<eye of newt, toe of frog, gun> foleo/lorelei/umbry/iliad

[Foleo]

"Do not rely on February (…)
"The sun in this month
"begets a headache
"like an angel slapping you in the face."

—Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems; “The Sermon of the Twelve Acknowledgements”

Code: Select all

[imgright]HEADSHOT[/imgright]
{NAME}
race // gender // age
[spoiler]
[b]Appearance:[/b] 
[b]Personality:[/b] 
[b]Magic Type:[/b]
[b]Relationships:[/b]
[b]Other:[/b][/spoiler]

fe-style headshot maker

font generators

• handwriting font generator
• signature font generator (some overlap)

worldbuilding

Spoiler

• One world, but many planes of existence: like many layers of an onion, except there are areas of intersection where realm doors can be created
• General human populace does not know about the existence of magic
• Human spellcasters attempt to maintain good relations with other races

human // female // 36

Spoiler

Appearance: With wild black hair and neat eyeliner, Metzli is the textbook image of the refined modern witch. She stands at a solid 5'7", with musculature from a decade of training faded somewhat by her relatively recent move into management.

Her clothing of choice is structured and generally made of expensive materials, with dark colors and sharp lines. She has a couple chains of elaborate gold jewelry that she puts on when she has an appointment with wealth spirits, but she normally forgoes such ornamentation—save for a set of gold-bar earrings engraved with protective runes, which she says were a gift from a dear friend. At nights, while bartending, she wears a dark grey halter vest over a white collared shirt, along with simple dress pants.

Personality: Wielding a confidence gained through experience, Metzli takes it upon herself to be involved in all aspects of managing the family store. She rarely outsources, and when she does she makes sure to perform thorough background checks both surreptitiously and in person—quality and reliability is vital, after all, when your customers are all witches or spirits with immeasurable power at their fingertips.

This does manifest, however, in a little bit of nosiness on her part into the lives of her employees. The shop's slow daytime hours are mainly spent sitting around chatting: a free counseling service for the staff, if you will. She has a wide selection of teas to aid the conversation; of course, she also has a stockpile of heavy liquor from the nighttime bar, if that's more preferable. Either way, she's there to listen and to help—and to glean some insight into matters she otherwise wouldn't be privy to.

Magic Type: Metzli has an extensive knowledge of runes, but her specialty is potions magic. Her brews—both magical and alcoholic—are what keep customers coming to the Shop, though she also deals in custom enchantments, specialty plants, and various magical services courtesy of her employees. She's a little rusty in combat situations at this point, and relies on quickly scribbled runic magic rather than instinctual, practiced magic. With that said, she has a few telekinetic tricks to help around the shop:

• Small-Object Levitation: Metzli can remotely lift stationary objects that weigh a maximum of 15 pounds.
• Momentum Canceling: Provided her reaction time is fast enough, Metzli can form a telekinetic net that instantaneously reduces the velocity of things that pass through it. The amount of deceleration she can cause is limited by the mass and initial speed of the object; while she can soften the fall of an elbowed shot glass to the point where not a drop is spilled on contact, a heavier object—say, a certain someone tipping off a bar stool—or a fast one—a bullet, for example—won't be slowed to any substantial degree with a single casting.

Relationships:

• Lana: Metzli's ex-lover. They used to live together, and share the duties of running the shop. Metzli feels guilty for not properly checking Lana's magic circle before it was activated, and for not preventing Lana from creating it in the first place; to cope, she drowns herself in her work and makes it a point to monitor her employees closely, to prevent something similar from occurring again. She's mostly accepted her being gone, due to knowing the dangers of the business firsthand, and doesn't actively look for her. Sometimes, though, seeing Ayer's efforts makes her slip up and ask for payment in form of information from her clients.
• Ayer: While Metzli doesn't want to support Ayer's unhealthy coping mechanisms, she doesn't feel it is her place to judge him, or stop him. She does, however, feel it is her duty to keep him safe, so she works behind the scenes to clean up after him. She desperately wants to return to their previous closeness, but doesn't know how to initiate, so she keeps her distance and keeps their interactions professional. She's stuck between pitying him and envying his ability to believe so firmly in a happy ending.
• Azlin: A friend from Metzli's teenage years. Used to work together, before Metzli stopped going on missions; she's been in the Dreamlands with Azlin so often that she's nearly as comfortable with its mechanics as a native. Now, they're trusted business partners: as a higher spirit, Azlin's raw power and magic make her an invaluable ally.
• Swaga: Metzli's adopted niece. The one who glamours up the shop in the mornings, and one of Metzli's most trusted operatives. As Swaga's fey-influenced magic continues to grow in power, Metzli's increasingly unsure of how to instruct her.
• Angelo: One of Metzli's most valuable assets. His unique magic type makes him invaluable for cleaning up botched operations, though the moral grayness of it means that she keeps him secret to all but the most trusted associates.
• Zuhra: One of Metzli's employees. She hired her when she was 19 after she saw her punching a spirit next to a dumpster; 8 years later, Zuhra's one of the most reliable agents she has. She's grateful that Zuhra's taking care of Ayer, and keeping him mostly out of the self-destructive spiral he seems to be naturally drawn towards. Her attempts at getting closer to Zuhra herself, however, are mostly rebuffed.

Other:

human // male // 27

Spoiler

Appearance: While Ayer's naturally light skin has tanned somewhat from doing outdoor jobs, his usual downtime activity of laying face-down on his couch or combing through paranormal sightings boards leaves him with a color several shades paler than what he had as a teenager.

Ayer's defining feature is probably what he calls his artfully tousled hair: in reality, it's a nasty case of bedhead kept out of his eyes with sheer force of will. That, and occasionally a headband--after all, he is a sharpshooter by trade.

Standing at almost exactly 6'2", Ayer's not quite the optimal size for his line of work, but he makes it work with his weirdly flexible joints and ability to shoot accurately from positions uncomfortable to even look at. Get him caught in any close combat, though, and he's a goner. With the stamina and musculature of a limp noodle, his principal strategy when faced with a charging magical aberration is to get Zuhra to deal with it.

Personality: Easygoing, friendly, and chronically sleepy. Or maybe just lazy. Either way, he can drop dead asleep in 15 seconds flat.

