Age: 19
Gender: Female
Appearance: Light clothing, colorful, conservative, traces of bandages underneath. Pale, doesn't look like she's spent much time under the sun, build is almost sickly, bearing the echos of former frailty. Movements are energetic, jittery almost, and she often bounces slightly even in the midst of conversation, though she quickly falls into a slouch should she fall still.
Background: Mercier's story is about the same as that of so many other poor saps. It all starts with that first symptom, well not the first, but the first that mattered, the one that sent them to a doctor, to a hospital. The start of the little horror show. So in they go, and they wait, they wait for what feels like an eternity, and then they wait some more. Now, if they're lucky, whatever that symptom was has left them completely incapacitated, or at least in far too bad a condition to know what is happening. Most aren't. Mercier can't remember if she was. It's been so long, it's been a blur, and quite frankly, it wasn't exactly her finest moment, not something she remembers, not something she cares to remember. Really, when you even it out, they have it the best. They might not always be aware, but the people who brought them in, the people assessing and working on them, they always are. Aware; lucid, painfully so. What horrid fears must set in when the optimism fades, and the optimism will fade, sooner or later. Tests are conducted. Then they wait. Wait for another eternity. Diagnosis, tears. Prognosis, more tears. Spare a thought for the poor wretch delivering the news. Then they wait. Treatment comes, or what passes for it. The clock is ticking, counting down to midnight. It can't be stopped, not now, not today. But it can be slowed, slowed until it can be fixed. Maybe. Maybe, and until then, there's more waiting. Waiting, you get used to it eventually. These little eternities become your reality soon enough. This isn't a soap opera, this isn't a medical drama, there's no make or break moment, no, that's for the people with treatable conditions, other people, luckier people. Hah, lucky. Bet they don't feel that. How long could she last? Hard to tell. Well, she's a fighter at least. Hah, that's what they all say. Death looms, but it looms far away, always beyond the horizon, always so far away, and salvation with it, a salvation that may never come. Better start praying, hah, she never was the religious type, this, this made she wish she were, but again, she wasn't the religious type, and she couldn't force herself to be either, so no prayers from her, from her father though, well, walking through the ward it sure wasn't easy for him to believe in a God, but when it's your daughter in that bed, you're gonna take whatever odds you can get. What the girl was thinking back then, well, not much, nothing that amounted to much anyway. Listen to music, read, not the classics either, heavens no, non-fiction. Fiction stimulates the mind, provides escape, lets the mind wander, but Léone's could only wander back to what she was, what she had lost, not the cheeriest of thoughts. So it was non-fiction then, non-fiction all the way. Said it was so she could keep herself sharp, keep herself thinking, make sure that when she got of there alive, and as she would reiterate many times, she intended to get out of there alive, she wasn't feeling the effects of missing class. Hah, get out of there alive, if anything she was hoping she'd hurry up and die already. Sure beat the wait, sure beat watching Father suffer, if it's all going to end in tears, then let it end quickly at least. Well, that was the thought at least, and there were many thoughts, some hopeful, some, less than hopeful. Given this much free time, it's hard to stay consistent. The doctors said there was still hope. They were lying. Father said everything would be okay. He was lying. She smiled and said she was okay. She too, was lying. A den of liars, keeping smiles up in the hopes that the smiles wouldn't fade. They knew. He knew. She knew. But the truth hurt, and lying was easier, lying was consistent at least, little else was.
And then, and then that day came. Not the day she thought was coming. Not the day any of them thought was coming. It felt, surreal. It was hard not to, one day she's on her deathbed, well, eventual deathbed at least, the and next, she's up with not a scratch on her, no signs she even had a damn thing plugged into her. They ran tests of course, miracle or not, there's no better assurance than from the hangman himself, or at least the closest proxies. They came back clear, she came back without marks. There was something peculiar about her, an uncanny ability to heal. They took samples, with permission of course. Nothing ever came out of those, they seemed perfectly mundane, perfectly incapable of the miraculous regeneration Léone was exhibiting. There were zoanthropes on the news that day, there were patients being rushed in, and whatever testing they did showed nothing, no danger, no promise either, there wasn't anything they could do for her, and there wasn't anything she could do for them, so they did the only thing they could - they scratched their heads and discharged her. There was a lot of crying that evening.
