Quinn Helmsley

Unconventional Trauma Nurse

Description:
Last Update: XX/XX/XX

E-MAIL: q.helmsleyr.n@gmail.com
HOME ADDRESS: 1839 South 6Th Street, Minneapolis, MN

PROFESSION: Trauma RN

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VIRTUE: Xxxxxx
VICE: Xxxxx

EXPERIENCE: X

ATTRIBUTES

Intelligence X; Wits X; Resolve X
Strength X; Dexterity X; Stamina X
Presence X; Manipulation X; Composure X
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SKILLS

Xxxxxxx (Xxxxxx) X; Xxxxxx (Xxxxxx) X; Xxxxxxx X;
Xxxxxxx X; Xxxxxxx X; Xxxxxxx X;
Xxxxxxx X; Xxxxxxx X;
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OTHER TRAITS

Merits: Xxxxx X; Xxxxx X;
Health: X
Willpower: X
Size: X
Speed: XX
Defense: X
Initiative Mod: X

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EQUIPMENT

Weapons: Knife of Avezah
Gear: Xxxxxx, Xxxxxx, Xxxxxx
Cash: $XXX

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Demon Rules

· Morality: Typically, Demons do not possess a Morality score. Quinn does have a Morality score due to her separation from Hell. She is subject to the Morality rules and is at risk for Derangements the same as any human.

· Virtue: Typically, Demons gain nothing from their Virtue. It is more of a “mask” it wears when it wants to appeal to a human’s more honorable sensibilities. In Quinn’s case she is subject to the benefits of a Virtue the same as any human. This is because of her rejecting the diabolical and her connection with her host’s intellect.

· Vice: Typically, Demons do not gain Willpower via their Vice as humans do. Normally they gain Willpower whenever they are in the presence of a human performing an action in service to that particular Vice. Quinn has rejected evil thus is subject to the Vice rules the same as any human.

· Banishment/Summoning: If Quinn is without Willpower, she can be banished or summoned all the more easily: rolls to do so gain a + 2 bonus.

· Demon Tier: Quinn was a Greater demon however now she is a unique hybrid of demon and human.

· True Name: Quinn’s True Name is Avezah. Anyone knowing her True Name has some power over her, providing + 2 to all rolls made against her.

· Demon Tell: When Quinn experiences an extreme emotion – whether she be enraged or in the throes of ecstasy – her eyes become completely black betraying her true self. She can also control this aesthetic ability and make her eyes black at will. When used on a human it adds a 2 dot bonus to intimidate attempts.

· Demon Ban: Quinn is repulsed by burning sage, she cannot possess anyone (or anything) that does not grant expressed permission, she is subject to devil traps, cannot cross salt lines, and is burned by holy water as if it were acid.

· Fiendish Flaw: The Pall: Flames dim in Quinn’s presence and a chill fills the room.
Bio:


Demons and Things…

Demon Name: Avezah

Meat Suit Moniker: Quinn Helmsley.

Demonic Motivation: Anger, revenge and self-loathing, restoration of balance. Quinn has a “devil may care attitude” with a “means justifies the ends” mentality. She is very demon with human qualities. She is manipulative, dangerous, cunning, passionate, charismatic, intelligent, worldly, ancient and flawed. A demonic Robin Hood, if you will.

