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About Father Asher AndersonAppearance (ripped from backstory):
Tall and lanky with no bulk to speak of, Asher has the slightly disturbing proportions of a man stretched by a torture rack. Coupled with his dark clothing and intense grey eyes, he can come off somewhat foreboding. This impression is heightened by a vague unnatural air hanging about him, primarily owing to his complete lack of hair; the priest suffers from what Wikipedia tells me is called alopecia universalis. The condition renders him totally bald. Asher's head is a pale dome, devoid of even eyebrows or eyelashes, making him appear all the more stark and severe. The hairlessness might lead the observer to expect an older man, but instead Asher's features are smooth, rendering his age ambiguous and only adding to his unsettling aspect. On a more positive note, the priest is soft-spoken and (in his civilian life at the very least) carries himself with a quiet confidence; coupled with the dependably steely gaze and his clerical white tab collar adding a certain authority, Asher typically comes across as... well, as a priest: stern, but only becomes he wants what's best for you.
Backstory:
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum..." "Somebody get this crazy bastard offa me!" The legionnaire tried to fight off the strange chanting man, tried to move away from him, but it was no use; the wound was too deep. She'd taken a hit as her squad had moved to engage the... she'd didn't even know what to call it. Looked like a god da*n movie monster. Certainly not what the briefing had described. Everything had gone to sh*t and now she was separated from her squad, lying bleeding on the street. She could still hear her teammates' gunfire in the distance. And then this freak shows up. "Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra.
"Shut the fu*k up and get away from me, you AAAH...!" Pain. Trying to kick the stranger had been a poor idea as the open wound cruelly informed her via fresh waves of searing agony. The legionnaire was in no state to do anything but pass out. She might have done so already had it not been for her alarm at seeing this bizarre man. He'd appeared almost as soon as she fell, which convinced her that he'd been surreptitiously following her squad for God knows what reason. And if that wasn't suspicious enough, there was his appearance. Tall and lanky with no bulk to speak of, he had the slightly disturbing proportions of a man stretched by a torture rack. Coupled with his dark clothing and intense grey eyes, he came off very foreboding. This impression was heightened by a vague unnatural air which hung about him, perhaps primarily owing to his hair: he was completely bald. His pale dome of a scalp reflected the streetlight while even his brow was devoid of hair, making him appear all the more stark and severe. Did he even have any eyelashes? The hairlessness should have indicated a man in his older years, but instead his features were smooth, rendering his age ambiguous and only adding to his unsettling aspect. Of course, all of this could be forgiven had he just behaved in any way like a normal person, rather than holding her down and ominously chanting in what she could only presume was Latin. "Let me go... Just let me go. Please. I need..." The thought had slowly emerged to the legionnaire that this could be how she died. The bleeding wasn't stopping. Her comrades were busy fighting for their own lives. She could die here, on a dingy street corner with an anonymous maniac holding her down. That was no way to die. And fortunately, this was not to be the case. "Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris,
As the man's intonations concluded, his hand lit up with radiant light that put the dull rays of the streetlamp to shame. It looked like sunlight. Felt like sunlight too, as the legionnaire could feel the heat emanating from him. She jerked in panic as she expected to feel pain too, as the man laid his hand upon the open wound. But instead there was nothing. No pain whatsoever, in fact. The wound stopped aching altogether, and when the man's hand gradually stopped glowing and he removed it, she could see why: there was no wound. Where there had been a gaping gash seconds earlier, there was now only smooth skin. There wasn't even a scar; only the blood remained as evidence of there ever being an injury. While she was still inspecting herself in wonder, the man relinquished his hold on the legionnaire and stood up. She looked at him again as he retrieved a pistol from an inner pocket and silently offered his other hand to her to help her get up. It was then she saw one detail of his dark dress that had gone unnoticed up until now: at the neck he wore the white tab collar of a priest. "How did you...?" "Praise the Lord. And pass the ammo." ----- It has been said that Portland is the least religious city in the US. How appropriate then that it is home to Father Asher Anderson, who, until recently, could be said to be among the least religious priests in the US. Despite being brought up in a god-fearing household (or perhaps because of this), Asher would not identify as a Christian until much later in life. A bright but typical teenager, he latched onto a rejection of faith as a means of rebelling against his parents, as all teenagers must. School life was also difficult, as despite having a good head on his shoulders, said head was rather out of the ordinary: an autoimmune disease rendered him completely hairless. Children being notoriously cruel to anyone different, young Asher had few allies in his early life. At eighteen, his parents not being willing to fund any higher education for their wayward son, he joined the US army, more so out of a lack of personal direction than patriotism. There he underwent basic and then infantry training, eventually being deployed to the Middle-East. Travelling has a curious effect on some: many never feel a sense of national identity, the quirks, virtues and vices imparted on one by their 'natural' surroundings, until they visit a foreign environment. Just as the chameleon is undetectable in its own habitat, a person's cultural baggage may be invisible unless contrasted against a different culture. Asher felt this effect strongly whilst deployed, and was especially struck by how significant the Christian faith was to his own identity. No, he still wasn't a believer, but he noted how much of his morality was directly informed by Christianity. Charity, respect and goodwill for one's fellow man, forgiveness, the rejection of riches, love... every value he held dear, was willing to fight for, were all those the Christian church espoused. With a thoroughly un-Christian environment acting as contrast, this became obvious. Asher's Mid-East tour turned out somewhat anticlimactic as he never saw combat there. What he did end up seeing a lot of was the good book; Asher spent the uneventful days at the army base reading the Bible in its entirety. He found much of it very agreeable; Joseph's life, for example, acting as a parable for how intent should trump the letter of law appealed to him. Other parts of the book were harder to swallow; turning women into salt pillars ain't cool.
