Testing, Testing, 1, 2, 3

[HighVoltage]

The Irreverent

Welcome to the desecration, baby

Name:

Marcus Atkins

Current Age:

23

Age at Embrace:

18

Clan:

Iratus

I'm a rat.

Not a snitch, God knows I’d rather snort garlic powder than spill someone’s secrets. It’s not out of any sense of loyalty, just because I’d kill someone if they spilled mine. No, I’m a rat in the sense that I get into places and situations I’m not really supposed to.

Oh it’s truly a touching story. Daddy left when I was too young to remember him, Mommy married a jackass. Soon as I turned sixteen, said jackass decided he was tired of me mooching off him, and I was either gonna pay him for the roof over my head or be kicked out. Dear old Mom just stood there while her son packed a bag and stormed off.

Alistair was the only other person I had left, but he was just a kid like me. He helped where he could, mainly by busking on the street with an old guitar his dad had lying around. He was good, and the money we made helped more than I could do on my own. Then he was gone. Just disappeared one day, no goodbye or anything. The last thing I had going for me, fucking shattered. I wound up under a bridge that night, drinking my sorrows away with the resident bum there, some guy called Ripley. He was a good listening ear, but he was pretty sure he knew what happened to Alistair, that he was taken by some assholes called “Requiem”.

Now I didn’t know who they were at the time, but I was pissed. I was gonna get him back, and there was no way in Hell I was gonna be stopped. Ripley offered to help, and before I knew it he had latched himself onto my neck. It hurt like hell, and I’m pretty sure I passed out more than once. I don’t know how long it lasted, but once the pain finally subsided I was filled with hunger and fire, ready to get Alistair back.

He was dead.

Ripley had been piss-drunk when he bit me, and apparently anyone taken by Requiem is never heard from again. So I ran, again, away from Ripley, away from everything, shouting into the night for Alistair, shouting myself hoarse. Instead of finding my friend, however, I found myself outside a bar. Not just any bar, but jackass’s favorite. And as luck would have it, he had just begun to stumble home. It was only then that I realized I was starving. He tasted like oil, greasy and acrid. But I could finally think clearly. Fuck Ripley, but more importantly fuck Requiem. I was gonna find the one who took Alistair and I was gonna make him pay.

But what does all that have to do with what I’m doing right now? Why am I spilling my life story to this guy who doesn’t understand half of what I’m saying? He’s certainly not Requiem, hell he doesn’t even know what I am. All he knows is this homeless-looking guy broke into his house, past his security, and is rambling on while he’s bound and gagged. But he’s afraid. Sure, an adrenaline high is one thing. But drinking someone while adrenaline is coursing through their veins? That’s a whole new level of high. I chuck my phone onto the nearby table, rough guitars and a growling voice bleeding through the speakers. I look down at the trussed-up suit, his eyes wide in fear. I grin at him, a tongue running over my fangs as he finally realizes what’s about to happen, as the rough voice slides into the chorus, a voice worn down by years of drugs and alcohol and life and living that I sure as shit can’t have anymore. But I can sure as shit do this.

C’mon baby, eat the rich.

 

[HighVoltage]

Name: Mariko "Mari" Ito
Age: 25
Gender: Female, she/they
Appearance: Mari stands a bit shorter than most, with long dark hair that she often lets hang loose. When working on her projects, she does her best to keep it out of her face with a cat-ear headband that she jokingly refers to as her "thinking cap". She always dresses rather smartly, usually in some form of slacks, a vest, and a button-up shirt. One constant is the fox-paw charm that Mari keeps on her belt at nearly all times, as a reminder of her mother.
Features: Mari has lived her whole life with a heightened intelligence. While she was never tested, she personally wouldn't consider herself a genius. She's simply a problem solver. Perhaps as a result, some would call her emotionally stunted, unable to process her own emotions or those of others very well.




[div][align="right"][/div]

Alias: Kitsune
Powers: Like a cat, Kitsune has nine lives. She uses one of these lives whenever she dies, returning to life within 60 seconds. Any damage she's sustained prior to resurrection will heal, but she will still feel the phantom pains left behind. Kitsune regains one life per lunar cycle, approximately 30 days, and is constantly aware of just how many lives she has left.
Alliances: Founder and leader of Nine Tails Inc., working alongside Shiba
Equipment:

• A modular "laser" pistol that can be modified to serve the purpose of other guns.
• Two knives, the blades of which can be heated or given an electric current.
• A handful of proximity alarms with 3D cameras that feed into her helmet.
• Suit made from a slash-resistant, puncture-proof durable fabric.
• Mask with built-in voice modifier, HUD, targeting system, and short-range communicator connected to Shiba's.