Ayer's known Metzli since his childhood, and there's a certain measure of trust between them. As such, when he drinks a little too much at the Shop's nighttime bar and gets mopey and maudlin and throws a punch at the burliest guy he can see, Metzli is the one who inevitably scrapes him off the ground (see: limp noodle) and waves a couple of healing spells over him in the upstairs room (but not enough to dampen the hangover he'll get the next day—that, he deserves).

He's a good conversationalist, though he has a tendency to overshare—mainly gross things about his sex life that no one wants to hear. If one pays attention, though, they'll notice he studiously redirects the subject away from his family, or from how he met Metzli in the first place.

Magic Type: While he does have some hobbyist-level knowledge of the runic script, Ayer lacks the magical capability to actually activate any of them without passing out. Metzli has him carry around a small vial of a potent magic-augmenting elixir, for use in emergencies: use of it tends to put him out of commission for around a week while he throws up everything he's eaten in the past year.

Relationships:

• Lana: Ayer's older sister, his primary guardian during his teenage years. When she disappeared, he dropped out of college to look for her, and hasn't gone back since. In complete denial about the possibility of her being dead, and obsessive over finding her. He's starting to forget what her face looks like, and despises himself for it.
• Metzli: Ayer's boss. Their relationship has been rocky ever since Lana's disappearance, not the least because of their conflicting reactions to it: Metzli's passivity throughout the mourning process strikes Ayer as insincere, and her past-tense descriptions of Lana make him irrationally angry. He knows that Lana would want them to get along, and he knows Metzli's way of coping doesn't mean her wounds don't run just as deep, but he's found it difficult to connect with her ever since the incident.
• Swaga: Somewhat of an adopted cousin to Ayer; she came into his life about 5 years before Lana disappeared. Used to be really close, but now Ayer feels insulted by her pessimism; he sees her moving on as a move to replace Lana's place in their lives.
• Zuhra: Ayer's best friend, though that may be an understatement: they balance each other in a way few couples can hope to match. Zuhra helps him get through his bad days without pitying him, and he returns the favor on hers; they bond through copious amounts of vodka and Mario Kart. They go on capture missions together, with complementary fighting styles that come only from years of working together. Zuhra's the only person he feels he can be open with, and he'd lay his life on the line for her. The one person that perhaps matters more to him than his sister.

Other: Has the one ragdoll cat in the world with murderous tendencies. Fish used to be Lana's familiar, but lives with Ayer now.

baku // female // 531

Spoiler

Appearance: Standing at 5'1", Azlin hardly cuts an intimidating figure. She makes up for it, however, with her decidedly inhuman features: her ears, for one, are tapir-like, and covered in a light blue fuzz; her irises are gold, and glow faintly during the night. She has a slight underbite due to the two small tusks that grow out of her lower gums—as she ages, they will continue getting larger. Light reflects oddly off of her in the human realm, and she occasionally goes a little translucent when she's not paying attention.

She has pale skin with cool undertones, a button nose, and bushy eyebrows. She boasts a head of naturally-blue hair, which she either pins into buns on top of her head, or ties into pigtails that reach just below her shoulders.

Personality: A little too power-hungry, a little too possessive—but loyal to the core, and a strong enough asset that she's worth keeping around (if only to keep her from making trouble).

She comes off as snobbish character at first, and not quick to trust—perhaps she would be quicker, if she had a human lifespan, but centuries of being alive and many more to go teach a spirit something about caution. With that said, she's rather overprotective of the humans she has come to know, and especially of those with frequent nightmares: think of it as a farmer caring for their livestock.

As a sleep spirit, her powers are coveted by all sorts in the magical community—whether it be a vial of sleep soot, or a deluxe nighttime in-home visit, her services are in demand so long as the world (across all planes) has insomniacs. She does, however, have a near-exclusive contract with the Shop, which helps keep her prices competitive and her customers regular.

Magic Type: Baku magic is considerably dampened when in the waking world, and works mainly to knock people out of it. With that said, she maintains some abilities that help her in her day-to-day:

• Sleep soot production: Azlin can exhale a fine blackish powder that, when inhaled or otherwise put in contact with the bloodstream, knocks out the target in a few seconds. It works on both spirits and humans, though it can be countered by a strong anti-sleep curse or by protective barriers. It is ineffectual on bloodless beings.
• Enhanced physical ability: Azlin is more agile than the average human, and can put weight well beyond her apparent size behind her punches. Her jumps and landings seem to defy gravity—likely the result of quick interplanar shifting.
• Dream Manipulation: Azlin can enter dreams, and modify them to her will. If made aware of her, the dreamer can interact with her—if skilled at lucid dreaming, they can counter her actions. Azlin can also consume any part of the dream from within, or consume the entire thing from the outside.
• Interplanar Travel: As a baku, Azlin has access to the Dreamlands, and is able to switch between the human plane and the dream plane at will. She can also open a dimensional door, which allows her to bring humans and other spirits along.
• Bestial Form: Azlin can turn into a small, tapir-like, and very blue creature for easy transport or for sneaking around—as much as a higher spirit reeking of magic can sneak around, anyways.

Other: While she won't get sick from consuming human food, it provides barely any nutritional value and tastes abhorrent to her. She prefers to snack while everyone else is sleeping.

human // female // last seen at 29, would be 35

Spoiler

[MageLorelei]

Half-fey // Female // 23

Spoiler

Appearance: Swaga has two "forms," though one is the result of a nearly constant glamour. In both forms she's tall, about 6'2", and fairly muscular. Due to her fae ancestry, her hair is glittery white, and she never bothers to cover it up with a glamour. She takes VERY good care of her hair, and wears it long or in a braided bun. Her makeup is always tasteful (she always does it by hand, after all, people can see through illusions,) and her fashion is on point.
In the form she takes when around humans, her skin is lightly tanned, with freckles dotted across her nose. She usually makes her eyes brown, but sometimes she forgets and turns them green or blue.
In her true form, Swaga's skin is a light olive green, and her eyes a light purple, almost gray. No freckles; her skin is unnaturally flawless (compared to a human's, at least)
Personality: Swaga's mom, a human, for an unknown reason,
Magic Type: Glamour- Swaga can disguise herself with illusions, and she excels at
Other:I'm still working on this

