6 CHARACTERS AND A PURGATIDE
RICKY GONZAGA (Petty Burglar)
   Life in New York has always been tough for you. You are Hispanic, after all. But the shit has been thrown at you more than anyone else. Even when you were a kid no one liked you. People would whisper about things you would do to animals. You didn't mind it too much. People just didn't know you that was all. You did nothing to them, and so you had to try to impress everyone to like you to make them see who you were. They didn't, but you tried anyhow.
   Your parents weren't rich. Your father could hardly afford to clothe you, yet you always managed to find what you needed. It made people question what you did with your spare time more and more.
   You enjoyed money... Oh, come on let's face it - you loved it! Money made you feel in control, and the more money you had the more control you had. It made you feel stronger, stronger than the gimps who would ridicule you. As the years passed you grew proud of yourself. Though no one may have liked you at school, you were a business man. If somebody wanted something at school you could get it for them and make a tidy profit in the mean time. You just had a knack.
   After school you opened your own business - a pawn shop, and you did remarkably well, even though the insults and lack of respect were still a factor in your life. People would sell you the most rare of items, to never return. Making money was easy, and soon you didn't care about the people staring at you sideways, whispering behind your back.
   When Jimmy the Fix dropped dead outside your store, you didn't mind that his black suitcase was under your counter, where he left it with you. Jimmy had been killed by a drive-by. Luckily they didn't come to you asking where that briefcase was. It was full of counterfeit money. One-hundred thousand. Your heart leapt a thousand feet then. But you kept cool. You had too. Just try it out, you thought. After that you could bank the rest or by a house somewhere. Invest. Man, you were rich.
   The first guy into your store that next morning was going to get counterfeit money in return for goods. You couldn't wait. This guy came in, dressed weirdly, tattooed face, a freak if ever you saw one. He wanted to pawn his library to you for quick cash. You decided to check it out. In his car he had piles of rare books. Stuff that would make you a lot of money. You gave him five thousand for thirty-thousand dollars worth of books. He left happy and you ecstatic. It was too easy.
   It was.
   You don't know what has happened to your life these last years, but it has been shit. How can every cent you ever touch turn into monopoly money? And that has been the worst of it. You haven't been able to keep a living. Every cent that passes into your hands changes. You've watched it many times, shifting hue and texture, until it is nothing more than rubbish that will not pay the bills. The bank foreclosed on your store, your family deserted you. You are four weeks behind on the rent in this apartment, one of the many you can't pay for. Food is scarce. You have to steal to live. You've had to steal everything, that is except for money, and you so like the feel of money in your hand.
   Still, life hasn't been impossible. You've never been caught stealing, or breaking into others' homes. Yes, Ricky Gonzaga is one of the lucky ones. Or maybe not.
   Recently you have had one problem. You are being blackmailed. You met this guy through Christy Welch, one of the few people who actually talks to you. She was a friend of your families. Maybe she took pity on you, but she introduced you to Malcolm O'Sullivan. The bastard found about your robberies, and that case of money from Jimmy. He's threatened to tell the police and the guys that shot Jimmy about you unless you do things for him.
   So far, all he has asked for has been small, like getting him some computer gear, stereo systems and all that, but he has hinted at greater things.

Image: You are a fat, greasy, middle-aged slob. That, is putting it simply. You are horrendously overweight, and you don't care either. Your clothes are always in a shambles, and stained with food and gunk. Your face defines you as Hispanic, your hair greased back with brill- cream. You move with a shuffling gait, and have problems fitting through doorways.

Roleplaying Notes: You love the feel of money, but you are afraid of your curse that transforms it into play-money. You like to have it, and items of worth. It makes you feel superior. Care about yourself and no one else. You are more important than others, so make them know it. Do things that prove your worth, even if it includes lying a little. It often works.

Agility: 9
Ego: 15 Comeliness: 11
Education: 10
Perception: 15
Constitution: 15
Strength: 9
Charisma: 16
Load Capacity: 9/4.5
Movement: 4.5meters
No. of Actions: 2
Endurance: 105

4 Scratches = 1 light
3 Light = 1 serious
3 Serious = 1 fatal

Disadvantages: Bad Reputation 15, Egotist 5, Greed 10, Habitual Liar 5
Advantages: Luck 20
Mental Balance: -10
DARK SECRET: Curse; all money that you touch or becomes legally yours turns into bad money.