Hell Escape: I have always believed that humans were reckless and somewhat charming in their benign ignorance in fucking with things that shouldn’t be fucked with: Making deals with cross roads demons, séances, cults, self-proclaimed witches and Satanists. Also, spirit boards; those are my favorite. So innocent! You can go to a local toy store and buy them for $19.99 plus tax, and getting them to work takes very little research. Once a few humans reach out toward the ethers, BAM! They open a door for all sorts of fun things to make their way through. The first that make contact are usually the standard fare of confused or stubborn spirits who refuse to cross over. Then, if you wait long enough (perhaps a few thousand years), you may get your chance to find a piggy back.
It’s been about six months since Peter Stanaway had been drunk and desperate. Peter was a gambler; his proclivity for drinking, cheating, and high-stakes poker had caused him to lose all of his family’s savings. His cheating had wrecked his marriage leaving it hanging by a very thin thread. So when times are desperate you take desperate measures… you buy a spirit board in hopes that you can summon something friendly enough that will help you out by telling you the winning lottery numbers or simply makes things all bright and shiny again. Demons love desperation. These are the ones that attract the things from nightmares, or should I say things worse than nightmares. Peter opened a gate in his living room, 20 ft. away from the doors where his wife and children slept. When he began having visions of chopping his family into small bits he panicked and destroyed the board in the fireplace hoping that whatever he had attracted would simply vanish. As many things aren’t so simple in any realm, the gate remained open. I escaped from hell through a child’s play toy right behind one of Hell’s most twisted non-beings by the name of Melthan.
Peter and his family contacted a local priest by the name of Father John Kaiser. After blessing the house multiple times and finding it for not, he began trying to make contact. Melthan, of course, was not very cooperative. I had spent more than enough time in hell to know I hated other demons and the like, so, I squealed like a pig in heat. I contacted the good Father and let him know my intentions to help him return Melthan to the Underworld. This lead to a very pissed of demon being sucked back into hell, securing my freedom, and landing me in quite a bit of trouble with the boys downstairs. After finding myself a vessel, I called the Father up to gain his help in taking out a few more of my “friends” that I knew to be in the area. I reintroduced myself as Quinn Helmsley, as I have taken on the identity of my vessel and I do not want word of my true name going around. It seems Father Kaiser is friendly enough working with me as I have shown myself to be on his side of the cause.

The Vessel: Quinn Helmsley 24, R.N is a former Coma patient who suffered an aneurism during her morning jog. After being in a coma for 2 weeks her prognosis for survival was poor. Avezah convinces her that she will not wake up and that she can give her “New Life”. Supernatural hunter Quinn Helmsley is born.

The Huntress: As I said before, I HATE other demons. In the Underworld we all have jobs to do. My job was essentially a guardian (think police). Basically, Lucifer picks us to keep order in the chaos, because, even in Hell, there are rules and a chain of command. Keeping order involves keeping the idiot demons from torturing each other as well as making sure the souls assigned to them are tortured properly. Watching the humans every day disgusted me. The position sounds glamorous, I know, but essentially we are disliked and made out to be “Satan’s Bitches”. After a few hundred years, you just want all those stupid demons to be locked up far, far away from you (Hence, my escape to this realm). I feel for the humans, as I have watched them through their worst of times. I had faith in their ability to overcome, but as time has gone on, they have gotten weaker. I’m going to help them as I feel it’s the least I can do. This will be my Paradise, but first I will need to eradicate as many Hell-spawn as I can to get some breathing room. Maybe I should have hopped a ride in to someplace warmer like Florida, but I figured the cold would be a nice change of pace.

Control: Avezah has full control of her vessel, though at times she feels as if her conscious isn’t entirely, her own.