Human // Female // 25

Spoiler

Appearance: Lorelei’s looks are often described as “mischievous.” Maybe it’s her almost constant smirk; the little wisps of black hair that always escape her ponytail, possibly the way her golden eyes always seem to be half-lidded, or maybe the way her noses turns up a little. Lorelei is tall and lanky, with a relatively thin frame. Like a gymnast or ballerina, she’s fairly strong. Lorelei dresses rather like a punk, wearing shirts with torn off sleeves, and ripped jeans. She wears a single deep crimson ear cuff (made of carnelian, inlaid with gold- fancy) on her left ear. Around her neck is a golden necklace with a locket, inlaid with a ruby and sapphire.
Personality: In one word, it’s “fiery.” Lorelei approaches life with a “bring it on” attitude, ready to tackle any problem that life presents to her. That isn’t to say she’s always impulsive or careless. When it’s something important to her, or to another person, she plans ahead. She does have a bit of a temper, especially when things don’t follow her plan at all. While she can improvise on the spot, but when nothing goes according to plan she gets angry and frustrated, sometimes lashing out at people who try to help her.
Lorelei works hard, but always enjoys her well-earned breaks. She likes to hang out with her friends, and go places, do things. A bit of an adrenaline junkie, Lorelei likes trying new things, and learning cool, albeit useless, skills- such as fire eating.
Because of her attitude, Lorelei is sometimes hard to be around- she can clash with other strong personalities, and intimidate calmer temperaments. Nevertheless, she’s fairly friendly, and is deeply loyal to her closest friends.
Magic Type: Healing- Lorelei can relieve minor pain (such as a paper cut) with ease. The wound is still there, but she can take away the sting. Along the same lines, she has the power to heal minor wounds, which is also easy. She can also help speed the healing of bones or surgery, though this takes a lot of energy.
Fire manipulation- Lorelei has the power to bend fire to her will. She can’t, say, make a bonfire turn into a humanoid shape and attack others (she’s tried.) However, with a regular campfire, Lorelei can move it so as to create a small wall of fire. The smaller the flame, the more control she has. If presented with a lit candle, she would have little problem creating many tiny fireballs.
Barrier creation- Lorelei has the ability to create small, weak barriers. At most, her barriers can take one very strong hit (a car crash,) two kinda strong hits (bullets or projectiles,) three normal hits (punches or kicks,) or many tiny hits (hail, rain, snow, etc.)
Minor enchanting- Lorelei is able to enchant certain items to prolong their lives, or protect the wearer/holder from minor curses, and so on.
Other: She once had someone try to get a drink with one of her old ID's.

[umbreon241]

human // female // 27

Spoiler

Appearance: At five foot one, Zuhra stands below the average height for women. Her height is relatively balanced between her torso and her legs. With her dimunitive height, at first glance Zuhra doesn't appear very intimidating. Her shoulders and hips are narrow. She’s deceptively strong and muscular, and would likely have little problem suplexing someone into the ground.

Her back and sides are dappled with various scars, and tiny silvery scars adorn her hands. The scars on her torso are from close calls during jobs and vary from thin knife marks to asterisk-shaped puncture wounds from barbs or knives. The scars on her hands are very small and thin, and come from handling knives and other sharp implements for years.

Zuhra's hair is thick, somewhat curly, and pitch black. It falls to just below her chest but she usually keeps it in a low bun or a braid to keep it from getting tangled. Zuhra has hooded dark brown eyes with short, curling lashes. Her eyebrows are thick and have a gentle arch. The bridge of her nose is somewhat strong and high. She has high cheekbones and slightly thin lips that are usually set in a frown. Her face is rather sharp and angular with a well-defined jaw. Most of the time, Zuhra has bags under her eyes as if she never sees a decent night’s rest.

It is rare to see Zuhra smile, as she usually looks either contemplative, judgemental, or angry (or sometimes a combination of the three). While her facial expression may hide her thoughts,Zuhra has not quite mastered the art of masking her body language.

Most of Zuhra’s outfits are in dark, cool colors. While on a job, she tends to wear tight-fitting clothing to prevent it from getting caught on anything. However, normally her shirts tend to be quite loose. Her style is fairly minimalist and she seems to dislike loud colors and flashy logos.

Personality: When she's around unfamiliar people, Zuhra tends to be rather quiet or reserved. She typically prefers to remain silent around new people in order to observe their personalities and her surroundings. When Zuhra is on good terms with someone, she shows her affection through small courtesies instead of through words. She may call someone a blundering idiot as she brings them breakfast or helps them tidy their quarters. This may turn into Zuhra trying to mother people because, according to her, they are too much of an idiot to take care of themselves.

Although Zuhra is usually disengaged, she may butt into conversations to snark at people. Her sense of humor is quite acerbic and may come across as offensive to some people. Even when Zuhra is around people she likes or tolerates, she can still be rather sassy. However, she is more relaxed around those people than she would be around people she dislikes. Still, Zuhra does not trust people easily and it often takes her a while to warm up to new people. Additionally, she is relatively assertive and willing to call people out on what she believes to be bad decisions.

When Zuhra gets stressed, her first instinct is to bottle up all of her negativity so she can focus on the task at hand. But if the stressful situation is too much for Zuhra to handle, she may snap at people and generally act like a cornered animal. Zuhra has a rather explosive temper, especially when she's stressed. When she gets upset, she usually withdraws for a bit so she can have time to herself and calm down. She enjoys watching the news, reading old stories, and cleaning and sharpening her weapons.

Most of the time, Zuhra has her own agenda, though she prefers to do things herself instead of manipulating other people into doing things for her. This is because Zuhra doesn't trust other people to do things for her and in addition, it may be difficult to make them do exactly what she wants. In the end, it's easier for her to take care of her business by herself. Zuhra is very independent and often reluctant to let other people know too much about herself or her affairs.


Magic Type: None. She’s, like, really good at punching things.

Other: Zuhra grew up with her father, who is a magical researcher. Even though she has only the barest traces of magic, she’s rather used to being around magic and is very familiar with how it works. Her fighting style is entirely physical, although she has a few enchanted amulets and weapons to help her guard against hostile magic.

