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Player's Name: Vorko
Contact info: strannix@gmail.com || AIM: billycat42 || plurk: vorko || PM is fine, too
DW: [personal profile] tickety_boo

Character: William Gideon Dugan
Canon: OC
Version: n/a
Canon Point: n/a
Age: 63
Gender: male



History: William Dugan was born in 1950 in Scotland, in the village of Kilmartin. He had a rough start, his mother abandoning him when he was four years of age. His father returned from the war and took a great disinterest in Dugan's well being. He ran wild, stealing food from the local market for he and his father, as his dad was unemployed and enjoying it, and didn't attend school. When Dugan was nine, his father decided it was time to move on as well and left one morning while his son was out in town.

Dugan was left to his grandmother, Amelia, and from that moment on, his life changed. He had clean clothes, a warm bed to sleep in, proper food, and he had to attend school. He also received something he'd never had in his life up until then--love and attention. School was the only thing he had a problem with. Sitting still for six hours a day wasn't his way. He wanted to be running, fishing, swimming, mucking about in the rain and sneaking his way round the shops, or burying himself in his books. His grandmother was patient; perhaps she saw in him what he didn't know himself.

His power manifested when he was fourteen. Dugan had come home late in the evening, long after school would have let out, in a panic. Something had happened. He was terrified. Would his grandmother leave him as well for being like this? Would he be alone again? She listened, patient as ever, as he described a sensation like no other. Pressure, building in his head and spreading out through his body. As he watched, bright green and thin lines grew out along his arms and hands like veins, and when they reached the tips of his fingers, bright and brilliant light shot out of them, out of his hands, and turned a very unlucky sheep inside out. Terrified and disgusted with himself, he ran down the lane and across fields, as far as he could go. When he'd finally stopped, the strange veins were gone and he was left exhausted and hollow.

Amelia then shared her own secret; she held the ability to use magical power as well. She explained what she knew and what she'd learned. She was a seer, and she'd decided to live out in the countryside, away from others, as her visions could be overwhelming at times. She didn't want to see. She taught him how to control his power, and once he grew old enough, he travelled to Aberdeen for more guidance.

He was apprenticed to an older mage named Arthur, and Dugan devoured the histories and knowledge of the mages. He learned more than his simple destructive power. He could channel natural power to physically manipulate the living, 'fleshcraeft' as Arthur had put it. Dugan didn't like it; it seemed inhuman and alien to him. Instead, he focused on trying to use his magical affinity for spells, rituals and potions. Arthur taught him that he must not ignore his true abilities, and Dugan decided to delve into anatomy. If he mustn't destroy and maim, he could try to heal. He became a healer, though only in an emergency sense. For example, he could stop a dire wound from bleeding further but more intervention would be necessary. He was nervous what he might do if he did more.

As he was studying and learning about his power, he joined a small group of mages in the city, called The Nameless. They kept to themselves, studying their abilities and the ways of magic, both innate and through spellcraft and ritual. He was both joyful to find so many like himself, and intimidated by those who were so skilled and proud. He met his lifelong partner there, a woman named Laire. They were married, and they were happy and loved one another and whatnot. They had one child, Scarlet, who is now an adult and living in California as a psychologist. Time grew longer, and their group also grew, but in power. Dugan gained more control over his own abilities, learned to harness and control power, as did Laire. Scarlet was born mundane, though she knew quite well what her parents were.

Dugan was well liked and respected by many of the mages. What happened next was a hell of a shock to all of them, especially those closest to him. Laire was found dead, a victim of what was obviously a murder of supernatural means. She was found in the home she and Dugan shared, the atmosphere charged with negative energy--a demon had been there, summoned. The evidence gathered was against him, and Dugan was expelled from the the Nameless. For summoning a demon, he was cursed, his magical abilities blunted and locked away from him. Believing Laire's death was accidental, they didn't put him to death, but they did take his last love from him. A brutal allergy to paper of any sort; upon contact with it, nasty things would happen that I haven't decided on yet. Anaphylaxis, bleeding from the face, hours of excruciating pain, I dunno.

The truth was more complicated. A mage named Taranis had taken to consorting with demons, and Dugan had accidentally discovered it was happening. Taranis threatened him, knowing full well his own expulsion and possibly death would be in his future. He knew Dugan, (mostly) lawful mage that he was, would take this directly to the top. Taranis set up Dugan's fall, and took the things he loved the most from him all in one swoop.

For all intents and purposes, Dugan fell off the face of the earth. His life had been destroyed, and he needed time to lick his wounds and heal. He swore he'd prove Taranis had been behind it all, but as time moved on, he became more detatched, pushing back the pain instead of dealing with it. He settled in one of the darker parts of town with a wee bookshop, the building squeezed between two others, and lived above it. The apartment is like a cave, and that's where he hides from the world.


Personality: Before his banishment from the Nameless, Dugan was a friendly, gregarious, warm-hearted guy who was interested in all things magical; the history of the mages and of the Nameless, their laws and traditions, and a virtual encyclopedia of spells and practices. He leans toward lawful, though it's more accurate to say he sits somewhere between lawful and chaotic good. He believes in following the law, up until he believes it's causing more harm than good. For the most part, his fellow mages trusted him, but they knew there was always that underlying possibility he'd rock the boat.

He was born a sensitive child, both magically and emotionally, and it was hard for him to control his emotions, always thinking with his heart instead of his head. He doesn’t consciously remember being abandoned by his mother, but it left a scar on him nevertheless. He distrusts others, yet wants to be near them, his fear of being alone again at war with the need to be with others, loved and wanted.

Magic gave his life purpose, and helped him concentrate. Even now, his mind is always moving, whirling with thoughts and feelings, making him a bit of a nervous sort. Meditation helps tremendously, as it clears his head and calms him. His magical abilities also assisted him, as he could channel soothing power that helped him concentrate and pull himself together. Even so, he still has problems with night terrors and dreams. The worst of them do not fade from his mind for days, exacerbating his nervousness, frustration and anger.

After he was tossed out of the Nameless and cursed, stealing his abilities, he withdrew from public life entirely. He grew quiet and detached, wanting nothing to do with most people. Self-loathing came to him easily, and all his fears of being alone were overwhelming, and still can be to this day if he doesn’t actively keep watch on his emotions. He’s still able to maintain an inner strength that has kept him from turning his own abilities on himself; it’s not unknown for overwhelmed or burned out mages to do so.

Those who know him consider him a pessimist, a grouchy old man who would tell kids to get off his lawn if he had one. He lost faith in himself, trusts very few, and buries himself in his studies. Music is another joy; he owned a piano, a guitar and a six-string banjo, and would lose himself playing music and singing quietly to himself. It’s another form of meditation for him, and he can do it for hours.





Fears: Demons. Dugan is terrified of them, of their ability to rip someone to pieces. In his world, they're intelligent, sadistic, have a particular taste for mages, and are notoriously hard to kill. A mage trapped in a demon's grip can count on a long, agonizing near-death. Demons don't like to let go of their captives until they've been drained of their life forces.
Going blind, losing the use of his hands, becoming paralized. Dugan is a man who relies on himself. He's a loner in his own world, and having to rely on others to help him accomplish simple tasks would be humiliating. Compared to being crippled, he'd welcome death first.
Ghosts don't necessary scare him, but they do make him feel very uncomfortable. In his world, spirits can be trapped on the mortal plane for centuries, some going mad from their lonely existence.

Weaknesses: Allergic to paper. Odd, considering he owns a bookshop, but he wears gloves at all times, and sometimes a mask if necessary. Direct contact with paper of any sort will cause pain at the point of contact, radiating outward. The older the paper, the more pain it causes. He's never continued contact beyond a few seconds; he's not sure what might happen if it lasts longer. So far, the allergy does not leave any lasting effects or physical damage. He wears thin leather gloves to protect himself. Magical texts have the ability to penetrate the gloves.


Mundane Strengths/Abilities: Dugan has never fired a gun in his life, nor has he been taught any sort of martial arts. He doesn't do too badly in a fistfight, though it's due to his flexibility and dexterity moreso than any sort of physical power. He was taught the basics of knife fighting by a mage within the Nameless, though he didn't pursue it much further than a few months. Currently, he's rusty with a blade.
Swords, armor, laser guns, bombs, and other sorts of weaponry are all foreign to him.

Sensitivity/Magical Ability: Dugan is a fleshcraefter. He can manipulate living tissue like clay, mold bones, and rearrange innards. He uses this ability primarily for healing purposes, refusing to use it to harm another living being. He's a very powerful mage, though using his abilities drains his energy, leaving him exhausted afterward.
He is currently magically cursed, leaving him without his abilities, but he is still sensitive to magical power.

Supply List: Dugan would have nothing on him except his clothing, a very small piece of white chalk, and his wedding ring, a plain, white gold band.

Game Transfers: n/a

Sample RP post: (this is a post from the prior game I'd been playing Dugan in. It's out of context, so it won't make much sense on it's own, but it's a sample of my writing and of the character himself.

(And it's over 300 words long, which was the other reason I chose it.)

"Dealin' with demons only gets ye into trouble." In the lavatory? He'd have trouble going for a while, his imagination all too vivid for comfort. Now that he had their book... "Though I dinnae how much I'd be able to avoid 'em if ye say it's where you got it." The book made his nerves tingle in the worst way, moreso than the ones he surrounded himself with. He'd grown accustomed to the itch and the vague burning he felt, even through his gloves and clothing.

When he'd first rested his hand on the page, he felt nothing but the usual sting, but it grew quickly to a gnawing pain. William jerked his hand back from the feeling, a thousand tiny mouths with sharp teeth nibbling at his skin. What was this thing?

"I... dinnae know that going north will be much of a boon if they're going t'kill us all." If that was going to happen to begin with. But William has always taken about half of what Elsbeth said with a grain of salt. The other half, he's put to more-or-less not something to ignore. The problem was, finding which half was which. "Mebbe they're going to burn the millenium dome, that hideous monstrosity." He had meant it to be humorous, but it fell dreadfully flat.

He leaned over. The smell was more than fish, an odor of something dark and lumpy and hungry. It crawled up his nose and coiled around his brain, giving him the beginnings of a colossal headache. It pulled at it, deep to the potent energy locked up there. It wasn't the language that was familiar, but the way it was written. It stunk of riddles.

Perhaps it was best kept in his hands, as long as it took to figure out what it was, what it might mean.

"How much time d'ye think we have, milady?"


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vorko!

June 2013

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