Madame Minerva's page

Four years ago, Madame Minerva killed a man. She hadn't meant to, she just, lost control! And he- he had deserved it. Or that's what she told herself.

Minerva was a fortune teller at an American circus- she wasn't particularly talented at her job, but it was what they wanted from her; with her mixed Romani heritage, she was assumed to have the skills. She had initially joined the circus, however, with the intentions of becoming a strongwoman like Lady Samson, but the other half of her heritage precluded that.

"The crowds just don't want to see a black woman front and center," the owner told her. "Not in America. Besides, I wouldn't let you do it over my dead body."

She continually pressed the issue, especially whenever a guest complained about their fortune or her manners. This wasn't what she was supposed to be doing, she'd say, she's here to perform; all she needed was a chance.

At first, she believed that chance would come on the circus' European tour, as European circuses were typically more friendly to colored performers, but over and over, he refused her. "Not yet Min, the crowd's not ready for you."

So when they returned to her home country of England and he still had no plans to debut her act, she challenged him. "Fight me. If I can prove to you and everyone else that I'm stronger than you, I perform every night in England. If you win, I won't complain again."

He agreed.

They were to box, Queensbury rules. She quickly proved superior, dropping him to his knees three times in the first two rounds, but he kept rising to his feet, undaunted, unconquered. In the fifth round she knocked him out cold, one strong punch to the temple and he was out.

Ecstasy, pure and unlimited. She was finally going to perform, to debut her act. She threw off her gloves and kissed someone in her rapture. And then he came at her with a big knife. She ducked and threw out her arm to shunt his to the side and deflect the blow, but he tackled her and threw her down to the ground, straddling her and mutilating her left hand with the knife, splitting it in two between her ring and middle fingers.

In the struggle she clocked him in the throat, knocking him back and taking control. She pinned him down with her knees and punched his face in until someone dragged her off him. She watched as he choked on his own blood and spat on him as he lay dying.

Her fellows in the circus took sympathy with her and arranged to make it look like an accident, corralling an elephant to trample his corpse. But she had to leave. That was the trade.

She boarded at a bunkhouse in London for a time, selling her services as a fortune teller to make ends meet, but her injured and untreated hand made things difficult; she couldn't afford a doctor to treat or even amputate it, and it left her in constant pain. Nausea and chill set in and the pain spread thru her arm.

One rainy summer day it was finally too much, her fever causing her to drop in the middle of a muddy street in front of a caravan. A Romani caravan.

Her next memories came in flashes: screaming, her mother cradling her, the crackle and pop of wet logs on a fire, soft chanting, a stream of faces each screaming at her, watching a knife cut into her flesh.

She woke in a new place, a waxed tent, rain dripping down the sides. Just outside, a low fire persisted despite the rain. She breathed deep, her fever, the aches and nausea all gone, her pain numbed. With a stretch she splayed her fingers open and brought her hand up to her face- no hand. Her left hand was missing. Bandages wrapped around her forearm, wet with blood. She sat up, wincing and her mother ran to her side.

"Easy child, rest now, mummy's here."

"Mum? How did-"

"Don't worry about how's and why's, don't you worry about nothing. Your mummy will always be here to take care of her girl."

She shoved a glass of thick hot something into Minerva's lap. "Drink this." Her mother puttered about the tent, mumbling, "I told you not to go to America. Here I can protect you, but I can't be everywhere all at once, no matter who's helping me."

"How did you find me, mum? Seems a bit," she paused, sipping the drink, "much to just wave it away as coincidence."

"There's no such thing as coincidence," was the reply, accompanied by a waggling finger. "And you wouldn't believe the truth if you heard it. Suffice it to say I'll always be there for my children when they need me, so long as they stay in reach."

"Mum, I- I'm not a child, I'm 29. You don't travel alone, you don't lay the course by yourself, how could you be there for all of us? Be honest with me. Whatever it is, I'll believe you."

