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About Gary B

  • Rank
    Monster Bait
  • Birthday 09/15/1971
  1. Father West crept along taking in the details of the house thinking that there could not possibly be something as odd as the caretaker described. Probably just wierd coincidence at best. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the rest of the people assembled. Seemed odd that such people, those people would be brought together to do whatever it is that needed to be done. Weren't there actual experts out there who work as teams and knew each other. Ghost hunters? Of course, it could be that the caretakers wanted an assortment of eyes to survey the oddness. What West couldn't get past was... What do we do once we find the nature of the problem? There really wasn't a handbook he knew of to handle this. 'Wierd Stuff for Dummies'? Maybe he could figure out an exorcism rite of some sort, do it and be gone. Already the air was filled with personal tensions. It didn't take a phychologist to figure that out. The girl Krystal had something going on with that young fellow Ian? Even Lily seemed a little eager to move on along with the holy father. Coming from his previous line of work, he would have welcomed the chance. It has taken so long to discipline himself to be undone so quickly. But the thought was tempting. Enough to have to confess about surely. The yell for help was what broke his line of thinking. His attention snapped to and he looked at Lily and then looked around for any possible sign of the source. Father West ran from the room and found the voice. "Are you okay down there?", he called. "Stay put, maybe we can find a way to get you back up or find our way to you."
  2. Father east stops at the door to the sitting room and opens the door, and quickly realizes that he is not being followed. He turns on his heels. "Whose name? I would think it would be he first name you could think of". A second more consideration. "Which means if someone hears a scream. People should take head." Click to reveal.. 2010-04-03 20:16:34 Father East rolls 4 dice to Wits / Perception 2,8,8,3 (2 successes) ( Site )
  3. From the blog of James Wright (Part 1) So I get this kid in the store. Some sort of sociology major or some such. Guess he wants to know more about people. I say, if you want to know more about people; know more about money. Thats the key I think. Money drives people INSANE. Anyway. This kid, well...Should I use kid? I'm not much older than him. I'm pretty fresh out of the oven myself. But, he's still baking. Probably literally. This guy comes in and starts sniffing around my store. Doesn't ask any questions, barely picks anything up. I think he may have looked at some Tarot Cards, and some pretty stones. But that was it. But he keeps coming back, doing the same thing each day. I don't have a busy store. Mainly I trade obscurities and oddities with knowledge hounds. I scour a bit on a book here, or learn a bit about objects from different time periods. That sort of thing. But he's become a regular. It didn't occur to me until I had other customers in the store. He had been waiting to meet them. No one specific, just people who came into the store. Thats when I figured out he was a sociology major. He introduced himself as Nathan Quan. Korean I believe. He told my customers he was a sociology major and then started asking them questions about what they were looking for in my store and why. That drove off some customers. So I kicked him out. He left without much fuss. But he didn't go anywhere. Instead he lurked outside, like a vulture. That went on for a few weeks. Until he invited me for coffee one night. I sighed and agreed. Well. I learned he was gay, and apparently haunted. His dorm was anyway. He had just been too afraid to directly ask about it. I wondered if he was being preyed on by bigots really. Pranks and the like. Until he showed me some startling things. First was the alien marks on his arm. I wouldn't say it was wrighting, but he was branded for sure. I don't really have much of an eye for medical things but it didn't look burned in, but it was definately pressed in, red and irritated. The lines made no sense. So I took some pictures of it. He mentioned also that friends of his would often catch him standing in place muttering in some strange 'babbley' language. If they nudged him, he would snap out. He had already been to a doctor, who thought it was some college prank - as far as the brand went. He was taken through CT and MRI scans and they concluded: Nothing is wrong with you. The marks will go away. Well they didn't. They stayed as I did my research. In fact as I had more coffee trips with him, the brand seemed to be growing. Ugh. The kid looked like he hadn't slept in all this time. He was haggard and falling apart. Even offered me sex if I could some how 'fix' him. But, I don't swing that way. Then he was found dead a few days later. I didn't get the full report, but hearsay and rumor flooded his dorm building. The room was sealed off. But I had heard that some students had seen blood everywhere. Another saw Quan's body. It had been erupted or some such. Something came out is what another student said reporting to me when I asked; "I heard the screams. Then it ended. Then the thumping. Like bass drums. I called the police." That was just the beginning...