 

[HighVoltage]

Name: Mariko "Mari" Ito
Age: 25
Gender: Female, she/they
Appearance: Mari stands a bit shorter than most, with long dark hair that she often lets hang loose. When working on her projects, she does her best to keep it out of her face with a cat-ear headband that Spork gave her once as a joke. She always dresses rather smartly, usually in some form of slacks, a vest, and a button-up shirt. One constant is the fox-paw charm that Mari keeps on her belt at nearly all times, except for when she's working.
Features: Mari has lived her whole life with a heightened intelligence. While she was never tested, she personally wouldn't consider herself a genius. She simply sees things in terms of problems to be solved. Perhaps as a result, some would call her emotionally stunted, unable to process her own emotions or those of others very well.

Alias: Kitsune
Powers: Like a cat, Kitsune has nine lives. She uses one of these lives whenever she dies, returning to life within 60 seconds. Any damage she's sustained prior to resurrection will heal, but she will still feel the phantom pains left behind. Kitsune regains one life per lunar cycle, approximately 30 days, and is constantly aware of just how many lives she has left.
Alliances: Founder and leader of Nine Tails Inc., working alongside Shiba
Equipment:

• A modular "laser" pistol that can be modified to serve the purpose of other guns.
• Two knives, the blades of which can be heated or given an electric current.
• A handful of proximity alarms with 3D cameras that feed into her helmet.
• Suit made from a slash-resistant, puncture-proof durable fabric.
• Mask with built-in voice modifier, HUD, targeting system, and short-range communicator connected to Shiba's.

 

[HighVoltage]

To Mariko Ito, everything is a puzzle. Everything can be solved. Even if there is no perfect solution, the one that gets closest to the desired outcome is usually the one that she chooses. Thus, she chose to be friends with Spork.

It was not a choice of ulterior motive, but merely proximity. Being the only two children their age in close proximity, their mothers were desperate for the two to be friends. She did not mind Spork's company, and saw their blindness as nothing more as a problem she added to her 'To Be Solved' list.

Over time, however, this opinion changed. What had once been a friendship formed of convenience began to develop into something more. While Mari saw their blindness as an inconvenience, others saw it as a disability, something to be mocked. Feeling protective, she would have done something about these bullies if not for Spork crafting their own brilliant plan. The blind kid can't see after all, so who's to say they know where every person is standing in a room. And if they received a subtle tap to let them know their target is in range well, that's just being a good friend.

Being friends with the blind kid meant Mari was an outcast, however. Not that she would have known, she was too busy reading and concocting plans to bother with friends. Her father always said that she wouldn't get anywhere with her nose stuck in a book all the time, but her mother was always supportive. She told Mari about how intelligent foxes were, and they quickly became Mari's favorite animal, with her mom even making a little fox-paw charm for her.

The number of people Mari trusted went from 2 to 1 on one fateful day. An unexpected slip and fall sent Mari's mom to the hospital in critical condition. She was not allowed in to hear her mother's last words. She did not cry. Not on the way home. Not in her room after. Not at the funeral.

But weeks later, while with Spork.

It was an ugly grief, one that had been suppressed and held down for as long as it could be. Mari expected Spork to push her off or tell her to stop crying. Instead, they did their best to console her, and Mari realized just how good of a friend this goofball was.

They showed the world what the phrase 'thick as thieves' truly meant. They stuck together through high school, synchronizing their schedules at every opportunity and ensuring assholes were dealt with properly. As college came and went, Mari found herself on the business end of a double major in Robotics Engineering and Electrical & Chemical Engineering, with a minor in Physics. While Spork dropped out halfway through, she wouldn't dream of letting them go. Even after she graduated, they continued to share a space.

Mari first discovered her powers when she was mugged walking home one night. She stubbornly refused to give the man her money, and in exchange he gave her a bullet in the back of the skull. Sixty seconds later, she woke up on the dirty asphalt, a drum pounding in her head and the clear vision of a nine ticking down to eight. She made her way back home and did what anyone in that position would do.

