Name: Amarynd (Mary)
Player: Matthew Saunders
Status: Flaked
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Wraith
Nature: Dreamer
Demeanor: Caregiver
Shadow: ?
Life: Bland
Death: Childbirth
Regret: Never having travelled

ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-2, Stamina-2
Social: Charisma-3, Manipulation-2, Appearance-3
Mental: Perception-5, Intelligence-2, Wits-3
ABILITIES:
Talents: Awareness-1, Empathy-3, Expression-3, Intimidation-1, Streetwise-1
Skills: Crafts-3, Drive-1, Etiquette-2, Leadership-2, Performance-3, Repair-2
Knowledge: Enigmas-2, Investigation-1, Linguistics (Cantonese, Spanish)-2

ADVANTAGES:
Backgrounds: Allies (Eaters of Sin)-2, Contacts (artists)-1, Memorium-2, Noteriety-2, Status (heirarchy)-5
Passions: Curiosity (travel the world)-2, Hate (destroy heirarchy)-2, Kindess (mellow eaters of sin)-2
Arcanos: Argos-1, Keening-2, Lifeweb-1, Phantasm-1

FETTERS: Daughter-3, Mission Bell-2, Plane Ticket-1, Triumph of Will (art piece)-2, Wishing Well-2

Corpus-10
Willpower-5
Pathos-7

Appearance: Appears as she did in life: Attractive, slender young woman with full auburn hair.

Prelude:

Born in 1968. Died in 1995. That easy. That simple. That quick. She ran away from home. From her father, who thought that since she was born a girl, she was only fit to clean house and marry out, and thank you very much but don't you ever fucking talk to me like that, missy, or I'll wrap that smile around your face and rip it off! From her mother, who lived docily, looking at the world through cornsilk blue eyes.
Born in Iowa. A farm.
But Mary knew she was special. She could close her eyes, she could, and place herself somewhere else. When sleep came she dreamed, and she dreamed of cartoon palaces, of the lands of Summer where everybody was happy. She would travel.
Then she left. Age 13, young, scrawny, a few bucks in her pants. She ended up in Santa Cruz. And discovered that she could use her dreams to help others. So she became an "artist", and got to know some people.
You see, in her dreams she was Amarynd, and in her dreams there was Mabon, her own town (or so she thought and still thinks), and in her dreams there was a lover, Pock, and he was a boy, a man, a stag. Her friends thought she was strange. Said that she had "Fairie Blood"> In September of 94 she became pregnant. But she never had a boyfriend. At least, not a physical one.
Pock left her, or she stopped dreaming of him.
Then, in January of 95, the labour pains began. She made it to the hospital. And died, "due to complications".
In this strange new world, she came under the machinations of Mr. Umber Whom she trusted. And he wanted a favour. To watch over this Mission until he was gone. He changed her, to look like someone else (He explained that there are forces after me and my charge) now she works at the Mission and she sees the atrocities that the Hierarchy does, and plots their downfall.

Notes: Amarynd is comfortable with her existence in this realm. Her corpus glows with an inner light. My. Umber found her sleeping in the Mission Bell. Very strange. And he's manipulating her; to get back at an old "friend".

Saturday June 3rd, 1995 7:09 a.m.

