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Jan 11 2018, 06:04 PM
Martin started his egress at a wonderfully brisk pace, but now staggered along, away from Toytown. He was, more or less, right back where he started. The pounding in his head, the feverishness, the haunting visions, and the continual nagging of his thirst, all of it was back, with a vengeance.

And on top of it all, his plans for the evening had changed. First order of business: put as much distance between himself, and his would-be assassin as possible.

While that girl-- what was her name again? Susan?

No, it had more of a long I sound to it.

Was it Irene? Or, maybe Eileen? That felt right, but maybe it was just that song he had stuck in his head. No.. that probably wasn't it.

Eiko! That was her name. While Eiko was still around Toytown, he couldn't risk going back to his room, in case she found him again. Not only could he not detect her, which was troubling enough in its own right, she also had abilities that made a straight fight a rather dubious prospect, at best.

Sure, he could probably deal with it, if he understood how it worked. But that would take time, and he highly doubted that she would be gracious enough to let him study her. And besides, that little scrap they had (if you could call it that) cost him the use of his arm, at least for the moment, and a worrying amount of blood, so he wasn't really in any shape to make a run for it again if she managed to corner him.

He looks at the bloody tire iron in his hand, the one the pissed-off cabby had struck her with, and a rather strange thought occurs to him.

He licks it, just a little bit, and makes a note of the taste (bittersweet, almost like dark chocolate, and slightly metallic), and consistency (unremarkable)-- but most particularly, the smell. The scent, he commits to memory. Maybe he couldn't counter her abilities just yet, but at least now he knew what to look out for.

He smirks. "Good luck getting the drop on me again, Eiko."

But still, he felt bad about just taking off. He really didn't feel right leaving that poor woman he was feeding on in an alleyway like he did-- though he wondered if Eiko didn't find it more practical to just cut her down when he compelled her to throw herself at Eiko.

And, jeez, why did he torture himself like that? He felt bad enough as is, no need to fill his own head with the worst-case scenario! He was sure she was (probably) fine, and would wake up a little groggy, a little wet and cold, and a tiny bit worse for wear, but otherwise perfectly alive, and-- and, Oh God, who was he kidding? When hadn't compelling someone gotten them killed? Damn it all!

He had wandered straight into Capital Hill now, and in his navel-gazing, had completely ignored it all. Until, suddenly, his is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a loud siren.

He turns to see an ambulance racing by, lights flashing brightly. Another thought occurs to him-- and he's kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier. It was so simple!

"I should go to the hospital."
Jan 8 2018, 03:26 PM
It opened its eyes, and winced. Not that it felt pain, mind you. Not truly. It's just that the flickering, florescent lights bothered it, for lack of a better word. It looks around, and sees rows of cabinets, each with a name. A John Doe here, a Jane over there, and, a few others that were more interesting, like someone with at least eight syllables in their name.

But where it was presently, wasn't the pressing issue. It knew what a morgue looked like well enough. Hell, it had been visiting one at least once a month to find new bodies to play with before coming to this particular one. No, the real matter was the absolutely exquisite feeling hanging heavy in the air. "Wₕₐₜ wₐₛ ₜₕₐₜ?", it wondered. It was intoxicating, for sure.

The owl's feathers ruffled, and it let out a small chirp as there was this feeling that crept slowly through-- wait, was it shuddering? It let itself shudder. It would never dare ignore something this good. Whatever it was, it oozed down all over, thick as treacle, coating everything, and everything was delicious (save for the buzzing lights. It hated them still). But beyond that, it was very, very strong, if it could feel it outside of a physical body. Surely, there was a way to feel it.. more, right?

But that could wait for now. There was something more pressing on the agenda for this evening (for, indeed, it knew that it was night. It always knew.); It needed nourishment, and sadly, whatever hung in the air just wouldn't do.

It heard footsteps, and flowed, like an oil slick, along the ground, ending up under an autopsy table. In the shadows, it waited, and it watched, its yellow eyes flashing with malevolent intent.


And that is when a man in a labcoat came in. His name was Tim Robins, a medical examiner, and, in the city's current economic climate, the sole worker of The City Morgue's graveyard shift-- an irony that he used to find hilarious, but now found stale and tedious. Upon coming in the door, Tim was greeted by an ear-piercing screech, and the feeling of having the wind knocked out of him as an unknown assailant slammed into him, sending him sprawling back through the door he came in and scattering the papers on the chart he carried.

