I think I am here.

Oh, this is a really good point. With the talent of 'having things'? But then his last name would have to be Smedry, and we don't have his name as Nolastname. Also: Lusk is going to have a joyride with this. Max too.

He's not supposed to be able to control it, though. Maybe he was a highly experienced elsecaller, but had a head injury/amnesia? And now his subconscious is the one that soulcasts things out of midair to help him and he doesn't know why.

Welcome! I like the character. Unfortunately, the magics used in the Alleyverse are all (with the exception of Warhammer 40k) magics that Brandon has written about. We don't really include any other sorts of powers, unless they've been included in a book he's written. But don't worry! That doesn't invalidate your character, since there are easy ways to link this guy's power to something Brandon's written, you'd just need to add some elements. 1. Your character could have a Boon/Bane from the Nightwatcher (from SA). This would allow him to have his power (as a boon), but would need for him to have some sort of curse in return. It would also need an explanation how he found the Nightwatcher, so maybe not this one. 2. You're character is an Epic (from the Reckoners) I like this explanation, as it would make most sense. You could say Calamity came one day, gave him these powers, and teleported him to the Alleyverse, without having to change anything save that little part in the backstory. You'd also have to have an Epic weakness, which can be anything, but would negate his powers. But it's a good character, and I like the creativity with the power. @The Technovore

There’s cloning as well.

Redatrick nodded, though he was still breathing fast. They would be after him. Jarret, Pell, Jones and the others. He’d maybe gotten half a day or a day of a head start, but then what? He’d already wasted most of that now, and it wouldn’t be long before they found him. But he still needed to rest. After all, he would be able to run faster after he was all healed up. But healed. How the rust did someone heal someone like Redatrick, with injuries pointing out of every point of him? “Where am I?” He asked. “And how did you heal me?” He didn’t know of a single hospital in the Roughs, which meant... storms, had he really visited another planet, like the rambling worldhoppers had said?

Nice character! Interestingly, it’s the polar opposite of the character idea I had for a Legion-type character Completely proper Englishman, combed hair and everything, and completely innocent, but all of his aspects are the ones who are all murdeous evildoers in some aspect (one’s a pyromaniac, other’s a sociopath, another’s a mad scientist)

By that time the farmer had gone back to his farm, leaving Redatrick to the care of the doctors. - Redatrick opened his eyes. It was white. His thoughts were slow, and sluggish, and he wasn’t in pain anymore. And he was staring at white. This must be heaven, he thought dreamily. So, this was what all the Worldhoppers had been babbling about when they said there was a place after you died? But something still bothered Redatrick. He’d done so much bad, killed and robbed, why was he in heaven? Something drifted into his peripheral vision. Redatrick turned his head very slightly and saw a man in white. God? No, there was no god. Just the Phoenix. Redatrick nodded to himself, and focused on the man. He was a doctor. Which meant... Redatrick wasn’t dead? His breathing began to increase rapidly. “I need to get out of here,” he said to the doctor slowly, his mind still in a haze. “They’ll come after me. Please.”

I like it. Well of Ascension spoilers:

A man didn’t know he was here. He thought he just might disappear. And his continued insistence, On his doubtful existence, Caused him to live in fear. - The man needed to do a trick. Maybe write a poem for kicks? So he wracked his brain, Amd what remained, Was a super meta limerick.

Fafen.

A man was sprinting to the ER room, with a body of Redatrick slung around him. The running man was a farmer, everything about him screamed ‘look here, I’m a farmer,’ if Redatrick had been conscious enough to notice, he’d roll his eyes, but he couldn’t at the moment. “I found him crawling towards my home,” the farmer explained as he showed Redatrick to the doctors. Redatrick was in pretty good health for someone who was almost dead. Hardened blood caked the area around his wounds, and a crossbow bolt lay inside of him, next to bullets and knife wounds. Multiple attacks, from multiple sources. He was wrapped like a mummy in tourniquets, obviously the farmer didn’t have an idea what to do, but some of them were working, obviously, because Redatrick wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.

