Scarmm Vandarson [APPROVED, 5-2; Human] [Hazard E]

» Name: Scarmm Vandarson
» Titles: Scar
» Age: 25
» Gender: Male

» Affiliation/Rank: Rogue

» Physical Appearance Description: Scarmm is on the . . . shorter side for most of his family lineage, hitting the meter stick at 152cm (5ft), and weighing only 50kg (110lbs). That didn’t stop him from working hard and developing an excellent, well-toned physique despite his generally youthful appearance. He tends to wear light, loose-fitting clothing that are a tad too large for him. He has a penchant for ignoring fashions and going with the same rustic style of clothing his father did back on the farm.

His mop of goldenrod blond hair is almost never well kept, tussles springing up every which way. He keeps it short enough so that it doesn’t obstruct his vision too much or reach his shoulders. His eyes are a vibrant, emerald green that usually sparkle with merriment. He tends to smell like grass, forests, or mead, not necessarily in that order of prominence.


» Physical Appearance Image:

A Few Faces:

» Personality: Scarmm is a jolly, happy soul surrounded by things that are distinctly not jolly. His family is composed of almost entirely farm laborers working day in and day out with their respective plant or earth related talents, so he was raised to appreciate hard work and the sweat of his brow providing for his needs. However, unlike most of his family, Scarmm is not satisfied with the life of a modern-day serf, craving adventure and fun to fill his days.

He is used to being scolded for his behavior and ignoring authority, making him something of a rebel. When his spiritual gifts turned out to be less suited for farming and more suited for throwing parties, he leapt at the chance to leave home, beginning his transient lifestyle. He is prone to forgetting what he is doing if he’s not interested and will wander off to find something fun to do if not monitored closely. He goes where he pleases and stays as long, or as short, as he pleases, always with a friendly smile on his face.

The one thing he does not stand for is someone trying to take his freedom away, or impinging on the freedom of his friends, new or old. He holds no grudges against any particular race or governing entity, as the world is the way it is, and has been since he was born a mere quarter of a century ago. That said, he does not hesitate to face threats of any race or governing entity with all the force he can muster. He values freedom above all else but tends to favor the freedom of individuals over the freedom of a group.

Perhaps because of his innate talent, he has a bit of a wild side where he throws away reason and logic for primal strength and fearlessness, though he doesn’t like being forced to do that. He likens this state to the viking Berserker, and when he’s been pushed to this extent, he has a hard time telling friend from foe. It is why he will do his best to resolve situations diplomatically, or at least try to prevent serious combat. Of course, the tense state of affairs across the dimensions makes that rather difficult to achieve, even with his knack for calming things down.

» Likes: Scarmm likes good mead, good friends, celebrations, warm sunny days, having no responsibilities, going to new places, meeting new people, and naps

» Dislikes: Scarmm dislikes 9-5 jobs, people that nag him about rules or laws, people trying to make him do something boring, running out of mead, and being stuck in one place for long periods of time



» History: Scarmm Vandarson was born to Annar and Dagrun Vandarson, one of the branches in a family line that could be traced all of the way back to warriors in viking longboats from Norway. They had ended up settling in their conquered lands and remaining behind when their king had been driven off. They’d settled into their new homes as farmers, much like the people they’d displaced, but tried to keep their cultural roots alive in the home. This tradition carried on for over 1500 years, all of the way to Scarmm’s generation.

As such, when the world faced armageddon several times over and spiritual awakening became more commonplace, quite a few of the farmers found their own powers awakening as well. They became what was later widely identified as ‘High-Spec’ humans and defended their humble farmsteads and small towns with all of their might. Whether because of their environment growing up or their love for the peaceful life they’d made for themselves, their powers tended to be related to some aspect of farming. On the happier side were people who could cause sunflowers to grow and provide healing light to their allies. Others identified more closely with the farmer’s scythe, mowing down the invading demons and hollows like fields of wheat.

