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44,502 | 1,213 | 10 | 623 | 559 | Peering closer at the man of the rooftop, Caractacus was surprised by his face, and his state of dress. The man looked like a clown, costume and all. It was almost comical were it not for the poisonous edge to the man's words. Caractacus once again found himself having to formulate unexpected answers for unexpected questions. It was very tiring. He supposed he could use something similar to his original plan.
"Well, I'm-I'm here for a job. Like you. He looks at the slith. "And you, maybe, if you are here for that, that is. Maybe. S-so why not we all just go inside, and get food, and drink, and wait for the guy who's hiring? No tr-troubles. Heh." He tried another smile, this one seemed more genuine. Caractacus gestured at the doorway. By now it was only very early in the morning, someone was bound to be awake, and a witness, in there. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,503 | 1,213 | 11 | 1,694 | 138 | Their small movements made her flinch. Any raise of the hand could release a weapon; any step, another danger. She tilted her head slightly to the side, regarded the two unlikely 'adventurers'. They weren't the type of people she had expected to be interested in this work. Though still wary, she began to relax her almost painful grip on the hilt of the dagger, and partially flattened the scales back down. She knew no display of size or strength would be of use when dealing with the clown, at least. He seemed... too perceptive, too poisonous and dangerous a character. She didn't trust him; she doubted she ever would trust him. As for the other...
"You seem weak, and a coward. Why would you wish to sign up for the job?" Kij turned her head to the first figure with little more than a subtle twitch of her head. The question was not meant to offend, the statement not said in a way that was meant to insult, but was instead the summary of her perceptions - whether they were accurate or not. She waited silently for the reply, oblivious.
Though the clown troubled her, she ignored him for now, and the suggestions to go inside. She would see what the trickster did first before she made her move, reluctant to trap herself inside with potential enemies. They said they were here for a reason, but it was easy to say one thing and for the opposite to be true. No matter what happened, she had to stay alert, she had to be cautious. | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,504 | 1,213 | 12 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus takes a step back. Coward? Is that the impression he gave? It certainly wasn't a flattering description, but it was better than outright hostility and lynching. He shook his head. "I am t-taking this job because it's the right th-thing to do. W-we have to stop the lich and his uh, undead. And all the other bad stuff." He nodded. That would be a sufficient explanation, right? Something a hero would say, surely.
Caractacus leans down to pick up his staff. "Besides, I d-don't need to be physically strong wh-when I have my mind and my m-magic. It will p-protect me." He once again tried a smile. He's not very confident looking. "I underst-st-stand I don't make a good first impression, h-heh, but I am truly quite capable."
Caractacus was about to turn to go inside, when a thought struck him. "W-wait. You never answered my question. What are y-you here for?" | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,505 | 1,213 | 13 | 242 | 1,238 | Sam looked down at the trembling man in the robe. It was pitiful, but then, most wizards were. Bookworms were like that, and most wizards were bookworms, by nature of the position. Admirable in a way, though. Sam was curious as to how his performances could have been enhanced had he spent the time to sit down and learn some magic of his own, but there was no time to find that out anymore. He answered the wizard in the Slith's place. "She's here for the job - the same as you and I, I assume. Or she's here to kill you and is trying to determine whether she can do the job. But honestly, she had her chance for that on the approach, so that probably isn't it."
Sam walked, one foot directly in front of the other, down one of the remaining roofing beams that supported the thatching, and dropped down in front of the inn door, which he opened and entered. A sense that he should probably act with some degree of mild courtesy struck him as he closed the door behind him, and he reopened it, sticking his head out for a moment to speak.
"That knight is probably awake by now, or will be shortly. When you're done pissing yourself, wizard, feel free to join me. And you as well, whatever-your-likely-extremely-difficult-to-pronounce-name-is."
The door closed again. | Name:
Sam Duval
Race:
Human
Appearance:
A slender man standing at 6'2" with mid length, slicked back black hair, and brilliant green eyes. His face is masked in white face paint and makeup - with a red heart upside down beneath the left eye, a black spade upside down beneath the right, a black club above the left, and a red diamond above the right. He wears red lipstick on one side and black on the other, and very much appears to enjoy his magic tricks.
His outfit is particularly frilly. A wide, snow-white ruff encircles his neck, and a deep purple brocade doublet is worn atop a snowy white tunic with baggy sleeves. Thick white tights are tucked into purple leather boots, complete with long and curling toes.
Personality:
His capacity for cruelty is only surpassed by his apathy. Those he deems unworthy of death, he casually insults or ignores. Everyone else, he either takes advantage of or makes an enemy of. The thrill of a power struggle is the greatest and most exciting entertainment he can imagine, whether he's on top or on the bottom.
He will do absolutely anything to get ahead - and luckily for the world, he sees 'dealing with' the new menace at the Old Country as a perfect way to secure a position atop the world. The real question is what he would do with that position were he somehow to succeed.
He loves trickery and sleight-of-hand 'magic'.
Background:
Sam grew up in an orphanage in eastern Ruritania. All of his needs were provided for, and he had many good friends there. The elderly couple who ran the place always felt that he was somehow a special child. One day, a western circus was in town - a circus of acrobats and clowns - and he was mystified by their death defying feats and their silly acts. He wanted to become like them, and he started practicing card tricks, card games, cheating dice rolls, acting, and puppeteering.
At 13, he left the orphanage to join the circus, where he stayed as a clown for nine years, perfecting a number of silent comedy acts with his partners - including famous shows like 'Bobo the Rat', 'The Marvelous Machine', and 'A Place to Call Home'. The King of Armitas, a moderately sized province in Ruritania, offered him a job as a private jester - which he gladly took. The King was a rather nice man, if a bit hard-hearted towards the plight of individual commoners, and Sam looked up to him.
The King's power made him tremble with delight, and he served both as comedian and advisor gleefully. The King's health was in gradual decline, though, and soon, he was appointed with handling the affairs of the peasantry in the King's place - a job that he was well suited for. Every person who came in to petition the King was met with Sam instead, and he took great joy in deciding whether to save or ruin people. It was his perfect dream job. He gradually became more and more demented as time went on, moving up from causing minor ailments to unsuspecting people to starving them, and from starving them to outright executing them for crimes they never committed.
The people called for his head. His position was cemented when, finally, a father of four entered his hall and demanded that he resign immediately. Words were had, and the father insulted Sam in front of a small crowd. Sam flew into a rage and lept from the throne, slashing the man's throat with a Jack of Clubs.
When the King heard about the murder, he called Sam into his office and asked him to explain what happened, as he didn't want to have to imprison his friend. Sam explained in gruesome detail every single moment and feeling, and the King felt true despair for the first time in his life. The King called for his guards to take Sam away, and Sam responded by putting a Joker through the man's throat, followed by leaping out a window. He wasn't seen in Armitas ever again.
The news spread, and quickly twisted into fairy tales about a murderous clown that would eat bad children in the night. He particularly loved these stories, and would often ask to hear them any time he stopped at an inn - though he didn't wear his signature outfit for a while.
When a more frightening story than his own finally came up regarding a great evil in the Old Country, he put on his old Jester's outfit and makeup once more and set out eastwards.
Abilities:
Deadeye Dealer: A true marksman with a playing card - a swift flick and a card goes flying with the force and accuracy of an arrow, albeit a somewhat shorter range.
Clown Agility: Sam's experiences in the circus have given him near superhuman kinesthetic sense and an in-depth knowledge of what his body is capable of. Acrobatic feats and clever use of leverage are no trouble for him at all, having for years been involved in tightrope and trapeze comedy acts. One such act even involved blocking a mace blow with a spoon, all for the sake of a good show.
Puppeteering: Steel wire is his second favorite way to kill his foes. While he can't control his enemies like he can control a puppet, he does enjoy garroting their various extremities.
Equipment:
A 78-card tarot deck and a 60-card playing card deck. A length of piano wire. A pack of toothpicks coated in monkshood poison. A salad fork. |
44,506 | 1,213 | 14 | 1,694 | 138 | She watched the jester go with a grimace, or the Slith's equivalent to a grimace. Though doubtful that she would ever be able to trust the man - crucial on such a job - she was hesitant to give up so soon. She doubted that, if this was no good, she would have the strength to return to civilisation. The ways of humans, orcs, even Slith tired her. But no, she would not give up on this so soon, first she must consider all the information.
For a final time before entering the tavern, she looked towards the forest and flexed her claws, felt them sink into the mud and earth. With a deep inhale of the marsh scented air, she made her way over to the doorway. There was a light in the window, weak in comparison to the now rising sun that peered over the tree tops. Two fire drakes flitted in the dark sky above and for a fleeting moment she felt a longing, but she soon turned away and grasped for the door handle.
With the door half ajar, about to step in, she faltered in her stride and turned back to the wizard. "If that is your true reason for wanting to fight the Lich, then that is commendable. But it will be dangerous..." Kij's head tilted to the side, reptilian eyes regarding him piercingly. "So you must be strong enough, or it could be fatal for all of us. You understand?" She didn't wait for a reply, but instead walked through the door and shut it behind her. Tiredness finally seeping into her muscles, she welcomed the chair and slumped down, looking about the tavern as she did so. | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,507 | 1,213 | 15 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus scowled as the jester went inside. He was hardly pissing himself. He just had some trouble formulating words was all. Anyone would after so long in isolation, really. He would have to think of a few choice words for the jester next time he saw him. Which would most likely be soon, as they were working the same job.
Caractacus then looked to the slith, she seemed at least a little more at ease, which was decent news. She took a look back at the forest before approaching him. Or the door. Definitely the door. Caractacus watched her approach, but didn't speak. He instead waited for a response to the question he posed. Whether or not the jester answered for her, it would be better to hear it from the slith herself. She was about to head in when she stopped, and spoke.
"If that is your true reason for wanting to fight the Lich, then that is commendable. But it will be dangerous..." She locked him with a gaze that shot through to his core, and continued. "So you must be strong enough, or it could be fatal for all of us. You understand?"
"I u-under-- The door slammed shut, cutting short his response. Caractacus sighed; he understood what it would take to succeed. It was all planned out, and as long as he followed the plan, nothing, not even the pit of fear sitting low in his stomach, would stop him from achieving his goals. Reassured, Caractacus pulled open the door, and slipped inside. He took a place close to, but not quite on, the undead side. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,508 | 1,213 | 16 | 242 | 1,238 | Sam Duval was sitting at a table inside, clowning around, so to speak. A group of groggy patrons had gathered around him to observe magic trick after magic trick and to partake in tarot readings. Caractacus entered the room shortly after Kij, and Sam found himself wondering exactly what was going through their minds. A flashy introduction like his own at that hour of morning may have put the two off-balance in a way, which he figured was a particularly good way to get them prepared for stressful situations. He very much doubted that they would make it far without a healthy degree of paranoia, regardless of whether it was directed toward himself or toward the undead.
A patron chose his cards, and Sam pulled them out to reveal the results. The Fool, The Devil, The Emperor, The World, The Magician, and the Wheel of Fortune. Sam himself never really cared much for this 'divination' method - it was roughly as accurate for determining one's path in life as sticking one's hand down a badger hole. Or, perhaps, even less so, as sticking one's hand down a badger hole nearly guarantees that one's hand will be bitten, which at least can be predicted, provided one isn't an absolute moron - which most of the tavern's patrons unfortunately were.
He eyed the other side of the tavern, where a couple undead were idly milling about, posing no real threat to anybody and serving the purpose of marking which side of the tavern one really shouldn't start a brawl on. They seemed about as useful as his future companions would be. Speaking of whom, why hadn't the Knight awoken yet...? | Name:
Sam Duval
Race:
Human
Appearance:
A slender man standing at 6'2" with mid length, slicked back black hair, and brilliant green eyes. His face is masked in white face paint and makeup - with a red heart upside down beneath the left eye, a black spade upside down beneath the right, a black club above the left, and a red diamond above the right. He wears red lipstick on one side and black on the other, and very much appears to enjoy his magic tricks.
His outfit is particularly frilly. A wide, snow-white ruff encircles his neck, and a deep purple brocade doublet is worn atop a snowy white tunic with baggy sleeves. Thick white tights are tucked into purple leather boots, complete with long and curling toes.
Personality:
His capacity for cruelty is only surpassed by his apathy. Those he deems unworthy of death, he casually insults or ignores. Everyone else, he either takes advantage of or makes an enemy of. The thrill of a power struggle is the greatest and most exciting entertainment he can imagine, whether he's on top or on the bottom.
He will do absolutely anything to get ahead - and luckily for the world, he sees 'dealing with' the new menace at the Old Country as a perfect way to secure a position atop the world. The real question is what he would do with that position were he somehow to succeed.
He loves trickery and sleight-of-hand 'magic'.
Background:
Sam grew up in an orphanage in eastern Ruritania. All of his needs were provided for, and he had many good friends there. The elderly couple who ran the place always felt that he was somehow a special child. One day, a western circus was in town - a circus of acrobats and clowns - and he was mystified by their death defying feats and their silly acts. He wanted to become like them, and he started practicing card tricks, card games, cheating dice rolls, acting, and puppeteering.
At 13, he left the orphanage to join the circus, where he stayed as a clown for nine years, perfecting a number of silent comedy acts with his partners - including famous shows like 'Bobo the Rat', 'The Marvelous Machine', and 'A Place to Call Home'. The King of Armitas, a moderately sized province in Ruritania, offered him a job as a private jester - which he gladly took. The King was a rather nice man, if a bit hard-hearted towards the plight of individual commoners, and Sam looked up to him.
The King's power made him tremble with delight, and he served both as comedian and advisor gleefully. The King's health was in gradual decline, though, and soon, he was appointed with handling the affairs of the peasantry in the King's place - a job that he was well suited for. Every person who came in to petition the King was met with Sam instead, and he took great joy in deciding whether to save or ruin people. It was his perfect dream job. He gradually became more and more demented as time went on, moving up from causing minor ailments to unsuspecting people to starving them, and from starving them to outright executing them for crimes they never committed.
The people called for his head. His position was cemented when, finally, a father of four entered his hall and demanded that he resign immediately. Words were had, and the father insulted Sam in front of a small crowd. Sam flew into a rage and lept from the throne, slashing the man's throat with a Jack of Clubs.
When the King heard about the murder, he called Sam into his office and asked him to explain what happened, as he didn't want to have to imprison his friend. Sam explained in gruesome detail every single moment and feeling, and the King felt true despair for the first time in his life. The King called for his guards to take Sam away, and Sam responded by putting a Joker through the man's throat, followed by leaping out a window. He wasn't seen in Armitas ever again.
The news spread, and quickly twisted into fairy tales about a murderous clown that would eat bad children in the night. He particularly loved these stories, and would often ask to hear them any time he stopped at an inn - though he didn't wear his signature outfit for a while.
When a more frightening story than his own finally came up regarding a great evil in the Old Country, he put on his old Jester's outfit and makeup once more and set out eastwards.
Abilities:
Deadeye Dealer: A true marksman with a playing card - a swift flick and a card goes flying with the force and accuracy of an arrow, albeit a somewhat shorter range.
Clown Agility: Sam's experiences in the circus have given him near superhuman kinesthetic sense and an in-depth knowledge of what his body is capable of. Acrobatic feats and clever use of leverage are no trouble for him at all, having for years been involved in tightrope and trapeze comedy acts. One such act even involved blocking a mace blow with a spoon, all for the sake of a good show.
Puppeteering: Steel wire is his second favorite way to kill his foes. While he can't control his enemies like he can control a puppet, he does enjoy garroting their various extremities.
Equipment:
A 78-card tarot deck and a 60-card playing card deck. A length of piano wire. A pack of toothpicks coated in monkshood poison. A salad fork. |
44,509 | 1,213 | 17 | 1,694 | 138 | Get up.
The elf groaned and lashed out clumsily. Her hand fell through the air and fell back to her side with a thump. Morro wasn't impressed.
"You've overslept, get up now." The knight moved over to the younger one and kicked the sheets off him with an idle flick of her foot. Groans filled the air. She watched them until she was sure they were stirring, then turned away with a curse. What had she done to deserve this mission? The weak light was already shining through the gap where half of the wall had gone missing, but it didn't matter whether or not they were late downstairs. Nobody had come, and nobody would come. Still, she had been charged with the two new recruits. If anything, she would use this time to toughen them up. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the youngest stumble into the door frame. They needed it.
"Full armour on, we're training before we eat." She beckoned to the rusted over suits of armour. The pair gawped at her incredulously.
"That's crazy! How are we supposed to do anything with food?" The elf demanded. The younger one laughed. Mistake.
"If you find each other so damn funny, why didn't you become comedians? Why are you here wasting Three Nation's time and resources?" They stared at her blankly, fear almost palpable in the air. Morro tutted with disgust and made her way towards the stairs, pushing the subordinates out of her way. "No, do what you wish. A jester would be more helpful than you." They stared at her back blankly, as she stormed downstairs. Today was going to be a bad day.
The downstairs of the tavern was buzzing with activity, unusual for this time. She hesitated at the entrance to the room, scanned it to find the source of the disruption. There, somebody dressed in bright clothes doing... Card tricks? She groaned incredulously, but quickly pulled herself together. Her armour weighed down on her, the Three Nations Cape pulling at her back. She didn't have the effort to hold herself up, and regretted putting it on in the first place. With difficulty, she walked over to the nearest table and sat down, beckoning for the bar tender. He knew what she wanted, and she sat back exhausted while she waited for her food. | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,510 | 1,213 | 18 | 623 | 559 | Stealing furtive glances to the bar, Caractacus regretted not having any coin. His stomach grumbled with hunger, and his throat was parched from the long march to the tavern. He certainly couldn't play card games for money like the clown. Unless someone needed a pair of skeletons in the middle of the bar, he was out of luck. With a sigh, Caractacus took a seat at an empty table, and rested his staff against it.
Caractacus swung his gaze over the room, skating over the jester and his crowd, and latching onto an armored figure storming down the stairs. Could this be the knight he was to meet? He stared at the warrior as she took a table close to the staircase, across the living half of the room from him. Caractacus grabbed his staff, and stood. He slowly crossed the room and stopped, standing across the table from her. He spoke with his usual elocution and confidence.. "Uh...hi."
He stood there, letting the greeting stand in the air. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,511 | 1,213 | 19 | 242 | 1,238 | Sam heard the clinking and clicking of the Knight's armor as she trotted down the stairs. The Wizard had already taken notice and approached the woman, which meant that this was a particularly good moment to butt in. With a wave of his hand, the jester shooed away the other customers. "Sorry, all, but the show will have to continue some other time. I have business to attend to."
As one last 'trick', Sam lined up the cards remaining on the table, end to end, and swept the small box he kept them in across the wood. Each card neatly slid into the box without having to be picked up manually, and the customers politely clapped before returning to their drinks. That should give them something to talk about for a couple days other than the horrifying stench.
Sam wandered to the bar, where the Knight and the Wizard were waiting. The Lizard would likely be coming to join them shortly as well.
"I assume you're the knight in charge of the Lich job. " | Name:
Sam Duval
Race:
Human
Appearance:
A slender man standing at 6'2" with mid length, slicked back black hair, and brilliant green eyes. His face is masked in white face paint and makeup - with a red heart upside down beneath the left eye, a black spade upside down beneath the right, a black club above the left, and a red diamond above the right. He wears red lipstick on one side and black on the other, and very much appears to enjoy his magic tricks.
His outfit is particularly frilly. A wide, snow-white ruff encircles his neck, and a deep purple brocade doublet is worn atop a snowy white tunic with baggy sleeves. Thick white tights are tucked into purple leather boots, complete with long and curling toes.
Personality:
His capacity for cruelty is only surpassed by his apathy. Those he deems unworthy of death, he casually insults or ignores. Everyone else, he either takes advantage of or makes an enemy of. The thrill of a power struggle is the greatest and most exciting entertainment he can imagine, whether he's on top or on the bottom.
He will do absolutely anything to get ahead - and luckily for the world, he sees 'dealing with' the new menace at the Old Country as a perfect way to secure a position atop the world. The real question is what he would do with that position were he somehow to succeed.
He loves trickery and sleight-of-hand 'magic'.
Background:
Sam grew up in an orphanage in eastern Ruritania. All of his needs were provided for, and he had many good friends there. The elderly couple who ran the place always felt that he was somehow a special child. One day, a western circus was in town - a circus of acrobats and clowns - and he was mystified by their death defying feats and their silly acts. He wanted to become like them, and he started practicing card tricks, card games, cheating dice rolls, acting, and puppeteering.
At 13, he left the orphanage to join the circus, where he stayed as a clown for nine years, perfecting a number of silent comedy acts with his partners - including famous shows like 'Bobo the Rat', 'The Marvelous Machine', and 'A Place to Call Home'. The King of Armitas, a moderately sized province in Ruritania, offered him a job as a private jester - which he gladly took. The King was a rather nice man, if a bit hard-hearted towards the plight of individual commoners, and Sam looked up to him.
The King's power made him tremble with delight, and he served both as comedian and advisor gleefully. The King's health was in gradual decline, though, and soon, he was appointed with handling the affairs of the peasantry in the King's place - a job that he was well suited for. Every person who came in to petition the King was met with Sam instead, and he took great joy in deciding whether to save or ruin people. It was his perfect dream job. He gradually became more and more demented as time went on, moving up from causing minor ailments to unsuspecting people to starving them, and from starving them to outright executing them for crimes they never committed.
The people called for his head. His position was cemented when, finally, a father of four entered his hall and demanded that he resign immediately. Words were had, and the father insulted Sam in front of a small crowd. Sam flew into a rage and lept from the throne, slashing the man's throat with a Jack of Clubs.
When the King heard about the murder, he called Sam into his office and asked him to explain what happened, as he didn't want to have to imprison his friend. Sam explained in gruesome detail every single moment and feeling, and the King felt true despair for the first time in his life. The King called for his guards to take Sam away, and Sam responded by putting a Joker through the man's throat, followed by leaping out a window. He wasn't seen in Armitas ever again.
The news spread, and quickly twisted into fairy tales about a murderous clown that would eat bad children in the night. He particularly loved these stories, and would often ask to hear them any time he stopped at an inn - though he didn't wear his signature outfit for a while.
When a more frightening story than his own finally came up regarding a great evil in the Old Country, he put on his old Jester's outfit and makeup once more and set out eastwards.
Abilities:
Deadeye Dealer: A true marksman with a playing card - a swift flick and a card goes flying with the force and accuracy of an arrow, albeit a somewhat shorter range.
Clown Agility: Sam's experiences in the circus have given him near superhuman kinesthetic sense and an in-depth knowledge of what his body is capable of. Acrobatic feats and clever use of leverage are no trouble for him at all, having for years been involved in tightrope and trapeze comedy acts. One such act even involved blocking a mace blow with a spoon, all for the sake of a good show.
Puppeteering: Steel wire is his second favorite way to kill his foes. While he can't control his enemies like he can control a puppet, he does enjoy garroting their various extremities.
Equipment:
A 78-card tarot deck and a 60-card playing card deck. A length of piano wire. A pack of toothpicks coated in monkshood poison. A salad fork. |
44,512 | 1,213 | 20 | 1,662 | 1,136 | Oh come now, 10 more coins are in it for you if you take me all the way to the tavern!
The old cart driver sneered as he simply raised his hand in defiance. "Already told ya girly, I aint goin no closer to that swampy cloud o' death. End of the road here"
The figure reclining in the back, clad in a loose garment and headscarf, rose up, stretching as she hopped off the back of the cart, digging out a bag of coins, passing from one hand to another in a fluid transaction before passing into the possession of the cart's pilot.
"Very well, guess I can't schlep you any further." turning her back to the driver as her eyes pierced into the darkness of the night. The tavern was likely a good 13-mile trek through the mountains away still, so there was no time to waste, lest she be left behind.
She was hoping to leave earlier, and make it by night, but negotiating the terms of her transport across Ruritania, the arrival had come a bit later than desired. Tired, hungry, and only arriving just at the final hairs of time, only catching a glimpse as a Knight and her subordinates made their way to a lower level, followed by two other figures. The girl made haste to follow them, knowing this must be the Knight Morro Aramato from the flier.
"Selom!" She said loudly to the knight, her heavy Koraim accent becoming noticable as she spoke, "You are Morro Aramato, lo?" she asked, her eyes darking back and forth from the knight, to the wizard and the acrobat around her. | Name:
Tal Shalev
Race:
Koraim - Koraim are a people found distributed across the land living in rather isolated diasporic communities across the world. Distinguished by their very small antler-like horns on an otherwise human-looking appearance, usually sporting red or blonde hair, and olive skin, in addition to a rather youthful looking appearance. The average Koraim lifespan is about 120 years. It is said that their ancestors originated as a civilization based out of a far away island, centered around their Monotheistic Temple Religion, though their classical civilization faced collapse following natural disaster that resulted in the wholesale destruction of their Island home, and the mass emigration of the Koraim from the Isle of Bere.
Koraim have a reputation for being good mages and craftsmen who provide quality services, however, they are often viewed as untrustworthy and greedy by others. The tolerance of the people themselves in the nations that they immigrated to has ranged from indifference to violent persecution, due to their horned appearance, strange monolatric religion and culture, and generalized xenophobia. This has created a sort of insular community among the Koraim, which, though a product of their persecution, often contributes to further distrust of the horned people. Defined by their religion and culture, the Koraim cling to their distinctive faith and customs even in the face of otherwise assimilating in terms of language and dress, though the Kora language is still commonly used in discussions between Koraim themselves, and loanwords are usually found in their everyday speech even in their host languages.
Personality:
Growing up as a middle child in a family of 6 other siblings, Tal is eager to prove herself useful and distinct. As a result, Tal can be a bit annoying in her bids to shine and show off her skill (even if she thinks a bit too highly of her meager training), but underneath it all she is good natured and only wants to help, which are the primary reasons that she followed her family tradition of Alchemy.
Background:
Tal's family originated in migratory bands of Koraim who migrated by sea, fleeing persecution from their previously inhabited lands and seeking refuge in the old country. Tal's parents and her siblings were all born in the Ruritania and, while still having some prejudices against the Koraim, was a much better place for establishing a life. Tal was the 4th child born in a home of 7, which left her in something of an awkward position, feeling generally left out among her other siblings. To make up for it, Tal often left home to go collect wild vegetables and bugs to experiment on, mimicking what she saw her father doing in his shop, and forming a crude understanding of alchemy.
It was at the age of 16 that Tal decided that she wanted to continue the family business of Alchemy. After studying what she could with her father for 3 years, Tal left home with the intention to take personal courses as an apprentice under a more skilled alchemist. Unfortunately, she was immediately rejected, as the Alchemist in question that she wished to study under refused to take on a Kora as a student. Distraught, and without the money to return home, Tal has been etching out a living selling novelty potions, and putting on "magic" shows involving things like Acids and Metals, or crumbling steel swords to rust for money. Not satisfied making low-level money as a drug store owner or street show performer, Tal thinks that, with what she does know about Alchemy already, she may be able to make a little more coin through adventuring.
Abilities:
At the current moment, Tal is what we could call an "amateur" alchemist. She has the most basic skills down; that is, brewing and crafting. However, she has much room to grow in terms of the "defining skill" of an alchemist. That is, Transmutation. While it's one thing to apply heat, pressure or acids to a material to change it, it's entirely different to use magic itself to reshape it on the spot. At the current moment, Tal is capable of transmuting Wood and Sand into new shapes and has the ability to cause rusting in iron and steel items, both with the aid of a transmutation circle drawn onto the item.
As well, Tal is skilled in brewing, capable of making potions and poisons from herbs, plants, and minerals that she finds in the field, or that she buys from other alchemists or merchants.
Equipment:
Tal's current weapon is a deceptively simple wooden pole, about 6 feet tall and 3 inches thick. However, due to her wood transmutation, she can often reshape this wooden weapon into a variety of shapes, as well as lit on fire though transmutation as a tindertwig, by way of the same oxidiation reaction as her rusting transmutations. Other items that she carries with her are a set of thick glass vials for containing and mixing materials, a bag to hold her items in, some herbs for mixing purposes, and a container of water for drinking and mixing uses. |
44,513 | 1,213 | 21 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus took two steps back from the table. He had only assumed this armored individual was his contact, and made neutral contact. Suddenly he found himself joined by two others. The jester, and another newcomer, a Koraim. Today truly was a day of oddities. Despite his wish to study the horned human closer, he was worried he may have set the both of them on a complete stranger who had nothing to do with the contract. Caractacus did not want to stick around if he turned out to be wrong in his initial assumption, and he may have caused offense to the sitting elf.
Still, he couldn't give up after a moment of doubt. He'd have to make an inquiry. "I'm uh, s-sorry, you are M-Morro Aramat-to, correct? I d-don't have the, aheh, wrong person, right?" A wave of regret washed over him after Caractacus spoke. Know that he was aware of it, he could feel he was making a poor impression. He took another step back in apprehension. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,514 | 1,213 | 22 | 1,694 | 138 | Morro was counting the cracks in the table when she heard the nervous greeting. She glanced up with a raised eye brow, to observe the person addressing her. Suffice to say, she wasn't pleased with what she saw. As a true warrior at heart, she had a certain... dislike of magicians, and she didn't intend to waste much time with this one. Probably begging for money. "Yes, I'm Knight Morro Aramato, messenger of the Three Nations. My time is precious, what do you want?" She spat out the word and glared up at the wizard.
While she was waiting for her answer, something caught her eye. Something big, and purple. Her gaze was drawn, and she blinked several times before she believed what she was seeing; a man, dressed in a white and purple jesters outfit, was moving her way. She should have slept for longer - was she hallucinating? In a backwater little tavern such as this... He had to be here for a purpose, and there was only one reason to come here if you weren't a local. Her suspicions, and hopes, were roused. Perhaps they wouldn't have to send troops into the mountain after all... And they were confirmed, as he asked about the Lich job. She doubted they would last long, but if people like these were interested, then surely others would be to. Her heart lifted, at least as much as a heart of iron could.
She was ready to answer when her attention was called on by another stranger. As much as she was happy about this, she regretted that she hadn't had time to have breakfast or fully wake up before dealing with a group of strangers. And they truly were a strange bunch, it seemed. She turned to the Koraim and found her eyes lingering on the horns, before she retook control of herself. Though she was good, she wasn't good enough to talk to three separate people all at once. She addressed them as one. "I assume you're all here about the Lich job?" She didn't wait for a response before beckoning at a large table in the corner of the room, and taking a seat there.
Kij'hara noticed the knight coming downstairs, but didn't move from her seat. She watched with keen eyes as the clown and the wizard descended on her, and scanned the Koraim that joined them. Were all these people truly interested in protecting the Three countries? What were their true motives, and were they all good? The table where the knight was sat was just in earshot, despite the already drunken shouts, but when she moved to the corner table it was well away from where Kij was sitting. With annoyance - she had been hoping to simply sit and listen - she twisted her way through the maze of fallen bar stools, broken tables and still intact seating to take a place at the table. She didn't say anything to the knight, but the elf registered no shock. Knight Aramato was good at hiding her emotions, Kij could already see that, but as she stared into the woman's eyes she could detect an underlying hate. She ignored it, for what did she care that this woman had something against her, and turned to see what the others were doing. | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,515 | 1,213 | 23 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith walked through the swamp land heading for a place he saw on a poster called "The Mountain Tavern". He held out a sheet of paper and looked down at it. It was the paper the info was written on. He had no actual idea what language it was in. Just that his eye patch aloud him to read it in his language. The entire idea of the situation was an uncomfortable thought in his mind. He was in a 'world' he knew nothing about. His 'world' was the underdark. A place in the depths of the world. On top of that, he was an Illithid...or to be more specific..an Ulitharid. His race was seen as vile and despicable creatures that should be avoided. He had no friends or allies ever since he was split up from his group during the ambush. He knew they were alive. They were powerful individuals that were also intelligent. They had each other. Masrith had no one. Without even a trace idea of where home was except below the earth, he had no generalization of directions. He looked down at the paper again. "Morro Aramato". His voice was deep and menacing and was the only physical trait that rivaled his stature. Maybe his eyes. They were pitch white after all. That name was one of the only two directives he could conceive. Find the tavern and find her. A quest to stop the curse was something they had in common. The only thing really. It didn't take long to find the tavern. He had seen the location in someone's mind a few days back and it was firmly planted in his memory. The tavern didn't look good. Masrith hesitated to approach. It looked like a place blooming with trouble... maybe. He didn't know. The above world was strange to him. He also was a muscular nine foot tall purple octopus thing. If that didn't stand out then nothing else probably would. Despite his hesitant thoughts he approached the tavern. It was logically his best option. The only clear way to obtain any kind of solid ground on the surface. He entered the tavern to see some heads turn at him immediately. Seeing a muscular nine foot tall purple octopus monster was sure to turn some heads after all. He approached the counter the tavern keeper was standing at and put the paper on the counter. He pointed to it and said one name out loud. "Morro Aramato?" His voice was equally disturbing as his stature. He made it quite evident he was looking for whoever Morro was. He was hoping for any kind of physical gesture to the person's location as he did not understand human language. A mental link might also cause a form of hostility and trouble was the last thing he was looking for. | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,516 | 1,213 | 24 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus recoiled at the knight's rebuke. He took another step back, his free hand held out in surrender. "I'm h-here about the j-job. To fight th-the undead, yes?" After rifling through his robe a moment, Caractacus produced the notice he had found. "B-but if you do not wish my c-company, I underst-stand, and ap-p-pologize for wasting your time."
"I assume you're all here about the Lich job?" Morro addressed everyone at the table. She gestured towards a larger table, which Caractacus followed her to, stumbling over the strewn detritus of the tavern all the way. Choosing not to take a seat just yet, Caractacus stood near the table, hopefully not too close. Or too far. He didn't want to seem even more rude. He noted he was joined by the Slith from outside the bar. He hoped he didn't still seem like a coward. Maybe it'd be better if he sat down at the table?
Just as he sat down, Caractacus saw it. The Illithid. Nine feet tall, with a squid face, and eyes whiter than bone. Caractacus's eyes bulged, his stomach dropped through his feet, and his knuckles whitened with the force he gripped his staff. He stared as the Illithid approached the bar, and it practically shouted at the bartender, "Morro Aramato?" That did not bode well. He had heard tales from his master of the cruelty and destructive nature of the Illithid. If one was here, it could not be for a good reason. Maybe it worked for the lich!
Caractacus made a snap decision. He stood, and stepped away from the table. Bringing his staff to bear, Caractacus slammed it down onto the ground. Death magic swirled into the ground, and sought the nearest dead bodies. He was lucky he was under a half destroyed building. Two zombies punched and clawed their way through the floorboards and out of the ground. Caractacus pointed at the Illithid and shouted a command. "Illithid! Kill!" | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,517 | 1,213 | 25 | 1,694 | 138 | Morro Aramato had no time to gawp at the Illithid, nor process what was happening. First silence filled the room, then uproar. She stared at the undead clawing their way up through the floor, and then at the mage. What the hell was going on? And... had the Illithid said her name? Morro pushed herself to her feet and reached for her sword. It wasn't there; she realised with a sinking heart that she had left it up in her room, not expecting to need it during her quiet, peaceful breakfast. There was no way she was going without a weapon, and her knife would never be good enough in a fight such as this. She ducked down and grabbed a broken leg from a stool, and felt her fingers fit around the heavy wooden support comfortably. With unease, she straightened herself up again and took on a defensive stance. Though the undead minions of the mage... no, necromancer - surged forwards, the knight hung back and watched the fight unfold. She would not choose the wrong side - her actions represented the Three Nations, and she knew that they would be greatly if the Illithid empire went to war with them. With those thoughts in her mind, she crossed her fingers and prayed to the God of Peace that the Illithid was peaceful.
Kij'hara slid under the table as the undead broke through the floorboards and the innkeeper began to shout in both distress and anger. Safely under cover, she set her course for the opposite side of the tavern - where the undead sat and watched the spectacle with amusement. If she could just get over there, she would have an easy way to escape or a good place to help with the fight, depending on what she judged best. The job was not worth the trouble it had caused, she decided, as she darted from table to table. The mage passed by, then the Illithid. Though she tried her best to focus on her path, it was hard not to stare at the events unfolding, and the interesting characters they involved. Not focusing was a mistake. She tripped over the leg of a table and went flying into the murky waters of the swamp, into the undead side of the tavern. The waters seeped into her mouth with the taste of rot and mould. At least she was safe and, for now, out of sight. With clothes that were heavy with water, she dragged herself up onto the platform of the tavern and armed herself with her bow. If she wanted to take a side, at least she could help. She waited and watched to see how things would unfold. | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,518 | 1,213 | 26 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith heard a quick scuffle of feet and turned to see a mage like figure summon two zombies. He looked at the floor boards as they were clawed through. Masrith stood without moving a muscle eyeballing the mage with his pale eyes. Masrith widened his eyes when he heard two words, 'Illithid, kill'. Masrith heard the woman behind him run as well as the group at the table urge upward but not in an aggressive manner. Masrith looked back at the paper he had and then to the woman who didn't appear to be armed. It didn't take long for him to get the connection. "Morro." He said in a deep tone as he pointed at her. Masrith quickly grabbed a chair and bashed it against one of the zombies with enough force to break the chair to pieces. He then followed with a hard palm strike to the same zombie as it was stumbled to knock it off it's feet. It was then that Morro and Caractacus would hear a voice in their head that sounded just like the Illithids. "We seek to end the curse. Though we are immune. Do not give my race a reason not to help." This was a simple psionic message to the duo. Masrith could not lead any other mental intrusion on it and took a defensive stance to hold back the two zombies until he got a response. | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,519 | 1,213 | 27 | 623 | 559 | Morro. The illithid pointed at the knight, confirming Caractacus' fears. It was after her. The zombies fought on unflinchingly riding out the blows from their larger. They struggle on even as their bodies are destroyed. One was bashed over the head with a chair, and it was knocked flat by the illithid. It regained its feet, shattered jaw hanging slack, and resumed its attacks.
Caractacus was about to infuse the undead with his own power, a risky move, but hopefully enough to stop the creature, when he heard a voice inside his own head. He immediately recoiled. "We seek to end the curse. Though we are immune. Do not give my race a reason not to help." A shiver ran up his spine.
"Minions. Stop. Return." Simple commands. The zombies halted their assault on the squid-faced creature, and shambled back to the spot in front of him where they had burst from the ground. They idled. Caractacus stared a the illithid a moment before speaking again. "Okay. Speak as you will. But do not enter my mind again." He hated the feeling of the creature in his mind, his most protected sanctuary. It felt as though he had been violated.
Caractacus looked to Morro a moment. He wanted to explain things to her, but not as much as he wanted to keep an eye on the illithid. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,520 | 1,213 | 28 | 1,694 | 138 | She was in the middle of beginning to rush towards the Illithid - Chair leg held high above her head like a club - when the voice hit her. Morro stopped dead in her tracks, with a look of horror on her face. It didn't take long for her to regain her senses, and she stared in disgust at the Illithid. He... it was friendly, or at least wan't going to attack them, it seemed. It, like the others, was here for the quest. She shook her head to clear her tangled thoughts, then crossed over to the table she had been sitting at again, and watched as the wizard necromancer and the squid thing came to a short conclusion to their battle. She took the opportunity to recuperate. The bartender scurried out from behind the bar with a plate of her breakfast and a firm scowl, and Morro took the plate of cold food from him with a grunt.
Finally it seemed like they were done, but the quick glance from the wizard did not pass her by. She gave a quick nod back, then turned to the hulking Illithid. "Take a seat, if you want to know more about the quest. And I would thank you to speak so that everyone can hear you, in the future." She ignored the patrons of the tavern giving her strange looks, and hoped that the concealed threat would not pass the Illithid by. The number of those who were interested in the quest seemed to have decreased, and when she scanned the room she realised she couldn't see the lizard or the clown. Thank god, things were weird enough as they were.
She didn't wait for the unusual pair to sit down before she started talking. "If you're going to fight each other, do it in your own time and stop wasting mine." She talked in between mouthfuls at first, and then gave up and talked with food in her mouth, spitting it back out again onto the table. Morro ignored the disgusted looks. "So your a necromancer, eh? What's dirty scum like you doing here, shouldn't you be in the mountain?" She laughed a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh. "And you, squid. Why does this concern you?" Morro paused and then grunted. "Actually no, that's none of my business and I don't care. You want to do the quest, you listen..."
"This big ol' bloody mountain has risen up from the ground again. Not only does Queen Ruon not want to have to initiate a full on war, the Old Country is also Three Nations land and we want it back. So it's your job to go in there, find out what's going on, and kill as much as you can. It doesn't matter to me, but you also might want to make it out alive..." She grimaced and pushed herself up to her feet, letting the plate and fork fall with a clatter. Another scowl from the bartender was sent her way, and she glared back. "So... any questions?" | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,521 | 1,213 | 29 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith watched the looks he got from others. These looks didn't bother him. When the others spoke however, it became difficult. Masrith didn't speak their language so it would difficult to speak out loud. Masrith had a different idea. He grabbed the poster he had earlier. He then grabbed another piece of paper and something to write with. He began to look at the poster, take his eye patch off and on. Then write something down. Eventually he was done writing. He handed the paper he wrote on to Morro. The paper had cruedly written words on it. 'I don't speak your language. I translate surface thoughts to understand. I could speak language of the underdark. But every race that speaks it has bad rep with surface dwellers. Might be more offensive then mind talk'. Masrith waited for a response. He eyed the others across the room. He believed the mental communication would be more strategic at this point. The enemy could have ears listening. The mental link made more sense. Masrith looked around. The group wanted him to speak out loud and he was determined to find a way. He motioned for the bartender who hesitantly and slowly approached. Masrith handed the bartender five gold pieces. The bartender looked confused only for a moment. Masrith grabbed the bartender on his head and the bartender froze. Masrith kept his hand on the bartenders head. The bartender began to speak to Morro. "I can speak out loud doing this." The voice would sound horrible. A mixture of voices between Masrith and the bartender were heard. The bartender continued. "I won't continue this for long. But I paid. If you prefer I speak out loud. I will need a volunteer." | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,522 | 1,213 | 30 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus returned his attention to Morro, but he kept the illithid in his peripheral, not wanting to completely take his eyes off it. He considered dispelling the undead minions that loitered nearby, but he decided against it, in case of deceit from the illitid. He took note as the bartender scuttled over to deliver a full plate to the knight. It was with some shock that he watched Morro start scarfing down food with abandon. His stomach grumbled audibly. It didn't help that summoning undead still took so much out of him. He needed to practice more.
His thoughts turned inward, towards practice and the theory of undead summoning, so much so he barely noticed Morro adressing the illithid. IT was only when she spoke to him directly that he snapped out of it. "So you're a necromancer, eh? What's dirty scum like you doing here, shouldn't you be in the mountain?" She laughed. The words stung, but no worse than anything else he'd heard before. He didn't blame her for mistrusting him.
"I-I'm not like th-the other ones. N-necromancy can be just a tool. Like any magic." He hoped he sounded trustworthy.
Morro continued with her briefing. She stood as she finished speaking. "So... any questions?" Caractacus shook his head in the negative. The illithid had something to say, or more accurately, something to write, it had snatched up a piece of paper and a quill from a nearby table, and wrote down a message for the table. Caractacus read it quickly, and shook his head.
"I d-do not want you in my mind."
Perhaps, in response, the illithid motioned the bartender over, who approached with trepidation. Caractacus watched, horrified when the creature grabbed the bartender by the head, and the bartender started speaking in a terrible rasp. "I can speak out loud doing this. I won't continue this for long. But I paid. If you prefer I speak out loud. I will need a volunteer."
Taking two steps away from the illithid, Caractacus swore. "Damn it! Th-that's almost worse! I d-don't want to be your m-mouthpiece." | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,523 | 1,213 | 31 | 1,694 | 138 | Morro watched in horror as the Illithid took hold of the bartender and... The voice, the very nature of what was happening made her feel queasy. She fought to pay attention to what the monster was saying, but found it more than a little difficult. Finally she had had enough. With force, she stood and brought the edge her heavy gauntlet down onto the table. Metal struck wood, and then bounced apart again with a heavy crack. She didn't know what was making the bartender go more white, the atrocities that were happening to him, or the further damage to his property. When the Knight was sure she had the attention of all, she turned to the Necromancer. "Pull yourself together! You summon the dead to do your bidding, this is little worse." Morro didn't wait for his reply, but instead turned to the Illithid with almost palpable fury. "And you. You are on Three Nations land, and in violation of the law. Release the man, or I'll be forced to take action against you."
Though it disturbed her to see somebody used in such a way, she was more concerned at the thought of the monster invading her mind again. If it truly wanted to... 'help' on the mission, then they would have to find a way for it to communicate. She scanned the room for likely people, but none looked willing to help. The Knight sighed wearily. "Would anybody be willing to act as the voice for the... Illithid?" Her request was met by a wave of turned backs and shameful faces. None were brave enough, it seemed. The blur of motion caught the corner of her eye, and she watched as the lizard pulled herself up from the undead end of the tavern and stepped forwards.
"I volunteer."
Morro turned first to the lizard, then back to the Illithid with a shrug.
"Can you speak through her?" | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,524 | 1,213 | 32 | 297 | 1,107 | The Illithid sat in what almost seemed like amusement as the bickering started. It watched as Morro had some sort of snap and fussed at him and the necromancer's. He heard her mention the Three Nations land. She made the demand to release the bartender. Masrith did so without a fuss as he did not seek conflict. The bartender ran back behind the bar after he was released. Masrith let out a shrug. The situation was eather ridiculous. So mich fuss over a lack of communication. Masrith waited while he noticed a turn of heads. He then watched as a lizard like person approached. Masrith couldn't really understand much of what they were saying but he did understand the word volunteer. Masrith slowly stood up. He lifted his arm and placed his hand onto the persons head. The lizards eyes turned pure white. "You creatures frighten easily. I can communicate with any creature that knows a language." A dark and corrupted mixtire of voices came form the lizard as ot spoke. "Talking through the mind is much easier." Masrith turned his head and looked around. The lizard spoke. "Help is something you don't have a lot of. I suppose as a sign of trust. I will answer truthfully any three questions you ask me." | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,525 | 1,213 | 33 | 623 | 559 | There was no chance he was letting that thing into his mind again. Not with all his secrets and plans. It was with a mixture of shame, and worry that he watched the slith walk forward and volunteer herself. "I volunteer." The illithid immediately made use of her.
Caractacus winced as once again the illithid spoke through another, but he didn't raise any protests this time. If the slith wanted to let that thing inside her, it was her choice, no matter how unsafe it seemed to Caractacus. He merely sat down and resented the illithid for scaring the bartender off. There was little chance of him ordering any food now. Caractacus instead decided to make use of the illithid's offer, and ask it a question. "What m-matter is it of your kind that the d-dead have risen? Caractacus hoped it would provide at least some reasoning for the creature's presence. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,526 | 1,213 | 34 | 1,694 | 138 | Kij felt the Illithid infiltrate her mind, and felt as he spoke through her. The sensation was... strange, like a numbness that spread throughout her mind. At first she tensed up and felt the two of them briefly jostle for control of body, but as she gave over she found it to be less difficult to let him talk through her. Trust the humans to overreact.
Morro slowly sank back down into the wood of her chair, and looked down at her now unappetising plate of food. It was long cold. The stillness of the room now concerned her, and she scanned the room for signs of her companions. Alarm bells rung at the back of her mind when she didn't catch sight of them. Where were her soldiers, and why were they taking so long? With difficulty, she cast her worries from her mind and turned back to the... problem at hand. The knight nodded in agreement, acknowledging the wise choice of question, then asked her own. "And why have they sent you. and only you, to help?" | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,527 | 1,213 | 35 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith stood in wait with his hand placed over the lizard creatures head. He listened for the questions to be asked. He turned and faced Caractacus. "They aren't something you can reason with. It's like me tryong to negotiate with your undead while you tell them to attack. Such an idea would be utterly pointless." He then faced Morro. "They didn't. We had several groups venture out into the heart of the curse. I was among a group. We believed we could use our psionic abilities to severe the control of the undead. However, my group was ambushed and I was separated from my group. I have no doubt they are alive as the leader posses an intellect greater than mine and the power to match. I had sought a way to regroup but came across someone reading a poster. I read their thoughts and that poster lead me to you." Masrith paused for a second. "We wanted to talk to your leaders but decided against it. After all, your entire group tried to kill me on sight. My race didn't see you humans as logical creatures. Most of you act on emotion. Our race has dominated the minds of thousands to use as slaves. You really think your leaders would form a alliance with us?" | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,528 | 1,213 | 36 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus scowled. He supposed, in a twisted way, he shared some qualities with the illithid, nauseous as admitting it made him feel. He and it were both quickly judged, and to his own chagrin, quick to judge as well. Despite the similarities, Caractacus still did not feel any positive emotion toward the illithid. "No, I suppose d-diplomacy would be challenging." Caractacus was unsure whether to speak toward the slith or the illithid, so he kept his gaze between the two.
Suddenly, his stomach spoke out in protest again. Caractacus flushed. "I ap-pologise. I didn't ha-have a chance to eat this m-morning." Caractacus looked at Morro's half finished plate. "Are you...going to f-finish that?" | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,529 | 1,213 | 37 | 1,694 | 138 | The words of the Illithid troubled Morro. She didn't like the thought of more of the monsters wandering around, especially if they found their way onto Three Nations territory. It would be impossible to wage a war on both the undead and Illithids at the same time, and disastrous if they decided to attack after the undead had been defeated. With those worrying thoughts tugging at her mind, she hardly noticed when the mage turned to address her. When the silence stretched out, the knight realised and pushed her plate towards him. "No, feel free to eat. After all, you'll need to keep your strength up." Satisfied that there was at least a semblance of peace in the tavern, she stood up and excused herself from the table. "Feel free to sit down and wait. I'll be right back." With a final glance back at the odd group, she made her way up the stairs and into her room.
The bedroom itself was empty. Empty of any armour, or of any weapons. None of her personal belongings were where she had left them, either. Morro swore and strode to the gap in the wall. The once settled dust and rubble had been disturbed, and sure enough there was a single footprint where there had not been before. When she leaned out of the window, she could see where the grass had been pushed aside as people passed through. The path lead up the hill and into the woods. She swore once more, and left the room for a final time.
She made her way back downstairs with a heavy heart. "I'm afraid to say the new recruits who were supposed to aid you have bailed on us. I'll have to go back to my base to gather more troops and equipment, but we don't have enough time for you to wait for me." Morro sighed, and cast a glare out of the window to the path. "You'll have to go on without me, and I'll find you when I return." Her eyes flickered between the three of them. The lizard could not lead, for she was a lizard. Nor could they have a monster watching over the group. But somebody had to watch over them, seeing as she wouldn't be around. With reluctance and a sigh, she turned to the necromancer. "Can I trust you to make sure that the others don't do anything stupid? I want them and you alive, if possible." The knight glanced outside again and guessed at the time before turning back to the mage. "I want you out of here by midday. The bartender should provide you with food and drink for the journey. Agreed?" | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,530 | 1,213 | 38 | 623 | 559 | The moment he was given approval, Caractacus sat back down and started eating. He was starving. Still, he avoided scarfing down the food, as he usually did when he was alone, if only to avoid looking more like a freak. Caractacus looked up from his plate when the knight stood to leave. He grunted acknowledgement through a mouthful of food. Nothing to be worried about at the moment. He finished off the dish before she returned. She shared the unpleasant news of her companions' desertion. Caractacus was hardly aware of their existence in the first place, but he rued the delay it would cause. Then she asked him a question. "Can I trust you to make sure that the others don't do anything stupid? I want them and you alive, if possible."
Caractacus withheld a gasp. He was being given command? This wasn't something he'd prepared for. Sentients were harder to manage than the undead. Still he wasn't going to pass up the responsibility to the illithid. Caractacus tried to look confident. "I'll uh, do it. Good. Yes. Out of here by midday, of c-course!." | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,531 | 1,213 | 39 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith listened to the conversation as it continued. "If we were look at things as they are presented. A necromancer isn't a good idea for a first impression. The lizard is the friendliest looking face." He said through the creature. "Not because im interested in hearing the race card, but despite our cruel reputation. My people are known for their mental capacity. I would suggest the lizard being the face of the group. The necromancer could give the orders, and I could be the strategic thinker." Masrith looked at the group for a sogn of approval. "A mental link between ths group is the best strategic option. It would much easier to plan and communicate under circumstances of extreme stress. It also helps prevent any language barrier." | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,532 | 1,213 | 40 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus shook his head again. "I have t-two caveats. First, we will be moving through the Old Country, yes? The undead are quite p-prevalent, and a necromancer l-like myself would not be, aheh, quite so sh-shunned, I would think. N-not to say the presence of our uh, slith compatriot--er, companion, isn't appreciated." Caractacus briefly smiled at Kij'hara. "But I wouldn't think a friendly face c-counts for much out there."
Caractacus stood up from his chair and stared the illithid in the eye. "And second. I do not now, nor will I ever, want you in my mind. You can respect that, or I will take my leave of you and this quest. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,533 | 1,213 | 41 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith let out an annoyed sigh. He began to speak through the Slith. "I will not argue any longer. Ad a few last words before we depart. A necromancer will never be looked upon as a good omen along these accursed lands as you could easily be mistaken as a servant of the lich. Lastly, I respect the privacy of your mind, however if we are ever surrounded by enemies. I will talk to you in your mind regardless as speaking a plan aloud infront of your enemies is absurd." The Illithid took his hand off of the Sliths head and waited for them to depart. The Sliths eyes grew white again. Masrith would speak. "I suggest trying to capture a hollow undead. Defeating an enemy requires knowledge of its weaknesses and behavioral patterns. I had several hypothesis about the undead that are hollow." | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,534 | 1,213 | 42 | 1,694 | 138 | Her foot hit the floor with a clang. Morro stamped in impatience, and turned to the Illithid with a glare. "The necromancer will lead the group until I return. I don't have time for you to argue against that." As the two continued to argue, the Knight fell silent and let her head droop in despair as the fact slowly sank in that the fate of the Three Nations could depend on these two. Finally something snapped, and she jabbed a finger towards the wizard. "You may be in charge, but the Lich's undead minions won't stop to listen to the Squid talking through the Lizard. Especially in the midst of battle. You are going to have to learn to work together, and if that means him talking to you through your mind then you'll just have to deal with it." Morro leaned forwards and thrust her face up to the Necromancers. "Got it?"
She didn't wait for a response before twisting away and storming up to the bartender. She muttered something to him and he nodded before rummaging around under the bar. She turned away from him and called over to the dysfunctional group over the heads of other frightened customers. "Make your way to the mountain, I'll find you there." The Knight made her way over to the doorway and was halfway through before she stopped and glared back at them, considering something for a second. Finally she spoke a few last words of farewell. "Good luck, and... Don't get yourself killed." With a final second taken to disapprovingly survey them one last time, she gave a small nod and disappeared out of the door. | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,535 | 1,213 | 43 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus sighed, his grip tightening on the plain staff at his side. "I will do what I must. A curt answer, but one that would serve satisfactory. It was true, too. He was prepared to see this through now that he had a position of responsibility. Caractacus pushed away the empty plate and stood up.
"Very well. I am r-ready to leave, whenever you two are." He looked at his two newfound companions. He hoped they would serve trustworthy. As much as he hated the idea, he knew he would have to speak to the illithid mentally at some point. Morro was right in saying there would be no time to speak through the slith. It didn't stop his skin from crawling however.
Shaking the thought from his mind, he snapped his fingers at his zombies, and gave a terse order. "Follow. The shambling corpses followed close behind Caractacus as he took a position by the door. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,536 | 1,213 | 44 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith stayed silent. He stood up when all were ready to leave. He walked out the door and looked around. He wasn't sure in which direction they were going because he hadn't been to the surface often and was not familiar with the area. "Where to?" The only words that the Illithid spoke. He closed his eyes. There wasn't really much sun light but it still bothered him. Knowing he spends most of his time in the dark contributed to that. | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,537 | 1,213 | 45 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus stepped outside, flanked by his two zombies. He stared out across the great swamp that was now the land of the dead. Turning to the illithid, Caractacus answered curtly. "Into the center of the Old Country." He pointed at the newly sprung mountain looming in the distance. "To the mountain. He took a few steps away from the building, on to the muddy soil. Close behind were his zombies.
"Once the slith joins us, we'll head out. It should be some time before we reach the mountain proper, but if we set a pace, we should be there withing a fortnight. Would be easier with horses..." The beasts of the earth never liked his presence. Caractacus's strange aura seemed to even effect the lesser beings. He shrugged, and turned to wait for the third of the trio to join them outside. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,538 | 1,213 | 46 | 1,694 | 138 | Kij'hara lingered a moment before stepping outside to join the others, contemplating her options. Did she really want to do this? Was it worth the risk? Sunlight streamed into the tavern through the broken structure, and she savoured the warmth on her scales. Inside the mountain it would be dark, cold. Lifeless. The idea of such an unnatural place didn't appeal to her, but then again, what did she have to lose? Her mind was made up, and she stepped outside with a measured readiness for the journey ahead.
They appeared ready to move on, and the necromancer at least seemed to know where he was going. Kij'hara had never ventured far into the Old Country, even before the mountain and the dead rose again. "There appear to be no horses here. We may find some on our way, but until then it seems we'll have to travel on foot. Unless either of you has a better idea?" She glanced at the Illithid and then the mage, trying to gauge whether either of them did, in fact, have a better idea. Finally she settled her gaze on the human, and bared her teeth in a half hearted smile. "Lead on." | Name: Kij'hara
Race: Slith (Lizardperson)
Personality: Kij'hara is, suffice to say, more comfortable in the company of shadows and thieves than the more socially acceptable kinds, finding they often tend to talk less than others. She prefers the quiet people, the people who don't need to say much to convey what they want or need, and she will often lapse into a 'comfortable' silence that can be misconstrued – by the louder types – as uncomfortable, or even expectant. She is unusually lacking in her ability to judge what would be appropriate to say and what would not, resulting in her often saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting herself in trouble. However, over time she has learnt to know when to not say anything at all, so as to limit the amount of fights she finds herself in due to her lack of judgement. Staying silent also causes anger, she has found, but it is often less physical. She is distrusting and fearful of Orcs in particular, and views each and every one as lowly mercenary scum.
Background: Kij'hara was born on the far outskirts of a small village in the west of Ruritania. She grew up with five other siblings, but would spend more time exploring the forest than playing with her sisters and brothers, preferring to be alone. Her parents were hunters who supplied meat for the village, and – knowing the local forests – let their children roam freely once they were able to look after themselves. Kij learnt how to climb trees, forage, and handle a knife, all well before the age of ten. On her thirteenth birthday, when most of her other siblings had left home to become apprentices (or were too young to do so yet), she asked to be taught how to hunt, and, in time, continue the family business. Her parents were glad to take her on as an apprentice and over the course of two years she learnt the job; how to shoot a bow, and how to move quickly and quietly, unseen by deer or a boar. At the age of seventeen, secure in her apprenticeship and almost fully trained, she decided to make her first overnight trip on her own, hunting larger prey. She set out at dawn, and returned with the carcass of her fallen prey at dusk of the following day. Welcoming faces did not greet her when she returned home, as expected, but instead she watched from afar as the corpses of her parents were cremated in the fire that ate through their house. Bandits, primarily Orcish, had raided her house, murdered her parents, and burned what they could not steal. She did not wait for them to find her, and turned back into the forest.
For the next few years she lived off the land and, although she departed the forests where she had been born after only a few months, did not go back to civilization unless the winter was particularly harsh and she was driven to buy food or clothing. However she began to grow tired of the constant restlessness of her life and sought to settle down, finally venturing into the city to find somewhere to live. She stayed for three months with her younger sister, but after many subtle hints (and being directly told to her face that she was no longer welcome to stay), she began to look for a job to earn money with. By a chance of fate, she heard the rumours regarding the Old Country, and – deciding that it was a sign that she was doing the wrong thing – set about finding more information...
Abilities: She is deft at using a knife and bow, and when she is unable to catch anything to eat herself can set traps that do the job for her. Although unused to climbing stone or buildings, she is nimble and can use her claws to find small pits and dents to hold on to, making her capable of climbing most structures, natural or unnatural. Her training and skill in hunting also result in her being light on her feet, able to blend in with the shadows and go undetected.
Equipment:
A flatbow and a knife. Though used primarily for hunting, they are also suitable for combat.
A water pouch and a basic medicine kit (which also contains rations of dried meat, etc).
Leather armour, worn and patched but still usable. |
44,539 | 1,213 | 47 | 623 | 559 | Caractacus returned the grimace that passed as a smile to the slith. "Aha. The l-last of our party arrives. If we are all ready, it is b-best we make haste."
Caractacus was about to strike out, when an idea struck him. "A th-thought occurs, if I may. If you've supplies that p-perhaps you do not need on hand at all times, my zomb--er, servants are more than capable of carrying them. It will make traveling easier with uh, less burden to bear, yes?" Caractacus unslung the leather rucksack from his back and handed it off to one of his two zombies. It did not even occur to him that the others may not appreciate having their goods handled by a shambling corpse. A hazard of his isolation.
Caractacus nodded to them both, and turned to start walking. Two paces down the road, he stopped. "Um--I j-just realized. I d-don't think I caught either of your n-names. Or m-maybe I just uh, forgot them. If I did, I'm s-sorry. I'm uh, Caractacus, if you didn't know mine..." He turned and kept walking, trying to keep the shame at his own awkwardness from showing. | Name: Caractacus Dool
Race: Human
Personality: A stammering, stuttering mess of a man, Caractacus has trouble in dealing with the living. He is nervous and self-doubting in the utmost when around anything but the dead. Still, he doesn't harbor ill-will toward the living, more of a deep-seated fear and unease. Being around him creates a sense of unease, as though there was something sinister about him.