There was silence for a minute, maybe two, neither woman saying anything. "The last time I saw your father, I-" her mother caught her breath and looked away. "I made him promise that if he were gonna leave me like every other man I'd ever loved, he would help me take care of my children. He was a very devout Moslem, he was, e'en if he weren't ever a very good one. Do you remember any of the Arabic he taught you?"

Minerva nodded.

Her mother sighed and continued. "He loved all of you so much. Didn't matter who was his and who wasn't, you were all his children. Loved you more than God. He said, if'n I can't be with you, Queenie, I will have already been thru the gates of hell. He and I, we bound our souls together and offered them to a demon. He committed sihr for you, black magic, that I might always be able to be there for my children when they most needed me. And then he left."

She sat beside her daughter and wept.

"You sold your soul for me?" Minerva asked, reaching out to touch her mother's back to console her. It sounded hard to believe, but she had grown up believing all sorts of things and here, with her mother, it was easy to fall back into those beliefs.

"Not all of it. More like I tore it into pieces, and attached them to my children. The rest, your father and I pledged to the demons." She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "But you'll be on your own from here, love. I can't protect you anymore."

"What do you mean? You found me here, right, you'll always find me."

"You died in my arms, Minny. Tonight I sold what little I had left, as well as everything I bound to you all those years ago. And I'm afraid it wasn't enough."

Minerva opened her mouth to protest, but her mother pressed a finger to her lips and held her tight.

"I'll be back later." And so she left. Leaving her daughter alone with the fire, in the rain.

As she gazed into the flame, nothing else mattered. The air grew heavy and cold, the rain hung in the air, and the fire spoke to her.

"Much has been taken from you. Opportunity. A hand. A life. I have much to give, young one. You need only ask."

The voice was soft and gentle and came from behind her right ear, as though someone was speaking to her just out of sight.

She gulped. "If I give you nothing, will I live out the night?"

"My contract with your mother only guaranteed that she could nurse you back to health and hold you in her arms again. You are still weak, and could soon die, but she has nothing more to offer me. You do, however." The voice circled around her as if being pulled on a rail, the words resting headily in her ears like smoke across water.

"I have already had a taste," it continued, giving the sudden impressions of hands on her shoulders and of tongues licking up and down her neck and jaw. "When I pried that corner of your mother's soul out of you, little bits of you came stuck to it. I need more, Minerva."

A stiff wind blew as it said her name, dropping a weight on her chest, "What do want for it?"

"I'm not unreasonable," said the fire, voice slowly circling around her once more, unseen finger trailing across her back and shoulders. "You don't have to sell it all right away. You can offer me only parts of you."

"Give me my life back."

"Done," the fire sparked and cracked like a finger snapping.

"And my hand, that too."

Another snap. "Everything you want and more. Would you like success, at long last? All that has been denied to you?" The fire snapped twice without waiting for her to respond. "Power? Strength? Knowledge?" Thrice now. "And what will you give me? Your hair? Your youth, beauty?" The fire whipped around, growing in strength and heat, steaming in the rain. "Thirty years of your life! You wouldn't even miss them. But I'll tell you this, the more you give, the more you gain."

"For all that?" she gaped and chuckled, unbelieving. "When I die, I'll give you my soul."

The fire stopped moving entirely. "Are you certain? Such a promise is not to be taken lightly."

"I am."

"The state of your soul is already fractured and contested, but rest assured, I will take all you have to give."

A horned figure rose from the flame, smoke, ash and cold fire. "Shake on it," it breathed, extending a hand. She took it. "Then our contract is sealed." The figure spun and dissipated, the rain extinguishing the fire.

She vomited and fell into unconsciousness.

Upon waking she believed it all to have been a dream, her mother's confession, her deal with the devil, losing her hand. It was still there, at the end of her arm, wrapped in bandages from whatever her mother must have done to save it.

She stayed with the caravan until they left London, at which point she dolefully returned to the boarding house.