FAKE BIOGRAPHY

There’s something perverse about how nature handles things, biologically speaking. You’ve got your major killers: Cancer, Obesity, and Diabetes. Then you’ve got ones that influence killers: mental illnesses of all flavors. But then, every once in a great while you get something that you just can’t explain. You may have your theories but none are entirely accurate enough to explain the situation you may, or may not find yourself in.
Blood has a smell. It’s metallic and rusty, and when you put it alongside a burning base of a wedding cake; you got yourself a puke inducer. Did I vomit? No. I should have in retrospect, but the site of bloody hand prints, drag marks and chunks of human flesh had me a bit distracted. My parents had run this bakery in small town Chisholm, MN for 14 years. It had been my mother’s dream. She would smile this knowing, bright smile as she mentally constructed how many tiers my wedding cake would have, how many marshmallow fondant flowers would adorn the sides, how the light would make the edible glitter sparkle just so. It would have been perfect. I wasn’t entirely ready for marriage in any way, seeing as how I was only 18. But, I would be a liar lf I said I hadn’t thought about it intensely. What girl doesn’t dream of a special day where you’re the definition of beauty, the first dance, the sweetness of each of the moments, and lastly the entirely all-consuming wedding night: thick lusty air, sweaty hands and tender, slow kisses. But, I digress. These are memories that will never be. They are thoughts left to float around in the mind providing torture and regret to the soul in the most self-destructive, self-deprecating, self-loathing times of your life. You know the moments. Today was one of those moments for me. Today was my prom. It had been two weeks since I had found my parents in a small kitchen, with mouths full of each other, dead eyes wandering, desperately seeking a way out, an endless death rattle echoing off of the designer pots and pans my father had bought my mother for their 17 year anniversary. It was everything and nothing that you would imagine it would be. Wrong. So fucking wrong. They came after me so fast. Frighteningly fast. I begged pleaded but they were completely unresponsive, there was no glimmer of life in their eyes. Yet they were alive in some capacity. They say that humans, when faced with a life threatening situation, will do anything to stay alive. Some will fail, from fear or weakness. Others will rise to the occasion. I didn’t want to rise, but, I did. As my mother stretched her flesh peeled hands towards me, knocking me down, I knew. I knew I had too. I grabbed for a tenderizer and swung. It made a wet, dull thwack and stuck. As I pulled it out blood shot in all directions like some angst filled art students macabre paint-flinging project. If you stared long enough at the blood it started to make shapes. Sticky wet shapes. I struck again and again and again until she just stopped. My mother’s sweet face now an obliterated mess of human strings and shards of bone. Gone. Just… Gone. I was too fucked up to cry. Too busy repeating the same grotesque game of whack- a- mole on my father. The Father that taught me to walk, eat Oreo’s, let me dance with him while standing on his feet. The father that had just taught me how to test the oil in my car not 5 days ago. MY father. Dead. Now the same ooze as my poor re-dead mother.
I don’t even know how long I stood there. Screaming, pulling at my hair before I heard the sirens and the voices. I don’t remember how or why I’m not sitting in a cell right now instead of standing in front on my mirror putting the finishing touches on my makeup. It just is. All I could think of is how my mother should be there fixing my hair and going picture crazy. How my father should’ve been waiting at the door to throw a barrage of questions at my obviously terrified date. “What are your intentions with my daughter?” he would have said. Instead I was waiting on the porch, waiting for the one boy I had shared nearly everything with. He may have been a jock but he had crooked smile to die for and a dice bag that made any gamer girl beam with pride. He was mine; all I had left and held dear in this world was walking towards me with a white lily corsage. The same white lily corsage, that not 4 hours later, was coated in a dark sheen of sanguineous matter that matched the same like stains on my petal pink dress. Not even being voted prom queen could spin this into a positive experience. No prom queen should be picking up the entrails of the boy she planned to marry off her silk rhinestone, toeless pumps. Yet, it was reality. Some sick, twisted, horror filled, reality. We were all trapped in the gym; Students and teachers ripping each other apart. Blood and brain recoloring the streamers and confetti. Screams and cries filling every space. Every. Little. Space. This was not the way it was supposed to be. The night was supposed to be filled with awful teenage colloquialisms, spiked punch, and heavy petting. Not heavy chewing. This is the night I snapped. Really fucking went round the twist. I broke off the snack table leg and began bludgeoning anything that moaned. There were so many bodies, so many pieces of bodies. I tried to help those that were injured, but they all turned. All of them. I killed them all. I was the only one left. Long live the queen.
