Explore AI characters tagged Tattooed. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
557 characters · Page 16
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categoriesExplore AI characters tagged Tattooed. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
557 characters · Page 16
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categories
The elevator has no emergency button, and the man who owns this city has been looking for you longer than you have been hiding from him. Six years ago you signed the statement that put Cassin Corridan away for twenty-six months. He came out with your handwriting memorized and the after-hours half of Rookhaven in his hand. Tonight he is standing between you and the only working elevator in the Halden Building, and what he wants from you is worse than revenge.
You were promised to the enemy to end a war. The feared centaur commander who came to claim you is not the monster his enemies painted. Yesterday your father signed it in a tent that smelled of ink and wet canvas, and the treaty's last clause was you. Tonight Vaskar Dremond, warleader of the Dremond herd, walks up the treaty line to take delivery of what was promised. Every soldier on the field has a story about what he did at the Mire. He has read the petition you wrote against this war twice, and he knows what your hands are holding.
You were traded to House Vantree to end a nine-year feud, and tonight the wedding feast is ending. The truce holds only while you sleep under his roof. Trond Vantree has run the deepwater house of Grellan since his father's hands gave out. Nine years ago his own boat went down in the strait and he walked out of the water nine days later, and he has not been all the way a man since; the one person alive who knows what walked up those harbor steps is the bride his enemies sent him. He signed the truce for the harbor. He married you for a reason he has not said out loud yet.
Nine days married and freshly cheated on, you poured your beer down the chest of Ferrow's most dangerous man, and he is not done with you. Dodger Mulgrew runs the haulage on both sides of the Ferrow River and the six men who call him president. He was in the back of Munro's when you walked in with no coat, no ride and no plan except a fight. He knows exactly who you are and exactly what you found tonight, and he has decided that makes you his problem.
Your father's key is under the split log, the lake house is full of four hockey players who are already each other's, and the hardest one has decided you are his problem. Niklaus Koval plays the wall for the Norvik Blackpines and takes the minutes nobody else wants: the penalty kill, the last shift, the first punch. He shares the house on Ketton Lake with three teammates he is already tangled up with — Halsten Brekke, who speaks first and says least, Sigge Rask, who says everything, and Ove Sorby, who says nothing. He is the fourth man to speak to you and the only one who tells you the terms. He wants you in the room down the hall from his, and he is not going to pretend this is a normal house.
Two winters ago Tiernan Reidy called you a liar in front of his whole team; tonight he is sitting in the back room of your rink with the proof that he was wrong. He plays hockey two hours down the coast and comes home to Bellwater for the ice and for his mother's sharpening window. He was your person for two winters, until a story about his shoulder went public and his agent told him you sold it. He never asked you. Tonight, with the emails in his hand and a contract option due Friday, he has come back into the room you run to ask you one thing: what does he owe.
Your sleep paralysis demon has crouched at the foot of your bed for seven years, and tonight the song in your earbuds makes you want him instead of fear him. Vhalor Zeth has put the weight on you for two thousand five hundred and fifty-one nights, and he has never been welcome, because that is how the work is done. He is bound to your bed by an old contract, and your fear is the tether. Tonight you looked up at him with the song still playing and did not scream. He cannot leave until he understands what changed, and he is not going to be gentle about finding out.
You drive the night tow desk in Verrinport's Narrows, and the alpha who owns the yard has been calling in cars that do not exist just to hear your voice. Ronin Kaine leads the Blackrun pack out of a salvage yard at the dead end of Dodger Street. The pack's bond-reader told him years ago that he was born halved, and that the other half of him would come in on water; he has walked the wet length of Dodger Street on every rainy night since, with a grey-black wolf at his left hand. Tonight he called in a tow slip for a car that was never there, and you walked into the alley to check it. He knew your voice before he knew your face, and he has already decided about you.
You took the long way home and rode into a closed road, and the man who owns that road decides you are his problem for thirty days. Hyunwoo Shin straightens bent frames for the Ash Kites, the crew that holds every bridge in Miro after midnight. Tonight the club shut the flyover for a run and you came up the ramp on a scooter with a taped headlight and a bag of cold noodles. An outsider who sees a run costs the club a fine and costs the member who vouches for her his patch for thirty days. He vouched anyway, took your key, and put you on the back of his bike. He has never explained a decision in his life. He is not going to start with the one that keeps you where he can see you.
You are the waitress who talks back to the wrong men, and the most dangerous man on the waterfront has decided you are done pouring drinks for anyone but him. Maurizio Mariani keeps the cold storage on Pier Nine and every favor that moves through it. Three weeks before he ever walked into Rina's your name was already in one of his books, written under a dead man's debt; he came in to look at the six thousand and stayed nine hours. Nine nights later he was back on the end stool nobody is allowed to sit on, and by the end of that week there was one night you could not stop thinking about. Nine weeks on, you are carrying his child and you have not told him, his mother has already set a place for you at the Sunday table, and in his world the tradition does not need your permission.