SKILLS
Basic: Sneak 10, Dodge 10, Hide 10, Hand-gun 5, Read/Write English 10
General: Accounting and Bookkeeping 18, Cooking 2, Motor Mechanics 10, Written Reports 5, Man of the World 15, Diplomacy 7, Net of Contacts - thieves 18, Rhetoric 18, Drive Vehicle 4, Burglary 12, Electronics 14

Living Standard: 3
HERO POINTS: 10
Equipment: Glock 9mm with full clip, Lockpicking tools, Can opener, Pen & paper


CARLA BERRINGTON (Cheap Secretary)
   You never really knew New York until these last few years. Before that you had a life, not this pathetic drawl you live out now. Back then you were somebody. It wasn't your fault that it happened. It's ironic that you should now choose to live in the city that destroyed you, so ironic.
   Scranton, Pennsylvania. That's where you were born. Raised up in a good Christian family of high standing in the community. Your parents treated you well, and you were given all the chances your brothers had, often more. It was a peaceful life, one where you were well-liked by boys and girls. Teachers respected your ability to learn and your enthusiasm was welcomed. You were a role model in their eyes, in everyone's eyes.
   It was no wonder that Harvard accepted you to train in law, once you had finished schooling. There you continued your education and determination to make others proud of you. You did. You graduated with high honours.
   You returned home just in time to fill the vacant D.A.'s office. Everyone knew you could do the job. You did. In fact you became well-known for your skill in the office and for being so young. Respect and friends still came.
   It all changed in New York. You were working on a serial killer case. This guy had massacred virgins across Pennsylvania and the state police had finally captured him. It was your job to prosecute. This guy, Callahan, was sick and demented. His lawyers were pushing for insanity, but he was just cunning and intelligent. You needed evidence from his old shrink, concerning his sanity. It was all you had to go on. Also you needed to get this book Callahan had sold to an Occult store, that contained information on why he had killed the girls.
   You had just returned to you hotel, from the shrink, with evidence of Callahan's sanity when it happened. Some strange man, dressed weirdly, broke in through the door, and rushed you. With chloroform he knocked you out. When you awoke it was in some warehouse. Seeing you awake the man, naked, moved over to you. Before the pain began you saw he was covered in tattoos. For the next twelve hours he raped and sodomized you. He peeled and cut flesh from you, eating it. You were left without clothes.
   The police found you and you were taken to the hospital. your possessions were missing. The evidence to prosecute Callahan was missing with your briefcase, which also held your money. In the month that followed in the hospital you thought Callahan had his lawyers set up the rape, but Callahan hung himself while you were away. The hospital also informed you that you were pregnant.
   Knowing you couldn't keep the child, and just wanting your old life back, you had an abortion. Three months later you returned home, still a wreck, but a little more resolved. That was shattered when your parents confronted you about the abortion. It seems the major had found out from the hospital. Respect for you had disappeared and the community looked down upon you. Job and family was lost in one fell swoop. Random rape had ruined your life forever.
   A year later you found yourself in New York, working for a sleaze bag that you have to give a blow-job to every week to keep your job. Secretarial work may not be much for a person like you, but it was the way to survive. A job where you didn't have to think was what you wanted.
   Then an old school friend, Christy Welch, who had supported you through New York - she, herself had lived there since University - introduced you to Malcolm O'Sullivan, a friend of hers, in hopes of you getting out more. It seemed he knew about you and your past. He has blackmailed you since. He threatens to tell your boss about your past unless you give him the same servility every week that you give your boss. What could you do?

Image: You are a thin, pale, waify, woman. Your once, fine, luxurious hair is dishevelled, much like the rest of your body. You don't keep fit and soon you know your clothes will have problems fitting - they are getting to big. Illness seems to always be with you. Still you are quite attractive and maybe that's why you get so many offers from men to sleep with you. It has left you nervous around them.

Roleplaying Notes: You are frigid. Men scare you, and you don't like them touching you, probably because all the men you have been with have forced you into sexual encounters. You are chronically depressed, never hoping, never looking up. At night nightmares of your rape haunt you over and over. Because of this you have taken to caffeine pills. They keep you awake, and keep the nightmares away. You regularly take them. You will become paranoid and psychotic if you lose them. All of this hammering upon your psyche has dulled your senses to what you life is about. When you are forced to perform fellatio upon the two men, you close yourself off to it. Likewise, you do this with other situations that are uncomfortable as well.