Soon enough things began to return to how they used to be, that's a lie of course, neither Léone nor her father remembered how things used to be, but this, this was probably close enough. Maybe it really was a miracle, maybe it was something else, neither had the energy to ask. There would be no voice from the heavens, no choir of singing angels, just an inexplicable recovery, and a clean bill of health. Still, Léone always did suspect something, it was hard not to. But why her? What could she do? Was she chosen for something? Or was it just coincidence. She couldn't tell, but if it was intentional, if it was more than mere happenstance, she would repay the favor. Father was smiling again, truly smiling, and so was she, that, that was enough, well maybe not enough, there's more to life, more to happiness than just smiles, but it sure beat the alternative, so if there was a reason behind this, if there was a God, or something close enough to him entrusting her with life, with this power, she resolved to repay them. This, wasn't going to be a matter of belief or zealotry, no, Léone Mercier was not religious, she didn't do belief, she didn't do zealotry, this, this was closer to a lifedebt, a blood oath, and soon enough circumstance would call upon her. Zoanthrope attack. Sudden, random, as per usual. And this time, Léone was caught in the midst, and caught a knife in her hand. A knife from nowhere, a conjuration, a weapon glinting with light that seemed almost heavenly. If there was ever going to be a sign, this would be it. And so she ran forwards. In hindsight, maybe that wasn't the best of ideas. She had the build of someone formerly bedridden and a cute little combat knife, it had chitinous armor and quite the size advantage. Next thing she knew, it was on top of her and caving in her chest cavity for... maybe the sixth time? Maybe seventh. She wasn't quite keeping track. She was planning on escaping after the first time but well, it became quite clear she wasn't getting any deader, not even close, something the zoanthrope couldn't seem to appreciate, and thus something that could buy everyone else time. To be honest, she only tried it again because it was so dreadfully boring, you mightn't think having your chest caved in could get boring, but it really does lose it charm after the first few minutes. This time, things were different. A crucifix of light erupted forth from her hands sending the beast reeling, a burst of speed propelled her heel against its skull, dazed and surprised, it wasn't able to offer too much resistance as she layed into it, not that it could do much, she could hurt it; it could not hurt her, not meaningfully anyway. They were both several feet up into the air when she did it, forced the blade in between its plates, and with one final blast of light, sent it hurtling into its heart. It vanished soon after. She landed and began tending to the wounded, at first trying to bandage them, and then, as the option became apparent, by taking their wounds unto herself. She was smiling then. Smiling so serenely, she looked saintly, even when covered in her own blood. It helped calm them, the wounded, the victims. If she had been more honest, she'd have been grinning.
So that was it then? Not the most informative thing in the world, but she got the gist of things. And if that was the price of life, then so be it; Léone Mercier is not the kind of person to leave a debt unpaid.
Advantage: Stigmata
Mercier's offensive melee and mobility descriptors rise as she takes more and more damage. There is no real limit to this, though it will of course reset when the battle is over.
Stats: (14/14)
Melee - 4: Mercier's close quarters capabilities only come into play as her stigmata ability progresses, taking the form of hand-to-hand strikes enhanced by bursts of holy energy sometimes used in tandem with a conjured combat knife.
Ranged - 0: Mercier has no ranged capabilities at all.
Mobility - 3: Mercier is able to hover and move through the air, and move at a decent pace, though her evasion is lacking. As her stigmata ability progresses, her speed for closing in and attacking increases.
Defense - 7: All of Mercier's defensive capabilities are tied to how she regenerates from all harm at an utterly absurd rate, and while it is entirely possible to keep her down using sustained attacks aimed to cripple, getting her to stay down when the attacks stop is another matter entirely.
Super - 0: While Mercier is able to perform certain things that exceed her normal limitations, she has yet to master her true potential in this regard.
Skills: (4/4)
Lay on Hands[-]: By touching someone, Mercier is able to transfer their wounds to herself, suffering them in their place. Naturally, this feeds into her stigmata ability.
Heavenly Wrath [-]: Mercier's ability to cripple and destroy her foes with crushing blows and close-range energy blasts increases sharply with her stigmata.
Angelic Wings [-]: Mercier's ability to close in on foes and outmaneuver to strike them from multiple angles increases sharply with her stigmata.
Saintly Patience [-]: Mercier has learned to ignore pain and is able to maintain her focus even when taking heavy damage.
Supers: