Futuristic The Hungering Worms: Character Sheet Repository

[ChasmOfOrganicMatter]

CHARACTER SHEET FORMAT​

Name:


Age:


Gear/Items: [You don't need to list EVERYTHING here but just major things such as particular weapons and equipment that is "signature" to your character.]


Skills and Proficiencies:


Physical Appearance: [Images are handy but not necessary.]


Supernatural/Chasmic Abilities ("Magic"): [Note: focus not just on what it does but the general visible appearance.]


Augmented Physical Abilities: [Mostly an optional section for say, characters with heavy cybernetics, biological modifications, unearthly mutations, or some combination of these. Basically special things you can do baseline humans cannot.]


History: [Remember, this is not the "objective" history of the character but what they THINK they remember... and it can include the City.]


Personality:

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Name: MCPO Mikhail Maccormac;


Age: 47;


Gear/Items: A kukri with rubberised grips and a dark-blue sheath, Steiner AGU - a bullpup rifle designed to fire 300 BLK rounds with a great fire rate however is relegated to worst-case scenarios, a suppressed Zig P226, and a tactical body glove with pockets/pouches plus GPNVGs.

Spoiler: Aforementioned Equipment

Skills and Proficiencies: Advanced Weapons Handling, Urban Sniping, Reconnaissance, Free-running, Dynamic Entries, Field Medicine, Extreme Environment Survival, et cetera.


Physical Appearance: Once a man of steel and toned musculature, now reduced in vitality by the City's chasmic influences. Hair, once blonde now bleached whiter than snow. Skin, freckled with cracks and scars. His eyes emitted the same sickening green from his panoramic night-vision goggles. Despite these degradations, his body's retention of lethality is not to be underestimated. 5'9" (175 cm) and weighing in at 169.25 lbs (77 kg).

Supernatural/Chasmic Abilities ("Magic"): There is a peculiar occurrence: when his foot/feet are not under him, he levitates noticeably off the ground. It is not a conscious ability, as it never goes away even when sleeping. Precautions must be taken during rest so that he does not float away. If he manages to put a foot or leg below him, he falls to the ground with his natural weight. Imagine a scenario where he leaps off a tall structure, if his feet were under him during the initial leap then he builds speed. If enough speed is accumulated then, his levitating will be superseded and he will plummet towards the ground until he crashes into a, seemingly, invisible surface an inch or two above the floor. If he never puts his foot down then he can slowly fall.


Augmented Physical Abilities: None;


History:
A deadly force wanders this city of yore. His fury is lead, his tools are the shadows. Sent to this hellhole for an impossible mission, one that is mysterious even to the missionary. So why is he still here? Still alive? Most men become insane within the first few hours, so what keeps Maccormac going? A sense of duty, perhaps? Greed? Base survivalism? Abandoning the fool's errand would be an easy task, yet he prepares his barbs whenever others ask him to give up on his mission. Some see him touching his cloth-covered ear to speak. Speaking not to them, but another entity entirely. Perhaps, he is not saner than anyone else here. Otherwise, why would a man try to talk to thin air?

Others that dare ask questions are met with answers, but they are often more confusing than the questions. Telling tales of things that are long past or have not even existed. Often, the listener doesn't even know what Mikhail is talking about, unless they were cut from the same fabric as Mikhail. Whatever ordeal he (or someone else) has imparted on him, may he find it or less suffer a grim fate.

Before The City:

Born to an impoverished family, Mikhail chose to escape a life of crime by signing up with the military at a young age. His day to day struggles have already hardened him to the reality of basic training and he maintained an edge to his attitude that overshadowed his peers. He survived four, gruelling tours through various locales. From the dusty, deserts to the jumbled, jungles of the black market in the Southern Hemisphere. His commitment to duty and initiative earned him many favours. Eventually, an offer came his way to join special operations. The back-breaking training was more difficult than sitting under fire in a bombed-out house with a rabid pooch looking to make your family jewels its' next meal right beside you. But after hours upon hours, he managed it.

