Character Name Here!
Portrayed By Georgia Salpa
Gender Female
Date of Birth August 12, 1984
Age 27
Zodiac Sign Leo
Aliases Stormwaltzer
Place of Birth Enniscombe, Ireland
Current Location New York City
Occupation Dark Cult Hunter
Known Relatives None
Significant Other None
Identity Secret
Known Abilities Sorcery (Lightning-slanted), physical enhancement
First Appearance ???

And I'd do it again in a second, because some things? There's no coming back from. They weren't *human* anymore. What they were, was dangerous.


Hello there. No no, don't get up, it's not like there's anything you could do about me anyway. You're the last one left, and lucky me! I've a captive audience. Now I don't do this often, so isn't this a nice treat for you? Where was I?

Oh yes…

Let me tell you about my childhood.

Enniscombe's a lovely place, really, out in County Wexford — that's Ireland, by the by, I know how you black cultists forget the little details — Anyway. As you can imagine, I was quite the precocious little brat. Getting into trouble as soon as I could walk, running my poor parents ragged keeping my hands away from the plugs and the knives and the stove and whatever else looked oh so interesting and had to be gotten. And once I learned to speak? Well, no hope for them at all, no sir. And so I grew, always curious, always getting into things I shouldn't, and in general making a sweet little terror of myself. Now we lived a short ways outside of Enniscombe proper, which meant a great lovely swath of wilderness for a rambunctious little terror to explore, and no shortage of adventures for a clever little mind to make up. But what nobody realized back then, was that I had quite the strong connection to the world of magic in my soul — a gift from Nanna, God rest her soul, but I'd not find that out for some years to come. But while I didn't know this, and my parents didn't know this, the world of magic most certainly did. And that is how, just by simply being, I drew the attention of the Fae.

Let me tell you about the Fae.

Now depending on which fairy tales you read, the Fae are either doe-eyed, miniskirt-wearing bundles of wank material, deeply disturbing but quite pretty predators, or somewhere in between. The truth, as is so often the case, is somewhere to the left of all that. What the Fae are, is quite alien, in much the same manner as the vile creature whose arse you and your friends so desperately tried to bury your noses in. They don't think like human beings. Their priorities are very much their own, and only now and again are they in line with the humans around them. Even when it's just the little ones, you're better off not dealing with them at all if you can help it. Of course I can say that now, but back then I was eleven and this was Ireland, and pixies and unicorns and pucks and brownies are very much the sort of thing that makes a young girl lose her mind in a whirlwind of magic and rainbows.

Another thing to note is that the Fae love to play the long game. They can afford to, after all, not precisely having to worry about little things like old age. Monstrously patient, they are. And for well over a year and a day, this Lord, who considered our area part of his little territory… well, he saw a bright little poppet with a positively shocking amount of magical potential, and he wanted her for his own little pet. It would, after all, be quite the merry little coup among the mortal wizards, to make what could have been quite a bright light among the wizards and sorcerors and mystics into nothing more than a plaything for his amusement. And as a Fae Lord, what he wanted? He got. His little helpers lured me to the place where our worlds nudged against each other, helped me to cross… and then I'd intruded on his home, and there was nothing more that could be done for me.

It bears noting, by the way, that the only thing worse than being turned into a cat? Realizing that the only reason there were any mice at all for me to hunt was that they were probably other hapless mortals who managed to be less entertaining than I. But that came later. I don't know for certain quite how long I was a cat… Time tends to sag in funny ways over there, and cats aren't the most perceptive creatures besides. I can only assume it was something on the order of three years, perhaps five… All I do know is that eventually a sorceror outsmarted the Lord in one of those blisteringly unfair games of theirs, and chose to take me as his favor owed. And that was how I came to be apprenticed to the eminent wizard, Gerwulf von Hohenkunstler, Jager der Dunkelheit. Or, as he prefers, the Jager.

Let me tell you about the Jager.

If ever there was a single worse person to refamiliarize a shattered young woman with the world she'd been taken from, I'd be surprised. The Jager was the most committed, unsmiling, uncompromising son-of-a-bitch that ever waved a magic wand, and even his allies could barely tolerate him; his equals couldn't stand him, people with more power than him desperately wished he'd get himself killed… and then there was me. After the first year, I think I'd've murdered him myself if I'd figured out how. But I didn't, and for the next five years, he taught me about magic. He taught me how to use my gifts to serve a purpose, how to call down thunder from the night sky, and how to fight. He would never turn me into another version of him… but certainly not for lack of trying. And if he couldn't make a fellow Jager, he'd settle for turning his apprentice into the best weapon in his arsenal. That was his nickname for me after the first year; Waffemadchen. Weapon-Girl. …Which probably explains a whole lot, doesn't it?

By that point, I'd learned enough German to understand how exactly he was insulting me, how to handle myself in a fight, the basics of magic, and I'd learned where my own soul felt the most comfortable; dancing in the heart of a thunderstorm. I also learned that while the Jager was the sworn enemy of all things dark and unwholesome and What Man Was Not Meant To Know, he harbored a special little something extra for the people who willingly gave themselves over for power. Now, me? I just found them contemptible; sniveling little whiners who didn't get spanked enough, or spanked too much, or got grounded and it just wasn't fair so they'd Make Them Pay. Why yes, that does include you, and I still think that way, but i'm getting ahead of myself. The Jager hated you people, and whenever he found a cult or a Black Brotherhood or some other mystical evil Freemasons of Doom Club… Well, let's just say they're probably still scraping bits of some of them off the sidewalk, even now. But of course, you can't do that kind of thing for very long without making some enemies, and if there was one talent that hateful bastard had, it was making enemies of the very finest old style. Probably the worst among them? Shuma-Gorath.