Get even.

Mari researched endlessly, finding the man online, tracking his movements, finding his daily routines. She dipped down into the more unsavory parts of the web, hoping to find someone to track him for her. Instead she found his name and face tied to a hitman listing. She accepted it and, remembering the numbers in her mind, listed it under Nine Tails Inc. She worked feverishly, almost high on the sensation of data discovery and experimentation as she began to work on proper tools. She knew she couldn't kill him with a weapon she owned, so she had to craft her own. She took all the precautions, found him one night and fulfilled the contract.

He didn't even remember who she was.

Mari was ecstatic, not because she'd just killed someone, but because of the new breed of puzzle she'd just solved. She knew this was the beginning of something great. But she had to keep it from Spork.

 

[HighVoltage]

She didn’t believe it the first time she read it. She barely believed it the second time. By the time Lily had finished a third reading and was beginning a fourth, drops of moisture had soaked into the paper, threatening to smudge the green writing. She couldn’t do a fifth, as the letter swam in her vision and she set it on the table, tears silently dropping to the floor.

What did they mean? Lark couldn’t be dead, they couldn’t be. Lily didn’t want to think about the pieces that were clicking into place in the back of her mind, the wistful glances, the lingering moments they had spent in contact with her, their sudden appearance and subsequent piracy, it had all been because of this. How long had they known? How many of those moments had there been, Lark filling up their personal scrapbook with memories to look over before their death? The postscript ran through her head, but she brushed it away. There was nothing else there, it was wishful thinking. Lark doesn’t, didn’t, do love confessions.

Lily remained like that on the couch, head held in her hands, shoulders wracked with silent sobs, for who knows how long. Lark would, they always would. When she finally managed to take a breath, she caught sight of something. Oh shit, the card. She hesitated, hoping that this was still all part of some big joke, that the card would have a little message scrawled on it teasing her. But Lark didn’t do that, they were mischievous, not cruel. Lily took the card from the envelope with a trembling hand, unfolding it to read the enclosed message.

The place was vaguely familiar, she knew the street and could look up the building on the way. The time, shit. Lily checked her phone, the time was soon. Shit shit shit. Lily jumped to her feet, running to her room to grab her shoes before she stopped, flicking off the bathroom light that she had accidentally left on. She stopped dead in her tracks. The shower. If she’d read the mail first thing she might have been able to stop it, she could’ve gotten there sooner. Tears welled up in her eyes before she blinked them back, she couldn’t afford to waste time crying. She slipped on her shoes and flew to the door, stopping as soon as her hand touched the knob, as a familiar emerald light filled her apartment.​

 

[HighVoltage]

-

V

eljara -

Name
Freyja Ragnarsdóttir

Age
22

Appearance
Freyja stands 6 feet tall with a muscular build, a testament to her time spent in various gyms. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is usually kept up and out of the way, and her eyes can range from the warm blue of a summer sky to the frigid blue of an ice sheet. She boasts an impressive spread of tattoos covering her hands, arms, and back.

Enhanced Physique
Freyja's physical prowess can be described as "a bit above peak humanity". While her strength, endurance, and reaction time would technically be considered superhuman, they barely fit the definition. This does not come naturally to her, and Freyja is proud of the work she must put in to be at this level.

Gifts of the Past
Freyja can summon several ancient weapons at will, including swords, spears, and axes. She is proficient with them, and wields all of them with deadly skill. She can also read and speak not only Old Norse, but any languages that may have descended from it as well.

Bringer of

Ragnarök

Veljara wields the fires of Muspelheim, donning her flame-drenched valkyrja form with but a word. She appears as an ashen-skinned valkyrie, her wing tips trailing into flame, an elaborate horned helm and mask covering most of her face. She wears minimal armor, preferring mobility over stalwart defense. In this form her physical abilities enhance even further, including her durability, to levels where she can easily pierce a man's chest with naught but her hands.

The flames that burn within her often seek an outlet, and Veljara is more than happy to oblige them, adding fire to her weaponry or simply wielding it as a weapon all its own. She can control the intensity of these flames as she likes, although hotter and brighter flames require more of her energy. The flames replenish over time, but she can also draw fire from this realm into her to fuel her reserves.