Background: Caractacus was always sickly and unwell, even in his youth. An early indicator of his affinity for the dead. He grew up with no friends, and even family took pains to avoid his presence. This had a profound effect on Caractacus, and drove him away from society, where he would meet his mentor, an impossibly old man, who taught him his connection with the dead, and how to utilize it. When he had taught Caractacus enough to get by, the old man sent him off. Caractacus attempted to re-enter society, but now more than ever his presence caused fear and distrust, and he was quickly driven away. Caractacus fled to seclusion. He spent his time there thinking on what his powers meant, and what his purpose was. After three years on his own, he came to a conclusion, and set out to make his purpose reality.
Abilities: Summon undead: Caractacus can summon two lesser undead creatures, such as skeletons or zombies, and command them for a period of 24 hours before they disintegrate. Note that these undead are not like those of the Lich king, but merely empty vessels animated by death magic.
Bolster undead: For a short period of time, Caractacus can increase the strength, speed, and dexterity of any undead creature under his control or allied to him.
False life: Using death magic, Caractacus can extend the life of any living creature through pain and wounds. This spell allows anything he casts it on to continue living past what would normally kill someone, but only so far, and all wounds sustained will have to be healed before the spell ends or the subject of the spell will still die.
Magic missile: A tool in nearly every wizard's arsenal, Caractacus produces a trio of magical darts, which he flings at his opponents. While not particularly powerful, they do not consume a lot of energy, and are easy to cast.
Equipment: Staff: A simple tool in the spellcaster's arsenal, this staff lets Caractacus focus his magical energy, to better cast spells.
Journal: A large journal, in which Caractacus constantly takes notes, in a language that seems rather foreign.
Wizard robe: This one is a dark gray. More to identify him as a wizard than anything else.
Dagger: A last resort. A simple, steel weapon. |
44,540 | 1,213 | 48 | 297 | 1,107 | Masrith followed the group. He heard Caractacus ask for names and he got a little frustrated. The Sliths voice became altered. "Masrith." The Illithid did no like the idea of speaking through someone else. It was soemthing he found to be annoying and absurd. The fact that he could not communicate with them easily simply because they were creeped out was rather annoying. Masrith did not care much at this point. He spoke into the momd of Caractacus. "I seek to capture a hollow undead. Experimentation is required to obtain a better understanding." The Illithids request may sound strange. Ots not something many people consoder but it was what his race was good at. Illithids may have been cruel, but they were also intelligent creatures. | Name: Masrith
Race: Ulitharid. They are a more powerful sub race of Illithid.
Personality: Masrith is a pretty cold an logical individual. His actions have no concern for the feelings or emotions of others and only really seeks to better himself and his race. He lacks basic understanding on the concept of above world morality because he is a race from a place called the under dark. He isn't one to start fights and prefers to simply observe things and learn from others mistakes. He has a harsh and more spiteful temperament however. He is extremely observant and intelligent individual. He has a certain hatred toward magic as it is banned in his society and fears the insane undead as they pose a very viable threat to his people.
Background: As an Ulitharid. Masrith started off as nothing more as a tadpole waiting to undergo the process of Ceremorphosis. After burrowing into the brain of his host and replacing it. His body developed into that of an Ulitharid. Making him far greater physically and with mental prowess against his Illithid brothers. He was granted a higher status because of this and lived as a noble. Masrith always sought to benefit and improve himself over others and was not considered a kind individual. Living a life with two mentally dominated slaves kind of does that. He always sought the better of his species and only ever followed the laws set by the elder brain. Occasionally trading with other races of the under dark and going to the surface to collect more slaves for their society. It however, wasn't a life full of adventure until the rise of the mountain. The curse began to spread and it was quite shocking. The curse didn't effect them as their minds are absorbed by elder brain anyway. However, This did leave a problem for them. The rapid increasing of undead posed a threat as undead have a good resistance to to mind control. The ones with the mind intact can still be tamed but those with a hollow mind are completely immune to mind control. The society immediately saw this as emergency matter and sought a way to the end the threat. The elder brain and other Ulitharids conversed to discuss a course of action. They decided that it would be best to aid the other above races to destroy this curse and sent several parties to the surface. Masrith was a member of one such group. His people don't have a good rep with humans and others and were rejected. They sought to search for answers on their own but were ambushed by insane undead leaving Masrith separated from his party. Masrith does not know his way above ground however and doesn't know his way home and thus travels alone to seek answers to stop the curse.
Abilities:
Please note that his mind effecting abilites do not work on insane undead. Sane undead have a good natural resistance to it and strong willed individuals can resist them as well.
Masrith has physical strength, speed, reflexes, and stamina that out class a human and rival orcs in physical stature. He also is a skilled combatant in hand to hand combat and is capable of disarming foes efficiently. He however has no idea how to effectively use a sword, spear, or even knives in combat.
Darkvision: Can see perfectly clear in complete darkness.
Psion: As a Ulitharid, his most powerful trait is his mind. He is cable of reading minds and dominating the minds of others, though only two at a time.
Mind blast: attacks an opponents mind with a blast of psionic energy. Can kill if enough energy is charged but normally feels like a really hard punch.
Psionic shield: Can create a shield of psionic energy to protect him.
Hive mind: Masrith can link the minds of his allies to better communicate and plan while in or out of combat.
Translate: He can mentally communicate with any creature that knows any language.
Augment: Masrith can psionically augment his body to better himself physically. He can also use this to heal himself and others. This can't regenerate lost limbs or cure disease and poison but can stabilize a fatal wound. He can also use this to sustain his body from sleep and eating for 3 days.
Dominate: Masrith can forcefully dominate the mind of an strong willed individual but it takes two uninterrupted hours of focus. The individual most also be present within a 5 foot radius.
Constant use and strain of his psionic abilities can cause extreme head aches if not careful and can even cause hallucinations. In extreme cases, it can even cause him to become mentally unstable for a short time.
Equipment: Leather pants braced with steel leggings. A back pack to carry supplies. Steel gauntlets thick enoughb to allow him to catch straight swords and knives in combat. They could technically stop a claymore sword but the force would break his hand.
All seers eye: It is an eye patch that allows him to read and understand any written language. It also does not hinder his sight.
Other: like other ulitharids, he does have the potential to strengthen his mond to be able to open dimensional gates. He cant do it. That is just an example of how powerful their minds can become. |
44,541 | 1,214 | 0 | 134 | 1,309 | (Prologue - Part 2)
The sound of heavily armored footsteps upon the metallic space station floor could easily be heard as Commander Andromedai swiftly made her way out of the Spartan Operations wing and towards the main elevator that lead to docking bay A through G. A few UNSC members she passed by couldn't help but stop what they were doing and stare at her unique and fully customized armor. One of them excused himself in the middle of a conversation and started to follow Andromedai, quickly entering the elevator by the Commanders side. As soon as the doors shut with a soft hissing sound, the soldier began to speak. "Commander Andromedai, I hope you do not mind but I have a question that needs to be answered. You see, I heard a rumor that ONI is putting your old team back together, team Rogue Seven. Now, what I know about this squad is that you were some of the best out there, asked to carry out special missions. Something is happening isn't it, shit hit the fan somewhere and ONI is bringing you all back huh? So my question is, as you can guess, what the hell is going on out there?"
Andromedai was silent for a moment before speaking, "If I told you I would have to shoot you shortly after, when ONI feels like disclosing the information with everyone, that is when you will find out. Word of advice, mind your head and don't ask too many questions when it comes to Spartans, better off that way for everyone involved." The Soldier sighed in frustration, "Somethings never change do they? fine, I will keep my head down." With her left hand, Andromedai lightly patted the soldier upon his head as if he were a dog, "Good boy." With those final words, Commander Andromedai stepped out of the elevator and made her way to docking bay where Colonel Icarus was waiting for her and the rest of Rogue Seven.
It would only take a few short moments for Andromedai to find docking bay and the Icarus's ship that was being prepped for departure. "He chose to get himself a Charon-class light frigate over a battleship?" thought Andromedai to herself as she stared out at the massive ship with the name NOVA painted along its left side. Walking down the hallway that lead to , Andromedai noticed that Colonel Icarus was nowhere to be found, "He must have already boarded." It was about that time that she noticed that no other Spartans had yet arrived, then again she did tend to show up quite a bit early for missions briefings and the such. Pushing forward, she arrived at the airlock that lead into the ship, two heavily armored and armed guards stood on either side of the doorway. As soon as she approached, they opened the door for her and informed her that Icarus was upon the deck of the ship. They would repeat this action with every Spartan that showed up.
"Welcome Commander Andromedai, I am Nesalla, Colonel Icarus's personal AI assistant aboard the ship. The Colonel is currently awaiting you and your team's arrival upon the deck of the ship. Follow the illuminated signs, they will guide you to the deck. If you need any help, please feel free to ask, that is one of the reasons I am here." This was the first thing Andromedai heard when she set foot onto the Nova. The ship's AI was a modeled to be female and looked oddly familiar to another AI she had seen during training. When Nesalla had vanished, Andromedai followed the illuminated signs and arrived at the ship's deck a little while later. Colonel Icarus was in full uniform and greeted Andromedai the moment she set foot onto the deck. "Glad you could make it Andromedai, I just heard that the rest of Rogue Seven will be here shortly, then we can begin our assignment." With a nod of her head, Andromedai acknowledged what Icarus had said.
"All systems are green, we are fully prepped and ready to move out at a moment's notice. I have plotted our course with the star-chart given to us from ONI. Systems are telling me that it will take us ten minutes to reach ONI base Obsidian, I will navigate us through the asteroid field and to our objective, there is no need to worry about any danger." Andromedai gave a quick thumbs up to Nesalla who returned the gesture. All there was to do now was to wait for the rest of Team Rogue seven to make their way to docking bay and to board the Nova. | Name: Andromedai Morgenstern
Age: 30
Sex: Female
Rank: Striker Commander
Weapons:
Primary: Sniper Rifle System 99-Series 5 Anti-Matériel (SRS99-S5 AM)
Secondary: M20/PDW-Silenced
Items/Gear:
A: Fragmentation Grenades (2)
B: Explosive Charges (2)
C: Flash Bangs (2)
History: (CLASSIFIED)
Personality: As a Class Four Spartan, Andromedai has a will of iron that is matched by her steadfast determination to thoroughly eliminate all hostiles that threaten the UNSC and all of Mankind. Some may call her reckless, but in truth she carefully plans out each of her actions before swiftly putting them into motion, there is no room for mistakes upon the battlefield. When upon the battlefield, she is straight minded and tactically sound. She will carry out her orders swiftly and to the letter but also stand among Team Rogue Seven, no matter where it will take her. At times, she can be unpredictable, using her creativity to overcome whatever challenges that are tossed her way. While not on a mission, she can be seen as a friendly, sarcastic woman with a sharp sense of humor, compassionate and willing to do whatever it takes for a mission to succeed. |
44,542 | 1,214 | 1 | 170 | 152 | Location: In-route to Space Station Colistis.
Date: Year 2557
Universal Time: 10:53
The Pelican ride seemed to be quiet for the most part except the quiet chatter between the two pilots and the low hum of the engines. In the very back, on the left-most side sat Koda completely outfitted in his armor, he was in the process of going over the message that he had received from ONI, glancing over briefly he looked at his cybernetic arm which was fitted to look similar to his armor in both color and design, and had ports where his the armor pieces could be attached and unattached if need be. Standing from his seat he made his way up to the cockpit of the ship and looked out towards the space station that was getting ever so closer, the dim hull lights reflecting off his skulled visor made him look quite eerie as he tapped the co-pilot on the shoulder then pointed towards the station. "Yes sir that's it, we'll be landing soon and we'll get you as close as we can to your destination" the co-pilot said and was given a thumbs up by Koda in response as the Spartan turned on his heels and headed back to his seat.
"UNSC Space Station Colistis this is Foxtrot 728 requesting permission to land in Pelican bay A33" he heard the pilot call out as he sat down. "Copy Foxtrot 728, Permission granted, Colistis out". Soon after the Pelican began to slow it's speed and start its approach into the Pelican bay, as it did Koda looked from his seat and out thought the cockpit window as the heavy blast-doors opened slowly, the lights from inside the station shined brightly though the window and illuminated the back of the interior of the pelican slightly. Is was not long before the Pelican was in the station and Koda heard the blast-doors closing once more before the ramp of the pelican opened, standing Koda reached up and grabbed a hold of the handle rack above him as he ship began to land, reaching down he grabbed the holopad from the seat beside him and stepped off the ship as it set down.
Location: Space Station Colistis.
Date: Year 2557
Universal Time: 11:18
Walking away from the pelican Koda immediately noticed Charon-class light frigate with the name 'Nova' along the side 'That must be it...' he thought as he walked down the pathway towards the lift that would lead up to the main docking platform. Once on the lift he pressed the button and it stated to rise, his mind wandered slightly as to what the rest of squad had been up to and if that had gotten into as much trouble as he had. The lift shook as it reached the top snapping Koda back into reality and soon he was back on his way towards the Nova,stepping into the airlock Koda was greeted by two heavily geared guards who informed him of where to go after opening the doors for him.
Upon setting foot onto the ship the large Spartan was greeted by the ships AI unit "Welcome Major Omicron, I'm Nesalla, Colonel Icarus's personal AI assistant aboard the ship. Colonel Icarus and Striker Commander Andromedai are currently awaiting your arrival upon the deck of the ship. Please make your way there, and if you need any assistance please don't be shy to ask." Koda nodded in response and immediately headed for the main deck, following the illuminated signs made it easy for Koda to get to the main deck, it was a lot easier to navigate the the science station he was assigned to previously. Walking onto the main deck he saw Colonel Icarus and his Striker Commander Andromedai, stopping a few feet away from them he stood at attention and saluted using his cybernetic arm "Pouncer, reporting for duty" | Name: Koda 'Pouncer' Omicron - F428
Age: 32
Sex: Male
Rank: Major grade 2
Primary: M45D Tactical Shotgun or Sniper Rifle System 99-Series 5 Anti-Matériel (SRS99-S5 AM)
Secondary: M6C/SOCOM
Items/Gear: Combat knife x2, Fragmentation Grenade x2, Smoke Grenade x2
History: Earning the nickname Pouncer from his ODST days, Koda is someone of little to no words, getting him to speak is rare, instead he uses gestures to communicate, when he does speak it to make a point or to protest against an idea. Koda is also most comfortable equipped with a jetpack. He was earmarked by his commanders for his cool head and superb marksmanship later in his career. Koda prefers either a long range rifle or a shotgun so he can get in close, When Rogue Seven split apart Koda was reassigned and relocated to protect a science installation which would later get attacked by the Covenant, during the fight Koda came across he could only assume a high-ranking elite with an energy sword, had spent all of not most of his ammo defending the area he was assigned to, only armed with two combat knifes Koda fought long and hard with the elite for what seemed hours as he made his moves carefully, but after making a mistake in the elites movement he would get his right arm severely wounded but not before inflicting his own devastating blow to the elite before being rescue by reinforcements who would push the Covenant forces back quickly.
Afterward Koda would get heavy medical attention for the next five months, and have to get his right arm from the shoulder down amputated and replaced with a cybernetic arm, which he would take another 3 months to get used to. After insisting he was still fit for combat Koda was put to the test to prove himself, which he did with great precision and quickly shut the critics out. He would get reassigned and relocated to the Colistis Space Station where he would get a message while in-route by ONI and ordered to go to docking bay .
Personality: Being a class four Spartan, Koda has spent many long years tempering himself to be incredibly patient and understanding, with an optimistic and altruistic attitude. Experience has made him rather pragmatic with regards to most things. He also has developed a confrontational attitude with regards to authority figures he feels have not earned their position or have lost sight of their purpose. In all forms of combat both long range or close quarters, Koda fights with a brutally efficient, pragmatic style, free of extravagance or flourish. He's there to fight and win, and doesn't mind taking a few hits along the way. As a final note: It is highly advisable not to get on Koda's bad side. Though he is rather slow to anger, understanding of people's flaws, and easy to get along with, shows of blatant, inexplicable malicious intent are often met with an incredibly hostile response. But his true anger is as cold as the void, and he is very patient and can be tremendously sadistic, and very forgiving of himself for whatever he does if he truly feels justified. |
44,543 | 1,214 | 2 | 1,029 | 20 | Space Station Colistis
Year 2557
1053
A lone Pelican dropship came into view. Gerard starred at it intently, watching the ship slowly making a landing approach. In the background, an electronic voice was emitting from his PDA. "SPARTAN 396, Master Gunnery Sargent Gerard Wulff, you are hereby being reassigned to Rogue Seven. Report to Space Station Colistis and wait further instructions." The words echoed in the emptiness of the lone Spartan's room. "Replay message." His voice was gruff and low. "SPARTAN 396, Master Gunnery Sargent Gerard..." The voice trailed off, repeating the same message. Wulff couldn't believe that his old team was being brought back together. Rogue Seven was one of the top SPARTAN teams, excelling at every mission they were given. After the break up, Gerard was reassigned to train new Class 4 SPARTANS and several highly classified solo operations.
The Pelican disappeared from view as it landed within Docking Bay AA3. A voice, different from the one that emitted from the PDA, broke the silence. "Master Gunnery Sargent Wulff, Greetings. I am Nesalla, Colonel Icarus's personal AI assistant aboard the ship. Colonel Icarus, Strike Commander Andromedai Morgenstern, and Major Koda Omnicron are waiting you abroad the deck on Colonel Icarus' ship. If you could follow the illuminated signs, they will direct you to them. If you have any questions or require any assistance, please ask." Wulff turned to face the AI. "When did Strike Commander Morgenstern and Major Omnicron arrive?" his voice retaining its tone. "Strike Commander Andromedai Morgenstern arrived quite some time before you. Major Koda Omnicron has only just arrived." The AI replied quickly. "Do you have any further questions?" Nesalla added in. Gerard waved the AI off, leaving him alone in his room again.
The Spartan donned his helmet and retrieved his PDA before exiting his room. As he followed the signs, he pasted many of those on the station. They all looked at him in awe, as he towered over them, his footsteps were heavy from his armor. A line of marines doing calisthenics in one of the bays all stopped. "Is that a Spartan? I didn't know they were on board!" The marines ran over to watch Gerard, but were quickly scolded by their CO. "Quit oogling like a couple of school girls! I want seventy-five more push ups and then a run around the station in full suit!" the CO barked at his marines. The marines all moaned in unison, dreading the upcoming run.
As Gerard entered docking bay AA3, he noticed the Charon-class light frigate, the word 'NOVA' boldly painted on the side. The AI reappeared on a pedestal near Gerard. "Please, continue forth, Master Gunnery Sarge-" The Spartan raised his hand to silence the AI. "Call me Wulff." he said coldly. "Of course, Master Gunner- Wulff." She smiled. The Spartan noticed the pelican he saw earlier. Nesalla chimed in "Major Koda Omnicron is already on deck, Wulff." The man nodded and continued forth towards the ship.
Arriving at the airlock, two guards opened it. One of them told him where to go and whom was there. The door hissed closed behind him and he made his way to the main deck. As he made his way in, he could see Colonel Icarus, the Strike Commander, and Koda. He made his way next to Koda. Immediately stopping next to Koda, he stood at attention and snapped into a salute. "Spartan 396, Master Gunnery Sargent Gerard Wulff, reporting in." Without moving his head, Gerard peered over at Koda. He was relieved to see him. Koda Omnicron was a man of little words and a lot of action, which Gerard respected and what made him like Koda the most compared to his other teammates. | Name: Gerard Wulff
Age: 37
Sex: Male
Rank: Master Gunnery Sergeant
Primary Weapon: M247H HMG
Secondary Weapon: M45D Tactical Shotgun
Items/Gear: 1x Combat knife, 2x Frag Grenades, 1x Explosive Charge |
44,544 | 1,214 | 3 | 1,635 | 6,673 | Inner Colonies
- Space Station Colistis
- Year 2557
- Universal Time: 11:26
Riley sat in the back of the pelican as it flew through space towards Station Colistis, her steel colored helmet laid on the seat next to her the visor was a dark red mainly for the intimidation factor with small areas of red with the same detail on the rest of her RAIDER armor. "Lieutenant Parish, ETA to Colistis five minutes." Riley looked towards the pilot and gave him a quick smile and nod as she stood up and made her way towards the end of the pelican. Since the team was disbanded Riley had been assigned to covert missions in former control Covenant space gathering intel for ONI. About five minutes later the Pelican entered one of the many hangar bays on the station, she put on her helmet briefly getting a layout of the station finding the quickest route to the hangar that she was ordered to meet at.
Once the bay to the pelican opened up Riley stepped off of the ramp and into the brightly lit hangar, she looked at several of the soldiers remembering her former days as a UNSC grunt. She tied her long brown hair into a pony tail as she started making her way through the hallways until she was at Docking Bay AA3, she saw a couple of civilians that worked on the station they had the in awe look at her. The Spartan gave a smile towards the people as she made her way towards the docking bay, once she was inside Riley noticed the Charon Light-Frigate that was docked there.
"Good day Lieutenant Parish, I am Nesalla, Colonel Icarus's personal AI assistant aboard the ship, Wulf, Koda and Andromedai are all ready in just follow the illuminated lights." The AI said before disappearing Riley already knew where to actually go as she grew up sometimes traveling with her parents. She made her way towards the deck of the ship, the Spartan smiled brightly at the three former squad mates of Rogue Seven. She moved over and gave Koda and Wulf quick friendly hugs and then saluted Andromedai. "It's good to see all of you again." | Name: Riley Parish
Age: 35
Sex: Female
Rank: Lieutenant
Weapons:
MA5D ICWS
M6D Magnum
3x Frag grenades.
Items/Gear: First aid kit, 3x clips for both weapons.
History: Riley was originally born and raised on Mars, both of her parents were apart of the UNSC Navy both of them were commanding their own ships, they were veterans fighting against the insurrectionists. When the war with the Covenant started Riley was born and her mother was on leave to raise her daughter, growing up she lived a pretty normal life she rarely ever saw her father due to the war. But she decided to become a marine and fight on the frontlines and help defend humanity even though they were losing the war. She rose through the ranks of the marines very quickly, that was when her superior suggested that she go for the ODST's. Riley spent several long grueling months to a year through their intensive training, which she eventually passed, when the Battle of Reach started that was where she had heard the news of the death of her mother and father.
Riley was stationed on one of the defense platforms on Earth when the UNSC ordered the homefleet back to the Sol System to defend Earth, that's when Regrets fleet came through. She and her squad defended against their Covenant borders as the Covenant started planting bombs on the defense platforms. When the UNSC finally got most of the Covenant off the second wave carrying Truth's fleet to Earth came several weeks later. She was one of the few to battle against the Covenant at Voi, then the Flood came to Earth and the Arbiter's fleet came in glassing half of the continent just to prevent the flood from taking over. She was apart of the uneasy alliance with the Covenant separatists and fought at The Lesser Ark, when the war ended Riley was approached by some men and women recruiting her due to her service record which she agreed to.
She went through the long training and then the augmentation process, which she survived the procedure as well as training taking sometime she got used to them. She was then assigned to the Spartan Fireteam Rogue Seven alongside Andromedai.
Personality: Riley is usually seen as a very calm and collected person a lot of the time, it is very rare to see her get stressed out in combat. She is known to crack some jokes just to try and lighten the mood of the other squadmates and will take the time to try and get to know all of them when she has the time to. |
44,545 | 1,214 | 4 | 134 | 1,309 | In the middle of the bridge, there was a large table that had a holographic projector built into it. From here, both Strike Commander Andromedai and Colonel Icarus were reviewing the information about the mission they were about to embark on. Important informing was slowly being Suddenly fed from ONI, directly to their ship. Most of the information was already common knowledge but parts of it were quite intriguing. This information included knowledge about the forerunners but also mention about team Osiris and Blue Team. Suddenly, the fully formed digital figure of Nesalla appeared upon the table with her arms crossed over her chest. Once she had everyone's attention, she spoke.
“My apologies if I am interrupting but I just received word that we have discovered the crash location of the Argent Dawn upon Erathell. Recent scans show that there have been no lifeforms or activity upon the Argent Dawn in the last twenty four hours. If Solares was on the ship, she isn’t there anymore. After hearing the message for myself, I am willing to guess that she engaged some hostile force while taking shelter upon the ship and was then forced the flee using her active camouflage. Due to the severity of her injuries, it is unlikely she made it that far. I do not like to consider this a possibility but she may have been captured by the Covenant or by any active Prometheans upon Erathell. Regardless of what has transpired with her, we need to make our way to Erathell as quickly as possible.” Both Andromedai and Icarus agreed on that, but they couldn’t leave until all of Rogue Seven was onboard and ready to depart.
Andromedai sighed then spoke her mind, “I went through complete Spartan training with Solares, she is more of an older sister to me than a friend. I have complete faith that she can hold her ground and remain out of the enemies hands until we arrive.” These words were spoken only a few seconds before the first of Rogue Seven appeared upon the bridge. Now, three of her squad mates stood in front of her as an odd feeling ran through her body. “Pounce, Wulff, Riley, at ease...” Andromedai looked each of her old squad mates over with a nod of great approval. “ONI never should have broken up Rogue Seven, we could have made a huge difference back in the day, but enough living in the past." Turning to face the table in the middle of the bridge, Andromedai quickly gave orders for Nesalla to all the information about the mission with them.
The briefing went on for a while as every last detail was explained and laid out before Rogue Seven. “That is all we have to go by, we know Solares is somewhere down upon the surface of the planet, either hiding from all sources or captured from the enemy. As impressive as Solares’s records and skills look, being severely wounded and alone upon a planet with potentially two hostiles is going to push her to her limits. If my records are correct, which they always are, we are missing a few more members of Rogue Seven. Once they arrive, we will depart immediately for the ONI station and the Orion. If there are any questions, I will do my best to answer them before we depart." | Name: Andromedai Morgenstern
Age: 30
Sex: Female
Rank: Striker Commander
Weapons:
Primary: Sniper Rifle System 99-Series 5 Anti-Matériel (SRS99-S5 AM)
Secondary: M20/PDW-Silenced
Items/Gear:
A: Fragmentation Grenades (2)
B: Explosive Charges (2)
C: Flash Bangs (2)
History: (CLASSIFIED)
Personality: As a Class Four Spartan, Andromedai has a will of iron that is matched by her steadfast determination to thoroughly eliminate all hostiles that threaten the UNSC and all of Mankind. Some may call her reckless, but in truth she carefully plans out each of her actions before swiftly putting them into motion, there is no room for mistakes upon the battlefield. When upon the battlefield, she is straight minded and tactically sound. She will carry out her orders swiftly and to the letter but also stand among Team Rogue Seven, no matter where it will take her. At times, she can be unpredictable, using her creativity to overcome whatever challenges that are tossed her way. While not on a mission, she can be seen as a friendly, sarcastic woman with a sharp sense of humor, compassionate and willing to do whatever it takes for a mission to succeed. |
44,546 | 1,214 | 5 | 2,174 | 163 | Carly's trip was quiet and lonesome. The only noise coming from the beeping of her data pad, and the occasional rumble of the engines. There was a swish from the cockpit door, as the co-pilot walked in and saluted to her, without looking up Carly spoke; "Drop the formalities Marine It's been too long a trip, how far out are we?" The marine looked quite awkward as he dropped his stance to a more casual position."We're just coming in on the station, now, you’ve been directed to Dock AA3", the marine promptly walked out and left Carly to her mission reports. As the pelican touched down, she grabbed her satchel and jumped out the back. Leaving a few credits on her seat. She put on her helmet and made her way to the Docking bay. She knew she would already be late she had one heck of a journey.
She made her way to the location given to her by the pilot, not after stopping to pick something up at the nearest mess hall She knew it was going to be a long journey, after all, it had to be important to ONI to bring back Rogue seven. After picking up a sandwich and throwing it in her satchel she ran to docking bay provided to her. Just as she was about to enter the ship she was interrupted by an AI, "Hello Sargeant Renton, I am Colonel Icarus's personal AI assistant, you may refer to me as Nesalla Your squadmates are already on board the bridge.” The AI spoke calmly with a sense of authority about it. “Thank you, How late am I?” The reply came swiftly; “You are currently ten minutes late, Strike Commander Andromedai is just finishing up, I suggest you hurry Sargeant” Carly dismissed the Ai and made her way quickly to the Bridge just as Nesalla had ended. “Sergeant Renton reporting in.” She turned to Andromedai. “Apologies for the delay ma’am, Had a bit of a trip,” She inspected those that had arrived, It had been sometime Since they had been together, She just hoped that the bonds they had formed had still stayed intact. Carly checked her Datapad and just as expected Nesalla had, luckily for Carly, already sent the details to her.
Carly took off her helmet and examined the details, Trying to find as many possible scenarios as possible. "I have no questions, But if possible I would like Nessalla to Send me the latest basic medical forms for the strike team, recent injuries, and all that jazz, The standard procedure," As much as Carly wanted to sit down and catch up she knew she had a job to do first. | Name: Carly Renton
Age: 29
Sex: Female
Rank: Sargeant
Weapons: M392 Designated Marksman Rifle, M6D pistol
Items/Gear: Advanced medical kit, Bio-Foam, 2x Fragmentation-grenades
History:
To ONI Operative 240,
Carly started off life in a small village in the United kingdom, born in a large family of farmers she initially wanted to become a doctor, but after the human covenant war started, she soon started to train in order to conscript, and at the age of she enlisted as a medical officer, proceeding to do her medical training and was soon shipped out to help on the front line.
Carly had an interesting start to her military career, Initially starting in the marines she participated in the battle of Battle of Sigma Octanus IV and was one of the last survivors, alongside her companion Marine 022, of the marine forces on the planet, only managing to survive by sealing off the medical area of the Alpha HQ having to defend it against covenant until the strike force returned.
After that operation, Carly was stationed on one of the orbiting space stations above reach, doing essential medical surgeries on casualties on the planet below. After reach fell she was evacuated back to earth where she had a week of shore leave where she met up with her family, but unfortunately was stationed on New Mombasa just before the slip space incident. Her Squad all perished on the mission forcing Carly to hike along side ODSTs, taking the place of their deceased medical officer, and helping them to evacuate the residential district and eventually destroy a covenant operating base. Just outside the city.
After the operation, Carly was recommended for an ODST position but thankfully declined, the reasons she gave, being that she was "otherwise engaged." But as her Acting commanding officer, I believe it was for other reasons. after she was approached she was given a Recon position in UNSC with marine 022, after many missions the both of them were approached to enlist in the Spartan 4 program. After her rehabilitation period she underwent a psychiatric assessment as all Spartans must and just to outline the results; the psychiatrist mentioned that “she carried some trauma about lost comrades on her first mission, and often is too quick to blame herself for when something goes wrong, though it seems spartan 022 seems to be helping her through, I would recommend that they paired together upon future missions.”
after an incident on a mission behind enemy lines, Spartan 022 was shot in the head by an elite and was instantly killed, Carly completed the reconnaissance and carried his body back to their drop ship. where she buried his body and left the planet. After the incident, ONI picked up on her skills and she was enlisted in the Rouge seven fireteam.
Besides that, There’s not much I can tell you that’s already in her ONI file, and not classified, Attached is also a list of most notable missions, and mission outcomes that might come in handy for some pre-mission reading.
OPERATION GOLDEN SPIRE
OBJECTIVE Set up and keep control of HQ Alpha
OUTCOME Victory, at a high cost.
CASUALTIES Whole of squad Bravo 44 designated KIA, except Marine Bravo 021 currently refusing medical treatment.
OPERATION GOLDEN TRIANGLE
OBJECTIVE: Evacuate Civilians from residential district of New Mombasa
OUTCOME: Success. Bravo 021 reassigned to ODST squad Echo-03 in order to aid in OPERATION FLAMING SPEAR.
CASUALTIES: Delta 46 Designated MIA.
OPERATION FALLING HAMMER
OBJECTIVE: Gather information on Covenant Fleet Master, and flagship "Vigilant Redemption"
OUTCOME: Operation Success
CASUALTIES: Spartan 022 designated MIA
I wish you the Best of Luck upon your operation, her transport has already been re-routed to the coordinates provided.
-Commander Bradley
Personality:
Carly isn’t one of those people you can describe in a sentence; on a mission, she is a complex mix of emotions and calculations. If in conversation with her old teammates they would explain that during a mission you can almost hear her running combat possibilities in her head, However during a mission break, Carly seems to change personality, switching from a combat drilled machine into a calm relaxed being, preferring to sit and drink with comrades. She has recently been a Bit shaken due to her loss and has received a psychiatric assessment, and is considered fit for duty. |
44,547 | 1,214 | 6 | 1,029 | 20 | It's good to see all of you again.
Gerard smiled underneath his helmet and gave Riley's shoulder a quick pat in response to the hug. "It's good to see you as well, Riley." the Spartan said in a soft gentle voice. His stance relaxed. The fact that his 'brothers' and 'sisters' were all coming together again put him at ease. He never felt so isolated and exposed when he was without them. But, those were darker times and he had so much to look forward to with Rogue Seven coming back together.
If there are any questions, I will do my best to answer them before we depart."
"Striker Commander, this seems to be a cloak and dagger Op. Why do we require the Orion? From what I have heard, and not much, it seems to be a heavy class ship. Don't you think it'll turn a few heads?" He encircled the holo-table, his eyes darting between his teammates. His foot steps were heavy and echoed slightly. He stopped shortly before Andromedai. The Spartan stood silently, unable to find his words. He wanted to ask what if Solares was dead, but instead he continued encircling the table. He knew losing a Spartan would be a big impact of morale all across the UNSC. ONI's Directive 930 was revoked some time ago, revealing the status of all Spartans. These super-soldiers remained super, but the title of immortality faded. In his head he thought, Spartans never die.
Carly entered, a sight for sore and weary eyes. "I have no questions, But if possible I would like Nessalla to Send me the latest basic medical forms for the strike team, recent injuries, and all that jazz, The standard procedure,"
"Well, Carly, I did pull a muscle on my way here, so if you'd like to take a look at that, be my guest." Wulff jested. He made his way over to her. His voice was but a whisper, "You were missed." His voice seemed shaky and sorrowful, but peaked right back up to it's gruff and low tone. "But, about that muscle, it is killing me. I am not going to do this mission with a pulled hamstring." He stated with a coy grin. | Name: Gerard Wulff
Age: 37
Sex: Male
Rank: Master Gunnery Sergeant
Primary Weapon: M247H HMG
Secondary Weapon: M45D Tactical Shotgun
Items/Gear: 1x Combat knife, 2x Frag Grenades, 1x Explosive Charge |
44,548 | 1,214 | 7 | 170 | 152 | Koda glanced back at Riley when he was hugged and in return he gave her a nod, when given the order to relax he turned and hugged Riley back before moving up to the holo-table with Gerard, but upon hearing Carly enter he looked back at her and motioned to his wrist and tapped it as if to say she was late. Moving back to the holo-pad he examined it closely and folded his arms. "Striker Commander, this seems to be a cloak and dagger Op. Why do we require the Orion? From what I have heard, and not much, it seems to be a heavy class ship. Don't you think it'll turn a few heads?" Koda had to agree with Wulff on this one, it seemed a bit excessive unless they where planning something more.
"I have several questions as well. What kind of terrain are we looking at, should we split the group in two for better coverage of the area, and what are we to do if Solares is captured, do you want us to move to eliminate if rescue is out of the question, I apologize of I sound rather cold on this Boss but I'm trying to take in possible scenarios that could take place. Koda said looking at Andromedai.
Normally Koda would never voice something like that but it was something he needed to take into consideration, It was a question like this that could easily hurt reputation. But it also show he was willing to do something that others where not in-order to get the job done. "I have no questions, But if possible I would like Nessalla to Send me the latest basic medical forms for the strike team, recent injuries, and all that jazz, The standard procedure," Looking at his own datapad he pulled up everything that Carly would need to know about him when they where disbanded before whistling to get her attention then tossing the datapad to her "I'll need that back when your done with it" he said then turned and walked away from the holo-table and began to pace slightly as he thought.
"Coveys are gonna pay for this" he mumbled to himself. | Name: Koda 'Pouncer' Omicron - F428
Age: 32
Sex: Male
Rank: Major grade 2
Primary: M45D Tactical Shotgun or Sniper Rifle System 99-Series 5 Anti-Matériel (SRS99-S5 AM)
Secondary: M6C/SOCOM
Items/Gear: Combat knife x2, Fragmentation Grenade x2, Smoke Grenade x2
History: Earning the nickname Pouncer from his ODST days, Koda is someone of little to no words, getting him to speak is rare, instead he uses gestures to communicate, when he does speak it to make a point or to protest against an idea. Koda is also most comfortable equipped with a jetpack. He was earmarked by his commanders for his cool head and superb marksmanship later in his career. Koda prefers either a long range rifle or a shotgun so he can get in close, When Rogue Seven split apart Koda was reassigned and relocated to protect a science installation which would later get attacked by the Covenant, during the fight Koda came across he could only assume a high-ranking elite with an energy sword, had spent all of not most of his ammo defending the area he was assigned to, only armed with two combat knifes Koda fought long and hard with the elite for what seemed hours as he made his moves carefully, but after making a mistake in the elites movement he would get his right arm severely wounded but not before inflicting his own devastating blow to the elite before being rescue by reinforcements who would push the Covenant forces back quickly.
Afterward Koda would get heavy medical attention for the next five months, and have to get his right arm from the shoulder down amputated and replaced with a cybernetic arm, which he would take another 3 months to get used to. After insisting he was still fit for combat Koda was put to the test to prove himself, which he did with great precision and quickly shut the critics out. He would get reassigned and relocated to the Colistis Space Station where he would get a message while in-route by ONI and ordered to go to docking bay .
Personality: Being a class four Spartan, Koda has spent many long years tempering himself to be incredibly patient and understanding, with an optimistic and altruistic attitude. Experience has made him rather pragmatic with regards to most things. He also has developed a confrontational attitude with regards to authority figures he feels have not earned their position or have lost sight of their purpose. In all forms of combat both long range or close quarters, Koda fights with a brutally efficient, pragmatic style, free of extravagance or flourish. He's there to fight and win, and doesn't mind taking a few hits along the way. As a final note: It is highly advisable not to get on Koda's bad side. Though he is rather slow to anger, understanding of people's flaws, and easy to get along with, shows of blatant, inexplicable malicious intent are often met with an incredibly hostile response. But his true anger is as cold as the void, and he is very patient and can be tremendously sadistic, and very forgiving of himself for whatever he does if he truly feels justified. |
44,549 | 1,214 | 8 | 1,635 | 6,673 | Riley smiled back at her squadmates as she took a step back and leaned up against the wall as she listened in on the briefing as she turned her head and saw Carly coming in another female squadmate that she enjoyed hanging out during their off time between ops. "It's great to see you again Carly." Riley said with a smile as she looked back towards Andromedai she looked over towards Wulf asking about the Orion and knew the answer as she had spent her time since the team disbanded in the outer colonies as well as Covenant Space. "Erathel is on the edge of UNSC space, so the threats out there are Kig-Yar pirates, Insurrectionists as well as the Covenant Remnant. And obviously any of those groups would attack easy picking targets on the spot, this also shows that the UNSC still has its strength despite the end of the war." Riley said.
She turned to look up at Andromedai for a moment and ran a hand through her hair. "That's about the gist I know of current politics within the outer colonies." She turned to look over at Carly once more and smiled at her. "Well you could always just pull us all aside one by one and do the usual medical questions to, also catch up on all the good old times as well." | Name: Riley Parish
Age: 35
Sex: Female
Rank: Lieutenant
Weapons:
MA5D ICWS
M6D Magnum
3x Frag grenades.
Items/Gear: First aid kit, 3x clips for both weapons.
History: Riley was originally born and raised on Mars, both of her parents were apart of the UNSC Navy both of them were commanding their own ships, they were veterans fighting against the insurrectionists. When the war with the Covenant started Riley was born and her mother was on leave to raise her daughter, growing up she lived a pretty normal life she rarely ever saw her father due to the war. But she decided to become a marine and fight on the frontlines and help defend humanity even though they were losing the war. She rose through the ranks of the marines very quickly, that was when her superior suggested that she go for the ODST's. Riley spent several long grueling months to a year through their intensive training, which she eventually passed, when the Battle of Reach started that was where she had heard the news of the death of her mother and father.
Riley was stationed on one of the defense platforms on Earth when the UNSC ordered the homefleet back to the Sol System to defend Earth, that's when Regrets fleet came through. She and her squad defended against their Covenant borders as the Covenant started planting bombs on the defense platforms. When the UNSC finally got most of the Covenant off the second wave carrying Truth's fleet to Earth came several weeks later. She was one of the few to battle against the Covenant at Voi, then the Flood came to Earth and the Arbiter's fleet came in glassing half of the continent just to prevent the flood from taking over. She was apart of the uneasy alliance with the Covenant separatists and fought at The Lesser Ark, when the war ended Riley was approached by some men and women recruiting her due to her service record which she agreed to.
She went through the long training and then the augmentation process, which she survived the procedure as well as training taking sometime she got used to them. She was then assigned to the Spartan Fireteam Rogue Seven alongside Andromedai.
Personality: Riley is usually seen as a very calm and collected person a lot of the time, it is very rare to see her get stressed out in combat. She is known to crack some jokes just to try and lighten the mood of the other squadmates and will take the time to try and get to know all of them when she has the time to. |
44,550 | 1,214 | 9 | 134 | 1,309 | “Correction, the Orion is an Autumn Class Heavy Cruiser that is roughly based off the Pillar of Autumn’s design. It has been upgraded with technology and equipment to make it much more powerful, effective and deadly than most other ships in the UNSC Navy. Any information beyond that has not been shared with me or the Colonel at this time. Why ONI decided to officially bring the Orion into active duty for this specific mission is beyond all of us and our paygrade. In my personal opinion, if the Office of Naval Intelligence wishes to bring out one of its new and expensive toys from hiding, and then hand it over to us, I see no problem with it. Think of it this way, ONI trusts us enough to hand over a brand-new ship that is up to par with the Infinity to us. You are correct though, it will turn heads and gather a lot of attention once reports of the Orion come flooding in. It will undoubtedly be a massive morale booster as well. Enough about the ship though, all of the information and orders I have shared with you have come from the top with ONI, there is no additional information. I am sure all will be explained once we have arrived upon the ONI space station though, so for now let us depart.” Andromedai motioned towards Colonel Icarus who was already barking orders to the ships AI. “Take us out Nesalla, nice and slow, you know where the ONI space station is so get us there as swiftly and safely as possible.” The ships engines silently came to life somewhere far below where Team Rogue Seven, beginning its short journey.
Suddenly, an image of Erathell quickly appeared upon the large holographic table in the middle of the room. “I believe I can answer that question for you, Koda. If everyone would make their way to the holographic image of Erathell, I can share more information about the planet.” Said Nesalla as her fully formed, full sized, three dimensional figure appeared next to the table. This had caught not only Andromedais attention but also Colonel Icarus’s as well. Apparently, the AI known as Nesalla could create a holographic life size version of herself and roam around the ship she was installed into as if another organism. “Has she done this before?” asked Andromedai, her arms crossed her over chest, a look of both worry and curiosity spread across her face. “I have never seen her do that before, come to think of it, I have never seen any AI or VI do that before.” Colonel Icarus paused then shrugged, “I see no harm in it.”
While both Andromedai and Icarus were talking, Nesalla was describing the Forerunner planet of Erathell to the rest of Team Rogue Seven. “This is the current information we have about the Forerunner planet of Erathell. The world is almost an exact replica of our own, only a few differences make it stand out. These would be the placement of the continents upon its surface, the day and night cycle is two hours longer, and the planet is around five times the size of our own. Climates are the same as on earth, you will finds deserts, forests, jungles, swamps, bogs, mountains, valleys, prairies, oceans, beaches, and so on. The Argent Dawn crashed in an incredibly lush forest, at the bottom of a long mountain range. That is where we will being our search for Spartan Solares. The holographic image you see here is interactive, feel free to zoom in on areas of the planet you are curious about, or even the crash zone of the Argent Dawn, just keep in mind that the data used for this hologram is not complete.” Nesalla had been pacing around the Spartans as she looked at the holographic image of the world. When she was done speaking, she vanished into thin air, only to reappear upon the holographic table once more. | Name: Andromedai Morgenstern
Age: 30
Sex: Female
Rank: Striker Commander
Weapons:
Primary: Sniper Rifle System 99-Series 5 Anti-Matériel (SRS99-S5 AM)
Secondary: M20/PDW-Silenced
Items/Gear:
A: Fragmentation Grenades (2)
B: Explosive Charges (2)
C: Flash Bangs (2)
History: (CLASSIFIED)
Personality: As a Class Four Spartan, Andromedai has a will of iron that is matched by her steadfast determination to thoroughly eliminate all hostiles that threaten the UNSC and all of Mankind. Some may call her reckless, but in truth she carefully plans out each of her actions before swiftly putting them into motion, there is no room for mistakes upon the battlefield. When upon the battlefield, she is straight minded and tactically sound. She will carry out her orders swiftly and to the letter but also stand among Team Rogue Seven, no matter where it will take her. At times, she can be unpredictable, using her creativity to overcome whatever challenges that are tossed her way. While not on a mission, she can be seen as a friendly, sarcastic woman with a sharp sense of humor, compassionate and willing to do whatever it takes for a mission to succeed. |
44,551 | 1,215 | 0 | 1,838 | 1,623 | SKY LOUNGE, NAGOYA MARRIOTT
NAKAMURA WARD, NAGOYA, JAPAN
7 DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT
1603 LOCAL TIME
Ulysse Descombes was not much of a drinker. His objection to alcohol was not so much ethical as practical- in his line of work he may have to spring into action at any moment, with no warning. If that happened to come at a time when he had a few drinks in him, even the slightest loss in focus or reaction time could very well be fatal to him. But after the events of the last week, the man they called Silver Glove wanted nothing more than a cold beer and some peace and quiet. And so he quietly nursed a glass of Asahi Gold, lost in his thoughts.
The view from the lounge was spectacular, a panoramic view of the city from the 53rd floor of a towering skyscraper. But unfortunately for Ulysse, it also afforded a view of a noticeable hole in the skyline, where workers continued to sift through rubble. The hotel that had buried him.
He shuddered at the memory, took a too-large gulp of beer. The perfect dark, the oppressive silence, the weight of tons of steel and concrete over him. He was only buried for a few hours, but he still had nightmares about it a week later.
At least, some of the nightmares were about being buried alive. It seemed a few lately had been different. About the team not being there for him. About being left alone. About some tall, thin figure of purest black that radiated a sense of evil while glaring at him with unblinking emerald-green eyes. . .
He shook off the thoughts, the unpleasant memories of dreams. They were probably brought on by stress. Maybe he should see a therapist.
That is, if he could afford it. The team's cash flow was becoming so constricted. It was at the point that Ulysse knew he would have to buy even this beer with his own money rather than charge it to the Champions.
And of course they had lost so many members. He winced again as he thought of the funerals he had to watch on television rather than attend in person. The Hare was buried in Birmingham. They had to send what was left of Okyeame back to Accra in a box. Funerals for Buscapé in São Paulo and Mat Rempit in Kuala Lumpur. Too many good heroes dead.
Not to mention all the ones that had walked out of the group. The worst kind of betrayal, one that stung fresh in his heart as he thought about it. The Tortoise, The Celtic Sniper, Red Jack, The Chameleon, and of course his countryman Archos. The others as well. A bunch of quislings, they had walked out on the team when it needed them the most. Some of them were even staying in this same hotel, which made getting ice a little awkward.
“Mr. Descombes?” a voice asked quietly in accented English. Ulysse turned to look at the speaker. A harried-looking, balding man in a cheap suit, obviously some kind of bureaucrat. And three uniformed policemen behind him. The police were unarmed, but well-built and alert of eye. Fighters. Judo, probably. Given their build and posture they were at least black belts, probably third or fourth dan. Ulysse felt almost insulted that they had sent only three men, but oh well. C'est la vie.
“What can I do for you?” Ulysse asked, taking a cautious sip of beer.
The bureaucrat gave a slight bow. “I am Ogata. I represent the interests of the Minister of Justice. We would be most grateful if you were to accompany us to Tokyo to testify before the Cabinet and Prime Minister about the late unpleasantness.” The words were excessively formal, chosen with great care. As if that would mask their real purpose.
The man presented some papers to Descombes, who looked over them without reading. It was already clear what the Cabinet wanted. Someone to blame. Maybe not him personally, but they were hoping he would grass out some of his colleagues. Give them ammunition for the witch trials, a new Dreyfuss affair. That just wasn't fair to them. The Champions had gone in with the best of intentions, ajd they were being punished for it.
Ulysse was unprepared to rat out any of his comrades. Even if it would save his own skin, even if they asked about some of the quislings who had formed their own group. He handed back the papers he had not read, was about to tell Ogata exactly where the Cabinet could stuff them, when something caught his eye.
“Excuse me,” Descombes said to the bartender as he pointed to one of the many flat-screen televisions around the bar. “Could you turn that up, please? Thank you.”
The yellow bar at the bottom of the screen crept forwards as the voice of the CNN reporter became more audible. “. . .escaped earlier this afternoon while being transferred to a more secure facility, killing two police officers in the process. Ned Dryden had been imprisoned last year on seventy-three counts of murder committed in an effort to take over the Melbourne underworld. Better known as 'Tinhead Ned', Dryden used several sets of experimental powered armor in order to intimidate gangs and organized crime syndicates into appointing him as their leader. However, the superhero group known as the Champions dismantled his organization in one of their earliest missions.”
“Mr. Descombes-” Ogata tried to cut in, but Ulysse waved him silent, engrossed in the news report.
“Three sets of Tinhead Ned's powered armor have not yet been recovered, and are believed to have been hidden away in case of emergency. Police officials speculate that he will attempt to recover one of these hidden caches at the first opportunity. Any citizens coming into contact with Dryden are urged not to confront him but instead immediately contact the Australian Federal Police. . .”
Descombes downed the rest of his beer in one long gulp before setting down the empty glass and standing up. “Mr. Ogata, I regret that I must leave right now. I would be happy to answer questions at a later date, but I am still a Champion. And the good people of Australia need us.” He turned to leave, found no resistance from the policemen. Good. He'd hate to embarrass them.
“This isn't over, Mr. Descombes. This will not be forgotten,” Ogata called after him. Ulysse Descombes did not look back, getting on the elevator and heading for his room, where he had stashed his gear.
He touched his ever-present earpiece that kept him in contact with the other team members as he changed into his uniform in his hotel room. “Mesdames et Messieurs, this is Gant d'Argent speaking. It seems an old friend of ours has broken custody and is planning to go on another rampage. Tinhead Ned again, loose in Australia. Now, I can only speak for myself, but I have better things to do than answer questions. We are superheroes, no?” He laced his boots, and then reverently pulled on his silver gloves. “Let's go be super. Our jet is waiting at the airport.” | Birth Name: Ulysse Descombes
Alter Ego: Gant d'Argent/ Silver Glove
Gender: Male
Age: 33
Country of Operation: France (the city of Lille)
Archetype: Gifted
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Ulysse is a heavily muscled Caucasian man standing an even six feet. He has brown eyes and keeps his head shaven (somebody might pull his hair in a fight). His “work outfit” is lightweight and simple- dark blue, tight-fitting cotton trousers and a sleeveless shirt to allow ease of movement. Ulysse formerly wore a mask, but ditched it and made his identity public on joining the Champions. He wears weighted boots and metallic sliver gloves on both hands.
Skills: Gant d'Argent possesses no superhuman abilities of any kind.
However, he is a martial arts expert of some renown. While he is well-trained in several disciplines (including judo, shotokan karate, krav maga, and hapkido) he prefers to fight with savate. In savate, he is one of the world's top practitioners.
His intensive physical training gives him exceptional (but human-level) strength, agility, stamina, and pain tolerance.
Equipment/Resources: Gant d'Argent routinely only carries two (or technically four) weapons, meant solely to augment his martial arts skills. His boots contain lead weights and steel plating in the soles and toes to add force to his kicks, and lead shot in sewn into the knuckles of his gloves to do the same for his punches.
For particularly large battles, he may wear a kevlar vest and steel helmet, though he hates weighing himself down.
Finally, he has a small fortune in savings from his kickboxing days, waiting for a rainy day.
Biography: Ulysse Descombes is not a particularly well-educated man. He focused little on school as a child growing up in Lille, but excelled at athletics. Rather than being a stereotypical musclehead, though, he earnestly believed in sportsmanship, fair play, and an equal chance for everyone. He got into savate as a teenager, and found a sport he was even better at than football, tennis, or any of the others. Savate became his passion in life.
Rather than attend college (much to his family's disappointment) Descombes instead chose to become a professional savatuer, competing as a heavyweight. His diligent hours of training and natural talent were paid off, as he won victory after victory, rapidly gaining the title of Silver Glove: the highest rank and honor in the savate community.
However, there was plenty of seedier stuff in the savate community, underhanded practices that threatened the integrity of the sport and rankled with Ulysse's notions of honor and sportsmanship. Match fixing, doping, illegal gambling- all prevented up-and-comers from having a fair chance at success. Finally, Ulysse had enough. He donned a mask to protect his identity and took it upon himself to clean up the sport, under the name Gant d'Argent- Silver Glove. The steroids dealers, the fixers, the crooked managers- their thugs were given punitive beatings and the bosses chased out of Lille. Ulysse found he enjoyed both the new challenge and the rush of doing good, and soon expanded the scope of Gant d'Argent. Gangs, drug dealers, violent criminals, even a few low-level supervillains soon felt the sting of his fists and feet. He enjoyed a high success rate and national recognition.
When the Champions initiative was announced, he was among the first volunteers, giddy at the prospect of working with his peers. He felt so strongly that he went public with his identity Though the reality was less harmonious than he might have imagined, he still believed firmly that the Champions were a force for the equality and fair play he firmly believed in. He largely ignored the problems within the group, instead remaining mission-focused.
In Nagoya, he initially viewed the operation as just another fight, even when surprise was lost and bullets (and cars, and bolts of energy, and fireballs, and spells) starting flying. In fact, Gant d'Argent was rather enjoying himself, testing his martial arts skills against those of several of the gangsters.
Then the building fell down on top of him.
Miraculously, he only got a few cuts and bruises, not serious injuries. But he was trapped in darkness and unable to move for hours, unsure of what was going on above him, whether his teammates were winning or losing the battle, whether anyone was coming for him. For the first time, Ulysse Descombes felt pure and unrestrained terror. He remembers screaming until he blacked out, and then being lifted from the wreckage by firefighters, only to immediately be put on a plane out of the country. He had to learn from CNN about things that happened six feet above his head.
Gant d'Argent was horrified at the scope of the destruction, but also at the accusations thrown at the Champions. Stubbornly, he still believed in the mission of the Champions even as teammates expressed doubt. He at least had one fact to cling to- the destruction was not his fault personally.
When the walkout happened, Gant d'Argent was one of those who chose to remain behind. He does not regret this choice, and feels that continued service with the Champions will redeem their name and help assuage his recurring nightmares of being buried alive. Not to mention dreams of still worse things.
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with him and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
44,552 | 1,215 | 1 | 1,605 | 1,991 | Jack Cochran, the hero and assassin known as Red Jack, smashed a half-empty bottle of sake into the window, spoiling the magnificent view with shattered glass. Jack cursed the television in Elvish, flipping off the talking heads on the screen. It seemed no matter what channel he tuned to, everyone was talking about Nagoya. It was all collateral damage this or excessive force that. They said the Champions should have been more careful. Despite the fact that they had worked day and night with the police, against Jack's wishes, to plan everything down to the last detail. They suggested the Champions should have known there would be supervillains. Except none of their intelligence had suggested there would be any superhumans at the meeting, intelligence supplied by police informers. They declared that the Champions were too aggressive. Ignoring the fact that the mobsters had fired the first shots. All day and all night, these armchair tacticians and know-nothing commentators dissected every little thing that the Champions had done. Every day, Jack had to look at the crater where it all went wrong. And every night he had the same nightmare. The same shadow with the same green eyes.
Every day, he saw the protesters and hecklers with signs outside on the streets far below. They placed the civilian deaths on their shoulders, even though crowd control was the province of the police. They blamed the destruction on them when it was the supervillains who kept attacking willy nilly. They bemoaned the deaths of violent murderers when it was a situation of life or death. They couldn't even leave them alone to grieve for all the friends and comrades the team had lost. Ingrates. Morons. Halfwits, the lot of them. How many criminals put behind bars? How many lives saved? All that swept away in an instant because a few civilians too slow or stupid to run had gotten caught in the crossfire. All because the Japanese government wanted to shift blame from their incompetent officers to the evil destructive foreigners. First they had loved them, singing their praises and warming their beds. Now they cursed them. Hung and burned them in effigy. All over the world, the mindless fickle stupid rabble projected all their troubles and displeasure on their betters. Well hang them all, Jack thought. He didn't need their love. He was done trying to inspire them, they should be happy he still protected them.
And hang the Champions. Arguing day in, day out about what they should have done differently. The endless debates. The arguments that went nowhere. The bitterness, the shouting, the fighting while the souls of their friends looked down from above. The empty chairs in the meeting rooms and phone calls from family that either cried or shouted too much to respond to. Well he had had enough. They could waste their lives trying to appease a world that would always turn on them when convenient. Jack had led the break-away group, the splinter team. Comrades who were sick of the Champions too. The Champions would always be friends and allies to Jack, but they couldn't do what needed to be done. Which was screw the consequences and take out the gangsters that caused this whole mess. Jack had spent his days cursing the humans, drinking terrible spirits, seducing servants, and planning his revenge. The end was coming for all of them. The Yakuza. The Mafiya. The Triads. The Kkangpae. All their days were numbered. He just wished they weren't all on the same floor of the same hotel. It was incredibly annoying to plan bloody revenge in such a setting.
A knock on the door. Jack sniffed, perked his pointed ears. He didn't recognize the scent or the heartbeats of any of those outside his door. The hotel wouldn't send more than one staffer for anything and he heard four heartbeats. The upper floor was completely blocked to press or civilians. All those things together could only mean either government stooges or assassins. Jack hoped for the latter. It had been a while since he had beaten someone to a bloody pulp. Wearing nothing but a knife behind his back, Jack looked through the eyehole and sighed. Stooges it was. Jack tossed the knife into a drawer and inched the door open, "Yes."
The stooge and his three uniformed lackeys nearly all gaped as they saw him standing there naked. Jack's expression did not change at all and he offered no apology for his appearance as the stooge recovered himself and apologized for the disturbance. Then he said something about some Ministry or other. Jack mostly tuned it out, he pretty much knew what was going on, the television had talked about some hearing or other in Tokyo to discuss the event. Instead he thought of all the myriad ways he could kill the four men where they stood. It was a nice brain game for him. He saw virtually no way three vanilla officers and a stooge could harm him, honestly it was insulting. It had been a long time since he had scratched the itch for violence, and bedding the occasional maid barely took the edge off. Jack had a faint hope that they would try to arrest him or attack him, but the excessively polite and formal tone told him that likely wasn't going to happen. Jack took the papers the man handed him, and tossed them over his shoulder without even glancing at them, and the stooge to his credit did not react to the disrespectful gesture.
Jack's ears perked up at the news still on the television, the talking heads were saying Tinhead Ned was loose in Australia. Jack smiled with his perfect white teeth at the stooge as he listened. The man looked utterly confused as he tried to continue explaining the situation while Jack completely ignored him. Then suddenly Jack slammed the door in their faces and hurriedly got dressed, slipping into his armor and strapping on his weapons with quickness and ease borne of skill and experience. Jack keyed the comm on the private channel that his little group shared, "Friends, I'm sure you all got a similar invitation to go to Tokyo and appear before some kangaroo court. Well you can go and be the victim of a witch hunt if you want. I'm taking myself and anyone who wants to join me to Australia. Our old friend Tinhead Ned is on the loose. And I'm sure we're all itching for some action. The Cochran family jet is at the airport, if you want in on this, meet me there. We leave within the hour." Jack chuckled. The jet was for him to travel in privately with whatever group of fangirls or fanboys he had attracted. Now it would let them get there without relying on the Champions. Time to have some fun. | Your character might have decided to show up to help out, or they have a relationship with another character, any reason you think would be appropriate should be fine.
Don't worry about it, the doors always open, and I hope your other games go great!
Same thing with Ekko, there's a ton of options. It's not unrealistic for so many supers to converge on such a huge event.
Awesome! Accepted, go ahead and put her in the CS tab. I'm guessing she came to Japan to support the team?
Also Poly already put me in the tab, but you guys can check out my CS if you missed it. Splinter team, behold your guide and mentor
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with her and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
44,553 | 1,215 | 2 | 374 | 801 | Carter was dead.
The thought rang through her head as collapsed on the bed of the lavish hotel room. Sure they hadn't been together for just over two years, but somewhere inside she still held on to a shred of hope that somehow they could live a normal life away from all of this. It's as if all the events in her life were leading up to this. Normalcy will never be an option now. Not with Carter, not with anybody. In fact, Lydia wasn't even sure if that's what she wanted anymore.
Carter was dead.
Who was Lydia? She didn't know. Since she had started work as Shade she lost sight of everything she once knew. And now, here she was. A super-something, because hero just wasn't the right word. She wasn't here because of a need for doing good, or a innate passion for the greater good. She didn't care. Or at least she didn't use to. Now, seeing what messes these people can make... They have to be stopped. They have to have organization, common sense. They can't just get off with this... all of this.
The images of the wreckage and the victims shattered through her mind. She hadn't seen something so devastating and concentrated since she watched a documentary on the September 11th attacks. But this... this was caused by the people attempting to protect us. This was a mistake of poor planning. Of childishness. Of recklessness.
