benedict’s Church held the key to her success, she was sure of it.



DOROTHY.
code by birth of venus.
 
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Sam "SAM" Hwa-Young
















# the vessel




# HoYeon Jung










♡coded by uxie♡




— B A S I C S

NAME: Sam Hwa-Young.

NICKNAMES: Prefers to go by her family name, "Sam", by most. Her parents are the only one that refer to her by her given name.

AGE: Twenty-three.

P.O.B: San Jose, California.

D.O.B: 13th November.

OCCUPATION: Currently working at the local grocer as a cashier.

— A P P E A R A N C E

FACECLAIM: HoYeon Jung.

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION: Angular, yet soft, Sam's once flushed face has been stripped of most colour and is eerily translucent in the light. Her pale skin highlights the dusting of freckles concentrated on her cheeks but fail to hide the almost permanent, dark bags under her seemingly black eyes. Sam's appearance suggest she seems to be in a constant state of the flu. An offensive amount of sickly-sweet perfume attempts to hide the smell of decay and death that radiates from her.

Referred as more "striking" or "handsome" than pretty. Aptly due to her wardrobe consisting of more androgenous or "boyish" styles and the state of her hair. Her slim, almost malnourished frame is draped with oversized, woollen jumpers, coats and pants that are often in brown or dull hues that are deliberately covering her skin. While most of this decade put thought into their outfits, Sam's seem haphazardly thrown together; her co-workers having a bet if Sam's clothing will be inside out or back to front when she comes in for a shift.

As for her hair, Sam's cut it short, brushing up against her jawline and bangs curtained around her face. The jet-black hair has lost its allure and shine, being replaced with fraying, split ends. Sam knew if her mother had seen the state of her hair she would die of shock.

HEIGHT: 5'7".

TATTOOS/PIERCINGS/ETC: Sam's body is a canvas for the demon, etched in self-inflicted scratches, bruises and scars, even a bite mark or two. A recent addition is a tattoo that is scrawled over her shoulder blades: "MEUM EST". Sam has no recollection of the words imprinted on her but instinctively knows what they stand for.

— P E R S O N A L I T Y

POSITIVE TRAITS: Resilient, observant, stoic, forethoughtful.
NEGATIVE TRAITS: Pessimistic, reserved, blunt, self-hatred.

FEARS: Losing control of her body, hurting others, her parent's disapproval, him.

VICES/QUIRKS: Since she easily bruises, Sam often presses into her skin enough to bruise when upset, possession and dissociation, will religiously spray herself with perfume whenever she seems someone sniffing.

— B A C K G R O U N D

SPIRITUAL ENCOUNTER: At the age of thirteen she fell into a coma after being hit by a car while riding her bike. Her parents were relieved when she woke up but something felt different. It started with hearing his voice in mere whispers. Then it became louder, more commanding, and eventually she was having gaps in her memory. Sam would wake up covered in scratches, another time she woke with scissors and locks of her sister's hair and dirt under her nails. However, it crescendoed with blood on her hands and having done something unspeakable.

Sam was sent away to a psychiatric facility and released at the age of eighteen. The demon made her believe he was gone but he slowly crept back up on her. He seems to enjoy her pain and misery, yet unlike most possessions, it hasn't led to her madness or death; he has grown somewhat fond of his chosen host and won't let go. In some twisted way, the two have begun communicating to one another while Sam is in control of her body.

PERSONAL EFFECTS: An old graduated bead necklace from her mother tucked into whatever top she is wearing, two fraying friendship bracelets from her sister on her left wrist, always carries a pair of handcuffs, a sickly-sweet perfume, a cassette player with headphones that Sam often carries with her, a few recorded cassettes.

PERSONAL HISTORY:

Ever since Kyung-Gu was a child he had a dream to open up a bakery. When he met his wife, Ji-Hye, he remembers fondly on their first date; her delicate writing on an empty jar and pushing it over the table to him. The jar represented the hard work Kyung-Gu and Ji-Hye would do for over six years; the jar filling at an excruciatingly slow rate but nonetheless was one step closer each week.

The pair married in 1947 and to his surprise, Ji-Hye had already decided on a venue. Ji-Hye planned it all herself in secret and wouldn't let Kyung-Gu know anything until the day he was driven to a quaint building that he had walked past everyday on his way to work. Yet, the once empty building had a new sign that read: 드림 베이커리, roughly translating to the "Dream Bakery".

Out the front stood his wife, a pair of keys looped in her fingers. In the windows he could see family and friends crammed into the bakery that he would later find out Ji-Hye had bought with all the money they had saved and received from family and friends who attended.

The next three years were the best years of Kyung-Gu's life, he made a name for himself in the bakery business and would barely keep up with the demands of his town on the outskirts of Seoul. Ji-Hye slipped into the role of accountant and book holder, being able to quit her job as a seamstress. Then she fell pregnant in 1950, Kyung-Gu couldn't believe he was going to be a father and already imagined making pastries with his child when they were old enough.

Yet, that never came as the war between South and North Korea waged.

A bombing occurred during the early months of the war, one that struck the bakery and surrounding stores, leaving the couple with no choice but to find somewhere safer for their unborn child. Immigrating to California in the United States, the two tried to adapt to the enormous challenge of residing in a foreign country. Ji-Hye became a seamstress once more while Kyung-Gu worked in a factory.

Hwa-Young was born a few months later and Kyung-Gu knew they made the right decision the moment he laid eyes on her.

The next morning after she was born, Kyung-Gu woke up to the same jar, scribbled with his wife's delicate hand writing, on the kitchen table with a single dollar inside. He knew then that the dream was not over.

***​

Hwa-Young realised from a young age it was apparently more "palatable" for others to call her "Sam" — her family name. Thus Sam was how she introduced herself to those she came across, only being called by her given name at home.

A rather uneventful yet loving childhood, Sam was loved by her parents and did well at school, being well liked by her peers and teachers for her work ethic.