With his tour of duty completed (and not a moment too soon as he was slowly earning the nickname 'Preacher' among fellow soldiers), Asher returned home where, after working menial jobs for a few years to build up some savings, he entered the Roman Catholic University of Portland. The academic life agreed with him, but truth be told the young man almost felt like he'd gone from soldier to undercover agent. Here he was, learning divinity from master theologians and even making friends at the local parish, whilst ostensibly a heathen. Asher still had no faith. He wanted to help people and fervently believed that the Bible's lessons were the key to happiness and contentment, but as for belief in an omnipotent benign creator? No, just as everything else in the book 'God' was simply a metaphor, a symbol of everything good in the world, just as his nemesis Satan represented all that is evil. Asher told no one of his secular thoughts, fearing how they would be received. And one Masters degree in Divinity later he then joined seminary school, after which he could finally call himself Father Anderson. And this is where the troubles began. Father Anderson was well received by his local flock, strange appearance aside, and Asher himself was happier than ever before. Yes, he was essentially living a lie, heathen priest that he was, but what did it matter? He was helping people lead more fulfilling lives and that was enough. But his life was to take another strange turn one late evening when he ambushed a grave robber desecrating the local cemetery. The ghoul had dug up a grave and made off with his prize upon being startled by the cleric. Asher gave chase but halted to help a young bystander knocked unconscious by the fleeing perpetrator. The culprit was never found.
This moment was the turning point for Asher Anderson. Because it marked the first time he truly prayed. Despite his vocation, Asher's faith in Christianity was purely philosophical. He believed in the moral virtues espoused, not in any man in the sky. But people pray for two fundamental reasons: either out of reverence or in desperation, and it was the latter the priest was feeling now. With no other options, he prayed for the life of the innocent bystander like he had never prayed before.
This is where we now find Father Asher Anderson, a man in turmoil. The cleric's entire world has been turned upside down as he now knows that not only are miracles real, the divine has chosen to act through him. Why him over any other, genuine, priest is the question that hounds him, as well as the matter of what he is to do with this power? Asher has refrained from telling anyone else within the church about his newfound abilities, partly out of fear and sheer unwillingness to be a modern-day prophet and partly out of a need to get a better grasp of his position first. The man still only wants to help others, and is deeply confused about how best to utilize his gift.
For he is a shepherd. And the good people of Portland are his flock.
Crunch:
Asher Anderson Male Human Cleric 1 30 Years of Age LG Medium Humanoid (human) Init +4; Perception +8 -------------------- Defense -------------------- AC 17, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+5 armor, +2 Dex) HP 9/9 (1d8 + 1 Con) Fort +3, Ref +2, Will +5 -------------------- Offense -------------------- Speed 20 ft. Weapon: dagger, -1 attack, 1d4-1 damage, 19-20/x2 crit, slashing or piercing Weapon: big bore revolver, +2 attack, 1d10 damage, 20/x4 crit, bludgeoning & piercing -------------------- Statistics -------------------- Str 9 (-1), Dex 15 (+2), Con 12 (+1), Int 12 (+1), Wis 16 (+3), Cha 14 (+2) Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 11 Feats: Point-Blank Shot, Precise Shot Traits: Seeker [+1 Perception, class skill]; Reactionary [+2 initiative] Skills - (4 points + 1 FC; armor penalties not included):
Skills - background: Profession (priest) +7, Know (history) +5 Languages: English, Latin
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Restorative Touch (Su): You can touch a creature, letting the healing power of your deity flow through you to relieve the creature of a minor condition. Your touch can remove the dazed, fatigued, shaken, sickened, or staggered condition. You choose which condition is removed. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Wisdom modifier. --------------------
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