feckinboomstick: (Default)
Aaand placeholder


Nov. 20th, 2016 06:17 pm
feckinboomstick: (ha. ha ha.)
Leave your message at the tone, make it quick. I don't have time for ye to be flappin' your gums into me voicemail for the next fifteen minutes.
feckinboomstick: (Default)
Necromancer. Bone conjurer. That Guy You Don't Invite to Grandma's Funeral. Whatever you feel like calling it, Cassian is a professional medium, witch and necromancer, well versed in black and white magic as well as holy magic and raising the dead.

He's as good as waking them as he is at putting them back to bed.

He's also a professional supernatural being exterminator. This is all rather commonplace in his own world, many people of his profession have billboards and everything, yellow page ads, yelp pages, everything is out there and waiting for someone to call to get rid of the dullahan hanging out in their back yard and shitting up the garden.

Powers are as follows, if he actually preps them.

Raise Dead
Turn Dead
Communicate with ghosts
Proxy (allow the spirit to work and speak through him)
Berserker (allow the spirit to possess and fight through him)

Powers related to Hastur are only activated once he's no longer in control of his own mind, and are as follows.

Illusion magic
Touch of Madness (Touch attack that causes insanity)
While under the total control of Hastur, immaterial wings seem to appear and vanish at his back like red fog. There appear to be six of them in total. He may also seem to be draped in yellow, or his face obscured by clockwork gears, or perhaps a massive iron crown sitting on his head.

Cassian typically carries a shotgun loaded with blessed silver bullets and buckshot, an iron hunting knife, a bible, and a black book of spells.
feckinboomstick: (HULK SMASH)
Born in the 9th century, Cassian has been around for a long, long, longass time. One would imagine he'd have a better idea of just why he's been stuck at the age of 26 for well over 2000 years, but he's still having trouble fathoming about just what kind of temporal and dimensional abomination is calling his body home.

Hastur, the King in Yellow or the Yellow Sign, has been a part of Cassian since he was first born. Or rather, since he nearly died in birth and his mother, a desperate witch scared for her sons life, preformed an abhorrent ritual and burned the old god's sigil into his hand. The result was a child trapped between death and life, sickly for most of his childhood and constantly on deaths doorstep, but alive. The full ramifications of his mothers mistake would only take full effect when he turned twenty six, living in the halls of a monastery with his father, a monk who had sworn his bastard son into secrecy about his heritage. The child of an unmarried monk and a witch would never have been taken well, and the boy was always made to wear gloves, under the story that he'd grow cold and sickly without proper warmth.

It wasn't his age that awoke the true terms of the curse, but rather the trauma the young man suffered. Attacks on monasteries in Ireland were very common at the time, and sadly, Cassian's little home was just as subject to them as any other. Sent to stand watch for intruders, the young man grew weak and slipped into slumber at his post, only to wake up a captive as his home of twenty years burned. Though the Vikings that held him didn't understand the shrieks in Gaelic that the man let loose, they'd soon realize the gravity of them later, when their captive somehow managed to slip free of his bonds and vanish into the woods.

Oh they'd been more than aware that the young man was a chronically ill one, in and out of feverish dreams and miserable waking hours shivering and coughing, as gray as a ghost. They'd all just figured the boy would die in the woods, one more causality to add to the number of dead holy men.

How wrong they'd be.

It started when hunting groups began to notice their numbers... dwindling. A man would split to follow a trail, and never come back. Then back at camp, someone would leave to piss, or perhaps just walk, and would never be seen again. Wolves, they assumed, though they never did hear the beasts, and grew paranoid at their situation. As they made their way slowly back to the coast, more of them would vanish, each and every night, until no man left without several partners. It'd eventually become clear what was happening.

What when the bodies started showing up.

Bodies with their ribs split and cracked open, flayed to the side like great bleeding wings, internals ravaged and hearts missing. No wolf would do that, and the stories of an angry ghost, some vengeful demon stalking them, began to circle around the group. They doubled their haste to return to shore, but their fear was their folly and downfall-

Refusal to sleep for fear of being rended apart by this invisible beast resulted in hallucinations, short tempers and paranoia. Men on edge would snap, attacking their mates. Whoever died was left where they lay, as the snapping and crackling of twigs and leaves at night had them waving blazing torches into the shadows, never to find a single thing.

At the end of this Hell, there was just one man left, stumbling back to shore. One man to grab a single dinghy and take to the waters, to arrive at the shores of his homeland dying and starving to death, to rattle out this horror story. Before he'd left, as he pushed off from shore when the waxing moon rose, he could see the thing that stalked them.

With a white mane whipped about and coarse, stained rust red and brown. Wild eyes the color of a storm and flushed flesh, spattered with the blood of dead men. With bared teeth that still held flecks of skin and meat, as sharp as a wolves and a stolen iron hunting knife clutched in one hand, dressed in the robes of a monk.
feckinboomstick: (Default)
The Black Dog of Kilkenny.
Cu Sith.
Death's Priest.