The various branches became solidified parts of their local culture, with the Vandarson’s acquiring abilities related to apiaries and growing fruits. This came about naturally with their existing affiliation with the finest meadery in the tri-county area, at least. The Vandarson line continued on in that capacity, happily providing merriment and relaxation to their town even as Queen Mana took hold of the throne, instituting her rule across all of Europe.

Where they lived in one of the poorer sections of the country, protection from the government was not as prevalent as most people would like. They were often left to fend for themselves, something their heritage lent itself to quite nicely. Still, they weren’t a professional standing army, they didn’t have dedicated soldiers doing nothing but fighting off intruding Hollows and Demons. Sometimes, a few managed to slip through the cracks, and one such Hollow got a solid shot in on Scarmm’s mother while she was pregnant with him. The creature was killed, and she made a full recovery, but the introduction of Hollow reiatsu into her system had a lasting effect.

When Scarmm was born, it became apparent that he was practically a spitting image of his father . . . minus his height. His parents found it charming, but the strong Norse blood in the community made him the runt of the litter in school. He tended to be picked last for teams, and folks found him odd for his habit of wandering off to explore things in the surviving forests around town instead of wrestling with his peers.

As his family tested his compatibility with their day-to-day work in the fields, he seemed to lack much talent for his clan’s usual craft. It got to the extent that having him help in the fields was more of a hindrance when someone with a more attuned spirit could draw out the sweetest fruits or lure in the largest number of bees. While his parents still loved him and encouraged him, he couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t belong there, and he ended up going out alone quite often.

The one aspect of his lineage that remained strong was his penchant for fighting. Not for sport or for fun, but the sheer number of times he needed to fend off spirit beasts to save his own skin or protect someone else that wasn’t aware of the danger became innumerous. Lacking the opportunity to share in more standard father and son bonding, Annar instead gifted him a couple bits of family history more suited to his interests. He was given a colorful short sword said to have been claimed from a Welsh shaman millennia prior, and a somewhat rusty suit of armor that looked like it was designed for a child the family had held onto as more of a novelty item.

That was more than enough for Scarmm, as he’d at last been offered something that really spoke to him. His powers as a Fullbringer had the chance to shine when he first held his short sword in combat against a weakened Hollow, already wounded from a fight before wandering into one of the forests near his hometown. He’d been capable of evading attacks from beasts such as that for as long as he’d been brave enough to leave the safety of the town proper and the surrounding fields, so he wasn’t concerned with his safety. What he wanted to achieve was a power that was all his own and slay the creature. Maybe then his village could be accepting of him.

His soul called out to the weapon in his hand to become something suitable for slaying monsters, and lo and behold, it did! The admittedly decorative short sword’s spirit responded, forging its shape outwards into a mighty waraxe. While Scarmm was not tall and bulky like his cousins or neighbors, he’d gained strength that came from climbing trees and digging into burrows, cutting through branches, and driving away predators, both physical and spiritual alike. The wounded Hollow didn’t stand a chance, with a proper weapon in his hands, the lad felled the creature in a single blow to the head as it charged, annihilating its form and scattering its essence.

While he finally felt he could be proud of himself, his realization of his potential would have far reaching consequences. After proudly declaring his deed to the gathered family members at dinner that night, he was given the chance to demonstrate his skills the following day. He impressed a group of town elders enough to be declared the official (and sole) patrolman for his clan. If he was only causing trouble in the fields then finding a task better suited to his proclivity for roaming and investigating things was better for everyone. It was with this given role that he started to fit in, right until then time Queen Mana and her demon court left the dimension.

While the tyrant hadn't cared for the wellbeing of the people she ruled over, she did not tolerate people trying to usurp what she claimed as her, and so few dared to openly rebel or try to seize control for themselves. When she left, the power vacuum caused a great deal of civil strife across the British Isles, as well as the rest of her domain. Scarmm was more than capable of dealing with the occasional band of hungry Hollows or driving out a roving group of demonic marauders. He was not prepared for the duplicity of his own kind.

