Nicholas Cassidy was born in Chicago, circa 1897. Living out his early life, he managed to become a police detective, one of the few ‘protected’ jobs, and avoid military service during the War to End All Wars. Fired in 1927 on trumped up charges of corruption, he drifted between employments for six months, before setting up shop as one of the first Private Investigators. A true trench-coat-and-hat wearing, whiskey-swilling, square-jawed PI as featured in so many of the pulp magazines, Nicholas had a string of bad luck. He only solved enough cases to keep him alive, and many seemingly simple cases lead him into knotted situations that he couldn’t get out of. Depressed and down to his last gulp of single malt in the bottom drawer, he took one last look at the world. He smoked a gunmetal cigar, and hoped for the end.
Appearing in the Shadowlands, Dick was reaped by the Silent Legion. Even when cursing his luck at not having been man enough to finish the job, his latent survival instinct crept in and saw him offer his services as an investigator to the Quiet Anacreon of the Chicago Necropolis. On a whim, and because the information might be useful, the Anacreon accepted.
Dick worked like he never had before, and even seemed to be overcoming the lack of luck he had in life. He worked through the Fifth Great Maelstrom, narrowly avoiding being destroyed by the ravening hordes of Spectres. His increasing knowledge of Moliate helped with both undercover work, and the trouble that was bound to happen when he got found out. Despite all of this, he still nearly died all over again. The storm died down. And then she walked into his office, and into his life.
She said she was on the run, she said that a gang of hit-wraiths working for the supposedly disbanded Spook’s Guild wanted her out of the equation. She asked for his help. She promised to teach him things that would help his work as payment. And like a fool, he agreed. In a tale of investigation, betrayal and whiskey-tasting Pathos that would do Raymond Chandler proud Nicholas ended up in a race against time, trying to clear his name and hide the ability that the Mnemoi had taught him. He made it, though only the Devil knows how.
Knowing now that he needed more protection, more people he could call upon, he started looking into things. Two years of searching produced a contact who could concretely be said to know someone that had a chance of possibly having something to do with the Masquer’s Guild. It was slow work, but eventually he was accepted. His ‘day job’ was perfect for the Guild, but he was torn by his loyalty to his Legion and to the Guild. But it was what he had to do. Acting as a Reaper and investigator both nurtured a protective instinct in the old gumshoe, and he was known for playing hell even with other Reapers when they went for 'his kids'. He acted as a double agent for both the Guild and his Legion, telling each just enough to make sure keeping him around was profitable.
Just as things could be said to be settling down again, disaster struck. The Sixth Great Maelstrom raged. A look out of his window confirmed it all. There were Wraiths out there that never stood a chance, who never knew what hit them when their Cauls were gone. He had to do something. He had to help them. Taking down his trenchcoat, he set out into the teeth of the storm. The Hierarchy may be falling and the wolves may be at the door, but it’s a dirty job, and someone’s gotta do it.