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Character Name: Dominic Tyler Alternate Identities: The Sheppard Player Name: NPC |
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| APPEARANCE | |||||
| Hair Color: | Black | ||||
| Eye Color: | Black | Height: | 6' 1" | ||
| Weight: | 196 lbs | ||||
| Description: | |||||
| BACKGROUND | |||||
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“The Church has never condoned selective breeding it has just practiced it.” The novice entered the room, head down, and expected to wait for the Mother Superior to look up from the pile of the convent’s correspondence. Rising quickly from her desk the Mother came to the girl and placed a supporting hand under the novice’s elbow. It must be her parents, the girl thought in sudden fear but the older woman smiled and led her through the French doors, out into the morning sun. “If the Mother Church asked you to do something,” the Mother Superior began. “Would you do it?” “Of course, Mother,” the girl said instantly. The older woman laid a hand on the girl’s arm, drawing her up short. “I do not say ‘if the Mother Church commands’,” the woman said. The girl looked into the older woman’s eyes for the first time, her expression puzzled. This girl was an incredible beauty with her Black Irish hair and eyes, and skin as pale as cream. The Mother Superior had seen past that surface, talked with the girl and quickly discovered a lively wit and a depth of intelligence that, sadly, she rarely encountered in novitiates. The child was sunny, never complained and took to the most mundane chore with enthusiasm. She reached out to her Sisters with offers of help without an air of superiority and was the first to offer comfort in times of tribulation. This was a good girl that would someday grow into a Faithful Servant of God, but now the Mother Superior was to perhaps end her dream of being a nun. “I don’t understand, Mother,” the girl said. The figure stepped out of the shadows of the arbor and spoke. “I have a request of you, child.” Startled, the girl spun and seeing the speaker, turned to the Mother Superior with an open mouth. The newcomer came forward. She was dressed as a nun but the color was wrong. Deep blood red, head to toe, including the boots. Under the habit, the girl could see the curves of the other woman’s body, something never allowed with another nun. “I am the Magdalena,” the woman said, her total attention on the girl. “You may go, Mother.” This red nun had so casually dismissed the head of her order that for a moment a protest rose but the Mother’s calm acceptance and instant departure caused her to hold her tongue. “What is your name, child?” the Magdalena asked. “Celeste,” the girl responded. The Magdalena gave the briefest of nods then turned and slowly began to walk away. Celeste hesitated for just and instant the followed, walking beside the strange woman. “I have been awaiting your coming for many years, Celeste,” the woman said, her hands holding the crucifix suspended from her rosary beads. “I see I am not a moment too soon.” Celeste watched the woman’s profile and said “I don’t understand.” “God has given onto you a two-fold task that may forever go unnoticed by the world but also will save a life and bring forth another,” The Magdalena stopped and turned to face the girl. “There is one who needs you more than you can imagine at this time but you will understand soon enough.” “What must I do?” Celeste asked. “You must tend the wounded,” the older woman said simply. The Magdalena, Celeste discovered, was not one to waste words and within minutes of boarding the Papal train she had given up trying to draw the other into conversation. They rolled north up the middle of Italy and crossed into France through Switzerland. Along their route other trains were diverted and the train of the Mother Church passed under the English Channel without the slightest delay. When at last they stopped, Celeste found herself in Liverpool and headed for the docks. The Irish Sea rose up against the small yacht and the girl, unused to the sea spent most of the crossing clutching the rail and emptying her belly, the Magdalena at her side and supporting her. Celeste was horrified for an instant when the wind blew back the remnants of lunch onto the woman’s red habit but the next heave of her stomach drove all else from her mind. When at last they lay tied to the pier in Dublin Celeste met the Magdalena’s eyes. “I am sorry for making a fool of myself,” she said but the older woman smiled. “Just be glad you did not have a bellyful of wine,” she said with a grin. A car picked them up at the head of the pier and cruised out of the city before Celeste’s stomach had a chance to settle but at last she could not hold her tongue. “Where are we going, Sister?” she asked as the green hills of Ireland passed. “I am not a nun, Celeste, please call me Mary when we are alone and the Magdalena in public.” Celeste hung her head, for some reason feeling rebuked though the woman’s tone had been matter-of-fact rather than harsh. “We are bound for a small estate on the Atlantic coast,” Mary said. “You will find your patient there.” “I am not a doctor or even a nurse,” she began to protest. “It does not matter,” the Magdalena said. “All that matters is that you are you.” The estate was a beautiful manor of a mere thirty rooms