Tibor (AKA Julius)

Cursed Haunted Investigator


High Concept: Cursed Haunted Investigator
Trouble: Moths and Flames
Other Aspects:
Beyond good and evil;
Hell is empty and the devils are here;
Not gently into the night;
United we stand, divided we fall.

Superb ( +5 ) : Intimidate
Great ( +4 ) : Investigate
Good ( +3 ) : Weapons, Discipline
Fair ( +2 ) : Presence, Alertness, Guns, Athletics
Average ( +1 ) : Fists, Stealth, Endurance, Contacts

Physical ( endurance ) : 4
Mental ( conviction ) : 2
Social ( presence ) : 2

Stunts & Powers
Ghost Speaker ( cost -1 )
Stasis ( cost -1 )
Redirected Force fists ( cost -1 )
Spirit Vessel ( cost -1 )
Reversed Possession ( cost -3 )

Spirit Vessel:
Through unnatural inclination you’ve come to be an optimal vessel for a ghost to inhabit, capable of inviting them in or firmly showing them the door, as the mood takes you.
Medium: While in physical contact with a ghost you may attempt to become a vessel for their consciousness as a free action a single creature at a time. The creature may leave when it pleases or ou can force it out by taking one mental stress and a sticky aspect “Been inside your head”.
Mimic: You may loan skills or powers from the ghost. The amount of refresh used needs to meet or surpass by your discipline roll or you get mental stress.

Reversed Possession
You don’t need a ghost’s permission to become a vessel for it. Use Discipline as a psychic attack against it, inflicting stress and consequences untill they concede or are taken out. If it tries to leave you without your permission you may roll Discipline against its Conviction with a success preventing them from taking any action and inflicting a single point of mental stress. This is effectively a mental grapple.

Power level 7,
skill-cap 25
skill points spent 25
total available 25
base refresh level 7
adjusted refresh 4
fp from last session -
total refresh adjustment -3

The character had -1 social with living people, and +1 social with dead people


My limbs tingle. A million pinpricks all over. Inside me as well. I feel hot. I open my eyes. Staring back are two icy blue eyes. An expression frozen into death. Frozen into ice. I am not hot. I am desperately cold. I turn my head, and my body screams in agony. I am lying in the snow. I am almost covered under it. The man lying under me is in uniform. So am I. I try to move. I fail. It’s not the weight of the snow. It is the stiffness of my limbs and the weight of my body. I breathe. The air burns through my throat and lungs. I cry. Tears freeze my eyes. They are mirrored in the eyes of my comrade. Or was he my victim? Why did we die here? Was any of it worth it? Again I try to move. Slowly. Ever so slowly. I push my hands under my body. It hurts. Something burns. I grasp it in my left hand, move it, look upon it. It is a wicked thing. It is a usefull thing. It is necessary thing. I cannot let it go. The metal is frozen into my flesh, burning. Was it mine? Was it my brother’s? Was I your Cain or were you mine or did we just fall down here together? With strength of will I did not know I had I turn around. Face-up I gasp cold deep into my lungs, almost freezing my burning heart. I see now. Snowflakes fall lazily. They are tiny. They do not melt as they touch my face. I cough. Racking coughs tear through my body. I am upright. Stumble. Fall down. I am on hands and knees. Scramble, claw myself forwards. On hands and knees. I am a beast in a charnel house. We had not been alone, my brother and I. More faces. More frozen eyes. Hands raised in supplication. Limbs snapping off as I climb over them. Metal, scorched. It rips open my hands. Where did I leave the gun? Is it still with me? There are people here. Around me. Their shapes move through the snowdrifts. I cry unto them. I know not if my cries are for help or mercy or forgiveness. They do not respond. They surround me, my silent brothers. They cry so loudly I cannot hear them. There are so many. Their voices lost on the wind. I am on a road. I am on a plain. The land is flat as where I was born. It is a swamp. It was a swamp. Now it is ice, and a road. I see it now. This is not where they freeze the traitors. This is nowhere. Limbo. The road is made out of trees, and tools, and uniforms and bodies. Mostly bodies. I can see their shapes under the snow. People moving aroud them. Through them. They made a road out of the bodies of the dead. With the road they could cross the swamp. I do not know how long the road is. It is lost in the phantoms of the snow. Roads lead somewhere. Somewhere else than this desert of ice and death. There is nothing in the desert. I stagger forward. I am walking. Walking the road. I am hallucinating. No. I am dreaming. Was this long ago? I remember. I do remember. No escape. Ice? No, it was fire. I think I died in fire. I open my eyes and swear.

