From Familia Niveum

Revision as of 10:24, 7 August 2006

Power of Policing

The man walking down the street is a man, but people treat him differently. Some look upon him with respect, some with fear, some with contempt. He adjusts his hat and absently rests a hand on his handcuffs as he eyes a kid emerge from a shop, stolen goods bulging his pockets. The boy runs, the shopkeeper shouting after him. The man takes off, moving faster than the boy, and catches him by the collar.

'Perhaps you should give all that back,' he says, and the boy nods nervously. He knows he's made a mistake.

'Yes sir,' he says. He walks back to the shop and starts emptying his pockets. The shopkeeper waves in thanks, and the policeman tips his hat. Down the street a man snatches a woman's handbag, and she screams. He starts running. Time for the next job.

Mick Peel

Personal Code

Affiliated to the Light, for the betterment of humanity, the nuturing of its potential and to protect it from its own darker side.

Miraculous Abilities

• Aspect
  • x Permanent Miracle Points
• Domain
  • x Permanent Miracle Points
• Realm
  • x Permanent Miracle Points
• Spirit
  • x Permanent Miracle Points

Gifts

Limits

Restrictions

Bonds

History

It might be said to run in his blood, for he descends from Sir Robert Peel, the founder of the first modern police force in London. His father was not a policeman, neither was his grandfather, but he knew it was his destiny from childhood. By twenty-eight he was a Sergeant in Cambridge, holder of more commendations and medals than anybody else had ever had with his length of service. Already there was talk that he would be Chief Constable before he was forty. A single man, dedicated solely to his job, it was an ambition he allowed himself.

Until he went to a fight in a house. The neighbours had heard screaming and shouting and breaking glass, and he went to the door cautiously. Backup was on the way, but the screaming continued. The door was ajar, and he pushed it slowly open, baton in hand.

The house was a mess, and crashing sounds came from the kitchen.

'Police!' he called out, and there was sudden stillness. He entered the house and looked into the kitchen to find the barrel of a gun in his face. Time froze. He saw, impossibly, the finger squeeze the trigger, saw the flash of the detonation down the barrel, saw the bullet start to move. He moved out of its way, snatched the gun and threw it well out of the way before slamming its former wielder against the wall. As the handcuffs went on, he felt a presence, heard a concept. A message.

'I have rescued you from death. You are mine now, Nobile.'

Description

Mick stands six feet and five inches tall and has the bulky body of a man you would not want to cross. Slightly tanned skin and indifferently brown close-cut hair make little impression on the eye, but his eyes hold sternness and compassion in equal quantity.

Anchors