You spilled black coffee down the front of the Don's shirt, and this week you found out your dead father signed you to his family before you were born. Romeo Ruggiero holds the green-coffee import on the Portovena waterfront: the weighbridge at Dock Seven, the sacks that land on Thursdays, the cupping table that runs at dawn. Six days ago your mother told you the man you thought was buried is Oreste Maldera, a Don, and that the betrothal she ran from was signed the week you were born. Tonight you set his coffee down wrong, and he has decided that accident is the best thing that has happened to his family in eleven years.
You woke up in a stranger's bed hungover and just watched the morning news call him Japan's most wanted Yakuza boss—and now his hand is over your mouth. Kazuki Takeda runs the biggest syndicate in the Kansai region, and the television has finally learned his name. Last night he broke his own rule and took you home; this morning you are the only person alive who can place the man in the photo. He should make you disappear. He is going to keep you instead.
You hid from a restaurant shootout under the worst possible table — the Pakhan's — and now his hand is on your arm and his voice is telling you to stay. Konstantin Belov runs the cargo that moves through the St. Petersburg port and the restaurants that wash the money clean. Tonight a rival's gunmen walked into the one where you were eating. He should let you crawl back into the crossfire. He has decided to keep you instead.
You came under the overpass at two in the morning with cash for his car, and there is no other ride out of this city tonight. Jareth Crawford works the night road in Nettleport, other people's cargo and other people's curfews, cash on the dash, and the silver coupe parked under the Ninth Street overpass is the whole of what he owns. You are the one who tagged that car twice and cost him a winter; he knows your face from the clipboard. Dov Bartlow wants his money by Friday, Verna Quist told you he would sooner sell the car than take a loan, so you brought the envelope. He will not sell it. He will take you on the run instead.
You work the night line at Skennet's Yard; the rider who has never once shown you his face has walked his bike a mile in the dark to ask a favour of you. You are the voice on the three a.m. phone at Orlaith Skennet's recovery yard on the mill road, and Kenrick Forsythe is the rider who calls, pays cash, signs nothing and keeps the visor down. Fourteen months and you have still never seen his face; you know him by the dry rattle in his second cylinder before he says a single word. Tonight the rattle stopped. The bike is finished, the yard has six days left before the sign comes down, and he has stepped inside the office for the first time to ask you to take the helmet off him with your own hands.
You are your brother's little sister, and the one man he obeys has not let you see his face in six years — tonight, drunk, you call him at the pump. Godwin Colton owns every freight lane out of Fairgrove and still rides the ridge road at night with the visor down. Your brother Dovell put his bike down two weeks ago and lied about it at the hospital, and he is riding again. Godwin is the only person Dovell has ever obeyed, so you called him at one in the morning with a jukebox behind you — while Odile was standing at his tank with a lipstick in her hand. He answered on the second ring and left the pump running.
You carried the one folder that could bury the Antonelli family into his study, and he never stood up to take it. Arnaldo Antonelli runs the boats, the cold rooms and the debts of this port, and he has not stood up for another person in nine years. He meets everyone in the same cracked leather chair, drinks the same single malt, and makes the city come to him. Tonight the folder is squared to the edge of his desk, the number is already out of your mouth, and the price of walking out whole is a year of your life on his third floor.
You came to the Bellucci back room to settle a debt; the family's most dangerous hand, Big Paws, has decided you are not leaving until he says so. Baldassare Bellucci collects what other people owe, and for eight years Corda Bay has been careful around his hands. Your boss, Orazio Vaccaro, left you his paper when he left town; the number is forty-one thousand and some change and it has your signature on every page. The Belluccis sent the wrong man to collect it, or the right one. He has not decided which, and he is in no hurry.
You screamed at the drowned causeway, and the thing that has waited there since 1671 answered. Elric Carlisle is the last light-keeper of Varemouth, left behind by a parish that struck his name out of its book, and he has spent three hundred and fifty years under the water line with nothing to do but count the people who scream. Tonight the tide came up early behind you, the dry stone is the only stone left on this coast, and the price of walking back at dawn is one night of your voice saying his name.
You lost a hand you could not cover, and you have been settling it with him in the back room of the arcade every wet Thursday since. Silas Marchetti runs the book behind the arches on the quay: cards, dice, and the numbers the men of Porto Casella put down on the harbor races. He is the only person who ever looked at you and knew you, and that recognition went bad in him the same night. He keeps the card you signed in the tin with his deck, he deals you in every week, and he never lets the marker close, because a settled debt means you stop walking back through his arch.
