[Bixir] Pompey Albus Augustus Severus

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
Psalms 73:26





Name:
Pompey Albus Augustus Severus, “The Medium”
Gender:
Male
Race:
Quincy
Canon/OC:
OC

Visual Appearance:

Physical Description:
For a Quincy that has risen to Sainthood, Pompey is a rather frail thing. He does not seem to have much strength to him at all, even through the use of Blut. His appearance is completely disarming, a twig, fossil-like specimen, standing only five feet and seven inches tall. His figure as a whole is at odds with those around him, in spite of his other attributes that have made him a Saint.
Clothing/Misc. Items:
Were it not for the Saint robes that Pompey wears prodigiously, one would think he was any ordinary priest, fitting in as well as one of his ilk can in Japan. Unless it is asked of him by the Revered Cardinal, Pompey prefers to dress like a mundane man of the cloth while out in the world, making it more difficult for him to be made as a Quincy, let alone as a Saint of the Holy See. Pompey’s Saint robes are not so different from this disguise, primarily eschewing the traditional black for the Quincy white. Pompey’s fashion is simple, something that continues to distinguish him, perhaps fittingly, as the Saint of Bastards.
Sexuality:
Heterosexual
Goals:
Like all Saints, Pompey desires the complete destruction of the Shinigami and their Soul Society. However, his convictions run much deeper than merely the end of the Quincies’ enemies and their way of life. Driven by his obsession with legends past and the power they may yet offer, Pompey is searching for the true power that his Vollständig is pretending to wield. Should the Bastard’s obsessions turn to be true and become realized, then the Quincies will assuredly have unquestionable dominion over souls and their precarious fate.
General Personality:
The face of the Saint of Bastards is a jovial one, to say the least. He is earnest, bright-eyed, and above all else, kind. He is a man deeply of the cloth, as devout as one could possibly be to the Holy See and its way of life. He gets on well with most at the Vatican, and many without. With that said, Pompey is a man disciplined by his faith, and will not hesitate to point out when his peers are straying from the teachings of Christ. Not even the Revered Cardinal is beyond reproach, should he find her breaking code, for any reason. There are no exceptions in God’s world, least of all for his chosen. Though strict in these things, he means well for everyone, wanting only for his fellows to one day join him in salvation, rather than damnation. As the proverb goes: a rising tide lifts all boats.

The heart of the Saint of Bastards is passionate yes, and more than anything, it is shrewd. He sees things as they are, without error, so pointed were his experiences throughout his life to see the truth when it presented itself, and where falsehood reigned in its absence. It is the same for sensing the faith of others, and acting accordingly. Though Pompey is no inquisitor, he is keen like one, and unafraid to sniff out weakness within the Holy See. There is no place for hubris in the Holy See, and Pompey would as soon as expel these heretical dullards than see them continue to dilute the Master’s vision with their ignorance. His sense of things are cold, if firm, unyielding against any dissonance in the Quincy creed.

The soul of the Saint of Bastards is detached from the rest of his character, to the point of belonging to a different person entirely. Pompey is a cruel, haunted man, now more driven by his condition than whatever sense of self he may have had in the first place. Long before he ascended to Sainthood, Pompey acted in accordance with his delusions more often than his own instinct, preferring the comfort and glory of the former over the failings of the latter. He is quite possessed, a facet that many of the Saints are likely aware of, though no more encouraged to act upon, lest his ire be drawn to their curiosity, mistaken for heresy. His righteousness is a twisted vision, just as likely to view Quincies as the enemy as he is to act towards their true enemies. Nothing is left to chance in Pompey’s world, everything either in support of his quest for the Spear of Destiny, or working against his quest, given to him by the Lord Himself. Pompey convinced himself of these things long ago, more advantageous for the Holy See to work within his mad world than to dissuade him from his fantasies.