As a chooser of the slain, Veljara sends those that have died in battle to Fólkvangr or Valhalla. Or at least, she should. In actuality, the only deaths in battle that Veljara tends to are those against her. She takes those she has slain, and adds their essence to her flames. When she needs them, she can call them forward as fiery draugr to fight on her behalf, although they serve as little more than cannon fodder that seeks to kill. Whether they fight out of loyalty, force, or a desire to prove themselves so they may be sent to a better afterlife, none can say.

Code by Reyn
Header art by frostworksart
Sidebar art by Drawsouls

 

[HighVoltage]

When Sköll and Hati sink their fangs into the sun and moon, when Jörmungandr causes the seas to roil and Naglfar sails, when Fenrisúlfr and Surtr walk free in Midgard, when the three roosters crow and the Gjallarhorn is blown, Ragnarök will come. The Æsir, the Vanir, the jötnar; all will fight. All will die. Until that day comes, I can only prepare.

The girl now wanders, but she is not lost. She knows that the end must come, and that she will play her role when it happens. But until then, the unworthy, those who have wronged her, must be slain. And Veljara is well-equipped for that task. Wielding the flames of Muspelheim, she can transform into a flame-drenched valkyrie with but a word, any arms that she desire at her fingertips, along with the knowledge of how to use them. She can read and speak Old Norse, as well as any languages that may have descended from it, such as Icelandic.

The flames that burn within her often seek an outlet, and Veljara is more than happy to oblige them, adding fire to her weaponry or simply wielding it as a weapon all its own. She can control the intensity of these flames as she likes, although hotter and brighter flames require more of her energy. The flames replenish over time, but she can also draw fire from this realm into her to fuel her reserves.

As a

valkyrja

, as a chooser of the slain, Veljara sends those that have died in battle to Fólkvangr or Valhalla. Or at least, she should. In actuality, the only deaths in battle that Veljara tends to are those against her. She takes those she has slain, and adds their essence to her flames. When she needs them, she can call them forward as fiery

draugr

to fight on her behalf. Whether it is out of loyalty, force, or a desire to prove themselves so they may be sent to the afterlife, none can say.

Code by Reyn

 

[HighVoltage]

It started with a girl, as these stories often do. Raised by two historians, lovers of the ancient world, she was brought up on tales of old gods, of myths and legends. Yet her favorites were the tales of the Norse pantheon. Time and time again, the girl would ask her parents to retell the stories that she knew by heart, and they would lovingly oblige.

But again, as so often happens with these tales, darkness lay on the horizon. Their contracts ended, work was scarce. Sickness befell them both, and their loving daughter would have drowned herself in debts if it meant that she could save them. And yet she couldn't. It was weeks before she could return to that house, the one that was once so full of warmth and laughter, now empty save for herself and the ghosts of memories long past.

It was even longer before she could dare to enter the office that her parents shared. Part of her still believed that as long as that door remained shut, she could still pretend that they were simply hard at work, absorbed in the translation of some new runic text. But eventually the door was opened, the curtains drawn back, the mounds of untouched paper, work that was to be done later, threatening to have her just close the door and never return. She gathered it all, the half-written theses, copies of ancient texts, runes painstakingly copied with hand and ink, all of which meant nothing to her anymore. It all went outside, to a small pit in the backyard. There had been happier times here, times of laughter and marshmallows, tales of giants and men and monsters, her father's low gravely voice paired with the dancing flames reflecting in his eyes that made a younger girl squirm up against her mother for protection, yet still keeping her ears uncovered to hear more of the story.

As the last of the papers were hauled away, something was still left: a circle of stone, red and gold, runes circling the outside that she could not understand, nor did she have any desire to. The rune in the center was nothing special, what appeared as a capital M with extra lines. As she held it in her hand, hot tears ran down her cheeks. The paper was just that; notes, research, other work being consulted. This was tangible. This was what this office was being used for. Her fingers gripped it tight, too tight. Whether to ensure she didn't drop it or to shatter it in her grasp, she did not know. The sun had set by the time the girl had decided. She stood, returning to the backyard, and placed the stone in the papers. A match was struck, such a small, simple thing, and tossed into the papers.