Personality: A man of action, even from a young age, Mikhail always preferred to do things with his fists rather than talk. But often, he does not use this mindset for selfless acts. He fought for himself first and foremost. Like when he stole another kid's money after school or threatened his high school mates when they didn't ditch school, and let's not forget that time, a smuggler in the platoon counted on Mikhail to save him-only to die a lonely death from sustained injuries. He possesses some admirable qualities: stoically clinging to fair treatment for all even in this hellhole, honour-bound to always complete his task (whatever it may be), and a tempered affinity for teamwork from years in the military. He allows himself few pleasures in this world, especially in the City. Rarely complains, even when he has a rusted pipe in his thigh.

 

[Ramjammer]

• Basic Info
• Gear
• Skills, Proficiencies, and Powers
• Personality and History

• 
  
  Name: Richard Solberg
  Gender: Male
  Age: 43
• 
  
  SU-16: A semi-automatic rifle that meets all the criteria for end of the world survival. Lightweight, accurate, and powerful. Maybe 2 of those things apply to Richard. Naturally, it takes AR-15 mags like a champ, and so a hunt for rounds isn't as difficult as it could be.
  
  Stabbin' Gavin: Richard's trusty and well used Machete. He can hack with it, saw with it, and, of course, stab with it. Gavin is of particular use when it come's time for Richard to face down something with too many arms and legs. Or worse, tentacles. When bullets fall short, Richard can always count on Gavin to pick up the slack. The only thing he loves more is his wife. Allegedly.
  
  Med Kit: First Aid knowledge during an end of the world scenario isn't just helpful, it's a requirement. So Richard keeps a well maintained First Aid kit on him at all times. If not for himself, then for others if he deigns to assist them. Patients are allowed a choice between dinosaur and Hello Kitty bandages.
  
  Odds and ends: A hunting knife for when space is a little too tight for Gavin to be effective. A standard Multi-Tool because Richard breaks into buildings more than he'd like to. A journal for notes and sketching as the end of the world being of the Cosmically Horrible type makes describing things a crapshoot at best, provided that Richard can remember what he's seen at all. A well worn, folded slip of paper with writing penned by a hand more delicate than Richard's. He refuses to share what it says.
• 
  
  Hand to hand combat: A practitioner of Krav Maga, Richard is savvy enough to know that the end of the world makes people desperate. Grappling human opponents comes easily to him. Fist fighting the less human ones is where the trouble starts.
  
  Ranged Weapons handling: Richard knows his way around a gun. How to clean and maintain one. How to disassemble and reassemble one, and most importantly, how to shoot one. He's not a bad shot, but openly admits that there are plenty of people out there with far better aim than him. He's typically just happy that his bullets hit their intended mark at all.
  
  Melee Weapons handling: If it's in reach, and can do enough damage, Richard is swinging it at someone or something's head. His Machete, Gavin, is the preferred tool of choice when Richard needs to be sufficiently threatening without a gun.
  
  Basic First Aid: After bullying a Paramedic into teaching him what they knew, Richard is comfortable enough to to wounds both major and minor. He's no Surgeon, but he'll do his best to keep someone alive until they can get to an actual doctor.
  
  Basic Wilderness Survival: He can pitch a tent, start a fire, and find water if pressed to it. Slapping together a makeshift shelter to keep out the cold isn't the height of luxury, but so long as he lives to see another sunrise, Richard isn't complaining.
  
  The Worm that Talks: How he ended up with several talking serpents that in place of an arm is anyone's guess. Well, they talk to Richard. Apparently no one else can hear them, which seems par for the course, given all the other shit he puts up with. He'd be positive that it wasn't even real if the damn things hadn't gone and made themselves useful more times than he was comfortable with. Sure, he lost his left arm in the tradeoff, but being able to lash at enemies with what amounts to a whip with razors attached to the end is pretty damn useful. Richard can bind things with them to pull them closer, and hold them. Combined with his own fighting skills, the serpents make grappling a hell of a lot easier, and it doesn't hurt that they like biting whatever has pissed them off.
  
