trollthumper

Nick gripped Kid Cthulhu's hand, shaking off the feeling of tiny suckers, slime, and witchfire. "Not too busy to get out for the night," he said. "Well, I'm still kinda on duty, but hey, it comes with the territory. Who says you can't have fun on the beat?" He slid over to a nearby booth and plunked down the cash for a Freedom Dog (a chili dog with crumbled bacon and onions). Making a ridiculously precise show of eating it in a way that didn't smear the makeup or stain his shirt, he made his way back to his squamous friend. "I see you've got an adoring fan club already," Nick said. "I thought Al-Hazred was a lightweight. Then again, that's sometimes what happens when you poke the eldritch with a stick."

Eric watched as Kid Cthulhu stepped through the crowds to the refreshment stands. Soon after, he was treated to the sight of tentacles working on cotton candy, something he would not be destined to forget any time soon. Well, at least now I've got a solid deterrent if anyone tries to read my mind... Between the general carnival atmosphere and the spectacle of Kid Cthulhu's arrival, the side of Eric that went for subtlety was starting to lose out. Just as he'd gotten the scent of the ghosts here, there was no doubt they'd gotten his in return. And if a superhero landed on the docks, odds were the bosses in the casinos had been informed. At this point, what was one more costumed freak in the procession? With that, Eric stepped into a dark alley and called forth his costume from the vault in Hades' great palace where it spent its free time. In the space of seconds -- he'd gotten very good at slipping a shirt on while applying make-up -- he was done, and Nick Cimitiere made his way to the carnival.

Eric was already beginning to see another side to the boardwalk -- and not even the kind of side he was expecting. [bg=#000000]Down in the surf, he saw two children -- one a young girl dressed in the full body bathing suit of the 19th century, another a young boy in what look like He-Man board shorts. The two of them are playing in the surf, splashing up water and giggling.[/bg] I guess if you cross over at that age, this place must seem like summer forever... His reverie was interrupted by a green flash behind him. For a second, he thought it was fireworks... until he saw the green fire, and the shape it was forming in the air. Eric followed the points of the Elder Sign down to the ground, where he saw Kid Cthulhu, in all his squamous glory, talking up a crowd. He smiled, and worked his way over to the audience.

OOC counterpart to the other thread, in case a mob war breaks out or a wild kaiju appears.

The last time Eric had been to the Boardwalk was the summer after high school. It was a few days before the accident -- he'd been hanging out with Terry, Lisa, and Patrick. Mallory had even tagged along, somehow managing to play the little sister card successfully. That was one of the great nights -- sneaking beers at the Golden Calf with fake IDs, riding the roller coaster, and splashing around in the surf. It was a great time to be alive, and a great place to soak up the atmosphere. But that was before the accident. Before he got in touch with death. Eric had come home to Freedom often -- for summer break, for Thanksgiving, for Christmas -- but never once after getting his powers did he set foot on the Boardwalk. Because he could no longer deny what it was. Sure, everyone knew what was happening on the Boardwalk, but that's what made it fun for most of the citizens. If you were here for the casinos, odds were you knew the connections. The Drioganos held the Palace, and if a casino wasn't held by a family, it at least paid in to them. It had been that way for ages, and it just kind of soaked into the character of the city. It gave the Boardwalk an air of danger and glamour, like walking into the Flamingo when Siegel held it. It also generated a long history of death and bloodshed. As far as Eric knew, it was probably the biggest killing grounds for organized crime in Jersey outside of the Pine Barrens. And it wasn't just the Mob and its hangers-on; junkies who didn't measure their dosages the right way, working girls who'd chosen the wrong john, drunks who drowned in the surf... Walking into the Boardwalk meant walking into a repository for unexpected and often violent deaths, the sort of things that bred resentment and hostility in sentient ghosts, and repetitive patterns of destruction in the "echoes" left behind by other deaths. For an untrained necromancer, walking into the Boardwalk would be like being compelled to assemble the world's largest jigsaw puzzle... or forced to disarm a bomb with a set of nosehair trimmers. But he was no longer untrained. He'd been getting the feel of the city under his feet for days now -- walking first the boneyards, then the back alleys, then the crime scenes of the Fens. And now he was here. Not as Nick Cimitiere, but as Eric LaCroix, a normal citizen just out to walk the beach and maybe get some fried dough at one of the stands. As he felt the tread of the boards under his boots, he tried to enjoy the summer night for what it was -- while also keeping his eyes and ears open for the lost souls of the Boardwalk.