In the world he grew up in, everyone had their part of the chain that held up their way of life, wherever it was best for all involved that everyone was strong. When a newly formed faction sent delegates to let his elders know their town fell within the purvey of the territory they'd claimed, the elders accepted it as a return to order and stability. They expected some taxes in exchange for protection and the ability to trade with their new allies. What they got was an unruly mob of thugs who only wanted to bully the humble farmers and take everything they had, bit by bit.

The new government was immediately hostile and oppressive, beating those who resisted and walking all over those who did not. While Scarmm's relatives were capable of defending themselves from wild beasts, they weren't prepared for an all-out war. He was the only one amongst his kin that lacked another suitable task enough to have dedicated time to serious fighting. His parents urged him to leave well enough alone, to value his life and simply wait out the new regime until the so-called protectors of Earth could arrive to set things right.

Scarmm, being the head strong youth that he was, ignored their safe advice in favor of figuring out a way to get back at these ruffians who dared to harm those precious to him. They were already helping themselves to the Andarson family's mead storehouse, so the plan came together most naturally. He'd get them all completely sloshed, and when their guards were down, he'd bring justice with his own two hands. Coincidentally, the yearly harvest festival was only a few days away.

In preparation, he collected the meadery's finest steins, inlaid with silver and covered in decorative runes from ancient times. The cups had been carefully maintained and refurbished as necessary, passed down from generation to generation as proud family heirlooms. He'd gotten a taste for his natural skill at drawing out the spirits of items, and so he reached out to the cups as well. Ingrained deep into the essence of these wooden mugs was a deep, penetrating spirit of inebriation from countless centuries of family celebrations and drinking contests, desperate folk mourning losses, toasts at funeral pyres, feasts of victory and conquest, cheers to a good harvest, prayers for continued blessing from the gods.

His soul resonated with the steins intensely enough that he could practically taste the plethora of vintages that were once carried within the cups, the scent alone intoxicating enough to bring a blush to his cheeks. He spent every waking hour practicing, meditating with the cups, and bringing more and more of that inebriating sensation out of them. The potency of the spiritual cloud he created from the cups increased exponentially from its original form, and he was confident that his plan would succeed.

On the night of the harvest festival, at his urging, the town continued their usual annual festivities, and invited the forces of the would-be governors to join in. Thinking they'd finally demonstrated their dominance long enough, almost every single one of them decided to attend. After the main feast, Scarmm ushered his friends and family away, and brought out the finest keg of mead they had to offer. He passed the steins around, sweet and frothy golden brew filling every one of them. The invaders enjoyed themselves thoroughly, drunk on their own power and arrogance as much as the alcohol.

He stood before them all in his family's establishment and raised his own drink to honor their presence. It was then he began his trap in earnest. With a subtle increase in his spiritual pressure, he drew forth the power he'd developed with those precious heirlooms, filling the entire building and the grounds around it with a dense fog of inebriating poison. The lot of spiritual human bandits posturing as respectable government hardly knew what was happening before they were lost in the haze, their own souls rendered slothful, and their judgment robbed from them. Regardless of their individual strengths, they had been unprepared for enjoying themselves too much.

What Scarmm hadn't counted on was how heavily the mead would affect him as well. His eyes grew dim as his senses started to blur, sound and sight blending into a single incoherent ringing. The only thing he was aware of was the beating of his heart in his chest as he found the short sword in his hand. Images of what these vagrants had done to his community flooded through his mind. Every time he saw them take food from the hands of a hungry child, or kick down the door of an elderly widow, and couldn't do anything to stop them boiled to the surface all at once.

He regained his awareness an uncertain amount of time later, collapsed on the ground, covered in blood outside the front door of the meadery. Most of the windows had been shattered, there were a few holes in the walls, and even a single hangover impaired glance inside told him that most of the blood wasn't his. A grisly scene filled the site of the final harvest festival celebration, humans ripped limb from limb by monstrous force. It seemed his plan had been a success, considering he was still alive and they were distinctly not. A weary, pained smile spread across his dirtied face, but it froze as he saw a familiar head laying separated from its body a short distance away.