Change came slowly and in waves, and then all at once. The first change came about a month after when she saw five new clients in one day, and each returned within the week. And then more came, referred to her by a regular. Quickly, she moved from the boarding house and into an inn, and then an apartment.

Several months later, a man representing a traveling circus approached her. They wanted her to work as a fortune teller, but she pressed her luck, saying that she would, but only if she could also perform feats of strength, acrobatics and athleticism.

He agreed.

Thus began her career in earnest, her face on posters, decorating wagons, people coming in just to see her, Madame Minerva.

The next change started in rehearsal. Normally she could lift a solid 35 or 40 stone off the ground and half that above her head, but today she was confident. With effort, she brought a weight of 520 pounds clean off the ground, jerked it up to her chest, and pumped it above her head before dropping it, exhausted. Testing a theory, she doubled the weight, and again she was able to lift it, but only to a standing position.

One thousand and forty pounds.

She was going to be rich.

She quickly found her limits, only able to handle these extraordinary weights for a little more than half a minute before her hand began screaming at her, but she could find this effort and strength within her any time she needed it.

The last change hit the hardest. One night while getting ready for bed, her left hand, heavily scarred from her fight, fell off.

There was no pain, and at first it just laid there, twitching, but then it grabbed her ankle and pulled itself up her body. Minerva screamed and pulled it off her leg, throwing it across the room. Undeterred, it skittered its way back towards her, dodging her attempts to beat it back, crawling up her leg, onto her shoulder and back down her arm, always evading capture before affixing itself where it belonged.

Like her deal with the devil, she quickly convinced herself she had imagined it all and put it out of her head.

The next day, however, change was evident. The animals actively fled from her and her hand, staying on her right side if they had to be near her at all, her fingers tapped incessantly unless she actively focused on keeping them still, and the veins in the hand bulged. And that night, playing at being psychic, as she was so accustomed to doing, it-

It worked. It was no longer fake. Her first guest walked in, and in the lamplight, she saw them outlined with a faint glow, their aura. They sat down across from her and asked "Madame Minerva, what do the cards hold for me?"

"I'll need something of yours to hold on to," she began, disbelieving their aura and sticking to the script.

They handed her their purse and she was assaulted by visions and imagery; she had to clutch the table to sort through her thoughts- or her customer's thoughts? They were worried about, about something, maybe a family member? Their uncle.

Without thought, her left hand gathered her tarot deck and shuffled them, pushing them across the table. "Cut these," she stammered, still sorting through what was happening.

Her left hand dealt three cards: the five of swords, ace of wands, five of wands.

"Your uncle," she said, left hand tapping, "he will die tonight. You shall inherit everything. Leave me." Minerva thrust the purse back at them and left the tent, vomiting outside.

She took the night off, citing sickness, but couldn't find sleep, solace or comfort. What had she seen when she held that purse? Why did her hand keep twitching? Was it all real?

At last she found sleep, in the early hours of the morning, where she was greeted by a horned man made of smoke, ash and cold fire.

"And now I have delivered the last of what I have promised: knowledge. Never forget what you owe me, Minerva."

It was all real, wasn't it? Her hand, her bout of genuine psychic knowledge, the deal with the devil, her mother's confession, none of it was imagined. And she had given him her soul.

Night after night, she dreamt of the horned man, and finally, growing desirous to leave the contract, she acted out.

She dropped a rack of weights on her hand, crushing it irreparably. Rather than go to a hospital, two friends of hers- a young trapeze artist and a fire dancer -helped her amputate. "At least I'll still have work as a fortune teller," she told them, consoling them rather than herself.

She remained in bed for a few days, happy days, dreamless and smothered in painkillers, but on the fifth night the horned man visited her for the last time. "You will never be rid of our bond, Minerva. I have delivered all I have promised."

And when she woke, her hand was waiting for her on the bedside table, tapping.

