Minerva Butterfield


Gender: Female

Kit: Eldritch

Location: London, England


Alignment: Hero

Team: Infinium: The Engine of Perpetual Motion


Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: standard (rank 1)

Mind: standard (rank 1)

Body: standard (rank 1)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Fame Points: 0

Personal Wins: 42

Personal Losses: 49

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Disabled

Canis Minor

Maxine Butterfield was a name few in England had heard of, though her acts were, for a time, somewhat notorious among the people. In her defense, she was mad as a dog, however it could truly have been said that the parts of her mind that were not totally consumed with madness, were instead consumed by her heart, a piece of her which was so wicked that Hell itself would have spat her back out immediately if given the chance to consume her.

Indeed, Maxine’s name was not known, by many, fewer still understood the woman. Even the people who had happened to be acquainted with Micajah Butterfield, her husband and a proper gentleman, who had amassed a reasonably sized fortune through the scrap metal industry, knew little of her. She was a quiet woman who seemed to become irrationally nervous at the parties her husband was prone to attending on a basis of at least once a week.

Micajah was a bit of an eccentric and was devoted primarily to his work. The time he did not spend on business was spent in his “laboratory”. Upon its building, the laboratory was little more than a shed. But as time went on, he poured more and more of his money into it until it finally was one of the most up to date scientific work areas in all of England. Whether his investment in the laboratory was successful or not, was unknown to the general public, as Micajah tended to seclude himself within its confines.

One could speculate as to whether or not Mrs. Butterfield would have retained her sanity had Mr. Butterfield never taken up his private obsession. It is impossible to prove whether or not this theory is accurate, however, if Micajah’s interest did, in fact, influence his wife’s insanity, certainly it was the birth of Minerva that was the primary cause.

Minerva was the Butterfield family’s only child. She was born sickly and small. Any doctor who examined her insisted that her chance of living past her first year was virtually non-existent. Yet somehow she survived. Minerva was her father’s pride and joy. His affection for her exceeded even the hobby which dominated his life. He showed more love for her than he had for anything else that had ever entered his life.

Maxine and Micajah slowly grew apart. While their relationship had suffered for many years, it was nearing death around the time of Minerva’s sixteenth birthday. At the same time, Maxine’s sanity was slipping away from her. One night, she simply broke down. At a late hour when the members of the house were sleeping soundly, she slipped away.

She walked briskly in the moonlight, not truly knowing what she was searching for. Overcome by an urge, she approached the first house she came across. She stared at it for several moments, her mind in a blur. The door slowly opened as if possessed by a spirit. To any normal person this would have been bizarre, even horrifying. Maxine did not seem to notice. She simply walked inside, undaunted.

The next morning she woke in her bed. The night seemed a dream to her; a nightmare from which she had simply woken up. She remembered hardly any of it, except that she was walking around outside in her nightclothes at some late hour. She went about her day as if it never had occurred. The same occurred several nights thereafter, but she dismissed it as little more than a recurring dream which she needed not to fear.

However, the day came when her aggressions manifested in a more accessible form. Mr. Butterfield was accustomed to being very talkative during the evening meal. Usually his conversation piece involved his work, a fact which agitated Mrs. Butterfield to no end; however she kept quiet about her frustrations. Tonight he spoke with such enthusiasm and optimism. The amount of money he was bringing in was enormous. She sat silently, futilely trying to avoid listening. Something inside her snapped. “And just what makes you think that your absurd little business matters to me?” she screamed.


Minerva gazed at her mother, aghast. She had hardly ever heard her speak, let alone erupt in anger. Minerva tried to speak, to say something, anything, but her mouth only hung open with no sound coming out. Her mother ran from the room crying and her father quickly followed her. Minerva only awkwardly gazed at nothing in particular. She knew that something was horribly wrong. If she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn she felt a premonition that something terrible was going to happen.

The rest of the night passed with no other interruptions. The night came and went and Minerva awoke the next morning and began her day as if nothing had ever occurred. Minerva did not question her mother about the incident, there was no need to.

Everything changed that afternoon. Mr. Butterfield burst through the door of his house. He was breathing heavily and he was sweating profusely.

“Everyone is dead!” he yelled. Minerva and her mother ran to him.

“My workers… they’re all dead,” he said. The tone of his voice denoted that he could barely believe it himself.

But it was true. Not a single person had arrived at the scrapyard that day, save Mr. Butterfield himself. He had hurried over to the home of one of his employees. Having one or two people gone was one thing, but every one of them was simply not right. The door of his house was wide open. He ran inside. It seemed empty. He searched the house desperately. After almost fifteen minutes of searching, he found his employee… dead.