His father had noticed he hadn't left with them and had doubled back to check on him. He was caught in the blood-filled rampage perpetrated by his own sire, a consequence of such unfettered and reckless violence. Scarmm had never experienced such grief, having never lost a close family member before. To know that he was the one responsible for such a heinous mistake was too much to bear for the young man, and he fled the town with the intent never to return.

With what he had on him as his only possessions in the world, he struck out to make a way for himself. He was truly free, separated from familial responsibility by the blood on his hands. His clan was safe for the time being, as the massacre would inevitably attract the attention of the proper governing authorities. He could go wherever he wanted without worrying about what he was leaving behind. It was the life he'd always wanted, but never at the cost he ended up paying for it. He decided to dedicate himself to pushing that loss from his mind by whatever means were necessary.

Hedonism, parties, alcohol, drugs, one-night stands, always on the move, always looking for the next thing to keep him from thinking his own thoughts and abandoning himself to whatever monster there was inside. He kept a smile on his face, a drink in his stein, and his sword in its sheath whenever possible. Still, whenever defenseless people he happened to wander across needed help, he stepped in to assist them. He took unnecessary beatings to avoid fighting while protecting someone else. He felt like it was the least he could do in memory of his father.

His years of traveling took him across the continents of Europe, Asia, and Africa where he met all sorts of people and saw all manner of things. He encountered different and wonderful cultures he'd never imagined, people who made new lives for themselves after far too much war and bloodshed. The world was rebuilding, and he wanted to find his place in it. Coincidentally, traveling the world on foot proved to be an excellent forge for his skills to be refined and sharpened. While he didn't know the technical term for his condition as a Fullbringer, that didn't stop him from developing his abilities. With a myriad of lands came a menagerie of problems. He was sometimes forced to fight all manner of foes in order to stay alive or in random acts of kindness towards a perceived victim.



» Equipment:

Smaligandr: An ancestral suit of armor belonging to the Vandarson line designed for a child, likely some young jarl's son, to wear into battle. It carries memories of countless battles fought, where it successfully protected its wearer from arm, or at least seems to have done so given the dents and scratches along its otherwise carefully maintained and oiled surface. It was forged from Damascus steel using blacksmithing techniques long since forgotten, an aura of steadfastness surrounds it in the eyes of those sensitive to the spirits of items. As it was worn almost exclusively by the Vandarson clan, it easily resonates with Scarmm, and maximizes its protective qualities under the influence of his Fullbringer ability.

Jarl's Defiance: Vikings were largely a tribal society, banding together under powerful leaders to fend for themselves against the harsh northern winters and the even harsher inhabitants. They were masterful navigators who traveled farther than anyone else of their era, reaching destinations beyond their contemporaries' imaginations. They fought against countless foes that they raided, they fought against each other to achieve dominance amongst the clans, they even fought themselves to test the mettle of each member of a raiding party.

Scarmm can draw on this cultural heritage as witnessed by the soul of the child sized armor his family passed down for tradition's sake, only he being short enough to make actual use of it once they'd chosen to pursue farming over bloodshed for a living. Several jarls' sons had worn the armor into battle over a thousand years prior, and it had carried all of them safely home, or at least survived their deaths largely intact. So long as he maintains his nerve and his pride as a Viking, the armor will become far sturdier than any ancient hunk of metal has a right to be. Its durability is proportional to his capacity for channeling the spirit, amplified by the relationship the armor shares with him and his kindred.

This added capacity for absorbing blows of both physical and spiritual nature is reduced if he allows fear to control him, or if he tries to use it to betray the core tenets of what Vikings fought for. He must protect his honor, he most protect his clan, he must protect his possessions, and he must press ever onwards towards a new horizon. So long as he is pursuing these goals, the armor spirit will gladly heed his call and fortify him against harm to a great extent. If he joins a group or a faction, they will be accepted as his 'clan' for the purposes of the armor.

