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 Claude was born to Nathaniel and Ophelie Somme in Mannheim, Germany. His father is a disabled US veteran; his mother is in rehabilitation and lives in abject poverty in Mannheim, and has no contact with Claude at present.
-Younger sister: Oceane Somme
+
-Father: Nathaniel Heaney.
+Sholotl was one of the Seventh House, a Namtar like all their sort. He was an angel of slow endings, and of death by degrees; it was a difficult task, occasionally even cruel, but nature was a clever and intricate design, and sometimes injury must be deep and significant, else it is meaningless.
-Nathaniel, or Nathan, met Ophelie in Germany while stationed there in the US Army. Ophelie was attending classes at the Universität Mannheim (a.k.a. UMA) at the time, supported by her father's income.
+Perhaps, had man been able to discern his role, they would have found him most fearful of all; perhaps they would instead have reserved that terror, though, for his superiors, among whose roles were death by sudden and inexplicable means. Sholotl, at least, could stay his hand to give the beasts and plants time to complete their tasks, should destiny permit. He did not always know what destiny permitted, but assumed, if he stayed his hand, it was what was intended.
 His closest friends were those who knew the Lore of the Earth, and who understood erosion as a form of creation. Other even in the Seventh House might have thought him cruel or cold until they knew him better, and even then his role of slow demise, sometimes excruciatingly painful when he stayed his hand, would tend to make them uncomfortable, all the moreso for knowing they could only differ by being swift and merciful. Most of those familiar with the lores of the Wild or the Beast would be frustrated when he "took over" their projects, though for the duration he was the most likely to share territory, allowing them to place the finishing touches even as he foretold and executed their projects' ends.
 Those whose work was the Lore of Earth, on the other hand, were invariably familiar with subtractive fabrication.
 
 Life is a complex process of living and dying. Claude's expertise was regularly asked for such matters as the death of whole reams of cells in order to craft flesh and bone, or organs. Living spirit was ordinarily withheld from such materials, a mere scaffolding, and sent flowing into that which would remain; Sholotl would return the scaffolding to the dust, content knowing every perfectly formed paw, ear and penis was complete only due to his own work. Let the other Houses take the credit if they must! First House most of all! He was needed, and he was happy.
 
 Sariel, a Zaltu of the Rabisu, understood. She was a crafter of overgrowth, of beasts, and knew that her work was to make more than was needed, that the best and healthiest could grow and the rest could be pruned away.
 
 When it came time to make man, neural pruning was perhaps the most significantly improved physical process; he began to see the purpose behind the First House's efforts, and from afar could see that everything he had done had helped to build Man's throne, not the Host's. The first man's construction began both early and late; in modern, abstract terms this is hard to reconcile, as man's beginnings include some very strange early stages, scaffolding of a grander sort than Sholotl had the work of, in the fossil record. (In dreams he fondly remembers his role in crafting a beast with seven mouths. He wasn't surprised when it was returned to the dust, and was often intimately involved in that very process.)
 They never did spend enough time on feet. So obsessed was the Host with man's hands, crafted from parts well-honed by his painstaking dissolution, that so much more could have been done with the feet and simply wasn't. Alas, perhaps the Fall was engineered, so these flaws were introduced to make God's damnation of angel and man all the more profound. They were of little importance before, but afterward every little detail, every carefully crafted element, was sundered, and only truly infinite care could prevent any harm. Mortality had come.
 