The medical examiner was aware of a weight on his chest, and he looked up to see a rather large owl staring at him. It turned its head sideways, and then completely upside down, regarding him curiously. Tim was confused as to how an owl had managed to get down here. Maybe it had gotten in through a window, and was just looking for food? Seemed likely. It was pretty cold and wet outside.

"Hey there, buddy." he said. "You hungry?" The owl was busy preening itself, and didn't make a sound.

"Right." Tim said. "Well, I gotta get up now, so, y'know, shoo. Go away."

Tim made an attempt to get the bird off him, and the owl bit into his finger, drawing blood. "Ah! Little shit!" he says. The owl hoots.

He tried again, and the owl suddenly hops forward, and wraps its dark talons around his neck, as if trying to strangle him. It looks into the man's eyes, and sees.. nothing. A decent human being, eh? Well, fancy that!

He can feel it squeeze, its talons breaking the skin slightly. The owl doesn't make a sound, but Tim can swear that it was speaking.

ₙₒw ₜₕₐₜ yₒᵤ ₘₑₙₜᵢₒₙ ᵢₜ; ᵢ ₐₘ ₕᵤₙgᵣy, yₑₛ. ᵢ ₜₕₐₙₖ yₒᵤ fₒᵣ bₑᵢₙg ₒₕ ₛₒ ᵥₑᵣy fₒᵣₜₕcₒₘᵢₙg wᵢₜₕ yₒᵤᵣ gₑₙₑᵣₒₛᵢₜy.

And then, the owl squeezed tighter around the medical examiner's throat, cutting off his ability to scream as its beak went straight for his eyes.
Jan 4 2018, 07:56 PM
Name/Aliases: Strix (Does not have a name)

Age: does not know/ does not age.

Gender/Pronouns: depends on the body it inhabits.

Physical: Strix, in its true form, is a 4-foot-tall owl with luminous yellow eyes, that resembles Bubo Virginianus (The Great Horned Owl), and is seemingly comprised of smoke (or some kind of inky black vapor) and pooled shadow that defy any nearby light source.



When possessing a dead body, it can be identified by its eyes, which glow with the same eerie yellow light as in its true form, and the dark vapor that often seeps out of open wounds.

Mental: Strix is a sadistic hedonist, possessed of a terrible, and devious cunning. It enjoys, above all things, sensations. Its nights are spent seeking them out, and binging, glutting itself until completely satisfied.

Smells, tastes, and most feelings are all perfectly fine in Strix's opinion, but only in moderation, or as a light snack between meals. Strix covets most a depth of flavor. A rich, lavish, and hearty savoriness that it finds only abject misery can provide. It is absolutely ruthless in its pursuit of its coveted meal, and is not above using its shadowy talons, and sharp beak to cause direct harm to its victims if the need arises. But, Strix's cruelty does have its limits. As soon as it is satisfied, it stops its mischief immediately, seeking out other avenues of entertainment instead.

It enjoys watching movies-- comedies and horror to be specific. However, it finds modern horror movies, and toilet humor to be distasteful, and lacking in subtlety. As such, it often gravitates towards the classics.

It is unknown what the exact extent of its personality beyond that is, as Strix is a consummate (and possibly compulsive) liar, and its self-description varies from one telling to the next.


Supernatural: Strix has an entire host of supernatural abilities, that have been broken down into neat, little categories for ease of reading, and convenience:

Basic Powers:
Strix's basic abilities draw more from its physical state (or lack thereof) than any innate magical ability.

Shadow Form/Materialize: Strix's body is made of shadow. It is immune to most physical damage, and is unaffected by physical impediments.
If it does encounter something blocking its path, Strix can flow, mist-like, or travel as a shadow along the ground, or walls, as long as there is an opening (for example, it can flow under a door, or through the keyhole, or through cracks in a wall, provided there is an opening on the other end). If Strix encounters something that does not have an opening (unbroken window, bank vault, air-tight container), it can attempt to phase through, though this process is quite slow, and takes far more effort that Strix would prefer.

The tradeoff is that Strix are weakened by bright light, and can be barred from entry by both flame, and sunlight. Sunlight, unlike artificial light, is actually harmful to Strix, and prolonged exposure can be fatal.

While materialized, Strix is affected by physical damage and obstacles like a normal bird, but can attack with both its talons and beak, and can absorb life force by eating.

Owl Eyes: The Strix can see unimpeded without any light, and much like a regular owl, can swivel their heads around to give them a large field of vision.

