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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.68 m
Wingspan
5.49 m
Weight
374.26 kg
Genetics
Sanguine
Starmap
Starmap
Sanguine
Bee
Bee
Cerise
Filigree
Filigree
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Wildclaw
Max Level
STR
129
AGI
12
DEF
6
QCK
50
INT
5
VIT
9
MND
6
Biography
L O C K E
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Locke was never a good person. On the best of days he went on pub crawls with friends, each drink another second on a ticking bomb. On his worst days he was taking his lackies jobs throwing miserable junkies against the walls of their shabby flats, collecting the money they owed for the drugs they could never afford. He had everything he needed- money, job security, infamy.. The only thing he was missing? Loyalty. As it turns out, spending your life doing bad by others isn't a great way to make loyal friends. Hell, if it hadn't been for one of those 'friends', Locke may just have made it to his 35th birthday. He never did believe in God. Not once had he ever stepped foot in a church, lest for any holy purpose. So when he was greeted on the other side of life by a snarky SOB who called himself an angel and told Locke that he was "hereby sentenced to serve as a holy vassal of justice", Locke, well, there wasn't much that could stop him from laughing.
• the Holy Undead vessel of Sammael, Angel of Justice • a nasty personality with an equally nasty background • chronic alcoholic who bitterly refuses to allow his newfound tolerance stop him from drinking • cowboy from 1920s Texas turned big city mafia |
     BY wenmistry |
 BY thlaylii |
 BY ghoulgiests |
 BY izuris |
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They were in Brooklyn, somewhere on Cornelia street just passed midnight, standing in front of a red-doored row house where one Arthur Kenney currently stood facing a ghost. The Ghost in question took a long drag of his cigarette, his veiled eyes burning deep into the pale faced man. "Evenin' Kenny," he drawled, the same slow, unreadable tone that meant nothing good which Arthur remembered all too well. He sputtered once, twice, thin fingers twitching nervously at his side where his gun sat comfortably. "'S wrong Kenny, tongue get cut out?" There was a pounding in Arthur's chest, so hard and fast he'd swear he could feel it in his throat, choking him. So occupied was he, on willing his heart back into his chest, that he hadn't even realized he was shaking until those sickly blue lips smirked at him. "You- you're not-" how exactly did one say these sorts of things without admitting their own insanity? Arthur Kenney was many things. A con, selfish, predatory, these were all things he admitted in the confines of a confessional booth, but insane? Never. Which meant he was drunk. Drunker than he'd ever been if he was hallucinating old friends. "Alive? No, 'fraid not," drawled the ghost, taking another drag of his half gone cigarette. "You made sure to that." The cigarette was dropped, the same worn brown leather boots Arthur recalled well stepping forward to snuff out the dying embers. His eyes froze on those boots as they moved closer, slow and casual, coming up onto the first step to his door, then the second- yes, he was certain now that those were the same boots Locke always wore, the same boots he died in. "Adultery, extortion, lying to authorities, murder," he shook his head mockingly, whistling. "That's a lot of sins, Kenny, and I ain't even an eighth of the way through the list." Nervous fingers finally found their grip on Arthur's gun, raising it only in time for the barrel to sit snugly against a chest that fell and rose in false breaths. Frightened blue eyes looked up to meet the face of the man he killed, same as the day he died but greyer, colder. Deader. A thin cover where his eyes aught to be- what colour had those been again? You're not real, is what he wanted to say but still his tongue sat thickly in his throat. So he did what else he could still do. The sound of the gunshot deafened his ears in the cold quiet of the night. Expecting, hoping, for the vision in front of his to fade with it, but still that hollow face stared at him, only now it was smiling cruelly at him. His gaze drifted down to where his bullet had landed. A hole and nothing more. Not a speck of blood in sight. It occurred to Arthur that words were being spoken, though they were nothing more than a dull thrum on top of the sharp ringing that echoed in his ears. When he looked back up at the man he once knew, the man he called friend -the man he killed- it was with utter shock and defeat. "My turn," those pale lips mouthed at him, teeth bared like some feral animal. Ah- there was the Locke he knew. Arthur wasn't sure what actually hit him- cut him? There was a quick movement in the corner of his eye but he couldn't bring himself to look away from that snarling mouth. He felt the brief stinging pain of something in his stomach, and then his chest, followed by the warm sensation of blood. Still he could not look away, locking eyes with ones that did not exist but that he could certainly feel. He stumbled backwards, back hitting the red door of his home while his knees buckled under him, body growing heavier and heavier with every inch closer to the pavement it slid. With wide, unblinking eyes he stared up at the man he had killed all those years ago, the man he had falsely called friend, the man who too killed him. He stared, terrified, of the thing who, in his blurring vision, with his final dying breath, he would have sworn was wearing someone else's skin. "Arthur Kenney, your judgement has been passed." |
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code by Archaic #19153
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Exalting Locke to the service of the Lightweaver will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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