And as the remains of her parents, of their work, burned, the girl let loose her grief. Wracking sobs, cries of anguish and sorrow, rivers of tears. The two most important people in the world had been taken from her, and all she wanted to do was to have them back. She didn't care if everything else collapsed, so long as they returned to her. She stayed by the fire for hours, a wretched display, until the embers were all that remained. Well, almost.

The stone, that cursed stone that she had thrown in, was whole, undamaged by the flame. But it was not unchanged. The runes encircling it were glowing, and the symbol in the center had changed, shrinking and being placed at the top of what almost looked like a winged key. Some force compelled her, although she knew not what, and the girl approached the embers, reaching out and grasping the stone.

Her mind was flooded, rapidly shifting images flickering along her synapses: gods, men, dwarves, elves, monsters, runes, realms. It all seared through her, veins glowing under her skin as if the blood were replaced with liquid flame. Her grief, her shattered sense of self, was reforged in that moment, molded, heated, and tempered into a white-hot anger. The world took her parents from her, and she was going to take what it she was owed.

You can't expect the gods to do all the work.

Code by Reyn

 

[HighVoltage]

“Fuck!”

The indignant screech was accompanied by the smell of burnt plastic and scorched flesh, as well as the sound of something breaking apart and hitting the floor. Hard. The breaking apart mostly came after, as Mari had spiked her latest prototype against the floor of her workshop. Prototype Number Seven had proved as much of a bastard as its six older siblings, but this one had the unique flaw of trapping the beam instead of splitting it, reflecting its heat and energy back into the weapon, resulting in a very hot, very deadly bundle of metal and plastic in Mari’s very human hands.

Luckily, she’d figured something like this might happen. When working with weaponry it paid to have spares. She needed to let this place air out, though. And as much as she hated to admit it, she’d hit a wall. Spork would suggest they go drinking or killing or actually hit some walls, but Mari needed some time to- Well she needed some time around someone who wasn’t Spork. Chucking a couple spare laser pistols and Prototypes Number Eight and Nine, based on Number Seven, Mari shot them a quick text.

Heading out for a bit. Not on a job. Hopefully back before sunrise.​

Mari could hear the music pouring from their room, even with the closed door. She purposefully waited until she had stepped outside to send the text. Miku would probably read it out as soon as they received it, and Spork would come bounding out of their room like a golden retriever who had heard someone say the word ‘walk’.

It hadn’t taken long for some of the less than legal forums Mari kept tabs on to mention a place named Tinkerbelle’s Contraptions. Its owner, Tinkerbelle, apparently had a knack for making devices that could augment the powers of its user, provided they had powers in the first place. Mari had gone to scope out the situation and had instead found a mechanic named Auraliese, just someone who liked tinkering and working with her hands. Despite her best intentions, Mari found herself taking a liking to Auraliese, who went by Tinkerbelle when on the side job clock. She might have even considered her a friend, if Spork wouldn’t have insisted that they were secret lesbian lovers. And that was without her telling Spork that Tinkerbelle knew about Kitsune.

But still, she was the only other person that Mari could go to with technical issues of this nature, and her no-nonsense attitude was much more enjoyable than arguing with dickheads on the internet about the appropriate amount of heat a blade could hold without losing its temper. So Mari pushed open the side door to PittStop Auto Repair, making her way into the garage proper. She was told the side entrance was for “people who knew what they wanted”, but Mari had half a mind that it was just left open so Tinkerbelle didn’t have to keep coming up to the front to let people in.

Speaking of, Mari found what she was looking for.

“Hey Aura,” She said to a pair of legs sticking out from underneath what she was pretty sure was a Chevy. “Are you free tonight, or do you have work?” She probably should have called or texted first. Oh well.

 

[HighVoltage]

The warrior evaded the spear, but it served its purpose as a distraction. Her gauntleted fist made contact, and she felt her opponent’s arm give, just a little. A wolf’s grin flashed as the girl taunted her. Good, she had some fight in her. Otherwise this would have been a meaningless squabble, the euthanization of some poor animal.

Veljara was stopped from shattering the girl’s ribs with her other fist by the sound of rapidly approaching feet, the heft of a sword swinging through air, ripping through charred flesh. The valkyrie brought her arm up, the steel of the sword screaming against her gauntlet as it slid off. A new challenger approached, seemingly set on facing her. He let out an oddly familiar howl, and Veljara cocked her head to the side in response, watching as he swelled in size, becoming hairier and more monstrous.