[Iliad]

human // male // 19

Spoiler

Appearance: Standing at a little above 5'7", Angelo is essentially of average height, though his thin frame and long legs serve to make him seem taller. With narrow hips and shoulders only slightly wider, he is far from physically imposing; while he isn't completely helpless and has an amount of lean muscle, it's not very visible and instead he just seems kind of skinny.

This is especially so given his style of dress. He tends to go for loose layers: a t-shirt with a thick, somewhat starchy jacket over it—something that holds its shape and doesn't drape all that much—and jeans cropped above the ankle, or folded up. Usually he also wears low-rise sneakers or running shoes, all of which are in the grayscale spectrum. He wears a bracelet on his left wrist, black rubber with a thin metal plate across it, and a simple circular watch on his right. His ears are pierced but he typically doesn't wear any earrings, only stabbing the piercings once in a while when they threaten to close.

Angelo's face is oval-shaped, with a jawline that tends more toward v-line than angled definition. It's due to this that he looks a bit younger than he is, as though he has yet to grow up completely—but this is it. He's not growing any more. His nose bridge is defined and straight, and in profile his nose turns up slightly at the tip. His eyes have an epicanthal fold to them, and he usually looks a bit tired, or just highly introspective, due to the fact that they're half-lidded at most times. His lashes, heavy and black, contribute to a slight cat-eye effect. His irises are a dull, murky green, bordering on gray. His skin is fairly pale due to the fact that he never goes outside, and he has several small moles on his face: one above his top lip, to his right, two on his cheek, and one just under the center of his left eye. His brows are flat, with little arch to them, and are a dark brown. On the back of his neck, going into the bottom of his hairline and parting it in a pale line, is a thin scar. It's from an unremarkable occurrence, likely in his childhood, that he can no longer remember.

Angelo's hair is jet-black, and trapped eternally in the liminal space between wavy and curly. It's usually cut with as much neatness as he can manage, but through its inherent nature ends up looking fairly messy, like he's just walked through a particularly hardy gale. He has bangs that curl slightly as they hang over his forehead, and reach to just below his eyebrows. The rest of his hair reaches to about halfway down his neck.

All in all, Angelo is average-looking: on the androgynous side, and with a quiet sort of refinement, but for the most part, it's easy to pass over him. The way he carries himself also contributes to this: his shoulders are usually held forward rather than relaxed and back, and his hands are usually clasped or in his pockets, minimizing his stature, like he's trying to convince eyes to overlook him.

Personality: Angelo is, in his own words, completely unremarkable. He is rather easily forgettable, and even if one were to hold an entire conversation with him, it would be difficult to get a read of his motivations and interests, or even his base personality—that is, if his conversational partner even remembered him long enough to meditate on their discussion. While this does have something to do with his magic, it's also in part due to the fact that he has put forth effort to make himself as ordinary and replaceable as possible.

He tends not to engage in conversation with others, or at least start them; he is shy, but if someone wants to strike up conversation, he's far from hard to talk to. When one speaks with him, he's kind, but distant; he's not the type to be marked as a particularly nice person, because most things he only does when it's requested of him, and he doesn't go out of his way to help others—that said, he's unable to turn down an earnest request for his services or any of his assistance. He tends to be very passive, and when in a group, doesn't have his own opinions; rather, he simply goes along with whatever others are saying, whether or not he particularly agrees. As long as it doesn't seem as though great harm will come of it, he has no qualms with letting others make decisions. While this does essentially avoid any conflict that may arise between him and others, it also means that his opinions seem to wildly vary depending on the company he keeps.

On that note, it seems as though Angelo does not really have any opinions, nor anything he particularly wishes to do, nor anything he hates. In reality, of course he does, but he hides them deeply; they're not a priority in his life, and he would rather people not feel obligated to act a certain way due to only him. For the same reason, he's fairly difficult to get close to: while he's amiable much of the time, and certainly smiley enough when under scrutiny, his friendliness holds just a hint of disingenuity. This isn't because he doesn't wish others the best; he simply remains at a distance at all times, somewhat removed from whatever's going on around him. He keeps his own emotional stakes where they belong: stored up in a void somewhere. He keeps his nose firmly in his own business, and doesn't pry, unless his curiosity is so piqued that he can't resist a lone question or two.

He doesn't believe in a one-size-fits-all type of morality, and prefers not to make sweeping judgments of good and bad; there are always, in his opinion, extenuating circumstances. However, he does generally align himself with people he is closer to, believing their word over others' recollections. For the most part, he makes his own judgments, and doesn't deny that he may have a certain degree of bias that colors what he thinks, even if he strives to preserve his impartiality. His level-headedness makes him a good person to talk to if one is looking for an outsider's opinion, as well as the fact that in his efforts to be polite he's not one to speak bluntly, either—though unless he is specifically asked for his opinion, he will just nod and agree with whoever is speaking.

Fundamentally, Angelo is a good person. He does wish that he could be more proactive, more outgoing, but it seems that he's just naturally inclined to reservation and blank expression. It doesn't help that he tends to be prone to bad moods and irritation; he's good at hiding it, but his internal narration is often quite sarcastic, and at times even bitter. He's easily envious, although he's terrified of emotions like resentment showing, so quite often he over-compensates, acting more pleasant around people he dislikes.

Angelo is intelligent, although at times he definitely feels otherwise. However, his intelligence is mostly book smarts: he's a bit awkward around people, and couldn't talk his way out of a situation to save his life (which would in any case be why he would be trying trying, so... it's better for him to hope the situation simply won't arise). He knows a plethora of useless facts, although he doesn't typically offer them up. He works well with logic, although this is oftentimes of little use in the face of human relations—they act unpredictably, and he can never seem to truly understand the motives of others.

For the most part, he is content to sit back and spectate: to watch the people around him living their lives, and tag along whenever he can. He is content with being replaceable and hardly noticeable, because in truth there is nothing remarkable about him; in his eyes, anything he can offer, others could do better. He has buried his passions deep and has no real use for them any more, and anything he can do, he is merely passable at. This doesn't unduly sadden him—rather, it is just a fact. And so, he stands a ways away, and watches as time passes.