Sounds pretty good. You want to run the thread, or should I?

Nick would probably be interested in meeting another "professional" type. He may have powers, but he's still a bit more John Constantine/Felix Castor than Dr. Fate.

Well, Nick could always be doing a tour through a veteran's cemetery (is there one of those in Freedom?). Or the two of them could have a "casual" meetup -- Nick slings coffee at a shop in Riverside in his civilian identity, so instead of Nick Cimitiere and Valkyrie, it could be Eric LaCroix and Vivian. And then there's always the old standby of rampaging zombies or an army of draugr.

That could be cool. Mind you, his powers are more rooted on Nilfheim than Valhalla, but it could work.

Heh. Guess that depends whether or not I roll a 1 on the Necromancy Array. "I call upon the aid of the restless dead to --" "No, instead you get possessed by a dybbuk." "Aw, son of a --"

Nick is a bit of a psychobilly persona -- fast, thumbing his nose at taboos, and more than a little grounded in horror.

"Yeah, I've run into Dead Head," Nick said. "He seems like he's got it together. Well, that might not be the most appropriate way of putting it, but he's got the beat down and the ghosts trust him. He's good in my book." Nick extended his hand to the new guy. "Nice to meet you. Nick Cimitiere. Man, at this point, I think we're gonna need name tags."

"Well," Nick said, "I got my start in Savannah -- and you know how the South is. It gets into you, and it goes everywhere. It's been my beat for years, but... well, I've come back to Freedom." He shakes his head. "But, yeah. You can leave the South, but it sure ain't gonna leave you."

Nick turned to the new guy, the one in the purple robe. Seemed pretty okay, but... something was flagging the part of Nick's head that reacted in the presence of necrotic energy. It wasn't the palpable wave he got off a necromancer, nor the innate, soaked-to-the-bone quality he got from one of the undead... That cloak's gotta shield him from sunlight... could be he's... well, if he tells you, he tells you. Besides, people make assumptions when you tell them what you do; hate to put this guy in the same situation. Nick extended a hand to the man in the robes. "Name's Nick Cimitiere," he said. "Bit new in town. Gotta say, that's some good scroll work on your arms. You put that in yourself, or...?"

"I think he came up for a visit. You ever run into a guy by the name of Chevalier? Big, bald, ridden by Ogoun..." This could be awkward... "I'm a necromancer," Nick said, and just as Robin's mouth opened, he continued, "but not a binder. I don't raise the dead, and I don't force ghosts or corpses into my service. I just picked up the death sight when I touched the other side, and everything else came after that. I've got some talents, yeah, but if a ghost's going to help me, it's out of their own will, not mine." He picked up a beignet from a nearby dish and took a bite, then brushed the ensuing cloud of confectioner's sugar off of his jacket. "If anything," he said, "I help to liberate spirits who're still tied to this world. I'm not the one who tightens their chains, and God help me if I ever become that guy."

Nick was about to head over at talk to Robin when he heard a flutter of wings outside. He turned to the doors of the room and saw a woman in a black threnchcoat with white wings landing right at the entrance. The wings folded back under her coat as she entered. Damn, he thought. And here I was worried about being too flashy. As the woman in the black trenchcoat walked towards the room, Nick turned to Robin. "You're Robin Cross, aren't you?" he said, offering his hand. "Name's Nick Cimitiere. Ran into a guy in New Orleans who kept talking up your store. Gonna have to stop in one day."