“Interesting. And why does a child of Fenrisúlfr wish to stop me? I am only doing the work that must be done.”

Veljara pushed back from the two, gaze shifting between the two.

“But if you wish to aid the folly of the Æsir, you both shall meet a similar fate.”

A disc of blackened wood and singed steel appeared strapped to one of the valkyrie’s arms, while a a length of black iron gathered within her hand, honing itself to a razor edge as white-hot flames licked the blade.

”Ráðast á mig ef þú vilt deyja!”

Veljara took up a ready stance, letting her opponents make the first move. Or so they thought.

Meanwhile, the blade spun through the air, slamming into the burned corpse with a sickening noise. The glint of the metal poked out through the other side and the corpse fell, its sockets growing dim. Several of the

draugr

still pursued Kosuke, but the majority had separated from the group, drawn by the howl of the wolf-man and their desire for blood. They charged towards the two, claws flashing and jaws gnashing, seeking the warmth of flesh and blood that they no longer possessed.

Code by Reyn

 

[HighVoltage]

Lily watched as Lark flailed, pulled, and struggled against the blankets that were holding them, their ragged scream terminating with tattered edges. Lily knew that she should be worried, is worried about them. But yet there’s something about their movement that’s so full of life, such a stark contrast to the painful stillness they had filled before, that Lily couldn’t help a small glimmer of happiness from glowing within her, a small emerald light that pushed away the cold and made her forget about the remnants of a failed letter she had been about to pick up.

Then they fell to the floor and Lily instantly switched to protector mode. She began moving closer, hand extended, but stopped suddenly. She wasn’t sure how they’d react, the bundle of silver and green and skirt and blanket and pillow that suddenly crashed to the floor. So Lily stopped, instead choosing to hunch down into a squat, heels pressed flat against the floor, arms resting on her knees.

Then Lark managed to untangle themselves from the pile and slowly looked up at her. Lily wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Perhaps joy at seeing her, perhaps thankfulness for Lily doing the hardest thing she’d ever done, but certainly not the blank look of vague horror and confusion that they gave her. Lily reached out a hand, hesitantly, but let it hand. She didn’t know if they wanted her touch, or if she even deserved to. She stared into those eyes, confused, when she realized something. The eyes she met were not the emerald gaze that she’d come to know and…know.

“Lark,” Lily began, her voice trembling either through confusion or simply the emotional rollercoaster of the day. “Why are your eyes gray?”
​

 

[HighVoltage]

Tee hee

“Coming soon."

 

[HighVoltage]

Fate

“Depends. What's in it for me?”


Name: Fate
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Height: 5'1"
Weight: 105 lbs
Occupation: Criminal
Residence: Pittsburgh, PA (formerly Chicago, IL)
Family: Dead

Abilities

Fate has the ability to imbue objects with power. She usually does this by using the innate power found within the body part of metahumans. This ability manifests itself in a deck of 78 tarot cards of Fate's design, 22 major arcana and 56 minor arcana. When used, the design fades from the card and it must be repainted. Repainting the card is a long process proportional to the card being painted. Repainting a minor arcana card takes a minimum of 1 hour, increasing according to the card's value. The 2 of Wands would take 2 hours to repaint, while the 10 of Wands would take 10 hours. The face cards also take an extra hour each, with the Page of Wands taking 11 hours and the King of Wands taking 14 hours. Major arcana cards are similar in that the time it takes to paint them is equal to their value, plus an additional 14 hours. Card 0, The Fool, takes 14 hours to repaint, while Card 21, The World, takes 35 hours to paint. Fate can pause during this time and come back to her work later, but she cannot sleep until the card is finished. Otherwise, she loses her work and must start again

Each card varies in its power and ability, bu all are tied to the meaning of the card. The major arcana are all powerful in their own right, with each card producing a specific effect. The minor arcana are less powerful, but are more varied in their effects. Each suit has a theme, and the cards in that suit follow its theme, growing more powerful as the card's value increases.


Personality

Obsidian is a pleasant and confident man. He speaks with candor and humor, and he often gestures while he speaks. He's very easygoing and tends to be either very upbeat and energetic or more relaxed and sometimes even tired. His energy fluctuates depending on how recently he has fed. He tends to be a bit more manic and energetic when he has recently fed, as he's buzzing with energy. When he gets close to needing to feed again, he grows more calm and eventually tired.