Agility: 8
Ego: 17
Comeliness: 15
Education: 18
Perception: 12
Constitution: 10
Strength: 8
Charisma: 12
Load Capacity: 8/4
Movement: 4 meters
No. of Actions: 2
Endurance: 80

4 Scratches = 1 light
3 Light = 1 serious
2 Serious = 1 fatal

Disadvantages: Depression 15, Nightmares 5, Drug Addiction (caffeine pills) 15, Sexual Neurosis (frigid) 10
Advantages: Endure Pain 15
Mental Balance: -30
DARK SECRET: Victim of Crime; deviant and tortuous rape

SKILLS:
Basic: Swim 10, Search 12, Read/Write English 18, Unarmed Combat 7
General: Drive Vehicle 10, Accounting and Bookkeeping 13, Computers 6, Information Retrieval 15, Written Report 15, Diplomacy 12, Interrogation 8, Rhetoric 17
Academic: Social Sciences 18, Law 18, Sociology 10, Humanities Scholarship 5

Living Standard: 6
HERO POINTS: 10
Equipment: Calculator, pens, nail file, comb, purse, Blue Sedan, 386 laptop


DANIEL PASCOE (homeless sex addict)
   Yeah, you were one of those kids who just never had any friends at school. Let's face it, you were weak, had problems speaking (a stutter that just wouldn't go away), and you still do. True, you weren't bad looking. In fact you were considered quite a hunk by the female population. But you didn't have the friends, you didn't have the hobbies. You were just too weird for the sexed teenage girls.
   I mean, since you didn't have friends you had to have something to occupy your time, right? Of course. Witchcraft sounded cool.
   It wasn't. You soon found out that, but with that knowledge came an introduction into other occult paraphernalia. This stuff was deeply entrenched in society. Witches were only a part of it (You never dressed strange or anything. You always did conform, but you ideas were the weird thing about you). Enochian magic, the Voodoo of Baron Samedi, Tibetan rituals. The list was virtually endless. Libraries held it all, just like they hold books on how to kill people.
   It became a sort-of hobby for you, this occult love-interest. As you grew older you enjoyed it more and more, because you know what went with most occult activities? Orgies. Yes that's right, you've had them all, men, women, teenage girls. You've deflowered many in your time. And why? You can't help it. Sex has become an addiction for you over the years. You need it more and more, with anyone who looks good, or just happens to be there. It doesn't mean that you rape people, hell no, you're not a criminal. But you've paid for your fair share of sex workers.
   So, you were 21 and unemployed, and as we know in this society that means you are economically nothing. You're a nobody statistically. For some reason it irritated you. Perhaps it was the constant pressure from social security, or maybe just the crap from your ever-doting family. Whatever it was, you searched for a job.
   Nothing suited your tastes. You needed something with an outlet for your creative talents. A girl you picked up at a club said why don't you open a store or something, selling what you wanted. It was the best idea you ever had. After dropping the girl you hit your folks up for some collateral to start up a new life. Almost guiltily they gave you the money. I mean, they were the ones hassling you. It was only fair.
   And so began your entrepreneurial skills as the proud owner of an occult store, Carpe Spiritum. You knew what kind of sickos there were in New York and you were rewarded with loyal service. Now and then you would let people get away without paying you in cash (sexual favours sufficed). You didn't really care, as you had a 400% mark-up on most of your hard-to-get items anyway. Fools always brought foolish things. But it was you laughing all the way to the bank.
   Then came the destruction of the life you so loved. Some guy came in to order a tome, Liber Ivonis. You knew it. It was a fake book printed by Innsmouth publishing, a rip-off group printing the dark tomes of H.P.Lovecraft, even though they didn't exist. You always laughed like mad whenever someone brought the Necronomicon believing it was real. What a joke. Still, this guy was serious. He said he knew you knew where to get the original, bound in skin. The tattoos all over this guys face were giving you the creeps, so you said you'll try. He said you'll do better than that and through down $500 on your desk. The other ten thousand would be delivered to him when he got it.
   So you dropped everything. Hunting for this thing became an obsession. You didn't give a shit about the loser with the tattoos. You just wanted the money. With it you could buy Thai sex slaves to be yours to do with as you pleased. A month later the human-skinned bound tome was in your sweating hands (or was it the book that was sweating?). You took it back to the store and rang the guy with the number he left.
   He came, gave you the ten thousand, took the book and left without even a thank-you. The next thing you knew you tripped, not physically, I mean mentally. You lost it. All vision dropped from focus and for the next three days you screamed inside your skull as you watched hell, true hell, people being tortured for the evil they did in life. But it was always one person, a person you could never see clearly.
   Four months after that you were let free from the Asylum. You parents thought you were on drugs and all conversation between you had ceased. You were a wreck. Whenever your eyes closed the visions of torment began anew. The store was lost. The bank had sold off most of your stock at bargain prices to pay for your rent. Nearly everything was gone when you got back. You closed the store and settled up debts.
   Then your cousin Christy Welch introduced you to a person who might be able to help you out financially, Malcolm O'Sullivan. He did, but then he told you to be his sex slave every week for one day. You would have told him to go screw, but he knew your family. He also knew the media. Your past history would be an interesting tale for someone trying to get pack into a normal life. The blackmailing son-of-a-bitch had you by the balls. You gave in. Life's been shit ever since.