Madame Minerva, Human Bloody-Knuckled Rowdy Crossbloodedrager (Abyssal/Infernal) 3
Init +2; Senses low-light vision; Perception +5
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Defense
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AC 13, touch 12, flat-footed 11 (2 Dex, 1 Shield)
HP 28 (3d10+6)
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Offense
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Speed 30 ft.
Melee unarmed strike +9 (1d6+6)
Space 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.
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Statistics
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STR 18 DEX 15 CON 15 INT 15 WIS 8 CHA 18
F +6, R +4, W -1
BAB +3; CMB +7 (+9 grapple); CMD 19 (21 grapple)
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Features
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Background (Charlatan): +2 CHA, -2 WIS, Bluff, SoH class skills.

Feats: Possessed Hand (1st), Hand's Autonomy (Human), Hand's Detachment (3rd), Unarmed Combatant (1st Class), Snapping Turtle Style (2nd Class), Psychic Sensitivity (Familiar)

Traits: Extremely Fashionable (+1 Bluff, Dip, Intimidate IF wearing fancy clothing, Dip class skill), Voices of Solid Things (Appraise class skill, uses CHA)
Drawback: Tainted Spirit (after combat, FORT DC10+rounds of combat or fatigued for 10 minutes)

Skills (7/level): Acrobatics +6 (1 rank, 3 class, 2 DEX), Athletics +10 (3 rank, 3 class, +4 STR), Bluff +11 (3 rank, 3 class, 4 CHA, 1 trait), Diplomacy +11 (3 rank, 3 class, 4 CHA, 1 trait), Heal +1 (2 rank, -1 WIS), Intimidate +11 (3 rank, 3 class, 4 CHA, 1 trait), Perception +5 (3 rank, 3 class, -1 WIS), Sense Motive +6 (3 rank, 3 class skill, -1 WIS, 1 trait)
Background Skills (2/level): Appraise +9 (2 ranks, 3 class, 4 CHA), Linguistics +3 (1 rank, 2 INT), Sleight of Hand +11 (3 ranks, 3 class, 2 DEX, +1 insight, +3 familiar)

Languages: English, Angloromani, Arabic, Latin

Class Features:
Bloodrage: 10 rounds/day
Crossblooded: Taken both Infernal and Abyssal bloodlines, can choose from both lists' bonus feats, at each level a bonus spell is gained can pick from either bloodline or one not picked earlier; likewise at each gained bloodline power, can pick from either side or from one skipped over earlier. However, -2 to all Will checks, and gain no morale bonus to Will during rage.
Bloodline Familiar (Infernal): As per Familiar Folio, traded out 1st Level Infernal Bloodline Power (Hellfire Strike) to gain a familiar as per a wizard of equivalent level, at cost of delaying Bloodline Bonus Spells by one level.
Pugilist (Ex): Gives Unarmed Combatant in place of Fast Movement
Combat Style Student: Gain style feat in place of Uncanny Dodge, treat bloodrager levels as monk levels for feats
Hand-to-Hand Training (Ex): Unarmed damage as monk two levels lower.
Blood Sanctuary: +2 on saving throws on spells cast by self or allies.

Occult Messenger Crawling Hand familiar
Diminutive magical beast
Init +0; Senses blindsense 30 ft, darkvision 60 ft; Perception +4
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Defense
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AC 16, touch 14, flat-footed 16 (0 Dex, +4 size, +2 natural)
hp 14 (28/2)
Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +1
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Offense
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Speed 40 ft. Climb 40 ft.
Melee claw +7 (1d1+1+grab)
Space 1 ft.; Reach 0 ft.
Special Attacks: strangle
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Statistics
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Str 13, Dex 11, Con 14, Int 7, Wis 11, Cha 14
Base Atk +3; CMB +0 (+4 grapple); CMD 10
Feats Toughness
Skills Athletics +9, Perception +4, Stealth +12, Survival +4
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Special Abilities
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Familiar: The master of a crawling hand familiar gains a +3 bonus on Sleight of Hand.

Hellish Aura (Su): Animals don’t willingly approach the familiar unless the animal’s master succeeds at a DC 15 Handle Animal, Ride, or wild empathy check. This DC increases to 20 at 10th level, and to 25 at 20th level. Animal companions, familiars and mounts are immune to this effect.