"My Lady? Lady Amarynd? Can you hear me?"
Mary heard the words vaguely but she didn't pay them much attention. The spectacle below her caught all of her attention and the wraith accosting her could wait. How could they just go about the needs of their petty deaths when such terrible things went on? she thought.
Below her, while the crowd cheered and ranted, a lone wraith, shackled and bound in soulmetal, trudged forward. Amarynd didn't know her name, but knew that the wraith was an Amphissian. She had been caught aiding a quick, guarding it from its death. Fortunately, from a Hierarchical point of view anyway, the act had been witnessed by a Sellsword and duly reported. Amarynd could see the Sellsword hovering near the end of the procession, his face smiling with anticipation. As the noise of the crowd grew louder, the wraith behind her stopped bothering her and looked also out the window.
"CITIZENS OF THE MOST ORTHODOX NECROPOLIS OF SANTA CRUZ! HEAR YE THIS JUDGEMENT UPON THIS WRAITH CALLED IN LIFE VICTORIA SARGENT!"
Amarynd scowled. Her herald, Datis, had a loud enough voice that Amarynd wondered how even the quick failed to hear him. Amarynd looked with pity on the Amphissian. She was probably the only wraith there that did and it would have been a shocking revelation had any of the others known her true thoughts. Datis finished droning his pomposity and the true intent of the gathering reached its climax. Immermann, one of the Anacreons, originally from Colma and who reported directly to de la Marcha, used his talent to ignite the plasm of that which had once been Victoria Sargent. Victoria screamed and the assembled crowd "ah'ed" and "ooh'd" as her corpus glowed with intense light, illuminating the Shadowlands and banishing, at least for the moment, the gloom and dimness of death.
But at what price? thought Amarynd
"Isn't that Sellsword the one they call Phocion? the wraith behind her asked.
Amarynd turned her attention to the Sellsword. He remained behind to see that Victoria burned undisturbed, and also to guard his prize. De la Marcha had decreed that after Sargent had burned for a while, in order to "educate" the citizenry, that she would be given over to the Sellsword as a reward, to be cut up in soulcakes for the citizens of the Mission to feast from. Already, merchants were bartering with Phocion, trying to secure terms for Sargent's corpus. Phocion was a legend in Santa Cruz. He had garnered more souls for the forges than any other Sellsword and it was said that his name was whispered with dread on the other side of the river.
"I would hate to be in her shoes," the waiting wraith behind Amarynd nodded at the burning corpus below them. Sargent's screams hadn't abated. In death, the physicality of pain knew no limitations.
"What did you say?!" Amarynd whirled abruptly and glared at the wraith. He cringed before her, bowing low.
"I meant no disrespect," he whined. "I only meant to say that she deserved what she got. It is wrong to be an enemy of the State. I am very loyal." To show his loyalty, the wraith pinched off a screaming bit of his own corpus and dropped it into the tithe bowl on Amarynd's desk. There it mingled with other bits of torn plasm. Amarynd would later take the bowl to one of the smiths at the Acropolis, where its contents would be smelted, her share duly noted on thin whispy sheets of soulpaper.
"State your name and what you want." Amarynd assumed her commanding voice. She glared down at the wraith, letting him squirm a bit while he answered.
"My name is Soyinka. I am a poor wraith. I come only to ask a boon of your greatness, my Lady."
He looked up but when he saw Amarynd's scowl, cast his face back down.
"If you are poor," she told him, "then there is no hope your boon can be granted. You know that," she chided him. "But tell me, what have you done?"
"I have done nothing," my Lady," he cried. "I come about The List."
Ah, that was it, Amarynd realized. This poor wretch had seen his name published on The List of those who could be drawn for the lottery. This was done so that wraiths could have enough notice to bribe their way off it. Poor ones like this one would simply have to take their chances. Probably, unless he had contacts, his name would be drawn and he would be sent in shackles to Colma, and thence to the soul forges in Stygia.
"I can do nothing for you." Amarynd's voice was cold and heartless. "You know that it is a crime for you even to suggest such a thing. Now, I will forget your coming here. Get out! - before I regret my own generosity."
"It is not for me!" the wraith cried, afraid but not moving from his spot.
"What was that?" Amarynd asked, surprised at his response. "What did you say?"