This ability scales off of Willpower/Determination and can provide additional protection similar to that level in Durability. When the armor agrees with his motivations and actions, it approaches the upper limits of that skill level, while the opposite is true if it does not agree, weakening to the lower limits of that skill level.

Alfmodr: The blade has sharpened nicks from clashing against other swords or perhaps the skulls of their enemies. Most notably, it also has five holes punched clean through it, as if it had been caught in the jaws of a rather powerful beast. The sword was still there, and the beast was not, so the winner of the conflict was apparent. When Scarmm reaches out to the soul of the sword, its long history in the service of his family, either slaying their enemies or defending their homes, the blade responds eagerly to his call. He can transform this short sword into any form of weapon he is familiar with, and its loyalty to his clan in the face of overwhelming odds makes its edge more fearsome when he is facing off against an impossible foe.

This is Scarmm's primary Fullbring focus.

The Vandarson Sylfr Collection: It was a tradition across the old kingdom his family hailed from that a meadery of good repute would serve their jarl a cup of their finest mead. If he liked it, he'd have the cup ensconced with silver, and it would serve as a sign to any customers that they produced drink worthy of a noble. Over the generations, the Vandarsons collected many such cups, eventually creating an entire set of these silver-lined steins. Each cup carries within it a different era's worth of stories and celebrations. Countless patrons have been filled with warmth sipping from the golden brew contained within. A fair number have also been rendered unconscious when they became too rowdy. Each also carries a different recipe of mead, offering a unique soulful experience. Like the others, these cups have a deep connection to Scarmm and his family, amplifying the effects of his Fullbring ability significantly. They lend themselves best to causing drunken wandering and reckless combat, as was the Viking way.

Viking's Feast: After every successful raid was a great feast to celebrate. After every jarl's succession there was a feast. After a mythical beast was slain there was a feast. Every holy day brought a feast. Vikings lived life to the fullest, enjoying the furthest extents of human emotion and experience. The spirit of the Viking Feast captured within the glistening mead steins of the Vandarson family draws on this, along with Scarmm's experience and emotional bond with the items.

By pulling out and manipulating the soul of the cups, he can create a pervasive aura of celebration. Those within the area of effect will experience a soulful inebriation befitting the drunken stupors of old. How that affects the individual depends on their mental discipline and spiritual resilience but will generally still make people tipsy. Those too weak to resist the heady fog will end up blackout drunk.

Once those nearby have fallen under the influence of the spiritual 'alcohol', Scarmm can declare a purpose for the feast. It could be in honor of a specific person or people, and in that case, if said person/people were in the area of effect, they would receive a great boost to their mental fortitude, courage, and a refreshing of their strength. The feast could also be made into the start of a hunt, giving those affected a growing aggression towards a specific target, while the target, if affected, would be infected with a growing dread as their inevitable demise in a Viking saga has already been written. Alternatively, the feast could be in honor of a holy day, and generally pacify those who are partaking by choice or because they could not resist, making it increasingly difficult to harbor hostile intent as the joy of the celebration fills the air.

Smaligandr and Alfmodr, a Sylfr Cup:

» Skills:

Warrior Culture, Wanderer Life: While the people of Scarmm's old village have adopted a more domestic lifestyle for their day-to-day living, their Viking heritage remained strong to the present day. When faced with apocalyptic conditions, it was only natural for them to revive their old ways, at least when it came to combat training. While Scarmm was never considered a favorite among the village due to his size, he had by far the most practical experience employing the various martial techniques perfected across a thousand years of raiding and defending conquests. When it comes to combat, he has developed a mastery of tactics and employing what tools he has available creatively to deal with threats that may be beyond his raw power, mixing the powerful and effective style of his ancestors with the experience gained as a dedicated wanderer. He is adept at pinpointing weaknesses and exploiting them to win fights as quickly and cleanly as possible.