See the Unseen (Ex): While a familiar is within arm's reach, the master gains the Psychic Sensitivity feat.
Improved Evasion (Ex): When subjected to an attack that normally allows a Reflex saving throw for half damage, a familiar takes no damage if it makes a successful saving throw and half damage even if the saving throw fails.
Share Spells: The druid may cast a spell with a target of “You” on his familiar (as a touch spell) instead of on himself. A druid may cast spells on his familiar even if the spells do not normally affect creatures of the familiar's type (magical beast).
Empathic Link (Su): The master has an empathic link with his familiar to a 1 mile distance. The master can communicate empathically with the familiar, but cannot see through its eyes. Because of the link's limited nature, only general emotions can be shared. The master has the same connection to an item or place that his familiar does.
Teacher from Afar (Ex): When the occult messenger’s master uses a psychic skill unlock while the occult messenger is within arm’s reach, the master gains a competence bonus on skill unlocks equal to half the occult messenger’s level.

Born the 12th of February, 1865, in London at 11:30 AM, Minerva is an Aquarius Sun in the 10th, Virgo Moon in the 5th, Gemini Rising, with an Aquarius Mercury in the 9th, Aries Venus in the 11th and Gemini Mars in the 12th.

Ambitious and strongly desirous of fame, Minerva is hard working and highly logical, often to the point of ignoring her emotions. She is dramatic and overly critical of herself, but also empathetic and sensitive of other's emotions, and she's flirty and impulsive but makes an easier friend than a lover.

Self-serving and literally soulless, at Minerva's core she believes in being a good person, but it's been a while. The last few years have been especially tough: every time the fingers on her left hand tap or twitch, she's reminded that no matter how she lives her life, her soul belongs to the flame.

As a fortune teller, she lies to clients when she can tell what they want to hear and her possessed hand has a nasty habit of stealing trinkets from them when neither she or her client are looking. She's killed before and would again, but only in self-defense.

Even when the old system was serving her best, she was at most a pawn, a trading chip. As a lesser noble in a powerful house, she was given every advantage in society, being well educated and trained extensively in warfare, but soon after she came of age, she was sent off to pay an old debt between her father and his school chum Ileosa Arvanxi- now Queen Ileosa Arabasti, monarch of Korvosa. There, thru magic, manipulation and torture, her mind was broken into a Gray Maiden, the fanatically loyal bodyguards of the Queen.

Ileosa saw Valarie's beauty as insult, a challenge to her own, and thus her face was scarred and twisted, a worthy sacrifice, she thought, so conquered her mind had become. The Queen would become immortal, and Valarie would be her protector until death. But immortality never came for Ileosa. Before Val could pass her initiation and serve, the Queen was beaten back and murdered by a band of rebels. Val managed to escape and returned home, where her father disowned her, refusing to acknowledge her until his recent death.

It has been seven years. Seven years since her scars were cut and burnt into her face, seven years since she was manipulated into fanaticism and hero worship, seven years since the death of Queen Ileosa. Valarie has largely shed this past, worked to become someone else, forget her conditioning, and there are few who know of her involvement in Korvosa.

But three weeks ago, it all came back. The peasants revolting, the city guard disposing rebel groups, martial law, the city burning. It was too much. She began to lose track of time, waking up in strange places or polishing her old armor. Soon, she understood; she was surrendering to her conditioning. Present conditions were too triggering. The Gray Maiden within her has awoken.

Both halves of her want an independent Kintargo. For Val, the tyranny that she had served in Korvosa is her biggest regret, and this time she can stand up and make things right. For the mask, all the mask cares about is keeping Thrune out of her home. Many of her sisters now serve the Majetrix Abrogail Thrune, but she does not deserve their loyalty. As far as the mask is concerned, only the Queen Ileosa can command them, and with her dead, any pretenders must be beaten back by any means necessary.