  4. East was a bit rattled. Perhaps taken by surprise by Krystals assertion and direction of groupings. "I suppose this is okay". He looked from face to face trying to read them, but his own flustered mind got nothing out of it. "Well then. By God's good grace we shall look around in the lower portions". He had forgotten his bag on the floor as he moved his way between the ladies and into the sitting room. His face was marked with the rednes of embarrassment. It wasn't as if he had ever dealt with women pining over him in the past. It was that he had never had to deal with it as a man of god.
  5. Name: James Tiernan Wright Age: 28 Concept: Spirit Influenced Researcher Faction: Non Group Name: Non Virtue: Compassion Vice: Pride Attributes Mental: Intelligence - ooo, Wits - ooo, Resolve - oo Physical: Strength - oo, Dexterity - oo, Stamina - oo Social: Presence - oo, Manipulation - oo, Composure - ooo Skills Mental Skills (-3): Acedemics 3 (Research), Computer 1, Crafts 1, Medicine 1, Occult 3 (Magic, Spirits), Science 2 (11) Physical Skills (-1): Drive 1, Larceny 1, Brawl 1 (4), Stealth 1 Social Skills (-1): Empathy 1, Persuasion 3, Socialize 1, Subterfuge 1, Streetwise 1 (7) Other Traits Merits: (7) (Includes source book name) Resources ooo Spirit Ear oo (Book of Spirits) Libary oo (Spirits, Thaumaturgy) (Second Sight) A Little Knowledge o (2xp) (Reliquary) Unseen Sense (Spirits) o (2xp) (Book of Spirits, WoD) Visionary Trances oo (4xp) (Second Sight) Warding ooo (6xp) (Second Sight) Shadow Contacts ooo (6xp) (Book of Spirits) Willpower: 5 Morality: 7 Health: 7 Initiative: +5 Defense: 2 Speed: 9 It was one of those nights. Maybe you know them. If you don't, then let me explain the quizzical case of James Tiernan Wright and the night he was born. This of course happened at the Good Samaritan Hospital where his mother lay in arduous labor for ten hours. Complications you might say. At this point in Los Angeles there was an outbreak of meningitis caused by an unknown virus flying around. Spreading rapidly. Probably a bit more rapidly than it should if you are aware of such goings on in the undercurrents of the world. As such, everyone was stretched a little too thin. That thing fed. Oh did it feed. A spirit of diseases. It poked enough of its influence across the fabric, breaching the gauntlet to spread its filth among us. Its own name, Speaks With Plagues rode the current and found its way to Karen Wright. She was a vessel, something to be ridden like a horse. But Speaks With Plagues grasp was loose. His gorging had made him loose sight of dangerous things to beings like himself. For reasons unknown he couldn't hold on tight. Karen Wright may have been an excellent looking vessel, but she possessed a mien that Speaks With Plagues had never thought to look for. By the time he began shoving himself inside her, it was too late for the ill-begotten spirit. At the time, doctors expressed their urgency as she became pale and weak. The spirit growled and muttered unheard curses in a language no one should have to understand. Karen Wright may have had some sort of natural ward or soul that could destroy a spirit, but it was destroying her as well. With its last bit of essence, it whispered a curse at the frail woman. She was exhausted just to hear the utterances being spoken. And back it went to the shadows where it would lay dormant for years. James Tiernan Wright was born and Karen Wright passed on. His father, George Wright was a simple fellow. A tall handsome man, upright in every way. A community man. Would have made mayor or councilman if he really tried. Instead, he was the face of the Cober Youth Group which had several ties to the local government and other lower-middle class folks like George. This life wouldn't have been such an issue if he didn't have to hide his problem child Jimmy away from the public. Oh how James wanted to play sports with the street kids. Dancing on the asphalt with the beat up basketballs, barely keeping the air. It didn't matter to him that things were just run down. He just wanted to be normal. But the voices, well..mostly noises he heard said otherwise. “Tic Toc Tic Toc”, went on and on the wind up clock. It's little whistling koo-koo bird arriving at the hour, every hour. The clock was pristine. It was said to have traversed six generations of Wrights before James. But to James, it was the scariest thing imaginable. To James the clock said, “Slurp Chunk Slurp Chunk”. Rather loudly, at all possible times. The bird didn't whistle, it called. Something horrible to James. When it was gurgling and giggling it wanted to be wound. And so George Wright, an obedient slave wound the clock on time. Other things never sounded right to James. Too many things made talking noises when they had no right to. How could a boy be normal, or even sleep when he really had a monster in his closet. At least sometimes. How James would scream. Or how about those times at school when things would whisper around the halls when no one else was present. Sometimes in the quiet of the class, taking a math test. George could not abide by his son's psychotic imagination. He would not have it. His public face was too much. Add the fact that he began blaming James for the death of sweet sweet Karen. All too soon, George was becoming a complicated fellow. Secretly he brought James from one doctor to the next. Fix my kid. The years following were dark times indeed for James. When one drug would fail, the next was explored. Sometimes they even thought the meds were