Sam's little sister, Ri-Na or Rina, was born when she turned seven and Sam couldn't of been more enamoured with her if she tried. Sam was always there for her little sister and tried to be the best older sister she could be. Rina and Sam was incredibly close and would often be glued at the hip, with Rina taking a keen interest in her mother's sewing abilities. Rina of course wasn't allowed a needle but their mother taught her how to make woven bracelets. Everyone in the family had a dozen by the time Rina had turned six.

Unfortunately it all changed with the accident.

Sam had taken Rina on a bicycle ride down the street as they did most weekends. Crossing the road, she heard Rina scream out behind her, causing Sam to skid to a stop. The last thing she remembered hearing was the car's horn blaring in her ears before everything went black.

Sam woke to her sister's astonished face surrounded by harsh lights as she yelled: She's awake, mom! Sam is awake!

For Sam it felt like only seconds had past since that bike ride but she'd come to learn it had been over three months. Adjusting back into the family was difficult for everyone but both her parents and Rina were grateful to have her back.

Sam on the other hand felt something was off the moment her sister hugged her in the hospital bed.

It started off with just the feeling but soon she could hear whispers, too quiet to hear what they were saying, when she was in her room late at night. It progressed to hearing the whispers at school or with her family in public. The voice then grew louder, their words had meaning. The voice would soon start asking her to do things Sam knew were wrong. She would silently refuse, trying to drown the voice out with her own thoughts but all they did was overlap and soon the thoughts were drowning out her own.

Sam started to lose track of time and when she finally told her parents she couldn't remember what day it was they contacted doctors. They surmised that Sam was experiencing dissociation that may be correlated with her coma, yet she didn't tell them about the voices.

Sam would wake up to find her clothes covered in dirt, writing on her walls with her mother's textile pens, a lock of her sister's hair with a pair of scissors under her pillow. It was never ending, her parents concern turned to frustration and she still kept the voices to herself.

At fifteen she woke up to find not only dirt under her nails, but blood, that was swirled over her bedsheets and her pyjamas. Sam had no idea whose blood it was until her parent's came into the room.

Her parents had no choice but to send her away to a psychiatric facility one of the doctors recommended.

Sam would spend the next three and a half years in the facility.

That was where she gave the voice in her head a name.

Oscar.

***
​
The men in white diagnosed her with schizophrenia and a type of dissociative disorder when she entered the facility. It was only then she told them about the voices and they would offer, or rather direct her, to take the medication to alleviate the "voices".

Sam prefers not to speak about her time in the facility, it was one of severe, scathing self-reflection that led her to later be diagnosed with depression as well. Add it to the list, Sam remembers thinking.

Funnily enough, towards the end of her stay in the facility, Oscar started to grow quiet and she noticed herself having more clarity in her memory and not noticing any gaps in her memory. Apparently that was enough for the men in white who finally let Sam leave.

At eighteen it was hard to adjust, especially considering she didn't reach out to her family for over eight months. Everything was kind of looking up for Sam at that point, she was working and thinking about attending university.

One night she told herself she would get into contact with her parents tomorrow. That was when she woke up with a throbbing headache, vomit on the floor and her back stinging. Looking in the mirror she saw the words inked on her back and could hear Oscar in her head once more.

That was what destroyed Sam, he had given her hope but it was nothing more than a long-term, sick joke. A sick fucking joke.

​
 
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lorelai parker fontaine
















the con artist clairvoyant




anya taylor joy










♡coded by uxie♡





BASICS
name: lorelai victoria parker AKA lorie fontaine
nicknames: lorie, rory
age: twenty five
p.o.b: jonesborough, tennessee
d.o.b: 25th of october
occupation: professional fortune teller/ medium/ general purveyor of the mystic arts

APPEARANCE
faceclaim: anya taylor joy
hair: no matter how many modifications lorelai has made to her appearance one thing that’s remained untouched is the color of her hair. elderly women will often grab at it, unprovoked, sighing about how theirs was the exact same at her age, simultaneously she’s discovered the abundance of innuendo in relation to it that men of all ages have no problem sharing. it’s made that much more unique because lorelai is the only one in her extended family who isn’t a brunette. at sixteen, after many years of letting it grow well past her waist, she finally chopped it, much to the dismay of her mother. since then she’s always kept it neatly just above her shoulders, enhancing her natural waves with her beloved hot rollers.
skin: in the winter she can appear almost translucent, with her health forever being asked after. but in the summer she rarely burns, rather turns a slightly more muted shade of white, with a dusting of freckles across her face.
eyes: her eyes are round in shape and so dark in most light that they do little to give away her emotions. if light eyes are windows to the soul hers are a padlocked, chained steel safe door intent on giving nothing away. although in certain lights the darkness gives way to a golden, honey shade framed by dark lashes and usually a generous helping of eyeliner. eyes are something lorelai has a bit of a fixation on, manifesting in an extensive collection of sunglasses she’s rarely seen without.
build: lorelai has always verged on the edge of too skinny, in her childhood to teens, this resulted in a gangly, awkward way of being. but growing up she’s found that this awkwardness could be channeled into some sort of intentionality, moving with a certain sort of grace and finesse.
distinguishing features: she has a large scar from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine, the product of a nasty accident from her childhood. although she’s not insecure about it but doesn’t enjoy having it on display either.
style: her closet is overflowing, a far cry from the modest roots of her upbringing. her humble beginnings were abandoned the second she stepped out of the house with her first paycheck. inclined towards deep jewel tones and any emerald jewelry, lorelai’s fashion tastes remain firmly in the 60s opting for dark sunglass, skirts, dresses, headscarves and mary janes. a red lip and winged eyeliner round out her signature look.
voice: accented by her country lilt, she’s been known to come across as well spoken. she has a softness in tone that hasn’t changed as she’s gotten older, like she’s still lowering her voice in the back of a church, but with an added huskiness from the cigarettes and city air between then and now.
height: 5ft8
tattoos/piercings/etc: she has a small mystic eye tattoo on the nape of her neck usually covered by her hair, a marigold on the forearm of her right arm, a black asp from the top of her left shoulder to her wrist, a sacred heart on the ribs of her right side. her earlobes have been pierced since she was three and since then a few more studs have been added to her cartilage and one to her tragus, she wears nothing but silver jewelry.

