Supernatural is such a broad spectrum of ideas and while you might find something here that is familiar we believe this is something that is inevitability true of most supernatural RP's today. We've taken inspiration from a myriad of books, shows, movies and actual lore from around the world to pull the best of everything together and make our species as unique and exciting as we possibly can.
So much thanks to everyone who joins and everyone who's paved the way long before and, inevitably, after us~
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Dislikes: Doctors, needles, physical therapists, frou-frou food
Quirks: Always has a small sketchbook handy, fidgets by twirling a pencil or small knife thru her fingers
Dirtyface Peak, WA - 1884 The village was small, dominated by the Dirtyface Pack of wolves and an extended family of skinwalkers. They kept to themselves, hunting, trapping and then making their way to Telma now and then to trade. In this small village a little girl was born.
That little girl grew like other little girls in the village, although maybe a bit more like some of the little boys since she was an only child. She trailed her father, bringing him kindling to fuel his forge, sweeping out the coals, working the bellows as soon as she was big enough to do so.
The little girl grew to a young woman, one that worked that forge at her father’s side while helping him keep house after her mother passed on. She learned to deal with the faint burn of iron, to mold it into shapes, into tools, into weapons. And when she wasn’t working metal she was out on the mountain, friending the creatures that lives there, learning to share the earth, the sky with them.
Time passed, one century turned into another and the young woman felt the wanderlust tugging her further and further away from the heat and comfort of home. Finally she gave in, saying farewell to her father, packing a bag, packing tools, and starting to roam.
Odd as it was for a woman to practice such things, her skill was obvious as she moved from town to town. Staying sometimes for days, other times for months. As the years passed she learned to adapt to the new technology, new skills, always building on the foundation of what she’d learned at her father’s forge.
She began her wandering on foot, carrying a bag of tools. As the decades passed she’d gotten a wagon and comfortable old mare for company. And when the old mare died, she’d upgraded to a horseless carriage. By the time she’d begun to wander southwards out of the heavy damp forests of the Northwest she had a mobile shop in a van.
A new millennium had begun and she’d made her way to Mendocino Forest. She was on her fifth van and second cell phone and even had customers that were contacting her to see if she could come back for return contracts. She was even considering settling down when her life disappeared in a crash and darkness.
Construction sites were a great place to scrounge, to pick up scraps of metal that could be used for so many things. Fox had been the first form she’d learned as child, the nimbleness of the small canid second nature to her but she just wasn’t quick enough. There was a reason why demolition sites had ‘No Trespassing’ signs on them after all.
It had started so innocently, debris under her feet unbalancing her enough that she brushed the wall at her side. A wall that was just waiting for a gust of wind or the clumsy touch of a trespasser. She’d almost gotten out of range, almost escaped but almost wasn’t good enough. Her cry of pain was smothered under the crash of brick and steel.
Sacramento, CA - 2002 Hope Flight carried the battered body of an unidentified woman found under the debris of a construction site. Crush injuries to her torso, broken pelvis, an array of lacerations and a compressed skull fracture. Prognosis: unlikely to survive. Emergency surgery to relieve pressure on the brain left her in a coma. Compatibility tests were done to see if there would be any transplantable organs just in case.
Time passed. Ribs healed, her skin unbroken except for the scarring from the multiple surgeries in attempt to repair her skull. The casts on her hips removed and still she slept, just enough brainwave activity for even the most negative medical staffer to acknowledge she was not ‘legally’ dead.
The transfer from the hospital to the rehabilitation center went unnoticed, still locked in darkness. Therapists came and went, exercising flaccid limbs and talking to the silent form. They called her Vix, for the word on the keychain, the only hint of who she was. They argued what the V.B. would stand for.
Then one day, a cloudy day, she opened her eyes.
May 1, 2005 Victoria Barrett was born.
The name was given to her by her favorite therapist, Domonique, so Vix decided to go with it. In actuality, she’d misheard the therapist. Domonique had been talking on the phone to her daughter and had told her to give back ‘Victoria’s barrette’ but Vix’s brain was still scrambled enough that it rewrote those words in her head. Vix was what she answered to most easily and she hoped it had actually been her name before but it was just as likely that it was because she’d been called that so often in her sleep that it had imprinted on her damaged brain.
Everything before the moment she’d opened her eyes on the cloudy day was gone and the doctor’s held little hope it would return. She was a clean slate, a newborn baby with an oddity of skills imprinted in her body, her muscles.
Little by little she learned to sit up, to stand, to walk. She worked with the therapists, her body knowing the motions but not having the strength to do so many things. Memories of her life before the accident, the coma, were little more then the ghost of a dream, now and again something would seem familiar but before she was able to focus on the memory it would fade away again. Once she was mostly mobile, the confinement of the hospital was too much for her and since she had no money, no insurance, the hospital had no want or reason to keep her. With little more then the clothes on her back and a cane to steady herself, she was on out on the open road.
She didn’t know who she’d been but she was learning who she was and the first thing she learned was that she wasn’t afraid of hard work. Day work, under the table jobs, even working as a gopher on construction sites that left her with cold sweats and restless dreams were all accepted. She’d drifted through the state, taking odd jobs that helped to build up her muscles, poor man’s therapy. A visit to a local renaissance faire had her staring fascinated at the blacksmith, hands twitching in faint shadowed motions that echoed his work. She settled there for a time, long enough to refresh the skills her body knew even though her mind did not. Working with Badger wasn’t just therapy for the body, relearning old skills, it was also time that she learned who she was now. He didn’t ask any questions, just was willing to share what he knew of his craft with the quiet woman that showed up at his shop whenever she could.
Day by day she saved, starting with nothing until she had enough for a pack and some basic tools. Then enough for a tent and some better tools. Working harder, getting some regular customers had her saving enough to get a battered old van that stalled out more then it drove but at least it was a roof.
She’d discovered auctions for storage lockers, taking the risk now and then to bid. She had a knack for good picks, enough to make it worthwhile. Her winnings, turning over the various items inside that she resold was enough that she was able to fit her van out as a small mobile shop.
By the winter of 2016, Sacramento was becoming confining, the wanderlust having itching to be on the road and without any goal in mind she continued south towards San Francisco. Her van was her home and her shop, all she needed was a reasonably safe place to park and she was set.