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Dover Weir

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About Dover Weir

  • Rank
    Fresh Faced


    Jason Statham
  • RACE
    Metahuman - FORMORIAN
  • JOB
    NYPD Bay Constable
    New York
    Dover is a British national from London, with a thick south west accent. He's roughly average height, by European standards, standing 5'10" and a solid 210lbs, with the cut build of a boxer. His sharp angular features are both rugged and comely, and despite his career as a bare-knuckle boxer has very few scars and deformities from the beatings. This might due to the fact that he never took a bad licking but more likely that after he became Formorian, the imperfections caused by violence and time were repaired and rejuvenated.

    His intense eyes are a vivid green blue and he keeps his head shaved to the wood. Once upon time, he wore the best suits, high priced shoes, silk shirts, but now he hardly has the bank account to back up such tastes. He managed to salvage a good amount of his wardrobe but he doesn't have much call for it anymore. These days it's a pair of beaten jeans and more practical tops. He'll still dress up from time to time when occasion calls.

    Stature remains the same. His skin becomes fish-like, scaly silver and grey with ornate swirling patterns flowing across his body. His eyes turn dark blue, fish-like, akin to aquatic creatures. Everything else remains 'human-like'.
    At first glance most would describe him as unapproachable but the more time one spends around him the more they realize he's nothing of the sort. He can be quite amiable and loves having a good time. 'Life's a party. What else could it be?' One of his motto's, but he doesn't it live like it like a teen-ager. He simply likes to enjoy life, but when it's time to get the job done, he's all business.

    He can probably best be defined as a renaissance man. His expertise spans many areas and he's a deep thinker. In fact Plymouth is a very sage individual. As he trains his body he has always trained his mind. He has read countless volumes on such topics as philosophy, psychology, sociology as well as many technical texts. He's very rounded and his trivial knowledge is exceptional but he's the first to push aside the 'genius label'. While Dover possesses an incredible amount of knowledge he's really no smarter than the average man, at least he doesn't think so.
    Gold Ring (second finger):
    Ornate Keltic dragon wrapped about the finger. Always carries four silver edged throwing knives (when wardrobe permits). Also a silver machete when needed.

    WEAPON: He carries a Glock mainly because it's primarily made of plastic and those his kind is not as susceptible to metals he is sensitive to constant contact.

    1986 Sportfish (Aquamarine trim)
    A-Class racing catamaran. One to two man. (Bright Orange with a red to yellow gradient coloured sail)

    Small two bedroom flat located at 41 Winter Street, City Island, right off the beach.

    Orange coloured 2003 Jeep TJ.

    Formorian Spear:
    Upon his descent to the depths of the Ocean, Dover acquired a ancient spear. It's shaft is a black metal of unknown origin, a metal which Faerie can touch with no ill effects (this metal has flex, is virtually indestructible but cannot hold an edge). The ornate spear head is silver and otherwise not extraordinary.

    Delta 1150TX
    • LOA (Length Overall) 11.50m
    • Fuel: Diesel
    • Capacity: Up to 6 Crew + 7 passengers/survivors
    • Engine: Twin Outboard



    At the time of the Resonance Dover was transformed into a Formorian, timeless beings born of the sea, their roots seeping all the way back to the old Irish legends of the Elvish wars. His bloodline lost along with the magic of a forsaken time is descended from Kings of his kind, from the great Balor, 'The Poison Eyed', 'Slayer of Nuada'.

    A Formorian on land is identical to a Human. There are no biological signs that they are anything else, not until water hits their skin, only then are there any genetic signs of them being non-human, other than increased muscle and bone density.

    Being able to survive at great depths makes a Formorian more resilient in constitution and strength. On land they are equal in strength to a strong, fit Human (of equivalent gender) but within water their strength increases to four times this. Even being wet makes them stronger, elevating their capacity to twice, even thrice that of a fit Human of equivalent gender (they do well in the rain). They have to be submerged (or soaking wet) for at least a quarter of an hour to achieve their full strength. Naturally they are, when compared to the average Human, very fit. In the case of Dover as he is descended from a royal line and surpasses the usual Formorian statistics. He has the endurance to run marathons on land and at the same time maintain is powerfully muscled physique. He is roughly twice as strong as your average Formorian warrior, his strength increasing to a whopping 'Human x 6' when in water and double when in 'Human' form.

    Prior to his change, Dover was extremely coordinated and able to perform basic acrobatic maneuvers, juggling and knife throwing. As a Formorian he is now able to perform tumbling routines with ease, and moves with the grace of classically trained dancer, skills which greatly increase his boxing skills.