PERSONALITY
four pos traits: level-headed, intuitive, quick thinking, resourceful.
four neg traits: disingenuous, aloof, self-serving, jaded.
fears: horses, heights, dark/enclosed spaces, being underground, driving in the dark
vices: a chain smoker; which is only exacerbated by stress or anxiety,
biting her cuticles; until they bleed and ruin the cuffs of any white shirt she wears,
a bit of a magpie; likes shiny things and is plagued by the impulse to pocket them no matter who they belong to,
a moral greyness; especially when it comes to putting herself ahead, and if all of the things lorelai had done between leaving home and now were discovered, her standing in the spirituality community would be the least of her concern,
excellent liar.

BACKGROUND
supernatural encounter: besides a vague memory through second hand accounts of the unsettled nerves and persistent internal chill of her youth, ‘supernatural encounter’ would be a stretch to describe lorelai’s duplicitous relationship with the mystic arts. other than conning eccentric clientele and lost souls out of a dollar, in her adult life lorelai has seen little to convince her that there is any weight to spirituality or ,in fact, religious belief in general. but, as someone who wears many hats, she is no stranger to the title of medium and will gladly pull out the theatrics, (and the ouija board) to please anyone willing to pay the right amount.

personal effects: a deck of worn tarot cards embellished with gold borders and watercolor pictures of a red-haired woman on each of the major arcana cards, a polished obsidian sphere keychain attached to the keys to her childhood home, a pair of cat eye tortoiseshell sunglasses, a pair of emerald green velvet gloves, a deep purple silk hair scarf, a heavily used lancôme ‘rouge flamboyant’ lipstick, a pocket sized brown leather bound notebook, a set of rosary beads with an ivory cross.

personal history:
“I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity, I am the Lord who does all these things.” Isaiah 45:7

Lorelai Parker performed her first miracle two hours before she was born. The umbilical cord that wrapped around her neck should've cut off her oxygen supply, causing permanent brain damage if it didn’t kill her in the process, and yet Lorelai arrived just after midnight on the 25th of October. Her birth immediately hailed as a blessing directly from the lord himself.

Her parents were always religious. Volunteering at and dutifully participating in every service at the orthodox church they had been attending for the past fifteen years. The Parkers were known throughout the community for their unwavering faith and strong work ethic, which they attributed to their profound belief in God’s guiding hand. All eight of their children were raised to follow scripture to the word, living a provincial life under the care of their strict, fire and brimstone father and their stern, reputation conscious mother. Lorelai Parker was the picture of a subservient, obedient daughter, devoted to her faith, and well adjusted despite a few peculiarities that began to appear in the months following her birth.

Jennifer Parker knew from the beginning that her daughter would be tricky to raise. Colicky from day one it wasn’t until she was baptized at seven months old that there was a moment of respite from her screaming and crying. Following that, she seemed stunned into a petrified silence, opening her mouth and contorting her face into an open-mouthed grimace but producing no sound. They had feared she had done permanent damage to her vocal chords until she began speaking in full sentences at two years old. Then, Lorelai began a routine of placing one of her fisted, pudgy hands to the back of her neck and shivering uncontrollably. Even in the depths of Tennessee heat and humidity, she would not stop until her mother took her into another room. Nevertheless, despite an uneven temper and an anxious disposition Lorelai grew up with little else to bother her.

That was until the month before her seventeenth birthday when a familiar sense of foreboding returned in a sudden crushing cumulus nimbus of a depression that followed her for weeks.

The day of October the 28th, it was worse than it had ever been. Lorelai’s sisters had dragged her from bed that morning, forcing her out of the house under the resolution that she couldn’t spend her special day hiding under sheets. Midway through the dinner hosted at her grandparents she insisted, tearily, at the end of her rope, that her father take her home at once. He eventually obliged, deciding the two of them would turn in early and the rest of the family could follow later that night.

It was minutes after this, on the winding road back to her family home, that Lorelai would perform her last miracle, consigning herself to a life wracked by guilt and contrition. She wasn’t even aware the truck had veered off the road until the split second before her head hit the dashboard.

Waking up to the sterile scent of the hospital ward surrounded by genuflecting family members clutching crucifixes and bibles was a shock, even more so was the apprehensive reaction when she asked, voice cracking after days of inactivity, where her father had gone. Dead on impact, she heard her aunts whisper in the coming days.

She should have been dead too, or at least gravely injured. Lorelai knew that, she felt it profoundly. The astonished hospital staff knew it as well. But, by some implausible twist of fate, within two months Lorelai was the picture of health once again. To the rejoice of her church who praised the Lord for protecting his humble servant, and the seeming indifference of her mother who seceded into a catatonic state.

Lorelai had stopped attending church services at this point, even as her survival had sent her former congregation into a spiritual fervor.

She turned her attention away from her family, her community, her schoolwork. Once uninterested in the social and cultural pursuits of her peers, she found herself drawn to the growing alternative culture movements of the surrounding cities. After befriending a young man by the name of Arthur Laton hiding out in his father’s stall at the traveling fair while dodging the draft cards that continued to be assigned to his name, Lorelai got her first job as a stand in tarot card reader. She was briefly introduced to the owner of the booth who, intrigued by Lorelai’s look and careful way of speaking, offered her a trial shift when their regular psychic was taken to bed with an unshakeable hangover. This gig lasted a good month and half, and when the fair was packing up to move on she was offered the full time position.

Lorelai had been desperate to get out of town since the morning she was discharged into her grandmother’s care. There was no way she would last until the end of her senior year and news had just broken that her two oldest brothers would be heading off to fight. So with less income and a growing intolerance to her the painful reminder of her daughter’s bruised face, Jennifer who had not spoken a full sentence in almost a year to Lorelai told her to go for it, take the opportunity, go, and bring her financial and emotional burden along with her.