History:

The child was a lonely one, and haunted. Dearly haunted, by what came to him in sleep, and as the years crawled by, by what came to him in day. They were small at first, faint whispering that he wondered whether his parents were saying something about him when he wasn’t paying attention, or if those few he considered his friends spoke of him behind his back. That paranoia served him well, guarding the child for a time against the more concerning reality that would set him on his path. They were of times past, spirits yet laid to rest, or perhaps speaking from that rest, interested in this child for reasons known only to the Lord. It was a strange and curious affair, but for this family, so entwined with the divine, perhaps it was not surprising that his fate would come to involve such things.

Every morning you wake, you thank the dear God for this blessed life you lead, so far removed from the inquiry of what came before, and the powers that would turn you and your children away from the true light of the Lord. You know, in the deep recesses of your soul, that you are wrong, that you are diseased in your faith, continuing to walk down this false path, among thousands who would heed your ill will… and yet you persist. You must, knowing no alternative, knowing only the long shadow that you have cast over God. Enveloping His light in sin and evil, there is but a single outcome for such a life, such a faith, welcoming and noxious as the night that one day comes for you. No symbols protect you, no rosary, nor cross, nor shroud against the swift might of the singular truth in this world.

After all, their cloister was one among many, with only the teachings of the good book and its most heavenly father to guide them. That is the singular truth, with nothing else on this Earth of value, all else anathema to the promised world that that truth would lead them towards. This was the tale the child was given, emphasized all the more by the voices and images that came to him, increasingly so as he matured through adolescence. That tumultuous time only saw delusion disguised as enlightenment, despair wrapped in devotion as he continued to blossom into a twisted seed for the work ahead. And ‘lo, there was much, much work to be done.

You see that world, further yet from the revered sanctuary to which you owe your devotion. Once, you followed that path, a wayward pilgrim of that faith, hoping to spread that salvation across the seas to the east, to those who had never known that hope. You learned of their ways, of worlds beyond your own, worlds that would not accept you, or permit the singular truth. It did not matter to you, taking this “faith” over your own, forgetting, burning away your very identity, that quest that made you complete. When the just came for you, carrying out their will against the unholy, you did not resist. You could not. You knew well what you had done, and the price that must be paid for the void in your heart.

At first blush, it was more schooling. Studying more sophisticated ideas in bible study, though now in a new place, far from whatever that child may have called home. The temples all looked the same, smelled the same, taught by the same kinds of faces and robes, however sincere or putrid their wills were towards the boy in question. The only thing that mattered was that the message was just and pure, composed from the Lord himself. And indeed it was, coming to include other things that were not necessarily of the Bible, but all too important for that work that lay ahead. Quincy, reishi, Gintō… and most important of all, Shinigami. These words became more familiar to the boy than the verses he had been learning, those chants that would eventually come to hold greater meaning. Destiny was only beginning to unfold, as was the truth that the child desired, needed, for his soul to find purpose.

The child’s training, now an adolescent, was an arduous process. His intensifying visions became recognized as a matter of great import to his new profession. He saw less and less of his family, something that he hardly noticed at all. Changing one set of habits for another was hardly a difference the growing man would remember. He took more closely to the Gintō and apparent sorcery that he and his peers had at their disposal. It felt apocryphal at first to wield such power, pretending as the Lord himself. In time, these “spells”, strange as it was to refer to them as such, came more naturally to him than many of the Quincies that were training him. For all his physical and mental frailty, this rising star was very much that, and someone to keep a close eye on. It was the same with the other side of his coin: his sense of self seemed to be withering, seeing other faces in the mirror, speaking voices that did not belong to him, just as he heard them in the waking day. Even with this pedigree, there was little one could do if the great was undone by the mad.

You know His guidance well. Too well. You are more familiar with the truth than most, enough that you may spin it as you like, see and speak as you like, to see that power to a place that you had no right to see. Mirrors and smoke color your faith, if you can call it such, games with which to taint the only power in this world worth having. You seize upon the bridge between holiness and mortality, yet sink even further beneath by twisting the two as one. But as with all people like you, judgment comes for you, and it finds you wanting. And yet, there are others who have fallen even further than you.