    Dover was always good at sleight of hand, performing the old 'disappearing coin' or entertaining a few drunken patrons with card tricks. Since his change, however, his skills have greatly improved. His skills are now enhanced by actual magic in that he can generate very minor illusions such as making a small object (a coin or card) truly invisible for a few minutes. He can also generate small illusions, such things as a flying bird or rabbit, nothing major. The illusions last for a few minutes. They have sound, even cast shadows but these are tricks that will rarely fool an actual Magus endowed with 'mana-sight' and the skills to detect such simple spells.

    •• AQUATIC
    The Formorian are creatures of the sea. As they are able to breath air they can breath under water, able to magically survive at any depth. The deepest fathoms are their home.

    •• VISION
    Formorians can see perfectly underwater, as well as in total darkness, allowing them to visually navigate through deep sea caverns his kind are drawn to. They prefer the solace of the deep but do not dwell in darkness, they have no visual hindrances in the light but there is a profound difference in the appearance of their eyes in either condition. In the light, their eyes immediately turn human-like. In order to see in the dark or clearly underwater they need to turn their eyes into the aquatic form. They can consciously do this with a blink of their eye, turning the normal white sclera and iris to fish like equivalents, deep blue and sinister (the size and form of their eyes remains consistent with their human appearance).

    Naturally, Formorians are amazing swimmers. They are able to move as quick as seal in the water while still in their 'Human form', but once they change are able to achieve speeds attainable by dolphins. This is due to their great strength, webbed hands and feet and a magical ability that allows them to slip through water like a slippery seed pressed between fingers. It is an ability to distort water that automatically assists them while swimming, and only then. They cannot control it.

    Formorians have two forms. One nearly indistinguishable from that of Humans when on land, and an aquatic form while in the sea.

    •••• Once a Formorian remains submerged in water for three hours they will begin to change. In the next twenty four hours (so long as they remain in water, fresh or salt) their skin will begin to slowly transform to fish-like scaly silver and grey. A membrane forms between their digits first (in three hours) and their hair turns white, of course most males have little atop their heads. A trait of their kind. A Formorian's features stay pretty much identical to their human form only their eyes are dark and fish like (through the shape remains the same), and their ears are pointed. They are very much like Aquatic Elves.

    •••• Their transformation on land is significantly quicker. After an hour the webbing between their digits completely withers away and within another two their aquatic skin sloughs off, hair regrows, and they appear perfectly Human. A three hour process.

    They are pulled to the ocean. A Formorian will never live anywhere else but the coast, they simply cannot bear being too far from the sea. Some, however, did travel inland to settle around great lakes and it is believed that their descendants became other forms of water Faerie. True Formorians, however, will always be swayed by the sea and are thus governed by the cycles of the moon. They are stronger when the moon is full and are consequently weaker during it's darkest phase. So in tune are they with the sea that they can feel the tides, know when a ship is passing within ten leagues and can sense the approach of squalls.

    Formorian have amazing healing abilities but they have to be within water to utilize them. Outside of it they heal like a Human. In water they can quickly heal superficial wounds. They will also mend internal injuries that may otherwise prove fatal without surgery and can over time even regenerate limbs. They tend to heal better in brackish water and will retire the sea to heal if it's an option. This ability gives them an incredible resistance to poisons and overcome most while in their Formorian Form while submerged.

    Formorian are in tune with magnetic north. They always know which direction they're going. This hyper sensitivity also allows them to sense and track distinct vibrations resonating through water. This has an impressive range, nearly a mile. They will know the distance they are from any object they're tracking to within a foot, but to clarify, this is not like sonar or echo-location. This ability, in the water, is definitely an early warning system but it is reliant on noises being distinct or familiar. They are not going to pick out a fish swimming in the sea, they can definitely be surprised.

    •• Sense of smell - On land it is the same as a Humans, but under water, after they begin to transform into their Formorian form, it increases to the equivalent of a shark's.

    Formorians are naturally adapted to cold conditions. Icy depths have no effect on them, a magical ability as much as a physiological one. They are resilient to freezing temperatures on land but once the thermometer dips well below freezing even they are susceptible to the cold.

    •••• Formorians will naturally dehydrate quickly. They need regular swims in natural water (the sea, a lake or river). If they go too long without this time (three days) they begin to grow agitated and as time goes on become weaker and after a full ten days will dehydrate and eventually die. Even a walk in the rain can keep them hydrated and healthy.
    •••• Preference to the cool, the damp and the dark. Formorians do not fair well in warm conditions, although they can tolerate it.
    •••• Formorians are Faerie but their susceptibility to iron is possessed of a higher tolerance. Still, iron piercing their skin does more damage due to the poisoning effect.
    • Trained in the use of boats and marine laws.

