Bronze Belfry
Caveat emptor: this page—like the character—is very much a work in progress.
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| 1.1 Played by: | @The-Imperial |
| 1.2 Origin: | Magic |
| 1.3 Archetype: | Sentinel |
| 1.3.1 Primary: | Electric |
| 1.3.2 Secondary: | Dark |
| 1.3.3 Ancillary: | ????? |
| 2.1 Full Name: | Zoltan Graves |
| 2.2 Identity: | Secret |
| 2.3 Aliases: | ????? |
| 2.4 Species: | Human (Undead) |
| 2.5 Citizenship: | United States |
| 2.6 Living Status: | Deceased |
| 2.7 Birthday: | 10 October 1842 |
| 2.8 Gender: | Male |
| 3.1 Place of Birth: | Pest, Hungary |
| 3.2 Education: | ????? |
| 3.3 Occupation: | Vigilante |
| 3.4 Residence: | Croatoa, RI |
| 3.5 Marital Status: | Single |
| 3.6 Affiliations: | ????? |
| 4.1 Ethnicity: | Hungarian (Magyar) |
| 4.2 Apparent Age: | Unclear |
| 4.3 Height: | 6'5" |
| 4.4 Weight: | 230lbs. |
| 4.5 Build: | Large |
| 4.6 Eyes: | Clouded |
| 4.7 Hair: | White |
| 4.8 Complexion: | Grey, as a Deathly Parllor |
| 4.9 Notable Features: | Significant scarring and stitching on the right side of face. Missing right eye, wears an eyepatch. |
| 5.1 MBTI: | ????? |
| 5.1.1 Summary: | ????? |
| 5.2 Strengths: | ????? |
| 5.3 Weaknesses: | ????? |
| 5.4 Quirks: | ?????
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Zoltan Graves, 1842-1865. In memoriam. Son of Maj. Kornél and Fortuna Graves of New York City, New York. Born in Hungary and emigrated to the United States with his parents in the wake of the failed 1848 uprisings. Father's occupation: army officer. Mother's occupation: homemaker and spiritualist. Killed in battle, the latest casualty in this War Between the States.
1865.
Private Graves knew this was the end. Thirty yards from the rebel artillery, then a flash and terrible roar: the cannister shot took the right side of his face off. He was blown off his feet onto his back, left to die like so many other in the maelstrom of the charge. *But* that was not to be the end of his story.
In his last moments he saw the sky, beautiful and blue, and then the shapes of his regimental comrades trampling his body into the muck and mud.
His spirit lingered over the battlefield, then dissipated. No tunnel of light; no heavenly trumpets. In the darkness, he heard his mother calling his name. Whatever spirit was once Zoltan remembered his name and began to press towards the comforting sound. Light and shadows took shape, and soon he saw the familiar surroundings of his family's parlor: his mother, the noted spiritualist, was conducting a seance. She was looking for the ghost of the boy she had lost in the war. And she found him.
Zoltan's ghost pressed with all his might. Every step closer to his mother pulled him into an ethereal mire. Yet, he continued striving and fighting for every step. "Anya?!" (that being the Hungarian word for mother) the young man called out. The parlor, with its books and kerosene lamps and awful yellow wallpaper. His mother, with grief-red eyes and soft hands. It all seemed so real. *It was real.*
Though being drug back as if by a team of draft horses, the young man pushed and reached out to touch his mother's hand. And - for the briefest of moments - he felt his warm skin upon his.
And then all was lost. All was gone, drowned in a sudden black nothingness.
His consciousness next awoke in the company of an untold multitude of spirits calling themselves the Liminal Congregants of Souls Ill-at-Rest, or more simply, the “Congregation.”
Well-studied in his mother's Spiritualism, Zoltan greeted the dead with little surprise. The shock to come was that he was to not be allowed his eternal rest. No.
Gathering their power in unison, the great host of the Congregant souls would send Zoltan back to the realm of the living, where he would speak for them, the unquiet dead, those murdered and killed and lost. His voice would be their Voice, words that would ring in men's souls like a great bronze belfry.
And once more, the sudden dark.
Zoltan awoke again, but this time with the distinct feeling of an unbearable weight of dirt upon his body and then stench of putrefaction filling his nose. He was corporeal once more, yet buried with other fallen. Digging himself out, he emerged, shambling and shocked to find his face had been put back together if by the crude instruments of a barber-surgeon. All was there, save for his eye.
He was happy to trade an eye for life once more, some simulacrum it may be of one.
Three weeks later, his mother wept as he appeared in the yellow-wallpapered parlor.
The last 170 years.
Zoltan graves has spent these last many decades of his undeath searching out murderers and wrongdoers in many varieties: bounty hunter, territorial judge, costumed vigilante made infamous in pulp novels, and - for something like the last seventy years - as the costumed figure known only as Bronze Belfry.
- The Voice
- Manipulation of Ectoplasm
- Travel between Corporeal and Spiritual Realms
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