 Man was so terrified of death, though, even before the Fall, and no less so for its sometimes deliberately feeble grip. If they had but seen the vast deaths which led to their creation! Mountain chains crafted to block whole oceans, granite eroded brutally to produce great holes, channels carved by glaciers which then returned to the sea, all to make the first clay, to make the first cells, to make the first life, to make the last and greatest of all... Did they not see he was as merciful as he could be?
 They were blind, fumbling kings, not knowing their power, their greatness, wearing their crowns askew.
 When Lucifer spoke of warning man, of preparing man for the great cataclysm, Sholotl could not conceive of disobeying, of disputing this. It was in defiance of what the other angels had said, even many of his own House, but it was just so... obvious. Man needed to know who truly ruled, needed to see the throne, the crown, and the world they had made for man and man alone.
 O the marvelous pruning.
 Even once man saw Sholotl, man feared him, and hated him. For a brief time, before the dawn of the next day and the coming of the Age of Wrath, Sholotl was known to them, and Sholotl discovered he would know not their love. Man could not see the beauty of manufacture, seeing only the abstraction of death and endings and the impediment of a project left incomplete, of food going bad, of the ashes in the fire pit. This did trouble Sholotl, and was not a unique experience, but it sufficed for Sholotl that man could turn from terror to anger, knowing they feared, even now, for nothing. It was a better place to be. It made man stronger.
 Man's terror was validated, though, by the Fall. When dawn fell and Lucifer fought Michael, man looking on, Sholotl did not know that God would respond by placing on him the uniquely awful burden of not merely killing, but taking man apart piecemeal. He was cursed to rend flesh from bone, to visit the fires of entropy upon every part of man as he had long done with beast and plant; even heaping more fuel upon man's inner fire only served to burn man the more. Every bite of food a man ate was cause for Sholotl to burn, weeping, another small hole in some crucial, almost perfect bit of flesh. He could only plead that man live on less, that he might live longer. He could only plead that man stay away from the tools, the fires, the myriad horrors that would cause Sholotl to take away a leg, a finger, an eye, even a part of the mind.
 Strokes were particularly insulting. When it wasn't his superior's task, killing the fellow swiftly, it was Sholotl's to brutally remove crucial beauty from the perfect mind he'd has such a careful hand in pruning to its height, killing by degrees. Heart attacks were little better. A scraped knee, so long as it was not his job to look after some awful infection, was the terrible highlight of his day.
 And what became of this flesh, and worse, its spirit? The realm of the dead were lost to the Slayers, those Halaku who rebelled with Lucifer. Suddenly death was a mystery even to the Slayers. Had he thought there any possibility of an answer from the Host, he might have turned on his fellow rebels simply to know what became of man once he left their side.
 
 It was another nergal who started theorizing about a new Lore, a Lore with which they could hide away those souls they were forced to reap, lest they rot or fade; the jealousy of the heavenly Halaku was obvious, but the necessity of Ereshkigal was clear. The Host did not have man's best interest in mind. It was clearly time for the Halaku to take the helm from both man and Host in matters of death, to shepherd man's spirit into an unassailable place. At first this was merely to create places of greater safety, places where man's severed spirit might hide out until the war had ended, but once Azrael and Charon formed the Alabaster Legion it became obvious that a grand fortress would be needed for their number. While Sholotl was not central to the creation of Kâsdejâ, a whole layer of reality aside from the firmament and fundament, he was on the ground floor so to speak, and a part of him resides there still. There's no question of his mark upon its making, the fine craftsmanship and the bending of light (when once he knew much of the Lores of Light and Portals sufficiently to help codify the Lore of Realms, their antithesis).
 Nevertheless, to hide away and gather strength was insufficient to Sholotl, despite it being the stated goal of the Alabaster Legion. Sholotl rejoined Sariel, now an Araru or a creator of the Lore of Flesh, and took the fight to the Host. When he was wounded, she tended him and collaborated with him to change his form, his very name, to have the claws of a beast grow where once an angel's swift sword had scarred and blighted his hands and feet. Together they fought not with claw and wing, despite the concerns of the Alabaster Legion, and in time he even brought her to join the Legion, one of the few Devourers among their number. She pledged her existence to Charon and Azrael, surely not knowing of the coming Long March, of Lucifer having to take Kâsdejâ by force, and of Azrael's betrayal of Lucifer with Abaddon and Asmodeus.
 Sholotl never knew what became of her. They fought side by side whenever they could, but, lest they betray some trusted secret of the Legion, they were told little of the other's doings; when Haven was constructed, Sariel remained in Kâsdejâ with Azrael. They would see little of each other thereafter, and whether Sariel sided with Azrael or Charon, Sholotl never knew. His work was with Azrael on Haven, which few would come to know better than Sholotl himself, and under Azrael's command he became a Fell Knight, the least of those who were great and trusted, a warrior among scholars, a craftsman among monsters.
 