Drink Breath: While misery is a delicacy among the Striges, it is not what nourishes them. All Strix are able to drain the life force of living creatures to sustain themselves. Draining life requires that Strix be close to its victim, and that its victim be either restrained, or asleep.

Possess Corpse/Raise Strigoi: Strix is able to possess the dead (and only the dead, for now). While in a body, Strix can not use any of its abilities, and must absorb life the old-fashioned way (IE: Biting someone/ eating flesh), much like when materialized.

Strix is protected from sunlight while possessing a body, but can not move while the sun is shining down on it. The body is still susceptible to rot (and may break down faster, depending on how much wear and tear Strix puts it through), and wounds do not heal despite how much life force Strix absorbs. This might be because Strix is only focused on feeding itself, and doesn't actually care about what happens to its current meat-suit, or it could be that the body is not capable of retaining life because it lacks a soul.

If it chooses, Strix may expend a large portion of its power, and suffuse the corpse it is inhabiting with its dark essence. Upon leaving the body, it will animate of its own accord, becoming a strigoi.

Strigoi are mindless, shambling things, driven solely by their hunger for the life force that they lack. The dark essence the strix left behind now allows them to draw on the vitality of the living, and sustain themselves, but only to a degree.

Like vampires, Strigoi are exceptionally weak to sunlight, and will melt away if exposed to it, leaving behind a smoking skeleton, and a greasy, black puddle where their flesh melted off.

If, however, a Strigoi manages to survive for long enough, they will begin to exhibit powers very similar to the Strix. It is rumored that the dark essence inside a long-lived Strigoi will one day escape, becoming a new Strix.

Doom Powers:
In a lot of cultures, owls are seen as ill omens, portents of misfortune, and heralds of doom. As an embodiment of this trait, all Strix have an innate knowledge of fate, that manifests as their Doom Sense, and these powers.

Doom Sense: Like all of his kind, Strix is instinctually drawn to misery and tragedy, whether it has happened yet or not. Upon entering an area, Strix is immediately aware of any place where some great calamity has happened, or will happen, and is compelled to go there.

See The Cracks: With a glance, Strix can see the darkness in a person's soul. With this ability, it can pinpoint a person's worst traits, that it can exploit.

Tip of The Tongue/ "Your next line is": With its knowledge of fate, Strix can accurately predict what someone is going to say next, or rather, make a very educated guess, allowing it to lead a conversation, or appear to agree with its victims in order to better manipulate them.

Web of Destiny: Strix has the ability to perceive immediate possible futures. They appear to it as a massive, tangled web. By expending a portion of its power, Strix can strike at the strands, altering the course of events slightly (such as the outcome of a coin flip, for instance).

Shadow Powers:

Sudden Surprise: Strix is able to blend in with the shadows, and then pop out of the shadows suddenly to attack.

Talons of Fury: Some Strix are more than just smoke and shadow. When materialized, Strix's talons are extra sharp, powered up by the shadows.

Smoke and Mirrors: Strix has learned to manipulate shadows outside its own body. With this ability, it can create illusory shapes to frighten and harass its victims, among other things. If it expends a bit more of its power, Strix can make the shadows more solid. Granted, its illusions still aren't able to deal any damage, but they can be used to form a very effective barricade.


Background: No one is really sure where the Striges came from, not even the Striges. But, there is a tale that all Striges know, and that they all tell, in one fashion or another, when asked.

Long ago, the founders of an ancient, dying city looked for a way to change their fate. They wandered near and far, but found no answer to their problem. At length, they grew weary, and began a slow trek home, heads hung in shame. Along the way, however, they became lost in a dark forest of dead trees. They stumbled their way to the very heart of it; a shadowy grove, at the center of which stood a tall, skeletal tree. And it was there that the founders saw them.

They saw the owls, staring down at them with their malevolent, yellow eyes.

Delirious and desperate, the founders begged and pleaded for a way to change their fate. It isn't clear if the owls took pity on them, or if they foresaw some grand benefit to granting the founders their wish, but at length, they proposed a deal. The specifics of it aren't clear, but the founders agreed, and were carried back by the shadows of the forest.

And for years since, the Striges watched. Unfortunately, the founders were not keen on honoring the deal, and reneged. And then The Striges vowed to wipe them, and their bloodline from the earth.

In that vow, they were all united. With that vow, they had direction. They had purpose.
And they finally succeeded, and the very last of the founders' line had died, and the Striges were free.