Similar searches at some of his other employees’ homes produced the same results. After four houses, he stopped searching and went home. Searching was useless. He already knew what had happened.

There was the regular rigmarole from the police; questions which Micajah could not provide helpful answers to, questions which his wife and daughter could provide even less helpful answers to. The police went on their way.

Dinner that night was silent. Mr. Butterfield’s usual banter was nonexistent. His silence, though long-desired by Mrs. Butterfield, did little to calm her ever-straining nerves.

Suddenly, she exploded. She yelled, she ranted. “I killed them!” she screamed hysterically, “Every single one of them!” Minerva and Micajah could only stare, aghast. Maxine fell back to her seat, giggling incoherently. Madness had finally taken firm hold.

“I did it!" she said, "I killed them all! Every single bloody one of them!” She erupted in another fit of giggling, this time falling out of her chair onto the floor where she continued her fit.

Both Minerva and her father wished they could say something, anything, but they were dumbstruck, not sure whether to believe what was happening, let alone whether or not she was actually the elusive murderer.

Maxine sat up and tilted her head. She stared at her family as if she was gazing into their souls.

“Would you like to see how I did it?”

Her pupils faded to nothing. Her eyes glowed a bizarre blue-white color. Minerva screamed and grasped her left arm.

It is one thing to have one’s shoulder torn from its socket. It is another thing entirely to have one’s arm cut off at the shoulder. Both produce excruciating, but very different forms of pain. Minerva was experiencing both.

Maxine could hear her husband yelling, begging for her to stop. But she was deaf to his plea. Blood began soaking through the shoulder of Minerva’s dress. She let out one final, horrific scream and her arm fell to the floor, ripped off by some unseen force.

“I will make you experience every pain I’ve felt since the day you were born,” Maxine said with a sadistic glee. Minerva looked up at her mother, but there was no fear or anger in her eyes. There was no emotion at all.

There was an eerie blue-white glow.


Her Awakening

     Telekinesis: superior (rank 2)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Target Seeker


Minerva stood up, seemingly ignorant of her severely bleeding shoulder, or lack thereof. She said nothing. She simply raised her remaining arm and aimed the palm of her hand at her mother. Maxine slowly floated into the air. She screamed, she struggled, she tried to free herself from whatever was holding her, but she could do nothing. She flew against the wall. When she landed, she was unconscious.

Micajah was silent. He did not know what to do, not that there was much he could do. The glow in Minerva’s eyes faded. She saw her father running to her as she fainted.

She awoke in her bedroom. It had been two weeks since the incident. She had nearly bled to death. This was the first morning since she had been able to come home fromt the hospital. Every morning she had woken up and asked herself if it had all been a dream. Every morning the universe answered for her in the form of her missing arm.

This morning noticed a sheet of paper on the table beside her bed. She picked it up. The handwriting was awful, obviously her father’s, but she was able to read it.

“Minerva: Please come see me in my laboratory as soon as you feel well enough to do so.”

“Short, but anything longer would probably have been totally illegible,” she thought with a grin. For a moment she felt as if she shouldn’t feel the way she felt. A normal person would be sad, afraid, miserable, and anything but happy. Yet somehow, that was how she felt… that and tired. She glanced out the window. The sun was high in the sky. It was later in the day than it felt.

She looked in the mirror. She looked horrible. Her hair was undone and she had slept in her dress from the night before, corset and everything, a feat which could only have been accomplished by the most fatigued of people. Removing the dress as she walked, she went to her vanity and sat down. She intended to reach for her hairbrush, but was once again reminded that she no longer had a left arm. She sighed. “I wish the brush would simply come to me,” she thought.

The brush slowly floated up off the table. Minerva gasped and nearly fell of her seat. Slowly, hesitantly, she focused on the brush and willed it to rise. Slowly it did. She experimented with the newfound power, moving the brush to and fro and lifting other objects.

An idea invaded her brain. She turned towards her bed and concentrated. Slowly the bed rose. She laughed, she giggled like a child. “Either I’m the strongest woman in England or I’m mad as a dog!” she said to herself. She tried to set the bed down as gently as possible, but it still managed to produce a loud “thud” as it hit the floor.

She quickly brushed her hair, dressed herself and left the room, trying not to laugh all the while.



     Piercing Weapon: standard (rank 1)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Long Ranged Attack


Minerva had rarely seen the inside of her father’s laboratory, although it was fairly consistent with what she would have imagined. It was terribly cluttered, with every sort of paper, metal, and wood imaginable lying about in one place or another. Her father was hunched over a table working ecstatically on something. “Father?” she said, feeling not a little bit awkward about having to intrude, but he simply had not heard her knocking. He didn’t seem to hear her. She walked briskly to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He flinched and quickly turned around.