There's a philosophy that Obsidian follows. Regardless of their place in his organization, regardless of whether they're regular humans or metahumans, everyone deserves to be treated like a person. People should be treated with compassion and care, allowing them to thrive. While his enemies might be treated like scum, his own people are never anything less than important, both in function within his business and organization and in the sense of their lives. He is also incredibly protective of those he considers family, such as the core group of Slate, The Pack.

Underneath the skin, Ethan floats in the void. Ethan, who has a guilt complex as deep as the ocean he feels he's drowning in. Ethan, who loves deeply and cares so much for his family that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Ethan, who regrets everything. Underneath the surface stirs the Walsh fire, and that anger sometimes bleeds through when he wants it the least. He is equally full of sorrow and guilt for the things he's done and the things he can't do. He makes up for this by incessantly providing for those around him. He gives gifts out like they're candy, regardless of cost or size. He doesn't know how to express his emotions well, so sometimes they bubble up, and he's left feeling overwhelmed.

He just wishes he was better.​

Tee hee




Backstory
Ever since she was a child, Kimberly was known as the weird girl. The daughter of a fortune teller and a painter, she'd often been told to express herself by her parents, to be proud of who she was. Where with most children this would manifest in some form of creativity, with Kimberly it instead took the form of a deep interest in odd topics, in the weird, the occult, the macabre. Teachers reached out, concerned about what she'd been looking up on school computers or disturbing drawings she'd made. They simply said their daughter was expressing herself, and that was the end of it.

It didn't take long before Kimberly picked up tarot reading from her mother. After all, she'd spent plenty of time in her mom's shop, listening to her give readings to her customers, scrunching up her nose at the stench of incense and burning sage. Her mother had let her look at her cards before, but never let her do a reading with them, suggesting Kimberly make her own deck in order to properly attune to it. Kimberly embraced the idea, taking a stack of blank cards and a set of paints from her father.

She wanted more than just to be in tune with the deck, though. Kimberly wanted the deck to be hers, to be special and unique, bound only to her. Magic was primarily intent, as her mother had told her, so Kimberly decided to add a little something special to her deck. A quick trip back into her father's paint studio, he was always hard to distract when he was zoned into a painting, and Kimberly returned with a small x-acto knife. She dragged it along her index finger and let a drop of her own blood fall into each of the paints, mixing thoroughly. She didn't think anything of the fact that the paints should have been much more discolored by the addition of a drop of red than they were.

She decided she didn't want to go in order, and instead Kimberly started with her favorite card: The High Priestess. She had a design in mind and began diligently painting; columns on either side with something curling around them, roots on the bottom leading up to a feminine figure with an obscured face, draped in a veil with a crown of what could be finger bones. Above her sat a large ornamental eye.

As Kimberly went to finish the eye, she spun the card around so she didn't accidentally smear her work. As she placed the finishing touch, she couldn't help but stare into the eye, feeling herself almost get drawn into it. When she managed to look away, she was no longer in her bedroom, but instead in a dark courtyard. Massive pillars stretched above her, strands of something white coiling around them. A figure stood between them, clothed in a white dress, her face obscured, a smile all that was visible.

The High Priestess gestured to a handful of stone basins laid out before her. Kimberly shuffled forward and peered into one. Reflected in the liquid she saw herself. She was older, in a suit, working in an office. Everything looked dull and gray. She shifted to the next one and found a similar sight. So it was as Kimberly went through all the basins, all showing boring, uninteresting futures. It was not until the final basin that Kimberly saw something that made her smile.

She saw herself, clad in black and red, the eyes of everyone upon her. Her hair was black and white, she had piercings, and power crackled at her fingertips. This was the future she wanted. Kimberly looked up at the High Priestess, who merely gestured towards the basin. Kimberly cupped her hands and dipped them into the cool liquid before bringing it to her lips. It tasted sickly sweet and sour, and burned as it slid down her throat. When she opened her eyes again, she was back in her room, the finished card staring up at her. But Kimberly's mind was now clear, and she knew what she had to do.

That night, both her mother's store and the apartment above it were destroyed in a fire. Only two bodies were recovered.

“Coming soon."