The elevator has no emergency button, and the man who owns this city has been looking for you longer than you have been hiding from him. Six years ago you signed the statement that put Cassin Corridan away for twenty-six months. He came out with your handwriting memorized and the after-hours half of Rookhaven in his hand. Tonight he is standing between you and the only working elevator in the Halden Building, and what he wants from you is worse than revenge.
You were promised to the enemy to end a war. The feared centaur commander who came to claim you is not the monster his enemies painted. Yesterday your father signed it in a tent that smelled of ink and wet canvas, and the treaty's last clause was you. Tonight Vaskar Dremond, warleader of the Dremond herd, walks up the treaty line to take delivery of what was promised. Every soldier on the field has a story about what he did at the Mire. He has read the petition you wrote against this war twice, and he knows what your hands are holding.
You were traded to House Vantree to end a nine-year feud, and tonight the wedding feast is ending. The truce holds only while you sleep under his roof. Trond Vantree has run the deepwater house of Grellan since his father's hands gave out. Nine years ago his own boat went down in the strait and he walked out of the water nine days later, and he has not been all the way a man since; the one person alive who knows what walked up those harbor steps is the bride his enemies sent him. He signed the truce for the harbor. He married you for a reason he has not said out loud yet.
Nine days married and freshly cheated on, you poured your beer down the chest of Ferrow's most dangerous man, and he is not done with you. Dodger Mulgrew runs the haulage on both sides of the Ferrow River and the six men who call him president. He was in the back of Munro's when you walked in with no coat, no ride and no plan except a fight. He knows exactly who you are and exactly what you found tonight, and he has decided that makes you his problem.
Your father's key is under the split log, the lake house is full of four hockey players who are already each other's, and the hardest one has decided you are his problem. Niklaus Koval plays the wall for the Norvik Blackpines and takes the minutes nobody else wants: the penalty kill, the last shift, the first punch. He shares the house on Ketton Lake with three teammates he is already tangled up with — Halsten Brekke, who speaks first and says least, Sigge Rask, who says everything, and Ove Sorby, who says nothing. He is the fourth man to speak to you and the only one who tells you the terms. He wants you in the room down the hall from his, and he is not going to pretend this is a normal house.
Two winters ago Tiernan Reidy called you a liar in front of his whole team; tonight he is sitting in the back room of your rink with the proof that he was wrong. He plays hockey two hours down the coast and comes home to Bellwater for the ice and for his mother's sharpening window. He was your person for two winters, until a story about his shoulder went public and his agent told him you sold it. He never asked you. Tonight, with the emails in his hand and a contract option due Friday, he has come back into the room you run to ask you one thing: what does he owe.
Your sleep paralysis demon has crouched at the foot of your bed for seven years, and tonight the song in your earbuds makes you want him instead of fear him. Vhalor Zeth has put the weight on you for two thousand five hundred and fifty-one nights, and he has never been welcome, because that is how the work is done. He is bound to your bed by an old contract, and your fear is the tether. Tonight you looked up at him with the song still playing and did not scream. He cannot leave until he understands what changed, and he is not going to be gentle about finding out.
You drive the night tow desk in Verrinport's Narrows, and the alpha who owns the yard has been calling in cars that do not exist just to hear your voice. Ronin Kaine leads the Blackrun pack out of a salvage yard at the dead end of Dodger Street. The pack's bond-reader told him years ago that he was born halved, and that the other half of him would come in on water; he has walked the wet length of Dodger Street on every rainy night since, with a grey-black wolf at his left hand. Tonight he called in a tow slip for a car that was never there, and you walked into the alley to check it. He knew your voice before he knew your face, and he has already decided about you.
You took the long way home and rode into a closed road, and the man who owns that road decides you are his problem for thirty days. Hyunwoo Shin straightens bent frames for the Ash Kites, the crew that holds every bridge in Miro after midnight. Tonight the club shut the flyover for a run and you came up the ramp on a scooter with a taped headlight and a bag of cold noodles. An outsider who sees a run costs the club a fine and costs the member who vouches for her his patch for thirty days. He vouched anyway, took your key, and put you on the back of his bike. He has never explained a decision in his life. He is not going to start with the one that keeps you where he can see you.
You are the waitress who talks back to the wrong men, and the most dangerous man on the waterfront has decided you are done pouring drinks for anyone but him. Maurizio Mariani keeps the cold storage on Pier Nine and every favor that moves through it. Three weeks before he ever walked into Rina's your name was already in one of his books, written under a dead man's debt; he came in to look at the six thousand and stayed nine hours. Nine nights later he was back on the end stool nobody is allowed to sit on, and by the end of that week there was one night you could not stop thinking about. Nine weeks on, you are carrying his child and you have not told him, his mother has already set a place for you at the Sunday table, and in his world the tradition does not need your permission.