And then, the Striges had no purpose. No direction. And then, they languished in their boredom, and took to spreading chaos to while away their time.


This particular Strix doesn't believe any of that nonsense, mostly because it was told to him by other Striges-- and they're an untrustworthy lot.

Then again, the story is at least something, and Strix isn't actually sure about its past. As far it knows, one day, the shadows just vomited it up, and everything after that is a blur.

It does, however, remember recently. Recently, it had been stuck in a large city. Strix forgets the name, but it was bright, and loud, and full of the living. It remembers going on a bender, of sorts. It recalls having burned through a lot of bodies, and trying a few things that it hadn't thought of before. The list was getting shorter and shorter all the time. It remembers that it was growing bored with all of it. The city, the people, everything. Even misery lost its flavor.

So, Strix decided to go home, back to the shadows that spawned it. After all, what else was there to do?

It was languishing. It was bored. Maybe there was some truth to the story after all?

But, when it tried to return to the darkness, something went wrong. It opened its eyes, and saw that it was in a cold, dimly lit room, surrounded by the dead, and the flickering, flourescent lights hurting its eyes. There was a peculiar feeling in the air that elicited what felt briefly like excitement from Strix.

It didn't recognize this place. It became curious.

What went wrong?
Where was it?
What was that feeling in the air?
What kind of trouble could it get into here?

And then, Strix wasn't bored anymore.

Notes: Tootsie Pop references are its berserk button. It will make you suffer if you ask it how many licks it takes. Don't do it!
Dec 2 2017, 05:05 PM
Martin awoke with a start to a scrabbling sound. He had another nightmare about roaches, with their gnashing mouth parts, hairy legs, and bulbous compound eyes. And then, he saw one scurrying across the bed, straight toward him, mouth parts clicking.

Screaming, he launched himself away from the bed he was sleeping on, landing in a heap about four feet away. His screams continued, muffled by the carpeting. He quickly rolled back and forth, as if on fire, but the prickly feeling of vermin scurrying across his skin was annoyingly hard to shake.

At length, the feeling subsided, only to be replaced by an equally-horrible sensation; the thirst. He felt feverish, and woozy. His head was pounding like a drum, and it felt as if his insides were on fire. He needed to feed, and soon.

He finally stood, bracing himself on a nearby dresser, knocking over a cheap lamp in the process. His first sight, on finally standing, was a rain-streaked window, through which he had a somewhat wonderful view of the skyline, iron-grey, and overcast, and the large, pale moon that occasionally peeped through the clouds.

He thinks for a moment-- it's hard, his thoughts are all cloudy, and the pounding inside his head was distracting-- and a sense of foreboding creeps over him, that he can't quite articulate. It felt almost like New York's skyline did not look like this. It almost felt like he knew that something was wrong. Yeah, that was it. The buildings were.. they were off, out of place.

He blinked, then shook his head, and tried to push the feeling down, back into the dark recesses of his mind where it belonged. But he couldn't, and the harder he tried, the more strongly it came. He wrestled with it for a full ten minutes before it became unbearable, and the panic hit him like a freight train.

He began pacing back and forth, staring out the window occasionally.

"This is wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong." he mutters, with each utterance of the word wrong revealing cracks in the ceiling and walls, through which phantom shapes crept, coalescing in languid, shadowy pools, and dripping molasses-like in slow rivulets of tarry foulness. Voices laughed, and shrieked, and cried in discordant harmony, but he couldn't make it out, and didn't want to.

He turns away, and closes his eyes. He recites the digits of pi as far as he can remember, hums the song the band played at his wedding, anything, anything to drown it all out, to make it go away.

And then, it stops. He opens his eyes slowly, and looks around. And there, writ large above the bed, in blistering, bloody red letters, a message.

"WELCOME TO THE CITY" it said.


He left with all possible haste, ignoring the late-night receptionist on his way out. He caught what the man said, mind you. Something about the noise, and how he swore to God that if there was any funny business going on he'd-- before the door closed, and cut him off.

Martin wandered the rainy streets of The City. He had no clear goal, or direction, beyond a desire to feed, clear his head, and then find out what was going on, in that order.