“Ah, Minerva, I was beginning to think that perhaps you were going to sleep the whole day!”

She felt obligated to smile out of politeness, if nothing else. “What happened to mother?” she said, deciding to simply ask the question and be done with it. Mr. Butterfield’s cheery expression drained into a much more solemn one. He turned back to his workbench.

“Your mother is very sick, you know. They’ve taken her away...” he seemed as if he wanted to continue that thought, but he trailed off. A pained expression covered his face. He sighed and seemed to force himself to change his disposition. “I’ve got something for you.”

He picked up what he was working on. Minerva stared at the strange contraption. “It looks like… an arm, perhaps?” Her father grinned. “I call it ‘spam’”

Minerva laughed in spite of herself. “You call it what, now?”

“Steam-Powered Arm Mechanism,” Mr. Butterfield said with a slight dejected feel to his voice, “I call it S.P.A.M. for short.”

“I see. And what does this have to do with me?”

Mr. Butterfield had a look on his face that seemed to be one part impish glee and one part disdain. “Before you were born, I was inducted into a very exclusive group of inventors from all over Europe. We were a subsidiary of some other group, though I was never told exactly what that was. Our goals were primarily weapon-oriented at the beginning. But as we progressed our focus shifted towards the improvement and even extension of human life through mechanical means.” He glanced lovingly at his mechanical appendage.

“At first we had little success. Our efforts were directed towards mechanical limbs such as the S.P.A.M., though we weren’t able to do much more than create devices with which people could enhance the performance of their bodies. We were unable to create appendages that functioned in place of missing pieces. We were about to give up, but one of the men who had started our group suggested we take a slightly less scientific approach.”

Minerva looked at her father awkwardly. “What are you saying? Were they suggesting magic?” she joked.

“Alchemy, to be precise.”

“Oh, come now, be serious.”

“Minerva, I am serious. The S.P.A.M. is entirely a product of science combined with Dark Ages alchemy.” He looked grave for a moment, but smiled, “just because I can’t explain it, doesn’t make it untrue.”

“How does this relate to me, then?”

“Early this morning I contacted one of my former associates. He agreed that it was in my best interest to give you the S.P.A.M.”

“Who is this former associate of yours?”

“Interesting you should ask. He asked for you to come see him later today.”

“I see.” Minerva was not sure how she felt about seeing this man whom her father had apparently worked with, though she had never heard of.

“In the meantime allow me to explain how the S.P.A.M. works…”

Her father went on some ecstatic tirade of the inner workings of the S.P.A.M. It was all Greek to Minerva, who stood, pretending to pay attention. He went on for several minutes.

“Would you like me to demonstrate?”

Minerva snapped out of her daydreaming. “Demonstrate what?”

“Why, the S.P.A.M.’s projectile defense of course! It works just like a firearm.” He raised the arm up and aimed it at something. A puff of steam shot from the wrist along with some object that flew across the room and smashed a lamp.

“What was that?” Minerva said, startled.

“The projectile defense! My goodness, Minerva, how many times must I say it?”

Minerva sighed. “This is all well and good, but what, exactly, am I meant to do with the, ah, ‘S.P.A.M.’”

“Our root problem with the mechanical appendages was that few people were able to use them. Even after we perfected them, few people possessed the ability to operate them.” He caressed his daughter’s face. “What I’ve seen you do… I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. You should be able to use it.”

Equipping the S.P.A.M. was a simple enough task, or at least that’s the way it seemed to Minerva who was under the influence of ether. She awoke to see the S.P.A.M. attached to her body. “Now what do I do?” she muttered groggily.

“Concentrate. Concentrate on moving the S.P.A.M…. like it’s your own arm.”

Minerva focused on the appendage. She remembered the arm she lost; remembered what it felt like to move it. She tried to apply that principle to the device. It moved. It lifted. Soon, she found she had full control over it. Both she and her father were set into a fit of laughter. She embraced him and all the problems of the world seemed to cease to exist.

Mr. Butterfield didn’t want to break the embrace, but he felt that time was of the essence. “Come on now. You must go meet my friend.”

“Father, you aren’t coming?” she asked surprised.

“I’m afraid not, love. He asked that you come alone.” He handed her a scrap of paper with an address written on it. “Now, go. And remember that I love you.”

They embraced once more and she went.