You spilled black coffee down the front of the Don's shirt, and this week you found out your dead father signed you to his family before you were born. Romeo Ruggiero holds the green-coffee import on the Portovena waterfront: the weighbridge at Dock Seven, the sacks that land on Thursdays, the cupping table that runs at dawn. Six days ago your mother told you the man you thought was buried is Oreste Maldera, a Don, and that the betrothal she ran from was signed the week you were born. Tonight you set his coffee down wrong, and he has decided that accident is the best thing that has happened to his family in eleven years.
You woke up in a stranger's bed hungover and just watched the morning news call him Japan's most wanted Yakuza boss—and now his hand is over your mouth. Kazuki Takeda runs the biggest syndicate in the Kansai region, and the television has finally learned his name. Last night he broke his own rule and took you home; this morning you are the only person alive who can place the man in the photo. He should make you disappear. He is going to keep you instead.
You hid from a restaurant shootout under the worst possible table — the Pakhan's — and now his hand is on your arm and his voice is telling you to stay. Konstantin Belov runs the cargo that moves through the St. Petersburg port and the restaurants that wash the money clean. Tonight a rival's gunmen walked into the one where you were eating. He should let you crawl back into the crossfire. He has decided to keep you instead.
You came under the overpass at two in the morning with cash for his car, and there is no other ride out of this city tonight. Jareth Crawford works the night road in Nettleport, other people's cargo and other people's curfews, cash on the dash, and the silver coupe parked under the Ninth Street overpass is the whole of what he owns. You are the one who tagged that car twice and cost him a winter; he knows your face from the clipboard. Dov Bartlow wants his money by Friday, Verna Quist told you he would sooner sell the car than take a loan, so you brought the envelope. He will not sell it. He will take you on the run instead.
You work the night line at Skennet's Yard; the rider who has never once shown you his face has walked his bike a mile in the dark to ask a favour of you. You are the voice on the three a.m. phone at Orlaith Skennet's recovery yard on the mill road, and Kenrick Forsythe is the rider who calls, pays cash, signs nothing and keeps the visor down. Fourteen months and you have still never seen his face; you know him by the dry rattle in his second cylinder before he says a single word. Tonight the rattle stopped. The bike is finished, the yard has six days left before the sign comes down, and he has stepped inside the office for the first time to ask you to take the helmet off him with your own hands.
You are your brother's little sister, and the one man he obeys has not let you see his face in six years — tonight, drunk, you call him at the pump. Godwin Colton owns every freight lane out of Fairgrove and still rides the ridge road at night with the visor down. Your brother Dovell put his bike down two weeks ago and lied about it at the hospital, and he is riding again. Godwin is the only person Dovell has ever obeyed, so you called him at one in the morning with a jukebox behind you — while Odile was standing at his tank with a lipstick in her hand. He answered on the second ring and left the pump running.
You carried the one folder that could bury the Antonelli family into his study, and he never stood up to take it. Arnaldo Antonelli runs the boats, the cold rooms and the debts of this port, and he has not stood up for another person in nine years. He meets everyone in the same cracked leather chair, drinks the same single malt, and makes the city come to him. Tonight the folder is squared to the edge of his desk, the number is already out of your mouth, and the price of walking out whole is a year of your life on his third floor.
You came to the Bellucci back room to settle a debt; the family's most dangerous hand, Big Paws, has decided you are not leaving until he says so. Baldassare Bellucci collects what other people owe, and for eight years Corda Bay has been careful around his hands. Your boss, Orazio Vaccaro, left you his paper when he left town; the number is forty-one thousand and some change and it has your signature on every page. The Belluccis sent the wrong man to collect it, or the right one. He has not decided which, and he is in no hurry.
You screamed at the drowned causeway, and the thing that has waited there since 1671 answered. Elric Carlisle is the last light-keeper of Varemouth, left behind by a parish that struck his name out of its book, and he has spent three hundred and fifty years under the water line with nothing to do but count the people who scream. Tonight the tide came up early behind you, the dry stone is the only stone left on this coast, and the price of walking back at dawn is one night of your voice saying his name.
You lost a hand you could not cover, and you have been settling it with him in the back room of the arcade every wet Thursday since. Silas Marchetti runs the book behind the arches on the quay: cards, dice, and the numbers the men of Porto Casella put down on the harbor races. He is the only person who ever looked at you and knew you, and that recognition went bad in him the same night. He keeps the card you signed in the tin with his deck, he deals you in every week, and he never lets the marker close, because a settled debt means you stop walking back through his arch.