So that's exactly what she did. Waving goodbye to her siblings one last time before moving on to North Carolina with a new family, and a new stage name; Lorie Fontaine.

Lorelai soon found that honest to goodness palm readings and crystal ball studying wasn't nearly enough to make a decent wage . So, she and the booth's owner began to concoct some rather unsavoury ways of making a little more cash. It began with the simple act of overcharging, then the less simple act of pick pocketing. Eventually the teas they used for reading leaves became a little stronger, making it much easier to convince patrons they wanted to spend more than they had initially anticipated.

Half a year later she was engaged to Arthur Laton. In the next two months they were married at a courthouse in Virginia. Four months after that Arthur was on the plane to Saigon, his draft dodging catching up to him in the two weeks following the end of the couple’s honeymoon.

Lorelai continued to work in his absence and as the touring fair moved towards the west coast, Lorelai felt herself becoming increasingly bored by her once exciting vocation. Only three months had passed when one day she and Arthur's father were visited by uniformed military personnel to inform them of her husband’s untimely death. Lorelai was of course devastated, she had truly loved Arthur even if their marriage felt more like one of convenience and logical progression than anything based in passion and intimacy. At barely twenty Lorelai Laton was already a widow, and a wearied, burnt out one at that.

So, with nothing to her name but the small sum of a war widow’s pension and experience doing nothing but the niche business she had found herself in, she hitched a ride across the country to New York. There, rumor had it, anyone in the business of clairvoyance could make a killing. Lorelai remained there for five years, making enough money from tourists, and rich kids experimenting with psychedelics to make somewhat of a name for herself among those so inclined in transcendental circles.

 
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elise adams
#the seeker
#amanda peet
♡coded by uxie♡

— BASICS
name
elise katherine adams

nicknames
elsie (at work: misprinted nametag)
sister kay (BSALT)
mona lisa

age
twenty-six

place of birth
hillsboro, oregon

date of birth
october 7, 1946

occupation
waitress, hairdresser

— APPEARANCE
faceclaim
amanda peet

written description
elise is a thin, weary figure with a serious face. you might guess from a ways away that she's a teacher, or an acting coach, or some other urbane thing. a young professional. she has a busy mind and the way she uses her physique to communicate really suggests that. perfect skin that doesn't burn in the sun. glassy eyes. she can and does dress up when she intuits that she must, but fashion is not something that she thinks about on her own. she is not very much linked to now. she is deserted and always testing herself on what she knows.

height
five foot four

tattoos/piercings/et cetera
scar-bumps around her wrists.

— PERSONALITY
positive traits
strong-willed; quick-minded; idealistic; honest

negative traits
unrefined; insistent; overbearing; merciless

fears
fire, dark, impurity, being trapped with no escape

vices
nicotine, cocaine, diet pills, valium, percodan, demerol, morphine, demons.

elise is an addict, and she's an addict, like many, in a way that goes beyond illicit substances and criminal behaviour. an abusive fake 'detox' program has wrecked her nervous system more horribly than any drug has and she is now utterly addicted to undertakings, to belief, to 'true' things. elise is attracted nowadays to the mystery she thinks is hidden between the events and descriptions of her life: that evil spirits may have haunted her, may have resided in this corner and that one to leap out at inordinate times and cause all of her sickness. she throws away money buying pamphlets and books on the paranormal, great big books that she can barely understand, because she feels like she might lose herself if that knowledge weren't close at hand. she goes places she shouldn't, hospitals and churches and private homes, in search of answers to questions she doesn't necessarily know the nature of but that magnetize her just the same. she lets herself be physically pulled in all directions without fear of confrontation or even a plan or final goal in mind. she is obsessive and that will put her in danger one day.

— BACKGROUND
personal history
elise was born on a farm in oregon, the second-eldest of four children. her parents, religious traditionalists they were, used the small (small) fortune they'd amassed to try and seclude their children from their peers best they could. most of the major episodes of elise's childhood took place under an assumption of secrecy. her role when fights occurred was to shield their two younger siblings, the twins, from the reality of the situation while her older brother, charles, went after their father. and dying livestock can be very loud sometimes, so she started stealing cigarettes to deal with it all, with her burdened mental state. she would've been ten years old around then.

later, charles's recruitment to active duty in vietnam influenced a decision of her own: she left home for good, aged seventeen at the time. a year away from her high school diploma, but what can you do? when you need to go, you go.

elise headed south, to bakersfield then los angeles, and for a while lived on her feet while trying every drug that was offered to her. at twenty-one she admitted herself, on a whim supposedly, into bicoastal seminary and life training (BSALT) — a notorious "new psychiatric" organisation touting personal development therapies guaranteed to cure any kind of addiction or inner unhappiness, so on and so forth. do you see where this is going? they convinced her to spend three years at a compound in the mojave desert, withdrawing not just from all her bad and chemical urges but also all of her aspirations too. members were already waning in number and enthusiasm by halfway through the second year, but elise did not escape that life until the day of a california state police raid, where the top staff were all arrested to be charged with tax avoidance. BSALT was officially shut down nationwide not long after.

now she's somewhere else, trying to get herself started finally — two jobs, night classes at the end of the week. things are better than ever before. she has no reason to run again. absolutely none.

though it's not like that's going to stop her.

personal effects
an engraved cigarette lighter, the lesser key of solomon, a tv guide, a compact, a few eye brushes, a safety razor

supernatural encounter
(1) several accusations of profligacy. "she did it." lazy. all true, they said. bound and carried outside. displayed out there for many laughing moons. unfed with no voice and no questions to offer. visions of evil faces there. writings flat on the sky and half-wolves. something cold and cruel around her neck.
(2) religiosity exercises. what makes a good devotee? taunt the mystics. invitations. spirits or so what. kicking in the dark. grumbles and yells. hexed and hair pulled out.
(3) sick. sick people. carted away.
(4) was it the same sick as home? as mommy and daddy?
(5) marks under each bed. you saw them. you know you saw them. wheels and spokes. right?
(6) was it?
(7) is it the same sick as you?
(8) how could you ever know?
 
