Proctored Threat Significance

Subject "Sin" has been localized within a low-yield social hub designated as "The Crooked Angel." Subject displays a severe lack of operational discipline, manifesting in physical degradation and a 94% saturation of biological toxins. His survival during the "Rhytheme Retrieval" incident is statistically impossible, suggesting that his presence acts as a localized "friction point" where standard causality ceases to function. This failure to die is not a merit of skill, but a systemic error in the local weave of Fate.

The subject's interaction with the indigenous laborers (Orcish bartender Ghor, et al.) serves no tactical purpose. TAAS Echo identifies this behavior as "Social Performance for Sustenance," a inefficient survival strategy. His primary "sins" include a pathological addiction to wood alcohol and a failure to maintain corporate-standard attire. His reliance on "Luck’s Shadow" makes him a high-risk liability for any structured operation; he does not solve problems so much as he survives the catastrophes he inadvertently triggers.

Further observation of his "predicament" suggests that the subject is being sustained by an external power—likely the sibling he identifies as a "sinister serpent." From a logical standpoint, his continued existence is a waste of Dryzor Corp. observation cycles. However, as a vector for "Fate Myst" resonance, he remains a Level 5 priority for retroactive scrying. He is a broken tool that refuses to stay discarded.

Sin stood before the doors of the Crooked Angel bar, staring up at the glowing hologram sign through the pouring rain. The illusion depicted flapping dove wings flanking devil horns that held up a crooked halo. Even as he watched, the wings flapped and the halo wabbled. Sin wondered, for what may have been the billionth time, why everyone depicted angels with those damned glowing rings. Real angels had nothing of the sort.

He was hungry. So very hungry. But the hunger would need to wait until he got his drink.

He took a deep breath to ready himself and immediately choked on his own spit, stumbling into a mild coughing fit. Another Tuesday. Once it passed, he pushed through the glass-pane door and into the bar.

The space was a familiar haze of worn surfaces and thick smoke. Orcs drank with dwarves, ceangar smoked with humans, and vherani beast folk gambled with reptilian dracose. Sin shambled to the bar and fell onto the only vacant stool. No one ever took his stool. They knew better.

His oil-black hair was a shaggy mess, and his once-fine velvet suit was a roadmap of stains, rips, and burn marks. Anyone looking could see he was starved, his ashen, pale-blue eyes sunk into dark bags that gave him the simultaneous look of an ancient seer and a concussed dog.

The slab-browed orcish bartender, Ghor, stood before him, wiping down the bar with a stained rag. “Troubles?” he asked.

“Always.” Sin said in an agonizingly tired tone.

“Suffering your boss’s wrath again?” The bartender asked, knowing the answer.

“Without question,” Sin said.

Ghor reached under the bar and set down a large plastic gallon jug. Stamped across it in permanent ink was the label ‘FOR SIN. DO NOT DRINK’.

Sin let his head strike the bar with a solid thud, landing perfectly in a divot worn from countless repetitions. The sound was a cue. The room fell silent. The show was about to begin.

He raised his head, collected his jug reverently, and guzzled six deep swallows. The patrons leaned in.

Ghor leaned on the bar, his voice a low rumble. “How bad was it this time?”

“Wretched,” Sin growled. “Foul. Fetidly foul.” He took another swig. "She dispatched me abroad to collect some terrible tome. My sister is truly a sinister serpent, secreting her distasteful disdain for me. Following that harlot’s hard machinations is, as always, woefully weary."

“A book, you say?” the barkeep asked.

“What kinda book?” The question was thrown from a corner.

"I confess true conception eludes me. The malefactor’s manuscript was a weighty thing of leather-wrapped metal, painted with thorny vines. The pages within were in a worse state than myself.”

“Where’d’ya go te get it?” asked a lantern-jawed human in a corporate mechanic’s uniform, slurring his words.

Sin glared at his jug. “The loathsome literature was in Rhytheme, the magocracy. Stowed in the infested tomb of an antiquarian artificer.”

“Infested with what?” a small ceangar woman asked from a nearby table, lighting a smokeable joint with a spark from her fingertip.

Sin’s face gained a greenish tint. He remembered the dark tunnel, the stench of rot, the sudden appearance of teeth, claws, and ravenous eyes. He remembered dropping his light. Darkness. Pain.

He gave a single-word answer. “Ghouls.”