working. Other times, his mind was just somewhere else. Quietly now he would drool to the sounds of babbling things nearby. His body and mind were a mess at the age of ten, and there was no cure for what ailed him. George on the other hand was doing fine. He would wind his clock, make pretty for the money people and his neighbors. But the twisted thing that he had become on the inside was about to take James to a very dark place. It happened all too quickly for James. He sat in his room listening to the Mews and Chitters of songbirds. Rather the things near the songbirds. George had arrived home, riding a dark cloud. Some promise made to him fell through and the money he was supposed to get for the youth center dried up. It was to be closed. James could only try to sympathize with his father, not having much experience. But the darkness in the man spilled over into his hand as it swung. There were no screams, just a bit of blood and many bruises. Things had begun orbiting around James at this point. The anti-depressants and experimental anti-psychotics had poisoned him. Things in the shadow prodded at him. Sometimes they would ride him. Sometimes they would use him. Other times they dragged him in to do dark things with him in the shadow. George was arrested months later on child abuse charges. At the age of twelve, James was taken into foster care. For a while things looked brighter for James. The dark things and their twisted wants faded away for the time being. It took twelve years for James to break out; he smiled in the sun. He was now just James. He went to school. We was able to perform well. The mumbles and burbles he once heard were somehow muted. He didn't make many friends. By most standards he was that odd kid. He was brought in to the household of Ricardo and Rose Decarlo, a mix mutt sort of family who had problems having children. They had taken care of approximately six teenage foster children in the last ten years. James would be the youngest they had ever brought in. They accepted him as he was and didn't force him to do anything or be anything. They just let him resolve his own internal storm, gave him enough TLC to break his shell. James Tiernan Wright was reborn. High School is when things really took a turn for James. The clouds had cleared years ago, he was now fifteen. In the years between, not once did James visit his father, speak of him or even think of him. Not once did he go home to that crooked koo-koo clock. Happiness seemed to be a recipe made from one part forgetting, two parts of no remorse about the past. Here in the land of teenagers, James became a young man of business. He wasn't the strongest, but he was fairly smart and quite good at bargaining. He took up the nefarious business of writing reports and the honest hand at tutoring. Both earning him a bit of money. Thankfully he could get along with most folks without coming off weird. Even though he knew many people, he didn't really make any good connections. That just wasn't part of his world. His attachment to his foster parents was pretty tight. They gave him that warm happy feeling as he was guided along onto a path of well-being and prosperity. That was until his Foster father Ricardo, suffered a sudden illness, eventually dying a week later to the effects of meningitis. His wife Rose Decarlo became sullen and withdrawn after the fall of Ricardo Decarlo. The care this couple gave to James was no longer available. All too soon the whispers crept back up, one of them laughing weakly. Due to good grades, and a little help from others in the community he was able to get a scholarship and grants to attend UCLA. There were no things babbling at that time. Happiness made it go away. College went well. He excelled at his business and finance classes. Once in a while he would hear from Rose Decarlo who move on to live with one of her foster kids who had gotten married and was having kids of their own. He was excited to move on and up, perhaps one of those normal lives he'd seen on TV or read in books. His social life had picked up. He had girlfriends, but nothing he treasured enough to keep. Lucy Tember was his latest interest, making him happy. She was able to make the titters and totters of that other place go away while she was around. Seems that while paths are being traveled in ones college years, often the routes are chaotic. Relationships are never what they seem at this point. Maybe they are more than they seem. And it was the very chaos that caused George Wright to begin writing a letter. The first was to find James. The second was to James directly. Even as the letter was opened, before one neat hand-written letter was read; the world seemed to darken and the sounds of that other place began seeping in. He read it regardless. It only contained a few words. “I'm coming for you son. Love Dad”. As if something had known his feelings, a rain storm complete with thunder raged on outside. He tried to show police the letter, but it was like a fever induced hallucination. The letters were not the same. “Do not contact me son. Love Dad” they read for the police. It was found out that after eight years in prison, James Wright had been processed and deemed worthy enough through the merits of good behavior to earn parole. Of course, under the stipulation that he would make no contact with his son. That was part of the plan for George Wright, who immediately dodged patrol and started walking west through the desert towards Los Angeles. By the time he reached the University Grounds he was a