The Graveyard Neela
Owner: Possum

Age: 1 year, 8 months, 1 week

Born: August 8th, 2022

Adopted: 1 year, 8 months, 6 days ago

Adopted: August 11th, 2022

Pet Spotlight Winner
May 26th, 2023


  • Level: 5
  • Strength: 13
  • Defense: 11
  • Speed: 10
  • Health: 10
  • HP: 10/10
  • Intelligence: 11
  • Books Read: 9
  • Food Eaten: 2
  • Job: Attendant

No pulse. No problem.

Mother had always said that I'd find myself in trouble of some kind. I don't think she had this quite in mind, however.

I died. I remember that. I still bear the bullet holes in my torso. Nothing leaks out, but... there are definitely holes.

Details of my old life are a little hazy, I admit. I used to be called Johnny. I remember that. I was... a bootlegger, I think? That sounds right. And one of the scars on my body seems to bring up memories of war. Trenches. Bombs and chemical gasses. So I guess I was a veteran as well. My eyes have sort of fogged over, but I can tell that my hair is dirty blond. The little bit of color I can see in my eyes tells me they were blue-grey once. Or maybe just blue. Maybe the grey is from the whole... being dead thing.

But am I really dead still? I'm pretty sure dead people can't just suddenly get up and walk around. But I don't think I'm fully alive, either. I seem to recall this tiny mote of light appearing in front of me, talking to me as I lay bleeding on the ground...

"You sure this is the meeting spot? They were supposed to show up at seven; it's now... nine?" The blond man taps his watch, unsure if the cold night air is causing it to malfunction.
His companion nodded. "Yep. I received the letter this... hold up, I see some-"
Soon the still night was filled with the sounds of gunfire. Johnny Lawrence briefly had memories of being in Europe just a few years ago. The Great War. He'd gotten lucky; just one scar, where a bullet had grazed his shoulder. Many of his fellow soldiers were less fortunate. But this... this wasn't war. Those cars... was this all a set-up? That light... federal agents? He could feel his body being torn to pieces by gunfire.

Things started to fade. All he could see was the darkness of the night sky, punctured only by starlight. Steam - no, not steam, his body heat, his breath - was leaving his body. So was the pain. He felt almost as if he were floating away. And then, there it was. The tiniest mote of light.

Hey, you. You, there. I know you can see me.

Are.. you an angel?

Haha, no. No, I'm no angel. But you are dying. And I am already dead. And I don't think I'm quite ready for that. I suspect you aren't, either.

What... what do you mean? I'm dying?

Yes. We don't have time for this. You're dying, I'm dead, and I'm offering you a second chance.

I... guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?

No. Not really.

Alright, then. I accept...?


And just like that, I found myself in an empty field, surrounded by the bodies of my fellow men in a shallow, makeshift grave. Covered in blood. Alive-but-not-alive. Dead-but-not-dead. My wounds no longer oozing, but not healing, either.

I don't know how I got into this trouble, and I sure as hell have no idea how to get myself out of it, either.

Johnny "No-Pulse" Lawrence was a character I developed for my D&D group's foray into other TTRPG systems - this time, "Monster of the Week", set in a 1920s America. He embodied the 'Spooky' archetype, as a WWI veteran and bootlegger who made a last-second deal with a wandering spirit to gain a second chance at life (as the Spooky archetype uses psychic abilities, we flavored these to be from the spirit inhabiting his body). Our trek into MotW was short-lived, as the DM didn't feel like they liked the system as much as they had World of Darkness. I'd like to someday return to Johnny as a character, but it really depends on what system we use - I suppose, in D&D, he'd be a Reborn, possibly a Fighter/Hexblade Warlock multiclass (to embody the 'pact' he made with the spirit).


profile template by piers.
character & story by Possum.
fonts by google fonts.
background photo by Gery Wibowo on unsplash.

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