Sesser
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Transformer's Toolbox [Minor] The bearer is able to make superficial changes to his or her form. Facial skin, hair, eyes, nails, voice - through Syroa's blessing, the bearer becomes a minor shapeshifter, a faint echo of the winged goddess of transformation. Minor alterations are instant - the bearer could be a brunette with a pixie cut and brown eyes one moment, a long-haired, blue-eyed blonde the next. Minor alterations can be held effortlessly for trials at a time, while major alterations will start showing signs of reversion within a few breaks. While users of Makeover can attempt to mimic another, at this level the resemblance will always be a little off.
Ever Alluring I The bearer has an enhanced constitution, staying strong and healthy in conditions where others would wilt and fall ill. Scars never remain, disease rarely seems to visibly touch the bearer, and he/she recovers from injuries much faster than the average member of their race. The bearer seems to age more slowly, though the effect is superficial rather than biological. In addition, everyone encountered is subconsciously attracted to the bearer, even those of incompatible sexual orientation. Those of alternate tastes may not feel compelled to flirt or pursue the marked, but the spark of incomprehensible arousal, however slight, is there all the same.
Grifter's skills I A The character is granted an extra three skill points which may be spent only on the following skills: Acting, Intimidation, Seduction, or Persuasion. Any skill points granted by this Mark can break the 250 (or 100 if fast track) point cap on skills. Within these skills, the points may be spent how the pc chooses.
Thespian While some other gods would demand their followers master their emotions, Syroa favors a more elusive approach to the solution of the human heart.With this blessing, the bearer is able to adopt and discard feelings and emotions as he or she sees fit, turning the human heart from a liability into one of its greatest, most controlled assets. This ability is even somewhat effective against Empathy, although experts and masters can overtax a Sesser just as fast as they discard. At the end of the trial, however, the bearer has to feel again; everything 'real' comes rushing back in their sleep as a jumbled mess. Syroa's chosen don't have nightmares; they simply face the ugly reality of their mindscape in their dreams.
Wrathling Forge The spirits of rage live where there is spilt blood and broken bones. The marked call them Wrathlings, small orange-red miasmas with gibbering mouths and formless spines. Alone, these spirits are but the scavengers of fury, wafting through battlefields and taverns, in abusive homes and alleyways. However, Syroa's marked have learned how to make use of these creatures for their own gain. When a Sesser motivates violence from fury, either self perpetuated or as the result of their manipulations, they attract these relatively common spirits. While most cannot perceive Wrathlings, a Sesser can uniquely mark their shape. When found, a single Wrathling can be taken and bound to a weapon in the Sesser's possession. This weapon will hit with more force, pierce deeper, and slash wider than any other ordinary weapon of its class. Weapons with bound Wrathlings tend to manifest unique reddish stains and wear out much faster than ordinary. Fury gives no regard for the damage done to it, caution abandoned for raw, furious power. A Wrathling can never be taken from a weapon. When the weapon breaks, and it most often will wear itself out within the first few bouts it is used, the Wrathling dissipates with the shattering. For whatever reason, magical items cannot have Wrathlings bound to them.
Demon's Kiss There is lust for an object or person, and there are those that lust for an object or a person. This power allows the marked of Syroa to feed off the lust that is generated by a person for a person. Generally, they feed off lust during sexual encounters when the other party deeply desires the body of the marked. This power can help the body heal and appear younger. Marks of fatigue and battle wounds begin to fade away and youth begins to return to the marked. This lasts for mere bits, providing that the lust had been strong with the party they had shared passion with. It is not uncommon for this power to be combined with Covet to generate lust within a person and then feed off that created lust. Created lust is less potent than lust that had been created by a person on their own.
Scapegoat: Fury is the domain of the Transformed Immortal. She knows the ins and outs of its weaknesses and strengths. Logic does not always follow one into the twists and turns of fury. This ability makes use of that. Against an enraged foe, the marked can shift the object of that fury from them to any other within distance of sight to the enraged. A useless ability if there is no one else, this can be a potently destructive ability among a crowd. Some of Syroa's marked have deliberately goaded others into rage, only to shift the object of their fury to another and watch as anger consumed those around them. Without furious intent, this ability has much less potent an effect. With even the hint of anger, it can be misplaced to another; however, one who wishes to visit harm on the marked due to religious conviction, sorrow, or any other emotion outside of rage cannot be swayed.
Blessing Story: Sesser
Saun 39 719
Whip... whip... whip...
