Volt's Closet

[HighVoltage]

In which our protagonist screams at div code for 37 hours straight

 

[HighVoltage]

	Incarnation: The Scholar​ Domains​ Knowledge, Opportunity, Pursuit​ ​ The Scholar is, first and foremost, an academic. Each iteration spends their life outside of the Impulse doggedly collecting lost bits of lore, scientific papers, and everything that lies in between. While he typically refrains from raising a banner of any kind, his devotion to the pursuit of knowledge often inspires those around him to press forward with their own findings. The Scholar does not muddy knowledge with ethics, primarily viewing everything from a disinterested, removed standpoint. Constants​ ​ Some would accuse the Scholar of being emotionless and dispassionate. This could not be farther from the truth. In all iterations, the Scholar adopts some hobby, some pastime that he will relentlessly pursue, often to the detriment of himself. Similarly, his passion will flare angrily should any interfere with his pursuit. At some point in his life, the Scholar will acquire a leg injury. Whether through natural causes or through accident, by sixteen he will require the use of a cane to assist in his mobility. Perhaps coincidentally, the Scholar will always be ambidextrous. This reduced mobility rarely impedes the Scholar, as athletics and physical prowess have rarely, if ever, been his pursuit. Present Iteration​ ​ Name: Nathaniel Age: 37 Appearance: Thin, sharp features frame cold blue eyes that seem to gaze into you, find nothing worth pursuing further, and just as quickly slide away. Nathaniel stands tall and thin, with long crooked fingers that are always moving, dipping in and out of pockets, twirling pens, or drumming some unknown rhythm. His appearance is typically quite put together, medium-length black hair swept back, exposing the threads of gray already shooting through it. This put-together appearance quickly falls apart when vexed, however, which is surprisingly easy given the centuries of experience he should have in maintaining his composure. Equipment: The Scholar's weapon appears to be an ebony-shafted cane with a well-worn bronze head, but in reality it is so much more. This 'weapon' truly functions as a conduit, allowing the Scholar to perform feats of chartomancy, or paper sorcery, letting him wield the very pages he jots upon as weapon, defense, and in dire times, rejuvenation. Resources: Armed with naught but his knowledge and a few sheaves of paper, The Scholar has allied with The Beast against The Fury. Although time will tell if this alliance follows the patterns laid so long ago... Role: The Arbiter​ ​

 

[HighVoltage]

Name: Damien Álvarez-Rossi
Age: 22
Gender: Male (he/him)

Appearance: As a former track runner, Damien is tall and thin. His continued habit of long-distance running has left him quite lean. This comes as a surprise to some, as he rarely is seen outside of long-sleeved shirts and dark jeans unless he's running or working. He has close-cropped brown hair that sticks up in short spikes and perpetually tan-looking skin, even in the winter. When he is working, Damien forgoes sleeves entirely, preferring to have ease of access to his arms in order to better draw blood.

Personality: In almost every circumstance, Damien is a nice guy. He's sweet, charming, makes occasionally bad jokes and seems relatively assured of himself, as if he has no doubt about his place in the world. While not particularly fanatical about exorcisms and spirits, his approach to dealing with such methods borders on the obsessive. He no longer runs just for fun, but to strengthen his heart. He carries spare blood in case he should need it. When the spirit is revealed and the work truly begins, it's as if someone else takes over Damien, controlling his actions with near surgical precision, lest he fall and fail. He's already done so once, he cannot do it again.

Background: Damien was born into a religious family, with several canonized martyrs able to be traced through their Spanish and Italian heritage. Through the generations there had been other members of the family who had gifts that could be used to fight the spirits of the world, to do the work that most could not. Damien grew up with these stories, and was less surprised than most would be when he first encountered a hostile spirit. Through some odd twist of circumstance, he tripped while running away, skidding and causing a nasty gash to open up on his hand. From this gash twin streams of red flowed, almost seeking the spirit who chased him. They hissed and sizzled where they touched the spirit, which quickly fled.

Damien now believes he has no choice but to find the evil spirits of the world and banish them for good. Working with his cousin, Theodore, he has quickly settled into a life of roaming, blood, and fire.

Equipment: Damien is relatively light on equipment. He keeps two small vials of blood on hand in case of emergencies, which he changes every 48 hours. As a last defense, in the event that his blood cannot be wielded as a weapon, Damien keeps a blessed cinquedea, an long and wide Italian dagger that serves as a family heirloom, in a sheath against the small of his back.

Skills: Due to the prevalence of martyrs in his lineage, Damien's blood functions effectively as a holy oil. This means that it can theoretically be applied to any weapon, or even object, to make it at least somewhat effective against spirits. In practice, Damien doesn't have much experience with this aspect, as his blood itself is his weapon. He can manipulate it at will, drawing it out of his body through wounds and shaping it how he pleases. While it can be formed into projectiles and launched at foes, Damien prefers to keep the blood connected to its source in some way, as this allows him to draw it back into his body.

There is a catch, however. Damien's body does not heal any faster than a normal person's, nor does it replenish his blood at a faster rate. He must pace himself with his abilities, or he may risk passing into unconsciousness. Not only that, but even though he loses control over his blood once it has lost contact with his body, it does not lose its other properties. And leaving puddles of holy oil lying around while working with a practitioner of divine pyrotechnics is a recipe for utter disaster.

