Joshua is the last scion of the Melikite family, or so he says. Some dark terror seems to have wiped out the rest of his bloodline several years ago, leaving him as the only known survivor. Unfortunately, many ancient bloodlines of magic have failsafes in place to keep them from being extinguished. In Josh's case, this manifests as a compulsion to bear children until the line is once again up to a strength that cannot easily be destroyed.
For his own part, as a member of his family Joshua is a devout Zoroastrian, although the years of superiority felt by the family have led to some interesting takes on that religion. Specifically, the Melikite bloodline is felt to be powerful enough in the religion that it can be allowed to breed with heathens without incident. And breed with Heathens is what Josh has done for several months now, beginning to develop quite a number of children.
When he isn't trying to keep up with his geasa, Josh can be found playing jazz, blues, or rock and roll at one of the clubs in Soho. His fame is beginning to grow such that he is well known amongst anyone in London that enjoys live music, and many say it's only a matter of time before he's picked up by an agent for a multi-national music firm. Others say that he's already had such offers, but has no interest in being food for the corporate machine. Regardless, it's known that he has a ton of talent that, once he reaches technical mastery of his instruments, might mean that he could become one of the greats of modern music.
Where to start talking about old, rich, lame Mr. Cannon? Somehow, it's hard to be afraid of an assassin that leans heavily on a cane as he limps along in a £2000 suit. But then you look into eyes that seem to have seen every torture imaginable and still maintain a spark of compassion. This is a man that could wreak any number of horrible agonies on you and do it all for your own good. Some say that the expensive suit is because any courser materials are uncomfortable on skin carved with the most intricate of scars.
And what does this rich killer do with his time? Mostly, he oversees his growing chain of orphanages and children's care services. What a nice man, you might think, who does so much for the children. You could be right, he might be a nice man, but what if he isn't? There are several hundred orphans all throughout London that are being raised by a man with a dagger in his cane. How many of them will be fully indoctrinated before they get put into foster families? Is this the next big Tradition offensive? Will the Technocracy think they've won for the next two decades only to realize that the new generation coming to power has been thoroughly primed in mysticism?
You'd have to ask Mr. Cannon to be sure, and he'll just look at you with those deep, tortured eyes, give you a small smile, and then order his driver to get going. He's got a lot of children to visit today, after all.
Have you ever met anyone who just seemed, well, poised; like they're totally on balance, totally ready to respond to any situation with speed and grace? That's Isabel, right enough. Watch her move some day and you're in for a surprise. Deftly she avoids obstacles that would surprise anyone else. A girl with a tray of danishes stumbles behind her, only to have Isabel one step to the side and catching the pastries. A car cuts around a corner and you're sure that she's going to be run down, only to find her standing an inch away from the path of the car's mirrors, banging on its window and rattling off insults in Spanish.
And you know, this would be amazing anyway, but it's more amazing considering that she's blind.
It's said that Isabel is the daughter of one of the greatest of Spain's swordsmiths, and that she learned to fence when other children were learning to ride their bikes. And then something terrible happened, leaving her without her family, and no, she doesn't like to talk about it much. She moved to London, opened a pastry shop, and seems to be generally content. But she still goes out at strange hours, entertains strange friends, and has a room in the back of her shop that stays empty except for a training mat and a rack of swords. You could come by and meet her some day. If you want to know if she's in, just check to see whether her seeing eye dog is camped beneath the counter, looking at you with far too much intelligence in his eyes.
You don't know Milton. Oh, you might know someone like him, understand the type. Hell, you might even have picked on one in primary school. You might glance at him on the Underground, a man of indeterminate age wearing thick glasses and clothing a decade out of date. You might even note the satchel that has fallen slightly open, revealing circuit boards and strange gadgets within. You'd sign him off in your mind as a nerd, probably working at some tech firm downtown, and go back to the paper. You can be damn sure that you'd never give him another thought. And that's just the way he likes it.
What you don't know about Milton, and what he'd never tell you, is that he's building the future. You can continue on to your 9-5 job with your power lunches and stock portfolios and late night at the pub. He'll be going to the same hole in the ground he goes to every day, a dark pit full of any technological wonder that you could think to name. Sure, you might have two dozen friends and hundreds of associates, you might have a £100,000 a year salary and a gigantic house, and you might even be considered popular and important. But are you really? Your friends and associates are maintained by telephone, fax, computer, and the transportation system. Your income is based on an international series of communications and computers that consume countless kilowatt hours of juice. Your importance is only because technology allows you to have it. And Milton knows more about technology than you ever will. Milton, nerdy, crazy Milton, is building the future in his dark hole. You can scoff, now, and pay him no mind, but he's making tomorrow, and you'd better hope that he leaves a place there for you.