In spite of these hauntings - or, perhaps, because of them - the day came at last that he was entered into the Holy See. While he may have been a part of it before, the officiation ceremony was a significant departure from what had been before. It was a declaration of his rising fate, ascending from the feeble livelihood that he had before. Though his family attended, it was clear who the young man saw as his own, and it was not they. They had been especially stern, depriving him of all that he could have known of the world he now roamed, seeing that he would have only himself and his pity, his remorse, his failures to consider as himself. Though these things remained present, so too present was his conviction to the Quincy faith, as was a renewed sense of purpose. He was with his people, now more than ever, able to see the prison that had been over his faith in times past. Those responsible for that prison were among the first that he passed judgment on, with great clarity.

That officiation was but the beginning of his career as a Quincy. The time soon came for him to discover himself a second time, so that he may stand apart from the other members of his order, those above them and those by his side. It was daunting, to say the least, let alone to realize what that direction would be. As those sensations of faiths past continued to flash through his experience, and the power it tentatively gave him in exchange for that burden, the way forward became clear. He could not wield power directly, as his peers could. Though he was a prodigy with the Quincy craft, it was ill-suited on its face. After an encounter with the bitter plague visited upon Ramses II in a euphoria, the Quincy knew that the legends of old, some more known than others, had the answers that he needed.

Though it was something of a demand, the Master granted it, recognizing the path that this man was on, and where it could take him, and through his service, the Holy See as a whole. He was gone for years at a time, usually by himself, needing nor wanting anyone else to join him on a path that was solely his own. Egypt, old Aragon, the British Isles, and even Jerusalem itself, were among the many sites that the Quincy frequented, one by one adding their insights to his own, often through a harrowing experience with his madness. In many ways, his curse was only made worse by the retrieval and study of these artifacts and their stories, a constant yin and yang within his soul. There was no other path that this man’s life could have taken, except this most sacred bliss.

You were no friend of His chosen. That was never in dispute. You oppressed them, treating them no differently from cattle. That was never in dispute. You clashed with His Most Holy Son, He who would deliver the truth to the world, and deliver all people into promised salvation. That was never in dispute. Yet even you, who perpetrated these things, with no apparent guilt or remorse, would not so much as stoop to the power you now imparted to that nameless soldier, as you looked upon the final shred of divine grace. Yet you reject it, and condemn the world to penance. Your will, no matter how remorseful, will forever be remembered as a totality of regret. So sayeth the Lord, hallowed be thy name. Amen.

The greatest of these endeavors transpired within the heart of the Holy Land, near that site of great tragedy and great salvation. The Quincy found the cave where the heavenly Son ascended, that final journey after the ultimate betrayal. At last, the voices were at one with his own, guiding him to these things. He came to understand the nirvana of what had taken place here. In that moment, that which he craved most manifested in his hands, and he felt himself awake, truly awake, for the first time in his life. He transformed at Golgotha, embracing his enkindled Vollständig, threatening to burn through his soul with its mere presence. In truth, it was nothing, much like he was. And yet, it was a truth, not yet of the singular, but a sign towards this Quincy’s greater destiny. He could not die before he saw it fulfilled. Deus vult.

When this Quincy returned, he was again risen, taken to new heights with what he had achieved. No longer was he “that boy in the cellar”, or the “sheepish altar boy”, or “God’s mistake”. Through his own gnarled faith, Penitence that was uniquely his own, he was Pompey Albus Augustus Severus, Humble Medium of the Holy See, Virtuous Saint of Bastards. More than that, Pompey, first and last of his ilk, had a dream to fulfill, something that he could at last call his own. Under the new Revered Cardinal, the realization of that dream was only a matter of time.


Faction:
The Holy See
Rank:
Saint of Bastards


Physical Abilities:

Frail
This is no strength, though chief among Pompey’s physical attributes is that of his weakness. He has poor constitution, a far cry from the Olympian acumen of his peers. He is hardly fit for combat of the body, his Holy Aspect reserving his will for matters beyond the flesh, leaving the former behind, for good or ill. It is a wonder at all that he can lift a bow, let alone fight with it.
Archery
Pompey’s archery skills are not unremarkable by any means, the man more concerned with his spells than anything of flesh or steel. With that said, he remains a keen marksman, more often than not using his senses to mark targets for his other abilities and maintain a sharp awareness during battle.



For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death.