quivering shambling thing, barely resembling a human being. But the face of that man, once George Wright stayed intact along with his original plastic smile that he fed to the public while his son suffered emotional neglect. On the night George arrived on campus, kids started dying. It was in one of the western quads that it found James and began tearing through small gatherings of college students to lunge for him. James hadn't had much time to react. If not for the screams, he would have had no warning. But the thing coming down the lawn of the quad was too impatient. James ran. Not being an athlete, there was no chance of getting away from the creature that seemed to be on his heals at every corner. After a few minutes of running, he manged to bump into Lucy. Before he could even explain what was going on, she was gone. The thing impaled her with one of its appendages. It stood tall, looming over James with its face beaming out of the smile of George Wright. The gurgled laugh came from the oozing pores. Blood and green ichor ran along the sidewalk as James backed up and the creature followed, still holding the impaled corpse of Lucy. What happened next was too quick for James to really process. The creature glowed as it stepped into a circle of chalk that had been drawn in the asphalt of the sidewalk. A couple of persons seemed to step sideways out from behind an invisible barrier as if cutting reality. James was stricken by all the mutated reality. They did some sort of battle with the monster. Vaguely James remembered a thing with teeth bit into the creature with his father's face and slew it in the end. Vaguely James remembered being brought by strong arms to the clinic down the street. Vaguely he remembered hearing frantic doctors talking about another virus outbreak, people dying from meningitis again. At this point the voices would never stop. His major switched. He changed over to history, religion and things esoteric. The night of George Wright had altered him along a new chaotic path. They didn't see the horror James had saw, the others; police and campus people saw only the smiling face of George Wright. They didn't hear the creature's breathing or its laughter. It was that laughter from the other place. James wasn't alone. Those who survived not only being impaled by the thing, and the plague that followed remember mostly about seeing something they had never seen before. They did not see George Wright either. Not on that night. He was warned several times, anonymously to stop what he was doing. To stop looking for the information he was looking for. James did not listen. The voices and noises from the other place continued. James had never been much of a sentimental person in his life. Yes, he did join Rose Decarlo from time to time to go see the grave of Ricardo and place flowers before the stone. Yes, he eventually went to the grave of his mother with his father; apparently a tool just used to keep up appearances. James did feel a need though to cry for Lucy Tember. On the ground where she was slain, he cried on bent knees. And then on his hands. Her stain still remained a year later, and the tears James cried now would remain as dots on that surface forever. It was hear that another thing spoke. You want? James wanted to know what it was that was here. The thing had a price. The price seemed alien to James. Bring it sadness and confusion, and it would talk. Bring it things that have caused such things too, and it would talk. Cause sadness and confusion here and it would talk. Maybe. It might have wanted even more than that. For now it talked. Because James was just those things. A being filled with sadness. A being torn by confusion. This was his start. The lift he needed to direct his life. From that point, James would find the things he needed from time to time. He had a place, a thing that could point him in the right direction if he needed it. He tried not to use it. It was a disgusting feeling to be near that spot. After he graduated, he had acquired some jobs. Apparently he also had an infusion of cash waiting for him after graduation from the sale of his dad's possessions. Apparently one koo-koo clock was sold for more money than James would ever think it was worth. All of this wrapped around the fact that Rose Decarlo gave him money as well to start his own business. He opened up shop in a store front that had opened up near the UCLA campus. It might be new age trinkets and junk, but Californians and confused college students often looked towards spiritual things. He began collecting curious oddities, old books with odd texts and so on. While the true nature of the world wasn't an open book to James. He was beginning to see a larger picture. He was able to surmise that his father, perhaps even his mother were destroyed by a spirit; perhaps a demon or ghost type creature but he'd never be absolutely sure. What lay ahead was a new frontier for James, and all those whispers and talking things. Code:***XP LOG*** Date Trait/Exp. Type Rank Gain/Cost Balance 01 Apr 2010 Creation Points - 50 50 01 Apr 2010 Merit: A Little Knowledge 1 -2 48 01 Apr 2010 Merit: Unseen Sense (Sprits) 1 -2 46 01 Apr 2010 Merit: Visionary Trances 2 -4 42 01 Apr 2010 Merit: Warding 3 -6 36 01 Apr 2010 Merit: Shadow Contracts 3 -6 30 03 May 2010 Month of April - +4 34
  6. Jeremy looked the man in the eye and took his hand. "That sounds good, Professor. Religious studies? Interesting. Hopefully our problem here falls into our lore. Though I remain skeptical just in case."