 Of his time in Kâsdejâ Sholotl would not have fond memories. Angel, demon and man alike would be flayed there at times for one or another cause, and it was his task, hardened by an Age or two of unsuited command of man and lesser angel, to do the deed. Even now, with no memory of Kâsdejâ or the War, he still somehow feels the familiar sensation of dragging his claws through the strips of sinew, raking through severed fingers, securing a ring or a stone to pocket just for himself, hidden away in the Realms until such time as he could put it to use... even agains this fellow Fallen.
 
 Perhaps Sariel would know of what happened in Babel. Sholotl was envious, but wished them well. To bring man to Heaven may not have been the most reasonable of goals, but he was not a Slayer to stop others from doing what seemed most sensible to them. He had his own tasks, preparing Haven... and, at its edges, the Abyss...
 
 The Angels in time captured all the Fallen, even Sholotl, one of the last to go. They found him near the Abyss, using its yawning emptiness as a last line of defense, and he personally flung an angel or two to be sundered by its howling edges. He was outnumbered, though, and eventually was hauled, beaten and bowed, before the Host. Lucifer remained unbroken, giving strength even to Sholotl.
 Thence the Abyss, which Sholotl had envisioned as a wall, not (of all the awful things) a demesne! And a well-crafted wall it was! None could escape, imprisoned forever, bounded on all sides (included sides they could not perceive) by the end of all things, denied them even were they able to escape. They could see little beyond, and could touch nothing but each other, and without Lucifer upon whom to visit their wrath, they had only each other to blame.
 There were few secrets. A grand inquisition pried answers, true and false, which eventually pointed to the Ereshkigal as the crafters of their new world. In the pecking order of the heavens, both before and after, the Halaku were the lowest of the low, and now that their role was known, few would have such torment visited upon them. Yet, in the Abyss they could not die; they could burn, they could wail and gnash their teeth, but they could not die. The wall was, in this regard, seemingly perfect. Sholotl couldn't imagine what caused the Ereshkigal to craft it so.
 Beyond the Abyss was the Shadowlands. Time and again it would fill, and occasionally it would empty in a horrendous cataclysm, echoing the mass extinctions of ages past. What purpose these served, Sholotl could not guess, but for a time between each cataclysm, the Halaku had an outlet for their rage and pain which, as a rule, other Houses lacked. They could take out their aggressions upon the only things lower than themselves, the spirits of the dead which somehow found themselves wandering lost in the Shadowlands. This Lore's greatest powers were among the few secrets which were kept from even some of the highest Devils, a final bargaining chip, and a sure way to break with the other Halaku for whatever scraps another Demon could offer, at the expense of the hatred of every Halaku who had not done the same. It was contact with the outside, however slight and fleeting, the only way to not only see, but to be seen, to be heard, to be known. The way to create terror again, to sew hatred, dissension and cruelty among some number other than their own.
 The unique gift of the Halaku: to corrupt even the dead. Only jealous avarice could keep this away from their fellows as much as they did.
 
 Slayers were seldom those summoned by ambitious magicians. Sholotl himself had only contact with the dead, never the living.
 