    Bay Constables are responsible for:
    • Safe Boating
    • Environmental Concerns
    • Fishing Law Enforcement
    • Emergency Response
    • General Policing of their area

    • A good shot with a pistol or rifle. He's also exceptional with throwing knives and the like. For some reason he's also amazing with a javelin, which one of the preferred weapons of the Formorians. (They were deadly with spears).

    Boxing (Kickboxing)
    • Exceptional with his fists and use his feet as well.

    • Trained in the use of larger mounted firearms.

    High Diving
    • This is a genetic memory skill related to his race. He developed the ability to dive from heights.

    • The genetic memory of his race has given him skill with this weapon.

    • When he was a younger man, and broke, Plymouth used to con his way into beer tastings for the free samples, and it turned out he was one of those rare individuals gifted with the ability to distinguish and separate the various flavours of beers and ales. His sensitive palette is only attuned to these beverages though, he'd be hard pressed to tell a Merlot from a Shiraz.

    Philosophical and Well-read
    • Self educated in philosophy and well read. He's always had a thirst for knowledge and been able to comprehend and retain most of what he reads.

    • Dover is able to read music and can play the irish flute and uileann pipes.

    Other Skills
    • He's a great cook, and as a bartender he is renown for his Caesars. Naturally, he has a great head for business, from running both a club and promoting fights. He's also a fair mechanic, good with boat engines and has nautical experience. He can sail smaller crafts and navigate.

    English, Irish Gaelic, French, Formoiric (Faerie Tongue that sounds like Gaelic)
    Dover grew up in a tough neighbourhood. Hackney Wick, was avoided after dark, and he grew up just a stone's throw away from Clapton Road, also known as murder mile. His Irish born father, a used up fighter, ended up driving cab after his glory days which ended fast, as they did for most in the trade. He didn't know much else other than boxing, so that's what he taught his son so that the scrawny kid would at least be able to survive the beatings he knew an Irish kid would have to endure. Life was tough and it made him harder than coffin nail. He became a feared fighter on the street and in the ring. He developed a hacking jab, a devastating right, and chin or iron. Under the coaching of his father he would become a champion in the world of illegal bare knuckle fighting.

    Dover Weir's name quickly became synonymous with victory, but his father, learning from the mistakes of those who managed him, made sure the kid took his fall's at the appropriate times and soon they were living the life.

    Long after, he put the ring behind him and became a trainer and a fight promoter, people in the fight world still knew him, but he had evolved far beyond that vicious fighter who pounded out a name for himself. He amassed a collection of some of the best, mixed martial art fighters and boxers on the circuit and the money rolled in, enough, to allow him to purchase an after hours night club he called 'Chaser' and in time it became one of the most popular spots in London.

    He had it all. Money, cars, yachts, women at his beckon call, everything he ever wanted or dreamed of having, but come the day of the 'RESONANCE' it all slipped away, as he like so many was changed or in his case, 'cursed'. He had passed out for two or three days, he really can't recall how long, and when he awoke he just knew he was different; he could feel it, but there was little time for adapting. Dragons had arrived and their struggle threatened to destroy the entire island. He had just enough time to gather his belongings, some money in the form of gold and jewellery and leave England — escaping all the way to New York.

    He heard it every night, the call of the sea. Blood rushed through his ears like waves crashing against a rocky shore and the vivid smell of brackish water permeated his very being. They called to him, a people he would not acknowledge. Their lonely calls sang through the water... all water. It was their essence, and his, there was no denying it, but he was a man first and he'd be damned if he would ever let those black waters drown the last of his humanity away.

    He had denied the sea for too long. Once part owner of the Oak & Henge Tavern in Omenwich, Manhattan, Dover lived as a man until 2015 and then fell into the sea's embrace. He journeyed deep into dark depths unknown to man and dwelled there for nearly a year. He had believed the ocean would claim him forever but to his surprise he found peace and balance in what he had become… what had awoken with him. He returned in 2019 with new purpose, containing the darkness of his kynde and joined the NYPD harbour patrol so he could be close to the sea and not arise suspicions. He is stationed at City Island, Bronx where he also now lives.

    The sea still calls to him, but he has appeased it, for now.