Carter was dead.
That's why she came to Nagoya in the first place. He left with those group of too-good-to-be-true-idealists and died in their darkest moment. Now there was another group of super-people surfacing. And this group she wanted to be a part of, especially if it meant giving those god-damned champions a hard time. To think that her life had led up to this. The abuse, the system, Carter, Powers, Nagoya. Now, she was something. She was something that a past version of herself would be terrified of.
Carter was -
Jacks voice rang over her new comm device. Breaking the loop of memories and constant reminders of pain.
"Well it looks like we are headed down under, old friend. " she replied and promptly got up and shoved her gear and clothing into her suitcase haphazardly. Two thoughts pierced her when she left for the airport.
Carter was dead.
Shade is very much alive. | Birth Name: Wilbur Allthorpe
Alter Ego: The Tortoise
Gender: Male
Age: 56
Country of Origin: Birmingham, England.
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Wilbur is a fairly short man at 4'5 and skinny as a rake. He lost his hair in his early 50s and as such, is completley bald. He wears a pair of black thick rimmed square spectacles. Usually he wears a green button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of light brown overalls with simple brown leather shoes and white socks. He also has a black tool belt around his waist.
Powers/Skills:
His greatest ability is the large mechanical exoskeleton shell he pilots, constructed out of titanium, containing multiple energy based booster units for movement and armed to the teeth with weapons including missiles, standard firearms, a flamethrower, an electrical arc cannon, a high powered laser, a small explosive dispenser and a reflector shield. The entire shell can also be used for physical attacks. Wilbur pilots the shell from within, usually using a small visor at the top to watch or ducking inside the shell for stronger attacks. The exoskeleton shell is extremely dense and hard to crack by most forms of attack.
The shell however, has its limits. Without a pilot, it cannot act on its own and is vulnerable. EMP attacks can also disable the shell until Wilbur can get it working again. Additionally, outside of the shell, Wilbur is fairly weak and small and is thus, far more vulnerable and no easier to hurt than an average pedestrian. The shell also runs on a large lithium ion battery pack and should it run out of power or be removed, the shell will cease to function The battery is also more heavily drained by energy projection mechanisms, making the reflector shield and the high powered laser the most energy draining moves. The shell is also not protected from chemical or gas based attacks and whilst the reflector shield protects the shell from almost all forms of damage, it does not protect against force and strong forces will push the shell even with its shield up.
Outside the shell, Wilbur is heavily tech savvy, able to recognise kinds of machinery very quickly, draft up inventions within days and thinking logically around problems. He is also very intelligent and somewhat analytical, using tactics in battle and figuring out the weaknesses of his opponents and using his shell's vast array of tools to strike at them. For Wilbur, every problem just needs the right tool to be solved.
However, outside of his shell, the tortoise is an older man who is not particularly strong or durable, thus, he cannot put up much of a fight without his exoskeleton. He is also untrained in other forms of science such as chemistry and physics, and whilst he is a critical thinker, it means he cannot fight well against unpredictable opponents.
Equipment/Resources: Outside of his shell, Wilbur usually carries around a small tool belt with some replacement batteries, spare parts and a spanner in case he needs to make quick repairs to his shell. He also carries around a small tazer should he ever need to defend himself. He also carries a phone in case of emergencies.
Biography:
Wilbur was born to Martha and Gareth Allthorpe in Birmingham, a pair of experimental weapons mechanics working for the biotech company Zillion Corp. Wilbur enjoyed a fairly upper class childhood with a large sum of money to keep him happy, put into the best high schools and given the best possible schooling that could be afforded. He grew up intelligent if not bullied by the older children, jealous of his wealth and his smarts in class, also by his somewhat meek demeanor and small stature, suffering from his father's short stature.
When he left school, he went on to Cambridge university and graduated with a degree in engineering, going on to work with his parents at Zillion Corp, dedicating his research to a new form of exoskeleton to support someone like him as he continued to be a weak individual. This eventually led him to creating his shell exoskeleton and in practice, it was a huge success. Feeling a surge of pride, he immediately made use of it, patenting the designs for himself and leaving the company before Zillion Corp could mass produce it, a move that was looked down on by his parents.
He outed himself properly as a superhero, calling himself The Tortoise due to the design of his shell and how he had always been mocked as 'hiding in his shell.' He was practical minded, earning donations for his work but keeping a diligent mindset, that he must be careful with his great gift and not abuse it for his own purposes. Eventually he ran across a fellow hero Roger Redbrook, nicknamed the Hare for his incredible speed, dexterity and high jump powers. The two didn't see eye to eye and became rivals, the Hare being optimistic whilst Wilbur was more a pessimist. Their rivalry became incredibly well known across the country and after the pair briefly joined forces in defeating a large crime gang, the pair decided to become a true team.
The Hare and the Tortoise became a notably loved duo in their home country, battling crime and solving problems together. So when the champions initiative came about, they happily joined forces and were among the team's first members. The Tortoise's brilliant mind and gadget wizardry made him an invaluable asset to the team, using inventions to amplify his friends abilities and weaponry, as well as providing analysis and coming up with battle plans for their missions, whilst Hare simply provided a good point man and charming face for the public to love.
The pair were no match for the Nagoya mission, sadly. Hare simply went along with the plans whilst Tortoise was drafting up their movements and using radios to direct them piece by piece. All it took was an unexpected blurt of static to muddle up the plans and their frequency to be discovered before it all went wrong and both Hare and Tortoise were forced into battle. Wilbur panicked amidst all the chaos, unable to analyse or strategise and forced to attack blindly, causing a lot of destruction in his wake. When the dust had settled, The Hare was among the superheroes who were found dead at the scene, crushed under rubble. With his long time partner dead, Wilbur's opinion soured heavily and he became negative toward the idea of the champions continuing with him, choosing to leave for the splinter group as without his partner to balance him out and the outcry against him, he could not act with them anymore.
Special Notes: Some speculate that Hare and Tortoise were once romantically involved, but both have continuously denied this, though rumors circulate regardless, it is a common press hitting point for the pair. He is also among the wanted due to the destruction his shell's tech caused. |
44,554 | 1,215 | 3 | 1,966 | 2,597 | The guilt was still heavy on his heart. Without knowing how much trouble he was in or just what those persistent suits wanted with him, Ara had locked himself inside his room. For seven days straight, for hours at a time, he had endured the profound knocking on his door. And when keycards were granted to let them in, he made sure it stayed shut with brute strength.
It had become some recurring nightmare that he hoped wouldn’t come back. Unfortunately, in one form or another it always did. It made him cringe and for the first time in over a year, feel fear. It was one mistake, one careless action on his part. He had plucked a pivotal, metal beam from its place and weakened the buildings structure. He had caused the building’s downfall and now he had to be held accountable.
Only thing that kept him shivering in his room was that the law was unknown and scary. It was an entangled mess of do’s and do not’s. As Ara, he had spent most of his life avoiding any situation that was considered “bad for your health”; as God Fist, he realized now he had held a disregard for the consequences of his actions. That was not heroic, that was a failure of the hero code. Of the principles that the Champion's were built on.
Ara pulled the plump body of covers around him even tighter. Like paper it ripped and its insides fell around him. He groaned out of anger and frustration. The feeling of being too strong was a contradiction he didn’t have the tools to fix.
Slowly he looked up and around himself, finally taking in the now of the moment. There was no knocking, the room was pitch black, and the TV was still shattered into plastic pieces and glass shards.
“I suck,” he mourned. “I… I really suck.”
When his earpiece chimed and blinked on the side table-placed beside his cellphone-Ara thought about the careful lie he had told his mom. The woman believed him to be over his friend's house. It wasn’t easy convincing her but he knew she trusted him enough not to dig too deep to uncover the truth. She knew him before he was God Fist, she knew how much of a coward he could be.
Then he fixed his gaze on the earpiece. He walked over and pushed it gently inside to hear The Silver Glove. Tinhead Ned was loose. Ara was thinking that he wouldn't be needed, that he’d only cause more damage in the wake of Nagoya.
“So many people have died cause of me. I don’t think any more needs too, I’m not going.” Ara said, his voice heavy and soft as he turned off his earpiece. | "Jesus! Bro are you really, Starlight? I mean are you really really Mr.Starlight? ... After the fight can I get your autograph?”
Birth Name: Ara Colt Novella
Alter Ego: God Fist
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Country of Origin: America | Chicago
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champion
Appearance: Ara Novella is a half-white half-black teenager with mahogany brown skin. His brown but vivid eyes are clear windows into his genuine heart and all around kind persona. The youth stands at 5’10 and weighs in at 163lbs of mostly sleek muscle. He has a noticeably wiry-like build, thin eyebrows, and a noble powerful face. The hair on his head is loose and long, flowing about the faded bottom stylishly in hues of slate gray.
When acting as God Fist, Ara wears a lightweight, form-fitting dark blue outfit. The suit falls into seamless dark blue boots. On his chest is the symbol of a sharp, edgy, sun that stretches off beneath the clasps of his tatter, black mantle.
Powers/Skills: Ara gained his powers by unknown means one year ago. It was thought that his great-grandfather was a multi-dimensional entity. Thus, God Fist was born. A cosmic-hero who can very well throw down with the best of Earth’s protectors and contend as top hero.
With a Supernaturally Enhanced Physiology, Ara is capable of lifting well over 200 tons and performs feats comparable to this. These powers are technically granted to him due to him having access to the cosmic powers surrounding the earth and inhabiting the universe. Likewise his speed is comparable to blinding, competing with most speedsters. However, the renowned speedsters like Starlight and Grand Prix often trumps him indefinitely. He can catch bullets (though he doesn’t necessarily needs to), fly, think, and react at speeds of mach 10. When in space, for reasons inexplainable, he flies even faster.
God Fist also seems to have a supernaturally enhanced endurance, being capable of taking a beating and getting up to return the pain ten-fold. A weakness of his would have to be his intolerance for pain. While his body can take the punches, Ara often feels the bulk of it. This can often drive him mad and keep him from continuing the fight.
Though it has rarely occurred, it has been suggested that God Fist could use the cosmic radiation he absorbs as some kinetic energy towards his foes. Perhaps his greatest weakness is the illness that sets in if he doesn’t feel the nutrients of the cosmic cloak directly. In other words, Ara has to spend severals hours out in space to feed his body’s needs. Just another necessity that was tacked on to his belt. Along with sleep, normal food, and adequate exercise, he now needs to fill some pocket or vacuum inside himself with dark matter. Without efficient stores of the dark matter, he reverts to his mortality.
Beyond these facts rests a true counter to his godly abilities. A space metal known as Tellurium that can effectively weaken him when in his presence and make him mortal with just a touch. Any weapon, either gas or solid made of this mineral, can and will cause harm. It is a secret that not even Ara himself is aware of, though a few of the Champion's higher ups have conducted experiments to realize this truth.
Equipment/Resources: Nada. . . God Fist needs only himself.
Biography: Ara Novella was born in Oregon but grew up in Chicago. He was a victim of abuse by paternal means and once his mother left his father, they struggled. They lived in the inner-city where gang-violence and police brutality was rampant. Ara avoided the troubles and instead stuck his head in other inane hobbies.
A year before God Fist’s debut was when he started on the path to being a Hero. It was July 4th and patriots were celebrating the birth of America. As Ara was making his way home, gazing at the fireworks, he heard the muffled screams of a woman. At first he ignored it. When got more than half-way down the block his consciousness whipped him into going back.
Novella stumbled onto a rape scene. Two black males had a black woman on her back. He was stunned into submission and later pummeled into submission too. As he laid there, glancing at the bright red, white, and blue firelight; he fought to silence the woman’s pain moans. It was then, that a supernova erupted in his chest, than was smothered out by a black hole. The next moments were a blur. He felt stronger than he had ever been, more monster than man. He knew it to be true when the man shot at him and instead of his chest being ripped open, the bullet simply fell to the ground.
Needless to say he murdered those two men accidentally.
Later on, after denying his powers and deciding to continue his life his dreams became bothersome. Weird pacts with immense, glowing, skinny beings. Symbols written in the forms of literal stars. A legend and legacy in the same instance being fulfilled. Three months or so later and God Fist was discovering himself and his purpose. He was meant to protect the galaxy but he could never leave Earth. It was his home and his love. America soon took notice of this Hero. He was the symbol of the Northern States and soon became one of three names associated with the United States.
The Nagoya Incident was a blunder on his part. He was battling lesser supers than himself and felt, reluctant to hurt anyone. Not to mention when the call came he was nearly drained of his dark matter reserves. He tore a metal beam from the building, not knowing it was a central component to the structure. If not for his exhausted source, he could have saved plenty of people. However, with the situation as such, he was lucky to have escaped with his life.
Afterwards, the politics of it all was lost on him. He remained with the Champions out of loyalty and admiration of the more experienced and leader-esque heroes. Though he is indeed stronger than most, its his inexperience and lack of confidence that more or less has made him subservient to the Champions as a whole.
Special Notes: Young and Inexperienced. Needs to refill on dark matter daily to retain his powers. Is often considered the kid of the group. Is a fairly-new hero whose made a big splash. Unknowing of his true strength he is wry of attacking people without mercy. |
44,555 | 1,215 | 4 | 2,304 | 347 | Maeve was people watching, a thing she liked to do very much. Watch them smile, and talk, and laugh, watch them flirt , those covert glances, those little touches, those knowing smiles. She enjoyed their anger and their pleasure.
Humans… Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.
From her comfortable arm chair in the lobby she watched the protesters and the supporters alike (though those were far and few) meandering about outside. They were so riled up. So angry at all that happened.
Maeve grinned and crossed her shapely legs, running her fingertips over the tops of her thighs tantalizingly. Of course any and every time someone was bold enough to approach her, to start on her about the whole shebang the Succubus merely smiled, reached out to take their hand comfortingly. And the problem would go away. Loving, lusty feelings pushing through her would be tormentors left them seeking out more enjoyable past times than protesting and chewing her ear out.
She could see the bar from her perch and had noticed Ulysse was drinking. But she knew better than try to console him at this point. Often times Maeve’s views were not considered helpful… As the man in the suit approached Maeve’s brows arched, bright eyes locked on the interaction.
Who were those men? Curiosity swept through the Succubus and she rose to investigate.
Timing was not on her side though as another ‘adoring fan’ blocked her path just then. By the time Maeve, or better known as Eve, as in the first woman, the fall of humanity if you believed all that, had gotten rid of her ‘guest’ the suits and Ulysse were heading for the elevator.
A voice chimed in her ear and Maeve jumped slightly. Technology still startled her these days.
Clicking the button to reply she chirped “Oui Capitaine. Que dois-je porter?” before heading to the elevators herself with a smirk. Finally! Out and about! So exciting, even if the others were still moping about. Like God Fist. Really.
What was done was done. Better not to dwell but move on to the next new thing. That was the benefit of ‘humanity’. There was always something else. Some distraction. Some titillation. | Birth Name: Lydia Renee Isaacs
Alter Ego: Shade
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Country of Operation: U.S.A. Pacific Northwest Region (Northern CA, Nevada, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington State).
Archetype: MetaHuman
Allegiance: Splinter Group. (Never with Champions)
Appearance: Dark hair, kept up. Green eyes. 5'6". 140lb. Because she mainly operates at night, blue/black uniform.
Powers/Skills: Night vision. Enhanced strength and agility in darkness varying on how dark it is. In complete darkness (night time, no light pollution,One night while testing the limitations of her abilities she as able to lift a tractor in Idaho farmlands. She hasn't attempted to lift anything larger than that, and this left her exhausted.)
Equipment/Resources: Various sized throwing knives. Rope. Mist/fog spray.
Biography: Lydia never wanted to be part of the Superhuman world. Her home life wasn't ever picture perfect. Her dad left when she was young. Not long after her school found out about her mother's drug habits and she was placed in the foster care system. She spent most of her life focusing on academics and wishing for a normal life. She had loved a metahuman when she was going to UC Berkeley, Carter as she knew him, who left for the Champions. She had a bad taste for them ever since, then again she has a bad taste for anything that didn't fit into her ideals of normalcy. She discovered her own abilities after walking home from a late night study session and someone attempted to mug her and she accidentally killed him. Her grades began dwindling as she had a temporary psychotic break. She in fact could never achieve normalcy. That was too much to bear. She fled to the farmlands experimenting, discovering how they only seem to be useful in darkness. After she returned When she heard about the Nagoya incident, she knew now was the time to actually start doing things right. For herself. The champions had failed at making the world a safe place for Supers and non-Supers alike, but maybe this new team could. |
44,556 | 1,215 | 5 | 1,062 | 303 | Seven days. It had been seven days since the disaster of a mission had taken place. While many of the others had been letting themselves grieve for their lost teammates and friends Patrick couldn't afford the luxury. He knew as soon as he walked away with The Red Jack that their new group would have no funds, and he took it upon himself to start remedying that. He had reached out to his old contacts telling them to put out the word that The Celtic Sniper was accepting contracts again, something he hadn't done during his entire time with the group. It only took a couple of days for two contracts to be brought to his attention. Normally he wouldn't accept more than one contract at a time however he made an exception due to the circumstances.
The first was from the wife of a businessman, or something or another. He didn't really pay attention to the who (though he gathered enough to know it was her husband she wanted dead), all he cared about was the where and when which she also provided. The second interestly enough was from the husband, who had become well aware of the fact that his wife was planning his death. The businessman even agreed to pay up front just in case he ended up dying before she was killed knowing enough about The Celtic Sniper to know he would finish the job.
Patrick spent the next couple of days finding the perfect location for his nest, he ended up deciding upon a building that had been largely abandoned in the aftermath and was just a block away from the Marriot both groups were staying at, and setting up a banking account for the splinter group which he gave control of over to The Red Jack. Neither contract was all that substantial, but it would be enough to hold them over for a bit.
He was currently settled into his nest and he took a moment to glance down at his watch. He still had a few minutes before the appointed time. The wife had been very specific, as had Patrick. He had added a stipulation to their contract, since she wanted to be present for the death of her husband she had ten seconds to transfer the funds before she found herself in the same position as her husband. Of course she didn't know that she would be joining him regardless.
With time to spare Patrick slowly moved his scope away from the window where his targets would be and instead focused on the lounge of the hotel they all were currently housed. Ulysse was the first he saw sitting at the bar, and the sight of the man caused Patrick to frown slightly beneath the dark mask. He harboured no ill will towards his former leader, in fact he highly respected the man as he was just as human as himself. He hoped Ulysse would understand why he left, he had spent his entire life in the shadows and he couldn't afford to be dragged into the light. Before he could search for any others he glanced at his watch again and realized the time was drawing closer. With one last brief glance at the lounge he swiveled his sight back on his target window, where he saw the pair in the midst of a heated arguement.
Unable to look at his watch Patrick began to count in his head while clicking the safety off. The crosshairs were focused just beneath the man's ear, and just to the side of the back of his jaw. As the countdown crept closer to zero he began to gently apply pressure to the trigger until he fired upon reaching the magic number. Thanks to the silencer Tortoise had made for him there was no sound, but he could see the result as the wall behind where the man had been standing was coated in a pink mist.
Without missing a beat his scope found itself poised over the wife, who already had her phone in her hand. Just four seconds later he heard his phone make a series of beeps, indicating the proper amount had been disposed. Just as the beeps ended he shot again, watching as another layer of blood painted the wall. While he moved his head away from the scope he thought briefly about how disappointed Tortoise would likely be if he knew what he had just used the gift the old man had made him for. He shook such thoughts away quickly, knowing that they needed to start earning money sooner rather than later and both contracts had been deposited in full into the new groups account.
Before he could rise he heard Jack's voice through his transmitter, telling them of two current tasks. His contacts had yet to send him any new contracts and knowing Ulysse he would be going after Tinhead just like Jack. If fortune smiled upon him he just might get the chance to explain himself to the fighting prodigy.
"I doubt that ya will be needin conformation on ma part Jack, but I'll meetcha at ta jet." His Irish accent still clung to him despite his years traveling, though truth be told he had no intention of ever losing it. With practiced ease he began to disassemble his rifle before making his way off of the roof with the airport his destination. | Birth Name: Patrick O'Brian
Alter Ego: The Celtic Sniper
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Country of Origin: Ireland
Archetype: Gifted
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Patrick is a small man, standing at 5'5 and weighing roughly 130lbs. He is an average looking Caucasian man, with short brown hair and dark brown eyes. In addition he has no facial hair. Of course only the Champions (and now the Splinter group) are aware of his actual appearance. When he is not in a safe area, the only place that barely qualifies is HQ, he wears a form fitting black suit that covers him from his feet to just beneath his nose. He also wears a dark brown Irish Tweed cap and dark sunglasses.
Powers/Skills: Patrick is just a man, his parents weren't some sort of aliens or divine beings. He didn't suffer a severe accident and have to have any part of him replaced by shiny metal. He isn't even a metahuman. What he is, is a world class marksman.
His typical weapon of choice is a customized sniper rifle, designed to be able to handle firing the specialized round he occasionally uses. While there may be certain supers that would be able to outshoot him he is unparalleled among most of the world in both range and accuracy.
Despite being most comfortable at long range he is capable of holding his own in closer quarters with his pistol, though he only does this when retreat is unavailable.
While he isn't necessarily the smartest man he does have acute battle awareness and his "nests" are carefully selected.
Even though his body is not immune to the effects he can ignore both very cold and hot temperatures which is a must as he may end up having to stay in one location for several hours or even days at a time.
Equipment/Resources: As mentioned in the Power/Skills Patrick carries both a sniper rifle and a pistol, of the two only the sniper is modified. He also has a small box of specialized ammunition. Normally he will carry a variety of rounds with him, so he can adapt as needed. However when he has intel in advance he will stock extra of a particular round. At the moment he only has a few explosive round left as most of his more unique ammo was used during the Nagoya.
As for resources he still has contacts from his days as a mercenary and they are his primary method of receiving new ammunition, weapons, etc. Though this may end up shifting.
Biography: The first few years of Patrick's life were rather bland and typical, average family life for an only child, regular friendships etc. The only interesting thing that happened was he discovered his love for rifles at a young age. He was staying with his grandfather, who lived in a quaint little cottage out in the middle of the woods, one summer and the old man decided it was time that he learn how to shoot. It took them both by surprise when it turned out that the young lad was a natural. Every target his grandfather gave him he hit dead center, no matter the distance or size. He did have minor trouble with moving targets at first, but he overcame it before the day was up.
Neither had any idea what to do with this talent of his, so rather than think on that they spent the rest of the summer honing it. When Patrick finally had to leave his grandfather gave him his own rifle, and told him to find anyway possible to keep practicing. His parents were less than thrilled when they picked him up, but they relented when they saw just how much Patrick wanted to pursue this. In hindsight this may not have been the best idea they ever had, as Patrick took his grandfather's words to heart.
For the first couple of months after he returned he did what he could to practice, which mainly involved walking for several miles to reach a secluded area. Obviously this place of solitude couldn't last forever, after all when do things ever remain peaceful for talented individuals. One day while he was practicing he was approached by a group of well armed men, well armed to him at least. In reality they just had a few pieces of heavily outdated weaponry. Compared to his hunting rifle though they seemed liked cutting edge technology. The group spoke to him for a while, complimenting his shooting, asking how he found the area, etc. After thirty minutes had passed by they offered him a chance to join their group, promising him not only better practice but a better rifle as well. Remembering his grandfather's words he eagerly agreed. And so at the age of 14 he joined up with a militia group.
He spent the next six years of his life with them. At first all he really did was practice, which was all anyone in the group did except a few members. It wasn't until a year into his stay with them that he made his first kill. They didn't even have to fed him any lines to convince him, he had known for a few months now that the only purpose for his talent would be death. The next five years passed in a blur of pink mist, however as time went on he started to get bored of the group. He had never believed their ideology, and he felt like he was stalling with the small time "missions" he was sent on. He couldn't leave though, not until he knew what the next step would be. Fortunately for him this information was given to him when he overheard a conversation between two of the other members. They were discussing the possibility that they would hire a mercenary for their next job. With the first step of his plan given to him, he quickly began to work out the rest. It really was simple enough, when the mercenary came he made sure that he was practicing, and just like six years ago with the militia group he caught the man's attention. They spoke at length for a while, with Patrick voicing his desire to leave the group and strike out on his own. Despite the nature of his business, it wouldn't make sense for a merc to want to help out an aspiring one as that meant fewer contracts for him, the mercenary agreed to help Patrick establish himself with a few contracts. He wanted to get out of the business anyway and figured he may as well help the young man out. As soon as the merc completed the job for the militia group the two disappeared into the night.
There isn't much to be said about the nine years Patrick spent as a gun for hire. He killed a lot of people, made a lot of money, earned the name The Celtic Sniper, and established connections among arms dealers and the black market. While many of his contracts were given to him by individuals he was hired more than once by the Irish Government, and they are the one who decided he should join the Champions shortly after the formation of the group. While it would have been very easy for them to strong arm him, which would have been detrimental to their health, they found they didn't need to. Patrick was more than willing to join the group, seeing it as a way to further his skills.
While many of the Champions were hurt, both physically and via the media, due to the Nagoya incident Patrick got through relatively unscathed. He was far from the scene of devastation given his long range, and while he killed quite a few people that day none of them were civilians. However with the intense scrutiny the group would be facing, and the fact that another group was being formed from a few of the former Champions and other miscellaneous supers, he decided it would be best to cut ties with the Champions and join the Splinter group.
Special Notes: |
44,557 | 1,215 | 6 | 2,031 | 6,415 | (Picture)
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"Cypress it is important that you resist responding to negative questions in too much detail because those that ask them are fishing for a debate. They will seek to ignore the logic of........." said the Canadian Ambassador displaying the level of anxiety she was feeling by verbal repetition.
The Embassy was a safe haven located in Akasaka which translated to mean the Red Slope a beautiful area of the district of Minato Tokyo and could have lulled a less committed member of the government into pretending Nagoya never happened.
As appealing as such thoughts were she couldn't give into such emotional trickery or simply give up and run away as had other Champions. No she was better than that, she faced trouble head-on without a flinch and even though not present accepted the responsibility because she was more than that; Cypress was a Champion.
She had done over seven press conferences and three talk shows. She had been called murderer and even weathered a storm of thrown objects when one of those press conferences had turned into a riot.
She could have dispersed the mob by a simple application of her ability spread over a wide area; it's difficult to throw even a small coin when your feet lose all tracttion.
Cy had endured it so that those less durable could escape with as little trouble as possible.
Then her reverie was broken as she heard Silver Glove call out "Mesdames et Messieurs, this is Gant d'Argent speaking. It seems an old friend of ours has broken custody and is planning to go on another rampage. Tinhead Ned again, loose in Australia. Now, I can only speak for myself, but I have better things to do than answer questions. We are superheroes, no?
Let's go be super. Our jet is waiting at the airport.”
Turning to the Ambassador the Platinum blonde said
"Sorry to interrupt but the Australians have signaled a need for the Champions and I must go.
Please excuse my absence in this hour and you have my word I shall return in all haste barring any farther deployment"
The Ambassador sighed looking into Cy's eyes showing her anxiety found this event as a major loss.
Saluting the Ambassador Cypress then headed out the doors finding it difficult to refrain from skating out of the building. Then the moment her feet touched the pavement outside she leaned forward into a classic speed skater's stance and accelerated instantly to her top safe speed through the Tokyo streets as she made her way to the Airport. | (Picture)
Birth Name: Cypress Hecate Mara
Alter Ego: Friction
Gender: Female
Age: 22
Country of Operation: Canada / Alberta
Archetype: Metahuman
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Cy is a 6 foot tall platinum blonde with dangerous curves. Her eyes are a blueish green and her face freckled. Her skin is a creamy alabaster and she is usually dressed in a provocative manner her favorite clothing is leather.
Powers/Skills: Friction Manipulation- by imparting her power into any thing she chooses Cypress can manipulate, generate and otherwise control friction, the force resisting the relative motion of solid surfaces, fluid layers, and material elements sliding against each other, ie. whether the contact causes the movement to stop (sticking the targets together) or continue.
By decreasing her skin and clothing's friction Cypress is so slippery that she is able to skid across a flat surface at great speeds her movements resembling more those of an Ice skater than a sprinter Her skin and clothing in this state can even deflect kinetic energy attacks such as bullets, swords, knives or even liquid attacks. If she is caught in a trap or stuck in a bind, Cypress can just slip away unless completely enclosed.
Inertia Manipulation- This ability allows Cypress to manipulate inertia, basically the amount of resistance matter has to a change in motion or stay at rest by increasing, decreasing and/or maintaining it. She can increase object’s inertia causing an immobile object to be even more immovable, or to make a mobile object unstoppable. She can also reduce an object’s inertia, so a normally powerful object, such as a train, could have its course of motion interrupted with the same effort as would be required to stop a bicycle.
Also by manipulating inertia Cypress is able to simulate super strength but only in a horizontal plane.
Example: She could theoretically once she plants her feet push a stranded Super tanker back out to sea but she can only lift 250 pounds over her head.
(Limitations- to exercise her inertia control on objects other than her own person requires that Cypress herself come to a stop and make herself a stationary target.)
Skills: Hockey, Parkor, Computer programing, Hacking, Kenjutsu an Akido
Equipment/Resources: Weapons: 6 Throwing knives 2 Tanto
Gear: Tech ruggedized Cell phone
Biography: Born to a dead mother in the aftermath of a gulf coast hurricane. That flooded her entire town Cypress was barely alive and would have died except that her father a Swedish merchant sailor like any parent refused to allow it. Then as the storm raged around them he named her Cypress after the tree they found refuge in.
While the storm raged for about six hours the tidal surge pulled father and daughter out to sea where they drifted without hope. They were finally rescued three days after she was born by the Coast Guard. The men aboard the Coast Guard Cutter thought her survival a miracle and lavished her with attention.
Her father clung to life five days after the rescue but then like her mother and 78 members of the community she was from died of chemical poisoning.
An orphan Cypress was remanded over to her mother's family in Alberta where she went to live. What should have been the beginning of a beautiful story was anything but as her family neglected her and only kept her around as a way to collect on her father's pension. Eventually due to their neglect Cypress fell ill and had to be taken to the hospital where the authorities took her from them.
She was then raised in a children's group home where at the age of 11 she began demonstrating powers and was taken to Project Orchid Canada's Meta program with the eventual purpose that she become a Champion.
Her training was intense but focused more athletics at an early age than combat it being thought of as unethical to subject a minor to such. Akido and Kenjutsu were also more competitive sport style than full fledged combat and her training in Hockey to hone her movement. Later when she was 16 the project focused on the more aggressive styles of her martial arts and the power moves of Hockey.
While they trained her to use her body the project also saw to her schooling knowing that a well rounded schooling benefited their ends as well. She excelled in classroom studies especially in the field of computers developing the ability to make an excellent hacker and or computer programmer.
It was because she was finishing a project at the project that Friction avoided attend the meeting at Nagoya and thus escaped the direct guilt of those that had attended. Cy could use her location during the incident as and excuse but chose not to by appearing on CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and offering her country's sympathy to the people of Japan but her own apology as well.
Special Notes: Because of the Nagoya Incident Cypress has vowed to atone for all the damage done by becoming the most skilled at power use ever known so that no civilian shall ever suffer for her mistakes. To accomplish her goal she trains constantly honing her power use to a razor sharp edge.
She appears on children's shows, does interviews and service announcements.
She has no secret identity living on Canadian military or Mounted Police bases. |
44,558 | 1,215 | 7 | 682 | 1,490 | Sir Lancelot Kilgarrah Du Lac, The Dragon Knight
The peaceful meadows of a European sacred grove was Lancelot's favorite places to rest. Or at least it was until someone had destroyed it, burning it to the ground and leaving it as a desolate, firey crater. "Bloody Hell Kilgarrah, I know I already scolded you for burning this meadow..." The knight started as he was training with a burnt stuffed dummy, landing various physical blows across its body with armored jolts of legs, elbows, and punches. In between attacking the dummy, he continued. "But if were going to be 'heroes' we need to cut back on the destruction. I thought Nagoya had taught us to be careful when we use our abilities. And you wonder why I don't let you have your freedom."
There was a silence between beating the dummy. Lancelot was holding back strength, so as to not ruin the dummy so quickly so he could focus on more so the skill and technique of his blows rather then its raw power. This was a necessary shift in play, as he needed to learn how to control his strength. The nature of his laid back attacks seemed to shift away though as he began arguing with himself. "Like were the only ones that caused trouble. Cosmic boy over there did a plenty on em to you know" With each change in stance of his argument towards himself, his method of attacking changed against the training dummy. "That isn't the point, Kilgarrah. I made a contract with you to reclaim my honor and redeem my sin, yet here I am again destroying something else as well!" A solid punch cleaved the head off of the test dummy. "You?! The correct terminology is we, fool, we are one now. And I gave you that contract so I can be FREE." His voice shook the earth beneath him at that point. "My strength has not only been diluted by merging with you, a cost I expected of course, but what I didn't expect is the oh so famous knight of betrayal have a heart. Don't you remember what you did to your "Best Friend?"" Lancelot stressed the last words as if tauntingly, shifting from utter rage into cruel mockery in a single sentence. The expression quickly changed to a different mood of anger and regret. "What I did was inexcusable, but that doesn't make me a-" His voice was cut off as he stopped his attacks against the dummy, his tail showing itself before him. "Monster..." He paused, with a defeated tone. "Were supposed to be one, we cannot be if we are on different stances."
"Kilgarrah, as much as I would love to agree with you, we are not villains, we need to control ourselves. Not just for our reputation, but for the champions."
"You humans are always so 'honorable' it amuses me. I could care less about the race entirely, let their idiocy and fake morales kill them in the end. Why don't we end it faster by burning it all?"
"You had a heart once too Kilgarrah."
"That was before your kind imprisoned me, just like how the world will imprison us for our power."
"But if you listen to me then that won't happen. Kilgarrah you are typically the smarter and more wise half but your stubborn lust for this 'freedom' you speak of is a detriment to everyone else. If I let you take control again I doubt we will be spared again."
"The only reason we lost is because you managed to hold me back."
"Your pride blinds you Kilgarrah, I only stopped you for several moments, and those moments were brief. Admittedly, your stubborn desire for destruction keeps me at bay once I let you go."
"If you worked with me, then nothing would have stopped us."
"Even if that is true, we are here to save them."
"Exactly, were doing them a favor by putting them out of there misery. Look at the world Lancelot, almost everyone is corrupt or too foolish to deserve life." At this point, there was no dummy, just a smoldering crate with stuffing remains of a broken one. "We can't betray them, nor can we betray humanity. So I'm keeping you on a leash from now on, Dragon."
Now Lancelot punched the ground with great force, sending a small tremor and a pillar of fire around him in a fit of temporary rage.
"I thought we agreed we won't be doing this." Lancelot struggled to raise his fist off the ground and lower his temper. That was when he got the call. His out-loud thoughts were broken as they were informed of a criminal in Australia. "Right away, I will be heading there soon." He contacted back the call before having his wings spread apart and take off into the sky, soaring into the air and heading south east. Next destination, Australia. | Birth Name: Sir Lancelot du Lac
Alter Ego: The Dragon Knight
Gender: Male
Age: He appears 27 in his human appearance, but he is as old as the fall of Camelot.
Country of Origin: Camelot
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance:
6'1. Beneath that armor he has snow white skin, blue eyes, messy black hair, and a strong yet somewhat slim build. His wings are bat-like with plated scales and he has a tail barbed to the tip with a spear like hook at the end.
Strength: Lift 10 tons
Speed: Mach 1
Firepower: Highest heat production is 855 F, highest blast force about the same as a frag grenade.
Strength: Lift 20 tons.
Speed: Half of mach 1
Firepower: Highest heat production is 1,500 F. Blast force is about the same of 20 dynamite sticks.
Scales are like steel except for underbelly.
Standing at 15 feet tall.
80 feet long, from head to tail.
Strength: Lift 80 tons
Speed: Mach 1 max, only in flight
Firepower: Highest heat production is the same as a nuclear bomb, blast force a fourth of the same bomb
Scales are like titanium except for underbelly.
Powers/Skills: As a dragon, he is immortal against time and has great physical ability. With inhuman levels of strength, speed, endurance, and durability. He can fly with the use of his wings that are present in all forms. He has a great sense of smell, and Vision, his eyes illuminate like dim candles in the dark.
He has an undefined immunity to heat, being completely unable to burn or be damaged by heat in even the most harsh temperatures, molten rock, or theoretical plasma from the sun.
He can create and manipulate flames, but only from using his body as the source for the fire. Meaning that he cannot simply make things spontaneously combust other then himself. This includes breathing fire, igniting his own body, throwing fire balls, etc.
He is skilled with both his lance and straight sword, which he has kept in well condition since the dark ages. He possesses magic that can summon and unsummon his equipment at will, and he has a set of armor and a giant axe for his semi form.
Being cold blooded, he cannot survive well in cold enviorments. He can use his own fire to warm himself but this method exhausts him overtime. Ice based attacks and others of the sort are especially effective against him. Each form is stronger then the last, but has less equipment for his skill with the blade. The scales of both his semi and full dragon form are as strong as steel, except for the belly which have soft vulnerable scutes. The armor in his semi form as a result covers the chest instead of other areas like the back, but his full form, while his strongest form, lacks any sort of additional armor or weaponry.
He can control his semi form well, but he has difficultly in controlling his full form. Since kilgarrah still desires full freedom he often tries to 'take the steering wheel' as it were and go on a draconic rampage, this and even if he had control over kilgarrah, the sheer size and strength is difficult to contain in a city environment without unwanted destruction and damage to the team. And it being difficult to focus on a single enemy. As a result he will only use this form on the rare occasion where it is fitted, such as fighting an army or another giant monster.
Equipment/Resources: Both sets of armor, giant axe, sword, and lance are kept away and summoned by magic at will, and can be usummoned just as fast, rarely will he carry anything else.
Biography: Many are familiar with Lancelot, best friend to the king and despised for his betrayal. Though none of the stories tell of Lancelot's true fate or the fall of Camelot. Another popular figure of the story, Kilgarrah, describes as one of the strongest dragons of the time and kept sealed under the castle, had spoken to Lancelot not long after Merlin had denied kilgarrah his plans of freedom. Lancelot was lead to kilgarrah chamber, and promised him power and glory in exchange to forming a pact with the dragon. This pact would lock their souls as one, allowing kilgarrah to escape his prison and Lancelot to gain the power he seeks to reclaim his honor. It was no suprise to see Lancelot accept this offer, much to kilgarrah's expectations. And so the dragon knight was born. What happened next, not even Lancelot himself truly remembers. As it was centuries ago. But the kingdom fell in combination to destructive forces and the dragon knight himself seeking vengence for his exile. Afterwards, as the supernatural seemed to start to disappear and hibernate from the world. So did Lancelot, who no longer had a purpose in life and simply fell into slumber beneath the buried ruins of Camelot. Then near recent times, the arrival of heroes, kilgarrah awoken, and had discovered a brand new world before him. With the rise of heroes and villains, Lancelot now saw a chance to truly reclaim his name and redeem his previous villainy. He joined the champions in a heart beat and in exchanges displayed his destructive power against the enemy, though this resulted much in unintentional civilian destruction which did help tarter their good name. When the team had splintered off, kilgarrah stayed as to not abandon the team he sided with, both from guilt of Camelot, and an optimistic pride in reclaiming the good name of the team.
Special Notes: Being two people at once, while he refers to himself as Lancelot, kilgarrah is still just as active in his being, and at times he may have fits of rage, greed, or prideful boasts fit for his draconic lineage. |
44,559 | 1,215 | 8 | 167 | 65 | A smell of uncleanliness finally pierced Mina's senses, reminding her that she still existed. She had shut down since the event, a haze still clouding her mind where a thick fog had once settled, a subconscious defense against the chaos and destruction that tried to tunnel in through her pupils and rupture her mind. She didn't think about it much and didn't want to, but the recent memories always threatened to blast through the fog, making themselves loud and clear when her mental defenses were lowered in her attempts to sleep. But at the moment she was awake, wandering through the haze without anywhere to go. The smell of grubbiness brought her back, reminding her that she hadn't changed her clothes or washed anything since the incident.
She went to the small, dimly-lit washroom that came with her hotel room and looked into the mirror. The beige wall, punctured by a vague three-dimensional outline of a robed human, faced her back. She wasn't sure when she last saw the colour of her skin and the subtle wrinkles developing on her still-youthful face, but she guessed it was the morning of the summit. She wondered how she looked now. Haggard, she supposed. Probably with bags under drooping eyes and more pronounced lines in her face. Her appearance felt vulnerable to distress and melancholy; it wasn't all invincible and resilient like Cypress' face.
Oh, perfect Cypress. The young, gorgeous superhero with a perfect face and a body fit for a Victoria's Secret catalogue. Mina's jealousy blossomed as quickly as their friendship had when they worked together on missions in Canada. Fueled by an obsessive frustration from learning that Cypress still supported that embarrassment of an organization, the Champions, Mina had watched every one of her press conferences and talk show appearances with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Cypress probably thought she was all high and mighty, thinking she knew everything about Nagoya and speaking for the Champions even though she wasn't even there. Of course she didn't fear the abuse probably directed at her, with her beauty and strength and powers and all that.
Mina recoiled from the mirror as if she could see her comparatively ordinary face. She stripped off her uniform and tossed it into her laundry basket, seeing it revert to its green colour out of the corner of her eye. She didn't bother avoiding sight of the mirror as she walked past it into the bathtub, her skin still wearing beige camouflage. She closed the shower curtain out of habit and turned on the water, a mild lightness taking over her body, as if the dirt and sweat the warm water flushed away had been weighing her down. She squeezed an excessive amount of shampoo into her hand and lathered up her hair, undoing the braid she had forgotten to let free before the shower. She didn't put any effort into flushing the product out, simply standing under the shower with her eyes closed, focused on the feeling of the soothing droplets rolling down her skin.
By the time Mina opened the shower curtain, the mirror was completely fogged up and the air felt as damp as her skin. She dried her hair with the hairdryer on the wall and then, still without putting on clothes, she went and lay on her stomach on the bed, her head turned to the side so she could breathe. The light was flashing on the earpiece she had taken off and laid on the beside table within arm's reach. Choosing not to ignore it this time, she took it and shoved it into her ear. Red Jack's voice sounded in mid-speech. "-On the loose. And I'm sure we're all itching for some action. The Cochran family jet is at the airport. If you want in on this, meet me there. We leave within the hour."
Mina didn't even care what the situation was anymore. She was itching for some action, and maybe her new superhero group could do some good, negate some of the damage the Champions had done. She rolled off the bed, put on some clean clothes, and shoved extra clothes and some toiletries into a duffle bag. She made sure she remembered where the airport was, and then remembered her soiled uniform. Hopefully, wherever she was going, she would get the chance to wash it. | Birth Name: Mina Galanos
Alter Ego: The Chameleon
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Country of Origin: Canada (Rocky Mountains)
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance:
Mina has a slender figure and stands at 5'5" tall. Her natural eye colour is green. Her natural hair colour is mouse brown, but she dyes it green to match her eyes. Her uniform is a green cloak that drapes over her head, being a functional representation of a green screen.
Powers/Skills: Like chameleons, Mina can change colours to camouflage with her surroundings. She has layers of colour pigments in her skin that can activate to change her colouring into a variety of patterns, which she can control at will. This extends to her uniform as well; her uniform senses the pigment activity and changes in accordance. This does not work with regular clothes. Although her camouflaging isn't exact, different parts of her body can change colour and pattern to match the general colour of the background, which is usually good enough if she doesn't draw attention to herself.
Mina's chameleon blood makes it easy for her to learn languages. She uses English in her operations in Canada, but is also fluent at speaking the animal language. She can learn the meaning of any animal's sounds, and can imitate these sounds to talk to them in return. Thanks to this power, she has made many animal friends who help her spy and bring her information.
Unfortunately, her aptitude at language takes away from her ability to read behaviour. Only with practice has she managed to grasp using day-to-day facial expressions and reading basic emotions and gestures. She is prone to misinterpreting anything deeper than a false smile and anything more subtle than a furrowed brow.
Equipment/Resources: When Mina is operating, she wears a green cloak that changes colour in response to the pigments in her skin. She also works alongside a number of animals. She is unable to be in touch with them at all times, but they gather to meet every day in the same secret spot to share information, and she often runs into them anyways when they are working nearby.
Biography: Mina was born and raised in a lakeside town in the Rocky Mountains of Canada. Born in their house with the help of a special doctor, Mina's skin was changing colour, although barely noticeable, from the moment she was born. Throughout her childhood, she went to a private laboratory to learn to control her powers and be studied by scientists. She was quickly given the nickname "The Chameleon". Living in the relative wilderness of the mountains, she realized that she could talk to animals, and befriended the deer colony that lived in the forest. She grew up a confused child, constantly being told by the scientists to never reveal her abilities, and wondering why the lives of the other children seemed so different from hers and so similar to each others.
Her parents never spoke much of their past, but in the lab she heard talk of an African legend of Bantu mythology. When God created man, he sent a chameleon to tell man of eternal life. However, upset by the actions of the humans, God sent a lizard to tell man that he would die. Left to roam the earth as a failure, the chameleon tried to integrate with the human population through... let's just say, other ways, before giving up and colonizing as its own species. She was likely a descendant of this chameleon.
She tried to use camouflage to get information, but the scientists were always on the same page as her. She did manage to learn about the pigments in her skin, and gained an interest in Biology. She also learned that her mother had the same camouflaging abilities as her, both her parents used to work for a spy agency in Spain, and her parents had to escape to Canada. Mina got used to the scientists' secretiveness and distance, but never felt that friendly a relationship with any of them.
After high school, Mina went to university and got a Master's degree in Biology. Before she could pursue a PhD, her lab was recruited into the Champions to study the powers of the superheroes involved. Curious about the lab's plans, she asked if she could help in any way. The principal investigator, Dr. Paules, said yes. He told her about the Champion's goal of worldwide justice and said they could use a spy, and that he would put in a good word for her. Mina hardly knew what he meant and how she could help, but she readily agreed.
At age 26, she was recruited into the Champions and tasked to spy on criminals and evil organizations. She was given a cloak by the lab, a product of years of studying her, that could respond to and emulate her skin's colour changes. It was during her time as a Champion that she realized her talent of learning languages, picking up the language of wherever they sent her with relative ease. She also discovered the severity of her inability to read emotions, which hadn't been so much of a disadvantage before. She focused her energy solely on relaying information the way she had received it, letting others do all the interpreting.
Mina was present at the Nagoya event. She witnessed, mostly in fearful camouflage, the chaos that ensued as everything went wrong. But it wasn't the nationwide chaos that triggered her distrust. She couldn't believe the internal conflict that occurred among the Champions, along with the humiliation of being associated with them and fear for her own safety. Her distrust in the Champions was amplified by the bashing from the press. She jumped at the opportunity to leave the Champions and start an independent superhero team.
Special Notes: People often misjudge Mina to be stupid and shallow because she may respond inappropriately to social situations, which has caused Mina to lose confidence in her ability to read people. Because of this, she prefers to play the role of a tube, connecting people with source information without it being changed or biased by misinterpretation. However, provided the facts, Mina can prove to be insightful, observant, and creative. |
44,560 | 1,215 | 9 | 935 | 1,919 | Prototype 2
He had laughed.
He had laughed loudly upon first hearing the news, both amused and appalled that his predictions came true. Those unsanctioned and unregulated vigilantes botched up bad leaving numerous casualties? How could anyone see that one coming? He had not expected such a thing as this Nagoya event to happen so early however; he had expected a lot more time before actually having to activate his project. While just barely out of the testing phase, he wasn't concerned. After all, a live field test under real conditions could prove valuable in furthering Project Tlamunus.
***
7 days was plenty of time.
Time for sightseeing, getting to know the locals, and maybe even getting in touch with the local Yakuza.
The rather seedy hotel she was staying in seemed to have more cockroaches than humans living in it; the dresser had some kind of stain on it, the sink didn't work quite right, and she was very sure the bathroom had some sort of ritual done it in not long ago. But she was not here for a vacation. She was here, to wipe out those supers once and for all. After all, she, Prototype 2, was the sole combat operative of Project Tlamunus.
Having managed to actually get into Japan undetected, she was made to stay in this hotel while he, Maxwell, gathered what information he could. There were conflicting information on what happened in that incident, and they weren't always coherent, but Maxwell did find out what their method of transport was. It was easy enough considering they weren't trying to hide anything when they came in. Unfortunately, Prototype was unable to take any sort of direct action against them right now. Key word being direct.
"We won't be targeting the heroes. Not yet. Are you ready for the operation"
She adjusted the cap and the rather loose fitting clothes she wore over her armor. The helmet remained inactive, for now. With a last check over her equipment, she slung the bag over her shoulders. "Ready."
They will move very soon. The news of the Australian villain would soon spur those 'Champions' into action. The window of opportunity won't be big, but at least it was there. | Birth Name: -
Alter Ego: Prototype 2
Gender: Female
Age: 2
Country of Origin: Russia
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Undecided, for now at least.
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: She is, for all intents and purposes, a super soldier designed to fight on even turf with other supers. As such she has enhanced strength, speed, and constitution, as well as her rigorous training, both VR and real. While those would easily enable her to overpower any normal humans, her abilities was hardly on par with any real supers with those abilities; she needs her tools and weapons to actually be able to fight efficiently.
Equipment/Resources: Her usual carry is a reinforced rifle and a small pistol, both of engineered to have a surprising amount of power behind their shots. As such, normal humans can't use them well. The still experimental light reactive powered armor she usually wears is almost always present, though it may take different forms depending on whether the old man cooked up another new version or not. It has way better protection than most armors of modern designs as well as being airtight, though obviously anything larger than .50 cal round would obliterate it immediately.
There are other, more specialized equipments in the old man's base, though obviously she can't carry them all. All of them are unnamed, as the old man did not have any sort of plan of selling them at the moment.
Biography: Maxwell Donovan was always wary of the Champions. They were wild, uncontrolled, and unsupervised, operating without laws. Having them being able to operate without limits was a mistake. How many people have been extorted in the name of justice? How many died in their fights? How much of those was actually reported by the media?
Praises was showered upon them, but was it out of reverence, or fear?
He was an old man by now; his strength and reflexes had left him long ago. But his mind remained sharp as always, and with that, he made a body that would be strong, fast and agile. He made Prototype 2, to act in his stead. There was a Prototype 1, intended to be the main unit, but the capsule containing it malfunctioned, and the cells within it died. Despite his low expectations, Prototype 2 performed better than he expected.
Sure, it was not as strong as those supers with strength as their abilities, or not as fast as those with that ability, or even have any sort of special abilities like breathing fire or flying. But it did have the ability to think, his tools and his genius mind behind it. Supers weren't all powerful gods after all.
He had kept Prototype 2 secret since he started to work on it 2 years ago, planning to further improve it before actually putting it into live testing, but when the Nagoya incident happened, he decided it was now or never.
Special Notes: |
44,561 | 1,215 | 10 | 2,742 | 43 | Waves crashed onto the overly populated beachhead of Perth, Australia. Children and adults alike ran along the sand, dived into the sea, cooked food and sunbathed to their hearts content. It was the height of Australia's summer, and the height of winter almost everywhere else. Atop his lifeguard outlook, Jim was sat in his chair applying sunscreen to his browned legs.
“Jim, cunt. Stop waxing yer legs and look over there,” ordered Jim’s senior lifeguard.
“Fackin ‘ell Steve, have you always gotta speak to me like that?” replied Jim.
“Shut yer fackin mouth yer blasted baby and do yer fackin job,” snapped Steve.
“Jesus,” muttered Jim as he got out of his seat and waltzed over to the fixed binoculars. He looked over onto the beach and noticed a group of people clammering out of the ocean, seemingly in terror. Jim darted his gaze to the source of the commotion, and could see a floating body.
“Bloody ‘ell steve we’ve got a floater!” Yelled Jim as he hurried down the fixed steel ladders.
“Bloody ‘ell,” echoed Steve as he too hurried behind Jim. The pair ran across the beach at speed, and reached the scene within a few minutes.
“What’s ‘appened?” Demanded Steve as he approached the now amassed crowds of terrified people. Jim dived into the ocean and swam out to the body in the hopes of retrieving it.
“We were just out swimming and we saw this body floating, we thought somebody had drowned so we went to help, but we noticed the bleedin thing didn’t have any skin on the noggin, so we scarpered,” a bewildered, middle aged fat man informed Steve.
Jim made his way back to the beach, dragging the corpse with him and laying it down on the wet sand. “Good work Jimbo lad. Now go alert the coastguard and the police would ya? I’ll keep everything under wraps here,” said Steve and Jim obliged, his young heart racing at the thought of recovering a corpse from the ocean. As Jim raced back to the lifeguards outlook, Steve began fanning people away from the scene. “Alright people, give the guy some dignity, move along. Take your kids, they don’t wanna see this, come on, move along!” As he waved, he noticed that the people were not moving, in fact, they seemed to be stood still, almost in shock or fear, “What’s wrong with you folks? Get a move on would y--” Steve was cut off as a hand gripped him by the throat from behind. Steve gasped for air and struggled to claw at the hand to win his freedom.
“Where am I? Who are these gluttoned parasites?” A bold, yet harsh voice boomed into Steve’s ear. Of course, he couldn't answer, with fingers so firmly clamped on his windpipe that he was about to faint. Steve did all he could to try and gasp an answer yet instead went limp and unconscious in the hands of his assailant.
“It’s a monster, everybody run!” came the screams of the congregation. Pandemonium ensued, families, friends and foes alike scrambled for their lives towards the carparks and promenades. The figure from the sea let loose his grip on the now deceased Steve, and left his body to flop unflatteringly to the ground. The figure watched as the people ran, showing no signs of moving.
“They run from me. My children run,” whispered the figure, “They always run.”
Suddenly, sirens could be heard in the distance, their proximity getting closer at every moment. Jim had informed the police of the goings on at the beach step by step. He was horrified to have seen his long time friend Steve killed in such a brutish manner, and hoped the Police would be able to deal with this terrible creature.
Down on the beach, groups of Police officers made their way down, guns in hand, pointed at the figure on the beach. When they were in earshot they began to scream “Freeze!” and other such phrases associated with law enforcement. As they drew nearer the men began to freeze and take caution. They noticed the exposed neck muscles, the lack of skin and the exposed skull of the figure. It became apparent the man was lacking in a penis, also alarming some of the officers due to the uncanniness. A senior officer stepped forwards, his gun pointed squarely at the figure.
“Who are you? Are you one of those meta-humans? Identify yourself!” He almost screamed it, yet the nervousness he was trying to hide was still apparent.
“Hu-man? I am not Hu-man. I am before Hu-mans. I created thee. I begot life on this planet, just like all the others before this. And I shall continue to do so,” replied the figure.
“Identify yourself!” barked the officer, sweat covering his brow and his hands shaking.
“After all these years, my children still do not know me,” said the figure, almost to himself, “I am The Womb, child. The ever living, ever present Womb. I give life that it might die. I create, so it might exist. I am the Lord of this world. I am the Adam and the Eve, the fruit and the tree. I, begat thee,” responded The Womb, his hand stretching out as he spoke.
“What in the fackin hell is this?” muttered an officer, visibly shaken by what he was witnessing.
“Gentleman, lay down your weapons! I must reclaim this world! Join me and we shall triumph,” The Womb clasped his hand tightly as he spoke, emphasising the word “triumph” as he did so.
“Put ‘im down lads!” screamed the senior officer. Within seconds shots rang out all around. .22 caliber rounds and some of slightly heavier duty slammed into The Womb’s flesh, tearing it apart. A gutshot spilled his intestines to the ground, his dark red blood staining the sand. The Womb fell to the ground and the shooting stopped. The Officers stood wiping their brows anticipating a job well done. As they looked around in relief, one of the officers noticed something strange about the corpse. The holes and wounds they’d opened up on The Womb’s body had largely vanished, and the gutshot seemed to be almost sewing itself back to normalcy, as if it hadn’t even happened at all. There was a deafening groan. The source of which was the now flailing body of The Womb. After the groan seemed to have come to a crescendo, The Womb then began to scream in what felt like a mixture of pain, anger and murderous intent.
The officers began to quickly reload their weapons, all of them in disbelief as The Womb rose to it’s feet.
“As much as I create, I too, destroy,” uttered The Womb as he suddenly smashed the ground with his fist. The impact was so hard, the ground around the group was blasted into the air by the tons. It was almost as if an explosion had gone off underneath their feet. The officers were unanimously crippled, every one either critically injured due to falling from height, or buried underneath hundreds of pounds of wet sand. The Womb stood in the center, unphased. His skin covered in dark sand, the grit covering his entire body. He began to walk towards the promenades, calmly and with purpose.
“Times have changed dear Womb. It seems you must acclimatize yourself with this wonderful new world,” he muttered to himself pensively. | Birth Name: Unknown
Alter Ego: The Womb
Gender: Unknown. Has physique of male humanoid, genitalia of a female.
Age: Unknown
Country of Origin: Unknown
Archetype: Supernatural, Metahuman ???
Allegiance: Unaffiliated (though may be persuaded to join a group, may even create his own group)
Appearance:
The Womb stands at around 6’1, with a toned and lithe frame. His body’s skin tone is caramel, perhaps tanned or mixed in ethnicity. From the collarbone up, The Womb’s skin seems to disappear, instead exposed nerves, muscle and veins cling to the bare skull that is his head. He has bulging exposed eyeballs and tiny capillary like veins cover his skull.
He often wears leather biker-like clothing. Though he is also found naked just as often.
Powers/Skills:
Rapid Rejuvenation: The Womb’s molecular structure can reform itself at an extremely rapid rate. This effectively gives him eternal life and has given him a lengthy lifespan. Deep wounds heal and lost limbs can be regenerated within seconds. The effect this has on his biology grants him incredible brute strength, the depths of which have remained untested. The same is true of his reflexes. As his biology is constantly regenerating itself, he has never suffered any loss of potency in terms of his biological structure. His brain cells too have never depleted, meaning that he is particularly intelligent and can retain swathes of information.
He does however have weaknesses. Intense heat or fire can completely destroy his cells, making rejuvenation difficult unless he can extinguish the flames or escape. (Though even his charred bones can rejuvenate back to his original form, though at a highly decreased rate). Intense and sudden pain can still give him Cardiogenic shock, Hypovolemic shock, Hemorrhagic shock or Neurogenic shock and can leave him rendered unconscious; and despite these types of wounds healing, he may still remain unconscious for some time. Although The Womb does not need to breathe in order to remain conscious, drowning can still render him unconscious. If unable to hold his breath in one way or another, a torrent of water to his lungs could again leave him in shock and render him unconscious. Intense cold could also make him brittle or even immobile, and he is highly susceptible to psychic, arcane or magical attacks.
Equipment/Resources: Leather biker clothes, motorbike.
Biography:
The Womb is an oddity. He often claims to be the first being to be created by the universe. A claim that is both crazy and yet hard to dispute. He often speaks of living upon the earth at a time before life existed, and even exclaims that he was in fact the catalyst that brought life to earth. Despite being able to remember swathes of information (like languages, tactics, history etc) he often muddles events in his mind, and it is hard to tell if he is telling the truth, or speaking in deliriums. He considers humanity and everything involved with it his children, and in doing so often uses his abnormal moral compass to “teach” or parent those that he can. In the past he claims to have led nations, cults and armies. All in various attempts at controlling his “children” and bringing about what he would consider peace. However, The Womb is not above killing to achieve his goals. His “go to” form of assault is to preach and gain some kind of following, however, if he is tested or confronted in some way The Womb would gladly smite his enemies to further his agenda. As a “Parent”, he considers his views to be the only way and would do anything to protect them.
The Womb often has periods of exile. When his plans have gone awry, or he simply is sick of humanity and it’s dealings he has been known to walk into the sea and sink to the bottom in a self imposed exile. These can sometimes be for days, decades or even a century. Of course, he often returns and tries again to assert his will on the earth, with varying degrees of success.
Special Notes:
The Womb can speak the vast majority of languages on planet earth. He is also well versed in combat and tactics due to his history in military battles. He is also well versed in politics and leading He may also be aware of any other arcane or immortal type being. Perhaps even crossing paths with them at some point, or just being alive at the time of their peak and hearing of their exploits. The Womb would not be fully aware of Meta-Humans, as I plan on having him emerge from the sea in his first post and learn about them there, and then form an opinion. I don’t want to give away what opinion that might be, but he would definitely approach one of the teams to speak with them and further the plot. |
44,562 | 1,215 | 11 | 637 | 359 | While the rest of the champions remained indoors, dealing with the press and their own grief, Jackson Barnes was outside, training on the hotel's flat rooftop. Truly, there was little else for him to do. He had been out cold virtually as soon as the Nagoyan disaster had begun, and so he had virtually nothing to say to the press. He got the feeling that they weren't much interested in him anyway. They had bigger fish to fry.
That left him mostly alone. After waking up, he had done all that he could to find out about what had happened, how this unbelievable disaster had come to pass. He had seen all of the footage, from every angle, heard all of the stories and later on, the spin. In the end, the endless recountings and recriminations had just exhausted him. After almost a week of going round and round and nowhere, he needed to get his head into something else.
Others among the Champions still found their battle on the screens, he knew. Cypress had left that morning for a studio in Akasaka. He'd given her an encouraging high five on her way out, and in doing so, he had temporarily copied her abilities. Being a jack-of-all-trades who shared other peoples' powers meant that he was not a master of any of them, but he wanted to be at least familiar with some of the powers from people on his team, the ones he'd probably be sharing the most. This morning, it was Friction's turn.
