TOBIAS MALCOLM MOORE
Peek in... into the peer in. I'm not really like this... I'm probably plightless
I cup the window, I'm crippled and slow for the agony I'd rather know
'Cause blinded I am blindsided



S E E R . ANDROMEDAS ORDER

My name is Tobias but you can call me Toby if that's got too many syllables for you to handle. I might look like I'm thirty-four but I'm actually thirty-two ; hard to believe, right? Roughly, I'm a whopping 6 feet, 3 inches tall, last I checked, and I'd be the first to admit I'm a little on the awkwardly lanky side, but don't hold that against me. Loads have people have told me how much I resemble Lee Pace but personally, I don't see it.

F I R S T . I M P R E S S I O N S

Twitchy, is the first thought that comes to mind. But it isn’t poor Toby’s fault. He’s trying to block out those thoughts—those sneaking, little private moments everyone has in the safety of their own heads. He’s not a fan of large crowds or busy streets; therefore he’s often looked on as a bit of a hermit, or recluse. If he’s got to go out into the city, he’ll usually be found with his headphones strapped about his ears, blasting abrasive music that he doesn’t really care for. Obnoxiousness—it’s the only way to drown the voices out. Long division helps too—that’s why he’s usually found doing bits of complicated math or archaic translations at his job. And yet there’s something undeniably sweet about the skittish man. A wistful glimmer of loneliness hidden behind those eyes, that makes complete strangers strike up conversations. It’s a strange life, but it’s Toby's—even if he doesn’t want it to be.

F A S H I O N . P A S S I O N

Some would call it elegantly disheveled—others would just call it unkempt. Once upon a time, Tobias Moore gave a damn what he looked like. Then he went bonkers. So now, all the suits and trimming s of an English professor have been left in his closet to fade with time. Occasionally, when he’s run out of laundry, he’ll regretfully put them on. It never quite right, though. The tie is always too loose, the fabric always wrinkled, the undershirts always ratty and frayed. If he were a younger man, such a nonchalant style would have the women swooning. However, he’s getting on in years—close to entering those golden ones. Tousled hair and pants in dire need of a press don’t exactly draw them in, in the throngs that they once did.

Or maybe they do—who knows? Tobias doesn’t, that’s for sure. He never really was good with fashion—especially as a way to attract attention to himself. It was always comfortable things—for it was always about comfort. However, Leah bought him several shirts and a jacket or two. She was always the stylish one. Just as he couldn’t bring himself to throw out their things, nor could he remove those items of clothing from his wardrobe. And so whenever he dons them, he looks his best and feels his worst.

D I M P L E S . A N D . T H I N G S

Toby’s got a bit of Irish blood coursing through those veins. This, of course, bestowed upon him, the tendency to freckle in the sun. He’s got a concentrated bunch dusting the bridge of his nose, and a few dusting his cheekbones. There’s a smattering upon his shoulder and arms—Jesus Christ! They’re everywhere! There’s some faint scarring on his palms and the bottoms of his feet—look a bit like scorch marks. He’s also got a faint scar that traces his right temple—souvenir from a drunken tumble off a balcony during his wild years. And last, but certainly not least, is the gashes upon his left wrist—the tell-tale battle scars of a suicide-attempt, failed. He’s hidden those beneath his tattoo, though. And as far as it goes, one can’t really see them through the inkage unless eyeballin’ it from a close distance.

W H Y . D I D . Y O U . D O . I T

Three entwining bands around his left wrist—look close, and one will find a bit of Celtic knotwork there. It’s got a bit of family symbolic significance—those bein’ the ties that bind and all.
He’s also got a black outline of a swallow on his hipbone—a depiction of a love, and a daughter lost. Not many see it—both given its location, as well as the emotional attachment. He’s still in many ways, a man still in mourning.

M A N . W I T H O U T . S K I N

People are comprised of a series of layers., a system of defenses that shield the heart of things. Walking about with one’s insides on the outside doesn’t seem quite intelligent, so why reveal the true inner self to any who wish to see it? Is the conundrum not one in the same? Well, the moment he buried his wife and daughter, Tobias Moore stopped caring about that rule. In fact, he stopped caring about a lot of societal rules. Especially the one about drinking before noon. That was a stupid rule.

He’s got a flare for guilt and honesty; two traits that all but sum him up. Not exactly able to turn off that inner perception, no one really has any privacy from him. All those ugly thoughts and wishes that people try and hide, all those embarrassing truths and impossible dreams—well he sees them folks, and he’s really, really sorry. Hence the guilt. He can’t help what he is, as so he does his best to avoid those particularly “loud” thinkers. Either that—or he’s forever doing them little favors that they never asked him to. Such as bringing an extra coffee into work, opening doors, or loaning books. It’s just odd requests filled—making Tobias a sort of handyman of desires. If you question him about it, he’ll stammer through an explanation, claiming it’s the least he can do, really.

And he won’t lie—he won’t do it. If someone can’t have the luxury of lying to him, why should he still be allowed to toe around the truth? However, simply because he’s truthful doesn’t mean he’s blunt. Tobias has always been a bit of a rambler and has always possessed a rather ass-backwards way with words. It takes him forever to get to the point, and he’s forever going about what he really means to say, taking one down paths of bizarreness generally left untraveled. Those with the same brand of wit—or at least the good sense to see what he is doing, typically have no problem keeping up with the inane bullshit he often spews. However, the rest--well they generally just leave feeling incredibly perplexed.

What’s even worse for Tobias than being around people and the contents of their heads, is being alone. Though it’s preferable to the voyeuristic invasion in a crowd, it generally means he’s left with his own thoughts and memories. Unfortunately, it’s the same ones playing over and over again in his head. It’s torturous. It’s not healthy, and it’s exactly what sends him straight to the bottle. The drunken, numbing stupor is far more preferable to days spent in a sober hell. Thinking himself far too much of a coward to test fate and attempt to end his own life a second time, drinking himself into oblivion is the only way he can ascertain any sense of peace.

S H O W . O F F

THE OBSERVANT ONE
Toby’s always been a stickler for the details. He has no problem looking at focused bits, rather than the big picture—a tendency that both pleases and infuriates those around him. He’ll approach a situation from all sides, finding solutions where there were previously thought to be none. Needless to say, this might be why he’s always so good with the daily crosswords.

THE EVER-RELCUTANT EAR
He’s a good one to talk to—if you can get him to sit down and have a conversation, that is. True, he’s got a knack for getting inside your head to find out the root of what’s eating you, but it’s his patience and general refusal to do so that makes him such a comforting shoulder to cry upon. Generally, if anyone in the order has a case to plead, they’ll come to him. And the crying—well that’s not literal. Tears make him antsy in ways you couldn’t believe.

THE POETIC SOUL
It isn’t only with numbers and crosswords, where his talents arise. Words are his playthings, his comfort, and that may very well be why he is such an extraordinary poet. Long ago it used to be love sonnets—he’s even had a few published under a pseudonym. However, there aren’t many epic accounts of love flowing from his pen these days. It’s a pity, for that’s where he truly shines.

THE RESOURCEFUL MATHMATICIAN
He tends to do everyone’s taxes—for free. Numbers are safe, and often times they make far more sense than words. They’re cold and concrete, and the long trail helps to put his mind at ease..

E P I C . F A I L

INSOMNIA
Tobias has always had trouble sleeping—but it’s grown steadily worse over the past few years. Could perhaps be in large part, do to the constant stream of images that light up once his eyelids close. It’s really hard to get a good night’s sleep when you’re peering into the hazy future, so often he opts to leave it out of his schedule altogether. It was terrible time, before his body adjusted. There’d be bags hanging beneath his eyes, a slow, zombie-like quality to his walk, and the tendency to stare off aimlessly into space whilst in the middle of a conversation. He’s gotten a bit better, and his body has adapted to the bizarre schedule. He’s learned to maintain himself, and it no longer completely looks as though he’s been struck by an SUV.

SEAFOOD
Toby has a great love for anything that once floated about in the briny deep. Because he absolutely abhors cooking, and is what one might call a bachelor, it’s generally tunafish, or a unfortunate critter or two that he caught whilst out on his boat. The promise of a lavish marine spread often is the perfect way of enticing the man into one’s company. Wag a lobster underneath his nose, and he’ll be there with bells on.

OXFORD
Oxford is the lazy, lummox of a cat, most often seen lounging atop the main desk at the public library. He’s the feline embodiment of Tobias’ human need for emotional attachment. Living alone, and being a bit of a recluse, he’s poured all those simple needs of companionship and friendship into that of the massive tom. It helps that Tobias cannot hear the simplistic thoughts of natural animals—it offers a brief bit of blessed silence. In short, Oxford is all he has now. If something ever happened to the lout, Toby wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

THE LIBRARY
Not only is it his place of business, but it is also his second home. True, it’s never perfectly quiet there, with people milling about and constantly returning or borrowing things—but it isn’t nearly as abrasive as a minimart. He’s even hired a few helpers, or taken on one or two young repenting teens looking for a bit of community service. It’s allowed him time to slip away and read some of the many books that line those worm, tired shelves. It isn’t much of a living, but it’s his—and he honestly wouldn’t have it any other way, now.

T R I C K S . F O R . T R E A T S

RECOGNITION
Like most of his ilk, Tobias is what one could consider, a precog—though he’s pretty lousy at it. Simply put, he can see the future. It’s only in tiny, waking glimpses, or in long, bizarre dreams that he can never really remember. Generally speaking, these random attacks of sight are either too far into the future, or too close to the present to ever really make a difference to anyone. For a while, this was all he had, and because it was so diluted, the Order only kept him in the loop because of his lineage. It wasn’t really very useful to anyone, least of all him.

TELEPATH
But seven years ago, he came into his true power—though he’d much rather not have it at all. If you can get anyone else to talk about it—because he sure as hell won’t—they’ll tell you it was brought about by severe mental trauma. Toby can hear your thoughts, and he can’t control it very well. Every little snide comment made, every plot, every desire—they’re all open to him, merely when he walks by a person. It’s horrible, it invading, and he likes it just about as much as the person being listened in on. But it’s useful—which is why he’s on the Council. Given enough wheedling by others—because he’ll never do it willingly—he can peer into a person’s head and dig up any memory, or any past thought--even if the person cannot fully recollect it, themselves. The only reason he’s limited to the present is because he chooses to be.

L I K E S

Word games. Long division. Charlie Parker. Tunafish sandwiches. Keats. Scarves. Green eyes. Oxford, his cat. Sea salt. Hard candy. Sailing about in his boat. HIS library. Small children. Tea. Coffee, black with three lumps of sugar. Alcohol, in all shapes and sizes. Solitude. Anyone who can mask their thoughts. Twilight. Russet Apples. Woolen socks. Fall weather.

D I S L I K E S

Large crowds. His position within the family. Thinking of HIS family. Silly things, like style. Science-fiction. Overdue books. Memories. Porcelain dolls. Surrealism. Carbonated beverages. Horror movies. His “gift.” Summer. Ambition. Trance music. Flowery perfumes. Fried foods. Blind dates. Cooking.

D O W N L O W

Tobias is a creature of habit, therefore it’s only natural that he has a heaping amount of unhealthy ones.

SPACE CASE
Tobias has a way of drifting off into his own, little world, be it through visions or just daydream doldrums. His eyes get all hazy and faraway, his mouth hangs slightly open, and his head tilts to the side, as if he’s trying to see past you. Some tend to think this is an adorable vice—that it makes him look years younger, and far more wistful, than melancholy. Others just thing that it make’s him look like a slack-jawed idiot. Both observations are correct, in their own right.

NAIL-BITER
Thrust him into a crowd, and those fingers get thrust into his mouth. It’s almost childish, but it’s one of the few immediate ways of coping with immediate stress. He’s trying to stop, he really is—but it’s a comforting vice, and that makes it hard.

HYGIENE
Everyone’s got their compulsive, OCD ticks—makes us human. He’s quite the fan of brushing his teeth. If he’s at home, and has the slightest hint of a foul taste in his mouth, it’s straight to the bathroom to brush those pearly whites. When he finds himself away from the toothpaste, he’s often an avid gum-chewer. It’s easy to tell how nervous he gets by watching the increased pace of each jaw-movement as he chews.

I M M E D I A T E

ISABELLA FAY ANDERSON – DECEASED – INTERIOR DESIGNER - SEER.
She was Gryphon’s second cousin, or something like that. Tobias never kept tabs on family branches.

ISAIAH TOBIAS MOORE–WHO THE HELL KNOWS – DRIFTER/PSEUDO-PHILOSOPHER – SEER

___ ___ GRYPHON - - ARCHITECT – SEER
they’re all related, in some sense, but the upper crust ties generally mean a great deal to the Order.

S I G N I F I C A N T

The great loves—something every man remembers.

MARGOT LYNN JANSSEN – 28, PROBABLY – FIRST KISS – HUMAN
Nobody forgets their first kiss, right? Playground romance and stolen kisses behind the school building. They were seven, and she always wore her hair in pigtails.

MORGAN SOMETHING-OR-OTHER BREWER – 27 – FIRST LAY –HUMAN
Again, there’s just some people you can’t forget. She wore far too much makeup, and was self-conscious in such a manner, that it almost made her fragile. He didn’t love her, but things like love seem precocious when you’re young and feel immortal.

LEAH MARIE THOMPSON- DECEASED – FORMER WIFE – PRECOG
Many people wait forever to find the brighter half of their souls. Leah and Tobias would always say that it was their sight that brought them together—destiny and dreams. He was an entirely different person when she was around—she made him stronger, better, braver. He’s really not been the same man, ever since her death. In many ways, he still blames himself.

NAOMI ISABELLA MOORE – DECEASED – DAUGHTER - TELEKINETIC PYSCHIC
There is nothing worse than having to bury your children—it’s something that breaks men. She was beautiful like her mother, all that long, blond hair, and bubbling, bright smiles. She was such a naughty, little thing, so full of life—he can sometimes hear her muffled laughter throughout their home

T H I N G S . I V E . S E E N

Tobias doesn’t much care for his past, so ask him about it, and he’ll run through it briefly. Some carbon-copy Stratos drifter swept his mum off her feet and into her bed when she was just nineteen. Come news of her pregnancy and her desire to keep the child, and he was gone just as quickly as he came.

That didn’t stop Bella from doing her best as a single mother. Though she had let him know from the get-go that the Andersons weren’t exactly what one could define as normal—or his father, for that matter—she never really was one for excessively flaunting her power. However, Tobias knew it was always there, always playing a large role in her day-to-day living. She always knew where everything was—be it from the baseball mitt he lost to where he was on Saturday evenings. He could slip absolutely nothing by the shrewd woman. It made for a tough childhood. Lying to one’s parents and sometimes having the good luck to get away with it is a fundamental part of growing up.

The first time Tobias saw the future, his mother presented him before the Order. It had been an absent-minded doodle on his History homework, really—a picture of a burning bus, and nothing more. Like the lyrics to a bad song, the image had been stuck in his head the entire week. He had hoped that by jotting it down, it would some how transfer from the wrinkles of his brain onto the folds of a piece of paper. His mother had thought it nice—artistic in the fashion that most mothers do—and had pinned it to the refrigerator. The next week, an electrical malfunction caused a fire upon one of the buses downtown. Several people had been grievously injured—and so it was news worthy. Isabella knew there was no such thing as coincidence when there were Seers involved, and so she knew she had to present her child before The Family.

He met the head honchos once and only once as a child. A bunch of grumpy, old biddies at a diner, they were unremarkable, to say in the least. But the visit wasn’t for his benefit, no. They were gauging him, judging his worth to their ranks. And per usual, Tobias was found wanting—his potential not yet realized. Not yet, they told his mother, not for a good while. Isabella would’ve been lying if she said she wasn’t relieved by their words.

The rest of his childhood and teenaged years passed uneventfully. Aside from the strange glimpses into an unreadable future, there really wasn’t much to Tobias’s gift. He had come to see the sight as cumbersome and annoying—like a perpetual menstrual cycle for his magical blood. Horrible metaphor, but it hit home. However, there was a time when his visions grew stronger. It was when he was about twenty-three and standing on the cusp of his bachelor’s degree. He kept dreaming of this girl—this beautiful, strange girl. It wasn’t at all mystic or eerie, like some sign of things to come. She was merely sitting upon a park bench, or outside a café, or--much to his chagrin—soaking in a bath. Just common things like that—nothing to suggest an epic quest or search and rescue. This was reality after all—not a fairy tale.

And then he saw her. Not just in his head—but in the living, breathing flesh. She was in a book store, as pretentiously cliché as that sounds. She wasn’t reading anything—just merely staring at one of the expansive shelves, her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. His first instinct was to step forward—to as her who she was, what her favorite song was, what she loved most in the world, and if she liked oolong tea. Too many questions—and he felt so pressed for time. He couldn’t explain the rushed feeling.
And then she turned and smiled at him as though they had known one another for years. She took his hand, saying that Blackbird was her favorite song, she drank oolong tea by the barrel, and that he—Tobias Moore—was soon going to be her most favorite thing in the whole, entire, wide world.

When precogs get together, they don’t waste time with things like easing into fate. Tobias had always been a cautious individual, but Leah—she was fearless, so sure of herself and everything around her. It was contagious. It made him feel bigger than himself—and being with her was like being a part of something with a grand and beautiful plan. She was pregnant within two months of their first meeting—they were married within three.

Every day was perfect and he felt whole. This was his other half—not only a girl with likeminded (though obviously stronger) powers but a reflection of his own soul as well. When they brought their daughter into the world, he was so happy he felt his heart could’ve burst. She was a tiny piece of perfection—her wide, blue eyes and tiny fingers so frail and sweet. He hadn’t thought it possible to love anyone more than he loved his wife—but Naomi, she was the apple of his eye. He had made a wonderful father—brimming with infinite pride and infinite patience. Perhaps that was what made everything so heartbreaking when it was ripped from him.

