Pierre-Jackson Laferrière

Ability Scores

Personality

Traits:

• I don't pay attention to the risks in a situation. Never tell me the odds.
• I am always calm, no matter what the situation. I never raise my voice or let my emotions control me.

Ideal: Freedom. Chains are meant to be broken, as are those who would forge them. (Chaotic)

Bond: Something important was taken from me, and I aim to steal it back.

Flaw: If there's a plan, I'll forget it. If I don't forget it, I'll ignore it.

Backstory

Pierre Laferrière never knew his father. Not really.

His mother, Isabelle Durenceau, spoke of Dany Laferrière only in pieces — a Haitian writer passing through Montreal, a brief affair, a man with poet's excuses and no intention of staying. Pierre inherited his father's restlessness and his mother's stubborn pride. A combination that made stillness feel like suffocation. He lasted three weeks at CEGEP before spending the tuition money on a used Honda CB750. The silence his mother gave him in response stayed with him longer than anger ever could.

Pierre found family elsewhere. The Grey Wolves were not criminals — weekend riders, mechanics, construction workers, dockhands. Men who liked the thunder between their legs and the way the road made problems feel smaller. Pierre was the youngest by a decade. The kid brother everyone watched out for. For two years, it was enough.

Then Quebec got small.

His mouth had drawn attention from the Hells Angels up in Trois-Rivières. The Wolves made calls. A loosely affiliated chapter in South Boston could take him in. Get him across the border. Let the heat fade.

Pierre rode south in the fall of 1985 with two hundred dollars, a duffel bag, and an address scribbled on a scrap of paper.

The Harbor Dogs were good people. Longshoremen, fishermen, veterans. They rode on weekends and mostly stayed clean. Pierre found work in a Dorchester garage, a room above a Portuguese bakery, something close to peace.

Then there were the Red Saints.

One night in March — too many beers, too much bravado — Pierre spotted a line of Saints bikes outside a bar in Charlestown. No riders. Seven Harleys hit the pavement. He made it three blocks before they caught him.

They took him to Long Wharf.

The cement was cold and wet around his ankles as it hardened in a plastic bucket. City lights bled orange across the water. Pierre remembers the smell. Salt. Diesel. Rotting seaweed. Someone said, "Fucking Canuck thinks he's funny." Then they pushed him.

The cold hit first. Then the dark.

He sank fast, dragged down past the reach of the city's glow. His lungs burned. His vision fractured. Panic clawed at him until panic itself began to fade.

And then something noticed him.

Old Scituate. Among the Awakened who know the harbor's secrets, it is called Old Scituate, or sometimes simply The Undertow. Ancient. Older than Boston. Older than the fishermen who left offerings at the water's edge. Not a god. Not a demon. Not a spirit. A presence — a vast, cold intelligence coiled in the deepest channels of Massachusetts Bay, dreaming in silt and shipwrecks, collecting not bodies but moments. The last breath. The final terror. The strange peace that comes after.

It has tasted thousands of deaths.

Pierre was different. Pierre fought.

He clawed at the dark and refused to let go, even as his lungs filled, even as his heart stuttered. The Undertow found that interesting. The pact was not spoken. It was felt — a pressure in his skull, a cold hand around his heart, a voice like grinding stone and whale song:

"You are not finished. Swim for me. Serve my tides. And I will let you breathe."

Pierre woke on the shore of Spectacle Island at dawn, coughing black water, alongside a stranger named Lee Smith who had fallen from a rooftop and also refused to drown. The cement around Pierre's ankles had crumbled to powder. His eyes were darker now, with something slow and shifting behind them. When he flexed his fingers, the air tasted of brine.

Pierre-Jackson Laferrière was twenty-two years old. He had drowned. And something vast and patient had decided he was worth keeping.

Class Features & Spells

Patron: Old Scituate — The Undertow
Pact Boon: Pact of the Chain
Eldritch Invocations: Gift of the Ever-Living Ones, Agonizing Blast, Mounted Combatant

Cantrips: Eldritch Blast, Toll the Dead

Spells Known: Armor of Agathys, Arms of Hadar, Hold Person, Shatter

Patron Features: Gift of the Sea, Expanded Spell List

Equipment

• Rider's Jacket and Chaps
• Clothes, Common
• Crowbar
• Arcane Focus (Club patch — Grey Wolves colors)
• Book, Ink, Pen, Parchment
• Little Bag of Sand
• Small Knife

Connections

Session Notes

Notes updated each session.