  All said it's a fair tradeoff for the more refined use of his right hand and arm. When he's not throttling the life out of something with them, the serpents wind themselves together to form an arm with mitt-like hand at the end. Can he play the piano with it? No. Can he write with it? Not well, because Richard is right-handed. But he can hold shit and that's good enough for him. Sometimes the serpents use their individual mouths to hold smaller items for him. The creatures are particularly helpful. No doubt because their survival rests on Richard staying alive. They're rather friendly for an assortment of unnatural Hellspawn too. Richard would even consider them his friends if it weren't for their constant urging for him to seek out a City he'd never even heard of.
• 
  
  A deep voiced and foreboding looking individual, Richard offsets the grim aura present among all denizens of the spatially corrupted wastes they call home in that he's rather affable. An easygoing sort, Richard presents a calm front in everyday life that's notable for being almost giddy when one considers the reality that they live in. A cool head is helpful, but Richard admits freely that when every single day is throwing a whole new brand of horror at you, you either adapt quickly, or spend all your spare time crying. Naturally, he's not immune to the especially foul influences of the world he lives in. Being able to look at something disgusting and remain calm only applies to the things that don't warp time and space at their leisure. That is to say nothing of the monstrosities capable of reducing his mind to soup. As such, Richard operates on a system of gauging threats not merely by the physical danger they present, but mental ones as well.
  
  This has rendered the man obsessive in many aspects. Habitually checking and rechecking the items that he carries on his person is most notable. He'll often count the fingers on his remaining hand just to be sure that they're there. But having a hand made of snakes is probably to blame for that one. Richard has a deep-rooted need to know everything that's going on, a paranoia that he owes his very survival to. But it remains ever at odds with the shifting landscape of terror around him. Knowing too much can get you killed just as easily as knowing too little. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, Richard is a highly anxious individual. The constant threat of dangers both real and conjured will do that to a man, and he's prone to bouts of anger and frustration because of constant restlessness.
  
  Despite all those things, or perhaps because of them, Richard does all that he can to remain as a dependable an individual as possible. He keeps his promises to the best of his ability and is honest to the point of making an ass of himself. He smiles easily, laughs often and helps readily. The world has gone to hell in a handbasket, and all Richard can do is hold onto what scraps of humanity remain left to him in a world that becomes increasingly unnatural with each passing day.
  
  It wasn't always so. He had a normal life. He had a wife that he loved. Apparently. He isn't completely sure. Richard knew he loved the woman. And he was almost positive that she tolerated him. But what he isn't sure of is whether she even existed. Richard can't even be sure that version of himself existed. It seemed logical. He had to have been someone before the sky tore itself open and started shitting out monsters. And sure, he was far different from he'd been from the start of things. Anyone that had survived was the same. He just wasn't sure that the life he could recall only faintly was really his.
  
  He would dream of snippets when he slept. Each feeling far more real than they had any right to. Even in his waking moments, those faint imprints of a past that might have been his would come to mind unbidden. Moments shared and stolen. All rendered vaguely in an ever present mental fog. Perhaps he'd made it up. Perhaps he'd been someone else and the memories were just lies, he told himself unconsciously. They were certainly pleasant lies. A quiet home life, a partner and no monsters was far better deal than his current reality.
  
  The only thing that Richard owned that pointed to it all being true was a simple note he kept close to his person at all times. It was creased from being folded and unfolded so many times. But Richard didn't even need to open it to recall the delicate and precise cursive written on it. The words were branded into his mind.
  
  "Meet me where the Dogwood flowers. I'll be waiting there."
  
  Richard wasn't even sure when he'd gotten the letter. All that he knew was that he'd spent every day since those words first appeared in his mind's eye searching for the tree in question. It wasn't easy. There were a lot of trees in the world, after all. And some of them had morphed into things that were trees, but not really, so that made the search ever harder. The serpents were positive that Richard would find the Flowering Dogwood in the City it talked about it all the time. Richard wasn't sure. The closer he got, the less natural things became. What could grow in such a blasted hellscape?
  
  And yet, and yet. It called to him. Pulsing on the horizon of his mind's eye. It was warm and familiar, but sickeningly so. The City was a memory, an event that best remained forgotten. But Richard wanted to know. He had to know. What the letter meant. Who had sent it. If the impressions of a life long gone were even his. Maybe the mysterious person and the Flowering Dogwood were actually in the city. Maybe both had died there, and Richard sought closure. after trying to forget for so long. The Serpent made no promises. And lies, Richard was sure it told those endlessly. Were it not for the frighteningly magnetic pull of a City that lived through means unnatural, he'd have never gone at all. But he did. He marched across the blighted hellscape directly into what he knew was a can of worms that didn't need to be opened. At the very least, he might find someone else worth talking to besides his own arm.

 

[Rhaine]

CHASM
SCION

I called to E. E called to me. "Come all in scarlet," said he, "Before the felled tree."

BASIC

Name: Lethe

Age: 34

Physical Appearance: A small, curled frame in the corner stirs. Her hands look frail and much older than her face. Her long fingers knock and twitch with every word she speaks. All knobby joints and candor. The skin at her fingertips and temples have gone transparent - too smooth. The ivory shine of bone teases, fuzzy to focus on like a faded, film photograph. Her face is oval shaped with high cheekbones. Black eyes slightly upturned. Her dark-complexioned skin is heavily freckled. There are scarlet lines drawn over the line of her jaw, her eyelids, and vertical down the middle of her forehead. Her hair hangs long to her mid-back. A mass of black spirals -- matted in places. Her forearms are covered in deep, sprawling scars. She is dressed in scarlet materials. Not robes so much as layered, scavenged fabrics. Her slight frame drowns in them.

GEAR/ITEMS

E'S DAGGER: A long dagger is hidden at her hip. It is ceremonial in appearance. A dagger used for ritualistic purposes, not for strict utility. It does not belong to her.

POUCH: Her bag contains the following items of note: an adequate array of small tools used for medical treatments, jars of various herbs and questionable substances, pigments, parchment, sprawled drawings which appear to resemble anatomical diagrams, etc.

SKILLS/ABILITIES

MEDICAL TRAINING: Lethe has a wide basis of knowledge in medical treatments. It is clear that she has a background of semi-formal training paired with the knowledge she has acquired through her personal studies. She is an adequate surgeon. She is particularly interested in the effects the Chasm has wrought on the physiology of humans over time, and is not generally perturbed by altered physiologies. She is also skilled in utilizing the surrounding flora to craft medicinal substances.

SUPERNATURAL/CHASMIC ABILITIES ("MAGIC"): As may be observed by the extensive damage Lethe has taken from wrist to shoulder, her Chasmic abilities are somewhat sacrificial in nature. Lethe uses E’s dagger most often on her own flesh. She has a particular ritual in times of need, either in peril or in the aiding of another. Lethe will whisper a statement of intention and release a mysterious liquid by way of slicing open a gash with the ceremonial dagger. It is more vibrant than blood. The liquid moves as a living creature might, and has been known to take forms resembling animals. In this way, this ritual acts as a summons or the forming of a familiar.

AUGMENTED PHYSICAL ABILITIES: While in stable conditions, Lethe is able to heal minor wounds much faster than normal. She is also less susceptible to illness or poison. Severe wounds or effects are not applicable to this.

PERSONALITY/HISTORY

HISTORY (CURRENTLY KNOWN): Lethe was a child of physicians. She received her initial training from them. They were not long for this world, as they were survivors from before the Cataclysmic Birth.

She was taken into a group of cultists who were attempting to harness the power of the Oneiric Chasm. The cult was led by an individual known to all members as E. Lethe was soon taken as a favorite disciple of E. She was incredibly devoted to E, and took their teachings to heart. The two of them became increasingly close, and it is often unclear in the way in which Lethe recounts this relationship whether it was a strictly subservient role she played, or that of a lover.

E often preached about the inevitable assimilation of the old world and the new, pushing their disciples to shed their fears of the Chasm as well as shed any sentimental connection to their flesh. Members of this cult practiced harnessing the power of the Chasm, incorporating sacrificial rituals in order to do so. Seemingly at the height of E’s influence among these individuals, they vanished.

Lethe believes that she is still in communication with E. She left her communion behind in order to seek and retrieve them. She believes this was a mission especially left for her to carry out as an act of devotion and evidence of her undying faith.

PERSONALITY: Lethe can often oscillate from silence and resignation to frenetic terror or mania. While she is very convicted in her beliefs regarding the world around her and her own destiny, her inner nature is defined by curiosity and openness. She attempts to interact with the effects of the Chasm as part of it rather than an opposing force. Lethe also carries the characteristics of the caregiver archetype, and can be easily assuaged by a plea of desperation or sympathy. She is capable of engaging with high-concepts and is something of an intellectual. Her sympathies or interests are most often her ruling motivation, and she is not grounded by logical trains of thought.

an eye for E. To dine for thee.

coded by kaninchen

 

[mother of sorrows]

[✦] JACOB SEPULCHE.​

𝐀𝐆𝐄: 32


𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐑/𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐒:
𝑀𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑔 500 𝑇𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 - a reliable shotgun for most situations, altrough it's pump-action makes gives it a slower reload time, even more so when time is steadily running out. It's power makes up for it, if he's fast enough.

𝐹𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔-𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑒 - dual-purpose for both violence and cutting, altrough it's condition isn't what it used to be. It will stab just fine, but keeping your grip on the handle can be tricky.

𝑇𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑔𝑒𝑎𝑟 - in better days, it might have belonged to a riot guard. Now it's to keep things out of Jacob and Jacob out of things. It's tough and lined with extra pouches, altrough some parts have been re-patched during it's rough journey.

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐒:
𝐶𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑡 - as mind numbingly terrifying as coming up close to beings of unearthly origin is, Jacob has gained himself enough skill to slash, stab or tear them with decent succees. Him not being eaten so far is literally living proof.

𝐺𝑢𝑛 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 - far from an expert, but with just enough skill to know what he's doing. Jacob knows how to shoot, maintain and work his way around most guns.

𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑖𝑑 - he's not going to be able to re-attach a guy's head, but Jacob has the nerve to patch up the light and slightly more alarming injuries.

𝑅𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 - if everything else fails...

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄: Plain. Forgettable. His face reflects off eyes like the surface of water, like a person in the corner of your eye passing by. A face, pale and listless, placed like the background character of a forgotten dream.

Under dark brown hair, just long enough to curl slightly behind his ears, are eyes of a nervous black. They never seem to rest for long, seeking out the next big danger hiding in friendly interaction and crumbling buildings alike. He stands at 5'10 with wide shoulders and is decently muscular, though not overly so. Scars dig into the deep brown skin, both deep and slight scratches. His smiles are crooked, too sharp, too much teeth in them to be genuine, his hands always twitching to go behind his neck when doesn't know what to say.

Jacob looks only like what a human is supposed go look like and not much more. A blink-and-you'll-miss-him type of man. About the only thing that draws attention are the pitch black, pulsing veins lurking beneath thin skin - and well, that's not Jacob to begin with.

His gear and clothes are looted and simple, comfort taking priority over any type of appearances.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒: Something's gotten into him, and not just mentally.

Something of an intelligence he couldn't hope to understand. Something that sits under his skin. It stretches in-between his cells, in the fluids and miniature spaces that make up the human body; it pumps thickly in his veins like bloated ink, turning them void black like the bird's eye of a dark highway system. It leaks out of open wounds, out of bullet holes - but it always crawls back to settle like a second layer.

A parasite? A symbiotic one, maybe, giving Jacob the ability to heal from damage that should have killed him a thousand times over. The pain is there, always - but he will recover. Regrow. Watch his wounds stitch together by darkness that never seems to reflect the light like it should. It is an intimate horror, to not be alone in your body; he dares not think about the fact that if he knocked on his skin, it might knock back.

It's alive, in some alien concept. And with that come whims, as unnatural and incomprehensible as they are to Jacob - but it seems content to let Jacob suffer if he angers it (is it anger? Offense? Does it have emotions he could contextualize, dissect to make sense?) It won't let him die, no; it always puts him back together at the last second. But suffering, it seems to not care about.

𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒: None.

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘: (Jacob tries to recall the beginning and fails.)

He was born to a mother and father, who loved him very much. And he loved them back, because that's what children are supposed to do.

White picked fence. A beautiful lawn, an oak with a tire swing. Their house was built from pastel and wooden stairs, standing idly next to houses just like theirs - the neighbourhood was safe and clean, flickering like a TV screen. Nothing ever goes wrong there, and Jacob had the safest room of all. He could almost see the model airplanes again, drifting above his head on a breeze's sigh; the space under his bed, detective books on shelves, action figures, his closet, pop idols grinning from the walls, the blanket to hide under. Jacob would sit there for hours, safe, content, and wait for his mom to call him down for dinner.

He must have had a sister. She was. Giggling, pretty.

(Jacob tries to remember her face and fails.)

Love. He fell in love with -

They got married later on, after he got a job; his job was good. It paid well. He didn't hate it. And their house was beautiful, with a white picked fence and their children were healthy. A son and a daughter, he thinks. Jacob must love them very much, and he wishes to find them again once he finds his way out of -

The City. Yes. They have to live there, somewhere. When he thinks of his memories now, he thinks of Achilles and the tortoise.

They stretch into infinity.


𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘: Jacob is not a hero.

It is not bravery that keeps him going these days, nor any sort of hope; it is the slow, grinding gear animals enter at the face of survival. There is no place for hope. Cutting it away is cutting away a limb to save the body and Jacob is nothing if not ready to do anything to live. A man that shakes with primal fear, a man whose eyes hold distrust in a world that is not kind, but still just human enough to recognize the concepts. His humor is awkward, bitter, but it's a lighthouse he desperately looks on to. Affection, loyalty, light are distant shores, words he only vaguely knows the definition of; and yet he is not so hardened to become like the horrors that haunt their every waking moment. Jacob wants peace most of all. And does that not prove he is still human? That he wants? That he's still fighting, even when there is nowhere left for him to hide? Quick to despair, but slow to surrender, he is a man that is almost honest.

Jacob might have been a hero. But he is only just human enough. Looking a bit too closely at him, at the cracks and dark matter pacing around in humanity, and you will see whatever is human in him has been left to rot. To become worse.

(Thing is, jacob has been rotting for a long while.)

𝑰 𝑫𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑻𝑪𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑲𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑨𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑬.
𝑰 𝑫𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑲 𝑼𝑷.
​

 

[Namazu]

​

Name: Piotr

Age: 32

Gear/Items:

• Carbon fiber compound bow, along with a quiver of arrows.
• Combat knives, for when he needs to be up close and personal - one at his side, and one hidden in his boot.
• Beretta M9 9mm handgun, along with ammo.
• Backpack full of various miscellany for his travels, including food, water, and a basic first aid kit.

Skills and Proficiencies: Stealth, climbing, marksmanship, basic first aid.

Physical Appearance: At first glance, Piotr appears rather typical of a human. Two legs, two arms, a torso, and a head - all still intact and at the right locations, thankfully. Lithe, average height, and slightly androgynous of form, he’s built for speed and flexibility rather than brute power. He dresses in plain dark clothing, with sturdy leather boots and a long jacket, perfect for wandering. He keeps his hood up, shrouding his face in darkness.

Looking at him more closely, you’ll start to notice the shadows, and how they’re all just wrong. His seemingly-normal form should create shadows once light falls on him, per the old laws of physics. However, that doesn’t seem to happen. He casts no shadow, because he is the shadow. Light is either swallowed and extinguished, or it shines right through him as if he were not even there.

The outline of his form - what makes him solid, and physical, appears to waver. Staring at him, you find yourself questioning whether he’s really there, and if he might be an inch or two to one side or the other of where you’re looking. As he moves, wisps of blackness trail behind him, as if trying to keep up with the main mass of his body. Stand too close, and those wisps might just reach out and find purchase on your body instead.

Piotr does his best to hide his face - it seems almost an obsession to him to keep it concealed and not let any see underneath the hood, for reasons he does not share. One thing is starkly noticeable however: The eyes.

There are usually too many, or too few, glowing eyes visible beneath the hood. They glow brightly with a stark white light that burns if stared at for too long, with a slight flicker reminiscent of old neon lights that risk burning out if left unattended for much longer. The numbers shift and change, sometimes into unnerving clusters of inhuman shapes.

Supernatural/Chasmic Abilities ("Magic"): Umbrakinesis - the ability to manipulate darkness (and by extension, light). This power manifests itself around Piotr at all times, passively wrapping itself around his form and weaving itself through his very being. He may also actively use it as a weapon at will, lashing out at others with dangerous tendrils of darkness that coil, smother, and drain away the target’s life force - presuming they are not simply strangled first.

It has its practical uses as well - extinguishing light in a room, or causing himself to visually disappear in sufficiently dark areas. By gathering and withdrawing darkness, he can make room for light to fill a space.

Piotr has no difficulty seeing in darkness, for better or for worse, thanks to those strange eyes of his.

Augmented Physical Abilities: Despite appearances, Piotr is still fully corporeal - he’s no ghost, and has a physical form that can be touched, felt, and injured. Whether a true gifted ability or just pure luck, he’s a little difficult to shoot at with a projectile - it's sometimes hard to tell exactly where he’s standing, so what might have been a graze to others simply misses him. A well-aimed shot to the center of mass will still hit - and hurt.

History: Much like his form, some of Piotr’s memories are a bit of a haze. Bits and pieces are missing, like they are from so long ago they’ve faded into unimportance. He recalls growing up in a small rural town, poor and full of farmers. Life moved slowly there, and it was a happy time, playing among the trees and fields. His memories get confusing after that point, because he then recalls moving to a large, crowded city full of people who spoke a strange-sounding language that he didn’t understand. It was loud, noisy, bright, and there were no trees. He had parents, of this he was certain. He recalls their faces - usually angry, or exhausted, but their names escape him. They fought all the time, usually about money. The noise of their arguments was often non-stop, just like the noises of the city outside. He hated his parents for dragging him away to a terrible place like that city, wherever it was.

Piotr often has dreams of laying in a grassy field of his first home, watching the sun set in the distance over the treeline - but just as the sun should disappear and darkness should set in, bright neon lights flicker on, filling a cramped dingy room with industrial light that flickers and buzzes. His second home. Something about the dream terrifies Piotr, but he can’t explain why.

Personality: Piotr is a quiet, contemplative man often lost in his own mind a bit too much. He speaks in a soft voice, not one to interrupt others in normal conversation. This does not mean that Piotr is incapable of socializing or is a loner. Should he encounter others that don’t try to harm him, he’s likely to stick with them. He seems uncomfortable with being alone, even if he’s not apt to open up to anyone quickly, and has been known to crack a joke here and there. His humor is, like the rest of him, quite dark. He often seems torn between wanting to show kindness and the desire to lash out.

He seems to be extremely aware and self-conscious of his odd appearance. The environment and its terrible creatures disturb and disgust him, and he has internalized the idea that he looks the way he does because of those terrible forces, somehow. He doesn’t understand how or why, but who does understand anything, anymore? This makes him often apologetic to be near others in the event that he too is disturbing to look at.