Image: You dress like shit. A ragged trenchcoat over beat-up levi jeans and a grey sweater, stained so much it could be a Jackson Pollock shirt. Your old nikes are... real old. No one would mug you for them if they had the chance. You're not a bad looker, but in these clothes, and in this state, well... Always unshaven and greasy. Your black hair hasn't had a wash in a year. Oh, well, dreads are back in fashion, aren't they?

Roleplaying Notes: You will do anything for your own sexual gratification and screw everyone else. You are number one, and you will use anyone for your own pleasures at any time. You need it, man! You're not dumb, though. Crime doesn't pay, but neither does being a hobo. You're looking for a way out of this deal with O'Sullivan, and to get back into a normal life. You'll do anything to have a job and money again. Just a bit of dignity.

Agility: 11
Ego: 16
Comeliness: 15
Education: 15
Perception: 16
Constitution: 12
Strength: 5
Charisma: 8
Load Capacity: 5/2.5
Movement: 5.5 meters
No. of Actions: 2
Endurance: 90

4 Scratches = 1 light
3 Light = 1 serious
3 Serious = 1 fatal

Disadvantages: Curse (soul belongs to a death angel) 20, Egotist 5, Fanaticism - Enochian magic 10, Persecuted 10, Sexual Neurosis - Nymphomaniac 15
Advantages: Enhanced Awareness 10, Magical Intuition 20
Mental Balance: - 30
DARK SECRET: Occult Experience: receives visions of own purgatory which will come true when he dies. Then the Death Angel will claim him.

SKILLS:
Basic: Search 18, Read/Write English 16
General: Read/Write Latin 15, Read/Write Arabic 15, Astrology 12, Poison & Drugs 16, Hypnosis 12, Information Retrieval 15, Meditation 16, Occultism 16, Estimate Value 12, Seduction 12, Net of Contacts - Occultists 12

Living Standard: 2
HERO POINTS: 10
Equipment: KY jelly, XTC, enough occult baubles for anyone's taste, twenty dollars, handcuffs


SAMUEL FISKE (ex-FBI Agent)
   You were it man. Yup, you were the real thing. FBI, special agent Fiske. Sounded good back then, and it still does, even though it isn't true. You were among the top of the FBI agents in the agency, until they dropped you.
   All your life you had grown up wanting, needing to be an FBI agent. It was a dream that, with years of dedication, you made true. And it was hard. Why shouldn't it be. An FBI agent wasn't exactly a run-of-the-mill government official, and so you had to prove to everyone, and yourself, that you were of the stock to be made an agent.
   Twenty-five and an agent. You had a lifestyle, under the banner of the United States of America, and it was great. You worked your ass off, making progress through the ranks at a slow, but steady, rate. Life, it seemed, was set for you.
   You and your partner, special agent Lucian, were on a case when the shit hit the proverbial fan. It seemed some strange cult leader was corrupting young girls into a coven, or some shit like that. You had to act. Lucian held you back, waiting until you had enough evidence. In the meantime you could imagine this leper, in this god-loving country, seducing these girls, screwing them, and just enjoying a lazy lifestyle.
   Yup, he was unemployed, just as Lucian found out. Broughton Cunningham, age 27, unemployed, born Los Angeles 1969 August 13. Oh, yeah this guy was a regular sicko. His rep sheet stretched some mileage, filled with occult crap. Never prosecuted. All of his cases thrown out on the grounds of lack of evidence, or witness. Shit, he was even charged with murder, except the witnesses disappeared. Oh, yeah, this guy was a threat. Groundwork was required, and that meant reading a whole lot of crazy books about demons and magic. But the agency permitted you and Lucian to go out to his 'healing camp' to heal the USA of a terrible sickness.
   Now, it's more of a blur, than anything. Oh, yeah, some events stick clear in your mind, but you can't remember what ever happened to Lucian. As you arrived Broughton was in the cornfields, half way through some sort of ritual to some screwed-up religion, that wasn't Christian. All the girls were naked and lying with their head in some depression. He stood in the middle. With a cut in the air all of their throats systematically ripped open. Shit, they were even smiling. That bastard Broughton stood, arms raised to the sky. Then something screwed-up came. It was like the worst nightmare you've ever conjured. It came. it came and spoke with him, but... Shit, you always lose it there. It came and you ran.
   The worst thing about it all was that the thing that flew toward you... you had seen it in one of those books. They were real. Man, all of it could be real! Your explanation about the deaths of the girls and the death of Lucian didn't add up. When you tried to explain with your story they looked down upon you. You were dropped without chance of re-instatement.
   So, how do you like it now? Life as a private detective. It pays the bills, but it doesn't get any better than that. Business is slow, and these days you have to be pretty clean to get work. That's where Malcolm O'Sullivan came in. You met him through an old college lover, Christy Welch, whom you bumped into downtown. It was like old times with her, and you began to see her regularly. She introduced you to that fink, saying he was a friend of hers. He was a bastard. He gave you an ultimatum. Deliver all of the FBI information you had at the time, or he would rat to your current clientele about your dubious stories of the past, and unceremonious discharge from the FBI. The black-mailing bastard got away with it too. You could almost shoot yourself sometimes for letting him.
   So now, here you are.