"My friend, her name is Emma, it is her name that is on the list." The wraith quivered, afraid. The physical habits of life were often kept in death.
Amarynd thought a bit. "And she is poor, like yourself?" she asked.
The wraith nodded.
Amarynd sat down in her "stone" chair. It was beautifully fashioned of substance much as the wraith wanted his friend to escape from becoming. If one looked closely enough, Amarynd knew that one could see the twisted torn bits of souls that made up the chair.
"Though we all `know' that wealth makes no difference in the lottery, all being capable of being chosen equally, the fact that your friend is poor might indicate some misfavor of fortune in death. This cannot be put aside, but maybe the fortunes of death can be ameliorated. What do you propose to offer to take your friend off the list? Do you have some artifact to sacrifice? Some knowledge even?"
The wraith shook his head to indicate that he had nothing of that sort.
Amarynd raised her hands to indicate helplessness. "Then I don't see what I can do to help you." She motioned for the door to indicate that the interview was finally over.
The wraith shook his head, refusing to go. Amarynd was just about to summon the Legionnaires when he blurted out, "I beg you to put my name on the list! Put me there in her place!"
Amarynd was shocked. "Do you know what you are asking? Do you know what will happen to you?"
Obviously the exclamation had taken all of the wraith's strength and courage to muster. He lay there, a quivering mass of plasm. He was already surrendering himself to his doom.
Stunned, Amarynd shook her head. "I am not the one responsible for choosing names for The List. I am not the one you must see." This self-sacrifice was disturbing - and distasteful. She had half a mind to offer this wraith's name for The List, in addition to his friend. He was obviously near insanity to even suggest such a thing.
"Please," he begged. "It is known you have influence. A friend of mine told me to see you."
Amarynd scowled. It would not help her own survival if word was getting around that she was the merciful type.
"What's your friend's name?" she asked.
"Kosmo," the wraith answered. "His name is Kosmo. He haunts a house on Cedar Street. He said you helped him once when a Legionnaire discovered the whereabouts of one of his fetters."
Amarynd could only vaguely remember the name. He was probably one of many she had helped in the past. But her help had always come on the condition that it remain secret. Often, she even worked her good deeds anonymously.
"What is your name again, and where do you haunt?" she asked the wraith, her voice now more calm and soothing.
"My name is Francis Soyinka. And I don't have a haunt of my own. Emma and I stay in the sewers, mostly to keep away from Sellswords."
Amarynd sighed. "Very well. I'll see that your friend, EmmaWhat's her full name?"
"Emma, Emma Barton," Soyinka replied, near to weeping tears of plasm for joy.
Amarynd nodded. "Alright. Emma Barton. I will see that her name is removed from The List. Also, I want you to see a Centurion named Nicias. Tell him I sent you. He will assign you and Emma a haunt of your own."
"Thank you! Thank you!" Soyinka bowed and kissed Amarynd's dead feet.
"Stop that!" Amarynd told him, and Soyinka at once came to heel.
"Remember now, Francis Soyinka, you and this Emma now owe me several favors. You will do my bidding whatever, whenever I ask, is that clear?"
"Yes my Lady. We are yours to command," he vowed. Though Amarynd didn't doubt him, she also doubted that the gratitude of a couple of poor souls would ever amount to much. Still, that wasn't why she had done it.
"And Francis," she looked down while cupping Soyinka's face in her hand, "I want you to remember that on one is to ever know that I helped you. Do you understand?"
Soyinka nodded.
"Lest you forget that, I want you to remember what happened to Kosmo."
"Kosmo?" Soyinka blinked, another lifelike affectation. "But he is fine. I saw him not that long ago."
"You'll understand," she told him. "Now, go find Nicias."
Soyinka bowed profusely as he left.
Amarynd sat back down at her desk and rang her bell, beautifully crafted of the finest quality souls. Its ring, heard only in the Shadowlands, cut through all sounds. Her secretary, a wraith named Uris, came in and bowed.
"My Lady?"
Amarynd finished scribbling on a piece of soulpaper. As she ripped it, handing the bit to Uris, it screamed. "Take this to Goldwater." The note asked that Goldwater, as a favor to her, take the name of a wraith named Emma Barton off the list and substitute that of a wraith named Kosmo of Cedar Street. Of course, she knew Goldwater would do it. Outside, the screams of the one called Sargent continued on into the morning gloom.

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