Traveler's Endurance: While his body is fairly impressive for a human's, what really sets him apart from others in his league is sheer physical endurance. He has walked from end to end of the tri-continental region, passed through every sort of hostile terrain present on the Earth, faced packs of predators, both spiritual and natural alike, survived some of the worst environmental conditions possible, and has lived to tell the tale. He knows how to survive off the land in virtually any scenario and can continue pushing onward for days at a time without tiring. It may not impact a single battle directly, but with hit and run tactics, he can outlast some people considered above his power class.

Numbing Echo of Sorrows Past: Scarmm is not the most educated, and he relies heavily on his senses and gut instinct to determine what's real and where the wolves are hiding in the brush. He doesn't have much experience dealing with enemies using spiritual or psychic powers to trick said perceptions, and thus he may be more easily deceived than a properly trained soldier. However, he does know that tickling feeling in the back of his mind when his subconscious is trying to tell him something is off. Carved into his psyche like a chisel to a stone slab is the memory of what happened when he ignored that quiet voice of caution. While he might not know exactly what has been changed or how to break out of an illusion, he is instinctively more capable of recognizing his perceptions or desires have been twisted or altered than his skills would otherwise indicate.

Hunter's Pride: Scarmm is first and foremost a veteran hunter of the wilds. As a child he hunted to provide extra food for his family and keep the orchards and farm fields safe. As a man he hunted monsters to protect those who reminded him too much of people he left behind. Decades of bringing down targets far larger than himself have taught him how to pinpoint an enemy's weak spots more readily than most. More importantly than that, they also taught him how best to exploit those weak spots. Embers in the eyes of birds of prey, a just deep enough cut along the hamstring of four-legged beast, standing in the blind spot of a more humanoid opponent, all things he's had to learn and employ in the field innumerable times. His keen eye for the best place to strike makes him more dangerous than he would otherwise be.

Why Didn't You Dodge!: When one is small, and surrounded by testosterone fueled meat heads, one either learns to accept being physically harmed every day or one learns to avoid harm. When one is ambushed by a pack of Hollows, one either ends up being devoured or one steps out of the way in the nick of time. Scarmm was always small, yet Scarmm was always the one least harmed after a conflict. It was as common sense and involuntary to him as breathing, the art of dodging. Whether by listening to the soul of the air around him or by some simpler, animalistic instinct, he is able to sense danger and narrowly avoid it with uncanny capability. He is difficult to take completely off guard, no matter how drunk and easy going he may seem.



» Powers:

Battle Trance: One of the most famous legends regarding Viking warriors was the stories of the bear skin wearing savages who fought with the strength of many men, fighting through often fatal wounds to continue battle until their bodies could no longer support their own weight. There are many theories as to how this state is achieved, ranging from hunting magic to the ingestion of psychoactive mushrooms, but Scarmm has inherited his own way.

By imbibing too much of his own Fullbring power derived from the silver lined steins he brought with him from his home, he can force himself into a hyper focused combative state that loosens the body's natural limitations to protect itself. He hits considerably harder, no longer feels pain, and lacks any hesitation or remorse, functioning purely on muscle memory and instinct. In this state he embodies the 'perfect warrior' drawing out his fighting spirit in a visible and brutal way.

Once this trance has been entered, however, Scarmm loses sight of friend and foe. His thinking mind becomes lost in a haze, and all he runs off of is the most primal urges. This is the very same ability that had him kill his own father. Not only that, but it cannot be exited willingly. He can only leave the battle trance if he's knocked unconscious or killed, or if nothing to fight presents itself for a time, at which point he will pass out. With sufficient psychological trauma or alteration, he can be forced into the Battle Trance state by someone else.