And then he sees the bright lights, and hears the sound of club music, and gets the idea that maybe he can do that, and have a little fun. If nothing else, it would help him knock at least two items off the agenda.
Nov 30 2017, 01:16 PM
Name: Martin James Colquitt, but better known as Jack Barton

Age: Stopped aging at 31

Gender/Pronouns: Male (he/him)

Physical: Martin is a thin, lanky, and deathly pale man, appearing to be in his early 30s. He has piercing blue eyes (which flash red when he is angry), neatly-trimmed blonde hair, and a warm, pleasant smile that belies a darker nature. He speaks softly, and seems to have a very relaxed vibe about him, his walk more resembling a casual stroll than anything.

He tends to wear more formal attire, a vest, wingtip shoes, and matching suit-pants to finish out the ensemble. He occasionally wears a suit and tie, but hates doing so because he never did figure out how to tie a tie. He wears a pair of wire-framed glasses, polished to a mirror-like sheen, and has a gold wedding band on his right hand. He also has a necklace made with an identical ring around his neck, though he often tucks it away while out and about.



Mental: Martin is highly intelligent, and studious, with excellent attention to detail. He often obsesses over his work, considering it a point of pride that every, little thing is perfect, and neatly arranged. This carries over to his physical appearance.

His personality seems to switch between an emotionally-distant, reptile-cold, and a sort of goofy, flippant cheerfulness, and amiability, usually at the drop of a hat. The truth is that, while he does truly care about people around him, Martin suffers from delusional schizophrenia, with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and diminished affect. This means that whatever emotions he feels are far away to him, and he has a great deal of trouble displaying them. He occasionally over-reacts to situations in an attempt to do so, leading to oftentimes hilarious results.

However, he feels two things perfectly: anger, and The Thirst. These nights, he's been feeling an awful lot of both.

He is often faced with auditory, and visual hallucinations, the frequency, and vividness of which have left him with a diminished capacity to distinguish fiction from reality. It seems he labors under the delusion that his hallucinations are glimpses of a possible bad future, and failing to act on what he perceives will guarantee its coming. Some of what he sees may well be bits and pieces of the future, but it's often out-of-context, or twisted and distorted by his diseased mind.

Martin's interests are quite varied. Music, reading, photography, painting, among others. But, above all things, he absolutely adores studying history. And on top of his avid fascination with the subject-- especially pertaining to the occult-- he has a deep love for puzzles, mystery novels, and the swashbuckling of Errol Flynn, sometimes in that order.

Contrariwise, he absolutely loathes politics, cockroaches, and the concept of societal decay.

Supernatural: Martin is a vampire. He has access to a entire suite of standard vampiric abilities. His body does not function like that of a normal human. He is stronger, faster, and tougher than a mortal. His body will never age, or die from illness, and he can heal from terrible wounds that would kill a mortal. But, in order to use any of his abilities-- indeed, in order to continue existing at all-- Martin needs blood. Blood is usually replaced by draining it from the living, be it from humans, animals, or even other vampires (though animals taste really bad, and drinking vampire blood carries a whole host of other problems with it)

In addition, Martin has access to some mental abilities. Chief among these, is Auspex-- which grants him enhanced senses, and the ability to perceive things that others can not (auras, invisible objects, a person's motives, etc.). Auspex, perhaps because of his other major vampiric power, is subject to his hallucinations, and therefore isn't quite as reliable as one might think.

Martin's second ability is Dementation. Dementation is an ability that essentially "spreads the crazy around". While Martin does have a measure of control over this particular power, its effects on a person's mental state are somewhat random, and usually vary from one person to another.

Martin's third mental ability is Dominate. With this ability, he is able to psychically compel his victims to do his bidding. In order to do this, Martin has to make eye contact with the target, and make a command. The command is usually telepathic, but it can be spoken if the need arises. If the target is blind, or otherwise unwilling to make eye contact, he may use his voice, or music to hypnotize them instead-- but he must be the one playing the music for it to work.

The command issued can be anything from simple instructions, like "Move this thing.", or "Hold the door", to complex, multi-step tasks, like "Infiltrate the building, and sabotage the security system.". However, victims are only able to follow one command at a time, one step at a time, can not deviate from the task, and must be re-dominated to perform a different command.

However, if Martin feeds the victim some of his blood, he is able to give them a list of commands, up to 3, that they can carry out. And, while his Dominate ability is formidable, this has more to do with the horrible addictive properties of vampire blood.


Despite all this, Martin has a great deal of weaknesses: He can not eat normal food without vomiting. He must sleep during the day, though he can try to stay awake at the expense of his strength. While he is not normally affected by drugs and poisons, he can be if some is present in the blood he drinks. He is exceptionally vulnerable to both the sun, and fire, and tends to become extremely nervous in the presence of either.