and was complete with cars for her use and a full staff at her command. On her arrival, the staff had turned out as if she were the Lady of the manor and presented themselves. Celeste was overwhelmed by the house’s opulence but even more so be the reaction of the servants. The Magdalena spoke to her, offering advice. “Do not look a gift horse in the mouth.” Celeste was unsure if it was meant as a jest but the kindly smile of the other’s lips assured her it was meant honestly. “Come, let me introduce you to your charge.” Up the curved stairway Celeste followed stopping before the door at the head. With a grand gesture the Magdalena threw open the doors and stepped into a vast bedroom. Centered between curtained windows on the opposite wall was a massive canopied bed occupied by a single figure to the left side. The Magdalena crossed the room in long confident strides and touched the forehead of the man that lay there staring into nothing. “Celeste,” she said. “May I present my dearest friend, Ethan Tyler.” There was no acknowledgement from the man, not even a flicker of attention in his staring black eyes. Initially first Celeste felt like a character from one of the Bronte book but occasionally the Magdalena would arrive with stories of the man’s life. It was filled with adventure and more than a little unbelievable even to one as innocent as Celeste but the woman spoke as if each word were from the lips of God. Demons, vampires, evil faeries. Celeste scoffed to herself but listened nonetheless because the stories were entertaining. Ethan Tyler, it seemed, was at once the trainer, bodyguard and confidant of the extraordinary Magdalena. From his teens, he had worked with her to hone her skills, at first as a sparring partner then later as teacher. Now, though only 35, he had been laid low before he could pass his prodigious knowledge on to the next generation, a generation that may never exist. At first her duty seemed just that, a duty the Church required but as she came to know this man through the words of others, he came to life to her. When she sat by his side for long hours she often read to him, at first faltering of the novelty of speaking aloud and to a non-responsive audience then with growing confidence. She started with Shakespeare and soon found herself moving around the bedroom acting out the parts as she read. Her voice began to take on inflections, emotional to begin, then altering accent, tone and quickness of speech to differentiate between characters. By the time she had reached Midsummer’s Night Dream the staff congregated secretly outside the room to listen to her. She finished the last of the Bard’s plays, she had held Romeo and Juliette to the last, coincidentally on Midsummer’s night and dropped into the chair place near at hand to Ethan’s head with tears running down her cheeks. She looked at her charge’s staring eyes and the depression of the play only increased. How horrible it must be to be trapped in your body like that, unable to respond or interact with the outside world. With a small sob she covered his hand and squeezed. “Shall I never see you smile?” she whispered. His eyes slowly closed and she thought him asleep but when the tears leaked from the corners and traced a trail down his temple she froze. Then he smiled, opened his eyes and looked straight at her. “Why dost thou weep, fair Juliette?” he whispered, his voice dry as dust from long disuse. Then she laid her head on his chest and wept. His hand rose for the first time in years and rested upon her head. He was as weak as a kitten, his muscles atrophied so much that the lifting of his arm was nearly the limit of his abilities but his voice improved faster than his body and with it his mind. She pushed him around the grounds in a wheelchair at first, allowing no one to help her get him into it and though he could talk he rarely did so unless they were alone. In the garden, hidden by the hedges, she sat on a stone bench beside him and told him of her life and calling. For a long time after her tale, he was silent, worrying some point in his mind. When he spoke, his words caught her off guard. “Will you get thee to a nunnery now?” He asked, his gaze holding hers. “Will you return to your calling and become a nun?” “I . . . “ she began and realized she didn’t have an answer. Taking her hands as they rested on her knees, he lifted them to his lips and whispered over them “Please stay with me . . . as my wife.” The Magdalena was stone-faced at the announcement but she knew it was destined to happen. She had helped to arrange it. He had to disappear from her life if he was to grow and heal and most importantly, pass on his legacy. It was the way of the Magdalena. Standing beside the Alter, Ethan Tyler awaited his bride, the Magdalena on the opposite side of the aisle as Celeste’s Maid of Honor. Ethan looked across at his oldest and dearest friend and saw both the joy of his happiness and the sorrow of her loss of him. She smiled and their eyes touched. They each knew this had always been meant to happen and both now accepted it. Celeste stepped into view and all else disappeared from Ethan’s mind. God had blessed him with her and he would never need again. Dominic was born a year to the day later and from the beginning his parents knew he was special. Ethan because of God’s Promise. Celeste because she was a