Friction, it turned out, was a very tricky power. Some abilities he copied weren't subtle at all. Super strength, for example, let him hit things harder, and there wasn't much to learn with that. Friction mostly just made him fall on his face. It took a lot of skill to skate along the ground as he had seen Cypress do: it required that he shift the slipperiness of different parts of his feet back and forth with every stride. Too little, and he couldn't accelerate or steer, but too much and he would barely move at all.
The work was difficult, and at times frustrating, but he much preferred it to the fallout of the last week. Here at least, he could feel like he was making some progress. The new skills weren't easy, but with practice and dedication he could master them. Well, perhaps not master them in the hour he had, but at least he could move about some while falling on his face less often. He'd have to come back to this ability some time. It was interesting to work with, to say the least.
Having used up about three quarters of his time borrowing Cypress's abilities, Jackson turned to Inertia. This turned out to be a simpler power to work with, at least in the basics. He enjoyed himself for a few minutes, shoving crates around and controlling their motions with a snap of his fingers.
A pair of crates smacked together, and just as they did Jackson almost missed the sound of his earpiece buzzing into life. He was going home to Australia, it seemed, or at least to Melbourne. Still, even running into a bunch of magpie-loving meatheads would be worth it for being back on home soil, and hearing people speak without that ridiculous half-american accent.
He checked his watch, and saw that he still had about ten minutes before his borrowed power ran out. That should be enough to try some more... practical applications while getting himself to the airport. It was time for him to do something reckless, but potentially very cool if he was able to pull it off. Which he would, probably. Hey, he still needed to blow off some steam.
Jackson backed up against one edge of the roof, and then sprinted for the other side. He planted his feet on the low concrete wall that ran around the edge of the rooftop, and took a flying leap out into the space beyond. Just as he passed beyond the safety of the rooftop, he dialled his own inertia up to the max.
And then he was flying. Well, kind of. He couldn't steer at all, but nonetheless he soared out over the city in the direction of the airport. His inertia was so great and his friction so small that he continued to rise as he flew, almost loosed from the bounds of gravity. Not quite, of course, since he couldn't turn off the force entirely, but as things were it only bent his flight towards the ground very slowly.
His aerial arc took him over and then down through the towering buildings of Nagoya, until he finally approached the ground more than a minute later. He hit the brakes hard, releasing almost all of his inertia and dialling his friction way up. Gravity's effects returned like a load of bricks, but the high-friction air beneath him was just enough to cushion him as he landed in a roll. The momentary heat of it made his skin feel baked and itchy for a second, but as he came up to his feet and the friction drained away, he felt nothing but exhilarated.
He took off again, running down the street past startled pedestrians and drivers alike, before launching into another enhanced jump. He didn't have the skyscraper's height to start this time, but the hop still took him a hundred meters down the street, well over the heads of the other traffic. He continued bounding through the city this way until he reached the airfield, out of breath but grinning like a madman. That had been fantastic, brilliant, thrilling. He could definitely see why some other supers loved flying so much. | Birth Name: Jackson Barnes
Alter Ego: The Jack
Gender: Male
Age: 21
Place of Origin: Sydney, Australia
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: Jackson is able to grant one being the ability to use the superpowers of another for a period of one hour. For this to occur, he must be touching both the donor and the recipient, and aware of the abilities being bestowed.
The ability can work in two modes during the time the change is in effect, either the original donor may continue to use their powers as normal, or, if Jackson chooses, they may be drained of them to fuel the transfer. Only one power set may be bestowed on any being at a time, and any attempts to grant a second will result in thei first being wiped. If the recipient had their own supernatural abilities before the transfer, they may continue to use them as normal. Jackson can choose to bestow powers on himself.
This ability is limed to supernatural and metahuman type abilities. Augmentations and gifts cannot be transferred.
Equipment/Resources: The Jack keeps a number of useful items on the belt of his suit. These include a grappling hook, long-range taser, smoke bomb and syringes filled with anaesthetic to keep villains under control. A pair of goggles lets him see in bright or low light, as well as in infrared, and he uses a staff to defend himself in a meelee.
Biography: Jackson Barnes was born into a family of elven blood, with many of his relatives showing magical abilities. While the reemergence of magic into the world and the rise of heroes is relatively recent, members of the Barnes family have long been using their abilities to help mankind. They had to do it covertly, of course, but nonetheless, their command of magic made them into well-known figures.
Barneses performed miraculous surgeries, multiplied funds for charity, and pulled off super-human feats as detectives, search and rescue personnel and military operatives. To be a Barnes was to be great. Jackson, however, showed no signs of supernatural abilities at all throughout most of his childhood and adolescence.
Being surrounded by supers while being ordinary himself was difficut for Jackson, especially seeing the accolades and glory that were heaped on his relatives. Sure, he got to stand near them at some of the medal ceremonies, but it was frustrating to be constantly shown that he was unlikely to ever achieve anything to match the glory of his lineage.
After finishing school, Jackson was training to pursue a career as an auto machanic when his latent abilities finally showed through (or perhaps he finally discovered how to use them. Truly, he isn’t sure). Jackson was overjoyed at this discovery, and threw himself into super life, eager to prove himself and win glory. When the idea for the Champions was floated, he decided almost immediately to join. A role with the team would both suit his abilities and bring him the recognition he had wanted for so long.
Joining the team wasn’t all that he had hoped it would be. He found it difficult working with many of the members, and then Nagoya happened. That day, he was ill-preapred going into the battle, and was knocked unconscious almost as soon as the fighting broke out, by a cunk of debris thrown up by The Tortoise, no less. He only learned about what had happened after being dragged away and brought around after the fighting was done.
Having been thoroughly humiliated by the experience, The Jack resolved to make a fresh start for himself and the team. Their honour as a group had been tarnished, and they needed to restore that. The first step to accomplishing this goal, in his eyes at least, is to end the Splinter situation, either by bringing back those that turned away from the team and their goals, or by disbanding the other, less principled group. As for Jackson himself, he wants to take a more proactive role in chasing his dreams and seeing justice done. Things may have gone poorly at first, but being a Champion is still an opportunity he dreamed of but never thought he’d actually see.
Personally, Jackson is certainly eager to make his mark, which makes him less cautious than some of the other heroes, at times reaching into headstrong or outright brash behaviour. He’s a snarker, occasionally critical and agrumentative, but only because his heart is in the right place and he wants to see the right thing done.
Special Notes: That’s all for now. |
44,563 | 1,215 | 12 | 307 | 2,322 | ODYSSEUS
It was dark in the room, but he could still see the owl.
It perched at the foot of his hotel room bed. He groaned. Owls were never a good sign. It mean she was close, and he was far too hungover to deal with her today.
The owl, to it's credit, wasn't really paying him any special attention, instead surveying the room with that bug-eyed pomposity that only owls could perfect. Maybe if he just ignored it the damnable thing would just leave of it's own accord. As plans went, it was about as good as he was going to come up with today. Mind made up, he rolled onto his side and endevoured to get a few more hours sleep.
Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, knelt at his bedside. He cursed under his breath, long and obscene.
Usually upon realizing that a vision like Athena was in their bedchambers, most men would be ecstatic. After all, she was possessed of a serene, serious, somewhat aloof, and very classical beauty, one that was entirely becoming of her status as a Goddess. Unfortunately she didn't make those kind of visits, leaving that kind of thing to Aphrodite. No, she only ever came a-visiting just to chastise, like some kind of all-powerful mother-in-law.
"This room stinks." She said, aquiline nose wrinkled in distaste, her voice smooth and measured, soft as silk with just a hint of disappointment to harden it's edges. Seemed she didn't approve of just how far he'd fallen of late. Not that he cared all that much for the approval of Gods these days. That was far to fickle a commodity to try and pin down.
She turned her back on him to cross the room towards the windows, tails of her pure white chiton billowing out behind her. She drew the blinds, showering the room with daylight and earning another curse from the rooms inhabitant.
"Your manners stink. Haven't you ever heard that it's rude to come into a man's room uninvited. He could be doing anything." He grunted in return, pulling the scattered sheets of his bed tight around him. Strange, as Athena had seen him at his worst, all those centuries ago, and yet he still wasn't comfortable showing his nakedness to her. She was the virgin Goddess, after all. Even he held some things sacred.
"Show some respect, Odysseus." Her reprimand was mild, a display of her legendary level-headedness. Zeus would have started hurling lightning bolts by now. Poseidon would have tried to drown him in the toilet. She forced the window open a crack, allowing fresh air to wash away the offending stink.
"I'm a king Athena. We're a famously arrogant sort."
She turned to face him once more, her strong brow furrowed slightly while her full lips curled into a delicate frown. She had long earned a reputation for being the patron of heroes, but he was willing to bet that she regretted that title when it came with the task of having to deal with him.
"A king no longer, in case you had forgotten. Regardless of that, a wise king knows that it behooves even the mighty to show fealty to a Goddess. . . And you were supposed to be the wisest." The owl shrieked angrily at him as if to cement her point. Spineless sycophant.
"Wise no longer." He muttered to himself, though he conceded her the point with slight bow of his head. The mood he was in, it was about as much concession as she likely to get. The Goddess seemed to realize that fact and moved on.
"Olympus grows concerned, Odysseus. This 'Nagoya' incident has angered too many of the humans. They lose faith in you. They lose faith in us. Something must be done, and done soon." She fixed him with her stormcloud-gray eyes, though he couldn't make himself meet her gaze. She knew him too well, better than almost anyone in the history of the world did. Certainly better than he knew himself. Athena had a gift for stripping a man bare, laying aside all the deceits and falsehoods that he presented to the world, until nothing was left of him save his hidden, truthful core. Odysseus couldn't look her in the eyes, because he knew he'd see his reflection in those perfect gray orbs.
And he couldn't stand to see how lost he'd become. Not again.
"You hide in this room." She said, breaking the long silence that had developed between them. Simple. Stark. True.
"I'm not hiding. I'm resting! I've had a busy weak. I was part of a botched operation that collapsed a skyscraper, don't you know!" Feeble excuses, and he knew it. Lying was what he was good at though, and when a man's on the back foot it's always best to fall back on to his strengths. Unfortunately Athena could see through the most tightly woven of deceits with ease. She didn't even bother to acknowledge those particularly weak fibs. Insulting, but not entirely unexpected.
"But it's not this recent calamity that has you retreating from the world." He squirmed uncomfortably. "No. You fear a repetition of events long past. You see this schism between heroes, this division between legends, and you fear you've seen this all happen before. You look at Ulysse Descombes and you see a Hector of the twenty-first century. In Jack Cochran you think Achilles has been reborn. You see ocean waters tainted by the blood of thousands, and far off beaches littered with the tattered corpses of young men snatched before their time." Odysseus' mouth was dry while his hands shook uncontrollably. Athena's voice was hypnotic and commanding, yet she was struggling to make herself heard over the echoes of time-distant screams. God's, even now they sounded so damned close.
"You see Troy." She finished simply. He closed his eye's tight, but that just made things worse, made his memories sharper. He nodded slowly.
"It's all I see now." His voice was leeched of all emotion. At that moment he felt old. So very, very old. He realized then that in all likelihood he was probably the oldest mortal on the planet. It was not a comforting thought. "In Elysium you forget the bad times. In fact you can't even recall them if you try, not that you ever would. Here, now? It's nothing but the bad times. Troy is more than two thousand years past, lost to murky legend. The lessons we learnt there didn't survive our voyage home."
"I can't do it again Athena. No man should have to live through something like that twice."
He fell into silence again, and they sat uncomfortably for a moment. Even the owl seemed unsure of what to say. Odysseus closed his eyes again. He was so tired. Why did the Gods ever have to wake him for this.
A cool, tentative touch upon his hand stirred him from his pensiveness. He looked down and was shocked to see that it was Athena that had reached out to him. The contact had been so unsure, so shy, so self-conscious, so human, that he had thought someone else must have snuck into the room. He looked up to see that the Goddess was watching him intently. When their eyes met a small, almost bashful smile spread across her face. For the briefest of heartbeats they sat like that, man and Goddess. It was one of the most surreal moments of his two lives.
It was with some surprise that he realized it was also one of the most comfortable.
Without warning she ended the contact, withdrawing her hand as quick as if she was snatching it back from a furnace fire, her face molding back into it's usual aloofness. He was overcome with the most profound feeling of loss, and momentarily wondered what it was that he had done wrong, and how he could fix it.
She got back to her feet, rising with an inhuman grace, and crossing once more to the window. She studied the skyline outside. He wondered if she was as amazed with the accomplishments of twenty-first century man as he was, or as a Goddess had she seen it all before. Did Olympus still compare with modern day mans cities?
"I agree, Odysseus. No man should be made to live through a conflict like the one that consumed Troy twice. So I charge you with the tasks of averting this new, looming battle, healing the rift within the champions, and reclaiming the trust of the mortals. I have faith that you can accomplish them all."
She was all business again. Whatever they'd just had, if they'd even had anything, was gone.
"Well, I'm glad one of us still has faith in me." He muttered. He couldn't be sure, but he imagined he glimpsed her loose a quick smile at that one. Maybe she was more human than she let on.
"I do not give tasks to those I feel are unable to achieve them Odysseus. Good luck."
Her owl hooted noisily, and Odysseus turned to bark at it to shut-up.
"And oh, do put some clothes on. It's impolite to sit naked in front of a lady."
"Wh. . . What?" But by the time he looked back to the window she was gone.
Ten minutes later and he'd just gotten out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist when he received Descombes message. Just what his hangover needed, a battle with a super villain. If he didn't know that their existence depended upon the success of his mission then he would have been certain that somebody in Olympus hated him. Well to be fair he knew for a fact that Poseidon hated him, but then who didn't the God of the Seas hate? And besides, a hangover and a super-fight seemed to subtle for the old trident wielder.
There was a knock at his door just as he was belting on his leather kilt. What now? With a sigh he went shirtless to see who was calling. He hoped it was Maeve. He could use some cheering up just now, and the Succubus always knew how to brighten his mood.
To his surprise, and disappointment, it wasn't the shapely Fae who called, but instead a balding Japanese man in a tacky suit escorted by three uniformed police officers. Odysseus didn't like where this was going already. They stood in silence for several moments, until the former King of Ithaka could stand it no longer.
"Well?" he demanded imperiously. The balding man, some sort of beuarocrat if Odysseus had to guess, looked shocked at the short greeting, but quickly recovered himself.
“Mr. . . Odysseus." The little man seemed to struggle with the name. "I am Ogata. I represent the interests of the Minister of Justice. We would be most grateful if you were to accompany us to Tokyo to testify before the Cabinet and Prime Minister about the late unpleasantness.” It sounded like a rehearsed line. Odysseus wondered how many other Champion members had been visited first. How far down the list was a former king? Any position below first would be an insult. He momentarily wished for the halcyon years when a monarch could kick rude messengers into bottomless wells, and damned be the consequences.
Those were the days.
He was about to shoo the irritating little worm away when Athena's words came back to him.
Reclaim the trust of the mortals.
He groaned aloud, imaging the Goddess of Wisdom was probably feeling awfully smug right about then. She was the puppet master, and he could almost feel her tugging at the strings to make him dance.
Gant d'Argent had broadcasted his message to the entire Champions roster. He probably had a crew of heroes eager to get out of Nagoya right now, champing at the bit to get some action and recover their tarnished reputation. Did they really need him?
Probably. Almost certainly, in fact. Somebody needed to keep them all out of trouble. But he had a feeling they were more in need of someone to face this firing line in Tokyo. Someone to answer questions and deflect blame. Who better than him? No one, unfortunately.
Yes Athena, watch me as I caper. Giggle while you can though, because while you pick the tune, Odysseus will pick the dance. And it might not be one to Olympus' liking.
He rubbed at his temple before sighing deeply, theatrically. He was going to regret getting up today.
"Ok, just let me grab my sword."
Ogata's face fell. Odysseus really couldn't have cared less.
He'd long learnt that the best tool for diplomacy was a well sharpened blade. | BIRTH NAME:
Odysseus of Ithaka
ALTER EGO:
N/A
GENDER:
Male
AGE:
Biologically in his late-twenties. Technically a whole lot older.
COUNTRY OF ORIGIN:
Greece, specifically the island of Ithaka.
ARCHETYPE:
Gifted, though he finds himself the pawn of Supernatural beings.
ALLEGIANCE:
The Champions
POWERS/SKILLS:
Damn good at archery, almost preternaturally so, a magnificent knife fighter, and an adept swordsman. A lifetimes experience of fighting foes who are bigger and stronger than he is, having to use his intelligence to supplement his own respectively meagre abilities. Unmatched cunning, with a genius level understanding of human psychology, though he was born centuries before psychology even became a 'thing'.
However he is just a human (to the consternation of the Olympians.) His past successes have made him overconfident, almost to the point of arrogance, as he's usually of the mind that he's the smartest man in the room. While often true, that assumption may one day prove his downfall. As he was an old man when he 'died' he is now an old soul placed into a young man's body, and as such he has trouble controlling his new, youth sharpened passions. Anger and annoyance are forever closer to the surface than he remembers them being before, something that he's still not quite got the hang of controlling yet, throwing of the unflappable cool he remembers cultivating in his past life.
On top of his strengths and weaknesses it should be noted that for Oddie, killing is a last resort, but it is still a resort. While he'd rather diffuse a situation with words and cunning, if it comes down to violence he's jaded enough to realize that sometimes violent altercations end violently, meaning somebody has to die. And he'll be damned if that somebody is him, not before he's finished his divine mission.
Equipment/Resources:
Light armour, forged by Hephaestus. The breastplate is nigh-unbreakable, as are the vambraces and greaves, though his arms, legs and head - as an archer he dislikes wearing helmets - are left bare. On top of that, the armour isn't shock proof, meaning a powerful enough blow, while unable to pierce the metal, could still kill Oddie. Like an egg inside a tin can that is dropped from height, his insides would be scrambled.
His fabled bow, capable of sending an arrow straight through seven axe heads. (the legends might claim it was axe handles, but this was one of the few times that they undersold the reality.) It seems to have weathered the years even better than Odysseus himself, though he suspects the hand of Hephaestus in that miracle.
He wears a quiver of thirty, carbon-steel headed arrows upon his back, along with a kopis sword and a long dagger at his side. He keeps several throwing knives secreted about his person.
Oddie is independently wealthy after some wise investments of his initial gold pieces, and money that his book series have brought him.
He lives in a houseboat, named 'Penelope'.
Biography:
You been living under a rock for the last two thousand-plus years? No? Good, then you know Odysseus' story. The Illiad, the Odyssey, the whole Epic Cycle, it's all true. I wont bore you with the time-worn details, but suffice to say that the King Of Ithaka lived a long and interesting life, had some fairly unique adventures, captured the imaginations of the common man, and died at a ripe old age. At the last he'd figured that the God's of Olympus had finished with him, and that he'd get to while out the rest of eternity in the Elysian Fields, with his beloved Penelope at his side.
How wrong he was.
You see back then the Olympians were the top dogs on the block, with plenty of worshipers making all sorts of prayers, sacrifices, and entreaties to them, which was good because prayer is the currency of the Gods. Since then their fortunes have fallen pretty sharp though, not least because of a little thing called Christianity coming along and blowing them out the water, followed quickly by the apathy towards religion created by modern science in 20th century man.
Zeus and crew are down on their luck these days, but they still dream of the dizzying heights they'd once held, and would do almost anything to get it back. Their latest scheme was to jump onto the 'superhero' bandwagon, and create a masked crusader of their own, one that would inspire the common man to glory the old Gods once more. Zeuz, Poseidon, and Athena convinced the lord Hades – the one God still in ascendancy since people still had to die regardless if they believed in him or not - to help them bring back one of their greatest heroes to serve in the role. Heracles, Perseus, Achilles, any fine demi-god would do.
Unfortunately they got Odysseus.
Zeus was appalled. No mere mortal, regardless of how cunning, would prove equal to the task. He demanded that Hades send the king of Ithaka back to the Elysian Fields, and to fetch him a real hero. It was too late though, as Hades' power was spent, and they'd be forced to wait until he was back to full strength, which could take years.
Athena managed to convince Zeus to allow Odysseus the chance to attempt the task of bringing glory to the God's in the mean time – an act that angered Odysseus himself, as he wanted nothing more than to return to the rest that he'd rightfully earned his first go-round. He argued against it, but arguing against the Goddess of Wisdom is like trying to hold back the tide with a pebble. Eventually he acquiesced, but only after the Olympians agreed to send him back to Elysian when the job was done. He was given boons to help him in his task; light armour forged by Hephastus, a pouch of gold, and his old bow, and told to go an bring glory back to the Gods.
And that's exactly what he set out to do.
His first task was to learn more about this bizarre new world he found himself in, as the Olympian's had neglected to educate him in even the smallest of details about the twentieth century. He nearly had a heart attack upon entering the first modern city he came across. How far man had come! Though he was quick to discover that man's progress was not but an outward deceit hiding his stagnant core when a grubby street dweller tried to rob Oddie upon learning the former King of Ithaka was a clueless immigrant. The attempted robbery ended in bloody fashion for the hapless thief, though the incident reassured Odysseus that he wasn't in such foreign territory after all. Men where still men, even in this new age of wonders.
It took him over two years to learn the major modern languages, then get himself up to speed on both ancient and modern history, though during all that time he prepared himself for his next step. By the time he felt secure enough in his knowledge of this new world to begin actively bringing glory to the Olympians, he'd already set out his entire plan. He would fight 'injustice' like so many other costumed heroes, but instead of toiling away for little recognition and a vague sense of accomplishment like the others, he would instead chronicle his tales, then sell them to the public, all while using his 'novels' to praise the old Gods, while encouraging the public to do likewise.
The plan was a near instant success. Millions of people worldwide lapped up his tales of adventure and heroism, buying his novels by the truck load. True, some more discerning readers realized the works where nothing more than propaganda dressed up as escapist fantasy, but their protestations went largely unheard. Oddie was an overnight sensation, and it surprised no one when, two years later, he was invited to join the newly-formed Champions.
Things went smoothly for the most part. Odysseus proved himself a boon member on dozens of occasions, even if his antiquity-styled morality didn't quite mesh with the softer values of today's heroes. More than once he was pulled up for the barbaric fashion that he dealt with some enemies, though he always stood by his actions and choices.
Before the Nagoya incident, during the planning stage, Odysseus argued against informing the local police and authorities of the Champions sting operation. The more people in the know, he said, the more likely the criminals would learn of the action. His concerns were batted down though, as other members insisted that the local authorities had to be involved, or it would seem that the Champions where overstepping their bounds. As has so often been the case, Oddie was proven right, as when the attack began, it quickly became apparent that the crooks were ready for them. The former king fought like a man possessed, felling several foemen, even mortally wounding a famed super-powered mercenary named Shinigami. It wasn't enough though, and the whole operation ended in disaster.
In the aftermath Oddie refused to help in the clean up, insisting that if his fellows had just listened to him none of this chaos would have transpired, and that if they were so keen to let the proper authorities intervene to begin with, then the proper authorities can handle the clean up. Public perception soured against him considerably in the aftermath of these comments, especially after the media found out just how many bodies where found on the scene with one of his arrows through them, though for once he was too preoccupied to care. Instead his attention fixed upon the new Schism between heroes. He remembered the last time that a rift like that was driven between two groups of remarkable men and women, a rift that led to a war the likes of which was never seen before, or since, and felt his blood run cold at the memory.
For once he doesn't care about his mission from the Gods, nor getting back to his fair Penelope, or his own self-aggrandizement.
Now all he cares about is stopping a war before it has a chance to begin.
Special Notes:
In the last three years Oddie has built up something of a personal rogues gallery. From the classically inspired Steel Siren, Madame Medusa and the Gargantuan Gorgons to the 21st century styled Jack Frost, Tyrannous Hex and Captain Chronos, as well as some familiar faces from Oddie's own past like the seductive sorceress Circe, and the hideous cyclops Polyphemus. On top of that he's cultivated something of a rivalry with Henry Freeman, better known as the hero 'Aegis'. Henry looks down upon what he see's as Oddie's underhand and deceitful tactics, while Oddie believes Henry is a naive idiot who's been given far too much power for his own good. |
44,564 | 1,215 | 13 | 2,465 | 3,264 | Carolle Manor
Yorkshire, England
103 Local Time
The Alice
"An hour until two, Mistress," came Aida's muffled, and ever-present reminder of the time. The Mannequin had no mouth to speak with, but somehow retained the ability to converse, though it was rarely used, present circumstance asides.
Nodding, Charlotte put down her pen and put aside the documents she was working on. She was getting sleepy, in any case, and she could afford putting off some work for later.
But before that . . .
"Aida, switch on the telly for a moment, will you please?" she said, wheeling herself to her cabinet for clothes. She actually had three large screen television sets in her room, but Aida had been with her long enough to know that she meant to turn them all on.
Dutifully, she switched them on and as several news channels came on display, she listened without looking. Back before the "incident" she had already grasped an understanding of the importance of having information, but later on realized how superficial that understanding was. She had only glanced at the news with passing interest, focusing on information that interested or pleased her.
After the death of her parents and her subsequent legal battles to reclaim her inheritance, she understood the true value of processing information. Every small detail could be used to ones advantage, every gen and insight was an asset to your benefit. Since then, she had moved almost all the televisions in her manor to her room, and permanently kept them on the news; one for local, the other two for international.
She listened without really looking, a habit she developed in order to multitask, and hopped into bed. Sleep never came to her easily anymore, so it would be awhile before-
“. . .escaped earlier this afternoon while being transferred to a more secure facility, killing two police officers in the process. Ned Dryden had been imprisoned last year on seventy-three counts of murder committed in an effort to take over the Melbourne underworld. Better known as 'Tinhead Ned', Dryden used several sets of experimental powered armor in order to intimidate gangs and organized crime syndicates into appointing him as their leader. However, the superhero group known as the Champions dismantled his organization in one of their earliest missions.”
Charlotte bolted upright and stared at one TV in particular, eyes wide.
"Red, Spade club cards from ace to ten, Cheshire, Haigha, my room." Issuing a telepathic message to her family, Charlotte shot out of bed, a silently anxious Aida immediately at her side to help her back into her wheelchair.
It took only seconds before her "children", as she called them often, arrived. The first to come was Cheshire, unsurprisingly. The cat could move faster than any of her cars could.
"You rang~?" he meowed in that drawl, sing-song tone he always defaulted to.
"Wait for the others first, Cheshire."
With a bob of his head, the stuffed cat leapt into her lap, and she accepted him easily. Stroking his fur, she waited for the others to arrive.
The next to come were Haigha and the Rats. They swarmed into the room, before assembling in front of her in an uneven line. None of the rats could stand perfectly still, always twitching and moving or scratching themselves. One was even chasing its tail around in circles. Still, all of them gave Charlotte their utmost attention . . . even if it really did not seem like it.
When they spoke, they all did so at near the same time, garbling up their sentences and becoming near unintelligible.
"Here!"
"Hullo!"
"Cookies?"
"Get yer tail off'f me mouth!"
"How 'bout you take yer paws of me foot?!"
"Wheeeeeee!"
"She called us! She called us!"
"That means we're special lads!"
"We're special! We're special!"
Haigha the Hare sighed and ignored her tiny companions. Looking up at Charlotte, and Cheshire on her lap, she tilted her head. "Yes? You called, Missy? Is something the matter? Oh!" Her nose twitched violently with excitement, a quirk of hers that Charlotte could never quite understand. "Is it a mission? I LOVE missions! So exciting, don't you think Cheshire dear?"
"Yes, quite," he drawled.
The Alice giggled, unable to help herself. Her children were so quirky and unbelievably strange that they always livened her spirits when they gathered. Their strange habits and weird attitudes clashed and blended so vividly that it was like looking at a cartoon come to life. They were the only things left in this world that could make her laugh, and she treasured each and every one of them with all her heart.
"She laughed! She laughed!"
"We is funny yes!"
"I'mstillchasingmytailWheeeeeeee!"
"NaiWa!NaiWa!"
"Calm down you louts, we're here to discuss something, not clown around, ain't that right miss?"
A new voice, high pitched, with a strange, echoing quality, came from the doorway. A large teddy bear with a floating sword to its side entered the room, parting the crowd of cat and mice. The large teddy knelt in front of Charlotte, before standing up again.
"You called, Charlotte," his voice rumbled in a smooth baritone. It was not a question, it was a statement of fact, in the same way that his coming here was a natural occurrence. She called, and he came, as natural as the sun following the moon.
"We have an opportunity to make contact," said Charlotte. The heads of everyone in the room looked up at her in surprise, excitement glimmering in their eyes. It was known that her life goal was to see the resurgence of the Champions, and heroism in general, but so far, there had been no chance to make meaningful contact with anyone who could help.
"A villain has recently escaped in Australia, and despite Nagoya, I've no doubt that there will be heroes who will respond to the crisis. In particular, I want you to observe any Champions that respond, and see if their still worthy of the name."
With a nod of understanding, Teddy got up from the ground, and Haigha began bounding around, unable to contain the energy that came with news of a new mission. That brief summary was all that they needed, and they knew the rest. Nothing else had to be said between them.
Before they left, they swarmed Charlotte, burying the solitary girl in hugs and fur, a tradition they all went through whenever they left for some place far from her touch. For her part, she embraced them as if never wanting to let them go, and only reluctantly parted with them after a long moment.
"Good luck," she whispered as they left.
Red the Teddy Knight
Red hated going off on missions like these, because it meant leaving Charlotte. Now he knew she wouldn't be too lonely; Aida would never leave her side, and neither would Jabberwocky, but still, he wished that they didn't have to leave for these missions at all -- Charlotte shouldn't have to concern herself with the games of heroes and villains, and should be spending her days laughing and playing, like she used to.
Unfortunately he, more than anyone else except perhaps Aida, knew how strong Charlotte's convictions were, second only to her sense of justice, and the two were not even close to being mutually exclusive. She had set her sights on revitalizing the world of heroes, and she was not going to stop until she saw it happen, or burnt herself out in the attempt.
"So, you're leaving are you?"
A voice, deeper than humanly possible, resounded menacingly in his ears. Red and the rest of the leaving party looked to the side, where a giant stone dragon began its descent.
Jabberwocky, who was without a doubt the strongest among the Animated, lowered his head towards them. Most of the time, he was a rather arrogant fellow, but he showed respect when Red or Aida was in his presence. He valued their experience as the eldest among them, and recognized that though she never said so out loud or even in her thoughts, they were Charlotte's favorites.
"Yes, perhaps for a week. Look after her while we're gone."
"That is needless to say." Of course it was, but he would ask it anyway, and because Jabberwocky knew why, he didn't take issue with it.
With a nod of approval, Red stalked towards the family's private jet.
His thoughts wandered to the heroes they were tasked to observed. Should they commit the gravest of sins by disappointing Charlotte, then he will not hesitate to uproot their whole organization, until nothing was left of them, with no hope of resurgence. He didn't know how he could do it, or if it was even possible, but he would not stop until it became so. | Birth Name:
Charlotte Lutwidge Carrolle
Alter Ego:
The Alice
Gender:
Female
Age:
12
Country of Origin:
England
Archetype:
Metahuman
Allegiance:
Split/Pending
Appearance:
(Will upload a picture later on)
An average child, if more than attractive for her age. She has wavy light-blonde hair that reaches past her hips and wide, buggy blue eyes. Her face still has traces of baby fat on her heart shaped face. Her lips are pale pink and are rather full. She has a wide forehead that she does not like being pointed out.
On more mundane terms, her intelligence is above average in some aspects, and prodigious in others. She can learn and understand quicker than most, and is flexible in her way in thinking. Her mind is not bent towards mechanical genius, but is sharp it terms of lateral and technical thinking. This allows her to adapt to most situations presented to her, barring things that are directly outside her knowledge or capability to predict.
In simple terms, Charlotte is a psychic, however, her ability, while potent, is focused only in two directions. She has made attempts to widen the variety of her personal skillset, but so far she has been met with little success.
Psychic Disorientation -- Her sub-ability, that allows her to disorient people in a fifteen meter radius of her. The nature of the disorientation is centered solely around not finding her, that is, attempts to approach her with the ability in effect will be forgotten or replaced by an entirely new motivation. Unfortunately, those with strong enough will (or desire) to find her can break the disorientation easily, and will not again be affected.
Permanent Animation -- Charlotte is a psychic in essence, however her most potent ability is the power to give life to inanimate objects. Objects that she's given life to develop sentience and the ability to learn, and moreover are completely devout to her. What makes this ability more than noteworthy, however, is that animated objects gain abilities outside of their original intended function, making their use both varied and dangerous.
Each animated object has a psychic link to Charlotte, and she can hear and see what they do, as well as communicate between themselves. If an Animated is damaged sufficiently enough, it "dies", and even if repaired and animated once again, it will not be the same, meaning the abilities it possess and the memories and skills gained are lost. Also, when an Animated dies the feedback from its death is reflected back to Charlotte, which puts a huge tax on her body and injures her mentally.
There is only one "true" weakness to this ability, however. Charlotte animates objects and a deadly price:
Her life.
Not only is her overall lifespan reduced with each animation, her health suffers an immediate and severe repercussion. The severity of each animation is dependent on the strength she uses during the process; the process also determines how powerful the resulting Animated is.
As of current she has 59 creations, listed here:
Aida - a reanimated clothes mannequin that serves as Charlotte's primary bodyguard and escort, especially when she ventures outside of her demesne. As a combatant, Aida's ability is comparable to that of an extremely well-trained human, added to the fact that she does not feel pain or fatigue. In combat, her main arm is normal rapier, and her sidearm is a Glock 17 custom pistol. Charlotte calls her "Older Sister" when in public, and also serves as her code-name. The eldest of the Animated, and easily the most stoic, along with Red the Teddy Knight.
Red - A giant red teddy bear taller than an average adult, and along with Aida is the most treasured of her companions. Teddy is her Champion that she usually sends forward in case combat is needed, and among her creations is the most seen. He is immune to pain and cannot fatigue like Aida, as well as being immune to fire, and possesses immense physical strength and durability. He can lift and bench-press up to 10 tons of weight, and wears a suit of red armor, and a greatsword that has also been Animated.
The Vorpal Sword - the blade that Red wields. It talks, has sonar vision in an eight meter radius, and can alter it's sharpness; it can make itself practically blunt, or sharp enough to cut through steel like butter. Has a sharp sense of humor and a rather blunt personality. Also very punny. Can levitate, and can levitate its wielder, essentially making it a flying sword.
The Hatter - or, as he prefers to be called, the "Mad Hatter", is an Animated Hat. He is disliked by the other Animated, barring Aida and Red who care for them all, and Haigha, who is his only friend, as his personality is as twisted as the ability he was gifted with: when placed on the head of a weak-willed creature, Hatter can take control of their bodies, leaving them nothing more as puppets, even if he keeps the knowledge and skills of those he controls. He is frequently used to spy for Charlotte amidst the general and unsuspecting populace. He has a second ability to change shape, though this is limited to a kind of hat only.
Dinah & Cheshire - two stuffed toy cats that serve as her scouts. Dinah can sense the presence of living things in a 2 kilometer radius, and is strong enough to pin down a grown man and bite through steel. Cheshire can turn invisible and move faster than a locomotive, as well as mimic voices. Cheshire has photographic memory, and never forgets what he's seen and heard. Dinah primarily communicates with the Champions, while Cheshire is Charlotte's voice for the Splinter group.
Haigha & Weiss - a brown and white stuffed rabbit, respectively. They are Alice's messengers, and the most talkative and active of the bunch. Haigha can discern when a person is lying or telling the truth, while Weiss can teleport short distances.
The Rats - or alternatively called The Deck, are a pack of fifty stuffed rats that serve as Charlotte's spies. They have no abilities asides being able to think and talk.
The Jabberwocky - a massive dragon statue carved from marble, Jabberwocky was originally her fathers favorite statue, before she converted it to life. Fifteen meters from head to tail, and ten meters from each tip of the wing, Jabberwocky never leaves Charlotte's home and serves as the vanguard of her mansions defense. He is the most powerful of her creations and cost her an arm and a leg to breath into life . . . or, to be specific, cost her both her legs and ten years of her life. Jabberwocky can fly, breath ice at sub-zero levels and shoot searing laser beams from his eyes hot enough to melt steel beams, and has the strength to lift over 60 tons in weight. Aggressive and distrusting of others who are not Charlotte, he rarely speaks, and when he does, it is in rhymes and riddles. Jabberwocky is tough, but brittle. While it takes a lot to pierce his armored skin, once it has been pierced, the rest of his body soon crumbles, as befitting his nature as a marble statue.
Inherited literal billions from her parents, as well as the insurance from their deaths. Has access to multiple vehicles (all mundane, though high-quality) and a private jet that she uses for her own purposes. Her home is a good headquarters, and also contains enough information on different heroes and villains to become something of concern, though the information itself is not extensive.
She also has a wheelchair equipped at all times. Because, you know, she can't walk.
Oh, and a hearing aid.
--
The daughter of two metahuman heroes affiliated with the previous, unified, incarnation of the Champions, she was raised full and aware of her parents identities as well as their duties, and expected that she too would become a hero. She loved the idea, and tirelessly sought to puzzle out her ability so as to sooner come to her parents aid in fighting the good fight. Though the Champions, and indeed, the idea of superheroism itself, was still in its founding stage, the idea that people from all over the world would work together to create a better, brighter future appealed to her childish sensibilities. When she got older, she planned to join the Champions and join her parents and save the world alongside them!
The discovery of her ability, however, put her plans to a halt. Upon first realizing that she could animate objects, she had no idea how potent it could be . . . or fatal. Her first companion was Aida, a mannequin she accidentally turned alive while she was out shopping with her mother. Thankfully, her mother covered up the mannequin and it managed to pass as a person, avoiding a potential crisis. Ecstatic at discovering her ability, she tried again, this time with a teddy bear her father had purchased for her, and this time, she put more focus and power into it's animation.
The feedback from the attempt caused her to have a heart-attack, and she collapsed immediately. She woke up in the hospital, to the sight of her parents yelling in concern. What disturbed her most was that she couldn't hear what they were saying. Later on, her hearing recovered, but she permanently lost function of her left ear.
From that point on, her parents forbid her from using her ability, telling her to make due with what she had already. Sullen and also a little scared, she accepted, and resolved to be a hero another way. After all, others became Champions even if they were nothing but regular humans! While she had minor psychic abilities and two awesome sidekicks!
Confident once more in her path in life, she began studying and training in different aspects of heroism, such as fighting, and gathering information, and awesome boasts and one-liners, and cool looking costumes!
It was just a little after she made Red the "incident" happened. An escaped villain was pursued by her parents, and poor intelligence compounded by even poorer planning led to the end of her innocence, the end of her dreams, and the end of her parents. In the end, there weren't even bodies left to bury.
For awhile, she was in a catatonic state. She had lost near everything she held dear. Nothing made sense to her anymore, and for a long time, she did nothing but sit by and watch as more things were taken from her.
People interested in her parents wealth and lands argued over her rights as the inheritor. They were people she knew, even liked; business partners that came over every so often, aunts and uncles that would play with her, older cousins that treated her to candy -- all now squabbling over her parents wealth, using her as a tool to claim it or even forgetting her outright. It was her first betrayal, and it was a painful one. Suddenly, she found herself surrounded on all sides by enemies she'd read about in story books, but unlike the princesses in her fairy tales she had no-one. No prince nor fairy godmother to assist her out of her dilemma.
Some claimed that the wealth should go to this-or-that person/organisation, while others tried to adopt her outright so as to have the money flow to them by proxy of being her guardian. The money-grubbing and greed came to its peak when they turned their eyes to her fathers statue collection.
It was her fathers most prized collection, and he often took her with him to admire them. At the time, she never really understood and appreciated them as he did, and even now she probably does not, but they held memories of her playing with him among the tall and handsome looking statues, memories of a life that could not return, and were one of the last and greatest reminders of his love.
She was not going to allow them to take that away from her.
She made Hatter, Dinah, Cheshire, Haigha, and Weiss in quick succession, and put them to work with the sole purpose of halting every move to steal her inheritance, her memories, and ignore the incoming pain and fatigue that came with the stress of their creation. For a half a year, she struggled with legal cases, using people puppeteered by Hatter and Aida as her proxies to give adult weight to her wishes, and finally, ultimately, succeeded.
The battle for her past life invigorated her, and soon, she fell out of her state of ennui, now alive in the present once more. Now, however, she had no clear direction of where her future lay. Until she happened to see a news report featuring a topic that had been out of her mind as of late: Heroes. They were still around, but splintered now. An incident at Nagoya, Japan, had left her once vaunted heroes as nothing more than shadows of themselves. The Champions were no longer the major body representing heroism, and opinions on heroes themselves were souring rapidly. Another childhood memory corroded by society and tragedy -- but this time, she did not feel helpless.
Recalling her childhood dreams, the image of her parents as heroes she could idolize resurfaced in her mind. Now, she couldn't be the hero she wanted to be, or the hero her parents advised her to be; she had her abilities, and while she had nothing, she also had a lot of things, things that mattered to other people, like money. No, her being a hero was out of the question . . . but she could help.
Over the past few months, she had settled on transforming her home - a mansion and the surrounding lands spanning kilometers wide - into a headquarters, from where she could provide support for herself, and any possible future she wanted to explore. It was easily converted it into a base, a fortress that could support heroes from all sides, and provide refuge if need be. She resolved to send them funds via proxies, so that they couldn't be traced back to her, and the creation of the Deck allowed her to gather information that she could send discreetly to heroes in need of it.
Currently, she has deemed her support necessary for both the Splinters and the Champions, however, she has preference for the Champions in terms of funding and lending of man power, due to their affiliation with her parents. She never shows her face or reveals her identity, always working through proxies and hired hands.
She has taken up the name of her favorite childhood story as her alter-ego:
The Alice.
Special Notes:
Charlotte has a weak heart, and even the slightest strenuous activity can give her a heart-attack.
She has been paralyzed from the waist down.
She is deaf in one ear.
She is not going to quit being a hero any time soon. Not until the Champions are returned to their previous state of glory. |
44,565 | 1,215 | 14 | 1,605 | 1,991 | Jack strolled out of the car in front of the airport. He smiled and waved at his ride, a nice young Japanese couple with red faces and disheveled clothing. It was never hard for Jack to get around anywhere. With a wide grin locked on his face, Jack swaggered his way to the private terminal that held his jet. Unfortunately it also held the Champion's team jet. Jack looked around for any sign of the other team but it looked like he had gotten there first. That was for the better, much less awkward that way. Red Jack took a moment to drink in the sight of his private jet. While both his and the Champion's jets were both modern, sleek, and fast, Jack's was a great deal more flashy. Some would say self-indulgent. The private plane was large, smooth, and pleasing to the eye. Just how he liked it. The white and red color scheme with the bloody helm of his family emblazoned on the side stood out among the other jets on the tarmac. His father and brother rarely used it. Dad liked to use Nether Gates to get around and good 'ol Danny stayed at home most of the time anyway. Jack and his sisters were the ones who liked to go on trips, and he had even brought a few of them over with him. Rosie would have killed him if he left her behind. Of course when Rosie found out, all the girls just had to go. With all their entourages. Thank Oberon that the plane was so damned large.
Luckily, they would all still be busy shopping and partying and deflowering and what not. At least someone had been having a good time while Jack had been stewing in his hotel room. It seemed the flight crew had arrived ahead of him and the plane was pretty much ready to take off, they were just waiting on him and the others. Jack, dressed in his uniform, ascended the stairway to the plane. The interior was just as lavish and lush. Basilisk leather seats, wet bar, and a whole crew of scrumptious male and female flight attendants. Very choice. The pilots, the attendants, all of them had been serving the family since Jack was a child. To a man they were half-bloods, some of them were in their fifties but they looked no older than him. All of them were white of teeth, smooth of skin, and pleasing to the senses. They greeted him warmly and Jack smiled back. He took a seat and grinned at a pale skinned and dark haired girl named Cynthia, "Keep the beer coming dear, I've had Japanese for too long and I need a taste of home." There was a pub back in Shadow Manhattan owned by an alchemist gnome everyone called Hugo. Jack doubted that was his real name but that's what they called him. Hugo was gruff but he knew his beer. Best microbrew in town. Hugo probably would have killed him if he found out that Jack kept his supply on ice though. He was old fashioned like that.
Cynthia came back with one of Hugo's miracles cracked open and Jack took a moderate sip. Ah, Heaven. Jack supposed it was only fitting an alchemist would make such liquid gold. Jack downed the rest of the bottle and Cynthia obligingly took it away and provided him another, "Are you sure you should be drinking? You're going to have a fight aren't you?" Jack nursed this one a bit more and smiled back at her, "I fight better with some alcohol in me. Hmm some music wouldn't be amiss." Jack pushed some buttons on his chair and the top of the line speaker system started playing a quiet ethereal tune. Equal parts melodic and haunting. It was a composition by Aglaope the Siren. Siren song may be dangerous but it was beautiful, and played through artificial means it did not have the same mystical effect. Jack closed his eyes and quietly hummed along, sipping his beer. Something was missing.... ah. Cynthia seemed to read his mind, "Foot rub?" Jack grinned, "If you insist." Cynthia slid off Jack's foot wraps and got to work, her smooth graceful hands massaged his feet skillfully. Red Jack sighed in contentment. A beer, music, a beautiful woman rubbing his feet, this was what he needed. All the tension and trouble didn't go away but it was put out of his mind for a moment. Bliss.
Jack soaked in the pleasure for a few more moments before a buzz from his phone alerted him. He sighed and opened his eyes, opening the notification. His eyebrow arched as he read. Jack pursed his lips and finished his beer, asking another attendant, a nice tall man called Christian to bring him another. And so Jack waited for his team to show up. They couldn't miss the plane. Jack called for grapes from the Summer Court as he waited for his comrades. As his new team came aboard one by one, Jack gave each of them a winning smile and a cheerful greeting, gesturing them all to sit and kick back. He offered drinks and refreshment to each as Cynthia finished her massage and moved to his lap, rubbing his shoulders as he made small talk. When the last person arrived, the stair was wheeled away, the door was pulled up, and the plane began to taxi down the runway.
Jack finished his third beer and the grapes and faithful Cynthia took them away before they all strapped in. Jack glanced out the window as the plane rose. He had a particularly nasty view of the crater from here. Jack turned away and thought of better times as the plane eventually leveled out. His attendants, knowing what he'd want, brought a nice assortment of platters and asked his companions for drink orders. Jack got another beer. He processed alcohol a fair bit better than humans, he'd have to drink a whole lot more for it to be a problem. Jack spoke up to the team, "Alright we have quite a bit of time until we reach Australia. We have time to relax a little, and even make some plans. Tinhead Ned isn't the only problem. There are reports of another killer on the loose. Unknown designation. But witnesses describe the assailant as a talking skeleton. He killed one civilian and severely wounded several police officers. He shows resistance against small arms fire and a possible healing factor as well as super strength. His limits are unknown, so he is not to be underestimated. Assume he is stronger than you and that nothing short of blowing him to bits can stop him. We're possibly dealing with what could be a Revenant but that is purely speculation."
Jack looked them all in the eye, motioning Cynthia back to his lap before continuing, "Now we have a choice. We can go after our old friend Ned. Or we can nip this guy in the bud. Tinhead is a known quantity, and we know almost nothing about this guy. In my opinion that makes him possibly more dangerous. Now we know that the Champions will take Ned to task, but we can't assume that they'll take care of this other guy. I say we stop his rampage before it gets worse. That way we don't trip over the other team's shoes, and we get some recognition for taking down a new powerful murderer. Thoughts? This isn't a dictatorship, I want to hear your opinions. Afterwards we take a simple majority vote about who to go after. I vote new guy." Jack traced a finger along Cynthia's back as he sat back, sipped his beer, and listened to what his team had to say. They were all colorful, strong-willed individuals. No doubt they each had their own two cents to put in. Once a consensus was reached, Jack nodded, their course set as the plane sped to Australia.
"Now, is there anything else any of you would like to discuss? If not, we have some time to ourselves. Ask my crew for anything and they'll try their best to accommodate. Drinks, food, company, anything. Just because we're all under the microscope doesn't mean we can't have fun as friends." | Your character might have decided to show up to help out, or they have a relationship with another character, any reason you think would be appropriate should be fine.
Don't worry about it, the doors always open, and I hope your other games go great!
Same thing with Ekko, there's a ton of options. It's not unrealistic for so many supers to converge on such a huge event.
Awesome! Accepted, go ahead and put her in the CS tab. I'm guessing she came to Japan to support the team?
Also Poly already put me in the tab, but you guys can check out my CS if you missed it. Splinter team, behold your guide and mentor
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with her and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
44,566 | 1,215 | 15 | 374 | 801 | Wilbur's taxi pulled up at the airport, screeching to a halt on the dry tarmac. He emptied a handful of coins and a note into the driver's hand and shoved the door open, heaving himself out and dragging his battered leather suitcase behind him. He'd had the damn thing since he was in his early 30s but he refused to throw it out. The thing had too much sentimental value and besides, it was still a worthy functioning item, so why lose it? Maybe he was just overly sentimental... but not everything in his life had to be high tech even if that was his core and soul.
He bustled his way through the airport, keeping his cap over his eyes in the hopes that no-one would recognise him or stop him for the time being. It seemed unlikely... most knew him for flying around in the steel deathtrap, not for being the short bald man who flew the damn thing. Just the attitude these days, remember the flashy cars but not the drivers.
After a little bit, he was walking across the runway to the private jet he knew belonged to Red Jack. Even if he hadn't known the man personally, the signs were all there. Aesthetically worked all over, highly expensive materials and all for the sake of looking good. Definitely not Wilbur's style, functional over fashionable was always the way he'd made things... but, it was a decent enough model that he could remark upon its technical aspects. It was still a jet, at the end of the day. He hobbled his way up the stairs into the jet itself, dragging his suitcase behind him, action dictating him for the time being.
Once he was on board, he gave Jack a nod of acknowledgement before he took a seat near the window and settled in. He slipped his cap and coat off, putting his bag in the overhead and just settling in as the other members of the Splinter group arrived. Wilbur managed to offer a smile unto each of them as they passed him. He had to be grateful, after all. Even if the few who had chosen to side with them were among the weakest in the Champions to begin with, they had still chosen to abandon them and side with them... he hoped for all of their sakes, they were indeed making the right choices here. It was very comfortable... for all of Jack's flashy nature, he certainly knew comfort and good keeping of ones company. Even the music settled him somewhat, reminding him of a strange combination of Beethoven and static. When you worked with machines as long as Wilbur did, you heard electrical buzzing and static a lot.
"Tea, please. Earl grey. Some biscuits too if you can." Wilbur spoke to one of the servers when they approached, keeping his manners about him. Even now he marvelled at how curious at was, these young looking things being his age and over in some cases. He wasn't much a fan of the big party style kind of gathering... he'd long since grown out of his partying days. He had occasional alcohol, and admittedly he'd had a lot more of it since Nagoya happened, 3 whiskeys in one night. But even so, maybe he just had a simpler idea of what enjoying himself was, even as Red Jack had some pretty looking thing moving all over him like that.
"Both problems have a similar soloution." he spoke up, regarding Jack's suggestions. "A lack of information. We know nothing about where Tinhead's stocks are and we know nothing about this skeletal fellow, we can't really make an informed decision going off of just that." He cleared his throat slightly as he spoke. "I believe we should gather information first before we decide who to pursue. We can still ask about both and ask on whichever lead we can get a better grip on. There's little sense chasing after this skeleton if we can't even find out something about him." | Birth Name: Wilbur Allthorpe
Alter Ego: The Tortoise
Gender: Male
Age: 56
Country of Origin: Birmingham, England.
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Wilbur is a fairly short man at 4'5 and skinny as a rake. He lost his hair in his early 50s and as such, is completley bald. He wears a pair of black thick rimmed square spectacles. Usually he wears a green button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of light brown overalls with simple brown leather shoes and white socks. He also has a black tool belt around his waist.
Powers/Skills:
His greatest ability is the large mechanical exoskeleton shell he pilots, constructed out of titanium, containing multiple energy based booster units for movement and armed to the teeth with weapons including missiles, standard firearms, a flamethrower, an electrical arc cannon, a high powered laser, a small explosive dispenser and a reflector shield. The entire shell can also be used for physical attacks. Wilbur pilots the shell from within, usually using a small visor at the top to watch or ducking inside the shell for stronger attacks. The exoskeleton shell is extremely dense and hard to crack by most forms of attack.
The shell however, has its limits. Without a pilot, it cannot act on its own and is vulnerable. EMP attacks can also disable the shell until Wilbur can get it working again. Additionally, outside of the shell, Wilbur is fairly weak and small and is thus, far more vulnerable and no easier to hurt than an average pedestrian. The shell also runs on a large lithium ion battery pack and should it run out of power or be removed, the shell will cease to function The battery is also more heavily drained by energy projection mechanisms, making the reflector shield and the high powered laser the most energy draining moves. The shell is also not protected from chemical or gas based attacks and whilst the reflector shield protects the shell from almost all forms of damage, it does not protect against force and strong forces will push the shell even with its shield up.
Outside the shell, Wilbur is heavily tech savvy, able to recognise kinds of machinery very quickly, draft up inventions within days and thinking logically around problems. He is also very intelligent and somewhat analytical, using tactics in battle and figuring out the weaknesses of his opponents and using his shell's vast array of tools to strike at them. For Wilbur, every problem just needs the right tool to be solved.
However, outside of his shell, the tortoise is an older man who is not particularly strong or durable, thus, he cannot put up much of a fight without his exoskeleton. He is also untrained in other forms of science such as chemistry and physics, and whilst he is a critical thinker, it means he cannot fight well against unpredictable opponents.
Equipment/Resources: Outside of his shell, Wilbur usually carries around a small tool belt with some replacement batteries, spare parts and a spanner in case he needs to make quick repairs to his shell. He also carries around a small tazer should he ever need to defend himself. He also carries a phone in case of emergencies.
Biography:
Wilbur was born to Martha and Gareth Allthorpe in Birmingham, a pair of experimental weapons mechanics working for the biotech company Zillion Corp. Wilbur enjoyed a fairly upper class childhood with a large sum of money to keep him happy, put into the best high schools and given the best possible schooling that could be afforded. He grew up intelligent if not bullied by the older children, jealous of his wealth and his smarts in class, also by his somewhat meek demeanor and small stature, suffering from his father's short stature.
When he left school, he went on to Cambridge university and graduated with a degree in engineering, going on to work with his parents at Zillion Corp, dedicating his research to a new form of exoskeleton to support someone like him as he continued to be a weak individual. This eventually led him to creating his shell exoskeleton and in practice, it was a huge success. Feeling a surge of pride, he immediately made use of it, patenting the designs for himself and leaving the company before Zillion Corp could mass produce it, a move that was looked down on by his parents.
He outed himself properly as a superhero, calling himself The Tortoise due to the design of his shell and how he had always been mocked as 'hiding in his shell.' He was practical minded, earning donations for his work but keeping a diligent mindset, that he must be careful with his great gift and not abuse it for his own purposes. Eventually he ran across a fellow hero Roger Redbrook, nicknamed the Hare for his incredible speed, dexterity and high jump powers. The two didn't see eye to eye and became rivals, the Hare being optimistic whilst Wilbur was more a pessimist. Their rivalry became incredibly well known across the country and after the pair briefly joined forces in defeating a large crime gang, the pair decided to become a true team.
The Hare and the Tortoise became a notably loved duo in their home country, battling crime and solving problems together. So when the champions initiative came about, they happily joined forces and were among the team's first members. The Tortoise's brilliant mind and gadget wizardry made him an invaluable asset to the team, using inventions to amplify his friends abilities and weaponry, as well as providing analysis and coming up with battle plans for their missions, whilst Hare simply provided a good point man and charming face for the public to love.
The pair were no match for the Nagoya mission, sadly. Hare simply went along with the plans whilst Tortoise was drafting up their movements and using radios to direct them piece by piece. All it took was an unexpected blurt of static to muddle up the plans and their frequency to be discovered before it all went wrong and both Hare and Tortoise were forced into battle. Wilbur panicked amidst all the chaos, unable to analyse or strategise and forced to attack blindly, causing a lot of destruction in his wake. When the dust had settled, The Hare was among the superheroes who were found dead at the scene, crushed under rubble. With his long time partner dead, Wilbur's opinion soured heavily and he became negative toward the idea of the champions continuing with him, choosing to leave for the splinter group as without his partner to balance him out and the outcry against him, he could not act with them anymore.
Special Notes: Some speculate that Hare and Tortoise were once romantically involved, but both have continuously denied this, though rumors circulate regardless, it is a common press hitting point for the pair. He is also among the wanted due to the destruction his shell's tech caused. |
44,567 | 1,215 | 16 | 2,742 | 43 | The Womb slunk around the deserted alleyways of Perth. He had lost any pursuers, not that he had tried. It was as easy as walking away. He had come to know his surroundings as Australia. The land of Criminals and Aborigines. He had visited the place in his past, yet he did not remember it being so Babylonian in scope. Buildings tore into the sky like mighty fingers reaching. They were impressive. As impressive as the Incan pyramids or Tibetan temples. He wondered what it was they represented, if they were used for worship or some other kind of tradition. The sun had begun to touch the horizon, and the skies were turning an eerie blood red in their twilight. As he walked and pondered, he spotted a gruff looking man at the end of the alleyway. He was clad in black leather, spikes adorning the outfit. He had a hooded jacket underneath, and fingerless gloves and boots. He seemed to be meddling with a metal horse of sorts.
“Fackin motor, she’s nearly there, come one,” the man muttered to himself as he bent lower and twiddled at the insides of his vehicle. The Womb approached from behind and stood motionless behind him. After a short while, the man leant back in triumph, “there she is! Good as new. Let start ‘er up,” He stood up and turned to straddle the bike, yet as he did so he was suddenly met with The Womb’s naked form. “Jesus mate, what the fackin ‘ell are you doing? You looking to catch a beating? Where’s yer fackin clothes? Are you drunk?” The man didn’t seem to notice The Womb’s genitalia, or fleshless face; the twilight skewing his vision.
“I am not this Jesus you speak of. I believe you mean Yeshua. He was a good man. He wanted peace. But he worshiped the wrong God,” answered The Womb.
“What the fac--?” The man’s expletive was cut off as the Womb’s hand shot out and gripped the the leather clad brute by the throat. With seeming ease, the Womb gradually lifted the man from his feet, slowly choking him to death. The man kick out, but his kicks did little to nothing to Phase The Womb. Soon enough the man was limp, the only life left in him being the twitching of his nervous system. The Womb threw the body to the ground and began to rifle at its clothes.
“If I am to survive in this world, I must dress accordingly,” muttered The Womb to himself, as he eased off the man’s trousers and jackets. Soon enough, The Womb was suited and booted in the biker's outfit. It was a snug fit, but would work for now. He took the bikers full face helmet and eased it onto his head. He took the bike by the handle bars and sat aboard it’s seat. He fiddled with the controls, trying to figure out how to work the machine. After some time, he found out how to start the engine. As he continued to investigate, he pulled back on the throttle and was suddenly thrust forwards at a high speed. At a good forty miles per hour, The Womb sped out onto the streets of Perth. He swerved and nearly hit a car. Using his enhanced reflexes, he was able to right himself and keep balanced, however he did not know how to slow himself down. He drove on into oncoming traffic, cars veered out of his way as he tried fruitlessly to understand what he was doing. He came to a corner and turned himself into a skid that sent him rolling across the ground and his bike sliding in a sea of sparks further down the road.
The sounds of horns and sirens alerted The Womb. He couldn’t have lawmen approach him again. He had already created enough of a scene in his disoriented state on the beach. He ran to the bike, hoisted it up, and rode it yet again. This time he took it to the side in which others seemed to be driving and found himself in a much better position. He took little notice of road signs or lights, and zipped through the streets at high speed. Using his reflexes, he began to find it easy dodging through traffic, only having to slow at corners. The streets were more or less straight, and were wide. This made things much easier for The Womb. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the city and felt safe once again. He slowed down outside a string of backwater stores. He leant his bike against a nearby lamppost and gazed into a shop window. Inside were many screens with moving pictures. He remembered when these were grainy, soundless spectacles. ENjoyed by the masses with piano accompaniment.
“How far have my children come? These images, they look like portals…” The Womb whispered to himself. He stared into the screens and could make out the faint sounds of speaking.
”...The Champions have been difficult to get hold of after the incident with only limited statements being released. After Nagoya many are wondering if the Champions should be arrested, or hailed as heroes for stopping a dangerous mafioso group. We have Ben Shapiro and Noam Chomsky debating the topic with us here tonight on the Hannity Show on FOX News…” | Birth Name: Unknown
Alter Ego: The Womb
Gender: Unknown. Has physique of male humanoid, genitalia of a female.
Age: Unknown
Country of Origin: Unknown
Archetype: Supernatural, Metahuman ???
Allegiance: Unaffiliated (though may be persuaded to join a group, may even create his own group)
Appearance:
The Womb stands at around 6’1, with a toned and lithe frame. His body’s skin tone is caramel, perhaps tanned or mixed in ethnicity. From the collarbone up, The Womb’s skin seems to disappear, instead exposed nerves, muscle and veins cling to the bare skull that is his head. He has bulging exposed eyeballs and tiny capillary like veins cover his skull.
He often wears leather biker-like clothing. Though he is also found naked just as often.
Powers/Skills:
Rapid Rejuvenation: The Womb’s molecular structure can reform itself at an extremely rapid rate. This effectively gives him eternal life and has given him a lengthy lifespan. Deep wounds heal and lost limbs can be regenerated within seconds. The effect this has on his biology grants him incredible brute strength, the depths of which have remained untested. The same is true of his reflexes. As his biology is constantly regenerating itself, he has never suffered any loss of potency in terms of his biological structure. His brain cells too have never depleted, meaning that he is particularly intelligent and can retain swathes of information.