These are but a few nicknames for the rather infamous Cassian Ó Loinsigh, anglicized to Cassian Lynch in (slightly) more recent years.

If one was to be succinct with Cassian's life, it would be summarized as 'long, terrible and eventually unsurprising'. Cassian was born to a witch and a wandering monk in 9 AD in what is now Ireland. While his father would visit their home to try and make an impression on his bastard childs life in the name of God, his mother would pull the boy towards his pagan roots. He was always very close to his mother, and the woman would often tell him that his birth was a miraculous one, a gift from the Gods themselves that he even lived. She'd swear up and down that she swore his soul to a mighty king in gold, and that this entity would rise to protect the youth when he needed it. Indeed, it may seem to be the case, as Cassian barely survived his own birth, and was a sickly child that always teetered on the edge of being bedridden. His lungs were always poor, asthma most likely, though it would go undiagnosed for most of his life.

His mother died of a wasting illness when he was five, and his father would collect his son from his ailing wife shortly before she passed away. At five years old, Cassian was whisked away to a monastery, where his father would insist that the boy never call him father before any of the other monks. He was taught how to read and write there, a rare gift in those times, and was by all accounts a studious and shy young man. He was picked on terribly by the other, stronger boys who took up the mantle of a monk, being far too frail and weak to do things such as assist with growing food or catch a meal. Resigned to his cell to illuminate bibles and pray, he was the picture of piety, and everyone just assumed the young man would die before he ever saw the age of thirty.

Of course, this was the time of the raids on Ireland. Vikings would often tear across the coasts, and on an island nation like Ireland, it was all too easy to ransack the monasteries for their assumed riches. It was always one monks job to stand guard at the gates, to alert the others in case they saw a mast on the horizon that looked unfamiliar, or a plume of smoke that didn't belong.

Unfortunately for Cassian, this was one of the jobs he was deemed capable of doing.

To his credit, he did, honestly, try his very best to do the job. But before long he'd drifted off into a feverish slumber. His next waking moment would be at the end of a blade, forced to the ground and muffled as a raiding team stormed the monastery. It burned, and the screams of the monks within, either finding their end by blade or by fire, would ring in his ears forever. For some ungodly, unknown reason, the man standing watch over him never attempted to slay the shivering, sobbing wreck. Pity, maybe, stayed his hand. No one quite knows. What is known, is that Cassian finally broke through the trembling, weak and cowardly haze he was in to grab at the hunting knife at the mans belt. The raiding crew would return to find their comrade gruesomely disembowled, if very clumsily, messily and haphazardly.

While some might have hidden away, never to be seen again, something seemed to have crumbled and eroded in the young priests mind. He wandered the smoking remains of the monastery, but never once did find what he thought was his father amid the charred and fused remains. The wooden rosary he carries now, half charcoal, might not have even been his fathers. But in the end, it was the thought that counted.

And now, the only thought in Cassian's mind, was seeing to it that the raiders would never reach their boats.

No one is entirely sure how it came to be that in what seemed like a single week, he went from a sickly, shaking young priest with a voice barely above a whisper to a foul tempered, razor tongued Irishman with a penchant for destructive inventions. What is known is that the raiding party was stalked for that week, and a survivor claimed to have seen a spirit in the trees, white and ghostly, with a hungry, ghoulish look about it.

Just one escaped. The rest were picked off like so many flies. Lured away from their group over time, until the last fled the forest in a cold sweat, claiming that the ghost of a murdered man visited vengeance on the raiding party.

As for Cassian?

The body count slowly began to climb. He'd gotten a bit of a taste, so it seemed, for death. Perhaps someone slighted the church. Perhaps a thief nicked an artifact from a chapel. Maybe a man had defiled a nun, maybe a woman poisoned a priest, in the end it never actually mattered, as long as the death could be rationalized to him.

It's been a good, long 2000 years since Cassian was born now, and time hasn't improved his outlook on people, or the world, or his temper in general.

It's highly suggested one doesn't harass the small priest.
feckinboomstick: (Default)
To be honest, when he pictured himself dying, he somehow imagined it to be more... Stellar, maybe? ... Less pathetic. Mainly sitting on a beach that was alien to him, freezing cold in the dead heat of summer, though the priests long, thick white hair clung to him, damp with sweat. Feverishly shivering, his fingers numbly trying to fix his glasses as he fought for each breath of air.

Too long. Too long since he had appeased the beast. It was trying to tear him apart now, the sound of droning flutes piping madly in his ears, as close as they had been since he was a child.

With his shotgun to his left, and his free hand trying to find that jagged, cursesd black knife at his right, maybe he'd be lucky enough to find something. Or get some rest at least, his face was worn and hollow looking, the dark circles of half a month of sleepless nights visible under his eyes.

Maybe he should just.... Lay down here and.. Sleep.


feckinboomstick: (Default)
Cassian Ó Loinsigh

March 2017

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