Image: You still dress like an agent. No one will take that dignity away from you. Black suit, shades, hair slicked back, short. You walk like an agent, you talk like an agent. Everyone thinks you are an agent, except when they come to you with detective work. You are listed in the phonebook remember.

Roleplaying Notes: Serve the USA. Now you're not a FBI man you can shoot any communist, anarchist, or loafer you want. But you got to be careful. The Police will just as easily catch you if you do. You are all American to the hilt. You love mom's apple pie, and you live for thanksgiving. You see yourself put on this earth by God to defend the greatest of the countries. Oh, yeah, you're Christian as well. Proud to be.
   Still, without the Fibbies backing you up you got to watch for yourself more and more these days. Everyone is out to get you, everyone is out to discredit you. You will let no one try to make you look a fool, or catch you out.

Agility: 16
Ego: 15
Comeliness: 9
Education: 16
Perception: 14
Constitution: 13
Strength: 13
Charisma: 4
Load Capacity: 13/6.5
Movement: 8 meters
No. of Actions: 3
Endurance: 95
Initiative Bonus: +4
Damage Bonus: +3

4 Scratches = 1 light
3 Light = 1 serious
3 Serious = 1 fatal

Disadvantages: Forgotten 10, Death Wish 10, Fanaticism (American) 10, Intolerance 10, Paranoia 15
Advantages: Endure Pain 15
Mental Balance: -40
DARK SECRET: Forbidden Knowledge. Things exist. They do and you are all too aware of it.

SKILLS:
Basic: Climb 9, Hand-gun 14, Sneak 12, Dodge 9, Dagger 8, Hide 8, Search 7, Read/Write English 16
General: Commando Training (Strike 9, Kick 13, Throw 6, Grip 6, Block 6, Fall 6), Weapon Manoeuvres 12, Bugging 10, Occult 9, Computers 5, Electronics 6, First Aid 5, Poisons and Drugs 6, Information Retrieval 12, Cryptography 10, Interrogation 4, Forensics 12, Shadow 11, Night Combat 8
Academic: Social Sciences 5, Law 10

Living Standard: 3
HERO POINTS: 10
Equipment: Glock 17, Knife, spare clip, wire tap, $43.25c


STAN IVES (Cheap Muckraker)
    Your father was always strange. Maybe that's why you turned out to be only a half-pie reporter, rather than a pulitzer-prize nominee. Still, what was to be, was to happen. Mom always kept father's activities close-mouthed at the table. No one ever spoke about what he did out in the barn. Some times you wouldn't see him for hours upon end. And when you did he wouldn't even talk to you.
    Your first investigative work was your father, finding out what exactly he did. But he cornered you one night in the farm house and said something. You can't remember what, but you lost all interest to discover what he was up to. The next thing you knew you were travelling to high school in the big city of New York, a change from the humble farm life you were used to.
    Adapting was easy. Hell, it was great. Never had you met such a plethora of cultures and ethnic groups. Not many people liked you, a fact you were oblivious to, but you enjoyed discovering philosophies and stories from the other school-goers. Writing was just another level to your career. You graduated in New York eight years later with a journalism diploma, joined with the Gazette (a small-time paper dealing with the weird), and had a life.
    Success was not a word in your career, though. The Editor, made sure of that. He was always to busy with the secretary sitting on his lap. And she wasn't dictating, that's for sure. You were just another journalist to feed the hungry American masses with propaganda and lies. You felt empty in your job.
    But the farm upbringing still lived inside you. whatever it was, after three years as a reporter, you needed to travel back to your place of conception, birth, and realisation. It was your worst mistake. Everything seemed fine. Father was never around, but mom and your younger brothers were in good health, and the place had been upgraded to power since you left, a modern convenience you never knew in your youth. It had always been candles and a wood stove.
    Twenty-six years old. You hadn't seen your father in eight years. Determined, that evening you stole out from the house to visit him. You always knew your father was looked upon as a witch by local superstitious countryfolk, but you or your family never made a deal out of it. It was normal. You had even thought that every family had been like yours at one time.
    Maturity robbed that from you, like your youth, your energy, your hopes. Still, you wanted to see your father.
    You found him in the barn, as always. The barn was covered in what you knew as occult items, the walls draped in black, and covered with white symbols. Strange mystical items covered the walls, and strange daggers and books were everywhere. You had never seen it, and though you knew about it, it still shocked that fragile mind.
    Father was mere moments away from you, walking purposefully toward you, almost glad you had made the transition to an adult, where secrets could open up for you to. It was all too much like 'The Dunwich Horror' by Lovecraft. But little reflection could be made. For in that instance a man appeared not far from you and your parent. Covered in tattoos he began a battle of magic with your father. Not fireballs and chanting, but ripping, tearing, rending flesh with thought, of searing the skin, rotting the flesh. Your father perished and the tattooed man tried to take a chest from the floor, but your mother brought in a gun and he disappeared. she held it upon you until the police arrived.
    The county charged you with manslaughter and you were incarcerated for 20 years. You got off in six. Now you are still on parole, working part-time for the Gazette again (at the bottom), trying to live with your memories, and what you've become. It was pure 'luck' to meet Christy Welch, an old friend who had helped you out many a time on stories you were stuck on. You needed some financial aid and she said a friend of hers might be able to help. His name was Malcolm O'Sullivan. He gave you the money and then began to blackmail you with your past, threatening to make it into a story that would shock even Hard Copy. You still owed him $1000 dollars, as well. What could you do?

Image: You dress in cheap 80's suits from the pawn shop. Most of the time they don't fit, and are stained. Still it is all you can afford. You are tall, lanky. Not much flesh hangs off your bones. Some would call you spindly. Many call you inbred, because of you looks, which are distorted and twisted compared to 'normal' people. You wheeze when you walk, and many think you ill because of your pale face, sunken and hollow. Even if you were ill you couldn't afford Medicare.

Roleplaying Notes: You've just been released from six years of beatings and rapings. Your ego has taken a beating it may not recover from, and it seems there is little in your life to strive for, yet you continue to do so. Heroin has become stock and barrel for you. It relieves pain, and you would bend head over heels for it in the cells. You will do anything for a fix and you must take it regularly. Still you hate being alone. You need to talk to people, maybe to convince yourself you are alive. You still don't believe in what you saw with your father. The state made it clear you killed him, and described how. You must have been seeing things, at least that is what the heroin tells you now. you will explain any supernatural activity as science gone wrong. There are no such things as paranormal activities.

Agility: 18
Ego: 19
Comeliness: 4
Education: 12
Perception: 18
Constitution: 8
Strength: 8
Charisma: 11
Load Capacity: 8/4
Movement: 9 meters
No. of Actions: 3
Endurance: 70
Initiative Bonus: +6
Damage Bonus: +2

4 Scratches = 1 light
3 Light = 1 serious
2 Serious = 1 fatal

Disadvantages: Bad Luck 5, Bad Reputation 10, Drug Addiction - Heroin 20, Phobia - Loneliness 10, Rationalist 15
Advantages: Forgiving 5, Mathematical Talent 10, Sixth Sense 15
Mental Balance: -40
DARK SECRET: Family Secret - Your father was a magician, although you will claim in you rationalist mind he was an avant-garde scientist.

SKILLS:
Basic: Sneak 15, Dodge 15, Hide 7, Search 9, Read/Write 12
General: Falling Technique 6, Bugging 12, Computers 10, Electronics 9, Information Retrieval 20, Written Report 19, Net of Contacts -scandalmongers 6, Forgery 14, Photography 19, Burglary 15, Drive Car 5, Shadow 17

Living Standard: 3
HERO POINTS: 10
Equipment: Enough Heroin for another night, needles, pen & paper, cellular, taxi fare for trip home


ANDREAS MOLLOY (ex-Lawyer)
    You had it made from birth. Your father had been on Wall Street investing heavily in oil and war. He made a packet and retired when he was thirty-five with nearly one-hundred million in the bank. Excess was his middle name. Your mother, his wife, was a socialite who had latched on to him when she was young and desperate. He had taken her for what she was worth. it didn't matter he had affairs when he wanted. She was secure.
    You grew up in this environment. Your father believed in masculinity over femininity, and placing oneself first at all costs, striving to be the best. Money was everything. These things he expunged to you. Become arrogant and self-serving. Tolerate no one. Anyone who fails you were to be left for the dogs. Your father made you in his image.
    Schooling was fine. It was the best New York had to offer. You were spoilt, but you knew how to use it. Your father supported you in every way possible, while your mother was just a symbolic figure that did little with you. Even the maid was more influential upon you than your mother. The Hispanic girl, with her family, quietly agreed to your demands as a teenager in the throes of puberty. Your father supported it quietly. You did what you wanted for your own pleasure, even if it hurt others in ways you'll never know.
    University was a breeze. You decided to become a lawyer, and in time a politician. You loved the feeling of power, and you had the stamina and smarts to get there. Top grades were easy for you. Personal tutors filled up what you needed to know, what they wouldn't teach you in University. Social life was incredible. Women, money - everything you desired was at your fingertips. You were a god among the petty people.
    In law you proved yourself in a short while, and with money and influence from your father you became a partner in one of the most prominent law firms in the city of New York. You were only twenty-seven. You married a beautiful woman, just like your father, merely to use. The other women still came to your door.
    Still, someone didn't like you. You were handed a will case to deal with, and in fact the inbred, redneck family brought all the goods to your office, dumped them, and left. You were outraged. How dare someone do that to you. That evening in your office, clearing up your possessions your precious, precocious life was shattered.
    How the man entered the building you'll never know. He appeared, his face totally tattooed, brandishing a large bowie knife. Give him the chest that was among the will possessions brought in that day. More out of outrage you told him where to go. You moved back behind your desk. He threatened you again. You declined. He lunged. The knife thrust its way into your chest. You scrabbled for the gun in you drawer. You shot him in the chest calmly and coolly with pure malice. To make sure you shot the miscreant twice in the head. It was the sanest thing you ever did. But it destroyed your life.
    Your wife left you after the case. You breezed through it and got off innocent, but it shocked friends and challenged your stature. Your father took a dislike of you. Your firm dropped you when your bouts of depression and irritation got too much for everyone. Then slowly you started to feel bad for the acts you committed. You killed a man, shot him dead, just like a killer. You murdered a man, not in self-defence, but just because you could, just because you could.
    And so here you are, with sufficient funds to support yourself in luxury until you die, but a little changed with the events so long ago. Christy Welch, an old lover, while your wife was still your wife met you by accident at a french restaurant, and, looking to sleep with her, you stayed, and invited her back to your place. You did sleep with her, and she told you of a man, named Malcolm O'Sullivan, who could help you out, give you some contacts with a new firm. Okay, you thought. I'll do this so I can keep seeing you until I get bored of you, you thought. Did he help? No. The firm he was starting up was a lie. All he did was threaten you, blackmail you by showing a video tape of the murder you committed, and threatening to make it public. How he had got it, you'll never know. You don't remember there even being a camera in your old office. Still he had you in his pincers. You could do little.

Image: Andreas is proud, his face chiselled, picasso-like. He is intimidating with his cold blue, lifeless eyes. Always he dresses impeccably in fashionable suits, tailor-made. He walks with purpose, looking like a general half the time.

Roleplaying Notes: You are a morose bastard, totally fixated with self-gratification and greed. You can't stand idiots, and being around them makes you want to lash out, take them down, like you did with the tattooed... People still respect you, and you have friends in high places to get what you want when you need it. You are a rationalist. The supernatural doesn't exist.

Agility: 5
Ego: 18
Comeliness: 12
Education: 19
Perception: 14
Constitution: 9
Strength: 4
Charisma: 17
Load Capacity: 4/2
Movement: 2.5 meters
No. of Actions: 2
Endurance: 75

4 Scratches = 1 light
3 Light = 1 serious
2 Serious = 1 fatal

Disadvantages: Depression 15, Egotist 5, Greed 10, Intolerance 10, Rationalist 15, Touchy 5
Advantages: Good Reputation 10, Influential Friends 15
Mental Balance: -35
DARK SECRET: Guilty of Crime: murder has made you regret your actions. It preys upon you conscience heavily.

SKILLS:
Basic: Hand-gun 10, Read/Write 20
General: Tennis 8, Play Instrument - Clarinet 6, Computers 6, Information Retrieval 18, Written Report 20, Diplomacy 19, Etiquette 17, Rhetoric 20
Academic: Social Sciences 19, Law 20

Living Standard: 9
HERO POINTS: 10
Equipment: Cellular, pager, digital diary, platinum visa (enough credit to travel for the rest of your life), Walther PPK, BMW


