Delilah Morgan


Gender: Female

Kit: Natural

Location: Belle Flora Estate, modern day Zambia


Alignment: Villain

Team: The Fallen


Strength: weak (rank 0)

Agility: weak (rank 0)

Mind: standard (rank 1)

Body: weak (rank 0)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Infamy Points: 24

Personal Wins: 69

Personal Losses: 44

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Active


Phillip Verne slung a sack of engine coal over his shoulder and humped it over to the airship. A waiting mechanic takes it from him and passes it down the line into the galley hall. More servants and air-sailors dash past him to get the ship ready for take-off. His employer, a fat little wad of flesh with a handlebar mustache, stands anxiously at the corner of the platform. Verne approaches him.

“Col. Grey you seem tense, are you sure you do not want to come with us?”

“I am quite sure Mr. Verne, I would not dare to take such a precarious voyage. I only send you as a last resort.”

“Airships are the safest way to travel, Sir.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he mutters, “it is not the journey, but the destination that terrifies me. You are travelling through un-charted territory deep within the heart of the Dark-Continent. The very earth on which you wish to step has never been trod upon by civilized man, and it will not take to new faces. Be very careful, Mr. Verne ”

Verne sighs irritated.

“I am an excellent explorer Col. Grey, I have done this before—”

“As had my son,” the colonel replies, “do not let your ego cloud your mind; if it could take him, then it could take you as well. You know where to follow his trail. His last letter put him in the home of two young women, daughters of the Cambridge Botanist, James Morgan. Twenty miles up river you’ll find the Morgan Estate, “Bella Flora”, start there…”


The native stopped dead in his tracks. The jungle seemed just as quiet as ever. The man's eyes darted across the trees, searching. He wouldn’t move another step forward; his mouth gaped open but made no sound. He turns back to the group and waves his arms feverishly.

“Mkou, ni-twala zihi no, no abali, abali ta!”

Verne turns towards Kitenge, his first mate.

“What did he just say?”

“He said he will go no further,” Kitenge says in perfect British accent, “That the land beyond this is “abali”, and that no man should cross it.”

“What does ‘Abali’ mean?”

“There is no English equivalent, the two words that come closest are ‘sacred’ and ‘evil’. That which is Abali belongs to nature alone.”

“Kisune abali,” the man interjects, “Mosou as za notoya, . Abali man, ta man oso!”

“He says the two white women who live in the house have already been devoured by the ‘abali’, that they walk around as its slaves. That it is a living death. The man who enters Abali, becomes the Abali.”

“Well," muses Verne, "that’s utter nonsense if I ever heard it. Give him his payment and send him on his way. If he doesn’t want to come any further we won’t need him. I can see it from here.”

Kitenge spoke to the man in his original tongue and the native fled off back the way they came. Verne readjusts the bag on his shoulder and stares into the depth of the jungle. A lone manor stands like a white washed monolith amongst the growth of the jungle. It seems to poke out of the surroundings like a welcoming face circled in a bouquet of jungle flowers: ‘Belle Flora’ indeed.


Verne raps on the door. Even in the humid breath of the African heat the paint stands perfectly white. It is the picture of an English manor, save that the yard and borders run rampant with overgrowth. Trellises of vines scale every wall of the house and peak over the balconies. The manor is cast in shade from the massive tree-tops. Verne knocks again; the door cracks open.


A timid maid pokes through the crack in the door.

“Hello Miss,” begins Verne, “I was wondering if the lady of the house was in?”

“No. Please go away.”

“Then could we wait for her, perhaps have a glass of water?”

“No,” repeats the maid, “You have the wrong house. I’m sorry.”

“I do? Isn’t this the Morgan estate?”

The maid moves past the door. She isn’t a native hired hand but an Englishwoman, young but noticeably weak. Her ghastly pale skin is offset by dark sunken rings around her eyes. Her uniform is in tatters, her face besmudged with dirt and pain. She speaks in a hoarse whisper that seems to require all the strength she has left.

“Take my word sir. You have the wrong house. Leave the way you came… I beg you…”

“CELIA?” calls a voice from inside.

The young woman freezes. She doesn’t say another word. The maid slowly turns back towards the interior of the house. By some seeming command she opens the door further. In the main hall stands a vision. A lady in waiting, enveloped in a white dress and pink silk gloves; her hair is fair and washed, twirling into meticulous curls down the nape of her neck. The vivid violet flowers sown across her dress lead the eye towards her warm skin. The woman smiles.

“My dear, gentlemen,” she says sweetly, “I’m so sorry to leave you waiting at the door. I was in the garden and I hadn’t heard you knocking.”

“That’s all right, Mrs.?”

“Miss,” she says, “Miss. Delilah Morgan. You are?”

“Phillip Verne, and” he points to Kitenge, “my first mate Joseph Kitenge. We were sent by Col. Grey in London. We were actually hoping to find the Morgan residence, we were afraid we were at the wrong place.”

“Of course not, what would give you that idea?” she turns to her maid with a smile, “Celia, don’t stand there like a lout; these men are guests and have travelled very far. Go get them some fresh water.”