 

[HighVoltage]

Name: Henrietta "Henry" Lawson
Pronouns: They/She/He
Age: 24

Appearance: Even before their exposure to a Fold, Henry was tall and thin, with sharp features and wide eyes. Now their pale skin is mostly covered in a layer of cobalt-blue feathers. The ones along their forearms are a lot smaller and sleeker, sticking closer to their body. At their upper arms and chest, the feathers get thicker and less sleek, some sticking out at odd angles, especially if they get worked up. Their hands and feet are still human, although they end in small talons rather than nails. Henry has shaggy blonde hair that curls when it reaches the base of their neck with several feathers peeking through from their scalp. They regularly dye it a deep midnight blue to fit the color scheme they have going on, but they aren't very good at it. As a result, their roots are almost always visible, and their hair is a mess of different shades of blue streaking throughout.

Henry also has a pair of large wings emerging from their back. They're similar in color to the rest of their feathers, with patterning on the back reminiscent of a blue jay. They tend to keep these tucked up against their back, as walking around with your wings out is the fastest way to knock stuff over. People tend to get upset about that. Or maybe they get upset about their wide, solid black eyes which never really show where Henry's looking? Who knows!

Division: Search. The downside of having bird bones means that if you take one strong hit you're likely to break something.

Strength: Recon - Henry may not be properly trained in observation and searching, but they're arguably built for it. Before their exposure they were always particularly good at picking their friends out from a crowd, at picking apart sounds in crowded rooms, dissecting every instrument in a song. Now they're much, much better at it. Plus, getting a bird's-eye view of the area certainly helps.

Weirdness: Henry is part bird. Well, at this point they're mostly bird. No, they don't have a beak, but they do have hollow bones and a proportional set of wings that make it really hard to sit in chairs properly. Their eyesight and hearing both improved dramatically due to their transformation, and while they don't crave small rodents quite yet, they usually have at least three packs of sunflower seeds on their person at any given time.

Radar: It was just an ordinary day for Henry. They were out exploring things with their friends when one of them found this weird crack. It went way deeper than the brick wall it was embedded in, so of course they were all idiots and squeezed themselves in. They didn't expect to find a massive forest in a crack in a wall in the middle of the city. Unfortunately something screamed in the trees above them, something far too animal to be a bird, and far too human to be an animal. Their friends scattered, and Henry was the only one who managed to run back to the crack they'd come through.

They didn't think much of the scratch on their ankle when they got home, uncharacteristically quiet and locking themselves in their room. They pretended not to notice the sprouting feathers on their leg the next day, but eventually they couldn't hide it any more. When your child starts sprouting feathers and complains of something threatening to burst out of their back, that information tends to get into the right hands. It took two long, painful years for the transformation to finish, and another year before they were cleared for official operations. Rather than wanting to shut them all down instantly, Henry wants to explore these rifts, to find out what's going on in them. Maybe they're hoping to find the one their friends went to, but if they have a further plan than just joining the Search team, their blank eyes and wide grin aren't telling anytime soon.

 

[HighVoltage]

	Another cry of pain ripped from Nathaniel’s throat as Murphy’s claws did the same to his ankle. He could feel his life’s blood gushing from the wound, spilling across the roof of the vehicle and flying off into the dusty air, no doubt leaving behind a fractured, haphazard trail that only the most dedicated of bloodhounds would have been able to follow. L and M could have been those bloodhounds. They had been in another life. Nathaniel had lost track of the times that he had drawn the short stick and been Hunted. M with their unnatural connection to nature, and L with a fury and devotion the likes of which no mortal should never have possessed to begin with. It mattered not how complexly serpentine his plots were, nor how convoluted his schemes. Whenever N was dealt the Hunted hand, it spelled his death. The natural question was why not just end it? Deny either of them the satisfaction of being the one who finished him off and do it himself? If asked, he probably would have made a comment that it simply wasn’t how this game would play out, that it wouldn’t let them stray from their roles until it had taken its pound of flesh. In all actuality, it was simply because N refused to go down without a fight. The car clipped a rock, Lydia’s fault, he assumed, and began tumbling over itself. Nathaniel hastily attempted to undo his bindings, but not before he felt something tug a bit too sharply in his shoulder. The pages tore, and he was unceremoniously flung from the automotive death trap. He flailed through the air before smashing against the ground, his wrist crunching sickeningly. Several parts of his body throbbed and Nathaniel dimly wondered if he should just lay here. Lydia and Murphy could go ahead and try to kill each other, and the victor would forget he was even there. Then Nathaniel could skulk away and lick his wounds, living out the rest of this cycle. But no, that would be too easy. Things were never easy in these cycles. Nathaniel blindly reached out and groped around until his hand wrapped around a warm, familiar handle. Bringing his cane underneath him, the Arbiter levered himself upward, putting as much weight as he could onto his weapon. It hadn’t broken on him now, and it wouldn’t yet. He was down an ankle and an entire arm, but he had done more with less. Nathaniel limped towards the car, one arm hanging uselessly while his side still leaked blood. He moved slowly, attempting to keep the vehicle between himself and the others, wherever they were. Let them weaken each other, let one of them kill the other. Then he could slide in the knife when their back was turned. Nathaniel would endure, no matter the cost.