Among God's and Men: The Ambrosia Case
Spellbound for Doe
Doe
Full Name: Unknown (goes by “Doe”)
Species: Deer Lady (Native American mythology)
Age: Appears 17–18 (Actual age unknown)
Occupation: Vincent’s “intern” (court-ordered community service)
Charges: Petty theft, illegal divine scavenging, four counts of disrespecting local authority
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Physical Description:
Doe is deceptively petite—lean build, tan skin, and big amber eyes that seem to roll at everything. Her long black hair is usually tied in messy braids with charms, bottle caps, or zip ties woven in. At first glance she looks like a rebellious teen with a penchant for combat boots and oversized hoodies. But catch her in the right light and you’ll notice the faint shimmer of her antlers beneath her hood, the unnaturally perfect stillness when she listens, or the sharp glint in her eyes that’s more predator than prey. Her legs taper into delicate deer hooves, silent on tile but deadly in a roundhouse.
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Personality:
A smart-mouthed cryptid with a heart she pretends not to have. Doe is sarcastic, fiercely independent, and allergic to authority. She treats rules as polite suggestions and treats Vincent as an overworked babysitter. But beneath the snark and hooved sass is a sharp mind, a keen eye for danger, and a strangely profound sense of justice—just hidden behind layers of teenage rebellion and enchanted sarcasm. She claims to be “reformed” and 12% serious about it.
Vincent may have taken her in as a favor to the courts, but she’s quickly become the unofficial backbone of his chaos-fueled operation. Whether he likes it or not.
- female teen
DOE – Mockingly Retelling the Story (Performance, exaggerated) Tone: Snarky, overly dramatic, like she’s telling this to impress tourists or annoy Vincent. DOE: "Ooooh boy, you haven’t lived till you’ve heard Vincent's big ‘one bullet’ bedtime story. Picture this: moody noir man in a trench coat, trenchier than usual, brooding like the rent’s overdue on his soul. Suddenly—bam! A centaur busts outta nowhere. Hooves blazing. Angry. Probably hangry. And right behind him? A minotaur with biceps the size of tree trunks and exactly zero impulse control. But does our guy flinch? Nope. He sighs. Sighs. Like, ‘Ugh, again?’ Then—cue divine magic sparkles—he whips out his god-blessed, fate-kissed, probably-cursed .357 and fires one shot. Just one. Into the air. And reality cries a little. Next thing you know, the centaur’s faceplants into a vending machine, the minotaur folds like bad origami, and Vince just lights a cigarette like he didn’t just commit Greek-flavored crowd control. And what does he say? Probably something tragic and manly like, ‘Justice is heavy.’ Ten outta ten. Would watch again.”