Magic Type: Angelo primarily works in manipulation of the mindscape; while the unconscious mind is beyond his influence, he is able to tamper in two areas: memory and illusion. He's also able to use these abilities on himself, provided he retains the concentration required to do so.

He is able to change memories to a certain extent, by simply deleting them, or by changing their content. However, memories are often intertwined, and the further back he delves in order to form one continuous narrative, the more exhausted he will become. Thus, much of the time his alterations are imperfect, and easily realized and undone. There is also an increasing risk that his own memories will contaminate those of the person he is working with; the same risk also rises the more emotionally fraught he is at the time that he uses his magic. At the moment, Angelo can only alter small things: he cannot create events that never happened, nor people that never existed. He can merely change dialogue, change the outcome of a minor decision, and the like—though he is capable of deleting much more than he can alter, taking out up to hours at a time.

Angelo's ability with illusions is fairly low; he can manipulate both sight and hearing, but so far he cannot touch the other senses, all of which are paramount to maintaining a convincing, large-scale illusion. He can create small items on one's field of vision, such as bugs or floaters, and cause low-level auditory hallucinations. With time, his ability could potentially expand, but at the moment he is able to do nothing but cause minor disturbances.

Other: kek. He gets annoying tension headaches a lot and they're not detrimental to his health, but they are a pain to deal with and contribute to his silence.

[umbreon241]

The sun was shining and the birds chirped cheerily. It was a nice day for a kirin hunt. Even if the weather was foul, Zuhra and Ayer would do their job just the same, but it was nice to have some sunlight.

Zuhra crept through the trees with Ayer as the bundle of netting attached to her belt swished with each movement. The forest floor, thick with twigs and dead leaves and moss, crunched with every footstep. According to their research, the kirin should be somewhere around here and although they had found hoof prints, they hadn’t seen the kirin itself.

Nearby, something crunched delicately. (Zuhra didn’t realize that anything could crunch delicately, but she supposed that you learn new things every day.) She grabbed Ayer’s sleeve and motioned for him to be quiet. There, that was another crunch. Zuhra shifted her weight, bringing her center of gravity closer to the ground, and crept into the clearing where the noise originated from.

There she found the kirin as it nibbled at a mushroom. She detached the net from her belt as she inched towards it, keeping it ready to use. Zuhra saw the kirin tense as she got closer before it finally swung its antlers towards her. The motion forced her to step to the side and she tried to grab its antlers. To her surprise, she succeeded. Its antlers would have scraped up her palms had she not wrapped her hands, but instead the kirin could only furiously try to shake her off. Unable to hold on any longer, Zuhra released its horns after one particularly vicious shake, only for the kirin to continue advancing towards her.

Zuhra kept backing up, dodging the swings of the kirin’s antlers. Her back hit bark and she reached out to grab the kirin’s antlers again to keep it from goring her. Again, it swung its head, but this time she didn’t let go. The kirin’s antlers, with Zuhra still clinging with them, slammed into the tree. Something in her hand cracked.

“Shit,” hissed Zuhra as she ducked another swing of the kirin’s antlers. With her good hand, she pushed back against the kirin’s head but it looked angry. She tried flexing her other hand and was rewarded with a sharp pain.

“Ayer?” She called as she gave in and tried to hold back kirin’s antlers with both hands. “A little help over here?”

[Foleo]

Zuhra grabs onto its antlers, and two pink tranquilizer darts bloom on the kirin's left flank. It's undeterred—if anything, it's angered: it tosses its head furiously, and Zuhra's hands slip off.

"Ah, fuck." Ayer jams two more darts into the double barrels of the air-powered gun, flicking the chamber back in place just as Zuhra's back collides with a tree. Two more darts—right next to the previous ones, and now the kirin looks like it's been decorated by a brony and yet it swings its head hard and the clearing echoes with the sound of a sickening crack.

"Ayer? A little help over here?" Zuhra calls, and Christ, Ayer doesn't know how she can sound so level-headed when her hand just got splintered by some sort of fucked up dragon-deer: he forgoes a response in favor of shoving two more darts into his gun.

This time he aims for the neck—two quick shots: one bounces off its heavily armored scales, but the other slips in between. The kirin, head caught in the middle of a forward thrash, rolls its glowing goat-eyes towards Ayer—shudders violently—and buckles onto the forest floor, antlers falling just shy of Zuhra's legs.

Ayer darts out of cover and plucks the dart out of the kirin's neck before it could dump its full load—the last thing they needed after all this trouble was for the client's pet to go brain-dead. He peels back the kirin's eyelids: a faraway, glassy-eyed look greets him, but a beat later the beast hisses venomously and he pulls back in relief. "Oh, thank god," he sighs, and takes out a few lengths of rope from his bag.

He ties a muzzle around its snout and a collar around its neck, giving both a few good yanks to test their hold. Two velvety bags are slipped over the golden antlers, the drawstrings at the base pulled shut. After pulling out the empty vials of tranquilizer from the kirin's trembling haunches and collecting the one that didn't hit, he loops the remaining rope around the collar and gets to his feet, pulling the wobbly kirin up with him. "Alright, Bambi, time to go home." He'd have to tell Metzli to change the formula for the tranquilizer next time: a shot to the jugular shouldn't be the only thing that brings something down, and definitely shouldn't leave anything conscious enough to walk.

He glances at the hand that Zuhra is holding a little closer to her side than the other: it looked—well, it definitely didn't look good, with the awkward angle a few of her fingers sat at, but he'd put off mentioning it until the kirin was safely under Metzli's auspices. The last thing he wanted was for the sedative to wear off while they were on the road: the trunk of Zuhra's car was beat up enough as it was. "Hey Zuhra, toss me the keys. I'll drive today."

[umbreon241]

The final dart hits the kirin's neck and Zuhra wants to sag in relief, but they're not out of the woods yet. With both hands held out to defend herself from any final thrashing, Zuhra sidesteps away from the tree. At last, the kirin collapses and narrowly misses scraping her shin with its antlers. She waits a moment to see if it will rise again before she relaxes minutely, rolling her shoulders.