BROUGHTON (Purgatide Death Magician)
    Born to New York - born with a dead mother. An unexpected problem during childbirth. Broughton nearly suffocated in his mother's blood. Who believes the pyschiatrists when they say your childhood influences you? Death was the first thing he felt, touched, smelled. It would be the only important thought to remain with him - that and the ability to elude it, death, that is.
    Orphanages had to care for the intelligent young boy. No family would have him for long. When the family pets ended up eviscerated, and Broughton was drenched in blood, they had no option to send him back, but never the reason why. Something stopped them from telling those in the child care that Broughton was a murderer.
    He grew up with an intimate knowledge of the anatomy, the workings of it. It became a passion, a passion that would cause him to leave the orphanage at the age of sixteen - to strike out on his own into New York. He found residence with an artist. She was old, pining for lost youth. He was her escape. She was wealthy, lived in excess, and was more than happy to provide for her toyboy. Even in her death she provided for him.
    She loved him, lusted for his youth and energy. Broughton showed her tomes that dealt with regaining youth, achieving immortality. She was addicted. Whatever it took, she said, whatever it took. He made a pact with her that the two should make a will, to deliver each other's possessions and rights to each other to deal with. She agreed.
    She was Broughton's first trip into the Lore of Death, and a brief spark of immortality. In a complex ritual of six hours Broughton raped her, even though she cried out for it to stop. He then cut her, as instructed by his book. He then killed her, savouring her blood, intoning the prayer to the dark gods. Nothing happened. He was furious, not over losing her. She was just a meal ticket - somewhere to vent his sexual frustrations. He was angry over the ritual failing.
    The horrible realisation of growing old, like her, dawned upon him. He was like everyone else - weak of the flesh. It was something he would have to change. His income was limited, especially after he spent it upon expensive, almost worthless books. Three months later he had to shift to a smaller apartment. He became obsessed.
    He tried a ritual upon himself, tattooing his body with protective sigils. It did work to a degree, protecting him from most wounds. A knife merely glanced from his skin, but he could still sense his body growing older. Delving deeper, he scoured the voluminous books for that elusive answer that mankind would sacrifice itself for - immortality.
    Six years later, by now an accomplished Death Magician, he found it. The Liber Ivonis. The book that held the secret. Only a woman knew the secret of where it could be found, could be brought. He needed money. He had only four-thousand. So he sold everything. He was cheated though. The money was counterfeit. His frustrations were taken out on the woman, who by chance, had enough money for him. After dealing with her he brought the book at an occult store.
    He needed a Razide skull, and so he began a ritual to find one. He accomplished it and travelled to the Death Magician that had the skull, but was cheated of his prize. After killing the old fool, his possessions were delivered to a lawyer. By this time, Broughton was severely weak, expending his power permanently to achieve success. He was so close.
    The lawyer wouldn't give him the skull, and shot Broughton dead. It was something he couldn't fathom. Screaming, the Nepharites dragged him to Inferno to pay for his sins. But even in those moments Broughton knew he would return and become immortal. He possessed a hapless, minor, Death Magician who summoned him, and began to work the ritual. He found a host body in Christy Welch. All he needed now was the six before his life.
    He found them all to know Christy Welch, surprisingly. He made her introduce them all to Morgan - the body he possessed. He began to blackmail them, inciting them, bringing back their memories to haunt them, making their personal hells more real. For when they travelled back to them the hells would take on a real image. Purgatories to drag themselves through. When the Nepharites would come, they would take the six rather than him, confused as they would be. Then he would complete his spell and enter Christy's body - immortal.
    But things went horribly wrong. The Nepharites came early. He had just summoned them all to Morgan's home. They attacked, killing his host body, but he escaped. Now he watches, hoping that they follow the tracks of the killer.

Image: A ghostly specter writhed in black snake-like coils, a black hole glimmering in his chest where ooze drips onto the floor, burning into the floor like acid. His face is lost in shadow, but malignant eyes burn red from them.

Roleplaying Notes: Nothing will stop you from achieving immortality. You are stronger than anyone. You have escaped Nepharites to be here. You are destined for greater things to come. You will do whatever is necessary to reach those goals.

Agility: 14
Ego: 20
Comeliness: 5
Education: 19
Perception: 19
Constitution: 20
Strength: 16
Charisma: 4
Movement: 7 meters
No of Actions: 2
Endurance: 130
Initiative Bonus: +12
Damage Bonus: +3
Senses: Sharp.
Communication: Speech

5 Scratches = 1 light
4 Light = 1 serious
3 Serious = 1 fatal

Mental Balance: -200

SKILLS:
Basic: Sneak 15, Dodge 15, Hide 18, Search 13, Read/Write English 20
General: Astrology 18, Poisons & Drugs 18, Hypnosis 15, Information Retrieval 19, Cryptography 20, Meditation 15, Numerology 13, Occultism 20, Latin 14, Germanic 13, Interrogation 20

SPELLS: Expel life force (Ego throw versus ego throw - the better effect wrenches the character from his body. It will then be ensnared by a Nepharite). His other spells, take too long to cast and are of no game use here.