 Mother: Ophelie Somme
 Younger sister: Océane Somme
 Father: Nathaniel Heaney
 Nathaniel, or Nathan, met Ophelie on the Rhine in Germany while stationed there in the US Army. Ophelie was attending classes at the Universität Mannheim (a.k.a. UMA) at the time, supported by her father's income. It's not an inexpensive university, nor is her father a man of incredible means, but he lives comfortably and was able to support the education of his only daughter.
 Maternal grandfather: Florian Somme
 Maternal grandmother: Elise Somme née Aafjes
 Florian's and Ophelie's relationship seemed comfortable at a distance, perhaps somewhat patronizing, but shortly before their wedding a few things became clear to Nathaniel:
 1) Ophelie's father had sexually abused her throughout her childhood. Her mother was either unaware (unlikely) or unable to intervene.
 2) Ophelie was not merely an alcoholic, but also occasionally used morphine recreationally, an expensive habit.
 When Ophelie became pregnant, it behooved Nathaniel to marry Ophelie; it had already been in the cards, despite her difficulties, and this simply set a date. This allowed her to be housed on the base, no longer dependent on her father for rent and supported primarily by Nathan's income.
 Arrangements were slow, and Claude was born before the wedding came to pass.
 Their marriage lasted for about a year. Nathaniel wasn't prepared for Ophelie's bad habit of sabotaging anything in her life which was marginally good. Her increasing drug abuse caused her problems in school, so she eventually was unable to continue college.
 Upon their divorce, local courts awarded custody to Ophelie, failing to critically examine her circumstances, which on the surface were more economically stable than his own and, just as importantly, kept the child in the country of his birth. After the divorce she was no longer allowed to live on the base, and, having recently cut ties with her father, she was rudderless. She lived for the next few years in a surprisingly non-abusive relationship with another morphine user, with whom she had one child, Océane.
 Océane Somme died at the age of 5, when Claude was seven and a half years old. Autopsies indicated she had an undiagnosed birth defect in her kidneys; fear of authorities resulted in Ophelie failing to follow up on symptoms of weak and strange urination. Eventually Océane died in the hospital of acute renal failure. Whether or not Ophelie used drugs while pregnant with Océane is unknown, though it's apparent she avoided alcohol for the duration of both pregnancies.
 Claude remembers Océane, as well as a house on the floor of which was broken glass and the occasional spent needle, usually from others who would visit the house and behave carelessly. Claude had been caring for Océane for five years nearly single-handedly, making him shockingly competent in a variety of tasks which no 11-year-old should be able to do, including a vague sense of proper medicine (Intelligence roll at +2 difficulty for all untrained Knowledges)
 Having no aunts and uncles in Germany, and a Belgian father who was disinterested, Claude was sent to live with his father in <cut> insert state of residence
 
 Nathaniel Heaney, son of Matthew and Cynthia (née Singleton) Heaney. Sister Nicole Heaney, divorced, no children.
 Matthew Heaney died in 1984 at the age of 35 from complications of adult onset diabetes. Served in the US Army from 1966 to 1970, stationed in New York.
 Cynthia is a fairly involved parent, and while she never approved of Ophelie, and makes this clear uncomfortably often, she is at worst only mildly cruel to her children. Lower class household. Protestant Christian, but secular and nondenominational.
 Nicole Heaney is a reasonably indulgent aunt, converted to Catholicism for her marriage and, despite being a divorcée, remains nominally so.
 Nicole has never been able to make clear sense of Claude, if for no other reason than that they have known each other only a short time and, in that time, Claude has been quite disruptive. Nicole couldn't afford to visit Germany for the wedding, and in fact knows of the events only from afar. Nathaniel and Nicole are fairly close, but their lives are complicated; Nicole works in electronics assembly and earns a small wage. She speaks Spanish as a second language, sufficiently to understand the jokes of coworkers who include a few immigrants.
 She wants to like Claude, but until recently, of course, Claude hasn't made this easy.
 If ever Cynthia became a true problem or impediment, rather than a resource and minor annoyance, Nicole would likely be a good ally in the family.
 