Ayer comes forward to inspect their catch and Zuhra takes a step back to let him work. Pain burns at the edges of her awareness but Zuhra pushes it to the side-- their job isn't over just yet. She watches over Ayer's shoulder as he creates a makeshift leash for their new charge and hauls it to its feet. The kirin resembles Ayer after a few too many drinks, but it looks steady enough to make it to her car. Zuhra doesn't offer to help and instead opts to keep an eye on their surroundings just in case a decidedly more dangerous creature comes along.

She catches the furtive glances that Ayer throws at her hand and turns her body to hide her hand from him as she pretends to look at something in the distance. With her good hand, Zuhra digs her car keys out of her pocket and tosses them to Ayer. They walk until they reach where her car is parked the edge of the woods. Zuhra opens the trunk as Ayer trusses up the kirin's legs. The beast was already unstable to begin with, so it's relatively easy to gently push it into the towel-lined trunk.

Zuhra slides into the passenger seat as Ayer closes the trunk and hops into the driver's seat. He starts her car and pulls away from the forest as she stares out the window. She probably has ten or fifteen minutes before the adrenaline from the fight wears off and the pain in her hand significantly worsens. There's probably a stash of ibuprofen in her glove compartment but she doesn't want to worry Ayer. Besides, a broken hand isn't a life-threatening emergency and she isn't weak. It'll be fine. She'll deal with it.

A blast of pop music interrupts her train of thought-- Ayer must have turned on the radio. She glares at him but on a scale of one to I'm going to decorate my home with your innards, it's maybe a three at best. His music taste isn't that bad and besides, who can resist some Britney Spears?

For the rest of their ride back to the shop, Ayer insists on singing along at the top of his lungs. His voice could make babies cry from fear and horror, but Zuhra learned long ago that trying to stop him is futile. She stares out the window and keeps her injured hand out of sight.

The car slows as Ayer pulls into the otherwise deserted alley behind the shop. Zuhra gets out and pops the trunk, revealing the drowsy kirin. She lets Ayer scoop it up in his weak noodle arms-- she doubts that she should be carrying anything right now-- and opens the back door of the shop. As soon as she closes the door, she crosses her arms to hide her injured hand.

[Iliad]

The bar is quiet while it's still daylight out, even more so than usual. The sun falls across the polished wood, clean and shiny where Angelo wiped it down earlier that day. He sits at the counter, letting his eye catch on the empty glasses stacked just in his line of sight, noticeable only because of the light reflecting off the glass. On the next stool sits Metzli, hands folded. Neither of them faces the bar; rather they face each other, not unlike a tutor and pupil.

Angelo leans on the countertop, elbow on the wood, and rests his chin on his hand. The other hand rolls a piece of balled-up straw wrapper between the index finger and thumb, scrunching it imperceptibly smaller. The shop is muffled and quiet before Metzli speaks. "When it comes to your illusions, start small. Think of things you've already seen before. It's easier to start if you work from life." Angelo nods, considering for a moment. His fingernail unravels the straw-paper ball, and instead of rerolling it he puts it on the bar, making a note to throw it away later. "This also makes it more believable. If you've seen how something looks, and you've seen it move around, you can recreate it much more accurately," Metzli continues. "It works for bigger things too. If you wanted to make the illusion of a person, let's say, then it would be easier if it was a person you'd seen before."

"I think that's a bit beyond me," says Angelo, a hint of sheepishness in his tone. Instead of voicing that further, though, he asks, "Should I try something now?" Metzli nods, so he slides his elbow off the bar and sits up straight, lacing his fingers in his lap. His eyes find their way to a point in empty air several feet above both of their heads, and he stays completely still and silent for a moment. While his grasp of illusion magic is tenuous at this point, he's gotten somewhat used to the routine of it; he can't explain how it's done, just as it's hard for some to explain how to pop your eardrums or ride your bike, but he knows when he's reached enough magic to do it.

Above them, a downy white feather appears out of nowhere. It's not large at all; it looks more like a covert feather than a primary. It falls languidly, veering one way and then another in gentle pendular movements. Angelo follows its progress with his eyes and occasionally shifts, idly biting at the inside of his cheek. When it finally reaches them, it floats into Metzli's open palm, but before it touches her skin it vanishes—one moment it's there, the next gone, like it had never been there. Angelo frowns at its departure, but says nothing.

"That's a start," Metzli says. "I want you to try something else, too. Sometimes, we have to work with something we've only seen once, or that we don't have enough knowledge of. Think back to something that you've seen in passing around the shop recently, and try to recreate it—I'll let you know how you do." She leans back slightly, crossing her ankles.

He thinks for a bit, tilting his head back. Earlier that day, while wiping up behind the counter, he'd seen the corner of an old photograph, tucked between two slats of dark wood. When he'd tugged gently at it until it came out, and smoothed it out, he was met with a slightly-yellowed picture of a young woman, likely in her twenties. Parts of the photo were worn away from being buffeted by time, but he could make out violet hair and a confident, beaming smile. Thinking on it now, those features were so complex—humans are, all of them. Angelo doubts he'll ever be able to make a convincing illusion of one, even for a moment. Maybe he can manage a photograph, though.

He turns slightly to his left toward the counter and rests his hand flat on it, again stilling for just a moment. He tries to recall the eyes, the nose; surely he gets some of the face wrong, but he remembers the hair, and he remembers how she had her hands on her hips like she's about to say something teasing. After a moment, he removes his hand, and on the countertop is an illusion of the photograph. He looks cautiously up at Metzli after, waiting for her comments.

[Foleo]

Metzli feels her breath catch and her mind grind to a halt, and she stares at the picture a little too long before she notices Angelo looking expectantly at her. "It's," she starts, swallowing around the lump that forms in her throat, "it's fantastic. You're learning so quickly." She wants to reach out and touch it, but she remembers how the illusory feather that Angelo summoned had disappeared upon contact: the selfish, foolish part of her wants to keep the image around a while longer. Instead, her fingers fall uselessly to the counter a few inches away.

"Where did you find this picture, by the way?" she asks, trying to sound casual and probably failing, by the way Angelo draws back.

"Behind the counter," he says slowly, "near the bathrooms. I was wiping up and found it. Sorry, was I not supposed to pick it up?"

"Oh, no, it's no problem. I was just curious." She makes a mental note to thoroughly check every nook and cranny of the bar once nobody else was around. Belatedly, she notices that her cup had floated to eye-level while she was distracted: clearing her throat, she plucks it out of the air and takes a sip.