Eric had looked over the invitation, contemplating whether to go with flash or substance. It did say "costumed or casual," so the whole thing was obviously going to be held in trust. Likely a few wards on the room keyed to the invitation, maybe the odd geas or two... would it be better if he went as Eric LaCroix rather than Nick Cimitiere? Then he'd realized that most of the spellslingers in town hadn't even run into him in costume. As long as it was going to be a professional meeting, he might as well go in business clothes. Nick Cimitiere it was. Obviously, the fates had agreed with him -- he even managed to find a parking spot within a block of Pyramid Plaza, which in this town was on par with the lower class of miracles. Nick decided to enter the Plaza in costume. Sure, walking into a major business center with a skull painted on your face drew attention, but it was a bit safer than going into the bathroom and getting caught on camera changing. Besides, it was Freedom City. They'd seen weirder. Nick entered the assigned room, and cast his eyes over the gathered. "I'm not late, am I?" he said. "Bad habit of mine."

Nick Cimitiere, friendly neighborhood necromancer, at your beck and call.

Nick took Dead Head's hand and shook it firmly. "Usually a good rubric," he said, "though I can't tell how many cases I've heard of heroes pounding on each other before they talked out their differences. Name's Nick Cimitiere. And you must be the famous Dead Head."

Nick gladly took Fleur's number. "Thanks, Fleur," he said. "I'll make sure to keep it handy." He then looks to Freedom Angel. "You gonna be sticking around? Just... I have the feeling I've got a few spirits I need to get to know here."

