Two Dogs Fucking

Intentionally stereotypical Amerindian Elf shaman

Description:

Two Dogs Fucking (Elf Magician)
Body 3,
Agility 2,
Reaction 1,
Strength 1,
Charisma 7,
Intuition 4,
Logic 2,
Willpower 5,
Edge 3,
Essence 6,
Magic 5,
Initiative 5,
Initiative Passes 1

Condition Monitor boxes (Physical/Stun): 10/11
Disposable Commlink Condition Monitor: 9
Armor (Ballistic/Impact): 9/9

Skills:
Arcana 2, Artisan 1, Assensing 4, Binding 4, Counterspelling 4, Perception 1, Ritual Spellcasting 1, Spellcasting 6, Summoning 4, Survival 1

Knowledge Skills:
Algonkian 1, Amerindian History 2, Athabaskan 1, Chipewyan 1, Dakota 1, English N, Iroquois 1, Lakota 1, Magic Background 4, Magical Threats 3, Salish 1, Sperethiel 1, Western-Genre Trideo 1

Metatype Abilities:
Enhanced Senses: Low-Light Vision

Qualities:
Addiction (Mild): Firewater (alcohol), Addiction (Mild): Smokum Peace Pipe , Astral Chameleon, Computer Illiterate, Magician, Restricted Gear: Power Focus, Sensitive Neural Structure, Sensitive System

Spells:
Alter Memory (limited)
Control Thoughts (limited)
Detect Life, Extended (limited)
Heal
Levitate (limited)
Mana Net (limited)
Manaball (limited)
Mind Probe (limited)
Sterilize (limited)
Stunbolt
Trid Phantasm (limited)
Turn to Goo (limited)

Gear:
Disposable Commlink
Fetish: Alter Memory
Fetish: Alter Memory
Fetish: Control Thoughts
Fetish: Control Thoughts
Fetish: Detect Life, Extended
Fetish: Detect Life, Extended
Fetish: Levitate
Fetish: Levitate
Fetish: Mana Net
Fetish: Mana Net
Fetish: Manaball
Fetish: Mind Probe
Fetish: Mind Probe
Fetish: Sterilize
Fetish: Sterilize
Fetish: Trid Phantasm
Fetish: Trid Phantasm
Fetish: Turn to Goo
Form-Fitting Half-Body Suit
Magical Lodge (5)
Padded Leather Armor
Power Focus (4)
Two Dogs Fucking with Squatter Lifestyle

Weapons:
Attack of Will (vs. Spirits) [DV 7P vs. I]
Unarmed Strike [Unarmed, DV 1S vs. I]

ATTITUDES TOWARDS OTHER TEAM MATES:
Argyle: He has a great deal of wisdom for one so interested in power.
Tracer: He’s a basic paleface, but the spirits favor him for some reason.
Zed: She thinks, but what does she feel? I worry that she has such trust in the works of man.
John Smith: He has a greater secret, perhaps, than I do.
Wraith: Who is this one, who moves like a spirit?
CyberFabulous: The one with the face like the sky is a heap powerful warrior, even with his too-great trust in the works of men.

Bio:

Two Dogs Fucking was not always his name. Years ago, a promising young apprentice to his tribe’s shaman went out on his vision quest, seeking his mentor spirit through hours of meditation and reflection in the wilderness of one of the still-new Amerindian nations. Which wilderness and which nation, even which tribe, is unclear, to both him and to time. He bore with him two of the tribe’s most sacred treasures: a dreamcatcher laced with bear’s teeth and white buffalo wool, and an ancient pipe, a powerful medicine stick decorated with feathers and beads, bearing on it the head of a tomahawk used to kill a white man in the days before magic returned to the world.

On the third day of his ordeal, the shaman now known as Two Dogs Fucking received a dire premonition, his tribe’s sacred animal appearing before him, only to collapse, wither, and die. He tried to return to his village, but was unable—it was no more. The mana lines blurred and grew toxic as he approached, and the air held a scent at once acrid and pestilent, promising both chemical burning and suppurating rot. The apprentice was not sure what had happened; perhaps a toxic magician had arrived to wreak havoc on his peaceful tribe; perhaps a wandering free spirit had demanded fealty and scoured the land when it was displeased. One thing of certainty, though, was that his tribe was hunted, and there was no place safe for the young shaman. As he came to that conclusion, he felt in the depths of his tainted home a presence, and looking into the marred and corrupted spirit world, saw two eyes staring out at him.

He ran. He used every trick he had learned from his father-shaman, and every story from his teachers, the spirits, and he ran. He borrowed flight from the birds, and crossed a mountain; he stole the gills from a fish and crossed a lake. He took the claws from a badger and dug a hole in the ground, and borrowed the tortoise’s shell to cover himself. Still he felt pursued, and no means of hiding could conceal him, and no means of movement could outrun his enemy.

So at last he became like the chrysalis, which changes itself, and he destroyed what he was; forgetting, just as the butterfly forgets the caterpillar. Around his core, he build a new form, piecemeal and tattered, drawn from old trideos he had watched with the other children of the tribe, late at night, sneaking into the great longhouse with its electricity and its modern things. He was Indian, and drew on that, drew on the legends that white men told of Indians. He thought of it as making himself into a mask: not by hiding behind wood and paint, but by changing his thoughts, his behaviors, his memories. That night, he felt the twisted chaser’s presence, but it moved past him, and let him be. He did not even remember why he had been running, and so he did not run.

Then he wandered. He found himself in other villages, then towns, then cities, then metropolises, growing further and further from his past in the wilderness. Over months, he would remember splinters of who he had been, and why he had run, but he crushed and hid them every time he was reminded. Place to place he walked, an eccentric Indian, drinking heavily, selling the services that magic can give, sometimes seeming to frown to himself for no reason, and always hesitant to speak for long of himself. Whoever he in fact was.

Two Dogs Fucking

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