Let me tell you about Shuma-Gorath.

Now here's an evil older than history. Probably older than mankind. Maybe even older than the stars themselves; who can say? But like a lot of that class of evil, Earth has always been a special target for his hatred. Way, way back in the Hyborian Age, a sorceror sacrificed his very soul to seal this thing's power into three books. The Iron-Bound Tomes, which were promptly lost as quickly as humanly possible. You know, like you do when you have the key to the Universe's descent into chaos and madness piled up on your nightstand.

But Shuma-Gorath is of course still eternal, and while it may not be powerful? It can play the long game. A century here, a millennium there, and after a few thousand decades, there stops being a line between the prison and the prisoner. The Tomes became its link to Earth, and while it was still sealed away, it could still use them to work his agenda. It just needed someone stupid enough to read the book, and willing enough to use the power its knowledge affords.

Ah… now you're starting to understand, yes? Oh, but hush, stop struggling. There's still plenty of story to tell, and you're skipping the good bit. For you see, Shuma-Gorath, it is an old and clever thing. It wasn't enough to have a thrall, so it made its own little twist in its prison; whoever kills a bearer of a Tome, becomes its new bearer. And since you probably can imagine how much chaos its thralls tend to revel in, it pretty much ensures there'll never be a shortage of bearers. All you need is one lucky shot, and even if you've stopped the bad guy, you're nicely well fucked. Just one lucky shot.

Let me tell you about lucky shots.

A little over a year ago, a man found us. Babbling, frothing, incoherent, and incredibly dangerous, thanks to the book in his hands. He was there to murder the ever-loving hell out of the Jager, and the battle that followed was one I'll see in my dreams for ages to come. I knew the Jager was powerful, even if he wasn't on the level of the Sorceror Supreme. I knew he was dangerous. But I can't even begin to make sense of the forces that clashed that night, and to this day I still don't believe I was lucky enough that when the Jager went down, I managed to get a bolt of lightning through that thing's head.

But of course, I wasn't lucky; Shuma-Gorath plays the long game, and well do I know what it's like to be an unwitting pawn for the other side of the board, now, don't I?

Somehow, it was still dying as I scrambled to the Jager's side. We both knew the both of them would die, and there was just enough time for that miserable old shitebrained bastard to smile at me — smile, yet! — and tell me I was finally ready to be the Storm-Dancer he'd trained me to be. Sturmwaltzer, he called me… I didn't even think the old bugger even had a poetic side. And it was maybe half a heartbeat between the Jager's death and the thrall's, as if his master was waiting for me to smile a little inside for the first time… when the pact was sealed, and I became the next thrall to the Tome.

Let me tell you about the Tome.

It hates me, and I hate it right back. It wants to be opened, to be read; I chain it right the fuck shut. It wants me to want power, and it gives me a little taste of what could be; I tell it to fuck off. It punishes me by stealing my strength when the sun is up; I keep traveling in the daytime, anyway. It wants to find another bearer, someone who'll lust after it enough to murder me; I lock it onto my belt so it can't ever get away. And if you listen, ever so closely… shhhh… yes, that's it… you hear that sound? It's writing in its own pages, daring me to open it and see what the fuss is about.

Every night I go to sleep, the last thing I hear in the darkness is the sound of an old, old pen, scratching ever so softly against paper. It hates me so much, you see… but Shuma-Gorath can play the long game. One day, one way or another, things will be back to normal for it. But in the meantime… Oh, in the meantime, you sorry little bucket of snots, every day it doesn't have me is another day I put everything I am into taking the piss out of you and yours. Which, I'm ever so sorry to say, brings us to the end of this little story. You learn something new every day, after all… But before we part, I'd like you to take your little pal down below there a message. Maybe if he feels froggy, he'll even hand it to ol' Shumie himself.

I am the Stormwaltzer, and you can all get fucked. I'll be in New York if your masters ever want to come looking.


Donna is a trained sorceress, able to impose her will on the world with a moment's concentration and the right words spoken in the right manner. As it's habit of spellcasters to adopt a tongue other than their own as a concentration aid, Donna's spellwork is done entirely in German. As Donna never progressed beyond Journeyman-level sorcery, she must make use of her own personal reserves to fuel her magic, or the energy given by mystic confluences (plot-specific times)


  • What's happened since you've been approved?


  • "Let's review; you, my dear, are a jumped-up thug, with little sense and less class. You see yourself above everyone and everything. You are wrong. I am the Stormwaltzer, heir of the Jager der Dunkelheit, sworn enemy of the dark things that wait across the shadow divide. I am the warden of the Iron-Bound Tome of Shuma-Gorath, I am a born and bred Irish bitch, and YOU ARE NOT HARD ENOUGH."


  • Amazing thing!
  • Amazing thing!
  • Amazing thing!
  • Amazing thing!


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