They’d found a traitor. And he’d been lynched. The very fact that they’d killed one was unsettling, it meant the rumours of assassins lurking in the shadows weren’t rumours, stories. They were the truth. And as De Itiah had learned in theatre school, when it came to killers, in the dark, there was never just one. “Daedi,” he said. “Declan voted for the traitor, and you voted for them. Right now, I find that suspicious.” He paced, with his hands behind his back, and addressed the group in front of him. The presence of Alendi made his announcements harder. The man always seemed far more mature than his age. “There are traitors among us,” he said. “As they would say in theatre school, the plot is only just beginning. Now we know that they’re here, we’ll have to hunt them down, find them! And maybe have some character development along the way, but that obviously comes second after making sure the traitors are dealt with.” Why had he ever thought uszing theatre terms would help him solve a murder?

The Haunt turned sharply to Reylf. “I’m perfectly stable,” he said, hovering. “Completely stable,”

Glasses stopeped shattering as The Haunt grew to a normal size again, with its swirling dust outline. Story, she wanted to know his story? Attention! He had a story, and she would pay attention. He would be noticed. Especially after her threats of forgetting him, he paused, subdued. “Theee hundred years of isolation,” he said quietly. “Of being a spren. And no one noticed, until I began to move things. Little things. Like knives. And then they noticed me, but they bled out too fast to tell anyone else,” it was clear from his tone of voice he was not sane, but with the attention of the woman, he began to grow less desperate, and the insanity that came with being ignored faded away. “I don’t need to tell you my story,” he snapped. He hated that he was so easily used, because of his need to be noticed. “The world will know my name, woman, and you will too. Just wait, and you’ll see. Just wait. Everything will burn with my name.”

The Haunt paused, seemed to shrink for a second. “Don’t forget me,” it said. “Shardbearers can’t hit what they can’t see but forgetting me?” It hadn’t known it had been that obvious. “Please,” it said, and even though it’s voice was a hushed whisper anyway this seemed quieter.

The Haunt looked towards the person addressing him. “No one’s been able to harm me in centuries, girl. You could try, of course.” A fight. Would people pay attention then?

The outline turned, and moved closer to her. “I’ve tried being ‘pleasant’ for years,” it said in a quiet, but potent voice. “But they forget you, they go on and they forget you were there, and then, it’s like you nevertheless did anything to begin with. The only way to be memorable is to do something that will be remembered for centuries. And most of the things that are happen to go against the laws. Hence...” Windows from around began to crack. With how much he extended himself today, he couldn’t even shatter them, but he did crack each an every window, and if he focused, he cracked each window into a pattern, a set of words etched directly into the glass. THE HAUNT. “I must be remembered,” he said, voice slightly shaky. One person noticing him was good, it was a good thing to keep his sanity. But he needed more. More.

The Haunt paused, then wavered. People were shrugging. Ignoring it. Like he wasn’t there. Like he didn’t exist. But, did he? He spent three hundred years in complete isolation, completely abandonment, and now, they were ignoring him. He brought his hands to his face and screwed it up, and yelled, though it came out as a barely audible whisper. The dust swirling from all around the bar coalesced in a shape of a human, in the shape of him. It was a detailed dust outline of his body, like a mist-spirit, and it was floating in the middle of the bar. Now they couldn’t not notice him. Could they. He extended his hands outwards, and the outline grew, till the head touched the ceiling. One thing about his type of spren was that he could change sizes, like an inkspren. Which meant the outline grew too.

Nice

Alask nodded. “Yeah, it’ll seem that way.” He heard the knock, and walked towards the door, still talking to Amon. “But even if it will be good to undermine the guilds, if they ever decide to actually fight back?” He stopped and looked to his red-haired friend. “They’ll destroy us. They have way more funding, and weapons, and everything. So if we ever want to undermine the government, maybe send posters or something.” He turned and opened the door, and saw another little boy. “Hi,” he said. “How are you? The Man who Fixes is unfortunately not here to give autographs today. Anything else you needed?”