"Well, you've clearly got an eye for detail," she says, gesturing at the picture on the counter with her free hand. "The shadow is a little too wide for such a flat object, though, and—" she leans as far to the side as the barstool allows, craning her neck to look at the picture. "Looked at in a different angle, it's not quite the right shape. We'll have to work on that."

Angelo opens his mouth to respond, but then a bell tinkles and the shop's door gets flung open.

"Hey, Metzli, we got your kirin!" Ayer shouts, and Metzli slams her hand over the picture. She feels the air around her crackle as the illusion breaks, and sneaks an apologetic look at Angelo. "Oh, you're right here," Ayer says in a lower voice, blinking owlishly. "Hey, new kid."

Metzli pats Angelo's arm. "Sorry, we're going to have to continue this later. While I call the client, could you water the plants and harvest any eyebright that's ready? At noon—don't pick them before, and if the minute passes just leave them for tomorrow. Good work today."

With that, she stands up and goes to take the reins from Ayer—both metaphorically and literally. She notices Zuhra leaning against the wall outside, which was never a good sign, though at least she was standing. "Do you need me to call Robin?" she asks Ayer lowly as she takes the makeshift leash, but he shakes his head.

"Nah, we'll take care of it," he says, and with that he's moved to the back of the kirin, giving its butt a few pats to help her herd it into the holding room. There, it's pushed into a cage—the fortification runes on the side glow a little under Metzli's touch before fading, and the kirin huffs and tosses its head. Its horns bounce harmlessly off the iron bars.

"I'm gonna take some healing salve, a restoration potion, and a couple of splints and bandages and things," he tells Metzli, and she nods.

"The back room's open if you want it."

"Yeah, thanks."

They look at each other, too close and too distant all at once, and then Ayer heads towards the door and Metzli heads upstairs to call the kirin's owner.

* * * * *

"Alright, now that that's taken of," Ayer says, the bell on top of the door jingling as he leaves the shop, "it's your turn."

Zuhra raises an eyebrow at him before looking away. "What? I'm fine. I'll deal with it."

"Oh, like fuck you will. C'mon, your hand looks like a tied up ham." He opens the door and looks expectantly at it. Zuhra sighs, resigned to her fate, and lets herself be corralled in.

They head directly to the back, Ayer snagging a few things off the shelves on their way. Once the door is locked and the fluorescent lights flicked on, Zuhra boosts herself, one-handed, onto the table. It's routine by now, fixing each other up, though they're both too proud to go without protest. Ayer busies himself grabbing more supplies while Zuhra picks gingerly at her hand wraps.

He dumps everything in the clear spot next to her and holds his hand out; though he knows what to expect, he can't help but hiss in sympathy when Zuhra presents him with her left hand. The two-hour drive back in a hot car certainly didn't do it any favors. Her knuckles bulge angrily through the gaps in her hand wraps, their red-purple a sharp contrast to the white of the fabric; her fingers are swollen stiff, straining outwards against the tight loops around their base. Two of them point in a direction that just looks wrong; Ayer winces internally as he realizes he'll have to reset them into what are probably fractured metacarpals. When he takes her hand gently in his own, he tries and fails to ignore the tiny breath that Zuhra draws in through her teeth. The skin is feverish and tender to the touch.

"I'm gonna have to unwrap this," he warns, and feels Zuhra's glare telling him to get on with it, already. "Uh, it's gonna hurt. Have you taken any painkillers yet? You don't need to answer that, I know you haven't. Here." He rustles through the pile of supplies and comes up with a vial of clear fluid. He presses it into Zuhra's good hand; she looks at him exasperatedly and pops the top.

"It's just a broken hand," she says. "Nothing I haven't had before."

"Yeah, and it's still gonna hurt like a bitch. Drink the damn potion."

He waits until she's set it back—empty—onto the table to begin peeling the wrappings off. He makes quick work of the wrapping around the wrist, but as he lifts the cloth to unravel it from her fingers, Zuhra stiffens and her jaw locks with an audible click of teeth.

Ayer stops, then slowly puts the end of the wrapping down. "You know what, lemme just—" he grabs a pair of scissors, sliding the blades underneath the wrappings despite Zuhra's noise of protest. "I'll buy you new ones. Or we'll make Metzli buy you new ones. Business expenses, you know."

The freed hand is almost double the size of Zuhra's other one, and it radiates heat against his palms. It's deformed enough that he guesses at least two fractured metacarpals—that damn kirin was going to get its cage kicked at least once before its owner picked it up, the little bastard. Lightly, he taps her second and third fingers—they're stuck out at nauseating angles. "I'm gonna reset these babies, so brace yourself. One, two—"

He pulls sharply on one of the fingers and pops it into place—Zuhra gasps, her head pitching forward onto Ayer's shoulder. "—three." Before she can recover, he yanks the other one back to its proper position—he can feel Zuhra's jaw working aimlessly as she struggles to keep silent, and he keeps himself still for a few moments while she collects herself.

"Okay, metacarpal time," he says softly, when it doesn't seem like she'd be lifting her head anytime soon. He holds the base of the relocated fingers with one hand, grabs the wrist with the other, and pulls, pressing down on the fracture with his thumbs. He feels the bones realign, and the hand straightens out a bit. Zuhra grinds her forehead into his collarbone. "Make a fist? Hm. Extend it?" Zuhra does as she's told, her hand below both their bowed heads. "Ah, shit. Sorry, Zuhra, one more. Geez, that kirin did a number on you." He tugs again—this time, her hand comes out of it looking more like a proper hand, if hands were normally plum-colored and had sausage-shaped fingers.

"Alright, time to wrap this up. Can you sit on your own?" Zuhra uses her newly-set hand to shakily flip him off—a glowing endorsement of his medical skill, if he does say so himself.

Nonetheless, he waits until she blearily lifts her head up to putter off in search of a splint. They're always in the same place, but he opens wrong drawers until Zuhra's eyes have cleared a bit. Then, with a dramatic "aha!", he returns.

