From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

Scary Clown
Crosscut
Player: IV
Origin:	Natural
Archetype:	Stalker
Threat Level:	Varies
Personal Data
Real Name:	A Good Question
Known Aliases:	Maid Murdering, Goodbye Nurse, The Insurrealist, Shorty, Silence.
Species:	Presumed Human
Age:	Old Enough to Regret, Too Young to Care
Height:	Shawtie
Weight:	Feather
Eye Color:	Assorted
Hair Color:	Various
Biographical Data
Nationality:	Indiscriminate
Occupation:	Housekeeper, General Services, Assassin
Place of Birth:	Obscure
Base of Operations:	Rogue Isles and Environs Various
Marital Status:	Celibate Unchaste
Known Relatives:	Another Good Question
Known Powers
Hypothetically, None
Known Abilities
Prestidigitation
Equipment
Assorted Knives, Props, Trinkets
?!?

Everything You Know...

Crosscut was born on a sad, strange sabbath under unkind stars to a changeling father and his zombie bride. A crow and a dove made their way to the hospital (following the light of a distant explosion at the nearby oil refinery) each carrying a gift: One a band of gold, the other Tomorrow's Truth.

Neither could remember who brought what, however, for the dove was a fool in his old top hat, and the crow had carried both with the promise of credit due. How they squabbled and argued! The pair squawked and pecked until they'd taken each other's eyes to ribbons, blood spattering across the child in her parent's arms.

They clasped the band about her throat, and wrapped her in linen. Then, carrying child, chain and chance to a cliff overlooking the water, they cast her over in the hopes that she would never fulfill her strange, terrible destiny.

The ocean was merciful, however, strange calm eddies circling the child while elsewhere storms did rage.

It carried her away, across the water to another place where children grew hale, hearty and happy. She wasn't one of them though, so they put her straight to work spinning gold into straw for the horses. This she did, eating stew and stir-fry, and while she worked the hale and hearty danced and played until they grew so fat and lazy they could not move.

Or work.

So it came to pass that their mother caught them in their ill health, and rolled them down the hill to the crocodile pond while the new girl ate their breakfast. The mother stared daggers at her for this theft, though it was rightly earned. Crosscut took the blades and made them hers, but she still had to work.

She worked and worked, and earned her name from the craft of the knives. Her mother sent her often to borrow sugar from their neighbors, and sometimes tears. But their neighbors were ogres, who did not freely share, and one day it came to pass that the biggest, hairiest and ugliest of them grew tired of crying. He came to her mother's house and bellowed, saying: "Come out, Old Mother! Come out, for I wish to borrow your bones!"

When she did not come, he gnashed his teeth, setting a spark in the grass by the house on the hill. She would not come out for him, ever, not in a million, trillion, billion, squillion years.

And so she died.

But the girl walked on.

All the way around the world she walked, singing for her supper and dancing for her drink, until a certain crow stopped her on the road saying:

"Girl, you know me. I was their when you first screamed into this world. I will be there when you leave."

But she could not remember.

"I was wrong, I was wrong!" lamented the old, blind bird. "For it was I who carried the Truth to you, thinking it so pale a gift against the golden band about your pretty throat. I killed him for the squabble, and now I regret."

So she offered him the golden band, and he took it (and, with it, her voice) to lay upon the grave of the old fool dove in his tatty black hat.

She kept walking, in the meanwhile, until she came to a place...

...IS WRONG

None of this is true, accurate, or reliable. Rumors and hearsay will tell you that Crosscut is everything from a faerie or a dog to a god, and none of this is true.

They have heard her name, seen her fight and danced with her under bright florescence or cloudless stars. Still, neither Arachnos nor their adversaries possesses more than a fleeting glimpse of the creature.

She ambles through life, touching upon the lives of others as light and brilliant as a butterfly, and sometimes as deadly. Even among those she is known to habitually coexist, little is known for this is true: She has no voice.

Nor, it seems, does she desire one. Some have tried, offering a panoply of instruments through which to communicate. For her part, Crosscut pantomimes polite refusal and goes her merry way.

Mere Facts

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