Hunts-the-Sea

**Hunts-the-Sea** is a Rokea.

## Biography

Chance fascinated you, even as a child.

The chance of drawing a straight flush...the chance of your mother finding out one of your lies...the chance of a dice roll or a coin flip deciding whether you'd let the stray kitten go or impale it on a stick in the woods.

As you grew older, you discovered more elaborate games (baccarat), more elaborate lies ("Mother beat me long before the police found the drugs in her office, your Honor!")

and, above all, more elaborate rules (now the kitten got a three-second headstart, and you'd let it live if it made it to the old willow stump).

You grew bored with baccarat at 16, bored with lies by graduation, and bored with kittens on your 21st birthday.

You were ready to hunt pinstriped tigers now.

Your chosen vocation whispered seductively every time you went to a bar, a mall, a board meeting.

Would you kill or wouldn't you? You see, you weren't one of those pathetic, pedophilic serotonin slaves like Dahmer and Chikatilo.

Murder, for you, was not the means to some autoerotic or vengeful end; it was the end, the greatest of games.

Still, you had to find some way of financing your fun, and so you offered your services to the Sea.

This had its ups and downs --- your bosses appreciated your efficiency but you didn't care for the capricious way in which you went about your work.

Philistines. One boring night, you rolled a die, scrutinized the result, and began arming yourself.

The police found one of your bosses in pieces in his office, another choked to death on the shards of an ouzo bottle, and a third burnt to a crisp in the wreckage of his Porsche.

They couldn't see the symbolism, and so you were safe from them --- but not from the other hunter who'd been watching you.

The first thing you thought, when he swooped down on you and snatched you off the street, was how like your victims you felt.

Interested and satisfied, you prepared yourself for death.

Instead he took you to Sea and told you, you were Rokea.

Where you went, what you did --- that was up to you now, your mentor said.

You were Rokea now, he told you, and you play any hand you liked.

You are not a lowly serial killer, leashed by your libido and inadequacies. You commit crimes to exalt yourself;

the fact that others are hurt is simply irrelevant.

Each of your murders is planned as much for the survivors as for the victims, to evoke a particular chord of horror.

Your "crime" of choice is, naturally, murder.

You are somewhat distant; the concerns of most other beings interest you only in passing.

You are still a little in awe of Rokea as they are slightly jarring to your philosophies.

Your innate sense of superiority is beginning to emerge, however, and soon enough you will "graduate" to murdering Kindred, Lupines and the like.

**Equipment:** Guns of all sorts, razor, butterfly knives, chloroform, cyanide, syringes, rope

## Quote

*One of these guns is an illusion; the other is quite real.*

*I will fire the one you select into your skull.*

*Choose now, and choose carefully. (five seconds later) Good guess...too bad I didn't inform you that the illusory pistol was concealing a very real knife.*