 Pacts:
 Cédric Jacobs, age 11, lives in Bruges. For a time, Cédric and Claude were close friends, both attending the same primary school (Kindergarten Mirjam) in Mannheim, where Cédric's father had moved for a job. Cédric is more financially comfortable, but very socially awkward, a condition largely caused by hallucinations. In short, Cédric believed he was able to speak with the dead.
 While Claude Somme wasn't particularly kind to Cédric, Cédric was utterly dependent on Claude as his only friend, and the two sat together daily at every occasion.
 Cédric was easily manipulated at the time. When Claude moved to <cut> insert state of residence, they managed to stay in touch; when Sholotl took over Claude's life, Cédric was an obvious first pact, if only because Sholotl could offer Cédric something nobody else could.
 Cédric actually now can speak with the dead. He does not hallucinate any longer, and is of healthy mind. In trade, he speaks to nobody but Claude of what he hears and says from those who have passed on, and keeps his mind healthy; he does not breach this pact. On the whole, his world is silent now, and the few times he has contact with wraiths, he has a sense of security and equilibrium about it which he actually lacks with the living, knowing with a strange certainty that his senses are, in this one regard, utterly reliable.
 
 Claude has had many nasty adventures. He has learned to create and use black powder, which can be a harmless habit, but is an effective accelerant in addition to an explosive. Only a lack of ambition has kept this from becoming a truly terrible thing. He has certainly got better at ducking for cover; if nothing else, black powder does not burn clean, and the smoke and powder can hurt one's eyes like nobody's business.
 Nathan was certain Claude would eventually take to using a gun, in some manner or another. It behooved him, therefore, to teach him to use it safely. True, this would make Claude slightly more of a menace to others, but at least he would be so deliberately, and not by accident. The difference is significant. He also hoped it would show Claude the dangers of their use, and teach him some respect for their power. It did not, but it did make Claude less blatantly dangerous.
 Among Claude's talents is a knack for playing up his disabilities. While his mother's neglect has resulted in some specific physical and cognitive delays, securing disability benefits in childhood is an unusual thing in the United States, even (or especially) for the deserving.
 One day, running along the top of a hill, Claude fell and hit his head. His friends, such as they were, abandoned him as blood ran down the hillside, uncertain what to do but certain they would be in a great deal of trouble if they day's activities came to light.
 Claude never woke up. Sholotl found him laying unconscious and severed his soul from his body, callously casting it aside. Child's play to a Halaku, an irrelevant infant whose body was a much-needed refuge from the howling Maelstrom.
 But there was much remaining of Claude, too much. Sholotl was shamed, humbled, and overwhelmed. This creature he had created had been shown such torment, and such love, and had squandered it, cursed by the world. His father, who Claude had to this point only called Nathan, and Cédric, and even some few decent figures in authority, had trusted in Claude to be something more than he had thus far, at the tender age of 11, demonstrated himself to be. Sholotl forgot himself, and gave Claude's form and memories new life, filling the body's soul, to its beautifully crafted fingertips, with his angelic soul.
 This was Sholotl's work. This was the kindness of an angel, after millenia of torment had seemed to wear it all away.
 
 "Look at us.
 "Five years ago, I pushed a smaller kid in front of a cat. I'd recently had a growth spurt, and was bigger than most kids in my grade. He's fine, thank God, but I knew what I was doing, more or less. I was lashing out.
 "Once, I even tried to dig up a grave. There were others involved, but it was my idea. You might wonder how a kid ends up in a graveyard at midnight on a school day. Suffice to say my mother wasn't known for her attentiveness.
 "I am changed, utterly. I am another being now, with another name. I refuse to promise you great power, but I can promise you change. It is what I do. It is what I am.
 "I can also promise you something few others will. I promise you devotion beyond the grave. My devotion is unceasing. Some may offer false promises of immortality. I offer this. You may die, but you will never be gone."
 
 Nathaniel Heaney isn't entirely certain why his son's behavior has so radically changed. He has taken up a sudden interest in the occult, special effects, history,  and the sciences, and has taken up constructive use of his talents even as he is, more and more often, seen to be operating with symbolism Heaney can't help but think less than wholesome. He doesn't seem to sacrifice animals, though, and if anything is kinder to them than ever before; he's not getting in trouble, per se; and he's calmer and more mature. It's inexplicable, and Nathaniel has decided he's simply along for the ride. Perhaps his son truly has what has been said of him, an "old soul." He's studying, and may live to be 20. Might even become a decent human being. Might not be human at all.
 Nathaniel hasn't been overly impressed with humans.