He took another swig to ground himself. “I acquired the tome after a gratuitous amount of gore. Unfortunately, my light crystal was lost, and I wandered the catacombs for several days. My victuals, of course, had vanished. When I finally found my way out, the pilot had departed, likely suspecting me dead. Thus, I was stranded in an orange threat zone, miles from any settlement.”

“What all jumped you out there?” asked a wild elf in boar furs, his naturally sharp teeth bared in a wide grin.

Sin gave a bout of manic laughter. “What baleful beast did not take a piece of me?! Sinister sheerfang spiders, dreadful drakes, foul fungal figures, venomous serpents, and… one particularly peeved pixy.” He massaged his brow as a headache set in. “My ‘rescue’ came when I shambled into a camp of slaver bandits. Predictably, I was captured; the tome was taken. The savages then sold me to a settlement of cannibals for what could charitably be called pocket change.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and guzzled several deep swallows, his hands quaking. He slammed the jug on the bar, the plastic creaking from the force.

“Once the cannibals learned of my… predicament,” he continued, his voice shaking, “they postured as if a benevolent deity had blessed them with an endless, if meager feast.” He gave a morbid snort. “I played the part of a roast meat platter for several days until a lance of adventurers arrived. They disposed of the degenerates but were rather vexed that their bounty they were sent to rescue had long since been eaten by then. They almost left me until I mentioned my sister was fabulously wealthy and could reward them for my return, and for the tome. As happenstance would have it, they had already encountered the slavers with the very same tome and claimed the book.”

Sin let out a long sigh. “Beyond that, my sister’s damnable, dirty, deceitful power seized my path. My own wretched luck was muted for the remainder of the journey home, for she would not suffer my failure. I delivered the book and trekked here."

Sin fell silent, taking a long, slow drink from his jug. The patrons began to buzz, asking questions about his past, seeking his dark and depressing, if rich and informative, wisdom. This was the routine. This was the deal.

Here, in the Crooked Angel, his curse seemed… quieter. And here, he was paid for his entertainment. Not with coin, but with something far more precious.

“Barkeep, my liquor is not as potent as before. Could you possibly increase the wood alcohol again? I feel I need more precious poison.”

Ghor took the half-empty jug with a grunt before replacing it. The bartender tapped the new jug. “Figured you’d need more wood alcohol content again. Regular stuff ain’t hittin’ anymore, is it?”

Sin looked at the fresh jug of poison. “It is a temporary solution to a permanent problem.”

For the next several hours, he entertained their questions with a gentle patience. When closing time came, he was thoroughly and honestly drunk—a sensation only true poisons could provide him now. He staggered out into the dark morning, lamenting his cosmic debts that would never be paid, marked as he was by curses that could never be removed, never be changed.

Subject Individual Profile: Sin

File ID: ID:PERS-ALT-SIN-0000001
Issuing Authority: Dryzor Inc. - Special Asset & Anomalous Persons Division
Document Category: Personnel Dossiers: Persons of Interest: Alterborne Subjects
Security Classification: Level 4: Secret

Name: Unknown | Alias: Sin
Sex: Male
Species: Alterborne | Subspecies: Demi-god
Age: Unknown
Origin: Unknown
Adventurer Class: Unknown

Appearance:
Skin/Fur/Scales: plaid
Eyes: pale-blue
Hair: black, mid-length/ Beard, close cut

Family:
Mother: Fortune (Goddess)
Father: Unknown
Sister: Faith

Curse(s):
-Curse of the Undying: Subject is unable to stay dead. He will recover from any damage to a semi-default state. The amount of regeneration performed has a parallel cost to the subject based on his then-present nutritional state. This cost results in a deepening hunger and loss of body mass to within a threshold.
NOTE: Subject CAN NOT die from starvation.
In short, he can not die, no matter what. But every time he dies or regenerates damage, he gets hungrier. 

-Entropy Singularity Curse (Luck’s Shadow Curse): Subject acts as a living anomaly in regard to both the arcane laws of Fate and Chaos. The subject is a centralized singularity point that bends space, time, and magic to produce massively improbable events that are detrimental to the subject.
In short, he’s been cursed with luck so bad that he breaks the laws of reality, probability, and magic.

-Curse of the Open Hand: Subject has been marked with a curse brand that prevents him from holding any weapon, and often other tools that can be used as weapons. The origin of this brand is unknown.
In short, Sin can hold a sword, gun, mace, or even dinnerware. Yeah, sometimes he can’t even use forks or spoons. Those are dangerous, you know.

Personal History: Unknown