Shortly thereafter Naomi’s second birthday, Leah lost the vivacity and zest that she had once seemed to perpetually carry. As mournfully withdrawn as she was, she did a splendid job of hiding it from Tobias. She couldn’t tell him the things she’d seen in her dreams as they lay together in their large bed. If she spoke such visions aloud, she knew he’d come with them. And yet, where she was going, he could not follow. It didn’t seem fair—but when was life ever fair to anyone?

And so be it because of insanity or divine insight, she took her own life. One spring morning, while Tobias was off at the university, she took Naomi into the large, clawfoot tub in the master bathroom. She wept as she held the child beneath the water, her tears dashing with the churning water and the betrayal of infantile trust. It broke her, it broke her. Holding her babe close in her arms, she sat within their final resting place and sobbed. And then, resolve and heartbreak melded into one, giving her to courage to take the blade to her own wrists. Vertical incisions, straight and swift, she left no room for mistake.

They were both dead when Tobias arrived home. Though the water was cold and red, they were so pale and blue. He lost himself—his world. The authorities had to hospitalize him for several weeks. Catatonic, he would not speak, he would not respond. He was lost unto himself.

When he finally resurfaced, his first act of conscious action was to attempt to end his own life. He broke a window and took the glass to his wrists, just as his wife did. However, while she had an entire day to ease into death, Tobias wasn’t granted that luxury. They found him there, lying in a bloody mess upon his hospital bed, and pulled him from death’s doorstep.

He couldn’t tell you what it was like to die—he couldn’t remember. It was just so utterly dark. Nothing. No bright lights, no pearly gates—just the absence of life. It was terrifying. And Leah…had she knowingly traveled into that with their little girl in tow? It seemed too much—too much. There was nothing redemptive about the experience to suggest that his wife and his little girl were in a “better place,” nothing at all.

When he awoke, it was as if his hearing had been magnified, blasting about in the insides of his head. Every little whisper—every little sidelong comment the nurses made—he heard them all. When he had strength to answer them—he did. They looked at him, startled, scared. He was reading their minds. Poor Toby had the good sense to keep his trap shut from there on out.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to linger long in the solitude of confusion. Two days after his failed attempt at ending his existence, Gryphon came a-callin’. He brought books—and demands. Typical Order actions. He wanted something—but in return he offered answers and a way of coping. He didn’t lie to Tobias—he didn’t try and manipulate the poor confused man into doing what he wanted—but that might have been because he would’ve had a tough time doing it with Tobias buzzing about in his head.

Instead, he offered him a place—a sense of belonging. Tobias respected him for his honesty—even if the bluntness was a bit much. Though he did not accept right away, Gryphon finally wore him down. It wasn’t but a year after the catastrophe that Tobias was called into The Order and given a spot upon the Council.

H E R E . A N D . N O W

It’s been several years, and generally one assumes that time heals all wounds. It doesn’t---and the memory of his lost wife and child still weigh heavily on Tobias’s mind. Though perhaps not as rampant as before, his ability to read minds still alludes his grasp of control He can’t shut it off. At least he can now distinguish outright spoken word from thoughtspeak now. It’s still made interaction hard—and he’s more of a recluse than ever.

He’s found solace in the bottle. Not an angry or a happy drunk—he’s more of a melancholy one, if anything. Still, it deadens the feeling, and that’s all that matters. He no longer teaches at the University. Instead, he’s opted for the less than glamorous life of a librarian. It doesn’t really pay the bills, but the combination of Leah & Naomi’s life insurance, as well as funds from The Order’s endless supply gets him by.

If the Andromedas Order thought they could use him merely as an instrument, they were wrong. Well—Gryphon never did, so that might be a bit harsh. No, he’s faithful with his duties, and there’s no better judge of character than he. He’s not ruthless—so he’s not an Inquisitor. He just merely offers insight and solutions to internal and external controversies.

Of late, the Order has watched a good number of seers, shifters, and sirens roll into their once small community. Others are reading troubling signs in the future—and his skills will most likely need to be put to use very shortly. However, these trying times do not weigh heavily on Toby’s mind—he’s got enough personal baggage to deal with.

You can call me mae and I'm in the I don’t sleep, so it doesn’t matter time zone. You guys suckered me in with the sexiii parties and I guess I'll be sticking around to post where I want, when I want per week. Tell you something though, nutmeg is extremely poisonous if injected intravenously…Just keep that in mind.

the.agony of intrusion ϡ

R P . SA M P L E

. C O N G R A T U L A T I O N S .
guess that means they like you

You've made the ranks as a S E E R, love, very well done indeed.
So what're you waiting for? Get to the good stuff already and go rip
some throats out!

.. or post your plot page if you're into that kind of thing.