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beaufort hawthorne
















# a skeleton lays on my bed, she wears a familiar face




# keanu reeves










♡coded by uxie♡



╰┈➤ 𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓.

— BASICS
NAME: Professor Beaufort Hawthorne
NICKNAMES: Beau, Prof
AGE: Thirty-one
P.O.B: Champaign, Illinois
D.O.B: December 30th
OCCUPATION: Philosophy professor at the local community college

— APPEARANCE
FACECLAIM: Keanu Reeves circa The Devil's Advocate
DESCRIPTION: As if he is attempting to hide his own inner turmoil under the guise of gel-backed hair and steam-pressed button-ups, Beaufort is a neat-looking fella. "A place for everything, everything in its place" as the old saying goes. Wire frame glasses never crooked, face clean-shaven, and posture rarely slouched. A stern brow destined to be the cause of any future wrinkles paired nicely with his critical—albeit legally blind eyes. There is something oddly systematic about Beaufort’s appearance; color-coded timetables of routine that guarantees the consistency of his image every day. It is clear that he’d rather be dead than seen disheveled.

Black hair and black eyes, Beau is often described by desperately single colleagues as tall, dark, and handsome. An embodiment straight out of their steamy romance novel fantasies. A like-minded scholar with a fair complexion from all the times he stays indoors drafting lesson plans and soft hands from his life in the city. It didn’t help that he still managed to maintain a decently athletic build—nosy students of his would pass around his participation history in charity runs and fantasy sports between fellow professors. In his prime, he was a popular name among the run-of-the-mill gossip college kids got themselves into. His smiles were patient and his face was softer—less tired and grief-stricken.

Now, Beaufort is still the man he once was but more…hollow. As if a tether that once tied him altogether has been cruelly cut. His aftershave reeks of heavy downpour; somber in the same way a funeral march is. The smiles that now grace his face never quite reach his eyes. As if the dull tones of his business attire weren’t enough of a hint, he’s in mourning and he has been for some time now.
HEIGHT: Six foot one
MISC: His fourth finger of the left hand has a band of discoloration at the base—something that was once worn has been stripped. Jagged scars across his torso and back are always strategically covered with his modest attire.

— PERSONALITY
POSITIVE: Chivalrous; Well-mannered; Patient; Attentive
NEGATIVE: Stiff; Reserved—some may even say secretive; Worry-wart, Avoidant attachment
FEARS: Rot and any show of decay (even the sight of a cavity can make him squirm); Hospitals; Her voice under the veil of the dark
VICES: Eyes heavy from both grief and lack of sleep, despite Beaufort’s clear case of insomnia he refuses to take any medication. His bed is often in disarray come morning with the amount of tossing and turning he does at night. Reclusive behavior comes easy to Beaufort now. He’ll be determined to help anyone but himself—dismissing any of his own issues eating away at him. Is not an avid drinker but when he drinks, he *drinks* often caused by spirals and an innately self-destructive side to himself even he may not be aware of.

— BACKGROUND
SUPERNATURAL ENCOUNTER: It wasn’t cancer. Cancer didn’t eat at a person the same way she was eaten. The illness couldn’t consume her like maggots could a corpse. Despite the own perplexed looks of the doctors, they didn’t believe him. It ate here. It consumed her. It devoured her. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was but he knows it is the cause. He couldn't call it anything but “it”; barely living and the furthest thing from a person.

Whatever it was, it had eaten her and had taken her voice and face. As if playing with him on a whim of its own entertainment and desires, it spoke to him in her voice, looked at him with the same eyes, and held him with familiar hands. Only her voice felt worn, her eyes lacked a soul, and her hands were freezing cold. It enjoyed playing with him, taunting him until daylight came creeping through his windowsill. Many find themselves grateful for their final moments with their loved ones, how in those pockets of time they found peace. Beaufort wasn't given such luxuries. She was already gone when they returned from the hospital and Beau had to spend her "final moments" with it.

Nights of torture, guttural screeching, and digs into flesh—he could never tell what was worse, the harm to himself or his fiance. It didn't matter now as the screaming and the clawing all came to an abrupt halt all at once. One day she was there, the next she was dead. Chalked up by the coroners as a suicide to save her poor fiance the trouble of watching her waste away, Eliza Pond had taken her own life at her fiance's side as he lay resting. For days on end, his office was filled to the brim with flowers and letters of condolences; "She spent her final moment with you" as many liked to tell him. Beaufort knew better. He knew the cruel truth.
PERSONAL EFFECTS: There will always be a travel-sized novel for Beaufort to read in his spare time—right now, it's Dante's Inferno; his leather case for his glasses; a small drawstring pouch with nothing but a tarnishing cross necklace and ring inside; a handkerchief with the initial B.H. embroidered onto the bottom right corner; a travel-sized bottle of alcohol—the disinfectant kind of course.
PERSONAL HISTORY: Beaufort Hawthorne was the second son of seven raised in a moderate apartment in the heart of Champaign, Illinois; in a family full of men save his mother, he was considered to be the more sensitive one out of the bunch. Where his brothers signed up for battle with the dreams of returning as decorated war heroes, Beau walked past the listings and went straight into university. He and his father never saw eye-to-eye both metaphorically and literally. Elijah Hawthorne was both a traditionalist and maimed from his own war times, the connection between him and his son's life views was much like his left leg—severed. Every household in the building had to bare the brunt of nights wasted away by the two Hawthornes arguing. As it turned out, Beaufort the sensitive was what his family considered a rebel in his youth, with his sensibility turning him into what his father called a hippie activist; a conviction that didn’t sit right with Beaufort as the only thing that he and hippies really had in common was a liking to the Beatles and a disdain for war.

But his involvement in peace marches didn’t last very long; like the patriarch of generations past in the Hawthorne clan, Elijah never let the leashes around his children stray too far. If his son wished to dodge war's impending bullets and run off to university, he would bring back a woman. Yet another notion from his father that Beaufort found ridiculous (and horrendously sexist). As the family-proclaimed runt, Beaufort wasn't expecting to follow through with his father's commands. Practically doomed to fail by his awkward nature and own distaste for actively finding love in an institute of knowledge.

Until he met Eliza Pond.

The two had met sometime in the summer as Beaufort signed up for additional electives to take to spare himself the months back home. She was one of the few women studying for a degree in science and Beaufort struggled to understand virtually anything being lectured in their shared class. A look of pity, an offer to tutor, and study dates in their free time later—the two courted and dated soon after. It would be an understatement to say he was smitten. Easily one of the smartest people he knew—if not *the* smartest, she had a sharp tongue and fire within her that drew him in like a moth to a flame. College sweethearts who transcended the four walls of their university, tested the challenges of the pursuit of their masters, and settled down in a place of their own with beautiful gold bands on both of their ring fingers.

Despite the appraisal of Elijah's command, the pair were far from the traditional image of a house in the suburbs with little Hawthornes running around as his father had wanted from him. The two barely thought about a wedding ceremony let alone children and the curse of the breadwinner-housewife dynamic. They were career people in their own right with Beaufort finding work as a teacher at the community college and Eliza pushing for a doctorate. They moved far away from Champaign to achieve their dreams and to run away from the scorn of the past. A professor's salary at a community college wasn't all that but it was enough to keep them afloat and fund his fiance's ambitions.

For a while, all was well.

The philosophy of death had always been a personal favorite of Professor Hawthorne to lecture. He enjoyed the pondering thoughts and endless discourse of what came next after reuniting with the soil. Never exactly a religious man but also not quite a nonbeliever. He’d call himself an active explorer into the unknown but his fiance liked to call him an indecisive centrist. It was almost poetically ironic that the message of death had graced their doorstep so fresh into their lives.

Cancer was a fickle thing; unforgiving in nature and uncaring to those it lived in. A doctor's appointment acted as the beginning of the end of the life Beaufort began to love. In the first nights, he imagined his days to feel like a lit candle—slowly waning away till he was a puddle of wax. With his dramatizations, you would believe it was he who was dying. The poor sap would argue when she was gone, he was too. It was cruel to know now that the fate he once imagined was minuscule to what was in store for him. What was in store for his beloved. It barely took two weeks to notice the dramatic change in Eliza Pond. What he once thought were symptoms of either cancer or its treatment were actually much worse. Darker. Evil. He couldn't tell you what caused the incoming turn of events and the fate of his fiance but he knew what it did to her.

It didn't take long for it to consume her and leave a hollow puppet of who Eliza once was—controlling her strings to fight, scream, and tear. Perhaps he was blinded by love or just pure stubbornness, but Beaufort braced through the storm till its vicious clearing.

Beaufort had awoken to lifeless eyes and a blood-soaked bed. Eliza was dead if she wasn't dead already the month before. Life was forced to go on after and Beaufort still lives in the same home they shared, has the same pictures on the wall, the same matching plates in the drawers, and sleeps in the same bed she died. He never told anyone what happened in Eliza's final month; he never truly planned to for the sake of preserving her life before it. But almost like a sign from a higher power (or incredible coincidence), a stray flyer caught on his shoe while walking through campus. Desperation drove people to do many things and in this case, it drove Beau to jot down an address.
 
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wayne kelly
































# the archivist








# billy crudup




















♡coded by uxie♡








BASICS

name. Wayne Charles Kelly

nicknames. N/A

age. 37

p.o.b. Lockport, Louisiana

d.o.b. March 3rd

occupation. Owner of A Story and a Song, an independently-run book and record shop; former local history librarian of Pineville, Louisiana

APPEARANCE

faceclaim. Billy Crudup from Almost Famous

written description. Wayne likes to keep his looks clean. He's more than willing to get his hands dirty, but if he doesn't have to, he avoids it; thus, most of the time, he's a pretty well-groomed man. Physique-wise, he isn't lacking in muscle, despite being a librarian. He's not overly muscular, but is enough that it shows. With his good posture, he's rarely hunched over, which makes his height noticeable as well.

Wayne does attempt to not be imposing, though. Years as a librarian and now as a bookshop owner, he knows that looming over people is a sure-fire way to making charming them more difficult. He often has a smile on his face with dimples on full display. 70% of the time, that smile is actually honest, though it's unlikely anyone will be able to tell those sorts of grins apart from the dishonest ones.

Clothing-wise, Wayne keeps it casual. Plenty of button downs with the top few buttons undone and the collars exceptionally prominent, and a good pair of pants, whether it be jeans or something a bit more fun (see: black pants with white pinstripes, or something a bit more colorful). He doesn't shy away from rings. In fact, he has at least one ring on every finger other than his left-hand ring finger- he's saving that one for a special someone, of course. Other jewelry varies day to day; he's not one to deny the fun in a good necklace.

height. 6'0"

tattoos/piercings/etc. Some floral tattoos go up his right arm, making almost a full sleeve

PERSONALITY

four pos traits. Personable, level-headed, intelligent, confident

four neg traits. Bit of a busybody, stubborn, hypocritical (do as I say, not as I do), can be pushy

fears. Drowning/getting deep into large bodies of water, ending up completely alone (void of friends, family, etc)

vices. Wayne has been known to enjoy a good drink and good company; those two things tend to go hand in hand more often than not, and that 'good company' might stay the night 9 times out of 10. Gambling also is something he's often tempted by, as his luck is often much worse than he thinks it is.

BACKGROUND

spiritual encounter. Bought for cheap, the location of his shop had a few details swept under the carpet he hadn't been aware of. The small apartment above the store had been home to an older woman who had ended up drowning in her tub. Turned out that she never really left, even if her body had been wheeled away; from bursting pipes to ghastly appearances to making Wayne's sink back up, she's made herself known to him repeatedly. They've reached a sort of equilibrium: she doesn't kill him, his plumbing bills are hiked up since he has to fix the pipes so often. That said, she hasn't helped with his fear of drowning, which used to be just regulated to bodies of water like the ocean. When you can't even take a bath without an old woman reminding you of the fact she drowned there, alone, it tends to get to you.

personal effects. A copy of Phillip Larkin's High Windows (please ignore it came out in 1974, we're pretending it came out earlier), a worry stone that's largely unused, a small journal with plenty of loose papers sticking out and a good fountain pen, a flask of some sort of drink (it varies from day to day, depending on how he's feeling), a spare handkerchief.

personal history. Born in the town of Lockport, Louisiana in 1936, Wayne was present for the exciting occurrence where the location had to change itself from being a 'village' to being a 'town', which is to say that there wasn't much to the town before that 1948 resolution and there wasn't much after it either. Not many people and not many attractions other than the old iron bridge over the bayou that connected it to Rita, Wayne found entertainment in history when not helping out around the hotel that his family owned or going to school at Holy Savior. His interest eventually found him leaving Lockport to head to school for library science.

Eventually, he got a job in Pineville, Louisiana at the local library when he was 25 in 1961. The intent was to stay close to his family, but not be stuck in Lockport, which lacked a library for him to actually work in. By 1963, he was the local history librarian of the organization. Unfortunately, come 1965, the appearance of hurricane Betsy ended up causing a stir in Lockport, causing a bit of destruction that ended in his parents passing away. The occurrence was enough to warrant a move and a change of lifestyle. With a new goal and some extra cash from his parents and the sale of the hotel, Wayne made his way out of Louisiana and ended up opening a bookstore/record shop in 1968 with a convenient apartment right above it.

Unfortunately, the store was inexplicably haunted.

Wayne, despite being raised in a Catholic family and going to a school sponsored by the church, didn't believe in God. He didn't believe in spirits either, much preferring science, even if he would sometimes use religion and the supernatural when waxing poetics about various things. Yet, the evidence couldn't be denied. Pipes burst from temperature changes, lights flickered, the tub would turn on and off without him touching it, and at some point, it was clear something was going on. Things really came together when the old woman showed her face to him in the shower, causing him to nearly slip and crack his head against the tile.

So, when a chance came for answers, he took it- literally. He ended up snatching the flyer for the group off a bulletin board, taking it home to consider while having a good drink. Wayne didn't like knowing things, and while he wouldn't usually take it upon himself to go to any sort of meeting at a community center, the odd occurrences at his shop were enough to warrant it.
 









main

her

history

other



  • scroll



    every time I see your face,
    it reminds me of
    the places we used to go.

    calista jane holloway


    calamity jane, cal to most.

    twenty-seven years young.

    born in houston, texas.

    born august 17th, 1946.

    pan-romantic & bisexual.

    nurse.

    ❝ I want you here to have and hold. ❞






/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 
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Capt. Ray Navarro
















# lady justice’s bondsman




# gabriel luna










♡coded by uxie♡




ON THE RADIO











Gimme Three Steps
Lynyrd Skynyrd


BASICS
name: Capt. Raymond “Ray” Ruiz Santana Navarro

nicknames: Ray

age: 37

p.o.b: Kansas City, MISSOURI

d.o.b: April 30, 1936

occupation: Captain, Atchison County Sheriff’s Department [currently on Day 2 of 14 Day suspension pending disciplinary review]

APPEARANCE
faceclaim: Gabriel Luna

written description: Ray’s look is surprisingly disarming for a man of the Law. Most of the ease comes from his dark eyes, which naturally lack the piercing quality of lighter colors. His nose is sharp and convex, lending a masculine label to its owner. He stands a few inches over six foot and was once lean and athletic, though a gut has started forming in recent years. His hair is dark and thick, significantly longer than it used to be by a good five inches. Without his wife there to nag him about its length every week or so, Ray’s trips to the barber have become less and less frequent. There are a few wisps of gray around his temple and chin. The rest of his features have remained mostly unfazed by Mother Nature, aside from a few wrinkle lines paralleling his mouth and forehead.

A few freckles spread across his face, as well as a series of tan lines typical of Kansas men who rise with the sun and spend long hours outdoors. There is a distinctly pale line on his left ring finger; even four years after removing the band, the tan still mocks him over his divorce.

He dresses simply, when not sporting his uniform. Most often he wears faded white cotton undershirts and well-worn denim or flannels. His sense of fashion is purely utilitarian and is comprised of a wardrobe he hasn’t updated in at least ten years. He owns a single pair of work boots that he’s worn every day for at least six years; he plans to replace them soon, judging by the hole forming on the sole of the right foot. Equally as faded are a felt wide-brimmed hat and a cowhide belt with brass buckle.

Ray almost always wears a simple cross around his neck. Although he isn’t a practicing Catholic, he still considers himself a God-fearing man. Furthermore, the piece is sentimental - a gift from his Mother at his Confirmation. She always mentioned pridefully that it was real silver, something she’d saved up for for years; but seeing how the sides have started chipping in the past few years , Ray suspects she was swindled.

height: 6’2”

tattoos/piercings/etc: a clover-shaped spot on his arm that he thought was a birthmark, but now he suspects just might be cancer.