A Night in the Shadows It's night in the Fens. A quick pan-in on the digital clock in a bank shows that it's 11:31 PM. The camera turns to reveal a young kid in a flight jacket; the quality of the shot shows he's carrying the kind of equipment folks usually don't lug around in the Fens without taking a risk. "Okay, we're on," he says. "This is James Porine with OtherSide, Freedom's premiere online magazine for the arcane and the unknown." James turns the camera around, catching the streets in its gaze. He walks with it, and the camera bounces as he does. "Now, we all know Freedom is fairly clued in. We've got Eldrich, the world's premiere sorcerer... Robin Cross, our reader-voted Hottest Spellslinger of the Decade... our city's even got a god! You can't say that about Philly. But we're on the street looking for a new legend. Word has it that a new practitioner's on the streets, with work of a somewhat more morbid bend..." "Oh, God! Keep that thing away from me!" The camera starts shaking faster, making it hard to tell what's going on. When it comes to rest, James stands at the mouth of a dark alley -- unnaturally dark, in fact. There's a street lamp shining right behind him, but the camera shows nothing but inky darkness in the alley. Darkness that seems to be swirling. From out of the pitch black, an intense yet strangely mirthful voice cuts through. "Now is that any way to treat a friend? Of course, I don't beat my friends with a length of tire iron, steal their purses, and leave them to bleed into their brains, but if that's your thing..." "I swear, I have no idea what you're talking about. I... I never even met that b--" An inhuman shriek echoes from out of the alley way, followed by some muted whimpering. "Her name is Angela," the other voice says. "You might have figured that out if you'd shown some common courtesy." "God... oh, God..." "Now listen to me, Mickey -- you can still make this right. You know the precinct down at the corner, right?" "Please... just..." "Mickey, listen. I want you to go down to the precinct. I want you to talk to the officer in charge. I want you to tell them exactly what happened to Angela. Do you understand?" "Y...y..." "Do you understand?" "Yes! Oh God, yes!" "Good. Now get to it, Mickey. And remember... she's watching you." A man comes running out of the darkness, clad in a sweatshirt, jeans and a watchman's cap. He barrels past James, then runs down the corner. The camera trails back to the alley, where the darkness starts to recede. A man steps out of the mouth of the alley. He's dressed in almost all black -- a white T-shirt stands out against a black work shirt with skull and rose filagree, black jeans, black engineer boots, and a black leather jacket. The jacket is studded and threaded with various occult symbols -- some are hieroglyphs, others are renderings in Futhark, while still others seem Semitic. But what really draws the eye is the head. A slicked-back pomadour crowns a face painted like a skull, with the teeth making up the jawline -- and on top of that, the actual mouth seems stretched into a slight rictus. The man pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, sticks one to his mouth, and lights it. Then he notices the camera. "Huh. Didn't know I had an audience for that one." He offers the packet to James. "Want one?" "No thanks. Mr. Cimitiere--" "Call me Nick, man. If I wanted to be Mr. Cimitiere, I'd have business cards that said it." "Okay, Nick... I'm from OtherSide Magazine. I was wondering if we could trouble you for an interview?" Nick cracks a grin -- an actual grin, not that strange rictus. "Hey, no trouble at all," he says. "What is it you want to know?" (1)"Well, first of all, your record shows you operated out of Savannah for a few years... there are tales of you traveling to Memphis, Miami, Atlanta, Jackson, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, even Philadelphia. And now you're in Freedom. So, I guess the first question is... where exactly are you from?" Nick chuckles a little. "Well, I like to think I go wherever my duty takes me," he says, "wherever the dead need a speaker and the living need an advocate. As for where I'm from, well... Savannah's where I got my start, and I still love that town. But I know it's in good hands -- a bit quiet and sedate, and with its own defenders. For those on both sides of the divide. And Freedom... Freedom's always been in my heart." (2)"Obviously, you're... a bit of a sight. How would you account for your appearance? And how do you think others would describe you?" "I'd say I'm a bit sexy -- drop dead, if you'd pardon the pun." Nick pauses. "Really awful jokes aside, though, I'd say I'm just your average guy. Not too big, not too small, not really a standout guy. Of course, that all depends on whether we're trading jokes over a beer, or whether I'm... well, you saw what happened earlier. You think that guy's gonna talk up my bright smile?" (3) "I guess not. Now, your name and the veve on the back of your jacket indicate that you share an affinity with the voodoo loa Baron Cimitiere. But your manner and demeanor seem a bit more suited towards Baron LaCroix, if you don't mind me saying. Do you consider yourself a cheval to the loa, or...?" Nick lets loose a merry laugh. "Hey, someone did their homework!" he says. "But no, I'm no one's mount... most of the time. I've got a good amount of respect for the Guede -- save for Samedi, who seems to have taken one too many swings of the rum bottle these days. But it's mostly professional. I've been ridden a few times -- and yeah, you can giggle at that, but that's what having a met tet's like -- but I do what I need to. And really, when you're running into the distressed dead, a bit of cheer and charm helps 'em. Lets them know they can trust you." The grin grows wider, approaching Cheshire Cat dimensions. "And it really helps the true sinners get an idea of just what's gonna happen to them." (4) "Um... sure. So, why is it you help out the dead?" "When was the first time you saw a ghost?" "Me? When I was six." "What was it like?" "He was... old. Like someone's grandpa. Kept traipsing up and down the stairs at midnight. I... didn't know what to do. Kind of freaked out." "Most ghosts are just like us. Some of 'em are stuck in a rhythm -- like your old man -- just the same way some of us are riddled with PTSD after intense experiences. Others have more will, more volition... but that means nothing if it's damn near impossible to make an influence on the world. You're left alone. Unable to talk, unable to act, unable to do anything but just sit on this mortal coil." Nick exhales, blowing cigarette smoke into the night. "Seeing my first ghost was a crash course in all of that. Helping them find a reward? Welll... I'm telling