  7. The priest; that being Father East smiled as he shook the hand that belong to Krystal. His expression showed one of confusion. Perhaps on how he should handle this. It's been a while since he was really among non-perishners, who tended to be moderate in his area. "A pleasure to meet you", he said with a red blushed face. The smile continued, interrruped by polite chuckle and wave as he answered Ian, "Hello...son. Um, as far as I know I'm the only one coming. That is unless Mr. Robbilard sent away for more out of his people cataloge". He put his shoes into his travel bag and in turn produced a pair of old loafers that had seen better days. "However, given the situation", said as he pulled on the loafers. "If there is something actually going on, splitting up isn't a bad a idea. But we should have a cental...I don't know...headquarters? Perhaps here?"
  8. I've tried to plop down a marker just outside the university just west of the Frat houses and found that there is no option for it. At least not for myself.
  9. Father East watched blankly as the agent walks out, waiting for them to step out and close the door behind them before turning to the assembled crew. His expression changes visibly. In his hands a simple black leather travel bag, and on his face rode a cheery smile. "Hello all. Well yeah I'm late. I hope you all forgive me". Jeremy's speech is lax. His attitude seems to be genuinely cheerful, perhaps glad to be out and about in the world again. A breath of fresh air in contrast to the halls of his usual dormitory. Setting the bag down by the wayside, he leans on against a chair and removes his shoes. "Oh wow. THAT feels better".
  10. Vital Statistics Age: 40 (Appears younger) Height: 5' 11" Weight: 172 Handedness: Right Tattoo's: Eagle with fiddle on back Concept: Heard the Calling History: Jeremy East in his youth was known as the "Rocking" Violinist back in the late 80's and early 90's. His music style of combining distortion with an electric Violin, Viola and from time to time Cello and Banjo for novelty sake. He had toured with the likes of the Trans Siberian Orchestra and Apacolyptica as a guest performer. His fame was not epic, but he was well known for his talents. During a tour entertaining troops in the first Gulf War, he was shot when some raiders decided to make trouble. The chest wound was severe and Jeremy was in critical condition for a week. He was brought by military medivac to St. Christians hospital in Germany where he recieved care. Candlelight vigils were held by his fans who could make it. For a time, he was more famous when he wasn't performing than he was when his music rang through the air. The dreams in his sleep aren't something he will talk about. They were too personal. The face of the raider who shot him, a young man; younger than Jeremy himself spoke personally to Jeremy. Speaking of the ways he would suffer in hell. He could not rest properly after that. Even during his waking hours the raider's face appeared in the strangest places, always laughing and grinning. Jeremy was found often walking through the halls of St. Christians mumbling about the end of humanity. It was decided by the clergy in the area to perform an exorcism after Jeremy pleaded for help. The media went into an uproar. His fame was drowling in tabloid seas, muddied by words about alien mothers who injected Elvis with UFO DNA, causing a demonic possession...or some such. The exorcism was performed privately and away from the prying eyes of the public. The skies opened up for Jeremy at this time. Some how, some way the exorcism cleared the way and Jeremy was free of his nightmare. This was his calling. Now twenty years later, his following has died off for the most part. A few lingering "Rocking Violinist" fans can still be found. His albumns still sell in those small little mom and pop record and CD stores. Jeremy however has dedicated his life to the Lord. The last public appearance was on a VH1 "Where are they now" interview where he reported he was satisfied with his life as a member of the church.
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