“Yes Miss. Delilah.”

The maid walks off towards the back of the house. Delilah watches her go, then turns to the men with a sigh.

“You’ll have to forgive poor Celia. She’s been out here so long her manners have simply evaporated. She doesn’t even keep herself presentable anymore; I aught to be more strict with her but I simply don’t have the heart…. Oh look at me going on about my problems; you too must be exhausted. Come inside, I was just about to have tea…”


Laelia Somnus/ "Midnight Orchid"

     Induced Sleep: superior (rank 2)

  • Area Affect


Verne sips the tea. It’s taste was unusual, a unique blend. He looks up to the hostess.

“What is in this? I’ve been from Morocco to Tibet and I’ve never had anything quite like it before.”

“Do you like it?” Delilah asks, “It is a very special blend. Regular tea leaves and a hint of lemon, mixed with a blooming orchid that grows in this valley. Father once said it’s the only place on earth it grows wild. He tried to experiment on it of all things; me, I just love the smell and the sight of it. I suppose I never had his scientific mind of course…”

“That must be what makes this place so special,” Kitenge adds, “the villagers around you seem to believe you built your home on sacred ground. That the spirit of the jungle had ‘devoured’ you.”

“Oh please Mr. Kitenge,” Delilah retorts, “I can understand why they might believe such a silly notion, but you seem to be more of an educated man. Anytime the empire tries to expand into undeveloped territory, the natives then decide that the land is sacred. My father built this house over a decade ago, and I can assure you the only danger we’ve ever faced has been from them, not some backwoods voodoo they worship.”

Verne puts his cup down and looks up to change the subject.

“Miss. Delilah, the Grey boy’s last letter said he was staying with you and your sister, yet I have seen nothing of either of them?”

Delilah's eyes dim with sadness at the question.

“Oh, that is due to a very unfortunate circumstance Mr. Verne.”

Delilah pulls a small bell from the side pocket of her dress. She places it between her fingers and rings it daintily. Celia emerges from a hallway some seconds later.

“Celia, be a dear and clear away the tea for now.”

“Yes, Miss. Delilah.”

Celia begins to move the tea kettle and cups back onto a carrying tray. Delilah turns back to Verne with a silent glance. Her eyes seem to water up.

“You see Mr. Verne, both Mr. Grey and my sister have been gone for some time. After he sent the letter to his father, Mr. Grey and my dear sister both befell a great tragedy. There was nothing anyone could do, it nearly broke me up inside… With father and mother already gone, I was left all alone, all except Celia that is. Thank you dear.”

Celia lifts the tea tray off the table and heads into the back-room where she came. Verne looks back at his hostess, his eyebrows raised.

“But Miss Morgan, what tragedy was that? You must tell me.”

“Oh you shouldn’t concern yourself with the details Mr. Verne. Its all too horrid. I can inform you tomorrow, but it’s getting late, I think you gentlemen may need to sleep here tonight.”

“If Mr. Grey is dead, then it is my responsibility to return to my ship and inform his father at once.”

Delilah lets out a coquettish laugh.

“Oh Mr. Verne, I would not worry about your airship. You won’t be returning to it, you must stay here. I’m surprised you lasted this long, but the tea will take its effect on you quite soon, much as it did for Mr. Kitenge and Mr. Grey before him…”

Verne looks to Kitenge. His body is limp and his eyes shut. Verne feels his head bob forward, his eyelids are like lead. She smiles once more at him as he falls loosely onto the floor.


Pueraria Lobata/ "Creeping Vine"

     Binding: superior (rank 2)

  • Area Affect
  • Target Seeker


The flight crew had stayed behind while Verne went ahead. He and Kitembe had only been gone nine hours, no reason to worry yet. The engine mechanics were playing cards below deck of the landed airship. Henry looks at his cards. The hull groans deeply.

“Did you mates hear that?”

“No,” says a crewmate, “Stop wasting time, raise, check, or fold.”

The hull moans louder. All the mechanics can hear it now. It is the sound of steel and wood bending. The men rush up the stairs. They come topside and find their airship devoured in vines.

On the deck of the ship the vines wrap around their fallen comrades. The airmen who were on deck when it happened lay motionless, asleep, and are tugged off silently into the jungle. Henry turns to run, he steps over the vines and heads for the edge of the ship. A green leathery rope stretches out from nowhere and grabs him by the ankle. His crewmates scatter down the way they came, sentient vines creep and follow behind them.

Henry tries to rip the vine off his body; it simply creeps further and further around him without limit. More vines seem to expand from nothingness until they wrap across his body like a python. Small purple buds on the vines’ surfaces begin to bloom, they unfurl into beautiful violet orchids. A cloud of pollen escapes from the flowers. Henry breathes it in. His head feels heavy, the world spins in vertigo. It only takes a moment; as he drifts off he can feel his body being dragged off into the jungle.


Pueraria Delialium/ "Delilah Hybrid"

     Bio Vampire: standard (rank 1)


Verne awakes. His body is numb, vision blurred. He can barely make out the outlines of the others held in the vine trellises. He had seen his shipmates deteriorate over the days of their capture.

He could only stay awake a few hours a day now. The first night he awoke he thrashed for hours on end. Then less so the next day. And even less the day after that. The vines holding him helpless entered his veins like roots into soil. He could only remain conscious long enough to see her walking through the manicured garden towards him. She smiled girlishly and snapped her fingers. A cloud of pollen fell from above and Verne descended back into sleep.


Belle Flora

     Communication: standard (rank 1)


Delilah sat in her garden chair and looked over her shrubberies. They didn’t struggle much anymore; she wondered what she would make of them once they were ready.

Young Mr. Grey made an excellent topiary. She glanced up at him, locked in the vines of the tree above her, his eyes blank and body seemingly lifeless, his arms and legs spread apart making the foliage a nice parasol from the African sun. She felt empowered and a little self-righteous; all these useless men would soon find the same kind of utilitarian purpose as Mr. Grey.

She removes the small bell from her side dress pocket and rings it. The vines move with haste. They drag a ragged lump through the underbrush, then cut across the neat lawn and lay the quivering form in front of Delilah’s feet.

“Good Morning Celia, you’ll never guess what I heard through the grapevine today.”

Celia is too weak to speak. She only cowers on the ground. Delilah begins fanning her self.

“I heard through from grapevine, who was chatting with the rose trellis, who had been told by the jungle vines, that you were trying to escape last night. I just couldn’t believe my ears, but here you are… You were such a bright girl Celia, why would you do something so stupid, especially when you know we will always catch you?”

Celia begins to cry, she wipes the tears away.

“I don’t know…”

“That’s not a good answer Celia dear” Delilah looks down and tuts at her disapprovingly, “We take care of you. We saved you from their world, and keep you here to protect you from it. You’re not strong or smart enough to live on your own anymore. You need us. Belle Flora takes care of you, and you try to leave her in the dead of the night? That’s not what family does Celia.”

“Please sister,” Celia yells, “I just want to go home. Please! I just want to go home!”

Delilah coos, and pats her sister’s head tenderly. She descends to her level and cradles her in her arms. At the places where Delilah’s gloved hand touches her face, tiny black roots begin to crawl under Celia’s skin like spider webs. Celia’s crying turns to panic, she feebly shakes in her sister’s arms.

“Please sister, don’t do it again… just let me go home…”

Delilah smiles. She cradles her weak, terror stricken sister in her arms. The roots spreading across Celia’s skin explore deeper into her body. All Celia’s movement begins to die off. Delilah whispers in her sister’s ear,

“But darling, you are home…”


Mistress of the Manor

     Psychic Vampire: standard (rank 1)


Celia merely sits there, still as a statue with tears running down its cheeks. The dark crisscrossing lines emanating from Delilah’s hand at her temple traverse Celia’s face in a jagged grid. The circles under Celia’s eyes darken, her skin wanes to become even paler. What little remaining vibrant energy in her eyes is drained off, leaving nothing but an empty stare.

Delilah smiles, her face even younger and more beautiful then before.

“I’m sorry dear girl. I don’t want to have to do this. I couldn’t stand to see you tangled in the vines, a little marionette in my garden, I love you too much for that… but I can’t have you running off either. It simply won’t do. It was my fault; I should have taken more from you last time. I left you with too much of your mind and you couldn’t help yourself…Poor girl.”

Delilah clutches her sister’s head to her bosom, Celia falls into her arms like a ragdoll.

“I now see that the only way you’ll stay here willingly…is if you have no will.”

Delilah slowly lets go. She knew how much her little Celia could take in one sitting without expiring. It would be awhile before they’d need to have this talk again. Celia rises off the ground, moving rigidly without uttering a single noise. Her voice is lifeless monotone.

“Thank you Miss. Delilah.”

“You’re very much welcome dear. Now get along, you have a lot to do today. I want you to trim the hedges, water the roses, prune the azaleas, and check my new garden fixtures to ensure we won’t have any more unruly guests.

“Yes, Miss Delilah.”

The maid curtseys deeply then slowly turns towards the manor and shuffles off without a thought. Delilah sits back down in her garden chair, basking in the shade provided by the Topiary of Grey overhead.

“Oh, Celia,” Delilah calls out.

Celia stops and turns back, patiently waiting for instruction. Delilah smiles, delighted at her pet’s response,

“This recent increase of growth has got me thinking,” she says, “I think it’s time you write a letter to your old sweetheart Mr. Talbot in London. Beg him to come and take you out of the jungle; imply that you might marry him. That would make you happy, wouldn’t it Celia?”

“Yes, Miss Delilah.”

“Excellent darling, I was hoping it would. When you come back, I’ll be having tea in the garden this afternoon. The special blend if you would.”

“Yes, Miss Delilah.”

Celia curtseys once more then enters the house. The jungle is silent, not a moan or cry for freedom can be heard. All is right with nature.