PERSONALITY
Positives: Lionhearted, Dependable, Pragmatic, Humble, Tends Towards a Loose Interpretation of the Law

Negatives: Somber, Burnt Out, Mulish, Cynical, Tends Towards a Loose Interpretation of the Law

fears: Not much bothers him, but burning to death is up at the top of the list (ever since the McElroy place went up in flames in 1969, he's been thinkin' about that a lot); not so fond of snakes either

hobbies: Reading, shooting, action movies, working on cars, taking in strays, drinking at one of Atchison's two bars, appreciating the beauty of women

vices: Two cartons of Camels a day, like clockwork; heavy drinker, preferably in the form of beer or whiskey

BACKGROUND
spiritual encounter: [TW: assault, brain gore]

Like any kid raised Catholic, Raymond has complicated feelings about existential fear and guilt. For Ray, daily threats of hellfire for sins mixed seamlessly with ghost stories his older brother told him under the sheets in the dark - haunting tales of La Llorona, La Planchada, Isla de las Municas… They all gave Ray a bone-deep impression that questions of God and faith and sin were not to be taken lightly. Even so, Ray’s practical and pragmatic nature as he matured tamed his religious trepidations. Although still a believer, the last Catholic service he’d been to was over ten years ago - and that was for his father’s funeral.

What were once feverish recitations of Hail Marys and Rosaries - accompanied by weekly teenage confessions of taking a swig of his father’s liquor or relieving stress over a shoplifted Playboy - instead became a generalized resolution to act right and make good choices. His simplified creed had worked for the most part - he had yet to be met by the ghost of wailing woman in the night. That was, until two nights ago.

He was called out with two other officers to the house of twenty-four year old Clyde Reese, a locally decreed scumbag from a family of locally decreed scumbags. The tip that had sent them out that way had proven to be sickeningly true, as Ray found for himself after catching Clyde
in the act. Rather than take the creep to the station, prodded on by Clyde’s own damning confessions, Ray instead beat Clyde so badly that he was hospitalized and later declared brain dead.

Even after the fact, despite deeply ingrained ideas of Catholic guilt, Ray couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for what he did. His supervisors were also attuned to what Reese was known to have done and themselves felt little sympathy for his death. Ray could’ve been considered lucky that no one else from Reese’s family was alive to protest what Ray did.

But one could say that Ray had finally broken his own tenet of generally “being good” and the result was two nights of sleeplessness. Reese only visited him at exactly 3:12am, when the hospital reports that he was take off the machines and declared dead. Even in the dark of his trailer, Ray knew when Reese was there. He’d heard him first - the distinct sound of rhythmic dripping - drip, drip, drip of skull and blood and brains beaten to a pulp falling to the floor. When he’d wake up to the sound, Ray would fumble for the light and his gun, but as soon as he’d flood the room in light, the sound ceased and no phantom was to be seen.

For the first time in over ten years, Ray found himself desperate for a confession.

personal effects: Department issued S&W Model 19, extra rounds, faded leather wallet with $70.00 in small bills and a picture of his stepkids, his black lab mix named Sadie

personal history: Raymond Santana Navarro was born in Kansas City in 1936 to Arturo and Maria Santana, the third of five children. His parents had immigrated to the States from their hometown of Melinalco ten years earlier, first settling in Albuquerque in the midst of a formidable agricultural boom. While rapid development in the Southwestern states professed to welcome immigrant laborers throughout the 1910s and 1920s, the subsequent Depression left those same laborers without work and facing threats of deportation. The Santanas moved further inland to Kansas City in hopes of finding work in the food processing industry there.

Despite being born into poverty, Raymond’s earliest memories were of a happy family living together under the same roof. He looked up to his older sister and brother and would, eventually, be looked up to by his two younger sisters. Like his older siblings, he left school at 16 to help support the family, a necessary move considering his father had taken to drinking more and more over the past fifteen years. Raymond wouldn’t finish his high school education until the age of 23, when he finally got his diploma in the mail. It’s one of the prouder accomplishments of his life.

His parents had given him the name Raymond in the hopes that an American name would make Ray’s life easier. Despite being born American, Ray has spent the greater half of his life facing hateful people. It started practically from his birth in the midst of the Depression when, even as young as two or three walking around the city with his mother, he started to see that they were treated differently (“These goddamn Mexicans are taking all of our jobs”). It only worsened when he was a teenager during the particularly xenophobic Red Scare (“These goddamn Mexican communists think they can elect librarians and shopkeepers to run their country”). Even when his age kept Raymond from the draft in either Korea or Vietnam, being too young for the former and too old for the latter, it wasn’t infrequently that he heard some other mean-spirited musings of his fellow countrymen (“These goddamn Mexicans always try to dodge the draft”). But life as the child of immigrants gave Ray a thick skin and an unbothered temperament that lasted into his adulthood and became an invaluable asset in his line of work.

When he first moved to Atchison, Kansas, twelve years ago, he got the same looks he’d become so familiar with. He’d followed his bride back to her hometown after they’d met and fallen in love in Kansas City. This raised a few brows, especially from her father - Atchison County’s assistant sheriff at the time - who was more worried about his daughter marrying a Catholic than a Mexican. Her father soon came to accept Ray despite this, mostly because he knew his daughter’s situation wasn’t one that made her appealing to many. She’d already had two kids with another man who’d died in a factory accident, but Ray soon learned to love them like his own.

Like he’d done all his life, Ray settled into his new existence with a quiet and humble persistence. The first person he truly won over was his father-in-law, who noted Ray’s good natured humor and industriousness almost from the start. It was the assistant sheriff who insisted Ray go from his job on a nearby ranch to join him in law enforcement. Despite some initial pushback from folks around the county, Ray went on to win over most people like he had with his father-in-law. Over the next twelve years, he earned himself a reputation in Atchison and its outlying areas for being dependable, polite and fair.

Five years ago saw the death of his father-in-law, almost immediately before Ray finally attained the rank of Captain in the department. It was only nine months later that his wife left him with nothing more than a note saying she was going to her sister’s in California and taking her kids with her. He daily still muses over what he did wrong, though the note emphasized that it wasn’t about him; she was just “feeling stuck”.

Now Ray lives alone in a double-wide trailer outside of Atchison, having sold the house two years after she left him. He splits his time between reading whatever he finds at the local library, going to the bar, and taking care of his dog, Sadie. He feeds a feral cat that’s been hanging around his land, and probably also a possum he’s seen a few times. He spent an exorbitant amount of time on duty after his wife left, though his recent disciplinary suspension has left him unsure of how to pass the time.
 
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