Aside from that, there are certain misconceptions that pertain to his condition that are common enough to warrant discussion. Martin is not affected by crosses, holy water, garlic, silver, white oak, and the like. He is able to cross running water, and enter houses uninvited without any issues whatsoever, and staking him will not kill him, but instead put him in a death-like state, called torpor, until the stake is removed and his body heals the wound.

Background: Of his early years, there isn't much to tell. Martin Colquitt was born in Yonkers, New York on October 3rd, 1954. His dad, Jack Colquitt, was a detective for the NYPD, and his mom, Robin, was a home-maker. He excelled in school, and graduated highschool with a 3.9 GPA.

Things didn't really get interesting until he went off to college.

During his studies, Martin had stumbled across a medical journal circa 1865. Someone had squirreled it away in the dustiest, forgotten corner of an attic. The journal itself was written by an Italian doctor that had discovered that one of his patients was not human. Fascinating stuff, certainly, but Martin wrote it off as fiction. Good fiction, mind you, but fiction all the same.

But there were some who knew that it wasn't fiction at all, and the consequences would be unfathomable if that kind of information were to ever see the light of day. And so, secret spies bore news of this journal to a powerful vampire, who gave word to have the book destroyed, along with its new owner.

So, the assassin came. It was a lovely blonde named Yvette, with a soft smile, and a knack for walking unseen. And she watched, and she waited for her opportune moment. But, when the time came to strike, she just couldn't do it. Over the course of her surveillance, she had developed a sort of.. fondness for Martin, and decided that she'd much rather have him alive, and all to herself. One awkward encounter at the local bus stop later, and she's not only gotten the book off him, and into the waiting claws of her employer, along with her two-weeks-notice, but talked him into a dinner date-- and then several more after that.

Within a year-and-a-half, he presented her a ring, and they made plans to be wed next April. It was beautiful ceremony, if a tad unorthodox, being held at night and all.

About three years pass. One night, they're walking home, and a mugger attacks. Of course, it wasn't really a mugger, but another assassin. It seemed her former employer didn't take her resignation well, and having loose ends even less so.

Martin is shot in ensuing scuffle, and is left to bleed to death in an alleyway, while his wife hunts down, and subsequently mutilates, his attacker. By the time she gets done, there's not enough time to get him to a hospital. She can't bring herself to let him go, so, she turns him on the spot.

In the months that followed, a funeral is held, and everyone thinks Martin is dead. There was a lot of explaining done, and Martin's trust in his wife is deeply shaken. Things are tense between them, which was definitely not helped by the onset of his new mental disorder, but he decides that she's all he really has now, and tries to work through it.

He does this for the next two years, while they bounce from one place to the next. On the night of their fifth anniversary, he decides to do something nice for her, both as an anniversary gift, and to symbolize that he had forgiven her. He leaves the house to buy some flowers.

His wife's former employer is still out for their head, though, and decides to send out his best hitmen to deal with them both. Loose ends can hang you, after all.

Martin returns to find his apartment on fire, and his wife bleeding out from a rather nasty stomach wound in the gutter. She turns to dust in his arms, telling him she really did love him with her last breath.

And then he truly snapped. Lost in his rage, he swore vengeance-- precipitous, bloody revenge-- on whoever did this to her. To him. He took on a different name for this, a portmanteau of his father's first name, Jack, and his mother's maiden name, Barton. His hate sustained him, and pushed him through all the horrible things he would have to do. And after a decade of scheming, backstabbing, and wholesale murder he got his revenge. He found the hitmen responsible, and ashed them all. Every. Single. One. He made a necklace from their fangs, and his wife's wedding ring.

But for the Prince, death wasn't enough. He needed to be punished. He needed to lose everything. Martin turned his allies against him, killed his business, and then framed him for everything he had done.

The last step was to show him the one responsible. To show him the grim memento he had made from the remains of his goons. And he did. The Prince's face was priceless-- until Martin drew a pistol, and blew it off, that is.

He reveled in the bittersweet taste of his victory, but only for a moment, before he was pulled out of it. Without a leader, New York would descend into anarchy. Knowing that more people would be hurt, or even killed because of it, he decided to step up, and take over.


But then, he woke up in a hotel room, overlooking The City, the pale moon, hanging over it like a giant, baleful eye, and got the distinct impression that was entirely wrong-- though, he couldn't quite explain why.

Notes: Forgot to add his other mental ability, Dominate. Jesus, I need more sleep.
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