Zunylanih's ladel mixed the pie's filling with enthusiasm and care. A touch of pureed peanuts, generous helpings of the purest and cleanest cream, a mix of special spices, some cave grapes, and a splash of cave wine to go with it all. In his excitement, he almost forgot the Peanut oil, to bind all the ingredients into a filling meal that one would scarcely be able to finish on their own.
"Hmmm... mmmm..." He hummed to the tune of one of his favorite singers of the stage's rendition of 'Remember Me', from the highly praised new opera
The Fall of Helice. His humming voice left much to be desired, but he knew the tune by heart. Omesintihlih had seen to it that the song was burned into his memory. Zunylanih smiled at his creation, as raw and unfinished as it was. It was a good filling though, he could tell just by smelling it. To prove his theory, he dipped a finger into it, and put it into his mouth, avoiding the beard hairs of Dura Elmont, his current form.
"Hmm! Not bad not bad. Just as good if not better than the last attempt!" He snickered quietly to himself.
The Yludih was in the kitchens of the Opera House, having secured a job there by some fluke of luck. Having been offered it, and knowing who performed there, he took it in an instant, seeing a golden opportunity to meet the star who belted out that song so well loved by he and Omesintihlih. He grinned in anticipation. He'd done well and been given rave reviews for his work so far, and thus been given an opportunity to cook a piece for the star herself. He seized upon that chance at once, and began working the very next night, preparing a very special, thick, and tasty dessert for the star.
After filling the pie dough with the creamy mixture, it was time for it to hit the oven. He slid it in with a handle, and then he played the waiting game.
But he did not linger in that kitchen. Instead, he stole away to watch the local puppet show, which occurred in the dancers' dressing room. He went out of that kitchen, and through the hall. Down the stairs he went, until he heard the telltale chirping and tittering of rodents copulating in those dressing rooms. Well they weren't rodents, but you'd never know by the squeals and squeaks they made. Zunylanih knelt down, and looked through the keyhole, reveling in the revel of others. His asterism thrilled to their acts of lust, as he watched limbs and clothing and greasy bodies slipping against each other, almost melding into an amorphous whole. His asterism gave one final spasm, as he felt the unrequited satisfaction of lust, and then got up from where he knelt, sighing happily to himself.
Thus resolved and unburdened by his own overpowering sense of lust, he made his way back toward the kitchen. Once there, he opened the oven door, to find that the pie was cooked to perfection. Beautiful.
He slid it out with the same handle he'd used before, a stone slat carved into a handle, it was, really. Once the pie was out of the oven, he left it to cool, and joined the other cooks to aid in their work.
When at last the show was concluded, and the place winding down, the players of the troupe all retired to their accommodations. A service tray was arranged for the Diva, which included the entire cream of peanut puree pie that Zunylanih, under the guise of Dura Elmont, had created. He couldn't hide his excitement, as he grinned at everyone, on his way to delivering the tray to the star of the Opera House.
In fact, he'd learned in his time here that the Diva wasn't well liked at all. Not by her colleagues, and not by the audience. The reason being that her voice was that of a walrus. And while she was attractive enough, as much as one suffering the wages of opulence and the elevation of a lover's act of graft could be. She dressed well, kept her hair well, and even smelled well, Zunylanih noted as he arrived just outside her door.
Nervously, he knocked at it. Waiting...
Another knock. More waiting...
Finally, he said the magic words,
"Service, your worship!" And the door gave way.
The dressing room of that woman was well appointed, with a mix of alchemically enchanted sunlights, mixed with a few scented candles. She was seated in front of a mirror. Zunylanih nodded to her body servant, who had been looking after her while waiting for the server. Giving a nod, he returned it knowingly, and the body servant exited.
Zunylanih carried the tray over toward her dressing table, where he laid it gently down.
The woman, in her walrus-like voice, bellowed out to him,
"Well? Will you feed me the first bite?"
"Oh but of course your worship." Dura smiled at her, as he took a serving spoon off the tray, and let her taste the filling of the pie.
She responded with an 'mmmm...', to which he smirked. Nobody could resist the lure of his cream pie. It was his specialty.
She licked her thick lips, and then looked up at Dura through the reflection in the mirror.
"Tell me... Do you think I'm too heavy?"
Dura tilted his head to the side, regarding the woman. She wore a corset under that dress, that much was clear, but she had curves in all the right places, smooth, flawless dark skin. Midnight black hair, braided to perfection. He shook his head,
"Heavy? My star! Your worship! You are divine, beyond such mundane descriptors..."