you, it was like nothing else. There's a lot out there -- more than you think. Restless, helpless, and waiting." Nick drops the cigarette to the pavement and stomps it out. "'Course, they're not all good ghosts. Dead need protection from the living, living need protection from the dead. Good way to help the dead is helping the living, I find." (5)"What with your penchant for necromancy, some of our readers are wondering if your power comes with a price. Likewise, what do you consider the strong suits of your trade?" Nick shakes his head. "You really think I'm going to spill on something like that?" he asks. "Still, to help you out... rum. Redheads. The arts of the dead. Rock and roll. Fast cars. Human kindness." "Um... which of those are strengths or weaknesses?" "You tell me." (6)"Point taken. Don't suppose you could tell me more about your passions? Your great loves, your hatreds?" "I thought I already did," Nick replies. "But, more seriously... I love good music. Good company. Good coffee. Seeing someone walk off to their final reward." He grimaces. "Now, hate? You should see the laundry list. Bigots, bullies, murderers, demons, decaf -- but what I really hate are the necromancers who give us a bad name. You know once upon a time, necromancy was associated with simple divination -- communing with the dead? Now you've got a bunch of creeps with an ego trip and little concern for the ghost they're binding or the corpse they're powering with the spark of undeath. They're so hopped up on death they don't give a damn about life. It's sickening." (7) "About that... necromancy is associated with madness. I don't suppose--" "Oh, I'm probably as crazy as anyone else in this trade," he says. "But at least I know that. I don't view talking to the dead as a perfectly normal thing in mixed company, and I'm not gonna hold a party where my zombie butler pushes around hors d'ouerves. I have my limits." (8)"You deal in death every day. I don't suppose there's anything left that freaks you out?" "There are weirder things than death, and things that dwell in the depths that make it look like a picnic. That's all I'm saying right there." (9) "Got it. Now... what do you want?" Nick thinks on that. "Peace, for those who want and deserve it, living and dead. For the dead who choose to stick around, a chance to see the flow of history without living in fear of some sorcerer making you into his laptop. And justice for those who need it. Always." (10) "Well, we've got your views on death. What about life? Where do you see yourself in the grand design?" "I'm the intermediary. I'm not a full psychopomp, nor am I some sort of divine harbinger of justice. I leave that job to the real Baron Cimitiere, the shinigami, Ammut, and anyone else who claims it. What I do, is help out those who are still tied here. Give 'em comfort, give 'em reassurance, give 'em conversation. Help 'em pass on if they want it, keep 'em here if they don't." (11) "Would you say you have any prejudices?" I'd say I'm your typical 21st century guy -- I don't really care about race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or who you get in bed with." The cocky grin he gives suggests he might care a little bit about that, depending on who the subject of that discussion is. "The one thing that puzzles me, though... demons. I've dealt in plenty of context neutral Underworlds -- despite what the movies tell you, Hades's place gives as much real estate to the Elysian Fields as Tartarus. But Lucifer's gang... the Hindu demon-kings... they seem really out of it. They don't care about justice. Just torment." (12)"You obviously care for the ghosts of this town. Anything else you consider yourself loyal to?" "Freedom City. My loved ones. My fellow heroes. My fellow practitioners, especially. But most of all -- to freedom. For the living and the dead." (13)"All right, to get into the gossip -- jeez, some of our commenters -- is there a Ms. Cimitiere? Or... a Mr. Cimitiere?" Nick laughs. "Like I said, it's the 21st century," he says. "And the answer is, I'm currently single. But I'm always looking for a beautiful -- or handsome -- partner in the game." He winks into the camera. (14)"What about your family?" "Great folks. Not sure how they'd feel about the necromancy thing, though -- they put up with the tattoos, coming out of the closet, going into the arts..." (15)"How do you think those closest to you would describe you?" "Great hair. Better ass. But seriously, they'd say I'm kind, devoted, fair, open, and the bearer of one sick sense of humor." (16)"Would you consider yourself a role model?" Nick pulls out another cigarette. "Kids," he says, "do not smoke or attempt to call forth the restless dead until you turn 18." He lights the cigarette and takes a puff. "A role model? Never thought of myself as that. But... I suppose I could be. Show the world there's a kinder face to necromancy. Encourage better relations between the living and the dead. Yeah. Yeah, I could be." (17)"You spoke earlier about... well, about the afterlives of about eight different cosmologies. Do you follow any particular creed? Voodoo? Hellenic Reconstruction? Christianity?" Nick pauses on that, and shakes his head. "Like I said, I've got friends everywhere. But they're friends. There's still a bit of the good Episcopalian boy in me, but I'm more of a wanderer and a practitioner, and less of a devotee. There are gods I know, gods I fear, and gods I respect. But not many that I worship." (18)"You may be fresh to these streets, but you've got a long history. Are there any teams you've served with?" "None as of yet. But... I wouldn't be averse to working with one." (19)"You seem pretty comfortable with the existence of post-life and divine entities on Earth. What about metas, extraterrestrials, and other species?" "Like I said, I've got no prejudices. They're here, and we're pretty used to it. I've yet to actually walk into the Grue afterlife, but I imagine they've got their ways, just like us. Not a big deal." (20)"All right. One last thing -- we, uh, have a comment from a Mr. E --" "Yeah, that sounds familiar. What's it say?" "Says... 'Be careful in all things. Be mindful of what you have.'" "Sounds exactly like him." Nick stretches, then tosses his cigarette in a nearby trash bin. "Well, thanks for the company. I've got some more friends who need help. Don't suppose you want something real flashy?" "I suppose, but--" "Good." Nick goes slack, and opens his mouth. Out comes the sound of clanking hammers and infernal presses. "What the --?" The sound of screeching tires fills the air. Down the street speeds a black '67 Chevy Impala, painted over with veves in white. Nick hops in the driver's seat. "Wonder how many hits that'll get?" And with that, he speeds off into the night.