    The race are known as the Fomoire or Fomoiri, names that are often Anglicised as Fomorians, Fomors or Fomori. Later in Middle Irish they are also known as the Fomóraig. The etymology of the name Fomoire (plural) has been cause for some debate. Medieval Irish scholars thought the name contained the element muire "sea", owing to their reputation as sea pirates

The medieval myth of Partholon says that his followers were the first to invade Ireland after the flood, but the Fomorians were already there: Seathrún Céitinn reports a tradition that the Fomorians, led by Cíocal, had arrived two hundred years earlier.

    The Tuatha Dé Danann, who are usually supposed to have been the gods of the Goidelic Irish, defeated the Fir Bolg in the first Battle of Magh Tuiredh and took possession of Ireland. Because their king, Nuada, had lost an arm in the battle and was no longer physically whole, their first king in Ireland was the half-Fomorian Bres. He was the result of a union between ériu of the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorian prince Elatha, who had come to her one night by sea on a silver boat. Both Elatha and Bres are described as very beautiful. However Bres turned out to be a bad king who forced the Tuatha Dé to work as slaves and pay tribute to the Fomorians. He lost authority when he was satirized for neglecting his kingly duties of hospitality. Nuada was restored to the kingship after his arm was replaced with a working one of silver, but the Tuatha Dé's oppression by the Fomorians continued.


Bres fled to his father, Elatha, and asked for his help to restore him to the kingship. Elatha refused, on the grounds that he should not seek to gain by foul means what he couldn't keep by fair. Bres instead turned to Balor, a more warlike Fomorian chief living on Tory Island, and raised an army.


The Tuatha Dé also prepared for war, under another half-Fomorian leader, Lug. His father was Cian of the Tuatha Dé, and his mother was Balor's daughter Ethniu. This is presented as a dynastic marriage in early texts, but folklore preserves a more elaborate story, reminiscent the story of Zeus and Cronus from Greek mythology. Balor, who had been given a prophecy that he would be killed by his own grandson, locked Ethniu in a glass tower to keep her away from men. But when he stole Cian's magical cow, Cian got his revenge by gaining entry to the tower, with the help of a druidess called Biróg, and seducing her. She gave birth to triplets, which Balor ordered drowned. Two of the babies either died or turned into the first seals, but Biróg saved one, Lug, and gave him to Manannan and Tailtiu to foster. As an adult Lug gained entry to Nuada's court through his mastery of every art, and was given command over the army.


The Second Battle of Mag Tuireadh was fought between the Fomorians under Balor and the Tuatha Dé under Lug. Balor killed Nuada with his terrible, poisonous eye that killed all it looked upon. Lug faced his grandfather, but as he was opening his eye Lug shot a sling-stone that drove his eye out the back of his head, wreaking havoc on the Fomorian army behind. After Balor's death the Fomorians were defeated and driven into the sea.


The Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorians are closely related. Neit, a war god, is an ancestor of both.


    Dover keeps his 'Bay Constable' boat in City Island Harbour, where there's a small NYPD detachment, for three other constables and a Senior Bay Constable, who's in charge. He patrols solo and covers Long Island Sound area.

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  1. Dover Weir

    Silent Maelstrom

    As Dover struggled to steer his boat the sea suddenly lurched, a massive wave ploughing through the ship grave yard. It kicked up the stern, flipping the boat on it’s nose. There was absolutely nothing he could do but brace himself as tons of water hammered down on the smaller vessel. The bow dipped, pushed down hard into a ridge of rock that otherwise would have been beyond the boat’s depth. It hit hard, rupturing the hull, the sudden impact throwing Dover forward, through the window. “BULLOCKS!” Was all that went through his mind. Eyes suddenly turned dark, clearly seeing through the water as he quickly assessed the damage of his boat. The bow was completely destroyed, but could he pull it to shore? Difficult to know. He had sustained a head injury, a deep gash along his forehead flowed red, the trauma making it difficult to focus. All he knew was that the Ormen would be sunk if another powerful wave slammed the wreckage into it. Dover breathed in, his lungs instantly adapting to the aquatic environment, as natural to him as the world of air. He needed leverage, even were his strength at full capacity it would be difficult to maneuver a sizeable object in the turbulent waters. He needed something solid, and he saw it, writhing below. Gripping the hole in the hull he pulled with all his strength, stretching for the algae encrusted cable. He kicked to near exhaustion, but he couldn’t reach it, then the distance closed without effort. Another wave was coming! He could feel it. As the mass of water was drawn to the sea Dover pulled the wreck away from the Ormen. There was rope in the hold but he wouldn’t have time to moor it before the wave hit. He dug his fingers into the broken hull and looped an arm around the cable. The wave struck, thousands of pounds of force bearing down. The hull buckled, but held, the formorian’s muscles burned from the stress until at long last the pressure subsided. The wreckage safely tethered, Dover ascended. It was a good fifteen minutes later that he broke the surface of the crashing waves, waving to the captain of the Ormen. It was more of a polite gesture than anything. The formorian could have easily survived in the sea but then the witness would have only been lead to assume that an officer of the law had drown. It was best to avoid such complications. “Over here!” Dover shouted, awaiting a rescue.
  2. Dover Weir

    Silent Maelstrom

    Dover threw the engines in reverse. First instinct was to run the name through the database but the system was down due to the storm. [dover]This the harbour patrol.[/dover] Dover formally announced, momentarily pausing for any sudden movements but visibility was poor. Just then a massive wave slammed against the stern of his craft, pushing it dangerously close to the Ormen. [dover]SHIT![/dover] He exclaimed, driving hard to starboard and into calmer shallows in the wind shadow of a rusted out hull. Visibility was getting worse, the Ormen was barely three boat lengths away and he could barely make it out. [dover]How many in your crew? Over.[/dover] Cut backs meant the harbour patrol had to stretch their man-power, meaning not everyone boat could have a full crew. Dover liked to work alone, so he volunteered to solo it, unfortunately being a lone wolf on the sea left one vulnerable. [dover]I need to weather this storm. Over.[/dover] He noted that the Ormen wasn’t bouncing around as much but couldn’t tell if there was enough room to anchor two boats safely in close proximity.
  3. Dover Weir

    Silent Maelstrom

    As repeated warnings of the winter storm continued to air over the radio, sea green eyes, steady and calm, peered through the ice pelted windows of the bay patrol boat. The small craft rolled with the writhing waves of the turbulent sea, nauseating plummets and climbs testing seasoned guts. He’d gone as far as he could but the Turbulent waves writhed and crashed against the hull of the small craft; he had ventured as far as he could. The vast open waters of a raging sea would capsize his boat were he to press on any further. Thankfully, according to the chart, he’d traveled well past the perimeter of the search area. [dover]This is PB-315. No sign of the ‘Devil May Care’. No sign of the ‘Devil May Care’. Over.[/dover] The constable reported. [npc]This is Coast Guard One. Appreciate your assistance. Storm conditions are increasing, recommend port. Over.[/npc] [dover]Roger, that.[/dover] Fearless of those dark fathoms beneath the churning surface of the sea the mariner only now respected the storm as it threatened to capsize his craft. It meant a mark on his record the constable didn’t need, one that could temporarily suspend his licence, if not permanently revoke it. He had to make the coast, it was his only chance, but lying between the certainty of sinking and salvation was an equally deadly obstacle. The Eastern Seaboard had changed. The persistence of vehement storms, lack of security and services had forced much of the population to abandon what was once highly sought after real estate. Beyond the shores of the cities the coasts were all but barren and riddled with uncharted dangers. A wall of wrecks were scattered across the coast of the nearby peninsula. Ships succumbing to the ocean’s wrath, hammered against the rocks or drifting to the shore as sure as elephant’s to their graveyard. Rusted hulls and jagged carcasses of twisted metal breached the surface or lied just below. A hull piercing minefield that had claimed it’s share of victims over the years. Navigating it in a storm was certain doom, but it was the route any seaman who’s ship meant their life would choose. So it would be his. The bay constable rode in with the storm, gentle waves surging into massive swells as a wall of white struck the coast. He couldn’t maintain control as a massive wave threw the smaller vessel over remains of a cargo ship before breaking against the wall of wreckage. The Delta 1150TX ramped off a wave it’s padded hull grazing the dilapidated side of a beached freighter before splashing down into a narrow channel. The sides of two massive ships rose up on either side of patrol boat, calm waters flowing between them. He was safe, or so he had believed. The groan of old metal rose above the wind and the ship that took the brunt of the waves ever so slightly shifted it’s weight. Would that it’s titanic weight move enough to crush him between seemed improbable but the mariner thought not to take the chance, deciding to get closer to shore. The sea was significantly calmer amidst the unnatural break water but visibility was poor. The flurries made navigation difficult, but the mariner persisted, slowly crawling through the seafaring cemetery. The way was oddly cleared of debris, almost purposeful. Perhaps it was. Through the blowing snow the constable could make out the silhouette of a ship moored in a small bay. Another wreck? It didn’t seem so. A salvager perhaps? It was not uncommon to come across these treasure seekers but there was always the question of legality and whether or not they were negotiators or killers. He didn’t have much choice but to find out and so he slowly cruised into the bay, cautiously searching for signs of the crew.


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