She responded to this with a smile, and he dared to dip his head, to nuzzle her neck, licking the skin, tasting her. She smelled of vanilla extracts and blood wine. Simply delicious. Idly, for just a moment, he wondered how she'd taste in a pie. But the thought passed as quickly as it flew through his mercurial brain.
He felt the stirrings of lust driving his asterism once more, which surprised him. Yet he controlled himself. Focusing on the task at hand.
He massaged her shoulders with his hands, then smoothed out the braids of her hair.
"In fact, you look terribly famished. You really must take another bite!"
She chuckled, attempting a seductive tone which almost made him break out into a peal of laughter. But once again he contained himself.
"Well, perhaps just another? No I shouldn't. My lover scarcely looks at me anymore... I'm afraid he's found someone els..."
"Just one more, your worship, you really need it!"
"Excuse me?" She exclaimed, startled at his imperious tone.
Without warning, he took her head in his hands, and thrust it forward into the cream pie. All she could let out, before her screams were smothered in creamy goodness, was a little squeak, like the rodents he'd watched dancing earlier.
"Ahh! Eat up my beauty! Hahahahah!" Zuny said, as his face shifted from that of the line cook Dura, to the mischeivous jester, Keque.
"Eat, eat, eat! Don't let a bit go to waste!"
All through it, he laughed, to cover the sound of her struggles. Her arms flailed against anything they could find purchase, first trying to push off of the surface of the desk, then when that failed, reaching back to grapple with the man drowning her in a cream pie.
Her struggles weakened bit by bit, until at last, she gave up one last spasm as her last attempt at breathing. Then, she slumped into the pie. He held her there just a few moments, to be sure this wasn't a trick. Then, he let her slide back into her dressing chair, her face covered by peanut puree and cream. He whirled around the chair, to look at his handiwork. Blood formed at the corners of her lips, and her face was blackened by the struggle for breath. One last touch to her beautiful lips with his fingers, and he slipped them inside his mouth, testing the flavor of his pie mingling with her blood. It didn't taste half bad! He was probably right about her suitability to make a pie. Shame she'd probably be burned in the Quacian custom.
Nevertheless, he wasn't about to leave without a souvenir of the woman, to present his muse.
"For sister Omesintihlih, a lock of your hair..." He took a nearby shaving razor, and cut the braid, slipping it into the pocket of his robe.
He left then, raising the cowl and making his way through the corridors of that theatre that he knew so well. Dura wouldn't be finding work, having been the last to see the Diva alive, but he was just about ready to abandon that old guise. It was just as well.
He attempted sneaking through the halls, but found many occupants filtering in and out of the crossways. Zuny whispered a curse, and then made for a window. He swung it open, and looked down below, finding it far too far down to escape. His skills in climbing just weren't there.
He ground his teeth in fury. He'd been trapped!
Just as he was about to withdraw back into the safety of the theater, he felt the oddest tap on his shoulder. There, when he looked up behind him, he found the Immortal of Transformation herself. Glaring down at him with orange-red eyes.
"My little puppet in a toy castle... How cute!" He squeaked as she drew him out of the window, with Immortal strength.
WIthout waiting, they flew through the Quacian skyline, across the town, and toward the direction of the Fallacy. He felt a burning in his back where she pressed against his back as she carried him. She felt something changing there, leaving something, her... her mark! His lady was giving her approval!
He would have skipped and hopped in joy then, but he was already in the air.
So as they flew through the city, toward the Fallacy, she dropped him down to the ground. He 'oofed' once, before scrambling to get on his feet, and look up at her. He was beyond words, beyond gratitude. The longing and fury and machinations he'd had to endure to make this assassination work, were successful beyond even his vivid imagination. Yet here he stood, having been chosen by the Immortal of Lust and Fury. The Demoness herself.
He fell to his knees, and was about to ask one further boon, before she left him. No words more did she speak.
"Wait! Wait! You must help me win Geneva!" He screamed into the night after her. But Syroa would not hear his pleas.
The Mark was given, it was now his own agency that must see his desires fulfilled.
Pau is a 6'1" tall human male with dark hair and pale eyes. He was tall, swarthy, and well built. The physique of a Helice statue. His prominent brow and strong facial features accentuate his manly visage.
Safira Columbina, a face taken from Geneva, owner of the Lust's Fallacy in Quacia. She stands at around 5'7", with a voluptuous form, onyx hair, black eyes, and fair skin.