I needed to freshen up, to remove the dirt from my hands. Digging is filthy work. I hadn’t been to this bar in a long time. That asshole who was always talking about Paris and his painting was still there. Did he never die? He didn’t recognise me. Nor did the barman. It was a different barman. It must have been years and years.

Someone familiar sits down at the table. He is a friend. Something like that. I have known him for a long time. I do not like him. Especially not tonight. I have had a bad day. Worse than usual.

“Not dragged down to hell, Priest?” I growl, nursing the drink in my hands without looking into his face.

“Nor you either, I see. But there is a time and a place for everything, or so I was told. It won’t be long now, Deo volente. And I am sure your time will come. Eventually. You have been gone quite a while, this time.”

“It did. But didn’t you hear? Hell is empty and the demons are here.” He has grown older.

“And here we are. Quite a few people thought they had seen the last of you.”

“They have. I’m gonna shave. New face. New name. I’m thinking something classical, with a twist. How does Tibor sound to you?” His hands shake ever so slightly.

“I liked Julius, but it didn’t really fit you. A fresh start? Maybe you have earned it, and then again, maybe not.”

“Why were you ever my confessor? You should have been defrocked and scourged out of town.” His eyebrows were pencilled in.

“Out of this town? What place could possibly be better for a priest who does not believe in God?”

He had me there. I just shrugged. There were tiny flecks of blood amongst his spittle.

“Listen, I have not had a good day. You have not had one either. Is there a point to any of this?”

“For me, certainly. And I believe for you as well. You know what I want, Ferryman.”

“You want the same thing you always want. But you can’t bargain fate. I know, I tried. You and all these hypocrite peddlars, there will be a reckoning. That ice in your stomach is growing. The older you get, the easier you are to read.”

“You were born a fool, and a fool you remain. And my motivations remain my own. To business.”

“Listen typhoid-priest. There will be no business. Not today. Looking at you, maybe not ever. You’ll rot in the grave before I have my affairs set to order.”

“I’ll rot in the grave soon enough, and we shall do business tonight. You do not understand your position, I feel. You have just returned? Your most recent departure was, hmm, rather spectacular. And people have taken a long, long, look at you. Serious people. I know that they looked at your house, and then they burned it down. I suspect they looked at your money as well. Friends you have none. The allies you had, they either disappeared or were disappeared.”

Fuck. Bitter is the cud, indeed.

“I have options. I’m not the fool you think I am.”

“You are the fool I know you are. Here and now, I am your only option. You’ll sleep in one of our cells. Few enough of them are in use nowadays. I’ll provide pocket money, the job will provide the rest.”

The smug bastard apostate had me and he knew it. His last breath and he used it to spit at me. Didn’t even wait for my reply. Just turned his head and called out for my client. His voice was soft. You wouldn’t think she’d hear him, but she did. Must have been completely focused on him. On us. They usually are. Desperate for anything that can help them. That makes sense. The psyche is a fragile thing really. It needs something to cling to. Ambition, or greed, or even love. A way to make sense of the world. But when the world shatters, and it still remains, it must focus on something else. Vengeance, or restitution or regret or redress. And sometimes love.

Not that I thought any of this as the girl sashayed through the crowd. All leg and what wasn’t leg was trouble. A knockout, like brass knuckles to the face. I always keep some necessities in my coat. I dug up a smoke, and lighter. Put it between my lips, bowed my head down, lit the cigarette, and deeply inhaled the smoke. Dulce et decorum est. Things could be worse.

“Maria, this is the man I told you about. Don’t let him frighten you. Now, I’m sure you two have lots to discuss. Forgive me while I get myself a drink.”

I gave her a slow look-over, as the old apostate stumbled away. The recreant tried to hide his infirmity. He had become old. Old and dying and blind. People scare, but I could not scare this woman. There was ice in her eyes, and steel in the setting of the mouth. She was a Fury. OH well. I took out my notebook.

“Tell me. How did you die?”

Tibor (AKA Julius)

Dresden Files Aghris