There was no explanation for what happened; None that I came across right away anyhow. I walked from that gym down a dimly lit, wet, gravel road and disappeared. I moved to Minneapolis, and enrolled in the UofM for nursing. I’d seen enough gore to know that I could handle the worst of the field. I studied too hard, partied too little, and grew too close to a dangerously good looking man (Alex) who was student teaching in my Med Surge class. He was familiar to me. I wish that I had known what I know now, then. He knew me. Small town girl me. He knew things about me that a very rare few did; and they were dead. I began to realize something was amiss when I agreed to a date with a fellow classmate ( Eric ). Eric and I had gone to coffee a few times and had a few successful group projects completed. We just meshed well. I didn’t believe it would evolve into anything serious. Only a fool gives her heart away twice. At least a fool who’s had to kill.. The night after the date, Eric disappeared and my apartment had been broken into. Weird things had been stolen; my hairbrush, toothbrush, a few pairs of my unmentionables. It was unnerving. Then the messages began. Messages that spoke of dark things, in quiet whispers. Promises of an eternity spent together. It was not Eric. I knew this because someone mailed me his eyes, with a note that read “He’ll see you, no more”. This was around the same time I realized that Alex had also gone missing, But, I swore that I saw him everywhere I went. Watching me. The night I saw him watching me through my window I knew I had little choice but kill again. He was stalking me. I had come too far to die now. That Friday after classes I found his address and knocked on his cobalt blue door and waited with baited breath. I wanted answers; and I got them. Be careful what you wish for they say. They weren’t lying. The house was dark and the smell of previously lit candles permeated the air. There was no furniture save a small round table and two folding metal chairs. The most obvious decorations were newspaper articles all over the walls depicting a horrible tale of terror in a small MN town. Chisholm. Pictures of the dead, alongside their obituaries, interviews with family members of those left behind, people pleading for those that were missing to be found. Then there was a wall dedicated to me. Entirely, to me. A perverted shrine of happy and not so happy memories. My prom shoes still blood stained, my hairbrush and underwear. Family photos of just my face, gaping black holes or X’s where others should have been. A small doll with my hair glued to the top.
The floor had a large red painted symbol. One that I now know was a summoning circle of some kind. There were things in jars, and putrid smells, jellies, pastes and herbs. It looked like a demented version of Hell’s Kitchen. But, this was my life and I was reliving every painful fucking memory picture by picture, object by object. By looking through these photos I noticed a face I recognized. It was Alex. Then, he was a boy I once called friend. A boy I had called Trevor. Trevor had been a close friend until I’d started dating. He had become distant despite my efforts to stay close. I had never been one to abandon anyone. I hadn’t realized that while I was walking my pathetically tragic self down memory lane “ Alex” had come home and was now watching me from his kitchen. “ I loved you, you know?”. I turned and faced him, staring straight into his cold eyes and said:
“ This. This is NOT love. This is quite the opposite. You. It was you… You did this to all these people. You’re sick Trevor, sick.”
“NO! The only thing I’ve ever been guilty of is loving too much. You, this is your fault. You are the reason I did this, the reason I learned how to do this. You made me this way!” Stifling a sob he began to pace and laugh. It was unnatural. It was obvious that whatever he had become was neither here nor there. He had evoked something through witchcraft that had taken control of his childhood infatuation and turned it into an obsessive jealous rage. He didn’t really love me. No, that purity was gone. He was holding onto a memory of being in love, a love that he coincided with a need; a hunger to fulfill. His very rage had caused the small town to hunger for something they would never satisfy through the consumption of flesh. He was a monster, and needed to die. The battle between human preservation and revenge was non- existent. Revenge had long since claimed victory, had poisoned and spread through the mind and heart as simply as neurons fire across synapses. We were both obsessed. Who’s won out would only be determined by who was a pile of blood and bone by the end. With that it was an easy decision. Every single thing that had happened swung like a pendulum of anger. The result was a hard shove and fight to the nearest sharp object. Flesh was ripped and fingernails were embedded in the floor. There was nothing kind or forgiving about this. The aim was to kill, and kill well. The knife sunk into his abdomen as smoothly as silken ribbon through ones fingers. It felt… good. I wish I could say I stopped there, but I didn’t. I lost count of the thrusts. He looked like someone had run over him with a lawn mower. I didn’t feel remorse. I didn’t feel anything. I left him there.
I graduated and I went on with my life as a damn good trauma nurse. At times I imagine him dead, shredded, really dead whenever I feel the cold static feeling of being watched. But I remind myself all the time that you just never know if you’ve killed something the right way. What’s still out there? Whatever. Fuck it. Nothing surprises me anymore.
I’m going for a jog.

Quinn Helmsley

Minneapolis: Behind the Veil Robin0426