He does however have weaknesses. Intense heat or fire can completely destroy his cells, making rejuvenation difficult unless he can extinguish the flames or escape. (Though even his charred bones can rejuvenate back to his original form, though at a highly decreased rate). Intense and sudden pain can still give him Cardiogenic shock, Hypovolemic shock, Hemorrhagic shock or Neurogenic shock and can leave him rendered unconscious; and despite these types of wounds healing, he may still remain unconscious for some time. Although The Womb does not need to breathe in order to remain conscious, drowning can still render him unconscious. If unable to hold his breath in one way or another, a torrent of water to his lungs could again leave him in shock and render him unconscious. Intense cold could also make him brittle or even immobile, and he is highly susceptible to psychic, arcane or magical attacks.
Equipment/Resources: Leather biker clothes, motorbike.
Biography:
The Womb is an oddity. He often claims to be the first being to be created by the universe. A claim that is both crazy and yet hard to dispute. He often speaks of living upon the earth at a time before life existed, and even exclaims that he was in fact the catalyst that brought life to earth. Despite being able to remember swathes of information (like languages, tactics, history etc) he often muddles events in his mind, and it is hard to tell if he is telling the truth, or speaking in deliriums. He considers humanity and everything involved with it his children, and in doing so often uses his abnormal moral compass to “teach” or parent those that he can. In the past he claims to have led nations, cults and armies. All in various attempts at controlling his “children” and bringing about what he would consider peace. However, The Womb is not above killing to achieve his goals. His “go to” form of assault is to preach and gain some kind of following, however, if he is tested or confronted in some way The Womb would gladly smite his enemies to further his agenda. As a “Parent”, he considers his views to be the only way and would do anything to protect them.
The Womb often has periods of exile. When his plans have gone awry, or he simply is sick of humanity and it’s dealings he has been known to walk into the sea and sink to the bottom in a self imposed exile. These can sometimes be for days, decades or even a century. Of course, he often returns and tries again to assert his will on the earth, with varying degrees of success.
Special Notes:
The Womb can speak the vast majority of languages on planet earth. He is also well versed in combat and tactics due to his history in military battles. He is also well versed in politics and leading He may also be aware of any other arcane or immortal type being. Perhaps even crossing paths with them at some point, or just being alive at the time of their peak and hearing of their exploits. The Womb would not be fully aware of Meta-Humans, as I plan on having him emerge from the sea in his first post and learn about them there, and then form an opinion. I don’t want to give away what opinion that might be, but he would definitely approach one of the teams to speak with them and further the plot. |
44,568 | 1,215 | 17 | 2,031 | 6,415 | (Picture)
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Cypress came to an instant stop startling the security who upon recovering their wits asked for her autograph an ogled her. She of course complied signing her signature quickly an then blew them a kiss as she sped towards the waiting jet.
Cy knew that people who observed her signing autographs thought she did it as an exercise of Ego and they were only partially correct. Sure she did it for the adulation but she also did it because of public relations an because experience taught her that when dealing with people who could speed up or delay her progress it was easier to sign.
Then as she slid to a stop at the foot of the waiting aircraft's stairs she laughed remembering how much of a fanboy her prime minister had been when she met him. Since that day she had been able to call him on his private line and get his help with a simple request. Also there was the individual popularity index to be considered which her publicist tracked and used to predict Cy's moves in public as a general did her troops.
So it was with such amusing thoughts that the Platinum haired blonde boarded the Champion's jet. | (Picture)
Birth Name: Cypress Hecate Mara
Alter Ego: Friction
Gender: Female
Age: 22
Country of Operation: Canada / Alberta
Archetype: Metahuman
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Cy is a 6 foot tall platinum blonde with dangerous curves. Her eyes are a blueish green and her face freckled. Her skin is a creamy alabaster and she is usually dressed in a provocative manner her favorite clothing is leather.
Powers/Skills: Friction Manipulation- by imparting her power into any thing she chooses Cypress can manipulate, generate and otherwise control friction, the force resisting the relative motion of solid surfaces, fluid layers, and material elements sliding against each other, ie. whether the contact causes the movement to stop (sticking the targets together) or continue.
By decreasing her skin and clothing's friction Cypress is so slippery that she is able to skid across a flat surface at great speeds her movements resembling more those of an Ice skater than a sprinter Her skin and clothing in this state can even deflect kinetic energy attacks such as bullets, swords, knives or even liquid attacks. If she is caught in a trap or stuck in a bind, Cypress can just slip away unless completely enclosed.
Inertia Manipulation- This ability allows Cypress to manipulate inertia, basically the amount of resistance matter has to a change in motion or stay at rest by increasing, decreasing and/or maintaining it. She can increase object’s inertia causing an immobile object to be even more immovable, or to make a mobile object unstoppable. She can also reduce an object’s inertia, so a normally powerful object, such as a train, could have its course of motion interrupted with the same effort as would be required to stop a bicycle.
Also by manipulating inertia Cypress is able to simulate super strength but only in a horizontal plane.
Example: She could theoretically once she plants her feet push a stranded Super tanker back out to sea but she can only lift 250 pounds over her head.
(Limitations- to exercise her inertia control on objects other than her own person requires that Cypress herself come to a stop and make herself a stationary target.)
Skills: Hockey, Parkor, Computer programing, Hacking, Kenjutsu an Akido
Equipment/Resources: Weapons: 6 Throwing knives 2 Tanto
Gear: Tech ruggedized Cell phone
Biography: Born to a dead mother in the aftermath of a gulf coast hurricane. That flooded her entire town Cypress was barely alive and would have died except that her father a Swedish merchant sailor like any parent refused to allow it. Then as the storm raged around them he named her Cypress after the tree they found refuge in.
While the storm raged for about six hours the tidal surge pulled father and daughter out to sea where they drifted without hope. They were finally rescued three days after she was born by the Coast Guard. The men aboard the Coast Guard Cutter thought her survival a miracle and lavished her with attention.
Her father clung to life five days after the rescue but then like her mother and 78 members of the community she was from died of chemical poisoning.
An orphan Cypress was remanded over to her mother's family in Alberta where she went to live. What should have been the beginning of a beautiful story was anything but as her family neglected her and only kept her around as a way to collect on her father's pension. Eventually due to their neglect Cypress fell ill and had to be taken to the hospital where the authorities took her from them.
She was then raised in a children's group home where at the age of 11 she began demonstrating powers and was taken to Project Orchid Canada's Meta program with the eventual purpose that she become a Champion.
Her training was intense but focused more athletics at an early age than combat it being thought of as unethical to subject a minor to such. Akido and Kenjutsu were also more competitive sport style than full fledged combat and her training in Hockey to hone her movement. Later when she was 16 the project focused on the more aggressive styles of her martial arts and the power moves of Hockey.
While they trained her to use her body the project also saw to her schooling knowing that a well rounded schooling benefited their ends as well. She excelled in classroom studies especially in the field of computers developing the ability to make an excellent hacker and or computer programmer.
It was because she was finishing a project at the project that Friction avoided attend the meeting at Nagoya and thus escaped the direct guilt of those that had attended. Cy could use her location during the incident as and excuse but chose not to by appearing on CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and offering her country's sympathy to the people of Japan but her own apology as well.
Special Notes: Because of the Nagoya Incident Cypress has vowed to atone for all the damage done by becoming the most skilled at power use ever known so that no civilian shall ever suffer for her mistakes. To accomplish her goal she trains constantly honing her power use to a razor sharp edge.
She appears on children's shows, does interviews and service announcements.
She has no secret identity living on Canadian military or Mounted Police bases. |
44,569 | 1,215 | 18 | 1,838 | 1,623 | THE CHAMPIONS JET
OVER THE PACIFIC
1831 LOCAL TIME
Interacting with:
"I really cannot thank you enough, Superintendent," Gant d'Argent said into the phone, gratitude plain in his voice. The engines of the plane hummed quietly in the background. "It is truly humbling that there are still people like yourself who believe in our mission. Thank you again for the information. Yes, goodbye. My regards to your wife and children." The Frenchman hung up, sighed theatrically. "Ten gets you one that he's calling Jack right now to share the same information."
He looked over the plane. It was less luxurious and more spartan than that used by the Cochran family, but most importantly it had always got them where they were going. Gant d'Argent felt a brief pang of sadness as he looked over the many empty seats. There was the scratch The Hare had accidentally torn in the upholstery. Gant d'Argent remembered Okyeame playfully teasing him over it. They were both gone now, dead and gone and buried, never to return. So many memories of times gone by.
He forced the thoughts out of his head. There was work to be done. "Alright, team, here's the situation," he said to the group at large. He patched in the satellite-boosted comms so that Launcelot, wherever he was on this planet, could also hear the briefing. A brilliant invention. Wilbur's, to be exact. Pity. They would need his mind going forwards.
"I just got off the phone with our contact in the Australian Federal Police. He has been gracious enough to share a lead with us, though I imagine he will be give the same information to Jack and his people. It seems that a few of Tinhead Ned's old subordinates have come forward and claim one of his caches is located in Andamooka, a little nothing town in the middle of the Outback. It's the closest to Melbourne, where he escaped, so it stands to reason he might try to head there."
The Frenchman shrugged. "However, it seems that a situation is also unfolding in Perth, on the other side of the country. It. . . well, just look," he said, indicating one of the television screens in the cabin to show the skull-headed creature soaking up police bullets and then hurling aside dozens of officers with one blow.
"Now, I think we can deal with either crisis, but we must decide quickly so that the pilot and our knightly friend have time to plot a new course."
"Personally, I vote we stay with our original mission. On to Andamooka and Tinhead Ned. How do all of you feel?" He looked over the cabin, interested to see which way opinion would swing.
OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER
CHIYODA WARD, TOKYO, JAPAN
Interacting with:
Everything about the trip had been rushed. From Ogata's hurried escort to the lobby to the fast drive to the airport to the SDF plane that had whisked Odysseus to Tokyo, all of it had been done with speed and efficiency. Less than three hours later, the King of Ithaka was being shown into the smart, modernist offices that housed the Prime Minister. The numerous armed guards had scowled at the sword, but certain exceptions could be made for royalty.
There had been hardly wait at all outside the meeting room, either, hardly long enough for Ogata to offer tea, before the doors opened and a staffer beckoned Odysseus in.
Walking through the double doors, Odysseus was greeted by nineteen ministers of state and the Prime Minister himself, seated at the head of a long and elegant mahogany table. A long window took up one wall, letting in the early evening sky and a beautiful view of the Diet Building. All stood and bowed softly in deference. "Your Highness," the Prime Minister said. "Thank you for accepting our invitation on such short notice. I trust your journey here was comfortable. Please, be seated."
As the Cabinet took their seats, the Prime Minister motioned for refreshments to be brought. So far, the atmosphere was relaxed. "Does Your Highness have a prepared statement?" the Prime Minister asked politely.
NAGOYA MARRIOTT
NAKAMURA WARD, NAGOYA, JAPAN
Interacting with:
"God Fist," the pleasant voice said in the darkness, as the man stepped out of the shadows. There was no indication of him entering the room- the door and windows remained shut. It was as though he had always been there but only now made himself known.
"Please, don't be frightened," he said. He was a thin man, but muscled and graceful, something like a greyhound. He was dressed in a dark but fashionable suit, and expensive designer sunglasses covered his eyes despite the darkness. His skin was almost luminescent in its paleness, and his styled hair an eye-catching coppery red.
"My name is Reynard. I apologize for startling you," he said gently, with great care and a concilatory gesture that revealed the length and curvature of his fingernails. "I understand what you are feeling. The guilt, the grief, the responsibility. It is good that you feel those things. It means that you are a good person at heart, one who feels the weight of his mistakes, one who wishes to do the right thing. The world may not understand, God Fist, but I do. And so does my employer."
Reynard smiled, and for a brief second God Fist could see the sharp points of his teeth. "Would it be wrong to say you need a friend right now? Someone who understands? My employer can be that friend. And she can show the world who you truly are- a good person who looks out for the rest of us."
Reynard extended a small card to the young man, and the white cardstock seemed to glow in the darkened room. "Visit my employer at your leisure. I understand you fly quite quickly- getting there would be no difficulty at all for you. Or, of course, you could always ride with me," Reynard said with another gentle, affectionate smile. He stood and waited patiently as God Fist deliberated.
The card read:
Lilith Hobs
CEO, Milton Aeronautics
Suite 4400, Rimbaud Tower
Omaha, NE
with contact information below. Reynard looked down at the young man with a faraway smile, awaiting a response. | Birth Name: Ulysse Descombes
Alter Ego: Gant d'Argent/ Silver Glove
Gender: Male
Age: 33
Country of Operation: France (the city of Lille)
Archetype: Gifted
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Ulysse is a heavily muscled Caucasian man standing an even six feet. He has brown eyes and keeps his head shaven (somebody might pull his hair in a fight). His “work outfit” is lightweight and simple- dark blue, tight-fitting cotton trousers and a sleeveless shirt to allow ease of movement. Ulysse formerly wore a mask, but ditched it and made his identity public on joining the Champions. He wears weighted boots and metallic sliver gloves on both hands.
Skills: Gant d'Argent possesses no superhuman abilities of any kind.
However, he is a martial arts expert of some renown. While he is well-trained in several disciplines (including judo, shotokan karate, krav maga, and hapkido) he prefers to fight with savate. In savate, he is one of the world's top practitioners.
His intensive physical training gives him exceptional (but human-level) strength, agility, stamina, and pain tolerance.
Equipment/Resources: Gant d'Argent routinely only carries two (or technically four) weapons, meant solely to augment his martial arts skills. His boots contain lead weights and steel plating in the soles and toes to add force to his kicks, and lead shot in sewn into the knuckles of his gloves to do the same for his punches.
For particularly large battles, he may wear a kevlar vest and steel helmet, though he hates weighing himself down.
Finally, he has a small fortune in savings from his kickboxing days, waiting for a rainy day.
Biography: Ulysse Descombes is not a particularly well-educated man. He focused little on school as a child growing up in Lille, but excelled at athletics. Rather than being a stereotypical musclehead, though, he earnestly believed in sportsmanship, fair play, and an equal chance for everyone. He got into savate as a teenager, and found a sport he was even better at than football, tennis, or any of the others. Savate became his passion in life.
Rather than attend college (much to his family's disappointment) Descombes instead chose to become a professional savatuer, competing as a heavyweight. His diligent hours of training and natural talent were paid off, as he won victory after victory, rapidly gaining the title of Silver Glove: the highest rank and honor in the savate community.
However, there was plenty of seedier stuff in the savate community, underhanded practices that threatened the integrity of the sport and rankled with Ulysse's notions of honor and sportsmanship. Match fixing, doping, illegal gambling- all prevented up-and-comers from having a fair chance at success. Finally, Ulysse had enough. He donned a mask to protect his identity and took it upon himself to clean up the sport, under the name Gant d'Argent- Silver Glove. The steroids dealers, the fixers, the crooked managers- their thugs were given punitive beatings and the bosses chased out of Lille. Ulysse found he enjoyed both the new challenge and the rush of doing good, and soon expanded the scope of Gant d'Argent. Gangs, drug dealers, violent criminals, even a few low-level supervillains soon felt the sting of his fists and feet. He enjoyed a high success rate and national recognition.
When the Champions initiative was announced, he was among the first volunteers, giddy at the prospect of working with his peers. He felt so strongly that he went public with his identity Though the reality was less harmonious than he might have imagined, he still believed firmly that the Champions were a force for the equality and fair play he firmly believed in. He largely ignored the problems within the group, instead remaining mission-focused.
In Nagoya, he initially viewed the operation as just another fight, even when surprise was lost and bullets (and cars, and bolts of energy, and fireballs, and spells) starting flying. In fact, Gant d'Argent was rather enjoying himself, testing his martial arts skills against those of several of the gangsters.
Then the building fell down on top of him.
Miraculously, he only got a few cuts and bruises, not serious injuries. But he was trapped in darkness and unable to move for hours, unsure of what was going on above him, whether his teammates were winning or losing the battle, whether anyone was coming for him. For the first time, Ulysse Descombes felt pure and unrestrained terror. He remembers screaming until he blacked out, and then being lifted from the wreckage by firefighters, only to immediately be put on a plane out of the country. He had to learn from CNN about things that happened six feet above his head.
Gant d'Argent was horrified at the scope of the destruction, but also at the accusations thrown at the Champions. Stubbornly, he still believed in the mission of the Champions even as teammates expressed doubt. He at least had one fact to cling to- the destruction was not his fault personally.
When the walkout happened, Gant d'Argent was one of those who chose to remain behind. He does not regret this choice, and feels that continued service with the Champions will redeem their name and help assuage his recurring nightmares of being buried alive. Not to mention dreams of still worse things.
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with him and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
44,570 | 1,215 | 19 | 1,966 | 2,597 | Nagoya Marriott
Nakamura Ward, Nagoya, Japan . . . .
A pleasant voice spoke from out the darkness, rousing Ara from the heaviness of his heart. The guilt of his misguided deeds.
Being snuck up on was a new feeling for him. He first noticed that his eyes widened with shock before narrowing with anger. In the literal blink of an eye, God Fist had been upon the man; even as he continued his introductions and reassurances.
The modish man held all the grace and form of a taut leopard. He was somewhat similar to himself in regards to build, thought Ara. If only he had a bit more mass around his chest, shoulders, and arms. As he continued to speak, as if aptly reading the flow of his unspoken emotions, the man had driven Ara through a series of expressions. Emotions that he had thought was just a mass of guilt was in truth, several different forms of melancholy.
In the moment it had taken him to realize this, Ara had sunk into a sea of resignation. He reigned in the anger of being intruded on and brought to face his failures gingerly. His eyes flickered to the side and his shoulders became loose as the knocking returned to his door. He made himself ignore it and found that the man's opportunity was looking better than seconds ago. Before long he was lost in thought. The stranger had known his secret identity, and he was just someone lap-dog. If that wasn't weird enough, Ara felt that the man was genuine in his--or his employer's--words.
If for no other reason than to see the encounter through to the end, God Fist quickly dressed into his deep-blue suit and headed towards the sliding-door. With a overly-sensitive touch, he slid it open and still managed to fracture the glass face. Inwardly he winced but maintained his cool as he looked over towards Reynard. The highway of wind flushed his tattered black mantle backwards.
“I’ll… fly.” He was obviously wary of the man. There was a edge to red-haired man that made Ara uncomfortable. Once-upon-a-time that could be said for everything in his past but when his powers came into being and transformed him into the mightiest hero around, those fears had been tossed aside. Now though, that malevolent smile, those pointy teeth that he had spotted in mid-talk, they were trudging his fears back to the surface.
Again, God Fist made a show of his might by leaving him with. “If this is a trap,” his fist clenched at his side. “. . . Let’s just say I’m not in the mood today.
Then with a boom of sound and a maelstrom of wind, his room was tossed asunder in a mess and he was racing through the skies of Japan at Mach ten. He was headed back to the United States. He sighed, the well of dark matter energy inside seemed near empty. Of course overtime he’d come to know the limits of his reservoirs. Ara touched his chest, feeling the air from his lungs leave him.
He still had four hours until his strength was depleted completely and he was forced to break the atmosphere and absorb more energy. | "Jesus! Bro are you really, Starlight? I mean are you really really Mr.Starlight? ... After the fight can I get your autograph?”
Birth Name: Ara Colt Novella
Alter Ego: God Fist
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Country of Origin: America | Chicago
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champion
Appearance: Ara Novella is a half-white half-black teenager with mahogany brown skin. His brown but vivid eyes are clear windows into his genuine heart and all around kind persona. The youth stands at 5’10 and weighs in at 163lbs of mostly sleek muscle. He has a noticeably wiry-like build, thin eyebrows, and a noble powerful face. The hair on his head is loose and long, flowing about the faded bottom stylishly in hues of slate gray.
When acting as God Fist, Ara wears a lightweight, form-fitting dark blue outfit. The suit falls into seamless dark blue boots. On his chest is the symbol of a sharp, edgy, sun that stretches off beneath the clasps of his tatter, black mantle.
Powers/Skills: Ara gained his powers by unknown means one year ago. It was thought that his great-grandfather was a multi-dimensional entity. Thus, God Fist was born. A cosmic-hero who can very well throw down with the best of Earth’s protectors and contend as top hero.
With a Supernaturally Enhanced Physiology, Ara is capable of lifting well over 200 tons and performs feats comparable to this. These powers are technically granted to him due to him having access to the cosmic powers surrounding the earth and inhabiting the universe. Likewise his speed is comparable to blinding, competing with most speedsters. However, the renowned speedsters like Starlight and Grand Prix often trumps him indefinitely. He can catch bullets (though he doesn’t necessarily needs to), fly, think, and react at speeds of mach 10. When in space, for reasons inexplainable, he flies even faster.
God Fist also seems to have a supernaturally enhanced endurance, being capable of taking a beating and getting up to return the pain ten-fold. A weakness of his would have to be his intolerance for pain. While his body can take the punches, Ara often feels the bulk of it. This can often drive him mad and keep him from continuing the fight.
Though it has rarely occurred, it has been suggested that God Fist could use the cosmic radiation he absorbs as some kinetic energy towards his foes. Perhaps his greatest weakness is the illness that sets in if he doesn’t feel the nutrients of the cosmic cloak directly. In other words, Ara has to spend severals hours out in space to feed his body’s needs. Just another necessity that was tacked on to his belt. Along with sleep, normal food, and adequate exercise, he now needs to fill some pocket or vacuum inside himself with dark matter. Without efficient stores of the dark matter, he reverts to his mortality.
Beyond these facts rests a true counter to his godly abilities. A space metal known as Tellurium that can effectively weaken him when in his presence and make him mortal with just a touch. Any weapon, either gas or solid made of this mineral, can and will cause harm. It is a secret that not even Ara himself is aware of, though a few of the Champion's higher ups have conducted experiments to realize this truth.
Equipment/Resources: Nada. . . God Fist needs only himself.
Biography: Ara Novella was born in Oregon but grew up in Chicago. He was a victim of abuse by paternal means and once his mother left his father, they struggled. They lived in the inner-city where gang-violence and police brutality was rampant. Ara avoided the troubles and instead stuck his head in other inane hobbies.
A year before God Fist’s debut was when he started on the path to being a Hero. It was July 4th and patriots were celebrating the birth of America. As Ara was making his way home, gazing at the fireworks, he heard the muffled screams of a woman. At first he ignored it. When got more than half-way down the block his consciousness whipped him into going back.
Novella stumbled onto a rape scene. Two black males had a black woman on her back. He was stunned into submission and later pummeled into submission too. As he laid there, glancing at the bright red, white, and blue firelight; he fought to silence the woman’s pain moans. It was then, that a supernova erupted in his chest, than was smothered out by a black hole. The next moments were a blur. He felt stronger than he had ever been, more monster than man. He knew it to be true when the man shot at him and instead of his chest being ripped open, the bullet simply fell to the ground.
Needless to say he murdered those two men accidentally.
Later on, after denying his powers and deciding to continue his life his dreams became bothersome. Weird pacts with immense, glowing, skinny beings. Symbols written in the forms of literal stars. A legend and legacy in the same instance being fulfilled. Three months or so later and God Fist was discovering himself and his purpose. He was meant to protect the galaxy but he could never leave Earth. It was his home and his love. America soon took notice of this Hero. He was the symbol of the Northern States and soon became one of three names associated with the United States.
The Nagoya Incident was a blunder on his part. He was battling lesser supers than himself and felt, reluctant to hurt anyone. Not to mention when the call came he was nearly drained of his dark matter reserves. He tore a metal beam from the building, not knowing it was a central component to the structure. If not for his exhausted source, he could have saved plenty of people. However, with the situation as such, he was lucky to have escaped with his life.
Afterwards, the politics of it all was lost on him. He remained with the Champions out of loyalty and admiration of the more experienced and leader-esque heroes. Though he is indeed stronger than most, its his inexperience and lack of confidence that more or less has made him subservient to the Champions as a whole.
Special Notes: Young and Inexperienced. Needs to refill on dark matter daily to retain his powers. Is often considered the kid of the group. Is a fairly-new hero whose made a big splash. Unknowing of his true strength he is wry of attacking people without mercy. |
44,571 | 1,215 | 20 | 2,304 | 347 | Interacting with:
Settled in a seat over one of the wings Maeve was content to watch the engines of the jet work for a time. Everyone else who had showed seemed solemn and quiet and so she personally felt like chatting, could read her comrades well enough to know that silence was the best bet for the Succubus to not get labeled as callous and cold.
Oddie was missing so that would have been her only opportunity for normal conversation. He didn’t have reactions the way modern people did.
However as the topic was broached Maeve’s eyes flickered to the TV screens. The Skeleton appeared to be very strong. Slender fingers came up to cradle the Succubus’ face as she considered the problem at hand. Really she’d be doing very little in either situation. Unless she was close enough to influence Neddy she’d be in the back of the action.
Her powers MIGHT work on the skeleton, but then did she particularly WANT that feeling all hot and bothered for her?
Warm brown eyes flickered to Friction, a brow arching, her thoughts apparent on her face. The two women did have a bit of a competition going on about their powers of attraction. Did Friction want to attempt something with the skeleton man?
Maeve instantly broke into a smile (not the best time considering the circumstances) at the thought of the blonde being fondled by the skeleton and brought a hand up to cover her mouth to keep laughter from escaping.
Finally under control again the Succubus murmured “I’ll be happy going either way. The Skeleton looks interesting but he wasn’t the reason we were initially called in… I suppose we should stick to the plan as it were…” | Birth Name: Lydia Renee Isaacs
Alter Ego: Shade
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Country of Operation: U.S.A. Pacific Northwest Region (Northern CA, Nevada, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington State).
Archetype: MetaHuman
Allegiance: Splinter Group. (Never with Champions)
Appearance: Dark hair, kept up. Green eyes. 5'6". 140lb. Because she mainly operates at night, blue/black uniform.
Powers/Skills: Night vision. Enhanced strength and agility in darkness varying on how dark it is. In complete darkness (night time, no light pollution,One night while testing the limitations of her abilities she as able to lift a tractor in Idaho farmlands. She hasn't attempted to lift anything larger than that, and this left her exhausted.)
Equipment/Resources: Various sized throwing knives. Rope. Mist/fog spray.
Biography: Lydia never wanted to be part of the Superhuman world. Her home life wasn't ever picture perfect. Her dad left when she was young. Not long after her school found out about her mother's drug habits and she was placed in the foster care system. She spent most of her life focusing on academics and wishing for a normal life. She had loved a metahuman when she was going to UC Berkeley, Carter as she knew him, who left for the Champions. She had a bad taste for them ever since, then again she has a bad taste for anything that didn't fit into her ideals of normalcy. She discovered her own abilities after walking home from a late night study session and someone attempted to mug her and she accidentally killed him. Her grades began dwindling as she had a temporary psychotic break. She in fact could never achieve normalcy. That was too much to bear. She fled to the farmlands experimenting, discovering how they only seem to be useful in darkness. After she returned When she heard about the Nagoya incident, she knew now was the time to actually start doing things right. For herself. The champions had failed at making the world a safe place for Supers and non-Supers alike, but maybe this new team could. |
44,572 | 1,215 | 21 | 935 | 1,919 | Prototype 2
It was easy enough to stay unnoticed among the crowd in the airport, for the Champions were not looking for Prototype or even knew she existed. Planting what few bombs Maxwell smuggled in with her was easier still, for the security in the airpost was laughably weak. The plan was simple enough, wait for the Champions to come, and either blow up their plane or the airport itself. Blowing up the plane would be significantly harder to do, with a more immediate effect, but Maxwell was loathe to risk his only unit. So all he had to do was get Prototype to blow up the airport using some timed explosives, just a short time after the Champions left. Long enough so the Champions don't notice, but short enough so their jet leaving could feasibly be linked to the explosion. The best part about this plan was that they didn't even need to plan cold hard evidence implicating the Champions; the general public, in its blind hate after the Nagoya incident, would pin the blame almost immediately on the Champions. Once convinced they were right, not even facts and hard evidence could dissuade them.
Prototype however, had something much more important on her mind, though anyone passing by would think she was just spaced out. Having been told to buy a drink from a vending machine so she could blend in, she had initially balked at the thought of drinking something that fizzled when she opened it. After all, who in the right mind would drink something that hissed at them? After some angry words from her implanted earpiece, she braced herself for the taste, and took a sip. It was... far beyond anything she had ever tasted, even better than those delicious packed nutrients Maxwell gave her whenever she did well. It danced upon her tongue like a live thing, and yet tasted clear and sweet. It tasted clear. Those words kept looping in her mind whenever she took another sip of the ambrosial drink.
"All of the Champions should be in that jet now." Maxwell spoke, his voice slightly distorted through the earpiece. "You did plant all four of the explosives and staggered their countdown right?"
"Hmm."
"Press it... now."
The far end of the airport exploded, though only a slightly muffled sound and tremor reached the area she was in. Ten seconds later, another bomb exploded, nearer this time, exploding a small group of people into chunks of limb and flesh.
"Alright, now follow the crowd out, get the plane and I'll see about your next objective."
"Hmm."
With that she ran out with the frenzied crowd, running at their pace, careful not to accidentally show her abilities. There were more parts to his plans, but she was privy to none of them. Already she could hear anguished screams in Japanese, some wondering why this had to happen, some wondering why the Champions did not save them, and some wondering if this was some sort of revenge plot. A volatile crowd, needing only one spark to light them. Just one rumor, to rile them up. That was not her role, there were many among the public, especially now, that would gladly spread rumors and slander.
Now all she had to do, was ensure their efforts in Australia was thwarted. | Birth Name: -
Alter Ego: Prototype 2
Gender: Female
Age: 2
Country of Origin: Russia
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Undecided, for now at least.
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: She is, for all intents and purposes, a super soldier designed to fight on even turf with other supers. As such she has enhanced strength, speed, and constitution, as well as her rigorous training, both VR and real. While those would easily enable her to overpower any normal humans, her abilities was hardly on par with any real supers with those abilities; she needs her tools and weapons to actually be able to fight efficiently.
Equipment/Resources: Her usual carry is a reinforced rifle and a small pistol, both of engineered to have a surprising amount of power behind their shots. As such, normal humans can't use them well. The still experimental light reactive powered armor she usually wears is almost always present, though it may take different forms depending on whether the old man cooked up another new version or not. It has way better protection than most armors of modern designs as well as being airtight, though obviously anything larger than .50 cal round would obliterate it immediately.
There are other, more specialized equipments in the old man's base, though obviously she can't carry them all. All of them are unnamed, as the old man did not have any sort of plan of selling them at the moment.
Biography: Maxwell Donovan was always wary of the Champions. They were wild, uncontrolled, and unsupervised, operating without laws. Having them being able to operate without limits was a mistake. How many people have been extorted in the name of justice? How many died in their fights? How much of those was actually reported by the media?
Praises was showered upon them, but was it out of reverence, or fear?
He was an old man by now; his strength and reflexes had left him long ago. But his mind remained sharp as always, and with that, he made a body that would be strong, fast and agile. He made Prototype 2, to act in his stead. There was a Prototype 1, intended to be the main unit, but the capsule containing it malfunctioned, and the cells within it died. Despite his low expectations, Prototype 2 performed better than he expected.
Sure, it was not as strong as those supers with strength as their abilities, or not as fast as those with that ability, or even have any sort of special abilities like breathing fire or flying. But it did have the ability to think, his tools and his genius mind behind it. Supers weren't all powerful gods after all.
He had kept Prototype 2 secret since he started to work on it 2 years ago, planning to further improve it before actually putting it into live testing, but when the Nagoya incident happened, he decided it was now or never.
Special Notes: |
44,573 | 1,215 | 22 | 637 | 359 | The Jack sat rigidly in his seat, fully suited up but unable to do much for the moment. He tried to weigh times in his head, wondering weather the Champions could beat Ned to Andamooka. The pace was, by his reckoning, 14 hours drive from Melbourne. It was reasonable to expect the villain to get his hands on a car or truck, but probably not something faster. The uncertainty was how long it had taken him to evade pursuit and find himself some transport.
The Champions, on the other hand, could move much more quickly. A flight from Japan to central Australia took about nine hours, but could their private jet go faster? Then there was the question of how long it had been before they had been notified. Ned had slipped his bounds and disappeared before anyone had called the Champions. How much of a head start did he get while the local authorities tried to nab him themselves?
It would be a near thing, he thought. Maybe they could get there first, but it wouldn't be by much.
"I think you're right" Jackson asserted. "We came here to deal with Tinhead Ned. That's what we were asked to do, so that should be our first priority. It doesn't look good for the Champions if we leave that to go and chase after something else. We need to show the world that we can be relied upon and trusted, not rushing off after every shiny thing that crosses our vision." | Birth Name: Jackson Barnes
Alter Ego: The Jack
Gender: Male
Age: 21
Place of Origin: Sydney, Australia
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: Jackson is able to grant one being the ability to use the superpowers of another for a period of one hour. For this to occur, he must be touching both the donor and the recipient, and aware of the abilities being bestowed.
The ability can work in two modes during the time the change is in effect, either the original donor may continue to use their powers as normal, or, if Jackson chooses, they may be drained of them to fuel the transfer. Only one power set may be bestowed on any being at a time, and any attempts to grant a second will result in thei first being wiped. If the recipient had their own supernatural abilities before the transfer, they may continue to use them as normal. Jackson can choose to bestow powers on himself.
This ability is limed to supernatural and metahuman type abilities. Augmentations and gifts cannot be transferred.
Equipment/Resources: The Jack keeps a number of useful items on the belt of his suit. These include a grappling hook, long-range taser, smoke bomb and syringes filled with anaesthetic to keep villains under control. A pair of goggles lets him see in bright or low light, as well as in infrared, and he uses a staff to defend himself in a meelee.
Biography: Jackson Barnes was born into a family of elven blood, with many of his relatives showing magical abilities. While the reemergence of magic into the world and the rise of heroes is relatively recent, members of the Barnes family have long been using their abilities to help mankind. They had to do it covertly, of course, but nonetheless, their command of magic made them into well-known figures.
Barneses performed miraculous surgeries, multiplied funds for charity, and pulled off super-human feats as detectives, search and rescue personnel and military operatives. To be a Barnes was to be great. Jackson, however, showed no signs of supernatural abilities at all throughout most of his childhood and adolescence.
Being surrounded by supers while being ordinary himself was difficut for Jackson, especially seeing the accolades and glory that were heaped on his relatives. Sure, he got to stand near them at some of the medal ceremonies, but it was frustrating to be constantly shown that he was unlikely to ever achieve anything to match the glory of his lineage.
After finishing school, Jackson was training to pursue a career as an auto machanic when his latent abilities finally showed through (or perhaps he finally discovered how to use them. Truly, he isn’t sure). Jackson was overjoyed at this discovery, and threw himself into super life, eager to prove himself and win glory. When the idea for the Champions was floated, he decided almost immediately to join. A role with the team would both suit his abilities and bring him the recognition he had wanted for so long.
Joining the team wasn’t all that he had hoped it would be. He found it difficult working with many of the members, and then Nagoya happened. That day, he was ill-preapred going into the battle, and was knocked unconscious almost as soon as the fighting broke out, by a cunk of debris thrown up by The Tortoise, no less. He only learned about what had happened after being dragged away and brought around after the fighting was done.
Having been thoroughly humiliated by the experience, The Jack resolved to make a fresh start for himself and the team. Their honour as a group had been tarnished, and they needed to restore that. The first step to accomplishing this goal, in his eyes at least, is to end the Splinter situation, either by bringing back those that turned away from the team and their goals, or by disbanding the other, less principled group. As for Jackson himself, he wants to take a more proactive role in chasing his dreams and seeing justice done. Things may have gone poorly at first, but being a Champion is still an opportunity he dreamed of but never thought he’d actually see.
Personally, Jackson is certainly eager to make his mark, which makes him less cautious than some of the other heroes, at times reaching into headstrong or outright brash behaviour. He’s a snarker, occasionally critical and agrumentative, but only because his heart is in the right place and he wants to see the right thing done.
Special Notes: That’s all for now. |
44,574 | 1,215 | 23 | 167 | 65 | The taxi left Mina in front of a large, new-looking building with walls of windows. Duffle bag in hand, she entered the airport and made her way to the private jets. A slight concern of being recognized lurked in the back of her mind, but she reminded herself that she had spent the most reputation-ruining parts of her superhero career in camouflage. The only reason for people to give her a second glance was to look at her long green hair, perfectly matching her eyes.
Mina didn't know Red Jack well, but she recognized his family helm on large red-and-white jet. She couldn't have ignored that beauty even if she'd tried. Her awe heightened with each step she took up and into the jet. The interior was even more lavish, with even the flight attendants meeting the apparent criteria of being eye candy. "Hey," she gave a slight nod at the other team members as she saw them, omitting their names because she couldn't remember all of them. She dumped her duffle bag near a wall and sank into a nearby leather couch, watching a pale dark-haired girl bringing Red Jack a drink. A handsome blonde man walked past her towards her bag, appearing to want to put it away. She asked him, "Could you get me a white wine please? Chardonnay if you have any, otherwise anything's fine." She needed to bring her mind back to earth a bit after spending a week out of the loop, camouflaging in and out of the stuffy hotel. Maybe some alcohol would help to quiet the residual feeling of doom.
She quickly finished the wine and began to close her eyes, listening to the ambient noise of the plane and the sounds of others settling in. She kept her eyes closed through Jack's speech, but opened them as the discussion unfolded. "I agree that we should act now, before the Champions can steal our thunder." | Birth Name: Mina Galanos
Alter Ego: The Chameleon
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Country of Origin: Canada (Rocky Mountains)
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance:
Mina has a slender figure and stands at 5'5" tall. Her natural eye colour is green. Her natural hair colour is mouse brown, but she dyes it green to match her eyes. Her uniform is a green cloak that drapes over her head, being a functional representation of a green screen.
Powers/Skills: Like chameleons, Mina can change colours to camouflage with her surroundings. She has layers of colour pigments in her skin that can activate to change her colouring into a variety of patterns, which she can control at will. This extends to her uniform as well; her uniform senses the pigment activity and changes in accordance. This does not work with regular clothes. Although her camouflaging isn't exact, different parts of her body can change colour and pattern to match the general colour of the background, which is usually good enough if she doesn't draw attention to herself.
Mina's chameleon blood makes it easy for her to learn languages. She uses English in her operations in Canada, but is also fluent at speaking the animal language. She can learn the meaning of any animal's sounds, and can imitate these sounds to talk to them in return. Thanks to this power, she has made many animal friends who help her spy and bring her information.
Unfortunately, her aptitude at language takes away from her ability to read behaviour. Only with practice has she managed to grasp using day-to-day facial expressions and reading basic emotions and gestures. She is prone to misinterpreting anything deeper than a false smile and anything more subtle than a furrowed brow.
Equipment/Resources: When Mina is operating, she wears a green cloak that changes colour in response to the pigments in her skin. She also works alongside a number of animals. She is unable to be in touch with them at all times, but they gather to meet every day in the same secret spot to share information, and she often runs into them anyways when they are working nearby.
Biography: Mina was born and raised in a lakeside town in the Rocky Mountains of Canada. Born in their house with the help of a special doctor, Mina's skin was changing colour, although barely noticeable, from the moment she was born. Throughout her childhood, she went to a private laboratory to learn to control her powers and be studied by scientists. She was quickly given the nickname "The Chameleon". Living in the relative wilderness of the mountains, she realized that she could talk to animals, and befriended the deer colony that lived in the forest. She grew up a confused child, constantly being told by the scientists to never reveal her abilities, and wondering why the lives of the other children seemed so different from hers and so similar to each others.
Her parents never spoke much of their past, but in the lab she heard talk of an African legend of Bantu mythology. When God created man, he sent a chameleon to tell man of eternal life. However, upset by the actions of the humans, God sent a lizard to tell man that he would die. Left to roam the earth as a failure, the chameleon tried to integrate with the human population through... let's just say, other ways, before giving up and colonizing as its own species. She was likely a descendant of this chameleon.
She tried to use camouflage to get information, but the scientists were always on the same page as her. She did manage to learn about the pigments in her skin, and gained an interest in Biology. She also learned that her mother had the same camouflaging abilities as her, both her parents used to work for a spy agency in Spain, and her parents had to escape to Canada. Mina got used to the scientists' secretiveness and distance, but never felt that friendly a relationship with any of them.
After high school, Mina went to university and got a Master's degree in Biology. Before she could pursue a PhD, her lab was recruited into the Champions to study the powers of the superheroes involved. Curious about the lab's plans, she asked if she could help in any way. The principal investigator, Dr. Paules, said yes. He told her about the Champion's goal of worldwide justice and said they could use a spy, and that he would put in a good word for her. Mina hardly knew what he meant and how she could help, but she readily agreed.
At age 26, she was recruited into the Champions and tasked to spy on criminals and evil organizations. She was given a cloak by the lab, a product of years of studying her, that could respond to and emulate her skin's colour changes. It was during her time as a Champion that she realized her talent of learning languages, picking up the language of wherever they sent her with relative ease. She also discovered the severity of her inability to read emotions, which hadn't been so much of a disadvantage before. She focused her energy solely on relaying information the way she had received it, letting others do all the interpreting.
Mina was present at the Nagoya event. She witnessed, mostly in fearful camouflage, the chaos that ensued as everything went wrong. But it wasn't the nationwide chaos that triggered her distrust. She couldn't believe the internal conflict that occurred among the Champions, along with the humiliation of being associated with them and fear for her own safety. Her distrust in the Champions was amplified by the bashing from the press. She jumped at the opportunity to leave the Champions and start an independent superhero team.
Special Notes: People often misjudge Mina to be stupid and shallow because she may respond inappropriately to social situations, which has caused Mina to lose confidence in her ability to read people. Because of this, she prefers to play the role of a tube, connecting people with source information without it being changed or biased by misinterpretation. However, provided the facts, Mina can prove to be insightful, observant, and creative. |
44,575 | 1,215 | 24 | 307 | 2,322 | ODYSSEUS
If travel had been undertaken with as much haste as his trip to Tokyo had back in his day then it never would have taken him ten years to get home from Troy. Then again he would have gladly traded a couple of those gained hours for a more sedate journey were he didn't have have to white-knuckle his way through a flight, consciously and consistently willing the plane to stay in the air. No matter how many trips by plane he undertook, he still couldn't shake the conviction that man wasn't meant to fly. If they were then what was Icarus's bleached bones doing at the bottom of the Aegean?
Still, the trip went without incident, and before he knew it he was delivered safely unto the bosom of the offices of the Prime Minister.
Straight into the belly of the beast.
He received several dark looks from security staff, no doubt concerning the sword that was belted around his waist, but he politely yet resolutely refused to relinquish the weapon. Not that he was particularly attached to the blade. In fact he preferred to stay at the polite distance of a bowshot when it came to battle, but a sword was a handy signifier of his – former - political office. The sword lent him a royal air, even while wearing the nondescript yet excellently tailored dark suit and tie he had chosen to don for the meeting.
He wasn't kept waiting outside the meeting room for longer than a minute, which was worrying. Usually committees like this would keep visitors like him waiting for an age, using the wasted time as a juvenile power-play, reminding everyone of just who held the most influence. The fact that they'd abandoned the tactic showed that they really meant business.
The meeting place was an elegant room, one long window displaying a quiet exquisite view of Tokyo's early evening skyline. Odysseus's could hardly spare a look for the lavish scenery however, as his attention was instead fixed upon the rooms occupants. Nineteen men and women, no doubt some of the most politically powerful members of Japan's government. He wished he had time to study them in more depth earlier, to have researched their strengths and weaknesses so as to give him some kind of advantage, but this meeting had been so rushed he'd hadn't the chance. He hated going in blind, but there was nothing else for it.
Sad fact, but life was just a series of doing things you hated.
Odysseus declined to return the ministers bows, instead gracing them the merest dip of his head. A king does not bow, the gesture said. Which was utter dung of course. Kings possessed the exact same capacity to bow as any other man. Agamemnon used to make him bow every time they passed each other in a hallway. It was all a ploy though. If their initial impression of him was one of a haughty cur, then any concessions he made them later would seem far more harder won.
He undid the buckle of his sword-belt before looping it over the back of the proffered chair, his movements slow and deliberate, before seating himself.
“Comfortable enough, Prime Minister, thank you. My apologies that I cam alone, but my comrades find themselves currently employed in tracking down and capturing the villain Tinhead Ned. I say capture, but re-capture seems more apt. After all, we already seized the cur once before, but it seems the Australian's misplaced him, and lack the capacity to apprehend him without our specialized help.” He smiled apologetically. Let that serve to remind them that, like it or not, there were still men and women out there that the government's conventional forces just couldn't match.
Like it or not, they still needed the Champions.
Refreshments were brought forward while the Prime Minister asked if he'd prepared a statement. Again Odysseus inwardly cursed how rushed all this had been. He could come out with any number of statements, but without knowing what the exact intention of this meeting was then the chances where high that he'd be addressing all the wrong points, which would be worse than addressing none of them. It would make him look like a fool, and potentially ruin whatever credential that the Champions had left. No, better to let them open. Surrendering the initiative went against everything he knew about both war and politics, but sometimes a man had to take a backwards step to give himself room to attack. There was nothing else for it.
"With respect, you invited me here, not the other way around. It seems only right that you begin Prime Minister." | BIRTH NAME:
Odysseus of Ithaka
ALTER EGO:
N/A
GENDER:
Male
AGE:
Biologically in his late-twenties. Technically a whole lot older.
COUNTRY OF ORIGIN:
Greece, specifically the island of Ithaka.
ARCHETYPE:
Gifted, though he finds himself the pawn of Supernatural beings.
ALLEGIANCE:
The Champions
POWERS/SKILLS:
Damn good at archery, almost preternaturally so, a magnificent knife fighter, and an adept swordsman. A lifetimes experience of fighting foes who are bigger and stronger than he is, having to use his intelligence to supplement his own respectively meagre abilities. Unmatched cunning, with a genius level understanding of human psychology, though he was born centuries before psychology even became a 'thing'.
However he is just a human (to the consternation of the Olympians.) His past successes have made him overconfident, almost to the point of arrogance, as he's usually of the mind that he's the smartest man in the room. While often true, that assumption may one day prove his downfall. As he was an old man when he 'died' he is now an old soul placed into a young man's body, and as such he has trouble controlling his new, youth sharpened passions. Anger and annoyance are forever closer to the surface than he remembers them being before, something that he's still not quite got the hang of controlling yet, throwing of the unflappable cool he remembers cultivating in his past life.
On top of his strengths and weaknesses it should be noted that for Oddie, killing is a last resort, but it is still a resort. While he'd rather diffuse a situation with words and cunning, if it comes down to violence he's jaded enough to realize that sometimes violent altercations end violently, meaning somebody has to die. And he'll be damned if that somebody is him, not before he's finished his divine mission.
Equipment/Resources:
Light armour, forged by Hephaestus. The breastplate is nigh-unbreakable, as are the vambraces and greaves, though his arms, legs and head - as an archer he dislikes wearing helmets - are left bare. On top of that, the armour isn't shock proof, meaning a powerful enough blow, while unable to pierce the metal, could still kill Oddie. Like an egg inside a tin can that is dropped from height, his insides would be scrambled.
His fabled bow, capable of sending an arrow straight through seven axe heads. (the legends might claim it was axe handles, but this was one of the few times that they undersold the reality.) It seems to have weathered the years even better than Odysseus himself, though he suspects the hand of Hephaestus in that miracle.
He wears a quiver of thirty, carbon-steel headed arrows upon his back, along with a kopis sword and a long dagger at his side. He keeps several throwing knives secreted about his person.
Oddie is independently wealthy after some wise investments of his initial gold pieces, and money that his book series have brought him.
He lives in a houseboat, named 'Penelope'.
Biography:
You been living under a rock for the last two thousand-plus years? No? Good, then you know Odysseus' story. The Illiad, the Odyssey, the whole Epic Cycle, it's all true. I wont bore you with the time-worn details, but suffice to say that the King Of Ithaka lived a long and interesting life, had some fairly unique adventures, captured the imaginations of the common man, and died at a ripe old age. At the last he'd figured that the God's of Olympus had finished with him, and that he'd get to while out the rest of eternity in the Elysian Fields, with his beloved Penelope at his side.
How wrong he was.
You see back then the Olympians were the top dogs on the block, with plenty of worshipers making all sorts of prayers, sacrifices, and entreaties to them, which was good because prayer is the currency of the Gods. Since then their fortunes have fallen pretty sharp though, not least because of a little thing called Christianity coming along and blowing them out the water, followed quickly by the apathy towards religion created by modern science in 20th century man.
Zeus and crew are down on their luck these days, but they still dream of the dizzying heights they'd once held, and would do almost anything to get it back. Their latest scheme was to jump onto the 'superhero' bandwagon, and create a masked crusader of their own, one that would inspire the common man to glory the old Gods once more. Zeuz, Poseidon, and Athena convinced the lord Hades – the one God still in ascendancy since people still had to die regardless if they believed in him or not - to help them bring back one of their greatest heroes to serve in the role. Heracles, Perseus, Achilles, any fine demi-god would do.
Unfortunately they got Odysseus.
Zeus was appalled. No mere mortal, regardless of how cunning, would prove equal to the task. He demanded that Hades send the king of Ithaka back to the Elysian Fields, and to fetch him a real hero. It was too late though, as Hades' power was spent, and they'd be forced to wait until he was back to full strength, which could take years.
Athena managed to convince Zeus to allow Odysseus the chance to attempt the task of bringing glory to the God's in the mean time – an act that angered Odysseus himself, as he wanted nothing more than to return to the rest that he'd rightfully earned his first go-round. He argued against it, but arguing against the Goddess of Wisdom is like trying to hold back the tide with a pebble. Eventually he acquiesced, but only after the Olympians agreed to send him back to Elysian when the job was done. He was given boons to help him in his task; light armour forged by Hephastus, a pouch of gold, and his old bow, and told to go an bring glory back to the Gods.
And that's exactly what he set out to do.
His first task was to learn more about this bizarre new world he found himself in, as the Olympian's had neglected to educate him in even the smallest of details about the twentieth century. He nearly had a heart attack upon entering the first modern city he came across. How far man had come! Though he was quick to discover that man's progress was not but an outward deceit hiding his stagnant core when a grubby street dweller tried to rob Oddie upon learning the former King of Ithaka was a clueless immigrant. The attempted robbery ended in bloody fashion for the hapless thief, though the incident reassured Odysseus that he wasn't in such foreign territory after all. Men where still men, even in this new age of wonders.
It took him over two years to learn the major modern languages, then get himself up to speed on both ancient and modern history, though during all that time he prepared himself for his next step. By the time he felt secure enough in his knowledge of this new world to begin actively bringing glory to the Olympians, he'd already set out his entire plan. He would fight 'injustice' like so many other costumed heroes, but instead of toiling away for little recognition and a vague sense of accomplishment like the others, he would instead chronicle his tales, then sell them to the public, all while using his 'novels' to praise the old Gods, while encouraging the public to do likewise.
The plan was a near instant success. Millions of people worldwide lapped up his tales of adventure and heroism, buying his novels by the truck load. True, some more discerning readers realized the works where nothing more than propaganda dressed up as escapist fantasy, but their protestations went largely unheard. Oddie was an overnight sensation, and it surprised no one when, two years later, he was invited to join the newly-formed Champions.
Things went smoothly for the most part. Odysseus proved himself a boon member on dozens of occasions, even if his antiquity-styled morality didn't quite mesh with the softer values of today's heroes. More than once he was pulled up for the barbaric fashion that he dealt with some enemies, though he always stood by his actions and choices.
Before the Nagoya incident, during the planning stage, Odysseus argued against informing the local police and authorities of the Champions sting operation. The more people in the know, he said, the more likely the criminals would learn of the action. His concerns were batted down though, as other members insisted that the local authorities had to be involved, or it would seem that the Champions where overstepping their bounds. As has so often been the case, Oddie was proven right, as when the attack began, it quickly became apparent that the crooks were ready for them. The former king fought like a man possessed, felling several foemen, even mortally wounding a famed super-powered mercenary named Shinigami. It wasn't enough though, and the whole operation ended in disaster.
In the aftermath Oddie refused to help in the clean up, insisting that if his fellows had just listened to him none of this chaos would have transpired, and that if they were so keen to let the proper authorities intervene to begin with, then the proper authorities can handle the clean up. Public perception soured against him considerably in the aftermath of these comments, especially after the media found out just how many bodies where found on the scene with one of his arrows through them, though for once he was too preoccupied to care. Instead his attention fixed upon the new Schism between heroes. He remembered the last time that a rift like that was driven between two groups of remarkable men and women, a rift that led to a war the likes of which was never seen before, or since, and felt his blood run cold at the memory.
For once he doesn't care about his mission from the Gods, nor getting back to his fair Penelope, or his own self-aggrandizement.
Now all he cares about is stopping a war before it has a chance to begin.
Special Notes:
In the last three years Oddie has built up something of a personal rogues gallery. From the classically inspired Steel Siren, Madame Medusa and the Gargantuan Gorgons to the 21st century styled Jack Frost, Tyrannous Hex and Captain Chronos, as well as some familiar faces from Oddie's own past like the seductive sorceress Circe, and the hideous cyclops Polyphemus. On top of that he's cultivated something of a rivalry with Henry Freeman, better known as the hero 'Aegis'. Henry looks down upon what he see's as Oddie's underhand and deceitful tactics, while Oddie believes Henry is a naive idiot who's been given far too much power for his own good. |
44,576 | 1,215 | 25 | 2,031 | 6,415 | (Picture)
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When Maeve said I’ll be happy going either way." Cypress laughed sweetly then added
"The Tin Head was promised the first dance so I'm with Maeve all the way" Then the leggy leather clad blonde leaned back and pulled out her specialized phone and opened a channel to her fan Web site and asked for information on Tin Head Ned. Sure she could have looked up the information on her own but this allowed her fans to feel involved.
at would have taken time where this was often instant.
Her fan club was based online and world wide which meant there was always someone on and most times thirty or more. They ranged in age from 16 to 50+ years old an were metaphile having in depth knowledge of those gifted members of humanity.
Cypress used the research method often due to it's reliability an speed but also to allow her fans to feel helpful. She loved her fans and being among them and could care less how the media and outsiders interrupted it. She loved listening to them an reading their posts and like any performer loved the adulation.
She knew that 78% of her fans were male and how it ticked off feminist who wanted to clothe her in proper Victorian fashion or so it seemed. She could see how they thought she was too exposed because their fashion sense told them she was; and in her opinion too much competition.
Shaking off such thoughts about such annoying people Cy pulled up a packet of swimsuit photos she'd finished two weeks ago and prepped them to send as soon as she was engaged in combat. | (Picture)
Birth Name: Cypress Hecate Mara
Alter Ego: Friction
Gender: Female
Age: 22
Country of Operation: Canada / Alberta
Archetype: Metahuman
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Cy is a 6 foot tall platinum blonde with dangerous curves. Her eyes are a blueish green and her face freckled. Her skin is a creamy alabaster and she is usually dressed in a provocative manner her favorite clothing is leather.
Powers/Skills: Friction Manipulation- by imparting her power into any thing she chooses Cypress can manipulate, generate and otherwise control friction, the force resisting the relative motion of solid surfaces, fluid layers, and material elements sliding against each other, ie. whether the contact causes the movement to stop (sticking the targets together) or continue.
By decreasing her skin and clothing's friction Cypress is so slippery that she is able to skid across a flat surface at great speeds her movements resembling more those of an Ice skater than a sprinter Her skin and clothing in this state can even deflect kinetic energy attacks such as bullets, swords, knives or even liquid attacks. If she is caught in a trap or stuck in a bind, Cypress can just slip away unless completely enclosed.
Inertia Manipulation- This ability allows Cypress to manipulate inertia, basically the amount of resistance matter has to a change in motion or stay at rest by increasing, decreasing and/or maintaining it. She can increase object’s inertia causing an immobile object to be even more immovable, or to make a mobile object unstoppable. She can also reduce an object’s inertia, so a normally powerful object, such as a train, could have its course of motion interrupted with the same effort as would be required to stop a bicycle.
Also by manipulating inertia Cypress is able to simulate super strength but only in a horizontal plane.
Example: She could theoretically once she plants her feet push a stranded Super tanker back out to sea but she can only lift 250 pounds over her head.
(Limitations- to exercise her inertia control on objects other than her own person requires that Cypress herself come to a stop and make herself a stationary target.)
Skills: Hockey, Parkor, Computer programing, Hacking, Kenjutsu an Akido
Equipment/Resources: Weapons: 6 Throwing knives 2 Tanto
Gear: Tech ruggedized Cell phone
Biography: Born to a dead mother in the aftermath of a gulf coast hurricane. That flooded her entire town Cypress was barely alive and would have died except that her father a Swedish merchant sailor like any parent refused to allow it. Then as the storm raged around them he named her Cypress after the tree they found refuge in.
While the storm raged for about six hours the tidal surge pulled father and daughter out to sea where they drifted without hope. They were finally rescued three days after she was born by the Coast Guard. The men aboard the Coast Guard Cutter thought her survival a miracle and lavished her with attention.
Her father clung to life five days after the rescue but then like her mother and 78 members of the community she was from died of chemical poisoning.
An orphan Cypress was remanded over to her mother's family in Alberta where she went to live. What should have been the beginning of a beautiful story was anything but as her family neglected her and only kept her around as a way to collect on her father's pension. Eventually due to their neglect Cypress fell ill and had to be taken to the hospital where the authorities took her from them.
She was then raised in a children's group home where at the age of 11 she began demonstrating powers and was taken to Project Orchid Canada's Meta program with the eventual purpose that she become a Champion.
Her training was intense but focused more athletics at an early age than combat it being thought of as unethical to subject a minor to such. Akido and Kenjutsu were also more competitive sport style than full fledged combat and her training in Hockey to hone her movement. Later when she was 16 the project focused on the more aggressive styles of her martial arts and the power moves of Hockey.
While they trained her to use her body the project also saw to her schooling knowing that a well rounded schooling benefited their ends as well. She excelled in classroom studies especially in the field of computers developing the ability to make an excellent hacker and or computer programmer.
It was because she was finishing a project at the project that Friction avoided attend the meeting at Nagoya and thus escaped the direct guilt of those that had attended. Cy could use her location during the incident as and excuse but chose not to by appearing on CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and offering her country's sympathy to the people of Japan but her own apology as well.
Special Notes: Because of the Nagoya Incident Cypress has vowed to atone for all the damage done by becoming the most skilled at power use ever known so that no civilian shall ever suffer for her mistakes. To accomplish her goal she trains constantly honing her power use to a razor sharp edge.
She appears on children's shows, does interviews and service announcements.
She has no secret identity living on Canadian military or Mounted Police bases. |
44,577 | 1,215 | 26 | 1,062 | 303 | Patrick's trip through the city had been quiet and simple. He had switched out of his "costume" and into his civilian clothes while he was making his way out of the building. Without his skin tight bodysuit he looked like an average tourist, and it was easy enough to hail a cab. The ride was surprisingly calm, though they had to take a few detours due to the destruction that had been wrought upon the city. Soon enough he was dropped off at the airport.
He hesitated for a moment as he entered, his eyes sliding from Jack's extravagant jet to the much more plain one under the control of the Champions. The hesitation passed quickly however, he had made his choice and he knew that it was the one that needed to be made. Focusing his eyes on the Splinter group's jet he made his way over and up the stairs. Upon entry he made brief eye contact with the various members and gave them all a slight nod before making his way to the very back of the jet.
As he settled into his seat he let his eyes roam the interior of the aircraft. He had never had the opportunity to enter it prior to this night and he found himself a bit overwhelmed. The seats were too comfortable, the colors too bright, everything was just too much for the man accustomed to maintaining a relatively low profile. However as he got used to the layout, and let his eyes linger on a few of the extravagant attendants on board, he felt his nerves calm a bit.
The last remnants of his worry were washed away as Jack began speaking. Patrick's lips formed into a tight line at the mention of a secondary concern that demanded their attention in Australia. He was not a man fond of unknowns, especially one that had already been proven to be resistent to bullet fire even if his were a much higher caliber. Tinhead on the other hand was a known advesary, and one that he knew he could do damage to without a doubt. The entire reason for deciding to go to Australia, for him, and been the fact that they could show the Champions that just because they were no longer a single group it did not mean that they had to be opposing forces. With this thought in mind he spoke his peace.
"I know I may be a minority when I say this, but I think we should send at least one memba to backup tha others with ol' Tinhead. We all had our reasons for splitting off, but for maself it had nothing to do with an issue with the others and I would like them to know that just because we are no longer together that doesn't mean we aren't on tha same side anymore. It should either be Wilbur or maself who go, while tha other helps with tha skeleton."
His piece said Patrick fell silent once more, even waving off the attendant offering him refreshments. | Birth Name: Patrick O'Brian
Alter Ego: The Celtic Sniper
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Country of Origin: Ireland
Archetype: Gifted
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Patrick is a small man, standing at 5'5 and weighing roughly 130lbs. He is an average looking Caucasian man, with short brown hair and dark brown eyes. In addition he has no facial hair. Of course only the Champions (and now the Splinter group) are aware of his actual appearance. When he is not in a safe area, the only place that barely qualifies is HQ, he wears a form fitting black suit that covers him from his feet to just beneath his nose. He also wears a dark brown Irish Tweed cap and dark sunglasses.
Powers/Skills: Patrick is just a man, his parents weren't some sort of aliens or divine beings. He didn't suffer a severe accident and have to have any part of him replaced by shiny metal. He isn't even a metahuman. What he is, is a world class marksman.