mother. The boy was perfect in every way. The strangely beautiful woman dressed on leather and silver arrived for Dominic’s fourteenth birthday with a gift. It was an odd gift, given by an odd woman but it fit Dominic’s hand like nothing he’d held before. As he danced around the lawn, displaying an unearth prowess, his parents stood with the Magdalena and watched the boy whirl the flail in a combat dance. “You have taught him well, Sheppard Tyler,” she said. Ethan looked at the woman who bore the title he had once served. He had not been informed of her change and it hurt him to see another wearing that uniform but it was God’s Will and he could only accept it. Though the body was different, he could see in her eyes his old friend though now just a part of this Magdalena. Celeste watched her son still struggling to come to grips with the needs of the Church. Called to service in her day, she accepted without reservation that Dominic too had a Calling. As a mother, she just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. “You know he will be home on week-ends, dearest,” her husband said as he kissed her temple. “I still have much to teach him.” “But when will he have a chance to grow up?” she asked, gazing at her beautiful boy. “His calling is not to the priesthood, Celeste,” Ethan reminded her with a little twinge of guilt. “His Way is not restricted in any way and he may give up all if he wishes. Beside them the Magdalena watched the muscles work under the tanned skin. She was not restricted in any way either and she was only a few years older than her new sparring partner. Though many of her predecessors and their respective Bishops had fought tradition, she planned to embrace it wholeheartedly and her Bishop certainly was prefect in every way. Some things are require early training to master, Dominic thought as he knocked the girl off her feet for the tenth time. She sat in the dust of the arena glaring up at him, her staff a half-dozen meters away. He leaned down and offered his hand which she took, a pulled her to her feet. “You have no respect for me,” she complained. “I have every respect for the Magdalena,” he assured her. “But it is my job to make sure the only one that puts you on your butt is me.” She grinned at him and dusted her ass. Two years into their training and they were the best of friends when alone like this but in the presence of others, he was all business and she a cold as ice. “Shall we have at it again?” he suggested. “Or have you rested on your butt enough for one day?” She glared at him and leaned over to recover her staff. Dominic tried hard not to scope out her ass but smiled at the dust that caked her seat. “Are you looking at my ass?” she asked without looking. “Of course,” he replied. “I was just admiring the dust pattern.” With a spin she hurled the staff at him like a spear, know there was little change in connecting but knowing also it was expected. The six foot long, two inch diameter length of oak rocketed toward Dominic’s face. He put up a hand palm out as if to ward the blow. It struck an inch from his palm and exploded into slivers. The Magdalena barely had time to throw up her own hands before the shower of wood hit her, piercing her in a hundred places. With a sob she fell to her knees, driving several lengths of wood into deep into the joints. She screamed and flopped onto her back. “God in Heaven,” Dominic gasped then dropped to his knees beside her. She looked like a porcupine, her entire front covered in splinters of wood embedded into her skin through the padded sparring armor. The Magdalena laid flat on her back, tears flowing and hissed “Pull them out!” “I should get Father . . .” “Pull them OUT,” she commanded. “It is YOUR job to train me AND tend my wounds.” Her face was twisted in agony but she laid perfectly still, her hands clinched to the point of piercing her palms with her nails. As he was ordered, he began to pull the splinters from her body. The Magdalena held the jar and shook it. The contents, one thousand three hundred and twelve pieces of wood, shifted. She was still finding splinters but in places she decided were best left for her to deal with. Dominic had been horrified when she had ventured her conclusion as to what had happened. The thing was, she had far more information than he and knew very well magic existed. She also knew it was not unusual for a Bishop to also be a wizard. “It is time for you to train as a wizard,” the Magdalena said in a tone that brooked no objections. “How long will that be?” Dominic asked, not liking the idea of leaving the Magdalena alone. “As long as it takes,” she replied. “You know it is not without precedence.” “Yes, Magdalena,” he said with a bowed head. The girl’s figure was outlined by the door and frame as she moved the towel over her body. Dominic swallowed hard, his mind devouring every little detail. She turned slightly and her reflection in the floor length mirror gave him a full frontal view of her. He sucked in a breath so hard he feared that he had been heard and ducked back, leaving the room in haste. This was going to be an impossible assignment. To actually be living in the same house as this . . . vision of beauty was going to be torture. Glancing back at her bedroom door, he picked up the phone and dialed the Vatican. |
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