Her Last Defense

     Mind Blast: standard (rank 1)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Target Seeker


Covering the S.P.A.M. was easier in theory than it was in practice. She had tried to avoid being seen in general, though this involved traversing through some of the city’s slightly less likeable areas. It was nearly nightfall by the time she reached her destination. She hesitantly knocked on the door, half expecting some dark and threatening man to grab her and pull her in.

Instead there was a short, unassuming man, who was slightly on the portly side.

He spoke with a stammer. “M-miss Butterfield, I p-presume?”

“Ah, yes, that’s me,” she responded, not sure what to make of the man.

“Do come in, and, ah, p-please forgive my, ah, s-speech impediment.”

She obliged. The man’s house reminded her very much of her father’s workshop, albeit it was slightly more organized. “Wait here,” he said and walked briskly to another side of the room.

Minerva observed the room with much interest. There were devices of every shape and size. Her eyes drifted over to a large cylindrical device, like a barrel made of metal, with several straps on it. She read what was written on it.

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what does C.E.I.F.M. mean?”

“Ah, that s-stand for, ah complete Engulfment in flames M-machine. It allows the wearer to c-completely engulf himself with f-flames.”

“And why would anyone want to do that?”

“Ah, well, I shall have to, d-demonstrate that for you someday.” He paused. “I don’t suppose your father m-mentioned my name.”

“No, actually he didn’t,” Minerva said, “Sorry.”

“Oh, d-don’t be. M-micajah always was forgetting things like that. My name is Footer. Harland Footer.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

He fumbled around with several papers, shoving them into a bag along with a myriad of other odds and ends. “As I was saying, I can d-demonstrate the, m-machine later, we are, after all, taking it w-with us.”

“And just where do you think you’re taking me?”

Harland stared at her. “He didn’t mention th-that either, d-did he?” He sighed. “Lord, have m-mercy,” he muttered. “Did he happen to mention what he was d-doing all the t-time in that laboratory of his? Our little c-club, as it were?”

“Ah, yes, he did bring that up,” Minerva said, growing rather weary of learning how much information her father had neglected to tell her.

“We are going to meet with the m-men who started that whole g-group. The p-power behind the throne.”

“And why are we going to do that?”

Harland sighed again. “You have p-powers you d-don’t understand, yes?”

Minerva had to concede to that. “Yes.”

“These men c-can help you understand them.”

Minerva just gazed at him skeptically.

“Your other option is to n-never leave your house because of the S-SPAM. G-god knows what they’ll think if you leave. It would b-be like the d-damned witch trials.”

That was all the convincing she needed. There was no way she would be able to stand a life like that.

“Fine. You’ve convinced me.”

Harland shuffled through some papers. He picked out a few and shoved them into his bag. He continued sorting through the various things on his desk (at this point, Minerva noticed that a large pile of papers and various other items was accumulating around his feet). “Excellent. We’ll l-leave as soon as I find m-my-“ he cut himself off and pulled some sort of pamphlet out from under a stack of papers. “Ah-hah! Here we g-go!” he turned to Minerva. “N-now if you would just wait outside while I p-prepare the CEIFM. C-can’t have anybody knowing what I p-put into it, you understand?”

“Er, yes.” Minerva was perfectly glad to have a moment away from Harland’s horrendous speech.

The skies were starting to darken by the time Minerva stepped outside. The air was cool and refreshing, and the streets were silent, yet she couldn’t help thinking that there was something not right.

Someone grabbed her and pulled her into a group of hedges. She found herself on the ground staring up at a man with a knife. His words horrified her.

“Scream an’ yer’ dead.”

She felt herself at a crossroads. She felt she needed to scream, but not at the cost of her life. She struggled under the man’s weight. Her horror began giving way to rage. She kept fighting him. Something was building inside her. She felt as if she was going to explode.

“You little bi-“

He was dumbstruck by what he saw. She was staring at him, eyes glowing blue. He tried to speak, to do something, but he had no time to react. His head felt as if it were split open. He screamed and fell on his back. Minerva stood up, still gazing at her attacker with unblinking, emotionless eyes. Suddenly his screaming stopped. He lay there unconscious. The glow in her eyes faded.

She panicked. She ran from the hedges and straight into Harland, carrying the CEIFM on his back.

“Is, ah, is s-something w-wrong? I thought I heard someone sc-screaming.”

Minerva glanced back at the hedges where the man had passed out. “No,” she said, “there’s nothing wrong. You must have imagined it.”

“I, suppose so. Let’s g-get going then, shall we?”

He began walking off, away from his house. Minerva took one last hesitant look at the hedges and followed. She did not know what she had gotten herself into, but there was no getting out now.