The Berserkr:

» Fullbring Name: Halls of Valhalla

» Fullbring Appearance: When Scarmm draws on the power of his Fullbring abilities, the Hollow reiatsu that contaminated his soul in the womb manifests in rippling patterns of dark energy around his body. When he focuses on drawing out the weapon spirit in Alfmodr, he will often develop dark wings to assist him in moving swiftly through the air, along with the usual modes of Fullbringer air walking.

Wings of the Valkyrie:

» Fullbring Power:

Raider's Slaughter: The sight of a Viking long boat emerging through the early morning fog struck fear in people all over Europe's coast lines, and along some of the larger rivers as well. They were infamous warriors possessing great strength and skill to the extent that mercenary bands of Vikings were often prized members of any foreign military force. Still, the most iconic image of a Viking warband is of them charging from their ships to burn, kill, and pillage. The quince pierced sword of the Vandarson family carries this purpose.

When Scarmm calls on the soul of his short sword while he has killing intent in his heart, its penchant for bloodshed and carnage responds with a vengeance. The sword will become virtually any weapon Scarmm can imagine, as best suited for the situation. The blade's sharpness becomes more and more severe based on Scarmm's level of animosity towards his target, the weapon's spirit responding well to bloodlust. Should he absolutely give in to his fury, the blade will come to an edge so fine it could cut through the center of a leaf passing gently down a stream, and the two halves would be able to seamlessly piece themselves back together on the other side.

Contrarily, if Scarmm attempts to wield the blade half-heartedly, or without the intent to kill, while still trying to call on the weapon spirit it will make itself heavier and renders virtually any weapon form he changes it into less potent than it would ordinarily be. The sword is rather temperamental in that regard.



(To Find Out about what these skills are for, please READ THIS THREAD before you try doing anything to it)

General Skills

• Durability: Adept
  
• General Speed: Adept
  
• Strength: Adept
  
• Martial Skill: Adept
  

Human Reiatsu Sheet

• Power Control: Adept
  
• Physical Augmentation: Adept
  
• Spiritual Adaptation: Adept
  
• Mediumship: Adept
  

Will Skills

• Willpower/Determination: Adept
  
• Mental Deduction: Beginner
  
• Focus: Adept
  

» Role Play Sample: With almost impeccable timing, Gianni had arrived at the indicated resort room number and had been standing outside for a few moments debating on how he should approach the matter. He hadn't really done this sort of thing with a colleague before, it was always heretics from some wicked organization or another. He'd been instructed to discern whether she was too great a threat to be left alive, but she was more or less still human, a step above the rest of their fellow Burial Agents as far as he was concerned. He was quite short, and so he wasn't readily visible from any window or through the peep hole on said door.

He had just raised his metallic hand and gone to knock when the door suddenly opened, putting him in the precarious position of nearly rapping his knuckles on her chest. He was quick enough to awkwardly withdraw his hand and take a step back, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead already. He bowed stiffly and spoke in a hurried and uncertain voice. "Oh, hello there! You must be Ms. Thomas. Sorry to bother you, I'm Gianni Croce, the, uh, representative sent by the Vatican to come . . . talk to you? Er, may I come in?"

This was not a conversation to be had in the open regardless of how strange they looked next to each other. She was very tall for a girl, and even for a man, whereas he was almost forty centimeters shorter. He was forced to look starkly up at her to look her in the eyes, making the situation even more uncomfortable for him. He cleared his throat, at least glad that she was dressed like . . . a beach bum. That wasn't very threatening.

She had apparently acquired True Magic, something that was strictly considered impossible by any means, a power that defied explanation and came from some deeper source of universal power. He wasn't an expert on the subject, or an initiate, really, so all he knew was that she could do things she shouldn't be able to, and the Church was not happy about it. He had no exposure to such things, so he had only his experience with other heresies like Emi and Ishmael to go by. They weren't . . . always horrible. At least Ishmael wasn't. Emi really only got worse over time. What would this woman turn out to be?

END OF THE HUMAN APPLICATION