His typical weapon of choice is a customized sniper rifle, designed to be able to handle firing the specialized round he occasionally uses. While there may be certain supers that would be able to outshoot him he is unparalleled among most of the world in both range and accuracy.
Despite being most comfortable at long range he is capable of holding his own in closer quarters with his pistol, though he only does this when retreat is unavailable.
While he isn't necessarily the smartest man he does have acute battle awareness and his "nests" are carefully selected.
Even though his body is not immune to the effects he can ignore both very cold and hot temperatures which is a must as he may end up having to stay in one location for several hours or even days at a time.
Equipment/Resources: As mentioned in the Power/Skills Patrick carries both a sniper rifle and a pistol, of the two only the sniper is modified. He also has a small box of specialized ammunition. Normally he will carry a variety of rounds with him, so he can adapt as needed. However when he has intel in advance he will stock extra of a particular round. At the moment he only has a few explosive round left as most of his more unique ammo was used during the Nagoya.
As for resources he still has contacts from his days as a mercenary and they are his primary method of receiving new ammunition, weapons, etc. Though this may end up shifting.
Biography: The first few years of Patrick's life were rather bland and typical, average family life for an only child, regular friendships etc. The only interesting thing that happened was he discovered his love for rifles at a young age. He was staying with his grandfather, who lived in a quaint little cottage out in the middle of the woods, one summer and the old man decided it was time that he learn how to shoot. It took them both by surprise when it turned out that the young lad was a natural. Every target his grandfather gave him he hit dead center, no matter the distance or size. He did have minor trouble with moving targets at first, but he overcame it before the day was up.
Neither had any idea what to do with this talent of his, so rather than think on that they spent the rest of the summer honing it. When Patrick finally had to leave his grandfather gave him his own rifle, and told him to find anyway possible to keep practicing. His parents were less than thrilled when they picked him up, but they relented when they saw just how much Patrick wanted to pursue this. In hindsight this may not have been the best idea they ever had, as Patrick took his grandfather's words to heart.
For the first couple of months after he returned he did what he could to practice, which mainly involved walking for several miles to reach a secluded area. Obviously this place of solitude couldn't last forever, after all when do things ever remain peaceful for talented individuals. One day while he was practicing he was approached by a group of well armed men, well armed to him at least. In reality they just had a few pieces of heavily outdated weaponry. Compared to his hunting rifle though they seemed liked cutting edge technology. The group spoke to him for a while, complimenting his shooting, asking how he found the area, etc. After thirty minutes had passed by they offered him a chance to join their group, promising him not only better practice but a better rifle as well. Remembering his grandfather's words he eagerly agreed. And so at the age of 14 he joined up with a militia group.
He spent the next six years of his life with them. At first all he really did was practice, which was all anyone in the group did except a few members. It wasn't until a year into his stay with them that he made his first kill. They didn't even have to fed him any lines to convince him, he had known for a few months now that the only purpose for his talent would be death. The next five years passed in a blur of pink mist, however as time went on he started to get bored of the group. He had never believed their ideology, and he felt like he was stalling with the small time "missions" he was sent on. He couldn't leave though, not until he knew what the next step would be. Fortunately for him this information was given to him when he overheard a conversation between two of the other members. They were discussing the possibility that they would hire a mercenary for their next job. With the first step of his plan given to him, he quickly began to work out the rest. It really was simple enough, when the mercenary came he made sure that he was practicing, and just like six years ago with the militia group he caught the man's attention. They spoke at length for a while, with Patrick voicing his desire to leave the group and strike out on his own. Despite the nature of his business, it wouldn't make sense for a merc to want to help out an aspiring one as that meant fewer contracts for him, the mercenary agreed to help Patrick establish himself with a few contracts. He wanted to get out of the business anyway and figured he may as well help the young man out. As soon as the merc completed the job for the militia group the two disappeared into the night.
There isn't much to be said about the nine years Patrick spent as a gun for hire. He killed a lot of people, made a lot of money, earned the name The Celtic Sniper, and established connections among arms dealers and the black market. While many of his contracts were given to him by individuals he was hired more than once by the Irish Government, and they are the one who decided he should join the Champions shortly after the formation of the group. While it would have been very easy for them to strong arm him, which would have been detrimental to their health, they found they didn't need to. Patrick was more than willing to join the group, seeing it as a way to further his skills.
While many of the Champions were hurt, both physically and via the media, due to the Nagoya incident Patrick got through relatively unscathed. He was far from the scene of devastation given his long range, and while he killed quite a few people that day none of them were civilians. However with the intense scrutiny the group would be facing, and the fact that another group was being formed from a few of the former Champions and other miscellaneous supers, he decided it would be best to cut ties with the Champions and join the Splinter group.
Special Notes: |
44,578 | 1,215 | 27 | 1,838 | 1,623 | Interacting with:
The broadcast seemed to be intended for Japan, but ultimately it also covered the Korean Peninsula, Taiwan, and parts of China and Russia.
At exactly 1900 Tokyo time, all televisions in the affected area abruptly stopped displaying whatever they had been set to, instead showing a blank black screen. Music played softly- some recognized it as a piece from Wagner's Götterdämmerung. The funeral march played at the death of Siegfried, the greatest of all heroes.
WHO ARE THE CHAMPIONS? A block of text in both Japanese and English asked.
Photos and film of victims carried out of the rubble from both the hotel and more recently Chūbu Airport.
MURDERERS.
More photos and clips, of Champions refusing interviews. The funeral march climbed in volume.
LIARS.
Film of the splinter group announcing their seperation from the larger group.
HYPOCRITES.
Film of both the Champions jet and the Cochran family jet taking off, minutes before the explosions at the airport.
COWARDS.
Wagner's brass soared.
PEOPLE OF JAPAN, VICTIMS OF THE WORLD, YOU WILL BE AVENGED. THEY WILL PAY FOR THEIR CRIMES IN BLOOD.
THE PHALANX SWEARS IT.
With a final triumphant swell of brass and timpani, these words lingered on the screen a moment longer before the broadcast ended as abruptly as it began. Normal programming resumed immediately, leaving more than one person desperately confused- and others desperately concerned.
Attempts to trace the broadcast were immediately flummoxed. Someone had very cleverly manipulated satellite and internet systems to hide their tracks. It would take a true technological genius to pierce the morass and find exactly where this Phalanx broadcasted from. Someone like Maxwell Donovan.
OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER
1901 LOCAL TIME
Interacting with:
The Prime Minister nodded sagely, before rubbing at his temples. "Thank you for coming to speak, Your Highness. We had hoped more of you might attend, to make a case against what we might do. We find their absence disheartening, to say the least. They have no interest in defending themselves from criticism. Simply put, we had hoped to understand your side of the tragic events that occurred last week. We are government officials, we cannot pretend that we are familiar with the duties or responsibilities of the superhero community. It was our hope that you might perhaps enlighten us, to make us understand why so many lives were lost. . ."
The PM gave a prolonged sigh. "Your Highness, our duty is first and foremost to the people of Japan. All of us in this room have sworn an oath to work towards the welfare of this country, to preserve the peace and prosperity that has made us a model among nations. We deeply respect your commitment to justice, but unfortunately that commitment has run counter to our duty to preserve public safety. Our citizens have voiced their displeasure, and it is our duty to listen. Accordingly, it is by joint decree of both this Cabinet and the Diet that the organization known as the Champions, as well as all offshoot and successor groups, are declared illegal. No Japanese may join you. You have 24 hours to leave the country or face arrest."
The PM sighed heavily, and regret was plain on the man's face. "You led a country at one point. You understand why this is necessary," he said flatly, speaking to Odysseus man to man. "Please, try to see it from our perspective."
RIMBAUD BUILDING
OMAHA, NEBRASKA, USA
815 LOCAL TIME
Interacting with:
At Mach 10 it took less than an hour of flight to reach Omaha, Nebraska, flying back into morning. It was the beginning of the day in the Midwestern city.
In years past, several big companies had chosen to move out of New York, Los Angeles, and other larger American cities. Supervillains always seemed to be targeting those cities, destroying good real estate as part of whatever fiendish plan they had, and that drove up the insurance and property values. More and more companies were finding it better to build their fancy and expensive skyscraper in Wichita or Mobile or, in this case, Omaha.
The Rimbaud Building was one such new addition to the cityscape of the city, a black glass and marble monolith rising above the flat prairie towards the Midwestern sky. The building, like the street below, was bright and bustling with workers just arriving at their job.
Closer examination revealed several polished black marble balconies adorning the penthouse office, and one door in particular open and welcoming. This door led into a spacious office suite, taking up much of the top floor and decorated in tasteful dark colors- more glass and black marble, with the rare splash of color.
Reynard was waiting for God Fist inside, in his same stylish black suit and designer sunglasses. "Good, you've arrived," he said pleasantly, the needlelike points of his teeth briefly visible as a smile crossed his face. "Ms. Hobs will see you now."
He led God Fist through a door labelled „Office of the CEO“ without knocking. Inside, a fortyish woman was bent over a chess set made of the same black marble and clear glass that seemed to dominate this entire building. Her face was furrowed in concentration, she hardly seemed to notice God Fist and Reynard's entrance. She was beautiful in that careful, elegant way that requires intense preparation and forethought. Her pale skin was a sharp contrast to her uniformly dark clothing. It seemed the only color on her entire person was her intense green eyes, which seemed to glow in the early morning light.
"Do you play chess?" she asked quietly, still looking down at the board. "I find it wakes me up better than a cup of coffee in the morning. It's stimulating to look at something, consider and control every possible outcome. It teaches you to avoid surprises in life." She looked up at God Fist and smiled pleasantly. "Here's an example. Let's say you're this knight." She reached down and made one simple, innocent move with the black knight on the board. "Seems simple enough. But look at this," she said with an excited wave to the rest of the board. The knight was now threatened by several of the white pawns. "Exposed to the enemy with no friends for protection. Free to be destroyed at White's whim."
She laughed abruptly, before shaking God Fist's hands. "I'm sorry, you must think I'm an old idiot. I invited you here all the way from Japan and I'm talking about my hobbies before I even introduce myself. I must be star-struck, I babble like a teenage girl every time I meet a celebrity. Lilith Hobs. Can we get you anything? Coffee? Tea?" She looked over God Fist's youthful features. "Soda, maybe? Reynard will get it for you. C'mon, let's chat." Lilith sat down in one of the comfortable black leather armchairs that littered the office, waved for God Fist to join her. Reynard stood at attention, looking more like a watchful guard than any kind of assistant.
"When I bought this company, it was nothing. Just a handful of guys working out of a garage in Council Bluffs. Now Milton Aeronautics is one of the biggest aircraft manufacturers and defense contractors in the world," Lilith said. "I'm not trying to brag. Just stating facts. I have money and power, sure. But in a moment, a flash of light or a bite from a spider or whatever it was that happened to you, you were given the capacity to change the world, to be a force for evil and good. In a second, you gained what took me twenty years to build. In the snap of a finger, I seemed irrelevant. That was new to me. Intimidating. And to be honest, a little exciting." Lilith leaned forwards, her brilliant green eyes open wide in honest wonder. "What a truly, truly incredible thing. I mean it. It really is wonderful. 'How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in ’t!' I have followed your career and that of your comrades with great interest. Trying to think of ways you might be of service to a higher power, a higher goal than just fighting purse snatchers. Superheroes such as yourselves are the best path to utopia- a planet of happy and prosperous people. No war, no strife, no hunger, no misery.”
Lilith leaned forwards and very gently touched the back of God Fist's hand. “So imagine just how much it hurts me to see you and your friends under attack and at each other's throats. Small minds who don't see your potential, your capacity for good. Jealous and fearful minds who distrust your power. And worst of all, those who profit from misery.” She shook her head.
“I know you have made mistakes. I can't pretend otherwise, and I can't imagine the guilt you feel. But there are still people who need God Fist, and the rest of the Champions. I can help you. I have friends all over, more money than I can spend. I can put them at your disposal.” She smiled effusively. “I might ask a favor once in a while in return, but nothing big. Nothing illegal, of course. Things for the good of everyone.”
“What do you say?”
LANDING STRIP
ANDAMOOKA, SOUTH AUSTRALIA, AUSTRALIA
120 LOCAL TIME
Interacting with:
“That landing went better than I thought it would,” Gant d'Argent commented lightly, checking his heavy gloves and boots. In truth, the landing had been a near disaster- landing in pitch darkness on a dirt field with a large jet was not a recipe for success. It had been thanks to the skill of their pilot that they had got there in one piece.
“Well, let's review. It's a small town, around 500 people. Most of them work in the same opal mine, so it's close-knit. This means any outsiders will stand out immediately, so all we have to do is ask around. If anyone's even awake, that is,” Silver Glove mused to the team. “I'm mostly worried about the Splinter, it's more than possible they've gotten here at the same time as us. And whoever else might be trying to get their hands on Tinhead. Or us, for that matter. I don't think those explosions at the airport made us too many fans.”
With that, Gant d'Argent climbed down the stairway out of the plane to the packed dirt runway and immediately assumed a fighting stance. It might be paranoid, but in this business it was wise to be prepared for anything.
He was immediately blinded by dozens of headlights clicking to life, as well as the sound of numerous shotguns being pumped threateningly.
“Good one, Ulysse,” he muttered to himself. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out a few more limited details of his immediate surroundings. Not enough to tell if the Cochran jet was also on the runway, or any other details about the town around him. But he could definitely see the motorcycles, and the armed men in leather vests pointing guns at him. Around forty of them. A motorcycle gang. He squinted through the headlights at their patches. Hellhounds MC. Of course. One of the Melbourne gangs Tinhead Ned had victimized back in his heyday. They had learned about Andamooka and had come here to exact their own vengeance. Of course, it seemed they would settle for fighting superheroes.
Gant d'Argent looked at the forty muscular men holding shotguns on him. “Put down your guns before I get angry,” he said.
“We have you surrounded,” one of the Hellhounds yelled back.
“You poor bastards,” Gant d'Argent said calmly. He rolled his shoulders, shook his fists before assuming his boxing stance. He didn't bother to look if the rest of his team was backing him up. “Any volunteers to go first?”
The standoff between the superheroes and the Hellhounds seemed ready to erupt into violence, but the opportunity never arrived. Instead Tinhead Ned arrived.
“Well, well, well,” an electronically distorted and amplified voice boomed out over the airfield. Everyone looked up to see the figure standing about fifty feet away from the bikies. Tinhead Ned's armor was clunky and graceless, a flat gunmetal gray and a cylindrical helmet that reminded people of a bucket. But there was no mistaking the vast arsenal of weapons the armor contained. Somehow, Ned Dryden had slipped past the police, bikies, and superheroes and dug up his armor.
“So what do we have here?” Tinhead Ned bellowed, clearly enjoying himself. “On one side, a bunch of maladjusted murdering larrikins. On the other, a motorcycle gang. All out here beyond the black stump and just begging for a beating. Strewth, it must be Christmas already.”
Tinhead Ned reached out, grabbed underneath the bumper of a parked panel van he had been standing besides. The servo motors of his armor groaned slightly as Tinhead Ned lifted the vehicle over his head without apparent effort. “C'mon mates, let's have a catch,” he cackled evilly as he hurled the van at the assembled group of Champions. Not even bothering to see where it landed, blue flames erupted beneath Tinhead Ned's boots, lifting him into the air. Speakers built into his armor began to broadcast a song. “Joker and the Thief”, by the Australian band Wolfmother.
“Come and get it, ya fuckin' drongos!” Tinhead Ned called. His wrist and shoulder mounted weapons began to take aim. | Birth Name: Ulysse Descombes
Alter Ego: Gant d'Argent/ Silver Glove
Gender: Male
Age: 33
Country of Operation: France (the city of Lille)
Archetype: Gifted
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Ulysse is a heavily muscled Caucasian man standing an even six feet. He has brown eyes and keeps his head shaven (somebody might pull his hair in a fight). His “work outfit” is lightweight and simple- dark blue, tight-fitting cotton trousers and a sleeveless shirt to allow ease of movement. Ulysse formerly wore a mask, but ditched it and made his identity public on joining the Champions. He wears weighted boots and metallic sliver gloves on both hands.
Skills: Gant d'Argent possesses no superhuman abilities of any kind.
However, he is a martial arts expert of some renown. While he is well-trained in several disciplines (including judo, shotokan karate, krav maga, and hapkido) he prefers to fight with savate. In savate, he is one of the world's top practitioners.
His intensive physical training gives him exceptional (but human-level) strength, agility, stamina, and pain tolerance.
Equipment/Resources: Gant d'Argent routinely only carries two (or technically four) weapons, meant solely to augment his martial arts skills. His boots contain lead weights and steel plating in the soles and toes to add force to his kicks, and lead shot in sewn into the knuckles of his gloves to do the same for his punches.
For particularly large battles, he may wear a kevlar vest and steel helmet, though he hates weighing himself down.
Finally, he has a small fortune in savings from his kickboxing days, waiting for a rainy day.
Biography: Ulysse Descombes is not a particularly well-educated man. He focused little on school as a child growing up in Lille, but excelled at athletics. Rather than being a stereotypical musclehead, though, he earnestly believed in sportsmanship, fair play, and an equal chance for everyone. He got into savate as a teenager, and found a sport he was even better at than football, tennis, or any of the others. Savate became his passion in life.
Rather than attend college (much to his family's disappointment) Descombes instead chose to become a professional savatuer, competing as a heavyweight. His diligent hours of training and natural talent were paid off, as he won victory after victory, rapidly gaining the title of Silver Glove: the highest rank and honor in the savate community.
However, there was plenty of seedier stuff in the savate community, underhanded practices that threatened the integrity of the sport and rankled with Ulysse's notions of honor and sportsmanship. Match fixing, doping, illegal gambling- all prevented up-and-comers from having a fair chance at success. Finally, Ulysse had enough. He donned a mask to protect his identity and took it upon himself to clean up the sport, under the name Gant d'Argent- Silver Glove. The steroids dealers, the fixers, the crooked managers- their thugs were given punitive beatings and the bosses chased out of Lille. Ulysse found he enjoyed both the new challenge and the rush of doing good, and soon expanded the scope of Gant d'Argent. Gangs, drug dealers, violent criminals, even a few low-level supervillains soon felt the sting of his fists and feet. He enjoyed a high success rate and national recognition.
When the Champions initiative was announced, he was among the first volunteers, giddy at the prospect of working with his peers. He felt so strongly that he went public with his identity Though the reality was less harmonious than he might have imagined, he still believed firmly that the Champions were a force for the equality and fair play he firmly believed in. He largely ignored the problems within the group, instead remaining mission-focused.
In Nagoya, he initially viewed the operation as just another fight, even when surprise was lost and bullets (and cars, and bolts of energy, and fireballs, and spells) starting flying. In fact, Gant d'Argent was rather enjoying himself, testing his martial arts skills against those of several of the gangsters.
Then the building fell down on top of him.
Miraculously, he only got a few cuts and bruises, not serious injuries. But he was trapped in darkness and unable to move for hours, unsure of what was going on above him, whether his teammates were winning or losing the battle, whether anyone was coming for him. For the first time, Ulysse Descombes felt pure and unrestrained terror. He remembers screaming until he blacked out, and then being lifted from the wreckage by firefighters, only to immediately be put on a plane out of the country. He had to learn from CNN about things that happened six feet above his head.
Gant d'Argent was horrified at the scope of the destruction, but also at the accusations thrown at the Champions. Stubbornly, he still believed in the mission of the Champions even as teammates expressed doubt. He at least had one fact to cling to- the destruction was not his fault personally.
When the walkout happened, Gant d'Argent was one of those who chose to remain behind. He does not regret this choice, and feels that continued service with the Champions will redeem their name and help assuage his recurring nightmares of being buried alive. Not to mention dreams of still worse things.
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with him and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
44,579 | 1,215 | 28 | 715 | 163 | Michigan State Bank
Detroit, Michigan, U.S.A
11:45 P.M.
They were late. Eight men, five handguns, and twenty-three pounds of tannerite, supposedly hitting the local state bank at eleven o'clock, and like ever other true evildoer, they wasted time and were late. Gabriel let a slight sigh of annoyance slip past his lips and into the black cloth over his face, eyes staring at the wall with a bored gaze. He looked down at his arm, rolling the sleeve up to see the face and hands of the plastic watch, and with a glance up, allowed his muscles to sag. He'd gone through so much effort to make this perfect; this was now comparable to getting all spiffy for prom only to have your date not show. Hours had been spent rifling through his collection to find the perfect song, the pièce de résistance, and he had the disc sitting patiently in the portable player beside him. Now, they were a no sh-
Gabriel paused his train of thought, holding perfectly still as he strained to listen. He thought he'd heard them, muffled sounds hovering just at the edge of his hearing. Sure enough, there it was: the soft thud of someone, something, hitting the wall in front of him. A smile crept across his features, twisting the cloth over his face into a strange shape. He stood quickly unfolding from his cross legged position, and with barely contained excitement, he bent over to move the disc player, placing it on one of the large blocks of cash. Now dead center of the state bank's vault, the Phantom took over, and with a hand hovering lightly on the hand button, he waited patiently for the drop.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!
Rubble flew, and a cloud of dust filled the vault's space as sirens wailed in the background. The Phantom, however, was unphased, a chunk of concrete flying through him as he waited for just the briefest of moments. Shrapnel fell to the floor, and as the coast seemed clear of flying rock, the vigilante phased back, pushing play as dust began to settle on his black hoodie and mask. Then, the fun truly began.
To say the robbers were confused was an understatement. One moment, a wall stood between them and immeasurable wealth; now, Rick Astley's hit song from the 80's was blasting at them while a black figure emerged from the white cloud of dust they had created. Guns were aimed, triggers were pulled, but the figure kept moving forward, reaching down and drawing the kukri at its hips as it closed in on the criminals. As the Phantom reached the first, the ski-masked man had already turn to run, finding his comrades in the way only briefly as the flat of a blade slapped the back side of his head, causing him to stoop as a swift kick was delivered to his rear. The man fell forward, and chaos ensued as he stumbled into another robber. A movement to the left, and the Phantom brought his left weapon back up to strike the pistol that had been aimed at him, knocking it away as he stepped in on the one man, bringing his right hand pommel down for multiple blows to the head. The poor sod crumpled quickly, and his friends had been too preoccupied and surprised to help him. His fall seemed to snap the others awake though, or maybe give them a clean shot, because in moments, two guns were again aimed at the Phantom.
He couldn't help it. As the bullets passed through the space he stood, his flesh untouched by the ballistics, he turned his head in the slowest, most dramatic way he could, staring at the two men who had made their brave attempt. With Rick still blasting in the background, he allowed his head the slightest tilt, shaking it in a disappointed way as he turned to face them. Their expressions were worth it, and doing his best to suppress the urge to bust out laughing, the Phantom moved towards them with purpose, Rick accompanying him with every step.
The rest had already turned and ran, and in a brief moment of quick judgement, they decided to do the same, one throwing his gun at the Phantom before spinning and making a full sprint into the night. The Phantom felt an urge to chase them, yes, but as he stood there, his clothes now a powdery white, the sirens wailing, and Rick singing, he finally gave in to the comedy if what had just happened. Stooped over and unconcerned with the unconcious man on the ground behind him, Gabriel began to laugh. He had just Rick-rolled a group of robbers during their bank heist, and the results had been priceless. Waiting enough for the chuckling to die down, he sheathed his weapons and walked over to the player, pausing his recording as he picked it up and tucked the device under his arm. One last satisfactory survey of his work, a quick nod, and he turned away, police sirens growing louder as he Phaedra through a wall and into the night.
__________________________
Mitch's Repairs & Oil Changes
Detroit, Michigan, U.S.A.
8:26 A.M.
"Yo, Gabe, get over here and get to work! We got a lady over here who needs her oil changed!"
Sitting up from his reading spot on one of the roller boards, Gabriel threw a glance in the direction of his boss, sitting his newspaper down with a begrudging groan as he stood up from his resting place. He was getting tired of this job. But he wasn't getting paid to be a vigilante, and something needed to pay the bills.
If only it wasn't oil. | Birth Name:Gabriel Ardelean
Alter Ego: Phantom
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Country of Origin: Romania
Archetype: Metahuman
Allegiance: Unaligned
Appearance:
Beneath the mask, Gabriel is a 6' tall male weighing 176 pounds, with dark brown hair and muddy colored eyes. Roguish and somewhat handsome, Gabriel knows he isn't the prettiest fish in the sea, though doesn't have any good guess about how others feel he measures on such a scale, and so downplays it accordingly. With a well defined jaw, long eyelashes, and brushed back hair, he does his best to look his best; whether that's enough is up to others. Athletic in build, he is happy to be a healthy individual, though his lack of activity outside is exemplified by his light, not so tan skin.
Powers/Skills:
Gabriel is a self stylized hero, with all of his equipment and gear being items he has acquired through meager funds and persuasion. However, that isn't to say he lacks skill or abilities beyond the normal human. Capable of willingly phasing through objects of his choice, Gabriel has used his power to supplement an adept level of training with two kukri, allowing him to fight using the curved weapons while still phasing effectively during combat.
Of course, despite Gabriel's talents and gifts, he is only human, and an unexpected bullet or knife still drops him just like everyone else. Unknown to him, though, magic and him don't exactly get along; anything of an arcane nature seems... well, unphased by his abilities, and will hit him just as badly as if he hadn't tried to avoid it at all.
Equipment/Resources:
•Two Kukri- Gabriel's preferred weapons, these two knives, if you can call them that, are models of the weapons traditionally used by Indian Gurkhas, measuring 24.5 inches from pommel to tip and crafted in a black metal, including the blades. Bought from a pawn shop where they were sold as "machetes," he's used them for his entire career as a vigilante, and they haven't failed him yet. The sheaths he has are typically strapped to both sides of his hips, on the utility belt he wears.
•Utility Belt- Nowhere near the level of the famed Batman's, Gabriel's utility belt is a black strap of material with a few pockets that he managed to find at an army surplus store. Nevertheless, it is a valuable piece of equipment, holding up his sheaths for the kukri he uses and giving him pockets for a few other tools.
•CD and Flashdrive of 80's hits- Never one to skip a chance to fight bad guys to a good song, Gabriel works hard to find some way to incorporate his jams into a fight, and so has these two pieces of "very important" equipment to give him options and possibilities.
•Ball Bearings- Filling one of his utility belt's pockets, these metal orbs are easily found at a hardware store, and serve a variety of purposes, from annoying projectiles to slippery terrain.
Biography: Being born in Romania, people don't have much chance at being special. They're not American, or British, or Russian, or Chinese, so to the world, they aren't important. At least, that was what it seemed like to Gabriel, growing up in the small town he called home. But unlike so many in Romania, and so many people he knew, he had a way out; father was a man of importance, working in the big corporate buildings that represented Ford Romania. Ford was American; Ford was special. At age seven, Gabriel was already thinking ahead, wanting to be special, and when his father found opportunity outside the country, the young boy was all too excited when, after a week of thought, his parents decided yes.
The real adventures of Gabriel Ardelean began on the shores of England, as he stepped from the plane and into the sprawling city: London. Walking through the streets, he saw people who knew they were important, men and women in suits and ties on sidewalks and buses going here and there and... The young boy's imagination ran wild. Each person gave him a new story to make up as to why they were special. They were British; of course they were special. Soon, he would be British, and he would be special too.
English seemed to almost come natural. He loved it. New words meant new ideas, and when he wanted to be secretive, he could hide behind his old language. The other kids tried making fun of him. He didn't care, and they found a more reluctant victim, who squealed and cried and gave them more fun. Gabriel, however, blended in, assimilated, and became one of them. He was British, absorbing the culture and becoming one with society, until noone could tell he was Romanian. He loved it in England, where opportunity abounded, and the country's power could be felt in his bones. It wasn't America, but it was a step up, and it was home...
Then one day, it wasn't. Mother had lung cancer, stage four, terminal, and it took six months of anxiety, stress, false hope, and finally, reluctant resignation before it claimed her. Father had lost a spark of energy, and London was full of memories, sour yet sweet, nostalgic yet miserable. Gabriel was fourteen at the time, and had just began to try and find himself. His father came to him, and after a talk, they agreed: their time in London was done. Mr. Ardelean had sealed a promotion: Dearborn, Michigan, home of Ford. They were going to America.
American English wasn't like British English. Gabriel said normal things, and he'd get funny looks. He relearned, and reaclimated, but he needed a solace. Mother wasn't there anymore. Sports were a no. Video games were a no. Art was a no. English was a no. By the time he reached martial arts, he expected another no... but he loved it, and it loved him, allowing him to focus, to channel, to think beyond the past. It gave him opportunity, and he took it. But, while inside he was struggling, finding strength through physical exertion and his newfound love of music, outside, his facade began to form, for father. He appeared happy go lucky, quick witted, and relaxed. He smiled, he laughed, he joked, he played, until the facade began to seep in, and his sorrow faded away.
Then he began to fade away, in a more literal fashion. Living in a two floor home, he'd woken up under the bed, on the fridge in the kitchen below, and in the basement. They had thought it was sleep walking, and had played it off on that. That is, until he'd been walking home, returning from a friend's house, and a driver who'd had three too many made a mistake. Gabriel should have died, then and there, and indeed, in a way he did. He became a phantom, as car and driver passed through him and into the yard beyond. Scared and confused, Gabriel ran, returning home putting it away as he tried to forget.
He couldn't. The memory burned, and hesitantly, he began to explore what he could do, always in secret or alone. He moved through walls, floors, passed his hand through fans, and stuck it through the fridge. He began to test it further, and took knives to his arm, only for them to pass through, stuck his fingers in graters, only for them to return unharmed. He was special, and not because he was American, but because he was Gabriel.
When high school ended, he started getting ideas, and decided to avoid mainstream colleges. What he wanted to do wouldn't work with a college schedule, and as he began to form ideas, he worked harder, practicing his fighting skills and teaching himself how to use some "machetes" from a pawn shop. He moved away, to Detroit, and a job as a mechanic got him an apartment with some income. Months passed, and on his twentieth birthday, Gabriel headed into the streets. There, Phantom was born, and he has prowler the city streets ever since. |
44,580 | 1,215 | 29 | 2,742 | 43 | Just Outside Perth, Australia. 8:36 am
“Hello?”
The Womb stood, unresponsive.
“Hello?” The shop clerk asked again.
The Womb remained unresponsive. Staring deeply into the television screens.
“Look mate, I checked the CCTV, you’ve been here all night. You haven’t moved a muscle. I don’t know what you want but I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. If you won’t leave, I’m callin’ the cops. It’s unsettling is what it is,”
“You’ll do no such thing, worm,” shot back The Womb, his eyes darting to the shop clerk. The shop clerk visibly jumped at the response. He had not expected The Womb to speak, let alone turn his attention to him. He had written the figure off as a looney yobbo. The Womb turned his whole body towards the shop clerk, his tall frame overpowering and coupled with the leather outfit, intimidating to boot.
“This is yer last chance,” said the clerk, shaking now from adrenaline and the thought of fighting or flight, “get outa here or I’m callin the cops, don’t even think about coming in cause I’ve got a shotgun in the back and so help me you fackin cu--” the clerk had been moving backwards towards the shop door as he spoke, but just as he had reached the knob The Womb sprang forwards and gripped him by the scruff of the neck, yanking him towards The Womb’s fleshless visage.
“What do you know about these, Champions?” asked The Womb forcefully.
“I-I dunno sir, I swear to god I dunno,” stammered the clerk.
“Tell me,” ordered The Womb.
“They’re a bunch of whack jobs, some of them are just regular joes, the others have got mad powers, some of em can fly, some can turn into dragons and all sorts. They’re a new thing, scientists are still figuring them out, I don’t know any more than that, please let me go, I won’t call the cops I was just bluffin fella, please” the clerk pleaded as his crotch became wet with urine.
“Their are others, no? Villains? They clashed in Japan. There are even some here. Tin Head Ned, yes? I saw it on the screens. Why do they fight?” asked The Womb.
“I dunno, they want power I guess. They don’t like the status quo, they want to see the world burn, I dunno man! I dunno, please!” the clerk was begging now.
“And what do you think about them? These heroes? These villains?” asked The Womb.
“I hate them those bloody bastards, they’re scary! They wreck towns, they’re callous. The Heroes are trying to help, but all they’re doing is enforcing state laws. Some of them even work for corporations. They’re unregulated. The villains are just as bad, exploiting people and extorting them. Enforcing for mafiosos. I’ve even heard some of the biker gangs in Oz and New Zealand have got some in the mix. They seem to be popping up more rapidly as time goes on. There’s no helping it, they’re here now, but I don’t like it. As far as I’m concerned they can rot in hell,” the clerk seemed to have forgotten himself for a moment, and had given a slightly impassioned speech, one that he had no doubt given before in his local pub.
The Womb was aghast. The closest thing he had ever encountered to another being like himself were some of the demons of old. Werewolves, vampires, Succubus, Elves, Dragons and the like. Some he had not directly encountered, but their marks on the earth he had seen for himself. Were these people the descendants of those mysterious folk? Could the children of The Womb finally be showing their true potential? Would he now face some real obstacles on his journey toward freedom for his children? Or would he find allies for his cause?
The Womb released the clerk who fell to the ground, his legs trembling so much they could no longer support him.
“Thank you child for your insights. I must ponder your words and all that I have learnt,” said The Womb, turning to his stolen motorcycle and reaching for the helmet.
Unknown to The Womb, across the road another shop owner had seen the encounter between The Womb and the shop clerk and had immediately called the police. Fearing a biker gang rampage in the area, the shop owner had thought to nip this problem in the bud. Just as The Womb looked as though he was leaving, two squad cars rounded the corner, making good use of the clear roads. They pulled up near The Womb and hopped out of the vehicles.
“Sir, stop there, you are under arrest for intimidation, harassment and assault. You are under suspicion for an altercation on Perth beach yesterday afternoon as well as first degree murder. Anything you say will be held against you you have the right to remain si--” The policemen were stopped mid sentence as The Womb held up his hands to halt them.
“Stop!” bellowed The Womb. The four policemen stopped in their tracks nervously, hands on guns and handcuffs, “you dare to call me, murderer? I, who gave you life? You, who wantonly destroy all that I created? So much so that you would even destroy yourselves? Hypocrites!” Yelled The Womb, his demeanor turning to rage, “Who then, polices you?” he pointed at them aggressively as they stood silent, waiting for the right moment, “Who better than the parent?”
The Womb charged forwards, tackling one of the officers. He was quick, far faster than the officers had banked on. They spun around to find The Womb clutching an officer from behind, and the officer's gun firmly gripped in The Womb’s hand. The officer struggled but The Womb’s grip was absolute.
“What are you to do now?” bartered The Womb, “Choose wisely. Your actions here will be used against you in your final judgement.” | Birth Name: Unknown
Alter Ego: The Womb
Gender: Unknown. Has physique of male humanoid, genitalia of a female.
Age: Unknown
Country of Origin: Unknown
Archetype: Supernatural, Metahuman ???
Allegiance: Unaffiliated (though may be persuaded to join a group, may even create his own group)
Appearance:
The Womb stands at around 6’1, with a toned and lithe frame. His body’s skin tone is caramel, perhaps tanned or mixed in ethnicity. From the collarbone up, The Womb’s skin seems to disappear, instead exposed nerves, muscle and veins cling to the bare skull that is his head. He has bulging exposed eyeballs and tiny capillary like veins cover his skull.
He often wears leather biker-like clothing. Though he is also found naked just as often.
Powers/Skills:
Rapid Rejuvenation: The Womb’s molecular structure can reform itself at an extremely rapid rate. This effectively gives him eternal life and has given him a lengthy lifespan. Deep wounds heal and lost limbs can be regenerated within seconds. The effect this has on his biology grants him incredible brute strength, the depths of which have remained untested. The same is true of his reflexes. As his biology is constantly regenerating itself, he has never suffered any loss of potency in terms of his biological structure. His brain cells too have never depleted, meaning that he is particularly intelligent and can retain swathes of information.
He does however have weaknesses. Intense heat or fire can completely destroy his cells, making rejuvenation difficult unless he can extinguish the flames or escape. (Though even his charred bones can rejuvenate back to his original form, though at a highly decreased rate). Intense and sudden pain can still give him Cardiogenic shock, Hypovolemic shock, Hemorrhagic shock or Neurogenic shock and can leave him rendered unconscious; and despite these types of wounds healing, he may still remain unconscious for some time. Although The Womb does not need to breathe in order to remain conscious, drowning can still render him unconscious. If unable to hold his breath in one way or another, a torrent of water to his lungs could again leave him in shock and render him unconscious. Intense cold could also make him brittle or even immobile, and he is highly susceptible to psychic, arcane or magical attacks.
Equipment/Resources: Leather biker clothes, motorbike.
Biography:
The Womb is an oddity. He often claims to be the first being to be created by the universe. A claim that is both crazy and yet hard to dispute. He often speaks of living upon the earth at a time before life existed, and even exclaims that he was in fact the catalyst that brought life to earth. Despite being able to remember swathes of information (like languages, tactics, history etc) he often muddles events in his mind, and it is hard to tell if he is telling the truth, or speaking in deliriums. He considers humanity and everything involved with it his children, and in doing so often uses his abnormal moral compass to “teach” or parent those that he can. In the past he claims to have led nations, cults and armies. All in various attempts at controlling his “children” and bringing about what he would consider peace. However, The Womb is not above killing to achieve his goals. His “go to” form of assault is to preach and gain some kind of following, however, if he is tested or confronted in some way The Womb would gladly smite his enemies to further his agenda. As a “Parent”, he considers his views to be the only way and would do anything to protect them.
The Womb often has periods of exile. When his plans have gone awry, or he simply is sick of humanity and it’s dealings he has been known to walk into the sea and sink to the bottom in a self imposed exile. These can sometimes be for days, decades or even a century. Of course, he often returns and tries again to assert his will on the earth, with varying degrees of success.
Special Notes:
The Womb can speak the vast majority of languages on planet earth. He is also well versed in combat and tactics due to his history in military battles. He is also well versed in politics and leading He may also be aware of any other arcane or immortal type being. Perhaps even crossing paths with them at some point, or just being alive at the time of their peak and hearing of their exploits. The Womb would not be fully aware of Meta-Humans, as I plan on having him emerge from the sea in his first post and learn about them there, and then form an opinion. I don’t want to give away what opinion that might be, but he would definitely approach one of the teams to speak with them and further the plot. |
44,581 | 1,215 | 30 | 2,304 | 347 | Having easily and comfortably fallen asleep Maeve was startled when the landing gears of the jet were coming out. They were already in Australia? ! Sitting up in her seat she blearily pushed her hair out of her eyes and buckled her seat belt for what was not her most favorite landing.
Still making it to the ground in one piece the Succubus felt relieved. She didn’t think she’d die from a fall of this height, but certainly it would not be pleasant to experience. Oh …yeah. And some of her fellow Champions would most likely die. That would matter too.
Listening to Silver Glove review the details Maeve fiddled with the tray latched to the back of the seat in front of her. Small town having 500 people! Her village growing up was so much smaller… But then with modern medicine populations were more likely to grow and survive than they had in the Succubus’ childhood. But their ‘leader’ was right, strangers were immediately spotted and known in small communities like this.
A smile moved over her soft mouth. Not that she disliked being noticed.
With a sigh Maeve stood and stretched, letting a few of her companions take the stairs after Uly before going down herself.
Only to be completely taken aback by a pack of aggressive looking men. The Succubus smiled all the more and tried to look through the blearing lights to see who her new admirers were.
They were surrounded apparently. Maeve smirked, glancing to Friction who was nearby. “I haven’t been to a good orgy in SO long. Probably the 1970’s…” She commented, apparently unconcerned by the threat.
This train of thought was sadly cut off by static infused voice.
The reason they were in Australia at all sauntered into her line of sight. Apparently he had successfully found his suit. Maeve marveled at his ingenuity before wondering how close she’d have to be for him to feel all warm and fuzzy for the Succubus. Would the suit effect that?
“Maladjusted murdering larrikins?” Did she know the word Larrikin? But it didn’t matter because she had to run. No way she could catch the flying van and while it seemed likely that someone else would, it wasn’t really worth losing one’s legs over. | Birth Name: Lydia Renee Isaacs
Alter Ego: Shade
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Country of Operation: U.S.A. Pacific Northwest Region (Northern CA, Nevada, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington State).
Archetype: MetaHuman
Allegiance: Splinter Group. (Never with Champions)
Appearance: Dark hair, kept up. Green eyes. 5'6". 140lb. Because she mainly operates at night, blue/black uniform.
Powers/Skills: Night vision. Enhanced strength and agility in darkness varying on how dark it is. In complete darkness (night time, no light pollution,One night while testing the limitations of her abilities she as able to lift a tractor in Idaho farmlands. She hasn't attempted to lift anything larger than that, and this left her exhausted.)
Equipment/Resources: Various sized throwing knives. Rope. Mist/fog spray.
Biography: Lydia never wanted to be part of the Superhuman world. Her home life wasn't ever picture perfect. Her dad left when she was young. Not long after her school found out about her mother's drug habits and she was placed in the foster care system. She spent most of her life focusing on academics and wishing for a normal life. She had loved a metahuman when she was going to UC Berkeley, Carter as she knew him, who left for the Champions. She had a bad taste for them ever since, then again she has a bad taste for anything that didn't fit into her ideals of normalcy. She discovered her own abilities after walking home from a late night study session and someone attempted to mug her and she accidentally killed him. Her grades began dwindling as she had a temporary psychotic break. She in fact could never achieve normalcy. That was too much to bear. She fled to the farmlands experimenting, discovering how they only seem to be useful in darkness. After she returned When she heard about the Nagoya incident, she knew now was the time to actually start doing things right. For herself. The champions had failed at making the world a safe place for Supers and non-Supers alike, but maybe this new team could. |
44,582 | 1,215 | 31 | 2,031 | 6,415 | (Picture)
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Cypress laughed at Maeve's mention of an Orgy.
"You can keep the smelly lot of them I prefer my groups no larger than four at a time and of a softer persuasion on such occasions."
Then as she's prepping an area denial attack of the Bikers Tinhead pops up shooting off his mouth spewing insult at everyone around the site. Then for a brief moment she begins increasing the surface friction concentrating on all mobile joints so that he'd quickly find himself trapped in a hollow statue like shell; till he chucked the truck.
A smooth sidestep an fade back put Friction in the direct flight path of the vehicle turned missile. She timed her foot plant, torso twist and deflection slap with all her skill in Akido and her Inertia Manipulation to steal all but a fraction of it's velocity slamming it on the tarmac gently. But she doesn't stop there as she tracks Ned across the sky and reapplied the Van's former Inertial potential in a line intersecting his flight path.
She doesn't remain stationary as she uses her Inertia control to instantly accelerate into a pattern of maneuver akin to a pinball in an active bumper section. As she moves she begins to once more focus her Friction control on the flying bad guy.
Luckily for her the Bikers were preoccupied with too many targets to concentrate on her which helped her to focus on her primary target and taking him down. And though she appeared unconcerned the platinum blonde would have preferred Bikers over an armor jock any day of the week. | (Picture)
Birth Name: Cypress Hecate Mara
Alter Ego: Friction
Gender: Female
Age: 22
Country of Operation: Canada / Alberta
Archetype: Metahuman
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Cy is a 6 foot tall platinum blonde with dangerous curves. Her eyes are a blueish green and her face freckled. Her skin is a creamy alabaster and she is usually dressed in a provocative manner her favorite clothing is leather.
Powers/Skills: Friction Manipulation- by imparting her power into any thing she chooses Cypress can manipulate, generate and otherwise control friction, the force resisting the relative motion of solid surfaces, fluid layers, and material elements sliding against each other, ie. whether the contact causes the movement to stop (sticking the targets together) or continue.
By decreasing her skin and clothing's friction Cypress is so slippery that she is able to skid across a flat surface at great speeds her movements resembling more those of an Ice skater than a sprinter Her skin and clothing in this state can even deflect kinetic energy attacks such as bullets, swords, knives or even liquid attacks. If she is caught in a trap or stuck in a bind, Cypress can just slip away unless completely enclosed.
Inertia Manipulation- This ability allows Cypress to manipulate inertia, basically the amount of resistance matter has to a change in motion or stay at rest by increasing, decreasing and/or maintaining it. She can increase object’s inertia causing an immobile object to be even more immovable, or to make a mobile object unstoppable. She can also reduce an object’s inertia, so a normally powerful object, such as a train, could have its course of motion interrupted with the same effort as would be required to stop a bicycle.
Also by manipulating inertia Cypress is able to simulate super strength but only in a horizontal plane.
Example: She could theoretically once she plants her feet push a stranded Super tanker back out to sea but she can only lift 250 pounds over her head.
(Limitations- to exercise her inertia control on objects other than her own person requires that Cypress herself come to a stop and make herself a stationary target.)
Skills: Hockey, Parkor, Computer programing, Hacking, Kenjutsu an Akido
Equipment/Resources: Weapons: 6 Throwing knives 2 Tanto
Gear: Tech ruggedized Cell phone
Biography: Born to a dead mother in the aftermath of a gulf coast hurricane. That flooded her entire town Cypress was barely alive and would have died except that her father a Swedish merchant sailor like any parent refused to allow it. Then as the storm raged around them he named her Cypress after the tree they found refuge in.
While the storm raged for about six hours the tidal surge pulled father and daughter out to sea where they drifted without hope. They were finally rescued three days after she was born by the Coast Guard. The men aboard the Coast Guard Cutter thought her survival a miracle and lavished her with attention.
Her father clung to life five days after the rescue but then like her mother and 78 members of the community she was from died of chemical poisoning.
An orphan Cypress was remanded over to her mother's family in Alberta where she went to live. What should have been the beginning of a beautiful story was anything but as her family neglected her and only kept her around as a way to collect on her father's pension. Eventually due to their neglect Cypress fell ill and had to be taken to the hospital where the authorities took her from them.
She was then raised in a children's group home where at the age of 11 she began demonstrating powers and was taken to Project Orchid Canada's Meta program with the eventual purpose that she become a Champion.
Her training was intense but focused more athletics at an early age than combat it being thought of as unethical to subject a minor to such. Akido and Kenjutsu were also more competitive sport style than full fledged combat and her training in Hockey to hone her movement. Later when she was 16 the project focused on the more aggressive styles of her martial arts and the power moves of Hockey.
While they trained her to use her body the project also saw to her schooling knowing that a well rounded schooling benefited their ends as well. She excelled in classroom studies especially in the field of computers developing the ability to make an excellent hacker and or computer programmer.
It was because she was finishing a project at the project that Friction avoided attend the meeting at Nagoya and thus escaped the direct guilt of those that had attended. Cy could use her location during the incident as and excuse but chose not to by appearing on CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and offering her country's sympathy to the people of Japan but her own apology as well.
Special Notes: Because of the Nagoya Incident Cypress has vowed to atone for all the damage done by becoming the most skilled at power use ever known so that no civilian shall ever suffer for her mistakes. To accomplish her goal she trains constantly honing her power use to a razor sharp edge.
She appears on children's shows, does interviews and service announcements.
She has no secret identity living on Canadian military or Mounted Police bases. |
44,583 | 1,215 | 32 | 1,605 | 1,991 | YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!! Jack was on the phone with Damien, his father's steward. Damien's family had been vassals to House Cochran for thousands of years, and Damien had faithfully served Dad since before Jack was even born. With Dad and Jack out of the Manor so often, it was usually up to Damien and his brother Danny to actually run everything most of the time. The old winter elf replied, "It's all over the aether and the internet. There was an explosion right after you and the Champions left the airport. And now this Phalanx put out the word against you. They want your blood. Plus the Japanese have outlawed the presence of you and your comrades in their country." Jack fumed. Someone was trying to set them up. Someone was trying to challenge them. Well, if they wanted to play, Jack would play. They would regret the day they ever squared up against him.
Jack downed another beer, trying to calm himself while Cynthia rubbed his back, "Well if that's the case, they'll have blood. Oh you can be sure of that. Put out feelers to every tech genius, agency, and corporation we have our fingers in. Tell them if they can track that broadcast we'll make it worth their while. I think they have something to do with this airport bombing but I'm not sure. Put out the word to the local Youkai, they'll earn a good reward and the favor of Duke Cochran if they help us find out who did the bombing. Canvas the local cops too, I don't care how you do it, bribing, beating, or bedding just do it. I want to know everything there is to know about that bombing. I also want to issue a statement immediately, condemning the bombing and vowing to bring the perpetrators to justice. Have Theresa do it, she's good with public appearances. Also put in our strident objection to the Prime Minister's decision and forward our assertion that the government was responsible for Nagoya. It was their faulty intel and their shitty officers who ruined the whole deal. Have the publicity people put the hit pieces out on the internet through our friends in the press and have the politicians we own start making noise. Make sure the Foundation makes a donation to help repair for the airport, as well as pay for healthcare and funeral costs. Not for Nagoya, we'll admit to no responsibility for that. We've been getting hit in the media, it's time to fire back."
Jack's family had been vassals to Queen Mab of Winter since mankind lived in straw huts. They had been fighting wars and performing assassinations for millennia. They had money, power, influence, and plenty of it. The family had been taking their cut and applying pressure to human endeavors since the invention of the wheel. Their fingers were deep and the mortals didn't even know it. Jack might not be Duke Cochran, or even the heir, but he could pull strings of his own. He had let the whole affair get to him too much, distract him from his options, that had been a mistake. It was time to get his head on right and remember what he did to his enemies. Time to fight fire with fire. Damien had been writing everything down and replied, "Got it. We'll get to work on it right away. Your Dad has been friends with this local Oni chief for years, they worked together on some tough jobs, fought in some good battles. I'll see if he'd be willing to use his connections to help us out. Your Dad might not be pleased by all this though. He always said your involvement with these superheroes would bring trouble." Jack said, "Well remind Dad this a golden opportunity for us. If we're the first of the Families to break into the superhero craze and help set everything down, we'll have a huge advantage over the other Dukes. Besides, I'm his favorite." Damien laughed, "You remind me so much of him at your age. Very well, I'll sell it to the Duke. Anything else?" Jack thought on that. Was he missing anything?
He replied, "Yeah, put in a call to our knights, our sworn swords, our troubleshooters. Make sure everyone in the family is protected. Double the guard on all our houses. Pull all our heirs out of their schools, have them be privately tutored for the foreseeable future. Everyone who's on vacation, get them to a Keep immediately. Nobody in the family walks around without bodyguards. Call my Mom and invite her to stay at the Estate. If anyone so much as looks at one of my kin wrong, you make sure they get what's coming to them." This Phalanx seemed to have quite a bit of power themselves. He had to assume they knew all about his heritage and had the means to get to his family. He had to keep them safe.
Jack added, "Have another company sent through a Nether Gate to protect my sisters in Japan, with as many knights as can be spared. And call my sisters. Tell them to seduce all those ministers as soon as possible. I don't care if they do it or sic their handmaidens and squires on them. Just get it done. Most of them are older than those mortals but they look like high schoolers or coeds and those officials will be married, so get the pictures and video and post them all over the web. They have one day, so they can be as trashy and kinky as they want. Then, I want them all through that gate and back home by this time tomorrow. Mobilize my fans, quietly get them to start protesting the government. I want as much egg on their collective faces as possible."
Damien replied, "Acknowledged. And here I am missing the days when all you asked of me were keys to the cars." Jack laughed, "Just one more thing old friend. Put the word out in the hero and vigilante community. My team is looking for recruits. Thank you, I don't deserve you Damien." Damien dryly said, "No you do not sir. Good luck on your travels." Jack said goodbye and hung up the phone.
He turned to his team, "It's decided. I'll lead an away team to take care of this Skull guy, while Patrick helps the Champions against Tinhead Ned. We can engender some good will and we still have enough firepower to take this guy on between the rest of us. We land soon, get ready." The jet landed just before the Champions did so Jack and his team missed all the excitement with Tinhead Ned as he led them to find the new villain. Patrick was left behind at the airport to wait for the Champions to arrive.
Jack had managed to secure a car from the rental agency and he drove the team in a nice sturdy jeep to look for the skeleton. Not his usual style but in this case, functioned ruled over form. Checking his phone, he found the App that let him tap into the police band and listened in. Looked like the cops had stumbled onto Dem Bones already. Jack smiled at the team, "We got a lead, let's go save their bacon." It was a small town and they found the scene of the crime easily. Jack parked the jeep a block down and loaded his pistol with incendiary ammunition. This threat seemed magical in nature and it was an arcane truism that fire was often an effective weapon against Supernatural beasts. He got out of the car, "I'm gonna try and talk him down. You guys circle around and cut him off from all sides. If it comes to a fight, we got him caught in between us. See you on the other side."
Jack jogged down the street in his leather and steel, hand on his pistol. With his far-sighted eyes, he saw the Skeleton attacking a cop. The big guy seemed preoccupied so he jumped up onto a roof and quickly and quietly maneuvered behind him. Jack was lighter on his feet than any normal human so he silently stepped across the rooftops and landed behind the assailant with nary a sound. Then he drew his sword in one hand and shouted, "Put the officer down! This is your first and only warning. You are assaulting an agent of the law, and you have already murdered innocents. Do not put yourself in further jeopardy. I am Red Jack, scion of the Duke of Red and sworn sword to the Queen of Winter. You have my word that if you put the man down and yield peacefully, you will not be harmed and will face fair justice. Resist, and I will be forced to protect these officers at any means necessary, including destroying you. Resistance is futile, you are already a monster in the eyes of the human law. Even if you escape you will be hunted down until you are captured or destroyed forever. But yield now and there will be no further bloodshed. Make your choice quickly." Jack readied his sword and drew his pistol, ready to slash and burn the Skeleton into oblivion. | Your character might have decided to show up to help out, or they have a relationship with another character, any reason you think would be appropriate should be fine.
Don't worry about it, the doors always open, and I hope your other games go great!
Same thing with Ekko, there's a ton of options. It's not unrealistic for so many supers to converge on such a huge event.
Awesome! Accepted, go ahead and put her in the CS tab. I'm guessing she came to Japan to support the team?
Also Poly already put me in the tab, but you guys can check out my CS if you missed it. Splinter team, behold your guide and mentor
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with her and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
44,584 | 1,215 | 33 | 374 | 801 | As he heard Jack chattering away nearby, Wilbur felt a thick sense of regret surge within him. The Japanese outright outlawing them... he was starting to wonder if he should have stayed behind to speak on behalf of the Splinter group. He had hoped someone else from their group would stand up to testify and that he wouldn't have to. After all, he was arguably one of the strongest parts of their splinter group, losing him would put them at a combatative disadvantage regarding this skeleton... no, he couldn't go and lose his focus now. For now, he just had to work with the team and act as their handyman for the upcoming job.
Once the jet landed, Wilbur hobbled off and looked toward the sky.
"And 3... 2... 1..." he murmured as his mighty mechanical vessel came soaring down from the sky and landed on the runway, just a few metres in front of him. He smiled as he approached the underbelly, it opening up to reveal the interior of the shell. Such a familiarity to him at this point, the steam that rose from the interior whenever it opened, the hiss of the shell's door opening to him and the small seat inside. He stepped inward and settled in, the door sealing behind him as the shell became operational. Once inside, the seat rose a bit so his head could get a clear view from the glass dome on its top, his main for of getting a visual on the fight. It was well protected at least, so he didn't have to worry about it breaking.
He set the shell into hover mode, two of its pulse engines activating on either side of the suit and allowing it to float comfortably in the air, a short distance off of it. He ran a quick diagnostic on the shell's system. It'd taken a bit of a toll in Nagoya, but he'd fixed her up good and proper. Ammo count was on point, his battery was at 97% charge rate, everything was running smoothly. A fine tuned and well oiled machine was always the key to victory, wherever Wilbur was concerned anyway. For now, they had a job to do and he made quick headway above his fellow heroes to spot where the incident was going on, refusing to take the car and insisting his mechanical shell would be faster. And it was, taking a path over the buildings beat the road, after all. He at least had Jack tell him his plan beforehand as he touched down at the scene.
"Listen to what he's saying, you're outnumbered and outgunned." Tortoise added to Jack's words as he took one point of exit to cover. He se his shell's trackers on the skeleton and did a little analysis on him, also getting a lock on should he need to attack him. He was picking up something strange in him, in his biology specifically. His molecular structure's movement was insanely high, to the point of ludicrousness. Of course, Wilbur had to account for magic, something his systems wouldn't be able to anaylyse too well. How DO you analyse magic, anyhow? In any case, his best bet was to use fire against him, one of the fastest methods of breaking down a molecular structure, particularly on a human. Of course, using the flamethrower whilst the area was crowded wasn't the best of strategies... no, he'd need to wait for the right moment and use his shell's large durable form to absorb any other kind of blows this guy might swing at them. | Birth Name: Wilbur Allthorpe
Alter Ego: The Tortoise
Gender: Male
Age: 56
Country of Origin: Birmingham, England.
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Wilbur is a fairly short man at 4'5 and skinny as a rake. He lost his hair in his early 50s and as such, is completley bald. He wears a pair of black thick rimmed square spectacles. Usually he wears a green button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of light brown overalls with simple brown leather shoes and white socks. He also has a black tool belt around his waist.
Powers/Skills:
His greatest ability is the large mechanical exoskeleton shell he pilots, constructed out of titanium, containing multiple energy based booster units for movement and armed to the teeth with weapons including missiles, standard firearms, a flamethrower, an electrical arc cannon, a high powered laser, a small explosive dispenser and a reflector shield. The entire shell can also be used for physical attacks. Wilbur pilots the shell from within, usually using a small visor at the top to watch or ducking inside the shell for stronger attacks. The exoskeleton shell is extremely dense and hard to crack by most forms of attack.
The shell however, has its limits. Without a pilot, it cannot act on its own and is vulnerable. EMP attacks can also disable the shell until Wilbur can get it working again. Additionally, outside of the shell, Wilbur is fairly weak and small and is thus, far more vulnerable and no easier to hurt than an average pedestrian. The shell also runs on a large lithium ion battery pack and should it run out of power or be removed, the shell will cease to function The battery is also more heavily drained by energy projection mechanisms, making the reflector shield and the high powered laser the most energy draining moves. The shell is also not protected from chemical or gas based attacks and whilst the reflector shield protects the shell from almost all forms of damage, it does not protect against force and strong forces will push the shell even with its shield up.
Outside the shell, Wilbur is heavily tech savvy, able to recognise kinds of machinery very quickly, draft up inventions within days and thinking logically around problems. He is also very intelligent and somewhat analytical, using tactics in battle and figuring out the weaknesses of his opponents and using his shell's vast array of tools to strike at them. For Wilbur, every problem just needs the right tool to be solved.
However, outside of his shell, the tortoise is an older man who is not particularly strong or durable, thus, he cannot put up much of a fight without his exoskeleton. He is also untrained in other forms of science such as chemistry and physics, and whilst he is a critical thinker, it means he cannot fight well against unpredictable opponents.
Equipment/Resources: Outside of his shell, Wilbur usually carries around a small tool belt with some replacement batteries, spare parts and a spanner in case he needs to make quick repairs to his shell. He also carries around a small tazer should he ever need to defend himself. He also carries a phone in case of emergencies.
Biography:
Wilbur was born to Martha and Gareth Allthorpe in Birmingham, a pair of experimental weapons mechanics working for the biotech company Zillion Corp. Wilbur enjoyed a fairly upper class childhood with a large sum of money to keep him happy, put into the best high schools and given the best possible schooling that could be afforded. He grew up intelligent if not bullied by the older children, jealous of his wealth and his smarts in class, also by his somewhat meek demeanor and small stature, suffering from his father's short stature.
When he left school, he went on to Cambridge university and graduated with a degree in engineering, going on to work with his parents at Zillion Corp, dedicating his research to a new form of exoskeleton to support someone like him as he continued to be a weak individual. This eventually led him to creating his shell exoskeleton and in practice, it was a huge success. Feeling a surge of pride, he immediately made use of it, patenting the designs for himself and leaving the company before Zillion Corp could mass produce it, a move that was looked down on by his parents.
He outed himself properly as a superhero, calling himself The Tortoise due to the design of his shell and how he had always been mocked as 'hiding in his shell.' He was practical minded, earning donations for his work but keeping a diligent mindset, that he must be careful with his great gift and not abuse it for his own purposes. Eventually he ran across a fellow hero Roger Redbrook, nicknamed the Hare for his incredible speed, dexterity and high jump powers. The two didn't see eye to eye and became rivals, the Hare being optimistic whilst Wilbur was more a pessimist. Their rivalry became incredibly well known across the country and after the pair briefly joined forces in defeating a large crime gang, the pair decided to become a true team.
The Hare and the Tortoise became a notably loved duo in their home country, battling crime and solving problems together. So when the champions initiative came about, they happily joined forces and were among the team's first members. The Tortoise's brilliant mind and gadget wizardry made him an invaluable asset to the team, using inventions to amplify his friends abilities and weaponry, as well as providing analysis and coming up with battle plans for their missions, whilst Hare simply provided a good point man and charming face for the public to love.
The pair were no match for the Nagoya mission, sadly. Hare simply went along with the plans whilst Tortoise was drafting up their movements and using radios to direct them piece by piece. All it took was an unexpected blurt of static to muddle up the plans and their frequency to be discovered before it all went wrong and both Hare and Tortoise were forced into battle. Wilbur panicked amidst all the chaos, unable to analyse or strategise and forced to attack blindly, causing a lot of destruction in his wake. When the dust had settled, The Hare was among the superheroes who were found dead at the scene, crushed under rubble. With his long time partner dead, Wilbur's opinion soured heavily and he became negative toward the idea of the champions continuing with him, choosing to leave for the splinter group as without his partner to balance him out and the outcry against him, he could not act with them anymore.