After wiping off the dirt and grime, he smears a couple layers of healing salve on her hand: it's perhaps a little too much, but what can he say—experience has taught him that trusting Zuhra to redress her wounds herself is about as reliable as trusting Fish to not jump on his face. Which is to say, not reliable at all.

The gauze goes on easily enough until he has to push her hand into position to splint it, but by now the numbing potion and healing salve have taken hold enough that the only reaction it elicits is a slight intake of breath. Then, the splint's strapped on and Ayer takes a few steps back, surveying his handiwork.

Now that it's been tucked into layers of gauze, the break doesn't look too bad. It'd probably heal completely within five days, with the help of some magic. Speaking of which—

"Take a shot of this every day until you finish it," Ayer says, shaking the restoration potion in front of Zuhra's face, "and put on more salve in the mornings and evenings. And keep your hand iced and elevated."

Zuhra rolls her eyes, slipping off the table, looking much better already. "As if I didn't already know that."

"Yeah, but if I didn't say it, you wouldn't have done any of it." He slips the potion and tin of salve, along with fat packs of gauze, into a paper sack. "I'd throw in some pain meds too, but we all know you're not going to take them."

Zuhra laughs, snatching the bag with her good hand. "You know me too well," she says, and heads for the door.

Her hand's on the handle when Ayer interjects, fumbling with the supplies he's started to put away. "Ah—wait—do you want me to come with you?"

"I think I'm just going to go home and sleep," she says. "Thanks for patching me up."

"Oh, cool. Uh. Call me if you need anything?"

"Yeah, I will. Thanks, really." She opens the door and heads out. As the door closes, Ayer realizes, belatedly, that he's short a ride home.

[Iliad]

Angelo blinks. He might not be good at talking, but he doesn't miss the momentary catch before Metzli speaks, nor the conspicuous shift in her tone, made all the more clear by the way she switches back to her regular voice in the moments following. As she gives her appraisal of his illusion, he nods; he doesn't comment on her lapse in character, but to make sure that she knows the advice, at least, has been heard, he starts to speak in affirmation but doesn't quite get there.

The door slams open and nearly synchronously Metzli's hand comes down on the counter, and he jumps almost imperceptibly. For a second his eyes dart between her hand and the door, but eventually he settles on looking at the one who's just come in. He raises a hand, slightly, in greeting, and flashes a small smile, but doesn't speak. It looks like he has other business, anyway, and that Metzli does as well. "Sorry, we're going to have to continue this later. While I call the client, could you water the plants and harvest any eyebright that's ready? At noon—don't pick them before, and if the minute passes just leave them for tomorrow. Good work today."

He slides off the barstool; Metzli's words are a clear dismissal, and when Metzli is occupied with other things, remaining in the room would most probably be an inconvenience more than anything else. He's relieved when she gives him another task, and nods on his way out.

He slips out the back of the shop, and against the wall is a tin watering can. The garden is small enough to warrant its use—really, it's just a small square of land behind the shop, but it grows well, and Angelo's routinely amazed by the amount of herb it yields. He checks his watch; it's a few minutes before noon, just enough time to water the rest of the plants before he has to harvest the eyebright. He'd be lying if he said he knew the ins and outs as to why there were specific requirements for picking plants, but he does at least know that he'd be best off simply following the instructions he's been given.

He trawls over the plot of land with the watering can, shielding his eyes from the sun that's peeking out from behind the thin cloud cover of the morning. Every so often he leans down to get a closer look at a plant, and at times he flicks the leaves with a fingernail in order to unseat bugs that have found their way atop the stalks. He checks his watch again after he's done; it's just about time, so he makes his way over to storage to find a pair of small clippers and returns to the section of the garden that houses the eyebright.

There's not much to harvest this time, only a few plants that are ready. Still, the stems are coarse and threaded through with a tough fiber, so it takes nearly all of his minute to cut them. He's forgotten to wear gloves, too; sap makes the pads of his fingers tacky so that they stick together when they touch. It doesn't matter all that much, though. He gathers the plants he's prepared into a wicker basket, then goes to put them in the back. When he's about to open the door, though, it swings outward slowly; Zuhra's pushing it open. He nods at her, stepping back, and she nods back before she goes.

There are sounds coming from the other door in the back, soft scraping and shuffling. It's likely Ayer, cleaning up, so Angelo doesn't bother him; he just sets the basket down and makes a note to tell Metzli where he's put it.

He heads around to the front again, and pushes open the door. The bell sounds again, softer than when Ayer opened it, and he heads up to the counter. Metzli's no longer sitting at the counter; it's reasonable to assume that she's upstairs, where she usually calls to report in completed missions, so he tamps his way over to the stairs instead.

As he walks up, he hears the last few words of the call, but indistinct through the wall. The door to the room she's in is open, but he feels somewhat disruptive entering now, so he waits for a few moments next to the doorway until he hears her thank the client and place the phone down. He knocks a few times on the doorframe, then, and she looks up. "Angelo," she says, "come on in. Did you get the eyebright?" He nods, tells her that it's in the back in a basket. He wonders what it's used for, but he doesn't say anything about that; he'll find out at some point if she doesn't mind him knowing.

She leaves to go fetch it, and Angelo loiters there a bit longer, tapping back and forth on the apps on his own old phone. After a few minutes, the bell sounds again, startling him, and then a strange noise starts up. It's someone's voice, one that he recognizes, but it's drawing out one syllable to ridiculous proportions. "Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—" The sound gets louder as he hears steps downstairs, and he's thinking that something's probably wrong by the time the thumps reach the stairs. "—Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—" It continues all the way up the stairs, one footstep at a time. Finally, it arrives at the door. "—EEEEEEEEETZLI!"

Standing there is Azlin, eyes gleaming. "Hey, so, listen. I was at this house just now, and it was absolutely batshit—there's definitely something in there that doesn't belong." Her gaze moves about the room, sees clearly that Metzli's not there, settles on Angelo, and her expression falls. "Uhh... who're you again? You don't really look like you need to be here. Where in the world is Metzli, huh?"

"She went to the back," Angelo answers, pointing out the door behind Azlin. She's turning around to go when, in a rare move, Angelo speaks up again. "But I'm kind of interested in hearing about whatever you found there, if you don't mind," he adds, intrigued, but trying to keep himself from sounding nosy.