Why, yes. Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, I believe I have a thread involving him stomping around Lantern Hill Cemetery as we speak...

"I'm pretty sure he's on Facebook," Nick cracked. "As for the whole... Old Ones... thing, I'm sure he'd accept it. He helped me out with the whole necromancy thing, and I know the image folks have of that. Thin men in black robes and too much eyeshadow, sacrificing kittens and raising zombies for the next Romero flick, live and in 3D. If he gave me a hand, I'm sure he'd be willing to give you one." Nick exhaled briefly. Well, I guess if I had any existential hang-ups left about this, that'd take care of 'em "Thanks, Heyzel. I'm glad to hear it. Hope you don't mind if I ask about trade stuff, but... you ever run into Azrael?"

"It's the makeup," said Nick. "It fools everyone." Nick turned to the angel. "As for what I'm doing in Lantern Hill," he said, "I'm somewhat new in town -- I mean, I've been in Freedom before, but never active in Freedom before. Understand? So, I'm trying to get the town under my feet -- get the feel for the territory, meet some of the local ghosts, maybe run into some of the heroes as well." He looked right into the eyes of Freedom Angel. "I've gotta say, Heyzel, meeting you in person is one interesting experience. I mean, I was kind of expecting to run into you at some point, but... yeah."

Nick had prepared for this. He knew Freedom Angel made this cemetery his stomping grounds. He's done research on the guy. But still, that made no difference when an emissary of the divine appears before you in a flash of light. You've heard Nidhogg gnaw at the roots of Yggdrasil. Baron LaCroix has offered you fashion tips. You ran ahead of the Wild Hunt in Mag Mell. Charon himself told you not to drink the tap water. You've seen a lot of things on the other side, this is not any different... Nick tried to tell himself this. But it didn't help that the part of him, the little kid who got great marks in Sunday School, is screaming with joy and fear, that he was standing before a freaking angel. So he told the kid to sit in the corner for a while, and stuck forward his hand, as confident as he could be. "Name's Nick Cimitiere," he says. "May I just say it's a pleasure to meet you..." Emissary of the Host? Gloried of the Seraphim? "...sir."