Special Notes: Some speculate that Hare and Tortoise were once romantically involved, but both have continuously denied this, though rumors circulate regardless, it is a common press hitting point for the pair. He is also among the wanted due to the destruction his shell's tech caused. |
44,585 | 1,215 | 34 | 2,742 | 43 | Just outside Perth, 9:10am
As The Womb had delivered his deadly ultimatum, a voice rang out behind him. With officers in front, and an assailant behind, The Womb thought it best to twist around to the left so that both parties were now facing his front, and he could see both threats clearly. Of course he dragged the officer with him, who was choked by the sudden movement.
This new arrival was walking forwards toward The Womb, glimmering sword in hand. “Halt!" he bellowed, "Any more movement and this lawman dies. If you are truly a hero, you would not risk such a thing, no?” The other officers looked nervous. All three had their guns drawn, yet were hesitant to fire against a comrade. One of them was already calling for backup and alerting the station of the situation and the Heroes that had made it to the scene. Another Hero waltzed up, this one clad in tortoise styled armour. It was plainly futuristic, and held tricks and wonders far beyond the standard weaponry of the average lawmen.
“You are here to uphold the Law? You must be one of these Heroes? Yes?” As The Womb spoke, the whirring of helicopter blades could be heard overhead. It seemed the local news had gotten wind of the situation, “welcome. It is a pleasure to meet you all. These men attacked me, and continue to assail me, I assume you would arrest them? Ah wait. You seek to uphold their laws. You do not seek moral justice. You seek to continue the status quo of this world. You must benefit from it in some way, yes? What if I told you all of their systems were an illusion? That you are simply propping up a system of suffering and pain? What if I told you there was another way? A higher strata of truth? Or, do you already know this? Are you villains in disguise? Manipulating their system for your own gain? Which is it, Heroes?”
The officers seemed unsettled by what The Womb was saying, their eyes darting towards the approaching Heroes. It was known to them their had been dissent in The Champions after the fallout from Nagoya. They began to question exactly what kind of situation they were really in. | Birth Name: Unknown
Alter Ego: The Womb
Gender: Unknown. Has physique of male humanoid, genitalia of a female.
Age: Unknown
Country of Origin: Unknown
Archetype: Supernatural, Metahuman ???
Allegiance: Unaffiliated (though may be persuaded to join a group, may even create his own group)
Appearance:
The Womb stands at around 6’1, with a toned and lithe frame. His body’s skin tone is caramel, perhaps tanned or mixed in ethnicity. From the collarbone up, The Womb’s skin seems to disappear, instead exposed nerves, muscle and veins cling to the bare skull that is his head. He has bulging exposed eyeballs and tiny capillary like veins cover his skull.
He often wears leather biker-like clothing. Though he is also found naked just as often.
Powers/Skills:
Rapid Rejuvenation: The Womb’s molecular structure can reform itself at an extremely rapid rate. This effectively gives him eternal life and has given him a lengthy lifespan. Deep wounds heal and lost limbs can be regenerated within seconds. The effect this has on his biology grants him incredible brute strength, the depths of which have remained untested. The same is true of his reflexes. As his biology is constantly regenerating itself, he has never suffered any loss of potency in terms of his biological structure. His brain cells too have never depleted, meaning that he is particularly intelligent and can retain swathes of information.
He does however have weaknesses. Intense heat or fire can completely destroy his cells, making rejuvenation difficult unless he can extinguish the flames or escape. (Though even his charred bones can rejuvenate back to his original form, though at a highly decreased rate). Intense and sudden pain can still give him Cardiogenic shock, Hypovolemic shock, Hemorrhagic shock or Neurogenic shock and can leave him rendered unconscious; and despite these types of wounds healing, he may still remain unconscious for some time. Although The Womb does not need to breathe in order to remain conscious, drowning can still render him unconscious. If unable to hold his breath in one way or another, a torrent of water to his lungs could again leave him in shock and render him unconscious. Intense cold could also make him brittle or even immobile, and he is highly susceptible to psychic, arcane or magical attacks.
Equipment/Resources: Leather biker clothes, motorbike.
Biography:
The Womb is an oddity. He often claims to be the first being to be created by the universe. A claim that is both crazy and yet hard to dispute. He often speaks of living upon the earth at a time before life existed, and even exclaims that he was in fact the catalyst that brought life to earth. Despite being able to remember swathes of information (like languages, tactics, history etc) he often muddles events in his mind, and it is hard to tell if he is telling the truth, or speaking in deliriums. He considers humanity and everything involved with it his children, and in doing so often uses his abnormal moral compass to “teach” or parent those that he can. In the past he claims to have led nations, cults and armies. All in various attempts at controlling his “children” and bringing about what he would consider peace. However, The Womb is not above killing to achieve his goals. His “go to” form of assault is to preach and gain some kind of following, however, if he is tested or confronted in some way The Womb would gladly smite his enemies to further his agenda. As a “Parent”, he considers his views to be the only way and would do anything to protect them.
The Womb often has periods of exile. When his plans have gone awry, or he simply is sick of humanity and it’s dealings he has been known to walk into the sea and sink to the bottom in a self imposed exile. These can sometimes be for days, decades or even a century. Of course, he often returns and tries again to assert his will on the earth, with varying degrees of success.
Special Notes:
The Womb can speak the vast majority of languages on planet earth. He is also well versed in combat and tactics due to his history in military battles. He is also well versed in politics and leading He may also be aware of any other arcane or immortal type being. Perhaps even crossing paths with them at some point, or just being alive at the time of their peak and hearing of their exploits. The Womb would not be fully aware of Meta-Humans, as I plan on having him emerge from the sea in his first post and learn about them there, and then form an opinion. I don’t want to give away what opinion that might be, but he would definitely approach one of the teams to speak with them and further the plot. |
44,586 | 1,215 | 35 | 1,966 | 2,597 | Rimbaud Building
Omaha, Nebraska, USA. . . .
God Fist eased himself down in front of the obsidian looking building. The black structure, quite frankly inspired a mixture of awe and fear in the youth. He wondered what this “employer” would look like. With the faintest tilts of his head, he conjured the image of a dark-clad villain with their fingers locked at some massive desk.
Oh dear god, I hope not, he cringed to himself.
Beyond the black, welcoming doors stood Reynard. That sleek, hellborn man. To his surprise and immense suspicion, Reynard was more civilized than he had first assumed. The squeak of his boots were strange, sharp, and alien. In the end, God Fist for all his might had felt out of place and meek in the establishment.
“Good, I wanna make this quick.” He tried to force the spring-chicken out his throat and adopt some strength.
God Fist strode inside behind Reynard and took note of the glistening black room. It was… different than what he had imagined. He had expected some grimy malicious feeling surrounding this employer. Instead he was greeted with a rare, delicate elegance; one balanced between courtly air and edgy spirit. He realized this when he caught sight of her green eyes. Disregarding everything she had spoken on earlier, it was a surprise to him that her eyes had been the catalyst for his attention.
It wasn’t until she had mentioned drinks had he felt it appropriate to speak. “Soda please. If you have juice I’d take that over it,” he said, sounding more childish than ever now that he knew his place in the current circle. Afterwards, he had paid close attention to her words. Felt the strings of his emotions under her them.
When he noticed this, God Fist stood to his full height and made his way to the chair, where he, more or less slouched into. Ms. Lilith went on to explain how she had made her fortune, built something from nothing, and then felt powerless against an overnight sensation. Ara felt pride in her words before being drown in guilt from her next few phrases.
Images flashed from the incident. The moment he pulled that beam out the smoky haze of the fight, the red of blood and loud screams. He opened his eyes and felt Lilith comforting hands on his. Something about them made him feel… better.
But that wasn’t right. He slid his hand from beneath hers and stood up solemn.
I can’t hide from these feelings, I gotta face them… I think.
“Ms. Lilith, help me stitch them back together. I wanna make The Champions whole again,” He said, glancing down at his oh-so powerful hands and feeling all the more weaker because of them. | "Jesus! Bro are you really, Starlight? I mean are you really really Mr.Starlight? ... After the fight can I get your autograph?”
Birth Name: Ara Colt Novella
Alter Ego: God Fist
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Country of Origin: America | Chicago
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champion
Appearance: Ara Novella is a half-white half-black teenager with mahogany brown skin. His brown but vivid eyes are clear windows into his genuine heart and all around kind persona. The youth stands at 5’10 and weighs in at 163lbs of mostly sleek muscle. He has a noticeably wiry-like build, thin eyebrows, and a noble powerful face. The hair on his head is loose and long, flowing about the faded bottom stylishly in hues of slate gray.
When acting as God Fist, Ara wears a lightweight, form-fitting dark blue outfit. The suit falls into seamless dark blue boots. On his chest is the symbol of a sharp, edgy, sun that stretches off beneath the clasps of his tatter, black mantle.
Powers/Skills: Ara gained his powers by unknown means one year ago. It was thought that his great-grandfather was a multi-dimensional entity. Thus, God Fist was born. A cosmic-hero who can very well throw down with the best of Earth’s protectors and contend as top hero.
With a Supernaturally Enhanced Physiology, Ara is capable of lifting well over 200 tons and performs feats comparable to this. These powers are technically granted to him due to him having access to the cosmic powers surrounding the earth and inhabiting the universe. Likewise his speed is comparable to blinding, competing with most speedsters. However, the renowned speedsters like Starlight and Grand Prix often trumps him indefinitely. He can catch bullets (though he doesn’t necessarily needs to), fly, think, and react at speeds of mach 10. When in space, for reasons inexplainable, he flies even faster.
God Fist also seems to have a supernaturally enhanced endurance, being capable of taking a beating and getting up to return the pain ten-fold. A weakness of his would have to be his intolerance for pain. While his body can take the punches, Ara often feels the bulk of it. This can often drive him mad and keep him from continuing the fight.
Though it has rarely occurred, it has been suggested that God Fist could use the cosmic radiation he absorbs as some kinetic energy towards his foes. Perhaps his greatest weakness is the illness that sets in if he doesn’t feel the nutrients of the cosmic cloak directly. In other words, Ara has to spend severals hours out in space to feed his body’s needs. Just another necessity that was tacked on to his belt. Along with sleep, normal food, and adequate exercise, he now needs to fill some pocket or vacuum inside himself with dark matter. Without efficient stores of the dark matter, he reverts to his mortality.
Beyond these facts rests a true counter to his godly abilities. A space metal known as Tellurium that can effectively weaken him when in his presence and make him mortal with just a touch. Any weapon, either gas or solid made of this mineral, can and will cause harm. It is a secret that not even Ara himself is aware of, though a few of the Champion's higher ups have conducted experiments to realize this truth.
Equipment/Resources: Nada. . . God Fist needs only himself.
Biography: Ara Novella was born in Oregon but grew up in Chicago. He was a victim of abuse by paternal means and once his mother left his father, they struggled. They lived in the inner-city where gang-violence and police brutality was rampant. Ara avoided the troubles and instead stuck his head in other inane hobbies.
A year before God Fist’s debut was when he started on the path to being a Hero. It was July 4th and patriots were celebrating the birth of America. As Ara was making his way home, gazing at the fireworks, he heard the muffled screams of a woman. At first he ignored it. When got more than half-way down the block his consciousness whipped him into going back.
Novella stumbled onto a rape scene. Two black males had a black woman on her back. He was stunned into submission and later pummeled into submission too. As he laid there, glancing at the bright red, white, and blue firelight; he fought to silence the woman’s pain moans. It was then, that a supernova erupted in his chest, than was smothered out by a black hole. The next moments were a blur. He felt stronger than he had ever been, more monster than man. He knew it to be true when the man shot at him and instead of his chest being ripped open, the bullet simply fell to the ground.
Needless to say he murdered those two men accidentally.
Later on, after denying his powers and deciding to continue his life his dreams became bothersome. Weird pacts with immense, glowing, skinny beings. Symbols written in the forms of literal stars. A legend and legacy in the same instance being fulfilled. Three months or so later and God Fist was discovering himself and his purpose. He was meant to protect the galaxy but he could never leave Earth. It was his home and his love. America soon took notice of this Hero. He was the symbol of the Northern States and soon became one of three names associated with the United States.
The Nagoya Incident was a blunder on his part. He was battling lesser supers than himself and felt, reluctant to hurt anyone. Not to mention when the call came he was nearly drained of his dark matter reserves. He tore a metal beam from the building, not knowing it was a central component to the structure. If not for his exhausted source, he could have saved plenty of people. However, with the situation as such, he was lucky to have escaped with his life.
Afterwards, the politics of it all was lost on him. He remained with the Champions out of loyalty and admiration of the more experienced and leader-esque heroes. Though he is indeed stronger than most, its his inexperience and lack of confidence that more or less has made him subservient to the Champions as a whole.
Special Notes: Young and Inexperienced. Needs to refill on dark matter daily to retain his powers. Is often considered the kid of the group. Is a fairly-new hero whose made a big splash. Unknowing of his true strength he is wry of attacking people without mercy. |
44,587 | 1,215 | 36 | 935 | 1,919 | Maxwell Donovan,
Location Unknown, Russia.
The tip of the cigar glowed brightly for a moment. There was no one there but him, the large man wearing a fancy three piece suit, running his fingers through his hair, staring intently at the multiple monitors in front of him. The only living man for miles around, he'd wager.
He blew out a large puff of smoke, tapping his fingers on his rather baroque looking chair. It seemed horribly out of place in this dimly lit room, surrounded by equipments, wires and monitors. Merely one room amongst many of its kind in this place. This was where his Hlidskjalf was, his Huginn and Muminn the equipments around him. Or was the raven Prototype? Or would he be the raven considering all the information he fed her?
One of his monitors, or more specifically, the monitors catching TV signals from Japan, switched suddenly to some... rather bland looking feed. Granted it took some skill to hijack an entire nation's signals to broadcast that. It was some unknown group, declaring war upon all of the supers, a very unwelcome addition to the chaos at hand. At the very least, he felt slightly gratified watching the footage of the airport exploding. It was no small feat to get his hands on some plastic explosives, much less actually smuggling it in Japan.
Maxwell chuckled.
What a lie. He had simply made another type of explosive, and the interceptor jet he cooked up got past everything without even a blip on their radar. The very same one Prototype was using right now to follow through with another part of his plans. A plan that could very well be jeopardized by this sudden appearance of a third party, one that was unknown and unaccounted for in his grand scheme. He could not cancel Prototype's mission, because he had no information on them. He could not continue with the mission, because he had no information on them. Both decisions risky, so he took a third option.
Tracking someone who jacked a signal strong enough to spill off the nation they targeted would no doubt be almost impossible for anyone. But he wasn't just anyone, and he had the vodka and time to waste, so why not just ask them directly for information?
Just minutes later, and a whole lot of strings sent out, he jacked directly into one of their communication node and left a message. A short message pertaining to their mutual interests, and how to contact him.
He extinguished his cigar, standing up to get another bottle of water. So much more he didn't understand, so much more he needed to learn, so much more he needed to do.
Maxwell could wait. He could wait until they contacted him, or until it was time to destroy that organization.
Prototype 2
The aircraft she piloted was ridiculously small, only a meter longer than she was if she was to stretch her hands out above her head. The wing span was only twice that. For most, it would resemble a fat black shiny triangle. Perhaps precisely because of that it could bolt straight up to almost hypersonic speed in around ten seconds with the dual ion thrusters Maxwell designed. Of course, going at that speed would be impractical when trying to dogfight someone, or even in any sort of flying conditions that doesn't involve being at high altitudes. A sharp turn would literally tear both the pilot and the plane apart. Instead it had multiple verniers on it to maximize its maneuverability in the air. That also meant it had barely any weapons on board, but that was hardly a problem when it could literally outfly even a missile if threatened.
Prototype was in a prone position, her hands on two vertical control sticks in front of her. The cockpit did not have a glass canopy like most aircraft would at this time, simply because Maxwell was loathe to have a structural weakness in the design that could blow apart once it hit top speed. The lack of a canopy for vision was simply compensated by making the entire cockpit a screen taking feeds from outside the craft, making it seem like she was flying by herself with the company of several odd floating analog toggles and meters.
Its been a few hours now and she was trying hard not to go to standby mode.
Beep.
Almost immediately, she gripped the control sticks tighter, going into manual piloting. The aircraft slowed down, the verniers firing off in clusters, before finally coming to a dead stop further away from where Ned, the biker gang and the Champions were facing off. Hopefully the noise of them fighting, as well as them actually trying to concentrate on fighting each other would distract them from the noise of the aircraft.
"Boss."
"You're there? Good. Drop in further away and give Ned support fire."
"Okay."
She dropped off in the town itself, as the craft zoomed away to the skies. Prototype was clad in experimental white armor now, carrying a rifle that looked a little large for her. Her face was obscured by the helmet, though her vision remained clear due to the inside being a screen with a view to the outside. Technology Maxwell was really fond of.
Prototype sought out the high ground almost immediately. An obvious move, but for good reason. She crawled the last few meters towards a good vantage point on the roof, and aimed her rifle towards the group. All were perfectly visible, albeit far away. None was out of her range. Stabilizing her aim, she pointed the muzzle towards the group of Champions, and squeezed off several rounds.
"Engaging." | Birth Name: -
Alter Ego: Prototype 2
Gender: Female
Age: 2
Country of Origin: Russia
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Undecided, for now at least.
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: She is, for all intents and purposes, a super soldier designed to fight on even turf with other supers. As such she has enhanced strength, speed, and constitution, as well as her rigorous training, both VR and real. While those would easily enable her to overpower any normal humans, her abilities was hardly on par with any real supers with those abilities; she needs her tools and weapons to actually be able to fight efficiently.
Equipment/Resources: Her usual carry is a reinforced rifle and a small pistol, both of engineered to have a surprising amount of power behind their shots. As such, normal humans can't use them well. The still experimental light reactive powered armor she usually wears is almost always present, though it may take different forms depending on whether the old man cooked up another new version or not. It has way better protection than most armors of modern designs as well as being airtight, though obviously anything larger than .50 cal round would obliterate it immediately.
There are other, more specialized equipments in the old man's base, though obviously she can't carry them all. All of them are unnamed, as the old man did not have any sort of plan of selling them at the moment.
Biography: Maxwell Donovan was always wary of the Champions. They were wild, uncontrolled, and unsupervised, operating without laws. Having them being able to operate without limits was a mistake. How many people have been extorted in the name of justice? How many died in their fights? How much of those was actually reported by the media?
Praises was showered upon them, but was it out of reverence, or fear?
He was an old man by now; his strength and reflexes had left him long ago. But his mind remained sharp as always, and with that, he made a body that would be strong, fast and agile. He made Prototype 2, to act in his stead. There was a Prototype 1, intended to be the main unit, but the capsule containing it malfunctioned, and the cells within it died. Despite his low expectations, Prototype 2 performed better than he expected.
Sure, it was not as strong as those supers with strength as their abilities, or not as fast as those with that ability, or even have any sort of special abilities like breathing fire or flying. But it did have the ability to think, his tools and his genius mind behind it. Supers weren't all powerful gods after all.
He had kept Prototype 2 secret since he started to work on it 2 years ago, planning to further improve it before actually putting it into live testing, but when the Nagoya incident happened, he decided it was now or never.
Special Notes: |
44,588 | 1,215 | 37 | 2,465 | 3,264 | The AliceInteracting with: &
The sound of frantic scribbling was the only thing that could be heard in her room, the silence only amplifying what would have been an otherwise inaudible sound. Papers were strewn around haphazardly, organized in a way only the writer could understand by instinct. Charlotte poured over lists of contacts, recently printed documents detailing Japan's foreign policies as well as local ones. Every so often, she would print a new document and add it to the ever growing pile.
Aida, for her part, helped her silently and with the efficiency of someone who'd done this job repetitively.
"Mistress, please, you must rest." Aida pleaded once more, though she made no effort to stop her.
Charlotte did little more than grunt in response. Her eyes were intense but unfocused, and evidence of drowsiness was shown unconcealed on her face. Cold sweat dripped down her forehead, and were wiped away before they fell any further.
"I will rest later."
If Aida had lips, she would have been biting on them hard enough to bleed. Instead, a bubble of frustration welled up inside her. Charlotte hadn't been able to go back to sleep, not while she was anxious for Red and the other's safety. Out of habit, she turned on the television sets again, much to Aida's regret; she would have been better off not having seen the news of the airports sudden bombing, the wild accusations coming from this new group "Phalanx" and the mass of public outcry.
Now her mistress was stemming the tide that was shoring up against the Champions. She could do nothing for the fact that it occurred, but she could lessen the impact, and spread rumors confusing people of who was truly to blame. To that end, she was working on a plan to shift the blame from the Champions to Phalanx.
It was rather impeccable timing after all. The Phalanx rapid response to the bombing of Nagoya airport was as suspect as it gets - they reacted almost immediately after the incident, and had enough to time to arrange a small presentation out of it. It made Charlotte suspect that something like this was planned for ahead of time. She had no concrete evidence, and there was a chance that she could be wrong, but even if she was, the concept was sound enough that it would make for an infectious rumor - exactly the kind she needed to remove the blame placed on the Champions and active heroes. If opportunity arose, she would try to shift the blame of the Nagoya incident to them as well.
So she began writing several articles under assumed names. Some of them would be posted online using an anonymous network to prevent tracing, while she would have others published as news articles in Japan itself. For that, she needed to take advantage of some old contacts. Finally, in order to spread the rumors more effectively . . .
"We're ready to leave, Purr-incess~!"
Dinah, along with Hatter on her head, and twenty rats assembled across her floor. Dinah, as usual, kept had a cavalier air about her, even while making puns. For his part, Hatter was as jittery as ever; she couldn't see an expression on him, him being a hat and all, but she could feel out how he generally felt. She liked to say it was "a mother thing", when asked by the others.
As for the mice, same as usual.
"Gogogogogo"
"Wheeeeheeheeheeee~!"
"WHYCAN'TISTOPCRAWLING?!"
"Oh my god you look like a cat!"
Dinah shot a flat look at the mouse.
"I am a cat."
"Really? I'm sorry, I kinda though you were a pig and all. You're so big . . ." Somehow, the completely innocent and frank manner this line was delivered in made it all the more insulting.
Snatching the poor mice up by the tail, Dinah glared at it with piercing, green eyes.
"What was that you little-?"
She stooped as she caught Aida staring at her over Charlotte's shoulder. It was a stare that told her she was wasting her time, and more importantly, wasting Charlotte's time. It was a stare that promised nothing good would come if she continued. It was a stare that promised nothing good even if she stopped. It was also a stare that made her drop the rat, and slink back into line.
"Mrr . . ." she purred, mollified.
"There's been an incident in Japan," began Charlotte as everyone settled down. She passed on notes to her children wheeled back to her desk. "A recent bombing of an airport followed by a sudden anti-hero propaganda has occurred, and public opinion is sure to shift into even more unfavorable light. We're going to keep that from happening. To that end, you will serve as my Intelligence and Counter-Intelligence in Japan. The duration of your operation will be four months, or until I recall you, understood."
Nodding - or in Hatters case, spinning in place - in agreement, the group accepted the papers handed to them and browsed through it. Or, at least Dinah and Hatter did; the rats began chewing on them experimentally. Aida sighed in the background.
"A'ight, I get the game now. We'll be back with results Lil' Mistress," said Hatter after a moments pause.
They left at dawn on a boat transporting goods to a toy shops in Japan, secured only an hour earlier.
Once again, Charlotte was alone with Aida, and once again, too worried to sleep. She wheeled over to the T.V. and attempted to turn it on, before a hand stopped her.
"Aida?"
The normally expressionless mannequin seemed oddly . . . annoyed, with her, a feeling that was rarely on display. There was, however, another emotion she was feeling, and that was worry, and anxiety.
"Please, Mistress, it's honestly time for you to rest," she stressed the word, clapsing Charlotte's hands in between her own. Aida knelt down imploringly, and Charlotte realized how tired she felt all of a sudden. It was five in the morning already; she hadn't slept the whole day . . .
"Very well, if you insist . . ." she said, feeling the full, sudden weight of her drowsiness come over her. She was asleep only a second later.
Rather than wheel her back to her bed, Aida opted to carry her there instead, leaving the wheelchair behind. The mannequin tucked the waif of a girl back in, and lingered on, as if making sure that her dreams were pleasant. After arranging the scattered papers on her desk, Aida flicked off the lights, and closed the door gently, leaving without a sound.
She mentally contacted all the members of her family that were away. Her message was short, simple, and by themselves held no malice, but the undercurrent of absolute rage in her voice was something that would given even the most hardened criminals a pause. In fact, the ones to receive her message did; it was a tone they very much disliked hearing. It was a tone filled with absolute loathing at the world, of someone who was content to watch it burn were it not for the one thing holding her back . . .
"The mistress is finally asleep. Succeed at all costs. For her sake."
Red the Teddy KnightInteracting with: ( & again)
"Wew, that lady is something else. You know, she terrifies me tons more than Jabberwocky. Really."
Red nodded in agreement. Unlike Vorpal and the others, he was used to Aida's rage, no matter how well hidden it was, and though she never displayed it in full around Charlotte, it was impossible that she wasn't aware of it as well, even if she never brought it up. Aida was the first among them, as well as the most devoted. He was sure, that when push came to shove, she wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice the entire human race if it meant Charlotte would be happy. In the end, that was all they really wanted, her happiness, but it was ironic that the most major blockade to that from happening was Charlotte herself.
The girl was too stubborn, and her sense of justice too strong, to simply leave heroism to die and attempt to find happiness in a normal life. It was a paradox that caused them no end of suffering - for Charlotte to find happiness, she must abandon heroism, but if she were to abandon heroes, she would never be happy.
It was in this way that both he and Aida had developed a deep rage inside of them, however, whereas he was content to direct that rage towards heroes, Aida had more then enough to consume the whole world.
So yes, she was frightening. He had no idea how she could hold that much hatred and still remain as silent as she was.
Right now, he and Vorpal were alone in a rented apartment. It had been difficult to get past them while hiding his face, but they had managed. Her mistress informed them of the Champion's most likely destination, and immediately after touching down on a private runway, they booked a ride to Andamooka, hours ahead of their marks.
"In any case, Cheshire, what's your status?"
"Green and clean, O Great Red One, the information the Missee relayed to us was on point, as always," replied the cat. Right now, he was invisible and right across him was a good old Mexican standoff: The Champions on one side, a gang of motor riding hoodlums and Tinhead Ned on the others. For all that he could easily get caught in the crossfire, the cat was entirely nonchalant, and even seemed amused by the turn of affairs.
"What kind of a name is Tinhead anyway," he muttered under his breath. "Utterly classless, truly and utterly classless. Why, if I didn't know any better I'd say-"
"Chesire, focus."
"Yes yes. Anyway, from what I can see . . . we have the venerable Gant d'Argent, the absolutely succulent Eve, and the ever smooth-skinned Friction representing the Champions in this sordid affair. Not a bad turn out I'd say - among the Champion's they're fairly level-headed. Friction is in charge of their PR as well, so she should be more than open to discussion."
Red nodded in agreement. "And their opponents?"
"A gang of thugs and Tinhead Ned. They aren't allied though, and there's even a rather high degree of animosity between them open for display, I reckon that we have ourselves a good old three-way punch out- Wait, incoming!"
Cheshire's connection with Red cut at that moment as the Cat avoided a hail of bullets. Battle had begun, and soon it devovled into a chaotic royal rumble. Soon after, a fourth party entered the fray and began targeting the Champions clear as day. Cheshire narrowed his eyes. He see extra gunfire, but not the source. Which meant whoever they were, they were nowhere close by.
"Sorry about that Red," said Cheshire, reestablishing contact immediately. "Fight's broke out, and a new player's just slotted a coin and issued the Champions a challenge. I don't know who this one is, but they've got to be using some long ranged balistics here, since I can't see them. I'm looking at the trajectory of the bullets though, and their coming from the town!"
Back in his apartment, Red nodded silently. They were here to observe, and as much as possible, they should avoid contact until they were deemed worthy, but as things stood, the Champions were outgunned. As capable as the Silver Glove and his companions were, Red was also acutely aware of their weaknesses. Their time in public had been damaging in more ways than one: Several notes were compiled on them by fans and detractors alike, enough that their opponents could feasibly get creative with them and cook up something truly nasty against them.
Avoiding direct contact was important, but secondary. Their main goal was to assess the Champions and see if they were still worthy of the name; and they couldn't do that if they were overwhelmed and dead. They would be speaking with them either way, so while it was bit early . . .
"I'm setting out. Cheshire, retreat to a safe distance and keep observing. Let's go Vorpal."
The sword flew to his side at once. Donning his heavy red armor, Red opened the window and jumped out, rising into the air into the direction of the battle. He rose higher and higher until he got a full vantage point. Still, Vorpal found their target first.
"Seven o'clock, on the roof!"
It was just as he said. On the roof of a tall building, a sniper lay prone, and in their hands was an absolutely humongous rifle. Their face was obscured by a helmet, but apparently that did nothing to limit their accuracy.
In an attempt to disable them right away, Red and Vorpal dropped down at subsonic speeds, aiming to slam their feet into the shooters legs. The weight of his armor plus the velocity from his fall would have been more than enough to cripple a normal human. | Birth Name:
Charlotte Lutwidge Carrolle
Alter Ego:
The Alice
Gender:
Female
Age:
12
Country of Origin:
England
Archetype:
Metahuman
Allegiance:
Split/Pending
Appearance:
(Will upload a picture later on)
An average child, if more than attractive for her age. She has wavy light-blonde hair that reaches past her hips and wide, buggy blue eyes. Her face still has traces of baby fat on her heart shaped face. Her lips are pale pink and are rather full. She has a wide forehead that she does not like being pointed out.
On more mundane terms, her intelligence is above average in some aspects, and prodigious in others. She can learn and understand quicker than most, and is flexible in her way in thinking. Her mind is not bent towards mechanical genius, but is sharp it terms of lateral and technical thinking. This allows her to adapt to most situations presented to her, barring things that are directly outside her knowledge or capability to predict.
In simple terms, Charlotte is a psychic, however, her ability, while potent, is focused only in two directions. She has made attempts to widen the variety of her personal skillset, but so far she has been met with little success.
Psychic Disorientation -- Her sub-ability, that allows her to disorient people in a fifteen meter radius of her. The nature of the disorientation is centered solely around not finding her, that is, attempts to approach her with the ability in effect will be forgotten or replaced by an entirely new motivation. Unfortunately, those with strong enough will (or desire) to find her can break the disorientation easily, and will not again be affected.
Permanent Animation -- Charlotte is a psychic in essence, however her most potent ability is the power to give life to inanimate objects. Objects that she's given life to develop sentience and the ability to learn, and moreover are completely devout to her. What makes this ability more than noteworthy, however, is that animated objects gain abilities outside of their original intended function, making their use both varied and dangerous.
Each animated object has a psychic link to Charlotte, and she can hear and see what they do, as well as communicate between themselves. If an Animated is damaged sufficiently enough, it "dies", and even if repaired and animated once again, it will not be the same, meaning the abilities it possess and the memories and skills gained are lost. Also, when an Animated dies the feedback from its death is reflected back to Charlotte, which puts a huge tax on her body and injures her mentally.
There is only one "true" weakness to this ability, however. Charlotte animates objects and a deadly price:
Her life.
Not only is her overall lifespan reduced with each animation, her health suffers an immediate and severe repercussion. The severity of each animation is dependent on the strength she uses during the process; the process also determines how powerful the resulting Animated is.
As of current she has 59 creations, listed here:
Aida - a reanimated clothes mannequin that serves as Charlotte's primary bodyguard and escort, especially when she ventures outside of her demesne. As a combatant, Aida's ability is comparable to that of an extremely well-trained human, added to the fact that she does not feel pain or fatigue. In combat, her main arm is normal rapier, and her sidearm is a Glock 17 custom pistol. Charlotte calls her "Older Sister" when in public, and also serves as her code-name. The eldest of the Animated, and easily the most stoic, along with Red the Teddy Knight.
Red - A giant red teddy bear taller than an average adult, and along with Aida is the most treasured of her companions. Teddy is her Champion that she usually sends forward in case combat is needed, and among her creations is the most seen. He is immune to pain and cannot fatigue like Aida, as well as being immune to fire, and possesses immense physical strength and durability. He can lift and bench-press up to 10 tons of weight, and wears a suit of red armor, and a greatsword that has also been Animated.
The Vorpal Sword - the blade that Red wields. It talks, has sonar vision in an eight meter radius, and can alter it's sharpness; it can make itself practically blunt, or sharp enough to cut through steel like butter. Has a sharp sense of humor and a rather blunt personality. Also very punny. Can levitate, and can levitate its wielder, essentially making it a flying sword.
The Hatter - or, as he prefers to be called, the "Mad Hatter", is an Animated Hat. He is disliked by the other Animated, barring Aida and Red who care for them all, and Haigha, who is his only friend, as his personality is as twisted as the ability he was gifted with: when placed on the head of a weak-willed creature, Hatter can take control of their bodies, leaving them nothing more as puppets, even if he keeps the knowledge and skills of those he controls. He is frequently used to spy for Charlotte amidst the general and unsuspecting populace. He has a second ability to change shape, though this is limited to a kind of hat only.
Dinah & Cheshire - two stuffed toy cats that serve as her scouts. Dinah can sense the presence of living things in a 2 kilometer radius, and is strong enough to pin down a grown man and bite through steel. Cheshire can turn invisible and move faster than a locomotive, as well as mimic voices. Cheshire has photographic memory, and never forgets what he's seen and heard. Dinah primarily communicates with the Champions, while Cheshire is Charlotte's voice for the Splinter group.
Haigha & Weiss - a brown and white stuffed rabbit, respectively. They are Alice's messengers, and the most talkative and active of the bunch. Haigha can discern when a person is lying or telling the truth, while Weiss can teleport short distances.
The Rats - or alternatively called The Deck, are a pack of fifty stuffed rats that serve as Charlotte's spies. They have no abilities asides being able to think and talk.
The Jabberwocky - a massive dragon statue carved from marble, Jabberwocky was originally her fathers favorite statue, before she converted it to life. Fifteen meters from head to tail, and ten meters from each tip of the wing, Jabberwocky never leaves Charlotte's home and serves as the vanguard of her mansions defense. He is the most powerful of her creations and cost her an arm and a leg to breath into life . . . or, to be specific, cost her both her legs and ten years of her life. Jabberwocky can fly, breath ice at sub-zero levels and shoot searing laser beams from his eyes hot enough to melt steel beams, and has the strength to lift over 60 tons in weight. Aggressive and distrusting of others who are not Charlotte, he rarely speaks, and when he does, it is in rhymes and riddles. Jabberwocky is tough, but brittle. While it takes a lot to pierce his armored skin, once it has been pierced, the rest of his body soon crumbles, as befitting his nature as a marble statue.
Inherited literal billions from her parents, as well as the insurance from their deaths. Has access to multiple vehicles (all mundane, though high-quality) and a private jet that she uses for her own purposes. Her home is a good headquarters, and also contains enough information on different heroes and villains to become something of concern, though the information itself is not extensive.
She also has a wheelchair equipped at all times. Because, you know, she can't walk.
Oh, and a hearing aid.
--
The daughter of two metahuman heroes affiliated with the previous, unified, incarnation of the Champions, she was raised full and aware of her parents identities as well as their duties, and expected that she too would become a hero. She loved the idea, and tirelessly sought to puzzle out her ability so as to sooner come to her parents aid in fighting the good fight. Though the Champions, and indeed, the idea of superheroism itself, was still in its founding stage, the idea that people from all over the world would work together to create a better, brighter future appealed to her childish sensibilities. When she got older, she planned to join the Champions and join her parents and save the world alongside them!
The discovery of her ability, however, put her plans to a halt. Upon first realizing that she could animate objects, she had no idea how potent it could be . . . or fatal. Her first companion was Aida, a mannequin she accidentally turned alive while she was out shopping with her mother. Thankfully, her mother covered up the mannequin and it managed to pass as a person, avoiding a potential crisis. Ecstatic at discovering her ability, she tried again, this time with a teddy bear her father had purchased for her, and this time, she put more focus and power into it's animation.
The feedback from the attempt caused her to have a heart-attack, and she collapsed immediately. She woke up in the hospital, to the sight of her parents yelling in concern. What disturbed her most was that she couldn't hear what they were saying. Later on, her hearing recovered, but she permanently lost function of her left ear.
From that point on, her parents forbid her from using her ability, telling her to make due with what she had already. Sullen and also a little scared, she accepted, and resolved to be a hero another way. After all, others became Champions even if they were nothing but regular humans! While she had minor psychic abilities and two awesome sidekicks!
Confident once more in her path in life, she began studying and training in different aspects of heroism, such as fighting, and gathering information, and awesome boasts and one-liners, and cool looking costumes!
It was just a little after she made Red the "incident" happened. An escaped villain was pursued by her parents, and poor intelligence compounded by even poorer planning led to the end of her innocence, the end of her dreams, and the end of her parents. In the end, there weren't even bodies left to bury.
For awhile, she was in a catatonic state. She had lost near everything she held dear. Nothing made sense to her anymore, and for a long time, she did nothing but sit by and watch as more things were taken from her.
People interested in her parents wealth and lands argued over her rights as the inheritor. They were people she knew, even liked; business partners that came over every so often, aunts and uncles that would play with her, older cousins that treated her to candy -- all now squabbling over her parents wealth, using her as a tool to claim it or even forgetting her outright. It was her first betrayal, and it was a painful one. Suddenly, she found herself surrounded on all sides by enemies she'd read about in story books, but unlike the princesses in her fairy tales she had no-one. No prince nor fairy godmother to assist her out of her dilemma.
Some claimed that the wealth should go to this-or-that person/organisation, while others tried to adopt her outright so as to have the money flow to them by proxy of being her guardian. The money-grubbing and greed came to its peak when they turned their eyes to her fathers statue collection.
It was her fathers most prized collection, and he often took her with him to admire them. At the time, she never really understood and appreciated them as he did, and even now she probably does not, but they held memories of her playing with him among the tall and handsome looking statues, memories of a life that could not return, and were one of the last and greatest reminders of his love.
She was not going to allow them to take that away from her.
She made Hatter, Dinah, Cheshire, Haigha, and Weiss in quick succession, and put them to work with the sole purpose of halting every move to steal her inheritance, her memories, and ignore the incoming pain and fatigue that came with the stress of their creation. For a half a year, she struggled with legal cases, using people puppeteered by Hatter and Aida as her proxies to give adult weight to her wishes, and finally, ultimately, succeeded.
The battle for her past life invigorated her, and soon, she fell out of her state of ennui, now alive in the present once more. Now, however, she had no clear direction of where her future lay. Until she happened to see a news report featuring a topic that had been out of her mind as of late: Heroes. They were still around, but splintered now. An incident at Nagoya, Japan, had left her once vaunted heroes as nothing more than shadows of themselves. The Champions were no longer the major body representing heroism, and opinions on heroes themselves were souring rapidly. Another childhood memory corroded by society and tragedy -- but this time, she did not feel helpless.
Recalling her childhood dreams, the image of her parents as heroes she could idolize resurfaced in her mind. Now, she couldn't be the hero she wanted to be, or the hero her parents advised her to be; she had her abilities, and while she had nothing, she also had a lot of things, things that mattered to other people, like money. No, her being a hero was out of the question . . . but she could help.
Over the past few months, she had settled on transforming her home - a mansion and the surrounding lands spanning kilometers wide - into a headquarters, from where she could provide support for herself, and any possible future she wanted to explore. It was easily converted it into a base, a fortress that could support heroes from all sides, and provide refuge if need be. She resolved to send them funds via proxies, so that they couldn't be traced back to her, and the creation of the Deck allowed her to gather information that she could send discreetly to heroes in need of it.
Currently, she has deemed her support necessary for both the Splinters and the Champions, however, she has preference for the Champions in terms of funding and lending of man power, due to their affiliation with her parents. She never shows her face or reveals her identity, always working through proxies and hired hands.
She has taken up the name of her favorite childhood story as her alter-ego:
The Alice.
Special Notes:
Charlotte has a weak heart, and even the slightest strenuous activity can give her a heart-attack.
She has been paralyzed from the waist down.
She is deaf in one ear.
She is not going to quit being a hero any time soon. Not until the Champions are returned to their previous state of glory. |
44,589 | 1,215 | 38 | 1,062 | 303 | The moment Jack confirmed that Patrick would be the one going to aid the Champions he slipt away from the main sitting area of the jet to the nearest restroom. He knew that he wouldn't have much time to find a nest so he wanted to get as much prep work done as possible. His first, and arguably most time consuming, task was to switch back out of his civilian clothing into the suit he wore on missions.While he knew that he would have had a much more difficult time getting to the jet in the first place he still regretted changing out of it after his freelance contracts. With that out of the way he assembled his rifle with practiced ease, it was action he had done hundreds of times after all. Finally he checked his special ammunitions case double counting the amount of explosive rounds he had, which to his disappointment was still only six. Preparations completed he returned to the main area with the others, though he did not interact with any of them save the occasional nod when appropriate.
Soon enough they landed at his destination, and knowing that both him and the rest of the team were on a tight schedule he exited the aircraft with haste. As soon as his feet touched the ground he took off running in the direct opposite direction of the town. He had no intention of being anywhere near there by the time the Champions arrived. There were no obvious places for cover, the area was mostly flat and void of life, but given the oppressive darkness of the night that did not concern him in the slightest his suit would allow him to blend right in no matter where he decided to nest.
He finally reached a place he deemed suitable after several minutes of running, he could feel his legs burning and his lungs begging for rest but he pushed aside these base reactions for the time with pure willpower. He made quick work of getting set up, which really only involved flicking his bipod down and getting his head in a comfortable position in which to stare through the scope, after which all he had left to do was wait. He waited as he saw the bikers ride into the airport, he waited when he spotted Tinhead, and he waited when he saw the Champions jet land.
Patrick watched through his scope the brief standoff that ensued after the bikers and Tinhead had revealed themselves, getting ready for the perfect shot. He knew that he could have tried to eliminate Tinhead when he first saw him, but he had not wanted to risk missing and causing the villain to begin searching for him. Now though he could wait until an opening presented itself, with the Champions distracting him and the suppressor on Patrick's rifle he wouldn't have the time to search him out no matter the result of the shot.
Suddenly his focus is shifted as he hears the retort of several sniper shots ring out, all of the bullets speeding towards the Champions. For the time being he swiveled his scope away from the three way battle that had just started in order to search out the enemy sniper. It did not take him long to find them, however before he could decide whether or not to waste one of his explosive rounds on them he saw something dropping down from the sky towards the opposing sniper. Not wanting to risk whatever was attempting to aid the Champions he brought his scope back to them, and more importantly Tinhead.
Despite the fact that the man was flying Patrick's aim stuck firmly the the chestplate of his Tinhead's armor. He knew there was a good chance that the armor could survive the explosion his bullet could deliver, all he hoped was that it would disorientate the man enough to give the Champions a chance to either recuperate or take advantage of it.
Keeping his crosshair on the direct center of Tinhead's armored torso he counted down to zero, pulling the trigger and firing off one of his explosive rounds. 'Five left.' | Birth Name: Patrick O'Brian
Alter Ego: The Celtic Sniper
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Country of Origin: Ireland
Archetype: Gifted
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Patrick is a small man, standing at 5'5 and weighing roughly 130lbs. He is an average looking Caucasian man, with short brown hair and dark brown eyes. In addition he has no facial hair. Of course only the Champions (and now the Splinter group) are aware of his actual appearance. When he is not in a safe area, the only place that barely qualifies is HQ, he wears a form fitting black suit that covers him from his feet to just beneath his nose. He also wears a dark brown Irish Tweed cap and dark sunglasses.
Powers/Skills: Patrick is just a man, his parents weren't some sort of aliens or divine beings. He didn't suffer a severe accident and have to have any part of him replaced by shiny metal. He isn't even a metahuman. What he is, is a world class marksman.
His typical weapon of choice is a customized sniper rifle, designed to be able to handle firing the specialized round he occasionally uses. While there may be certain supers that would be able to outshoot him he is unparalleled among most of the world in both range and accuracy.
Despite being most comfortable at long range he is capable of holding his own in closer quarters with his pistol, though he only does this when retreat is unavailable.
While he isn't necessarily the smartest man he does have acute battle awareness and his "nests" are carefully selected.
Even though his body is not immune to the effects he can ignore both very cold and hot temperatures which is a must as he may end up having to stay in one location for several hours or even days at a time.
Equipment/Resources: As mentioned in the Power/Skills Patrick carries both a sniper rifle and a pistol, of the two only the sniper is modified. He also has a small box of specialized ammunition. Normally he will carry a variety of rounds with him, so he can adapt as needed. However when he has intel in advance he will stock extra of a particular round. At the moment he only has a few explosive round left as most of his more unique ammo was used during the Nagoya.
As for resources he still has contacts from his days as a mercenary and they are his primary method of receiving new ammunition, weapons, etc. Though this may end up shifting.
Biography: The first few years of Patrick's life were rather bland and typical, average family life for an only child, regular friendships etc. The only interesting thing that happened was he discovered his love for rifles at a young age. He was staying with his grandfather, who lived in a quaint little cottage out in the middle of the woods, one summer and the old man decided it was time that he learn how to shoot. It took them both by surprise when it turned out that the young lad was a natural. Every target his grandfather gave him he hit dead center, no matter the distance or size. He did have minor trouble with moving targets at first, but he overcame it before the day was up.
Neither had any idea what to do with this talent of his, so rather than think on that they spent the rest of the summer honing it. When Patrick finally had to leave his grandfather gave him his own rifle, and told him to find anyway possible to keep practicing. His parents were less than thrilled when they picked him up, but they relented when they saw just how much Patrick wanted to pursue this. In hindsight this may not have been the best idea they ever had, as Patrick took his grandfather's words to heart.
For the first couple of months after he returned he did what he could to practice, which mainly involved walking for several miles to reach a secluded area. Obviously this place of solitude couldn't last forever, after all when do things ever remain peaceful for talented individuals. One day while he was practicing he was approached by a group of well armed men, well armed to him at least. In reality they just had a few pieces of heavily outdated weaponry. Compared to his hunting rifle though they seemed liked cutting edge technology. The group spoke to him for a while, complimenting his shooting, asking how he found the area, etc. After thirty minutes had passed by they offered him a chance to join their group, promising him not only better practice but a better rifle as well. Remembering his grandfather's words he eagerly agreed. And so at the age of 14 he joined up with a militia group.
He spent the next six years of his life with them. At first all he really did was practice, which was all anyone in the group did except a few members. It wasn't until a year into his stay with them that he made his first kill. They didn't even have to fed him any lines to convince him, he had known for a few months now that the only purpose for his talent would be death. The next five years passed in a blur of pink mist, however as time went on he started to get bored of the group. He had never believed their ideology, and he felt like he was stalling with the small time "missions" he was sent on. He couldn't leave though, not until he knew what the next step would be. Fortunately for him this information was given to him when he overheard a conversation between two of the other members. They were discussing the possibility that they would hire a mercenary for their next job. With the first step of his plan given to him, he quickly began to work out the rest. It really was simple enough, when the mercenary came he made sure that he was practicing, and just like six years ago with the militia group he caught the man's attention. They spoke at length for a while, with Patrick voicing his desire to leave the group and strike out on his own. Despite the nature of his business, it wouldn't make sense for a merc to want to help out an aspiring one as that meant fewer contracts for him, the mercenary agreed to help Patrick establish himself with a few contracts. He wanted to get out of the business anyway and figured he may as well help the young man out. As soon as the merc completed the job for the militia group the two disappeared into the night.
There isn't much to be said about the nine years Patrick spent as a gun for hire. He killed a lot of people, made a lot of money, earned the name The Celtic Sniper, and established connections among arms dealers and the black market. While many of his contracts were given to him by individuals he was hired more than once by the Irish Government, and they are the one who decided he should join the Champions shortly after the formation of the group. While it would have been very easy for them to strong arm him, which would have been detrimental to their health, they found they didn't need to. Patrick was more than willing to join the group, seeing it as a way to further his skills.
While many of the Champions were hurt, both physically and via the media, due to the Nagoya incident Patrick got through relatively unscathed. He was far from the scene of devastation given his long range, and while he killed quite a few people that day none of them were civilians. However with the intense scrutiny the group would be facing, and the fact that another group was being formed from a few of the former Champions and other miscellaneous supers, he decided it would be best to cut ties with the Champions and join the Splinter group.
Special Notes: |
44,590 | 1,215 | 39 | 935 | 1,919 | Prototype 2
The rifle jerked in her arms as she puled the trigger, roaring loudly with every shot she took. A rifle firing large custom caliber rounds was not something a normal human could use easily, much less an automatic firing the same rounds. Prototype could not verify whether her shots actually hit their targets however, as something heavy dropped from the sky straight onto her legs.
"Ngh!"
Almost instantly, she leapt up and away, keeping her profile low. By virtue of her own constitution, and the armor taking the brunt of the attack, she merely got away with a rather sore leg. Prototype could see now what just attacked her. A teddy bear, a very large teddy bear, armor and all, stood before her, wielding a greatsword like some sort of childish fantasy knight. Her helm displayed no signs of life or any sort of heat signatures on it. Something that was literally impossible considering that objects doesn't generally move on their own. She moved quickly, spraying bullets at it's general direction, before dropping off the building. As she fell she grabbed onto a windowsill, pulling herself up and into the building, where the narrow corridors and small rooms would hamper the use of the greatsword the bear carried.
"Boss. I've been found. One of them in close quarters."
"They're engaging you in close quarters combat?" There was a moment of silence, before Maxwell spoke again. "Then deviate to Plan C."
"Ok."
By now the town would be awake. Her rifle was unsilenced, the battle going on with the bikers, Ned, and the Champions would be in full swing by now, and there was a murderous teddy bear looking for her. Already there was some murmuring from the rooms near her, with one going so far as to crack open their door to have a better look at her. She fired a warning shot at them, the round simply tearing through their door and the thick concrete behind before stopping. The door slammed shut immediately, and the noise died down around her.
She did not need any distractions right now, not when she had someone trying to stick a greatsword in her.
Maxwell Donovan
Intriguing was an understatement when it came to describing the feed coming from Prototype's helmet. She had come into contact, however brief it was, with a walking, fighting teddy bear with no visible sign of a means for locomotion or movement. Was it something they call magic? He had to admit he was woefully inadequate when it came to magic and their ilk. Had always been a science person after all. Maxwell had tried to account for everything when planning the eradication of these... upstart inhuman dogs, but trying to account with these sort of shennanigans? As of now, his only real way of dealing with them, was to throw a lot of firepower at them and hope they die.
Probably should fix that when he had the time. | Birth Name: -
Alter Ego: Prototype 2
Gender: Female
Age: 2
Country of Origin: Russia
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Undecided, for now at least.
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: She is, for all intents and purposes, a super soldier designed to fight on even turf with other supers. As such she has enhanced strength, speed, and constitution, as well as her rigorous training, both VR and real. While those would easily enable her to overpower any normal humans, her abilities was hardly on par with any real supers with those abilities; she needs her tools and weapons to actually be able to fight efficiently.
Equipment/Resources: Her usual carry is a reinforced rifle and a small pistol, both of engineered to have a surprising amount of power behind their shots. As such, normal humans can't use them well. The still experimental light reactive powered armor she usually wears is almost always present, though it may take different forms depending on whether the old man cooked up another new version or not. It has way better protection than most armors of modern designs as well as being airtight, though obviously anything larger than .50 cal round would obliterate it immediately.
There are other, more specialized equipments in the old man's base, though obviously she can't carry them all. All of them are unnamed, as the old man did not have any sort of plan of selling them at the moment.
Biography: Maxwell Donovan was always wary of the Champions. They were wild, uncontrolled, and unsupervised, operating without laws. Having them being able to operate without limits was a mistake. How many people have been extorted in the name of justice? How many died in their fights? How much of those was actually reported by the media?
Praises was showered upon them, but was it out of reverence, or fear?
He was an old man by now; his strength and reflexes had left him long ago. But his mind remained sharp as always, and with that, he made a body that would be strong, fast and agile. He made Prototype 2, to act in his stead. There was a Prototype 1, intended to be the main unit, but the capsule containing it malfunctioned, and the cells within it died. Despite his low expectations, Prototype 2 performed better than he expected.
Sure, it was not as strong as those supers with strength as their abilities, or not as fast as those with that ability, or even have any sort of special abilities like breathing fire or flying. But it did have the ability to think, his tools and his genius mind behind it. Supers weren't all powerful gods after all.
He had kept Prototype 2 secret since he started to work on it 2 years ago, planning to further improve it before actually putting it into live testing, but when the Nagoya incident happened, he decided it was now or never.
Special Notes: |
44,591 | 1,215 | 40 | 167 | 65 | YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!! Red Jack's outburst pulled Mina from her dreamless nap. Half awake, she opened her eyes and found herself on the leather couch she had taken a seat on when she first arrived. She looked up to remember where she was, on the Cochran family jet, and then gave into her grogginess when she saw that everyone else was going about their own business. She listened in on Red Jack's phone conversation, hardly following what he was talking about. He mentioned a broadcast, which Mina could only assume was the sickening portrayal of the Champions that had shown up on the plane's TV. The confusing mixture of fear, anger, and shame she felt in response to the incident resurfaced; it was a milder version that wouldn't put her in a week-long stupor, but one that would keep her from napping again nonetheless. She didn't want to think about explosions anymore. It sounded like Red Jack was going to take care of whatever was going on in Nagoya, or at least try.
It was more news to her that the Champions were also going to Australia to find Tinhead Ned, although she should have guessed the moment Red Jack contacted the group that the remaining Champions would also get their sorry butts involved. Patrick would stay behind to help the Champions, and Mina decided she would too, just to see if the Champions were any more put-together after the incident. She didn't bother telling anyone of her plans, figuring if she were to camouflage, no one would notice or really even care. Mina went to the plane's tiny laundry room and quickly spotted her clean green uniform, putting it on right then and there. No one questioned her change of outfit, probably assuming she wanted to be ready to hunt down the Skull or Tinhead Ned. She sat back down on the couch for the jet's landing, her completely green getup standing out against the black leather. She bounced slightly when the plane touched down, and hung back while the rest of the team left while she activated her camouflage.
Leaving her dufflebag on the plane, she headed out and looked for Patrick, barely seeing him run away from the town in the moonlight. She turned to run after him, but he was nowhere to be seen. She kept going anyways, assuming this direction was where the Champions would be. A few minutes later, she nearly ran right into a man on a motorcycle and swerved to the side. Standing behind a bush, she saw that there were maybe 40 large armed men on motorcycles, surrounding a few uniquely-shaped people. She picked out the fit, curvy figure and blonde hair of Cypress, and realized these were the remaining Champions. Threatening talk was interrupted by unpleasant clunking of metal as a clumsy-looking body of armor appeared. Blue flames propelled him into the sky. She winced at the bangs and shut her eyes against the flashes of light that happened in the brawl, knowing she wouldn't stand much of a chance if she went in to help. | Birth Name: Mina Galanos
Alter Ego: The Chameleon
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Country of Origin: Canada (Rocky Mountains)
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance:
Mina has a slender figure and stands at 5'5" tall. Her natural eye colour is green. Her natural hair colour is mouse brown, but she dyes it green to match her eyes. Her uniform is a green cloak that drapes over her head, being a functional representation of a green screen.
Powers/Skills: Like chameleons, Mina can change colours to camouflage with her surroundings. She has layers of colour pigments in her skin that can activate to change her colouring into a variety of patterns, which she can control at will. This extends to her uniform as well; her uniform senses the pigment activity and changes in accordance. This does not work with regular clothes. Although her camouflaging isn't exact, different parts of her body can change colour and pattern to match the general colour of the background, which is usually good enough if she doesn't draw attention to herself.
Mina's chameleon blood makes it easy for her to learn languages. She uses English in her operations in Canada, but is also fluent at speaking the animal language. She can learn the meaning of any animal's sounds, and can imitate these sounds to talk to them in return. Thanks to this power, she has made many animal friends who help her spy and bring her information.
Unfortunately, her aptitude at language takes away from her ability to read behaviour. Only with practice has she managed to grasp using day-to-day facial expressions and reading basic emotions and gestures. She is prone to misinterpreting anything deeper than a false smile and anything more subtle than a furrowed brow.
Equipment/Resources: When Mina is operating, she wears a green cloak that changes colour in response to the pigments in her skin. She also works alongside a number of animals. She is unable to be in touch with them at all times, but they gather to meet every day in the same secret spot to share information, and she often runs into them anyways when they are working nearby.
Biography: Mina was born and raised in a lakeside town in the Rocky Mountains of Canada. Born in their house with the help of a special doctor, Mina's skin was changing colour, although barely noticeable, from the moment she was born. Throughout her childhood, she went to a private laboratory to learn to control her powers and be studied by scientists. She was quickly given the nickname "The Chameleon". Living in the relative wilderness of the mountains, she realized that she could talk to animals, and befriended the deer colony that lived in the forest. She grew up a confused child, constantly being told by the scientists to never reveal her abilities, and wondering why the lives of the other children seemed so different from hers and so similar to each others.
Her parents never spoke much of their past, but in the lab she heard talk of an African legend of Bantu mythology. When God created man, he sent a chameleon to tell man of eternal life. However, upset by the actions of the humans, God sent a lizard to tell man that he would die. Left to roam the earth as a failure, the chameleon tried to integrate with the human population through... let's just say, other ways, before giving up and colonizing as its own species. She was likely a descendant of this chameleon.
She tried to use camouflage to get information, but the scientists were always on the same page as her. She did manage to learn about the pigments in her skin, and gained an interest in Biology. She also learned that her mother had the same camouflaging abilities as her, both her parents used to work for a spy agency in Spain, and her parents had to escape to Canada. Mina got used to the scientists' secretiveness and distance, but never felt that friendly a relationship with any of them.
After high school, Mina went to university and got a Master's degree in Biology. Before she could pursue a PhD, her lab was recruited into the Champions to study the powers of the superheroes involved. Curious about the lab's plans, she asked if she could help in any way. The principal investigator, Dr. Paules, said yes. He told her about the Champion's goal of worldwide justice and said they could use a spy, and that he would put in a good word for her. Mina hardly knew what he meant and how she could help, but she readily agreed.
At age 26, she was recruited into the Champions and tasked to spy on criminals and evil organizations. She was given a cloak by the lab, a product of years of studying her, that could respond to and emulate her skin's colour changes. It was during her time as a Champion that she realized her talent of learning languages, picking up the language of wherever they sent her with relative ease. She also discovered the severity of her inability to read emotions, which hadn't been so much of a disadvantage before. She focused her energy solely on relaying information the way she had received it, letting others do all the interpreting.
Mina was present at the Nagoya event. She witnessed, mostly in fearful camouflage, the chaos that ensued as everything went wrong. But it wasn't the nationwide chaos that triggered her distrust. She couldn't believe the internal conflict that occurred among the Champions, along with the humiliation of being associated with them and fear for her own safety. Her distrust in the Champions was amplified by the bashing from the press. She jumped at the opportunity to leave the Champions and start an independent superhero team.
Special Notes: People often misjudge Mina to be stupid and shallow because she may respond inappropriately to social situations, which has caused Mina to lose confidence in her ability to read people. Because of this, she prefers to play the role of a tube, connecting people with source information without it being changed or biased by misinterpretation. However, provided the facts, Mina can prove to be insightful, observant, and creative. |
44,592 | 1,215 | 41 | 637 | 359 | The fight began and Jackson quickly ducked into the middle of their little clump of champions, so close that he was within touching distance of each of them. He needed to be to do his job. He thought of his role on this team as somewhere between an armourer and an alchemist: he gave team members the tools that they needed to do their work, while mixing and combining abilities into something new when something extra and special was needed.
He reached out to Cypress and tagged her hand as she bounced by, and immediately felt power flow into his body. It was an odd sensation, something like a very hot drink flowing down into his stomach and then spreading out through his veins. While that part stayed more or less the same, each different power he had encountered had slightly different feel to it. This one felt kind of slimy. He shivered for a moment and then got on with it.
With a hand on Maeve's shoulder, he transferred the ability on to her, and then to Ulysse. He wasn't sure if they would want to use it in this fight, or be able to do so very well, but he gave them an hour's worth of the ability anyway. He didn't have anything else to give them, and it was better that they have an extra trick up their sleeves and not have to use it then to need it and not have it.
Cypress bounced by again, and this time he had a gift of power for her. While touching both she and Maeve, he copied the succubus's ability across between them. She had made some comment about that earlier, so he let her try it out. | Birth Name: Jackson Barnes
Alter Ego: The Jack
Gender: Male
Age: 21
Place of Origin: Sydney, Australia
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance:
Powers/Skills: Jackson is able to grant one being the ability to use the superpowers of another for a period of one hour. For this to occur, he must be touching both the donor and the recipient, and aware of the abilities being bestowed.
The ability can work in two modes during the time the change is in effect, either the original donor may continue to use their powers as normal, or, if Jackson chooses, they may be drained of them to fuel the transfer. Only one power set may be bestowed on any being at a time, and any attempts to grant a second will result in thei first being wiped. If the recipient had their own supernatural abilities before the transfer, they may continue to use them as normal. Jackson can choose to bestow powers on himself.
This ability is limed to supernatural and metahuman type abilities. Augmentations and gifts cannot be transferred.
Equipment/Resources: The Jack keeps a number of useful items on the belt of his suit. These include a grappling hook, long-range taser, smoke bomb and syringes filled with anaesthetic to keep villains under control. A pair of goggles lets him see in bright or low light, as well as in infrared, and he uses a staff to defend himself in a meelee.
Biography: Jackson Barnes was born into a family of elven blood, with many of his relatives showing magical abilities. While the reemergence of magic into the world and the rise of heroes is relatively recent, members of the Barnes family have long been using their abilities to help mankind. They had to do it covertly, of course, but nonetheless, their command of magic made them into well-known figures.
Barneses performed miraculous surgeries, multiplied funds for charity, and pulled off super-human feats as detectives, search and rescue personnel and military operatives. To be a Barnes was to be great. Jackson, however, showed no signs of supernatural abilities at all throughout most of his childhood and adolescence.
Being surrounded by supers while being ordinary himself was difficut for Jackson, especially seeing the accolades and glory that were heaped on his relatives. Sure, he got to stand near them at some of the medal ceremonies, but it was frustrating to be constantly shown that he was unlikely to ever achieve anything to match the glory of his lineage.
After finishing school, Jackson was training to pursue a career as an auto machanic when his latent abilities finally showed through (or perhaps he finally discovered how to use them. Truly, he isn’t sure). Jackson was overjoyed at this discovery, and threw himself into super life, eager to prove himself and win glory. When the idea for the Champions was floated, he decided almost immediately to join. A role with the team would both suit his abilities and bring him the recognition he had wanted for so long.
Joining the team wasn’t all that he had hoped it would be. He found it difficult working with many of the members, and then Nagoya happened. That day, he was ill-preapred going into the battle, and was knocked unconscious almost as soon as the fighting broke out, by a cunk of debris thrown up by The Tortoise, no less. He only learned about what had happened after being dragged away and brought around after the fighting was done.
Having been thoroughly humiliated by the experience, The Jack resolved to make a fresh start for himself and the team. Their honour as a group had been tarnished, and they needed to restore that. The first step to accomplishing this goal, in his eyes at least, is to end the Splinter situation, either by bringing back those that turned away from the team and their goals, or by disbanding the other, less principled group. As for Jackson himself, he wants to take a more proactive role in chasing his dreams and seeing justice done. Things may have gone poorly at first, but being a Champion is still an opportunity he dreamed of but never thought he’d actually see.
Personally, Jackson is certainly eager to make his mark, which makes him less cautious than some of the other heroes, at times reaching into headstrong or outright brash behaviour. He’s a snarker, occasionally critical and agrumentative, but only because his heart is in the right place and he wants to see the right thing done.
Special Notes: That’s all for now. |
44,593 | 1,215 | 42 | 682 | 1,490 | Sir Lancelot Kilgarrah Du Lac, The Dragon Knight
In the midst of flying over an ocean to what he believed was either the Pacific or Indian, a sudden shockwave of air pressure blasted the knight. "the hell?!" He shouted allowed. It had just dawned upon him that he had flew right into a massive typhoon. As strong as he was, it was difficult to navigate and resist the terrible winds through this storm. He was about to notify the other champions, but his connection went down. "Bloody hell these modern trinkets are so unreliable!" He said as he continued to brave the storm. Unable to even find the eye of the storm, he quickly became lost, all senses of direction becoming null, nor could he find a way out of the hurricane either.
After what seemed like hours, he finally escaped the storm, by the position of the sun he knew that he had wasted a lot of time. He could recognize a land mass as India, and that was when he had gotten signal to his communicator. "Oi" He spoke to the champions through the device. "I got sidetracked, fill me in on what I missed someone." | Birth Name: Sir Lancelot du Lac
Alter Ego: The Dragon Knight
Gender: Male
Age: He appears 27 in his human appearance, but he is as old as the fall of Camelot.
Country of Origin: Camelot
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance:
6'1. Beneath that armor he has snow white skin, blue eyes, messy black hair, and a strong yet somewhat slim build. His wings are bat-like with plated scales and he has a tail barbed to the tip with a spear like hook at the end.
Strength: Lift 10 tons
Speed: Mach 1
Firepower: Highest heat production is 855 F, highest blast force about the same as a frag grenade.
Strength: Lift 20 tons.
Speed: Half of mach 1
Firepower: Highest heat production is 1,500 F. Blast force is about the same of 20 dynamite sticks.
Scales are like steel except for underbelly.
Standing at 15 feet tall.
80 feet long, from head to tail.
Strength: Lift 80 tons
Speed: Mach 1 max, only in flight
Firepower: Highest heat production is the same as a nuclear bomb, blast force a fourth of the same bomb
Scales are like titanium except for underbelly.
Powers/Skills: As a dragon, he is immortal against time and has great physical ability. With inhuman levels of strength, speed, endurance, and durability. He can fly with the use of his wings that are present in all forms. He has a great sense of smell, and Vision, his eyes illuminate like dim candles in the dark.
He has an undefined immunity to heat, being completely unable to burn or be damaged by heat in even the most harsh temperatures, molten rock, or theoretical plasma from the sun.
He can create and manipulate flames, but only from using his body as the source for the fire. Meaning that he cannot simply make things spontaneously combust other then himself. This includes breathing fire, igniting his own body, throwing fire balls, etc.
He is skilled with both his lance and straight sword, which he has kept in well condition since the dark ages. He possesses magic that can summon and unsummon his equipment at will, and he has a set of armor and a giant axe for his semi form.
Being cold blooded, he cannot survive well in cold enviorments. He can use his own fire to warm himself but this method exhausts him overtime. Ice based attacks and others of the sort are especially effective against him. Each form is stronger then the last, but has less equipment for his skill with the blade. The scales of both his semi and full dragon form are as strong as steel, except for the belly which have soft vulnerable scutes. The armor in his semi form as a result covers the chest instead of other areas like the back, but his full form, while his strongest form, lacks any sort of additional armor or weaponry.
He can control his semi form well, but he has difficultly in controlling his full form. Since kilgarrah still desires full freedom he often tries to 'take the steering wheel' as it were and go on a draconic rampage, this and even if he had control over kilgarrah, the sheer size and strength is difficult to contain in a city environment without unwanted destruction and damage to the team. And it being difficult to focus on a single enemy. As a result he will only use this form on the rare occasion where it is fitted, such as fighting an army or another giant monster.
Equipment/Resources: Both sets of armor, giant axe, sword, and lance are kept away and summoned by magic at will, and can be usummoned just as fast, rarely will he carry anything else.
Biography: Many are familiar with Lancelot, best friend to the king and despised for his betrayal. Though none of the stories tell of Lancelot's true fate or the fall of Camelot. Another popular figure of the story, Kilgarrah, describes as one of the strongest dragons of the time and kept sealed under the castle, had spoken to Lancelot not long after Merlin had denied kilgarrah his plans of freedom. Lancelot was lead to kilgarrah chamber, and promised him power and glory in exchange to forming a pact with the dragon. This pact would lock their souls as one, allowing kilgarrah to escape his prison and Lancelot to gain the power he seeks to reclaim his honor. It was no suprise to see Lancelot accept this offer, much to kilgarrah's expectations. And so the dragon knight was born. What happened next, not even Lancelot himself truly remembers. As it was centuries ago. But the kingdom fell in combination to destructive forces and the dragon knight himself seeking vengence for his exile. Afterwards, as the supernatural seemed to start to disappear and hibernate from the world. So did Lancelot, who no longer had a purpose in life and simply fell into slumber beneath the buried ruins of Camelot. Then near recent times, the arrival of heroes, kilgarrah awoken, and had discovered a brand new world before him. With the rise of heroes and villains, Lancelot now saw a chance to truly reclaim his name and redeem his previous villainy. He joined the champions in a heart beat and in exchanges displayed his destructive power against the enemy, though this resulted much in unintentional civilian destruction which did help tarter their good name. When the team had splintered off, kilgarrah stayed as to not abandon the team he sided with, both from guilt of Camelot, and an optimistic pride in reclaiming the good name of the team.
Special Notes: Being two people at once, while he refers to himself as Lancelot, kilgarrah is still just as active in his being, and at times he may have fits of rage, greed, or prideful boasts fit for his draconic lineage. |
44,594 | 1,215 | 43 | 374 | 801 | Wilbur frowned within his suit as he didn't dare advance on him. This skeleton had proven he had no reservations about taking life and more sacrifices to him would only hurt them in the long run. Worse still, as he looked around, his stomach knotted out of fear when he saw that he and Red Jack were the only Splinter members of the scene. He knew their sniper was going to take on Ned with the others, but where was their Chameleon when they needed her? She could easily sneak up on this skeleton and give them a chance to free his captive and take him down quickly. With just the two of them, it would be hard to pull off an efficient surprise attack or, really any attack without the officer losing his life. He needed to weight the options... he needed a plan.
First thing first, know your opponent. As the standoff went on, Tortoise quickly accessed the internet and snagged a clip of the skeleton on the beach, captured by someone on their phone at the time. He witnessed his movements, that choking motion he'd made and when his fist had connected with the ground. His sensors had already detected a unique biological makeup and it was apparent he could sow up his wounds very quickly. But now, as he saw this clip, he could also see the skeleton strike the ground and release some incredible cataclysm of power, akin to a large explosion. He'd connected to the ground with his hand... so chances were, that unique biological makeup also granted him some other abilities and he had to make connection with the ground in order to use it. That gave Tortoise a clear initial target for facing him down.
Remove his hands.
He returned his attention to their situation. The skeleton was holding the officer from behind, specifically using his right hand to grip the officer's gun and holding him using that. Plus, he was facing to the left so he could keep his eyes upon as much of the group as possible, this included the officers, Red Jack and himself. So Tortoise was on his right side and he could see his grip quite perfectly. If he could disable the skeletons right hand, the officer would be able to run for cover whilst the skeleton was recovering from the blow... of course, that was easier said than done. If anything Red Jack's pistol was more suited for this, but he was hesitant to act. Thus, it fell to Tortoise.
Now, what to strike with... his larger scale weapons like his flamethrower, arc cannon and bomb launcher were all out, too strong and it would probably kill the officer before it did the skeleton. His standard ballistic weaponry was a bit more likely, but it was akin to a rapid fire machine gun and again, was a little unpredictable in terms of accuracy. So that left him with one option... his high powered laser. At high power, the laser was easily capable of searing flesh and bone, normally something Tortoise didn't use against human opponents due to how deadly it was, usually more for robots or large debris or walls. But for someone like the skeleton, who had shown regeneration was not an issue, there was little risk in using it upon him. If he angled the laser just right, he could slice off the skeleton's entire right arm and hopefully get his captive away from him. He'd only have a split second to make the right shot...
Now he just needed an opening... the skeleton's attention was fairly split between the police, his comrade and himself. Even so, Tortoise felt it necessary to draw his attention so he could pull off his shot. Wilbur had a moment to think back to what this skeleton was ranting about moments prior... some mumbo jumbo about why he didn't have to follow their laws and why he was above all of them. Maybe he could use that to distract him.
"When you live somewhere, you live by the laws of it." Wilbur spoke up, using a microphone to converse with him. "And you're not the only unique being here. Take Red Jack over there for instance." This would be his crucial moment as he hoped the skeleton would pay attention to his partner to verify his statement. "That man is a creature from mythology, born of faeries. Would you have ever thought such beings existed? Surely you'd know about them if you lived before all of this."
Now it was the time to attack. From the left side of his shell, a small silver device popped out with a nozzle pointed right at the skeleton's right arm. Wilbur hit the button in his cockpit and in a split second, the laser fired, striking at the skeleton's arm. He'd turned up the intensity, even if it would drain his shell's batteries a little faster. All he needed was to sever that arm and this situation would become far more manageable. | Birth Name: Wilbur Allthorpe
Alter Ego: The Tortoise
Gender: Male
Age: 56
Country of Origin: Birmingham, England.
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Wilbur is a fairly short man at 4'5 and skinny as a rake. He lost his hair in his early 50s and as such, is completley bald. He wears a pair of black thick rimmed square spectacles. Usually he wears a green button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of light brown overalls with simple brown leather shoes and white socks. He also has a black tool belt around his waist.
Powers/Skills:
His greatest ability is the large mechanical exoskeleton shell he pilots, constructed out of titanium, containing multiple energy based booster units for movement and armed to the teeth with weapons including missiles, standard firearms, a flamethrower, an electrical arc cannon, a high powered laser, a small explosive dispenser and a reflector shield. The entire shell can also be used for physical attacks. Wilbur pilots the shell from within, usually using a small visor at the top to watch or ducking inside the shell for stronger attacks. The exoskeleton shell is extremely dense and hard to crack by most forms of attack.
The shell however, has its limits. Without a pilot, it cannot act on its own and is vulnerable. EMP attacks can also disable the shell until Wilbur can get it working again. Additionally, outside of the shell, Wilbur is fairly weak and small and is thus, far more vulnerable and no easier to hurt than an average pedestrian. The shell also runs on a large lithium ion battery pack and should it run out of power or be removed, the shell will cease to function The battery is also more heavily drained by energy projection mechanisms, making the reflector shield and the high powered laser the most energy draining moves. The shell is also not protected from chemical or gas based attacks and whilst the reflector shield protects the shell from almost all forms of damage, it does not protect against force and strong forces will push the shell even with its shield up.
Outside the shell, Wilbur is heavily tech savvy, able to recognise kinds of machinery very quickly, draft up inventions within days and thinking logically around problems. He is also very intelligent and somewhat analytical, using tactics in battle and figuring out the weaknesses of his opponents and using his shell's vast array of tools to strike at them. For Wilbur, every problem just needs the right tool to be solved.
However, outside of his shell, the tortoise is an older man who is not particularly strong or durable, thus, he cannot put up much of a fight without his exoskeleton. He is also untrained in other forms of science such as chemistry and physics, and whilst he is a critical thinker, it means he cannot fight well against unpredictable opponents.
Equipment/Resources: Outside of his shell, Wilbur usually carries around a small tool belt with some replacement batteries, spare parts and a spanner in case he needs to make quick repairs to his shell. He also carries around a small tazer should he ever need to defend himself. He also carries a phone in case of emergencies.
Biography:
Wilbur was born to Martha and Gareth Allthorpe in Birmingham, a pair of experimental weapons mechanics working for the biotech company Zillion Corp. Wilbur enjoyed a fairly upper class childhood with a large sum of money to keep him happy, put into the best high schools and given the best possible schooling that could be afforded. He grew up intelligent if not bullied by the older children, jealous of his wealth and his smarts in class, also by his somewhat meek demeanor and small stature, suffering from his father's short stature.
When he left school, he went on to Cambridge university and graduated with a degree in engineering, going on to work with his parents at Zillion Corp, dedicating his research to a new form of exoskeleton to support someone like him as he continued to be a weak individual. This eventually led him to creating his shell exoskeleton and in practice, it was a huge success. Feeling a surge of pride, he immediately made use of it, patenting the designs for himself and leaving the company before Zillion Corp could mass produce it, a move that was looked down on by his parents.
He outed himself properly as a superhero, calling himself The Tortoise due to the design of his shell and how he had always been mocked as 'hiding in his shell.' He was practical minded, earning donations for his work but keeping a diligent mindset, that he must be careful with his great gift and not abuse it for his own purposes. Eventually he ran across a fellow hero Roger Redbrook, nicknamed the Hare for his incredible speed, dexterity and high jump powers. The two didn't see eye to eye and became rivals, the Hare being optimistic whilst Wilbur was more a pessimist. Their rivalry became incredibly well known across the country and after the pair briefly joined forces in defeating a large crime gang, the pair decided to become a true team.
The Hare and the Tortoise became a notably loved duo in their home country, battling crime and solving problems together. So when the champions initiative came about, they happily joined forces and were among the team's first members. The Tortoise's brilliant mind and gadget wizardry made him an invaluable asset to the team, using inventions to amplify his friends abilities and weaponry, as well as providing analysis and coming up with battle plans for their missions, whilst Hare simply provided a good point man and charming face for the public to love.
The pair were no match for the Nagoya mission, sadly. Hare simply went along with the plans whilst Tortoise was drafting up their movements and using radios to direct them piece by piece. All it took was an unexpected blurt of static to muddle up the plans and their frequency to be discovered before it all went wrong and both Hare and Tortoise were forced into battle. Wilbur panicked amidst all the chaos, unable to analyse or strategise and forced to attack blindly, causing a lot of destruction in his wake. When the dust had settled, The Hare was among the superheroes who were found dead at the scene, crushed under rubble. With his long time partner dead, Wilbur's opinion soured heavily and he became negative toward the idea of the champions continuing with him, choosing to leave for the splinter group as without his partner to balance him out and the outcry against him, he could not act with them anymore.
Special Notes: Some speculate that Hare and Tortoise were once romantically involved, but both have continuously denied this, though rumors circulate regardless, it is a common press hitting point for the pair. He is also among the wanted due to the destruction his shell's tech caused. |
44,595 | 1,215 | 44 | 2,304 | 347 | It was with some surprise that Maeve found herself quickly and terrifyingly on the opposite side of the airstrip. She had intended to run only a few steps out of the way and found herself catapulted across the land in a rush of speed completely unknown to the Succubus.
She gasped as she came to a stop and looked about in complete and utter confusion. How in the world had she gotten so far so fast?!
Rattling her brain Maeve came up with the answer with a grimace. Jackson had touched her in the plane. Maeve was so used to be groped and caressed (though admittedly not by the boy) that she hadn’t thought much of it. But now it made sense. He must have given her the speed of Friction. Which stood to reckon Friction had the attraction of Maeve… Which could be pretty dangerous if you didn’t know how to tone it down.
The thoughts flashed through her mind quickly before the clamor of the present brought her back. Whipping about Maeve saw the group was under fire, confusion gripping the Succubus all the more. Where was it coming from?! Why was someone shooting at them? Carefully she took up a jog to return but the shots stopped as quickly as they had come.
This made no sense!
But it didn’t matter, she needed to return. Tentatively Maeve sped up and sooner than she thought possible she was back with the group and watching as Tinhead Ned took one in the chest. The Succubus laughed in delight and looked about at where the shot might have come from.
Guessing that that Celtic Sniper was out there she waved in a friendly manner vaguely to the distance the shot had come from.
Where was Friction? Maeve needed to warn her about her unbelievably awesome powers of seduction before the blonde hurt someone. | Birth Name: Lydia Renee Isaacs
Alter Ego: Shade
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Country of Operation: U.S.A. Pacific Northwest Region (Northern CA, Nevada, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington State).
Archetype: MetaHuman
Allegiance: Splinter Group. (Never with Champions)
Appearance: Dark hair, kept up. Green eyes. 5'6". 140lb. Because she mainly operates at night, blue/black uniform.
Powers/Skills: Night vision. Enhanced strength and agility in darkness varying on how dark it is. In complete darkness (night time, no light pollution,One night while testing the limitations of her abilities she as able to lift a tractor in Idaho farmlands. She hasn't attempted to lift anything larger than that, and this left her exhausted.)
Equipment/Resources: Various sized throwing knives. Rope. Mist/fog spray.
Biography: Lydia never wanted to be part of the Superhuman world. Her home life wasn't ever picture perfect. Her dad left when she was young. Not long after her school found out about her mother's drug habits and she was placed in the foster care system. She spent most of her life focusing on academics and wishing for a normal life. She had loved a metahuman when she was going to UC Berkeley, Carter as she knew him, who left for the Champions. She had a bad taste for them ever since, then again she has a bad taste for anything that didn't fit into her ideals of normalcy. She discovered her own abilities after walking home from a late night study session and someone attempted to mug her and she accidentally killed him. Her grades began dwindling as she had a temporary psychotic break. She in fact could never achieve normalcy. That was too much to bear. She fled to the farmlands experimenting, discovering how they only seem to be useful in darkness. After she returned When she heard about the Nagoya incident, she knew now was the time to actually start doing things right. For herself. The champions had failed at making the world a safe place for Supers and non-Supers alike, but maybe this new team could. |
44,596 | 1,215 | 45 | 307 | 2,322 | ODYSSEUS
The Prime Minister's words had all the impact of a mace-blow to the face. Odysseus had been expecting them, of course, but that didn't mean that he was looking forward to hearing them aloud. It had also come much faster than he'd feared. He'd expected hours, perhaps days, of political preamble, time that he could have used to identify weaknesses in the ministers and their arguments. Instead they'd gone straight for the jugular, and he was forced onto the back-foot.
Again.
He slumped back into his chair, a prizefighter collapsing back into his corner, and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to forestall the headache that was threatening him with bloody murder. He'd give his one-time kingdom for a maniac in a rocket-propelled suit of armour to hit right about then. He envied his allies for the simplicity of their tasks.
Reclaim the trust of the mortals.
Easier said than done after they'd just expelled him from their homeland. Then again, nothing worth doing was ever easy. And it certainly wasn't done holding your head in your hands and feeling sorry for yourself. He sat back up to attention, ready to go out into the fray once again.
"Let me repeat that the rest of the Champions are currently deployed in Australia, hunting a dangerous known criminal. Trying to save lives, I might add. It's a sad fact, but if they had all come to these talks then it's more than likely that in a weeks time the Australian government would be accusing us of negligence in the face of duty, and probably be summoning us to similar talks to this one. I was sent alone as a representative of both the Champions and the Splinter group," He didn't want to see Red Jack and his crew suffer unduly for their own negligence. They were still his allies, whether they called themselves Champions or not. "You ask me to see things from your perspective. Gladly, but only if you extend us the same courtesy. And remember, you hardly gave us much warning of your intentions. I only found out about this hearing three hours ago." He smiled to soften the underhand blow, but it was feeble attempt, hardly even softening his eyes.
He then sat forwards, fixing the Prime Minister with his gaze, choosing to ignore everyone else in the room. They were hardly as important for what he had to say.
"You're right, I did lead a country once. I was also a man who lived during a time of strife and war, when God's and monsters straddled the land, their power making easy mockery of all humanity's towering achievements. I was a king, considered greatest amongst mortals, and yet even I wouldn't dare too challenge the humblest of Deities. It was a terrifying time to be alive."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"That was over two thousand years ago, and you know what has changed?
"Precious little."
"Back then we used to call them Gods. Today you call them super-heroes. Not long ago the mighty Zeus gripped my left shoulder, and grim Hades my right, and together they dragged my old bones out of a grave long gone cold and weaved new flesh and new life into my coil, yet even with all that I still can't match any of these spectacular figures who we discuss today, no matter how hard I try, and it's more terrifying than ever to know that they're out there. To know how far mankind has come since my days of muted glory, yet to still be cursed with the duty to bare witness to just how hopelessly outmatched we are."
A cough sounded from the corner of the room, one of the ministers clearing his throat, perhaps in readiness to interrupt. Odysseus put paid to the mans notion with a well honed glare. A trick he had picked up from Ajax all those long years ago. That man could make the tides stop rolling with nothing more than a furrowed brow and a clenched fist, so his student in 'Hard Looks' had little trouble with a middle-aged Chancellor. The rooms silence guaranteed for a few more moments, Odysseus was free to continue.
"It is a man's right to openly fear that which is more powerful than him."
"Not, however, a leaders. You abandon the right to let others see you show base emotions such as 'fear' the moment you accept the chains of command. It is the duty of the leader to protect his people, be that with the sword," At that he nodded in the direction of his own blade, "Or, and this is my personal preference, with diplomacy."
"You have men and women with fantastic abilities who want nothing more than to help you protect your people during these times of trouble, and you want to dismiss them out of hand? I would have given my right eye to ensure Ithaka had such protectors. I still would."
"Yes, the Nagoya incident was a disaster and tragedy both, and yes, the Champions could have handled the situation better, but we weren't the only ones to fail that day. Need I remind you that the Japanese law enforcement was there too, and the failure was as much their's as it was ours, but I'm willing to bet that they haven't been declared illegal. To outlaw us now would make this situation even worse. It would make mockery of all those who lost their lives in that hotel."
"I beg you, man to man, please reconsider. Work with the Champions. Help us better ourselves. Help us make sure that a disaster of this magnitude never befalls anyone again. Surely there is something we can do to begin to regain your trust?"
It stung Odysseus pride to beg so. He still maintained in his heart of hearts that blame for the Nagoya incident fell squarely on the shoulders of the Japanese elements involved, and if anything the entire mission would have been even more of a disaster if the Champions hadn't been there. However the ministers weren't giving him much choice here, and he'd play any card if it meant that the Champions could come away from this situation with some of their good reputation still in place. And besides, no one had ever died from stung pride. | BIRTH NAME:
Odysseus of Ithaka
ALTER EGO:
N/A
GENDER:
Male
AGE:
Biologically in his late-twenties. Technically a whole lot older.
COUNTRY OF ORIGIN:
Greece, specifically the island of Ithaka.
ARCHETYPE:
Gifted, though he finds himself the pawn of Supernatural beings.
ALLEGIANCE:
The Champions
POWERS/SKILLS:
Damn good at archery, almost preternaturally so, a magnificent knife fighter, and an adept swordsman. A lifetimes experience of fighting foes who are bigger and stronger than he is, having to use his intelligence to supplement his own respectively meagre abilities. Unmatched cunning, with a genius level understanding of human psychology, though he was born centuries before psychology even became a 'thing'.
However he is just a human (to the consternation of the Olympians.) His past successes have made him overconfident, almost to the point of arrogance, as he's usually of the mind that he's the smartest man in the room. While often true, that assumption may one day prove his downfall. As he was an old man when he 'died' he is now an old soul placed into a young man's body, and as such he has trouble controlling his new, youth sharpened passions. Anger and annoyance are forever closer to the surface than he remembers them being before, something that he's still not quite got the hang of controlling yet, throwing of the unflappable cool he remembers cultivating in his past life.
On top of his strengths and weaknesses it should be noted that for Oddie, killing is a last resort, but it is still a resort. While he'd rather diffuse a situation with words and cunning, if it comes down to violence he's jaded enough to realize that sometimes violent altercations end violently, meaning somebody has to die. And he'll be damned if that somebody is him, not before he's finished his divine mission.
Equipment/Resources:
Light armour, forged by Hephaestus. The breastplate is nigh-unbreakable, as are the vambraces and greaves, though his arms, legs and head - as an archer he dislikes wearing helmets - are left bare. On top of that, the armour isn't shock proof, meaning a powerful enough blow, while unable to pierce the metal, could still kill Oddie. Like an egg inside a tin can that is dropped from height, his insides would be scrambled.
His fabled bow, capable of sending an arrow straight through seven axe heads. (the legends might claim it was axe handles, but this was one of the few times that they undersold the reality.) It seems to have weathered the years even better than Odysseus himself, though he suspects the hand of Hephaestus in that miracle.
He wears a quiver of thirty, carbon-steel headed arrows upon his back, along with a kopis sword and a long dagger at his side. He keeps several throwing knives secreted about his person.
Oddie is independently wealthy after some wise investments of his initial gold pieces, and money that his book series have brought him.
He lives in a houseboat, named 'Penelope'.
Biography:
You been living under a rock for the last two thousand-plus years? No? Good, then you know Odysseus' story. The Illiad, the Odyssey, the whole Epic Cycle, it's all true. I wont bore you with the time-worn details, but suffice to say that the King Of Ithaka lived a long and interesting life, had some fairly unique adventures, captured the imaginations of the common man, and died at a ripe old age. At the last he'd figured that the God's of Olympus had finished with him, and that he'd get to while out the rest of eternity in the Elysian Fields, with his beloved Penelope at his side.
How wrong he was.
You see back then the Olympians were the top dogs on the block, with plenty of worshipers making all sorts of prayers, sacrifices, and entreaties to them, which was good because prayer is the currency of the Gods. Since then their fortunes have fallen pretty sharp though, not least because of a little thing called Christianity coming along and blowing them out the water, followed quickly by the apathy towards religion created by modern science in 20th century man.
Zeus and crew are down on their luck these days, but they still dream of the dizzying heights they'd once held, and would do almost anything to get it back. Their latest scheme was to jump onto the 'superhero' bandwagon, and create a masked crusader of their own, one that would inspire the common man to glory the old Gods once more. Zeuz, Poseidon, and Athena convinced the lord Hades – the one God still in ascendancy since people still had to die regardless if they believed in him or not - to help them bring back one of their greatest heroes to serve in the role. Heracles, Perseus, Achilles, any fine demi-god would do.
Unfortunately they got Odysseus.
Zeus was appalled. No mere mortal, regardless of how cunning, would prove equal to the task. He demanded that Hades send the king of Ithaka back to the Elysian Fields, and to fetch him a real hero. It was too late though, as Hades' power was spent, and they'd be forced to wait until he was back to full strength, which could take years.
Athena managed to convince Zeus to allow Odysseus the chance to attempt the task of bringing glory to the God's in the mean time – an act that angered Odysseus himself, as he wanted nothing more than to return to the rest that he'd rightfully earned his first go-round. He argued against it, but arguing against the Goddess of Wisdom is like trying to hold back the tide with a pebble. Eventually he acquiesced, but only after the Olympians agreed to send him back to Elysian when the job was done. He was given boons to help him in his task; light armour forged by Hephastus, a pouch of gold, and his old bow, and told to go an bring glory back to the Gods.
And that's exactly what he set out to do.
His first task was to learn more about this bizarre new world he found himself in, as the Olympian's had neglected to educate him in even the smallest of details about the twentieth century. He nearly had a heart attack upon entering the first modern city he came across. How far man had come! Though he was quick to discover that man's progress was not but an outward deceit hiding his stagnant core when a grubby street dweller tried to rob Oddie upon learning the former King of Ithaka was a clueless immigrant. The attempted robbery ended in bloody fashion for the hapless thief, though the incident reassured Odysseus that he wasn't in such foreign territory after all. Men where still men, even in this new age of wonders.
It took him over two years to learn the major modern languages, then get himself up to speed on both ancient and modern history, though during all that time he prepared himself for his next step. By the time he felt secure enough in his knowledge of this new world to begin actively bringing glory to the Olympians, he'd already set out his entire plan. He would fight 'injustice' like so many other costumed heroes, but instead of toiling away for little recognition and a vague sense of accomplishment like the others, he would instead chronicle his tales, then sell them to the public, all while using his 'novels' to praise the old Gods, while encouraging the public to do likewise.
The plan was a near instant success. Millions of people worldwide lapped up his tales of adventure and heroism, buying his novels by the truck load. True, some more discerning readers realized the works where nothing more than propaganda dressed up as escapist fantasy, but their protestations went largely unheard. Oddie was an overnight sensation, and it surprised no one when, two years later, he was invited to join the newly-formed Champions.
Things went smoothly for the most part. Odysseus proved himself a boon member on dozens of occasions, even if his antiquity-styled morality didn't quite mesh with the softer values of today's heroes. More than once he was pulled up for the barbaric fashion that he dealt with some enemies, though he always stood by his actions and choices.
Before the Nagoya incident, during the planning stage, Odysseus argued against informing the local police and authorities of the Champions sting operation. The more people in the know, he said, the more likely the criminals would learn of the action. His concerns were batted down though, as other members insisted that the local authorities had to be involved, or it would seem that the Champions where overstepping their bounds. As has so often been the case, Oddie was proven right, as when the attack began, it quickly became apparent that the crooks were ready for them. The former king fought like a man possessed, felling several foemen, even mortally wounding a famed super-powered mercenary named Shinigami. It wasn't enough though, and the whole operation ended in disaster.
In the aftermath Oddie refused to help in the clean up, insisting that if his fellows had just listened to him none of this chaos would have transpired, and that if they were so keen to let the proper authorities intervene to begin with, then the proper authorities can handle the clean up. Public perception soured against him considerably in the aftermath of these comments, especially after the media found out just how many bodies where found on the scene with one of his arrows through them, though for once he was too preoccupied to care. Instead his attention fixed upon the new Schism between heroes. He remembered the last time that a rift like that was driven between two groups of remarkable men and women, a rift that led to a war the likes of which was never seen before, or since, and felt his blood run cold at the memory.
For once he doesn't care about his mission from the Gods, nor getting back to his fair Penelope, or his own self-aggrandizement.
Now all he cares about is stopping a war before it has a chance to begin.
Special Notes:
In the last three years Oddie has built up something of a personal rogues gallery. From the classically inspired Steel Siren, Madame Medusa and the Gargantuan Gorgons to the 21st century styled Jack Frost, Tyrannous Hex and Captain Chronos, as well as some familiar faces from Oddie's own past like the seductive sorceress Circe, and the hideous cyclops Polyphemus. On top of that he's cultivated something of a rivalry with Henry Freeman, better known as the hero 'Aegis'. Henry looks down upon what he see's as Oddie's underhand and deceitful tactics, while Oddie believes Henry is a naive idiot who's been given far too much power for his own good. |
44,597 | 1,215 | 46 | 256 | 2,262 | Close to the airstrip, about half a kilometer away, sat a lone woman in a tree, simply watching the conflict unfold in front of her, as the groups clashed between one another, she began to descend from the tree and sprint forward through the grass, dead silent through the brush of it. A bandana was pulled over her smirking mouth as she spoke to herself. "It's showtime."
Once she made it to the airstrip, she decided to take cover and sneak around a bit, eventually reaching a shorter male who was armed with a sniper rifle. She had heard of this sniper, and his track record was very impressive based on his file that she took the liberty of reading while sipping someone else's iced latte. Good god that was a terrible latte. She stood and analyzed the current situation on the battlefield. Honestly it seemed like there was only two groups on the field worth mentioning. Unfortunately, the only person she could reliably go to for help was The Jack, and it seemed very difficult to actually tell which person on the field was allied with which team, so she had to go find the man who recruited her for information.
Like any sane person, she poked the sniper on the back and asked him a question. "Excuse me my good sir, can you tell me where The Jack is?" | Birth Name: Xoxi Slevryn
Alter Ego: The Mouse
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Country of Origin: US-Born, immigrated to Sweden at a young age and now represents it.
Archetype: Augmented.
Allegiance: Unaffiliated, although was a Champion.
Appearance: Xoxi stands at a a proud 5'4" and has purple streaks running through a ponytail in her hair. She tends to wear lightweight clothing, and besides having nothing in the chest area whatsoever, she prides herself in how she looks from time to time.
Powers/Skills: Through an augmentation that Xoxi specifically said that she wanted to stay the same way on how she looked, she overall decided to augment her heart with special technology she has nicknamed "Shadow-Tech". Her new heart gives her blood special chemicals that allow for any of her movements to stay completely silent through even the most receptive of sound detection, her blood allows her body temperature to be masked so it doesn't show up on thermal imaging software, and has allowed her body to be more flexible and athletic than the likes of Olympic Gymnasts. The only catch is that the chemicals in her blood are limited, and need to be resupplied with refillable containers kept at most government bases in the world. Each refill can last up to 3 days, although it is unhealthy and fatal to go any longer than that.
Equipment/Resources: In Xoxi's arsenal of weapons, she carries around a katar, forged from titanium, that has received many scratches and imperfections from her years of thievery. Her outfit is made from a mixture of Kevlar and Spandex, allowing it to conform to the individual's body while still being protective enough from injuries (There is a skirt on it, in case anyone was wondering). Lastly, she normally carries around on a side pouch (attached at the hip to her outfit) 2 easy-fill containers of the chemical in her blood, some thin cable, and a single grenade. Back in her hideout, she has about a month's supply of the chemicals for her blood, as well as a few "borrowed" books about bioengineering.
Biography:
Xoxi Slevryn grew up on the streets of Stockholm, making a living by being one of the best cat-burglars on the market. Her mom left her life when she was early, and her father was unable to pick up a job until late in her life, and during this time, both of them didn't know about her potential. Every single job she had she was successful in, and when local authorities caught wind of the supposed 'mouse' stealing many priceless possessions for her clientele, they just had to catch the burglar that was doing so. Unfortunately for them, the Champions found her first. Their representative - Jackson - came at her with an offer, a protection of her father from the shadows in exchange for working with them. She would be outfitted with the best equipment able to be augmented into her, letting her be the overall spy and thief she was destined to be. Clearly, this was a once in a lifetime offer, so as any thieving teenager would do, Xoxi responded with "Hell yes". Her name was cleared in the papers, her father was protected from harm, and everything worked out for the longest time.
A few years passed, and Xoxi decided to leave the Champions after being such a big help. She laid low for a while, stockpiling the chemical she relied on so much to stay alive and continue her work, eventually to the point of even stealing chemistry and bioengineering books so she can learn how to produce a suitable replacement in the event everything goes down.
Then Nagoya happened. Xoxi figured the team could use her set of skills again. With their reputation tarnished, she would love to help out and restore it to its former glory.
Special Notes: Xoxi is a homosexual, is generally laid back, and tends to rush into things and work from there. |
44,598 | 1,215 | 47 | 2,742 | 43 | The Womb had tried bargaining with the two heroes who had entered the scene, however it seemed they didn’t particularly want to talk. The giant tortoise like machine seemed to be doing something. Positioning itself in a particular way. The Womb suspected this armoured man had fantastic weapons The Womb had never encountered before. Things great writers dreamed of, that have now become a reality. The man in red seemed to have eased up, awaiting the armoured man to make a move as it were.
Suddenly the armoured man addressed The Womb directly. He claimed the man in red was a faery. A faery eh? I thought they would have been made extinct by now. I haven’t seen one for quite some time… The Womb kept a keen eye on both the tortoise and the red man as the tortoise spoke. In the corner of The Womb’s eye, he noticed a click, a zoom and a metal piece shot out of the side of the tortoise’s armor. Now!
A red beam shot out from the tortoise. The Womb tried his best to move, yet the beam was as fast as light and struck his right hand. It cut through half his wrist, burning through his flesh and cooking it. The Wob dropped the gun and screamed out in agony. He clenched the officer in his left hand and gripped harder, hurting the man. These hero's are far more powerful than I had imagined. If I am not careful, they may eradicate me…
“Stop! If I release this officer, I shall come quietly and face my trial,” announced The Womb, his eyes darting back and to. | Birth Name: Unknown
Alter Ego: The Womb
Gender: Unknown. Has physique of male humanoid, genitalia of a female.
Age: Unknown
Country of Origin: Unknown
Archetype: Supernatural, Metahuman ???
Allegiance: Unaffiliated (though may be persuaded to join a group, may even create his own group)
Appearance:
The Womb stands at around 6’1, with a toned and lithe frame. His body’s skin tone is caramel, perhaps tanned or mixed in ethnicity. From the collarbone up, The Womb’s skin seems to disappear, instead exposed nerves, muscle and veins cling to the bare skull that is his head. He has bulging exposed eyeballs and tiny capillary like veins cover his skull.
He often wears leather biker-like clothing. Though he is also found naked just as often.
Powers/Skills:
Rapid Rejuvenation: The Womb’s molecular structure can reform itself at an extremely rapid rate. This effectively gives him eternal life and has given him a lengthy lifespan. Deep wounds heal and lost limbs can be regenerated within seconds. The effect this has on his biology grants him incredible brute strength, the depths of which have remained untested. The same is true of his reflexes. As his biology is constantly regenerating itself, he has never suffered any loss of potency in terms of his biological structure. His brain cells too have never depleted, meaning that he is particularly intelligent and can retain swathes of information.
He does however have weaknesses. Intense heat or fire can completely destroy his cells, making rejuvenation difficult unless he can extinguish the flames or escape. (Though even his charred bones can rejuvenate back to his original form, though at a highly decreased rate). Intense and sudden pain can still give him Cardiogenic shock, Hypovolemic shock, Hemorrhagic shock or Neurogenic shock and can leave him rendered unconscious; and despite these types of wounds healing, he may still remain unconscious for some time. Although The Womb does not need to breathe in order to remain conscious, drowning can still render him unconscious. If unable to hold his breath in one way or another, a torrent of water to his lungs could again leave him in shock and render him unconscious. Intense cold could also make him brittle or even immobile, and he is highly susceptible to psychic, arcane or magical attacks.
Equipment/Resources: Leather biker clothes, motorbike.
Biography:
The Womb is an oddity. He often claims to be the first being to be created by the universe. A claim that is both crazy and yet hard to dispute. He often speaks of living upon the earth at a time before life existed, and even exclaims that he was in fact the catalyst that brought life to earth. Despite being able to remember swathes of information (like languages, tactics, history etc) he often muddles events in his mind, and it is hard to tell if he is telling the truth, or speaking in deliriums. He considers humanity and everything involved with it his children, and in doing so often uses his abnormal moral compass to “teach” or parent those that he can. In the past he claims to have led nations, cults and armies. All in various attempts at controlling his “children” and bringing about what he would consider peace. However, The Womb is not above killing to achieve his goals. His “go to” form of assault is to preach and gain some kind of following, however, if he is tested or confronted in some way The Womb would gladly smite his enemies to further his agenda. As a “Parent”, he considers his views to be the only way and would do anything to protect them.
The Womb often has periods of exile. When his plans have gone awry, or he simply is sick of humanity and it’s dealings he has been known to walk into the sea and sink to the bottom in a self imposed exile. These can sometimes be for days, decades or even a century. Of course, he often returns and tries again to assert his will on the earth, with varying degrees of success.
Special Notes:
The Womb can speak the vast majority of languages on planet earth. He is also well versed in combat and tactics due to his history in military battles. He is also well versed in politics and leading He may also be aware of any other arcane or immortal type being. Perhaps even crossing paths with them at some point, or just being alive at the time of their peak and hearing of their exploits. The Womb would not be fully aware of Meta-Humans, as I plan on having him emerge from the sea in his first post and learn about them there, and then form an opinion. I don’t want to give away what opinion that might be, but he would definitely approach one of the teams to speak with them and further the plot. |
44,599 | 1,215 | 48 | 374 | 801 | Damn. His molecular structure was a bit more durable than Tortoise suspected, he only got through half his wrist... but, he'd still made him drop the gun and turned the tables of their little stand off, so he'd call that a success. Now the skeleton was claiming he'd come quietly... a likely story, Wilbur wasn't too convinced. Some villains had done this in the past, claim to come quietly before launching a counter attack of some sort. It was a classic move... but, if he was going to follow through on it, Tortoise would keep him in his sights whilst he did so.
"Alright." Wilbur spoke up. "Release the officer immediately, raise your hands over your head and let our boys in blue handle the rest. Try anything and my laser's next shot will go through your neck." He addressed him, old routines clicking perfectly into place. If they could take him peacefully and contain him properly, it'd be a great achievement for their Splinter group... but he was still uncertain about this skeleton.
He also shot Jack a smile behind them... he hoped he wouldn't do anything rash to ruin the situation when they could end it so perfectly. | Birth Name: Wilbur Allthorpe
Alter Ego: The Tortoise
Gender: Male
Age: 56
Country of Origin: Birmingham, England.
Archetype: Augmented
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Wilbur is a fairly short man at 4'5 and skinny as a rake. He lost his hair in his early 50s and as such, is completley bald. He wears a pair of black thick rimmed square spectacles. Usually he wears a green button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of light brown overalls with simple brown leather shoes and white socks. He also has a black tool belt around his waist.
Powers/Skills:
His greatest ability is the large mechanical exoskeleton shell he pilots, constructed out of titanium, containing multiple energy based booster units for movement and armed to the teeth with weapons including missiles, standard firearms, a flamethrower, an electrical arc cannon, a high powered laser, a small explosive dispenser and a reflector shield. The entire shell can also be used for physical attacks. Wilbur pilots the shell from within, usually using a small visor at the top to watch or ducking inside the shell for stronger attacks. The exoskeleton shell is extremely dense and hard to crack by most forms of attack.
The shell however, has its limits. Without a pilot, it cannot act on its own and is vulnerable. EMP attacks can also disable the shell until Wilbur can get it working again. Additionally, outside of the shell, Wilbur is fairly weak and small and is thus, far more vulnerable and no easier to hurt than an average pedestrian. The shell also runs on a large lithium ion battery pack and should it run out of power or be removed, the shell will cease to function The battery is also more heavily drained by energy projection mechanisms, making the reflector shield and the high powered laser the most energy draining moves. The shell is also not protected from chemical or gas based attacks and whilst the reflector shield protects the shell from almost all forms of damage, it does not protect against force and strong forces will push the shell even with its shield up.
Outside the shell, Wilbur is heavily tech savvy, able to recognise kinds of machinery very quickly, draft up inventions within days and thinking logically around problems. He is also very intelligent and somewhat analytical, using tactics in battle and figuring out the weaknesses of his opponents and using his shell's vast array of tools to strike at them. For Wilbur, every problem just needs the right tool to be solved.
However, outside of his shell, the tortoise is an older man who is not particularly strong or durable, thus, he cannot put up much of a fight without his exoskeleton. He is also untrained in other forms of science such as chemistry and physics, and whilst he is a critical thinker, it means he cannot fight well against unpredictable opponents.
Equipment/Resources: Outside of his shell, Wilbur usually carries around a small tool belt with some replacement batteries, spare parts and a spanner in case he needs to make quick repairs to his shell. He also carries around a small tazer should he ever need to defend himself. He also carries a phone in case of emergencies.
Biography:
Wilbur was born to Martha and Gareth Allthorpe in Birmingham, a pair of experimental weapons mechanics working for the biotech company Zillion Corp. Wilbur enjoyed a fairly upper class childhood with a large sum of money to keep him happy, put into the best high schools and given the best possible schooling that could be afforded. He grew up intelligent if not bullied by the older children, jealous of his wealth and his smarts in class, also by his somewhat meek demeanor and small stature, suffering from his father's short stature.
When he left school, he went on to Cambridge university and graduated with a degree in engineering, going on to work with his parents at Zillion Corp, dedicating his research to a new form of exoskeleton to support someone like him as he continued to be a weak individual. This eventually led him to creating his shell exoskeleton and in practice, it was a huge success. Feeling a surge of pride, he immediately made use of it, patenting the designs for himself and leaving the company before Zillion Corp could mass produce it, a move that was looked down on by his parents.
He outed himself properly as a superhero, calling himself The Tortoise due to the design of his shell and how he had always been mocked as 'hiding in his shell.' He was practical minded, earning donations for his work but keeping a diligent mindset, that he must be careful with his great gift and not abuse it for his own purposes. Eventually he ran across a fellow hero Roger Redbrook, nicknamed the Hare for his incredible speed, dexterity and high jump powers. The two didn't see eye to eye and became rivals, the Hare being optimistic whilst Wilbur was more a pessimist. Their rivalry became incredibly well known across the country and after the pair briefly joined forces in defeating a large crime gang, the pair decided to become a true team.
The Hare and the Tortoise became a notably loved duo in their home country, battling crime and solving problems together. So when the champions initiative came about, they happily joined forces and were among the team's first members. The Tortoise's brilliant mind and gadget wizardry made him an invaluable asset to the team, using inventions to amplify his friends abilities and weaponry, as well as providing analysis and coming up with battle plans for their missions, whilst Hare simply provided a good point man and charming face for the public to love.
The pair were no match for the Nagoya mission, sadly. Hare simply went along with the plans whilst Tortoise was drafting up their movements and using radios to direct them piece by piece. All it took was an unexpected blurt of static to muddle up the plans and their frequency to be discovered before it all went wrong and both Hare and Tortoise were forced into battle. Wilbur panicked amidst all the chaos, unable to analyse or strategise and forced to attack blindly, causing a lot of destruction in his wake. When the dust had settled, The Hare was among the superheroes who were found dead at the scene, crushed under rubble. With his long time partner dead, Wilbur's opinion soured heavily and he became negative toward the idea of the champions continuing with him, choosing to leave for the splinter group as without his partner to balance him out and the outcry against him, he could not act with them anymore.
Special Notes: Some speculate that Hare and Tortoise were once romantically involved, but both have continuously denied this, though rumors circulate regardless, it is a common press hitting point for the pair. He is also among the wanted due to the destruction his shell's tech caused. |
44,600 | 1,215 | 49 | 2,031 | 6,415 | (Picture)
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Sensing the friction trails in the air in her area Cypress deduced that there were snipers in the area so she increased her random course alterations to account for acquisition and aiming. Still after all this the skating heroine kept up her focus on Tinhead.
This action caused his suit to act as if every joint was filled with heated sand and robbed airflow through any intakes. It was of course a time consuming way to take on an opponent but her only ranged method.
If Tinhead could be grounded she could engage him using inertia to batter him by bouncing him around as if he were a ball by altering his inertia.
"Wish in one an shift in the other" she giggles as she finds herself caught up in a familiar sensation that reminds her of her friend Maeve as she passes close by two of the pitiful Bikers.
"Interesting, I think I got a rush off those poor boys" she says to herself in a sultry bedroom voice.
Too bad she doesn't have time to play with them yet but Ned is her man at the moment. To prove he was her only man Cypress comes to a neck snapping stop as her left arm lifts Quarter to which she imparts every erg of her former Inertial force while shifting from causing Ned to experience friction to encasing the coin in a frictionless sheath.
The Quarter flies as if in a vacuum striking close to center of mass with the force of 25,000 joules of energy. (150% of a .50 Caliber) as Friction kicks off in a tangent that follows her target. | (Picture)
Birth Name: Cypress Hecate Mara
Alter Ego: Friction
Gender: Female
Age: 22
Country of Operation: Canada / Alberta
Archetype: Metahuman
Allegiance: Champions
Appearance: Cy is a 6 foot tall platinum blonde with dangerous curves. Her eyes are a blueish green and her face freckled. Her skin is a creamy alabaster and she is usually dressed in a provocative manner her favorite clothing is leather.
Powers/Skills: Friction Manipulation- by imparting her power into any thing she chooses Cypress can manipulate, generate and otherwise control friction, the force resisting the relative motion of solid surfaces, fluid layers, and material elements sliding against each other, ie. whether the contact causes the movement to stop (sticking the targets together) or continue.
By decreasing her skin and clothing's friction Cypress is so slippery that she is able to skid across a flat surface at great speeds her movements resembling more those of an Ice skater than a sprinter Her skin and clothing in this state can even deflect kinetic energy attacks such as bullets, swords, knives or even liquid attacks. If she is caught in a trap or stuck in a bind, Cypress can just slip away unless completely enclosed.
Inertia Manipulation- This ability allows Cypress to manipulate inertia, basically the amount of resistance matter has to a change in motion or stay at rest by increasing, decreasing and/or maintaining it. She can increase object’s inertia causing an immobile object to be even more immovable, or to make a mobile object unstoppable. She can also reduce an object’s inertia, so a normally powerful object, such as a train, could have its course of motion interrupted with the same effort as would be required to stop a bicycle.
Also by manipulating inertia Cypress is able to simulate super strength but only in a horizontal plane.
Example: She could theoretically once she plants her feet push a stranded Super tanker back out to sea but she can only lift 250 pounds over her head.
(Limitations- to exercise her inertia control on objects other than her own person requires that Cypress herself come to a stop and make herself a stationary target.)
Skills: Hockey, Parkor, Computer programing, Hacking, Kenjutsu an Akido
Equipment/Resources: Weapons: 6 Throwing knives 2 Tanto
Gear: Tech ruggedized Cell phone
Biography: Born to a dead mother in the aftermath of a gulf coast hurricane. That flooded her entire town Cypress was barely alive and would have died except that her father a Swedish merchant sailor like any parent refused to allow it. Then as the storm raged around them he named her Cypress after the tree they found refuge in.
While the storm raged for about six hours the tidal surge pulled father and daughter out to sea where they drifted without hope. They were finally rescued three days after she was born by the Coast Guard. The men aboard the Coast Guard Cutter thought her survival a miracle and lavished her with attention.
Her father clung to life five days after the rescue but then like her mother and 78 members of the community she was from died of chemical poisoning.
An orphan Cypress was remanded over to her mother's family in Alberta where she went to live. What should have been the beginning of a beautiful story was anything but as her family neglected her and only kept her around as a way to collect on her father's pension. Eventually due to their neglect Cypress fell ill and had to be taken to the hospital where the authorities took her from them.
She was then raised in a children's group home where at the age of 11 she began demonstrating powers and was taken to Project Orchid Canada's Meta program with the eventual purpose that she become a Champion.
Her training was intense but focused more athletics at an early age than combat it being thought of as unethical to subject a minor to such. Akido and Kenjutsu were also more competitive sport style than full fledged combat and her training in Hockey to hone her movement. Later when she was 16 the project focused on the more aggressive styles of her martial arts and the power moves of Hockey.
While they trained her to use her body the project also saw to her schooling knowing that a well rounded schooling benefited their ends as well. She excelled in classroom studies especially in the field of computers developing the ability to make an excellent hacker and or computer programmer.
It was because she was finishing a project at the project that Friction avoided attend the meeting at Nagoya and thus escaped the direct guilt of those that had attended. Cy could use her location during the incident as and excuse but chose not to by appearing on CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and offering her country's sympathy to the people of Japan but her own apology as well.
Special Notes: Because of the Nagoya Incident Cypress has vowed to atone for all the damage done by becoming the most skilled at power use ever known so that no civilian shall ever suffer for her mistakes. To accomplish her goal she trains constantly honing her power use to a razor sharp edge.
She appears on children's shows, does interviews and service announcements.
She has no secret identity living on Canadian military or Mounted Police bases. |
44,601 | 1,215 | 50 | 1,605 | 1,991 | Wilbur had made Jack proud, the old boy was showing some initiative for once. He had wanted to sit back and see what the Tortoise would do. And he did not disappoint. But Jack did not trust the skeleton in the least. It was out of their hands however. The news chopper was getting every second of the confrontation. Jack thought they handled the situation as delicately as was possible. Even if the skeleton did something, the blow back should be minimal. Still, best to move on carefully. Jack holstered his pistol and sheathed his sword, raising his hands in a calming gesture. He did not try to mentally influence the skeleton, he could not know how the being would react to it. Instead he slowly walked toward the skeleton, hands raised to show he had no weapons.
It wasn't completely true. His wrist mounted blades could snap into place with a gesture, and even without blades, his hands and feet were deadly all on their own. The fae steel should be enough to hurt the skeleton but he couldn't be sure how fast the man would regenerate. Strange to think of the skeleton as a man, but he clearly had intelligence and emotions. Humans may have seen creatures like him differently, but Jack was used to dealing with people that did not look like people. Jack walked slowly forward, gently gesturing to the officer and his captor, "Please let the man go and let me retrieve him. I swear that you will be treated fairly and humanely if you remain peaceful. If you'd like, I can find you an advocate for your case." Perhaps he was a subject of Lord Koschei, the Lich King of the Winter Waste. The king was one of several supernatural leaders who had a public presence. He was currently engaging in a land dispute with the Russian Federation. The Skeleton had several traits similar to a Revenant. Koschei might be willing to provide an advocate if the man turned out to be one of his citizens. Those were all questions for later however.
Jack stopped just out of reach of the skeleton, holding out his hands to receive the officer, "I give you my blood oath as Vassal to the Winter Court. I swear it on my honor and my life. Release the officer and you will not be harmed." An oath thrice sworn was as sacrosanct and unbreakable as any in the Supernatural world, particularly among the Fae. He hoped the skeleton knew this. | Your character might have decided to show up to help out, or they have a relationship with another character, any reason you think would be appropriate should be fine.
Don't worry about it, the doors always open, and I hope your other games go great!
Same thing with Ekko, there's a ton of options. It's not unrealistic for so many supers to converge on such a huge event.
Awesome! Accepted, go ahead and put her in the CS tab. I'm guessing she came to Japan to support the team?
Also Poly already put me in the tab, but you guys can check out my CS if you missed it. Splinter team, behold your guide and mentor
Birth Name: Jack Cochran
Alter Ego: Red Jack
Gender: Male
Age: Physically in his late teens or early twenties, actual age thirty, and he'll look that young for a long time
Country of Origin: America, East Coast
Archetype: Supernatural
Allegiance: Splinter
Appearance: Red Jack is a tall broad shouldered man with sculpted features. He has perfect white teeth and the picture perfect musculature of a model. Those alone would make him a beautiful man, but his natural violet eyes and silver hair with his soft caramel skin give him an exotic almost ethereal allure. When enraged or in the joy of battle, his eyes turn a starling blood red. His ears are subtly pointed. In combat he wears black unicorn fur with minimal fae steel plating and a red head wrap covering his face and neck. When he kills a particularly worthy foe he dips his scarf in their blood. The original color of the scarf is unknown.
Powers/Skills: Red Jack is a painter who only uses one color, guess which. Red Jack is a talented killer who trained in combat since he could hold a blade. He prefers to use his custom forged fae steel hand-and-a-half sword in tandem with a Desert Eagle in combat. Jack also likes his knives, carrying a variety of blades hidden on his person, there's always one in reach of his hand ready to fling into an opponent. He is stronger, faster, and more durable than a normal human due to his fae heritage. Jack has very subtle powers of persuasion, able to mentally nudge people into whatever emotional direction he desires. When enraged or damaged enough Jack will fly into a killer rage, his speed and strength are even greater but he becomes a beast that can barely distinguish between friend or foe. He hates being in this state, preferring to fight with his usual deadly grace and skill. His inhuman powers are also his curse, Jack deals with barely restrained urges for blood and violence on a daily basis.
Equipment/Resources: A set of custom-fitted fabric and armor. The fabric is made from unicorn skin and is soft and supple to the touch. While the metal is intricately made fae steel with elegant curving patterns in the metal. The tight black leather doublet and breeches covers his whole body while the silver armor protects his upper arms, forearms, shins, and chest. The leather is enchanted and will completely stop knives and small arms fire up to military grade assault rifles. The armor will deflect most blunt force blows and provides protection from energy attacks, magical and otherwise.
He wears red fingerless gloves and footwraps. His scarf is a family heirloom, worn by his father and his father before him down a long bloody line of Redcaps. Jack also has an enormous amount of blades on his person, including two wrist mounted hidden knives. Jack goes to battle with his bastard sword strapped to his back and his nickle plated, ivory handled hand cannon strapped to his thigh. The bloody armored helm of his family is affixed to his breast in his pin, a symbol of his status which allows him to access his family's considerable resources.
Biography: Jack is the second son in a family of faeries. His mother was a woodland sprite and his father is a Redcap, a fae with a genetic predisposition for murder. Their coupling was passionate but brief as the nature of Fae encounters often was and Jack was born in one of New York City's many "Shadow Towns", hidden communities of supernatural beings living among mortals. His mother was a city dweller inconstantly and preferred to spend time in her beloved woods upstate, taking her son with her and teaching him of the beauty of life and nature. Her father, the clan chief, however did not want to raise a Red Son among his people and sent Jack off to live with his father. Jack's formative years were spent on Cochran Manor in upstate New York. His father, a prolific Winter Court assassin, took an interest in his strong son, for he only had one other son among many daughters and said older brother was a more bookish sort. His mother occasionally came to call on him at the manor, and one year he had a full-blood sister, his favorite sibling.
Jack received the finest instruction in all the myriad arts of combat and killing. He grew up the favorite child, with every luxury and none of the responsibility of being his father's heir. As soon as he hit puberty he began feeling the murderous urges, only barely balanced out by the more gentle nature of his mother's people. Jack followed in his father's footsteps and slaked his lust for blood by pursuing countless liaisons with beings of multiple races. He became his father's apprentice, accompanying him on several of his contracts for both Winter Courtesans and other beings supernatural and mortal. Jack gained quite a few notches on his built and scratches on his bedpost before he reached twenty. Jack acquired the name Red Jack in the annual Winter Court tourney, where he won in a melee that had Winter Knights, Orges, and Trolls. Jack became quite infamous among his kin, his bloodlust and actual lust legendary even for their family. His mother's clan for the most part shunned him, his violent nature making him anathema to the clan's pacifistic philosophy. For her part his mother did her best to balance out her son.
Red Jack begun taking contracts on his own, his mother's teachings and sensibilities compelling him to only seek violence against those he deemed despicable. It wasn't perfect but it was something. Jack's life went like that for years, killing anonymous hordes and having strings of anonymous lovers. When their shadow world exploded into the public eye with the rise of the superheroes, Jack received a much needed shot in the arm. He was one of the first Fae to embrace public life and became a "superhero", his looks and charm endearing him in the public eye while he amassed a reputation as a skilled fighter. He was a team leader in the Champions and one of their best field operatives. He filled another role that only him and a handful of Champions knew about.
Jack was the team's personal hatchet man, taking care of problems in a way that no other Champion could. Whenever there was too much red tape to take someone down legally, whenever they were too much of a threat to remain alive, or whenever plain old revenge was needed, Red Jack was the solution. Nobody outside of the team and very very few inside knew about his role. Jack left no evidence linking the incidents back to them, and Jack had "disappeared" a handful of criminals in the group's short history. Jack's occasional wetwork coupled with bedding rabid fans kept his urges in check. He assuaged his desire for a noble life through his superheroics and he made quite a few friends and bed mates among his colleagues in the Champions.
Nagoya was where things stopped being fun. For his part, Jack didn't contribute to the operation breaking down but he was in the thick of the fighting that came afterward. He lost too many friends that day and over the course of the battle, he started to lose it, taking wounds and becoming more brutal in his takedowns. Eventually he slipped into the blood rage and went on a rampage, slashing necks and stabbing criminals indiscriminately. His final body count was somewhere in the low dozens. Luckily for him his allies knew what was going on and steered civilians away from him and steered clear of his vicinity as he did his bloody work. The camera footage of the affair was quite frightening, with him laughing and yelling and perhaps even moaning in arousal as he snapped necks and ripped out throats. A few of them had tried to surrender. The whole affair was a red haze to him, he remembered almost none of it.
The public backlash that followed angered him even further. Who were the humans to blame him and his friends for the affair? They were ungrateful, moronic, disgusting. Some of the Champions were almost as bad in their arguments. Jack scoffed at the idea of facing legal action and forcibly removed any authorities who tried. His days were filled with frantic damage control and arguments and public censure while his nights were haunted by frustrated lovemaking and vivid nightmares. Eventually Jack just couldn't take it anymore and promptly led the Splinter movement to break off from the Champions, seeking to start over fresh. Jack's goal is to do what the Champions can't and hunt down the criminal groups he believes responsible for the massacre, seeking to brutally destroy those organizations from top to bottom and damn the consequences.
Special Notes: Jack is openly pansexual and not shy about it. Pursuing his sexual desires helps to alleviate his violent ones. He has quite a few bastard children living in the manor, he tries to show up for birthdays. |
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